An Open Invitation

She ain’t pretty, but she’s mine.

I wrote the following as a comment on Hardball Talk, a favorite baseball blog of mine that I like to visit on an almost daily basis. Hardball Talk is like my baseball blog version of Cheers, a place where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came. The other day, head blogger and crime fighter-in-chief Craig Calcaterra posted a blog post about Jeff Loria: Will Jeff Loria’s Antics Hurt Baseball As a Whole?”

In it he writes:

People weren’t thinking “Marlins or nothing” before, so I doubt they are now. They’re thinking “Marlins or … Yankees?” “Marlins or Rays?” “Marlins or ___.”

A commenter who goes by lovistemiami wrote the following in response:

As a Miamian and a Marlins fan I agree on all points, except: Marlins or Yankees – yes. Marlins or Mets – yes. Marlins or Phillies or Braves – yes. Marlins or Rays – Ugh, I have never met a Rays fan. (Admittedly, I imagine they’d say they’ve never met a Marlins fan).

That hurt. Dissed by a Feesh fan. I responded with the following. I was particularly fond of this piece of writing. I included both a Jay-Z and a Daniel Webster reference. See if you can find them. I hope you appreciate that’s not an easy feat to pull off. I didn’t respond with anger, but with an open invitation to join us in this crazy journey of fandom together. This letter is not just directed to lovistemiami, but to all fans of this great sport without an allegiance to a team who might be looking for one in all the wrong places.

Hi, lovistemiami. /shaking your hand

Allow me to introduce myself. I’m a Rays fan. Now you know one. There’s a couple more of us who patrol this hallowed blog, fighting the good fight–raysfan1 and hittfamily. We’re fun, smart (ok, raysfan1 is a doctor–he’s really smart), and kinda cute.

We are a small fanbase, yet there are those who love us. We can certainly use all the fans we can get. As a Feesh fan, I know you are accustomed to small fan bases. Why would you base your fandom on the number of fans a team has when you know what it’s like to root for a team with few fans? Be a trendsetter! Be different! Join us Rays fans, and support baseball in our beautiful absurd land of flowers, sun, and beaches.

Now I will proceed to troll all those other teams you mentioned and convince you to join us. Don’t root for the Yankees–that’s like rooting for Donald Trump. The Mets–the Wilpons will break your heart. The Phillies? Do you have the stomach to boo all your players? I’m more of the positive reinforcement type myself. Silence speaks volumes, after all. Braves? C’mon man. Tomahawk chop? Really? Really.

I hope I’ve pleaded my case.

Sincerely,

A Rays Fan

Chris Effin’ Davis

My Nightmare

I am here to tell the tale of Chris Effin’ Davis. Prior to this season, I knew who he was. He’s a first baseman for the Orioles who spent some time with the Rangers. The season is but a newborn babe but now I KNOW who he is. He is the killer of hope, the crusher of baseballs, and the stuff of my nightmares. I woke up in a cold sweat last night, muttering the words “Chris…Effin’…Davis.”

In 11 AB, just 3 games, he did this to my beloved Rays: .636/.692/1.727. That’s an OPS of 2.419. 2.419!!!! I know it’s a small sample size and this kind of production is not sustainable (or IS IT?), but you have to understand how traumatic it is to witness a whipping, nay, a thrashing like this. Let me continue with the evidence. He had a total of 11 RBIs. To reiterate, he only had 11 AB. Three homers, three doubles, and seven singles was the final toll. Every time he came up to the plate. Boom. It didn’t matter what the Rays threw at him. Fastball. Boom. Curve. Boom. Slider. Boom. Every single time with men on base. BOOM. I’m going to curl up in a fetal position again and beg for my mommy.

Update: 10:30 pm. Since I wrote this earlier today, Chris Effin’ Davis is continuing his trail of destruction and has hit his 4th home run of the season in as many days–becoming just the 4th player in MLB history to hit a home run every day in the first four days of the season and joining the ranks of Willie Mays, Mark Maguire, and Nelson Cruz. Fortunately for my sanity, Davis has left the Tampa Bay area, but I’m having flashbacks.

Playing Catch

A couple of days ago, I was in a consignment shop for children’s articles. My little man is in the 99% percentile for height and weight, and he outgrows clothes as quickly as I can buy them. I learned quickly that the expense of new clothes wasn’t worth it. While doing a quick browse through the shop’s toy section, a used leather fastpitch softball glove caught my eye.  It looked cute–black with pink accents. I picked up the glove. It felt soft and flexed easily. The girl (or progressively minded boy) who owned it before had broken it in nicely. I tried it on, fully not expecting it to fit since it was a child’s glove. To my surprise, it fit, well, like a glove. Having small hands is not always a bad thing, I mused. I tossed it in my shopping cart thinking that maybe someday my 4 year old daughter will use it.

This evening, the weather in Clearwater was particularly pleasant. The summers here may be more humid than a baboon’s rectum, but winter in Florida is perfection. My husband spotted the glove in the garage. “Where did that come from?” I bought it the other day at the consignment shop, I explained. I thought Lana could use it someday, although it fits me well.

Out of nowhere I asked. “Wanna play catch?” Sure, he said. He grabbed his glove and a baseball. I haven’t played catch in at least 20 years, since I was a teen with my dad.

We tossed the ball back and forth in the front yard while the little man watched us from his stroller and my daughter swung happily from her swing. He threw a few balls with some wicked spins, renewing my appreciation for the skill set of baseball professionals that I sometimes take for granted since they make it look so easy. My husband complimented me on my ability to field grounders. It’s the Dominican shortstop in me, I responded. Our neighbor drove by slowly and smiled approvingly at our game of catch. The sound of the ball hitting the leather was so reassuring and made me long for baseball with increased fervor. Gripping the ball in my hand and seeing it spin through the air brought me back to my childhood, to those endless summer evenings in New York spent with dad at the park, fielding balls together. As the sun set to the soothing sound of a baseball slapping leather, the setting couldn’t have been more idyllic. Tonight, I was a kid again, all thanks to an old used glove.

“Fuck Everything, Nation Reports. Just Fuck It All To Hell”

This is from The Onion:

Fuck Everything, Nation Reports. Just Fuck It All To Hell

My feelings exactly regarding today’s tragic events.

The Common Cold: Suck It Up

If you are a healthy adult with nothing wrong with you, and you get a cold, do NOT call your doctor.  Seriously. It’s a cold. Yes, your nose is congested, your throat is sore,  you’re coughing up your left lung, and your sneeze has enough wind power to generate electricity. I know you’re miserable. Colds suck royally. And you know what? Your doctor can do absolutely nothing for you. As advanced as medicine is, there is nothing, nada, nyet, rien for your cold. You can take a myriad of dizzying choices of over the counter medications that clear up your stuffy nose and stifle that cough but bottom in line is that you just have to ride the sucker out. Furthermore, if your gunk is coming up green or yellow, that does not mean you need an antibiotic. That’s just your white blood cells, your own personal little army, fighting and dying in the valiant cause of curing you of your cold. Again: you do not need an antibiotic. A lot of people will get antibiotics anyway from their doctors because the doctor is sick and tired of hearing you whine and complain. You are doing a huge disservice to yourself and the world by helping create superbugs that are resistant to antibiotics, so when you really do need an antibiotic, it’s going to be powerless to help you.

Here’s the kicker.  Inevitably, after you start taking the antibiotic, you start to feel better so naturally you think to yourself: Hey, that doxycycline cured me! No, it didn’t. You would have gotten better anyway because time + rest = only cure for the common cold. I could have given you sugar pills or wrapped sausages around your neck and guess what? You would have started to feel better in 7 to 10 days anyway!  Why? Because that’s how long the average cold lasts. Most colds are self-limiting. It was only a coincidence that you took the antibiotic. You know what you should do? Drink lots of fluids, especially warm ones. Gargle warm salt water. It’s gross but it helps that sore throat. Take something over the counter that is specific for your symptoms. Be wary of the multi-drug over the counter formulations that treat multiple symptoms. For example, if you have a stuffy nose but no cough, just take a decongestant like Sudafed. Be especially careful with those multi-drug cold formulations that contain acetaminophen. For example, don’t take Tylenol (acetaminophen or paracetamol) on top of Nyquil. Your liver will be very angry at you. You don’t want your liver to get angry.

Caveat: What I have written here does not apply if you are the very young, the very old, or you have other things wrong with you like asthma, COPD, or other comorbidities. If you’re pregnant, call your OB to find out what meds, if any, you can take. You’re the ones who should call. Here’s a pretty good guide for when to call your doctor with a cold if you are an otherwise healthy adult. And lord help me, if you’ve had this cold for 3 days, you’re 27 years old and otherwise completely healthy, and you call me at 4:55 pm on a Friday, I am going to still be polite and nice to you because I’m not mean to my patients, but I’ll be thinking not so nice thoughts about you. So there.

Random Rays Stuff

Yesterday, the Rays traded for Yunel Escobar, the pea-brained shortstop who was recently traded from the Blue Jays to the Marlins as part of the Marlins Massacre. In return, the Marlins get Derek Dietrich, who in addition to having a fun name to say,  is a promising minor league infielder. Escobar’s reputation precedes him as an immature 30 year old with a penchant for lackadaisical play and a propensity for ignorance . (Am I being too subtle here in my feelings for the guy?) Maddon expects one thing from his players: 100% effort at all times, especially when it is running down the first baseline on a groundball that is almost certainly an out (but you never know). Word on the street is that this is one area that Escobar tends to flake out. In a way, it seems as if we traded for a homophobic version of BJ Upton. Hopefully, Maddon and Martinez will be able to keep him in line. Escobar has apparently used language and cultural barrier as an excuse in the past. With Martinez as bench coach, he won’t be able to pull that crap. What most Rays fans really want to know though is: can the man hit? He has definitely shown great potential in the past. He doesn’t strike out much, which is refreshing. His BABIP last year was only .273, so it indicates he may have been unlucky since it is so far off his career BABIP of .306. Not much in the way of power, but he seems to get a lot singles and doubles. In spite of my thrashing of his personality, I will try to keep an open mind. As long as he produces and behaves himself, I can forgive… but I never forget. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m quite forgetful. Whatever. He just better behave himself.

On to less controversial news. Congrats to our very own William Tell, Fernando Rodney, for winning this year’s GIBBY (Greatness in Baseball Yearly) Award for best closer. I had the pleasure of watching develop into an amazing closer in 2012. What can I say about him that hasn’t already been said? He was historically good. Dennis Eckersley good. Next year, I’m sure there will be some regression, but this is about celebrating what he did in 2012. I saw him through a 96 mph fastball followed by a devastating 79 mph breaking ball. He was known for lack of control in the past, but this year, he was on point.

I spoke to a patient today in his mid 70s. Depressed.  Denies suicidal ideation. No plans. The holidays trigger memories of his son, who died at the age of 30. The pain in his voice is as palpable as a pulse. I try to maintain professional composure and not allow my emotions to show. It’s hard to keep the tears from my eyes, but I believe I’m successful.  I picture my little ones for a nanosecond and I can’t imagine. I don’t want to imagine. Burying one’s child is the worst emotional trauma a person can undergo.

I’m agnostic, but I also believe in respecting my patient’s beliefs. It’s not about me and my personal opinions. “Are you spiritual, sir?” I ask.

“Yes, I go to church every week. I like my church, and the people there are really nice.”

“Where do you think your son is?”

“In heaven.”

“He’s watching out for you?”

“Yes.”

“Would he want his father to be sad?”

“No, no, no.”

I start feeling like Ricky Gervais in the Invention of Lying (good movie, although if you’re the religious sort, I don’t recommend it. You will be deeply offended, more so than you are right now.) I don’t believe what I’m saying, but if it makes my patient feel better, what’s the harm?

“Someday, you’ll be reunited in heaven, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it? Let’s just not make it today, alright?”

He laughs. “No, not today.”

“Good, “ I reply warmly. “You can call us anytime, alright? If these feelings return, we’re for you. There’s always someone on call.”

“I guess I need a lot of people watching out for me, “ he says wistfully.

“That’s why we’re here.”