Manny Ramirez is scheduled to be in the starting lineup tonight for your Chicago White Sox (but for whatever reason wasn’t).  When it was announced he was leaving Sunday evening (or as they call that in internet time “one billion years ago”) I’m sure you went through your own personal range of emotions—I know I did.  They went like this: Acknowledgment.  Indifference.  Resignation.  The surprise factor was clearly lacking as this was a scenario reported on by various media outlets for the better part of two weeks and moving an aging, former superstar through the waiver process when you’re miles out of contention in exchange for a few prospects isn’t exactly a novel idea.  Oh, what?  They DIDN’T get any prospects?  A straight salary dump?  Wow, what a surprise.  At least we have a deep pipeline of prospects waiting in the wings.  Oh, right.  We don’t.  Sigh.

You know what though, I didn’t intend for this to be a post ripping the Dodgers organizational management, it was just supposed to be Manny focused and I’m going to try to bring this thing back to his time with the club.  One of my favorite songs is “Statler 2000” by Armchair Martian (and covered by Bad Astronaut…or maybe the other way around, who can even keep them straight) with the seemingly prophetic lyrics: “All I know is you came too quickly/ And left the same” which basically sums up my thoughts completely—he came in out of nowhere, achieved instant rockstar status and made every Dodger game a must-see event…you know, pretty much exactly like he did with Boston.  For a solid year we got to see one of the best hitters mash NL pitching and mask an infield full of deficiencies.  And then the Homer Bailey fastball off the wrist (or was it Bronson Arroyo?  Who can even remember).  And then something called hCG?  And then the suspension.  And then the Disabled List.  And then the DL again.  And again.  And now he’s gone, replaced by Scott Podsednik who is basically the anti-Manny at the plate.

Was it fun having him in town?  Absolutely.  Will we miss him now that he’s gone?  Probably not.  The team isn’t going anywhere with him and while it would have been awesome to flip him for something/anything of value we got the full Manny experience and we were better off for it in the end.  Oh, and in case you think having Manny on another club means the Dodgers are off the hook for the remainder of his payroll…yeah, sorry—we’re paying that bill for the next few years (hello Andruw Jones!) thanks to the McCourt-Colletti-Enron bookkeeping process. Can we get a new owner now, please?

Shameful

Worst season ever.  I really don’t want to say anything bad about the franchise that made me love sports but I hate everything about this season and now, thanks to a few ill-advised trades, I might end up hating future seasons as well.  If you want a rundown of these despicable moves just click to this ESPN link, it’s as good as any other.   The smell emanating from the Dodgers right now is probably the worst thing you can smell in professional sports–a mix of desperation *and* incompetence.  If McCourt thinks he’s losing the team in the offseason and he’s going to go down firing, that’s fine; just go out with some noise.  Trade for Dan Haren who has a fairly club-friendly contract for the next few seasons, not for Ted Lilly who is a rental.  Trade for Soria (another great contract) instead of Dotel.  Trade for Ludwick instead of Podsednik.  The pieces the Dodgers acquired are not guys that put you over the top–these are the types of players you trade for when you are UP by eight games and want to shore up your squad for the postseason, not when you’re DOWN by eight games (and fading) and also mortgaging your future in the process.  If you really wanted to add somebody, try adding some impact pieces (not this rice pilaf that you just took on) BEFORE your season has been blown to bits and never, ever throw good money (or prospects) after bad.

Here is a smattering of text messages I got on the days leading up to the deadline:

Greg: Scotty Pods?  Where is he going to play.

Jason: The Riot?

My Dad: The should have traded away Broxton.

Look McCourt and Colletti–I know you guys are hamstrung financially.  I know you entered the 2010 amateur draft intending to punt your first round pick to you wouldn’t have to pay a signing bonus.  I know you’ve spent less money in the international draft in recent years than anybody else.  I know your farm system is not what many in the industry consider to be strong (and just got a lot weaker).  You have a certain left fielder who isn’t doing your team any good this year named Manny Ramirez–other teams might want him, maybe you should have looked at spinning him into a prospect or two?  No?  Don’t like that plan?  Make too much sense?  McCourt and Colletti, you are both terrible/horrible at your jobs.  In the immortal words of George Constanza, “Well, I wish I could say the same, but I must say, with all due respect, I find it very hard to see the logic behind some of the moves you have made with this fine organization. In the past twenty years, you have caused myself, and the city of New York Los Angeles, a good deal of distress as we have watched you take our beloved Yankees Dodgers and reduced them to a laughing stock, all for the glorification of your massive ego.”

And that’s it, my friends.  I’m not going to another Dodger game (note: Spring Training doesn’t count.  Spring Training is still in play) until these boobs are out.  I will watch on TV, I will pay attention, I will bleed blue but you are not getting another nickle of my money, Franky.  Choke on it.

Here is where you pick which game you want to watch

Did I tell you guys I bought a new TV a while ago?  I was one of the last people around to finally upgrade and get a flat screen, blah blah blah TV with blah blah blah resolution and blah blah blah hertz.  Sounds awesome, right?  Right.  Anywayz, getting a new TV is nice and all but the big problem is you’re still stuck with the same old crappy programming, right?  Of course you are.  You could upgrade to digital cable but that would involve a phone call and someone coming out to your house to hook up your new digital cable and the people at Cox iz dummies so that’s out.  Too bad you can’t watch out of market games on your new TV without upgrading to the MLB package!  OMGosh but with the Roku box you totally can!  Let’s investigate!

Here is how you get a Roku box: you have your new roommate move in and he brings it with him.  Then you tell him to set it up and he does.  Then you turn on your TV and your computer.  Then you sign into your MLB account (which you have to buy or you have to have your dad buy it and then you take his password).  Then through the magic of the internetz your Roku talks to your TV and then you can watch all of the out of market games (except for the Saturday day games which are all blacked out because MLB was founded after the Civil War and they were scared the Pony Express would disseminate the accounts and descriptions of the game of Base Ball without the express written consent of Kenesaw Mountain Landis and George Washington).

Sadly we did not pitch Clay Buchholtz in our fantasy league today

So where was we?  The Roku…the TV…oh yeah so see that little box there to the lower left of the TV?  That’s the Roku.  My favorite aspects of the Roku are the following: you can chose between home and away broadcasts, virtually every station is in HD and the picture quality is amazing.  And did I mention you get to watch Yankee-Red Sox games whenever you want?  Look, I know we iz West Coast Bias and we’re all about the West Coast but try watching a Yanks-Sox tilt and then flip over and watch the Dodgers play the Padres.  I mean I love the Dodgers and all but it’s like watching Romper Room compared to the ball those two juggernauts are rolling out there.  And don’t even get me started on the Rays…that team is so fast and those pitchers are nasty.  Flipping between channels isn’t as easy as it would be on your regular TV (takes maybe 30 seconds to go from game to game) so that’s a bit of a downer but to go from the Roku to your regular TV feed (and back again) is just a matter of hitting the input button your remote, so you could easily go back and forth between an out of market game and your local team without missing much at all.

And yeah, Roku will stream some of your netflix and some other stuff too but the MLB has got to be the selling point, right?  Right.

Final verdict: 2 thumbs and 1 renob up.

Yo Joe, how 'bout a start once in a while? Mo Rivera is perfect again this season, with a 0.00 ERA in 10 games.

Props to Oakland’s Dallas Braden tonight for chucking a perfect game against the Tampa Bay Rays (in case you missed it, since it came on Mother’s Day and all: and nobody showed up in Oakland to watch it anyway (12,228 fans, really? That stadium was 2/3rds empty, for a perfect game?).

Note to A-Rod the A-Hole: Stay off Dallas’ mound yo. Check that, keep stomping on that mound, so the A’s can keep stomping the AL East.

I don’t want to stomp on notsellingjeans’ beat here, so I’ll keep this post on The Cutter, The Closer, and The City of Dreams.

Putting my West Coast Bias aside for a minute: great upcoming piece by EastSidePN’s E:60 this week on New York Yankees closer Mariano Rivera.

While watching a preview tonight on SportsCenter, and smacking the floor with my jaw after seeing his stats – 0.00 ERA this season at the age of 40, 0.74 ERA in the playoffs, 13 runs in 133.3 postseason innings, 39 postseason saves, and recording the final out in four World Series! – I couldn’t help but ask myself the question:

No, not “is Mariano one of the greatest New York Yankees of all-time?” like ESPY asked.

Or is he the greatest reliever in MLB history?

Is Mo the best right-handed pitcher we’ve ever seen?

Not even close. Panama City’s finest was never given an opportunity to be that guy.

But what if he had been used by Joe Torre as a starting pitcher after learning how to throw that disgusting cut fastball in 1997, by accident, in a bullpen session with good ol’ Dodgers catcher Mike Borzello (yeah, so at least he’s been part of something in his MLB career, along with being Torre’s godson I guess)?

What if?

A few overlooked stats about this somehow overlooked/soon to be hall of famer (not sure if only the second player to record 500 saves can go overlooked, but still): Mo made his debut 15 years ago this month, May 23, 1995, to be exact, and went on to start 10 games that season.

Number of starts since? Zip, zilch, zero. Nada. Not a single start for the inventor of the nastiest pitch of our generation. A pitch everyone and their mom (it’s Mother’s Day, pardon the cliché) knows is coming at the end of every ballgame.

Oddly enough, this is a question that isn’t brought up by the mainstream media, not a shocker I guess, or in the blogosphere for that matter. Maybe it was asked a long time ago, before the Internets, but the best thing I could find nowadays was this take by a NYTimes blogger on changing the role of the starting pitcher and making The Closer be The Opener.

Interesting conversation.

I know I’d rather have Mo trot out to the mound for a start than Javier Vazquez, and his 1-3 record and 9.78 ERA in five starts, but that’s just me. Maybe it’s the Left Coast state of mind.

Speaking of the Westside, I’m also looking forward to Straight Outta L.A. on Tuesday, the story of the LA Raiders.

ESPN be getting it done like Dallas Braden this week. If only they could remain close to perfect like Mo after all these years.

Already in midseason form

Chad Billingsley sat inside his dark apartment and stared warily out the window.  He had the curtains drawn and almost no light entered into the dark void.  Chad was busy applying for jobs posted on Craig’s List, brooding silently and clutching a mug of green tea which had gone cold thirty minutes ago.  He’d taken two showers already this bright morning and was considering a third but he couldn’t tear himself away from the laptop.  He was afraid if he got up he might miss a new posting and he wasn’t sure his blackberry could get service in his bathroom.  He made a mental list to check the signal from inside the bathtub later the afternoon and glanced out the window.  Across the street he saw a mailman slowly delivering packages and letters of joy to the neighborhood’s occupants and Chad silently cursed the man, envious of his anonymous and worry-free existence.  He lowered his head and gently massaged his temples, eyes squelched shut…how had he fallen so far, so fast?  Not one year ago he was the face of one of the best pitching staffs in the league, a shoe-in for the All Star Game and a fantasy force to be reckoned with.  Now?  Now he was a punching bag.

He brought the putrid tea to his lips and grimaced as he tasted the tepid liquid.  He put the cup down on his countertop but missed the surface completely and the mug dropped to the floor, exploding on impact.  This wasn’t the first time this had happened.  In fact, it was a daily occurrence around his apartment and the floors were littered with mug shrapnel from mornings just such as this.  And that wasn’t all-his entire house was a mess.  He couldn’t pour cereal into a bowl or put bread into the toaster and the bathroom situation was…well, the bathroom was just an embarrassment.  Chad sighed again as he turned the volume down on the Morrissey CD he was listening to.  He tried to flip the remote control onto his couch but missed badly, sending the device flying into the wall where it predictably exploded into tiny pieces.

Chad went back to the computer, clicking on all of the Craig’s List links; applying to anything that looked easy: Receptionist, Data Entry Clerk, things of that nature.  He had been really excited to get a response back from an ad which promised “Fabulous Riche$$!! Work from You’re Home!!” and quickly gave his credit card information to the very legitimate sounding bOb ESposito so they could process his background check.  He expected to hear back from them any day now, but didn’t want to put all his eggs in one basket so he kept applying everywhere.  Suddenly there was a knock at his door.  He looked nervously through the peephole, tripping over the hem of his robe in the process.  “Shoot,” he said to himself as he spied Jimmy Nunez, the neighbor’s kid standing on the other side of the door, a stack of baseball cards wrapped up in one sweaty hand, a careworn first baseman’s mitt in the other.

“Hey Chad!  Chad!  Chad come out and play catch with me!”  Jimmy yelled through the door.

Chad retreated to the rear of his kitchen and crouched down near the pantry, hoping Jimmy would tire himself out and leave him alone.

“Chad, come out!  I heard you in there crying, I know you’re home, let’s play some catch!  Don’t worry about last time, I brought extra balls so you won’t have to chase them when I throw them past you anymore.  Chad, come on!”

With a grunt and a resigned snort he arose and slunk to the door, throwing it open and invited Jimmy in.  Jimmy made a face at the weird smells coming from the kitchen and stepped cautiously around the broken bits of ceramic before flopping himself down on a kitchen stool.  “Well?  Get your glove, I have Pony League tonight and I want to get a practice in before I go.  Plus, I think I can help you with your curveball.”

There was a shady park right across the street from Jimmy and Chad’s so they crossed the street and squared off 50 feet from each other.  Jimmy’s first throw hit Chad in the chest and fell to his feet.  “Did you lose it in the sun again?”  Jimmy asked, concerned.  Chad picked up the ball and threw it 100 feet over Jimmy’s head.  “Did it slip again?”  Jimmy asked, producing a second ball from the pocket of his Warren G Harding Middle School windbreaker.  Chad focused with all of his might and managed to snare the second throw from Jimmy.  His second toss shot like a rocket straight out of his hand and into the ground 10 feet in front of him, it rolled harmlessly to a stop just in front of Jimmy’s Vans.  He scooped, picking the ball up and flipped it back to Chad who caught it with a suspicious stab of his glove.  Jimmy shouted, “Nice grab, Chad, two in a row!  Good work!” in an encouraging voice.

Chad began to wonder why he hadn’t wanted to play catch with Jimmy earlier, playing catch with him was fun!  Nobody in the stands yelling at him, no visits from his coaches every inning to discuss how they wanted him to pitch to somebody, just free and easy, back and forth, the way it used to be.  They stopped after fifteen minutes when Jimmy’s mom called from the front door reminding him he had homework to do.  Jimmy bargained for an extra 5 minutes which they used to go to the 7-11 on the corner and get Slurpees; Jimmy went for strictly Wild Cherry but Chad was feeling good and went with a mix of all four flavors.  They enjoyed their Slurpees in silence before Jimmy took a step towards the door.  “Keep up the good work,” he said.  “Maybe I’ll bring Tommy Janowitz over tomorrow and we can work on your fielding a little bit.  I’ll remind him not to hit it too hard though, we don’t want you getting a bloody nose again.  Anyway, see you later.”  They fist-bumped and then walked out into the midmorning sunshine.

Two Peas in a Pod, BFFs!

Ned Colletti was not happy.  The Dodgers were in the middle of a terrible swoon, his prized possession (and the man who had completely and totally saved his job by being run out of Boston) was on the DL and he had a terrible case of moustache gout flaring up.  There was only one thing to do when he was not happy and that thing involved rollerblading.  A lot.  Ned turned the volume up on his stereo so he could still hear the faint strains of the new Black Eyed Peas track as he walked to the garage to retrieve his gear.  He hummed along with “Tonight’s Gonna Be a Good Good Night” while he located his athletic bag, heavy with his equipment.  “This song should really win the Pulitzer for best song, the people that vote on these things are idiots if it doesn’t win,” he thought to himself.

Ned kept his rollerblades in top condition because they were his most prized possession.  He had bought them from a shop named Radd Skatez when he lived in San Francisco but it hadn’t been until he moved to LA that he really tricked them out with high performance bearings and totally bitchin’ stickers.  He’d felt he had earned the right to spoil himself after hunting down and signing some of the top talent in the league: Jason Schmidt, Andrew Jones, JD Drew…the list was impressive and Ned let out a chortled grunt of satisfaction at the amazing crop of free agents that he’d brought into the fold.  His skates were fire engine red and he oiled them down with tri-flo lubricant after each usage so he could achieve top speed as he rocketed along the Santa Monica boardwalk, weaving in and out between the awe-struck passersby.

After lacing up his blades and strapping on his elbow pads, knee pads, wrist guards, cut off gloves and locking his chin strap he gingerly walked through the living room towards the front door, trying his hardest not to scuff the hardwood floor in the landing.  He was tired of his wife yelling at him every time he left rubber marks on the new flooring they had gotten from Home Depot six months prior (in celebration of the Vicente Padilla contract extension).  The front steps posed no problem as he clutched deftly to the banister on the way down, taking the stairs one at a time on his way to the street below.  Out of his fannypack (which he wore on the side) he whipped his polarized Oakley Blades and placed them firmly over the bridge of his nose.  He cursed as he noticed his iPod Nano hadn’t been charged after its last use; if the batteries died during the Ke$ha record he was going to be pissed.

Fifteen minutes later Ned found himself screaming along the boardwalk, whizzing with incredible speed past street vendors, overweight tourists, and homeless bums.  Even though he was going too fast to get a good look at their faces he imagined they stared at him with reverence as his blurred form whistled past them.  His mustache curled into a grin as he lowered his head and pumped furiously along the smooth surface.  It was with great displeasure that he heard his Motorola Razr ring in his fannypack.  Slowing just a hair he expertly unzipped his pouch and turned a small pirouette as he jabbed the phone to his year and snarled, “Hello?”

“Hi Ned,” the voice on the other end of the phone said.  “This is Richard Azwater of KKPX Radio, are you ready for your phone interview with Sportz Nation?”

Now Ned was really upset.  He’d totally forgotten about his radio spot!  He made a mental note to fire his personal assistant but then remembered Frank McCourt had laid off his PA last year.  How was a man of his stature supposed to operate under these conditions?

Barely breaking stride amongst the throng of humanity Ned intoned back into the receiver in what he thought was a calm and cool voice, “Yes, of course I’m ready.  Let’s talk about Dodger baseball, now is a great time for me to be talking about the team, I’m just out getting a bit of exercise but I’m Ned Colletti I’m very capable of multitasking and doing many things at once.”

“Hey, that’s just great Ned…you’re live in 5-4-3-2-and 1.  Ned you’re on the line with Xavier Stone.”  Ned slowed another tick, still going faster than any mortal had the right to travel but at least this way he could put more effort into giving a great radio interview, something he was completely famous for.  “Hi Xavier, this is Ned Colletti of the Dodgers.  I’m the General Manager of the team and I sign all of the players to their deals.  I’m very capable of answering all of the questions that you are going to ask me, let’s begin the interview.”  Unfortunately the howling wind created by the skate’s incredible velocity made it impossible for Ned to hear any of the questions asked; rather than slow to a stop and ask for clarification he instead decided to just anticipate what question was asked and respond with what was on his mind and what was on his mind right now was that the Dodgers were not good and it was probably Matt Kemp’s fault.  It was Matt Kemp’s fault that all the rocket line drives served up by the crappy pitching staff and worked-to-the-bone relief corps weren’t getting caught.  Kemp was the center fielder after all, he had priority over the entire field!  If batted balls weren’t being converted into outs, it was probably (definitely) Kemp’s fault.  “Willie Mays would have caught most of those balls,” Ned found himself saying time and again as Kemp went crashing into the wall at full tilt only to see the ball nick off the tip of his glove.  “I’m positive Ken Griffey Junior circa 1995 would have gone clavicle first into the fence to make that play,” he lamented after Kemp couldn’t come up with a rocket off the bat of Ike Davis yesterday.

Ned hadn’t meant to get worked up but once he got started he found he couldn’t stop.  He ranted into the phone for thirty minutes before finally hanging up.  He never actually heard any of Xavier Stone’s questions but he figured it really didn’t matter anyway.  It was probable that Kemp was their best player and sometimes you had to light a fire under your best players by telling random radio programs that they basically sucked.  Ned flipped the Razr shut and jammed it back into his fanny pack, picking up speed as he approached the end of the boardwalk.  He thought about grabbing a corndog for the push back home but decided against it at the last minute.  Ned’s Nano was on shuffle and he grinned a grin of triumph as the opening strains of “Tonight’s Gonna Be a Good Good Night” bleeped awesomely into his ear buds.  “My lucky day,” he said aloud to nobody in particular, ducking his head and increasing his pace.

Frank McCourt, his loving wife and best friend Tiger Woods pictured in happier times

Frank McCourt was busy sweeping the sand off the front porch of his beachfront condo in Malibu when the batteries went out on his radio.  He heaved a weary sigh and propped the broom in the corner of his rented space and walked inside to look for an extension cord.  He had been listening to the Dodger-Reds game on the radio because he’d sold the rights to his seat on the team plane to a kid from Hollywood High on Craig’s List for $85.99.  The kid’s name was Zach Newby and he’d talked McCourt down from the listed price of $80,000 after three minutes of hard negotiating.  “What can I do?”  McCourt had muttered to himself, “This kid’s got me over a barrel here,” as he forked over his ID pass and plane ticket.

As McCourt stumbled through the dark interior of the condo he kicked a few empty Rolling Rock bottles that had been left out on the floor by his roommate, Jason Repko.  One of the empties skittered across the floor and exploded into little green bits against the far wall.  The noise prompted a grunt from Repko, who was passed out on the couch.  “Whateryoudoin’?” Repko slurred, propping himself up on one pillow.

“I’m trying to clean up around here, something you wouldn’t know anything about.” McCourt shot back.  Ever since he and his wife had split up he’d been insufferable to be around.  He rarely ever left the condo unless he needed some tacos from the truck that parked itself on the PCH and played “La Cucaracha” over and over again until all of the tamales were gone.  He still went to most of the home games but he hated when people would boo him whenever he would get up from his box to use the restroom.  He’d tried purchasing a whizzinator off of the internet so he could go “number one”, as he liked to call it, without getting up and drawing attention to himself but his credit card had been declined.

After sweeping up the glass and throwing it in the overflowing trash can, McCourt proceeded to the utility closet at the back of the condo and rummaged around for an extension cord so he could get back to the game-it was a big one, Chad Billingsley was on the mound and Frank had a good feeling about today.  Today was the day that things were going to change, dammit, he thought to himself as he pulled all of Jason Repko’s old baseball crap out of the closet before spotting the bright orange cord at the bottom.  When he walked back through the living room Repko was watching cartoons and eating cereal.  “What’s the score in our game?”  He asked McCourt, spraying Cap’n Crunch across the coffee table.

Frank wanted to ignore him but then he remembered how fragile Repko’s feelings were and even though he was a terrible roommate and never pitched in money for beer or food Frank desperately needed the $800 monthly rent check-this divorce was really a bitch.
He didn’t make eye contact with Repko as he strode past but did hiss, “We had a great first inning and Casey (McCourt liked to call all the players by their first names) had a big hit with the bases loaded and we staked Chad to a three run lead.  He’s nails, he’s going to lock this bitch down!”  He hadn’t meant to get carried away but he couldn’t help it.  The team was his family now and he silently fumed that young Zach got to make the trip to Cincinnati while he was stuck in this dump with a washed up AAAA outfielder.

Repko burped and slid his cereal bowl onto the table, milk sloshing over the sides and ruining the pages of the Maxim and FHM magazines that they had stacked there.  “I don’t think so man.  Have you seen the way he’s been pitching lately?  So flat, no movement, goes into a shell if somebody gets on base.  It’s tragic.  If I could face him every time up I would be in the hall of fame, bro.  Cooperstown, bro.  Straight up.”  He finished his monologue with a huge fart and then turned back to his cartoons.

McCourt stepped back onto the patio, the sun glinting off of the slate gray waves in front of him and plugged the radio back in.  Charlie Steiner’s voice greeted him with the ominous phrase, “…and Billingsley simply cannot stop the bleeding here in the second inning.”  Immediately he flipped the radio back off, staring at it like it was his wife’s divorce lawyer mixed with a paparazzi photog from TMZ.
“Bro, come in here and watch this episode,” Repko shouted from inside the dank living room.  “Dude, you’ve got to see this episode, it’s the one where Ren and Stempy get in a fight!”

McCourt ripped the radio out of the wall and hurled it towards the ocean off of his balcony.  He watched it sail through the air with a certain satisfaction, feeling that all that was wrong with his life would be made right as soon as it was destroyed.  The radio dropped down, down, down towards the cool ocean where it smashed into Pam Anderson’s back as she ran past on her afternoon jog.  “You animal!”  She screamed as she fell to the ground in pain.  “You are a maniac and a menace, McCourt!  I will sue you!  I will sue!”

McCourt surveyed the damage he had done while he channeled a line from his favorite movie of all time, Rocky V.  “Sue me for what!???!!!?!??!” He shouted out into the deafening surf.  “Sue me for what??!?!?!”  He then slammed the door and watched cartoons with Repko for the rest of the afternoon.

3-0, 24 IP, 21 K’s, 2 BB, 1:13 ERA, 0.96 WHIP.

That’s Halladay’s season stat line after his latest brutally efficient outing in Friday night’s win over the Marlins.  As absurd as it sounds, people need to get used to this.  If Halladay remains healthy all season – he’s averaged slightly more than 230 innings pitched the last four years – he could join a very rare fraternity atop the single-season wins leaderboard.

These are the seven pitchers that have won 24 or more games in the last 30 years:

Steve Carlton, 24 in ’80
Dwight Gooden, 24 in ’85
Roger Clemens, 24 in ’86
Frank Viola, 24 wins in ’88
John Smoltz, 24 in ’96
Randy Johnson, 24 in ’02

and…

Bob Welch, with 27(!) wins in ’90.

Welch’s feat is remarkable in the modern day era of strict pitch counts, max effort pitches, ultra-patient hitters, five-man rotations and 35-start seasons for starting pitchers.

(Slight tangent:  If you ever get into a bar-stool argument about “which sports record is the least likely to fall?” you can end the debate pretty quickly by bringing up pitching wins.  No starter is going to match Old Hoss Radbourn’s 59 wins in 1884 or Cy Young’s 511 career wins anytime soon.  You know why?  Because pitchers today don’t have bad-ass names like “Old Hoss Radbourn.”  That name was probably worth half a dozen wins all by itself).

Welch won his 27 games in only 35 starts, and we know Halladay will be working within the same constraints.  Let’s look at how their situations compare:

Welch was great in 1990, but he also benefited from playing in front of one of the truly dominant teams of the last 30 years, the 1990 Oakland A’s, who were upset by the Reds that season in their third consecutive World Series appearance.

Halladay plays for, arguably, the only truly dominant team in the National League, and probably the best offensive club in the NL. With apologies to Tim Lincecum, he’s probably the best pitcher in the game, which will become more apparent now that he’s left the AL East meat grinder and switched to the lighter-hitting Senior Circuit.

Both Welch and Halladay also understand that strikeouts are Fascist.  Welch earned a decision in an incredible 33 of his 35 starts in that 1990 season, which is only possible by consistently pitching deep into games.  To consistently reach the 8th inning against patient, modern-era lineups requires an efficient use of pitches.  Although Halladay has much better stuff than Welch did, he shares the same aversion to walks, and has never come close to striking out a batter per inning in his 11 previous big-league seasons in Toronto.  That pitch-to-contact approach is part of what has enabled Halladay to rack up 25 complete games in the last three seasons.  No middle relievers ever vulture away wins from Doc.

Winning 20+ games requires a lot of luck, being a part of a great team, and obviously being a great pitcher.  Winning 25 or more would require a tornado of positive factors all blowing in the right direction, and Roy Halladay seems to have that in 2010.

Can Doc become only the second pitcher to 25 wins since the 1970′s?  Can he match Welch’s incredible 27-win season?

Time will tell.  But you can expect national columns about “Old Hoss Halladay” and the chase all summer long.  Consider yourself warned.

How I spent a fair portion of Monday

Don’t you think the first day of the baseball season should be a national holiday?  Judging by the amount of text messages, phone calls and emails I received yesterday regarding the exploits of Yunel Escobar, Jason Heyward and Garret Jones I’m guessing productivity was already at an all-time low for those in internet land so why not just make it official?  Actually, maybe just keep it the way it is-if I’m doing nothing as it is I might as well get paid for it.

The day started off with a classic BG-G Snide mano-y-mano matchup of my Johan Santana vs. his Josh Johnson (Yahweh bless you, Johan) and didn’t really let up for the rest of the day.  A quick check of my AT&T bill shows a total of 43 texts, 49 emails and about 90 minutes of talk time devoted to Carlos Zambrano’s disastrous inning, Ryan Howard’s second decker and Mark Buehrle’s ridiculous play.  That’s a lot of downtime, friends.  My apologies to my parents who I’m sure would tell you they raised me better and to the American economy as a whole.  And Barack…really?  Come on man.

You know who I really can’t get excited about?  The Dodgers.  Look, I don’t want to make any sweeping generalizations about the team after just one ugly game but what am I supposed to get stoked about here?  It’s been great watching Russ Mart, Ethier, Kemp, and Loney come up through the ranks but where’s the backing from Management?  I’m supposed to be excited about the Ortiz brothers taking the hill?  The Casey Blake extension (at the expense of Carlos Santana, no less) is going to do it for me?  Don’t expect a lot of posts about the Dodgers until I feel like they’re post-worthy.  We might be the West Coast biased but we’re not homers.

A special shout out to G Snide who treats every important Duke game like he has front row tickets to the apocalypse and retreats into a fortress of solitude (7025, represent) to yell at the TV like a normal human being.  Good work, Sir.  Even if you’re like most of the rest of America and hate Duke with a passion usually reserved for terrorists it’s still nice to see Greg have his fun after suffering through the Casey Sanders/Greg Paulus era(s).  Lastly I’m going to keep using the “JC is a bastard” tag because I want those words to look bigger on the right side of the screen.  Love that.