SB Nation User Blog: FreeSeatUpgrade

DLD 030309: No More Monkey Business

FreeSeatUpgrade — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 05:08:12 -0000

Apparently monkeyball has left the building. I point you to the AN masthead at the bottom of the front page…now, with 66% less whimsy! Also, he told me.

I don't feel safe on this blog no more
I don't want to die in a meta flame war
I want an interlude with a goofy score
Made by an ape man.

But I do not care to delve into matters base and meta. I come to bury monkeyball, not to praise him.

No, wait. I do come to praise monkeyball. And to provide today’s DLD. Because AN is an honorable blog.

Here’s the thing: sports blogs are stupid. < checks surroundings > Umm, no, I don’t mean that. What I mean is that the comments on sports blogs are stupid. < checks own comment count > Wait…that’s not it either.

Let’s put it this way: Most sports media is shallow, blindly partisan, or dull. Often all three. AN is not. The front page offers meaningful analysis, critical thinking, fan passion, and humor. It’s safe to say that, as an A’s fan, once I’d peered through the store window of AN I was going to keep coming back.

So AN itself made me a reader. But monkeyball made me a player.

Most sports blog comments go like this: My Team Roolz! You’re Team Sucks Donky Dicks! Moran! Fagget!

Not so here. In fact, I’d say that it’s user contributions that make the difference. When the fanpost sidebar and comment threads are hot…that’s when AN’s at its best. At some point, somehow, AN stumbled into a critical mass of insight, passion, and hilarious strangeness that just worked. And as I went from skeptic to lurker to reg’d user to bombastic loudmouth, monkeyball was the catalyst. The Commentator di Tutti Commentatti. The straw that stirred the drink.

It was wonderful to discover a sports blog where you don’t have to check your evolved self at the door.

I’m not saying we’re doomed without User 86’d. That’s the thing about critical masses. They keep going.

Well, I hope we're not too messianic
Or a trifle too satanic
We love to play the blues

But this is a DLD, damnit, not a eulogy! There should be laughter, and fine wine. How the hell else am I gonna grind through this work day? Where are all the friggin' links?

O-Cab to Renteria: Are you gibbon me a buncha crap?. There’s some cross-bay poo-flingin’ goin’ on:

…the Colombian shortstops have feuded in the wake of a business deal that backfired. According to an ESPN the Magazine story in April, Cabrera bought a team in the winter league run by Renteria's family but sold it back after one season because, he said, the league was mismanaged.

Renteria accused Cabrera of buying the team in a bid to wreck the league and added, "We've never been friends." Cabrera called Renteria "ignorant." …(They) could be on the same field Thursday when the A's and Giants meet in Scottsdale.

Yeti: the gorilla’s whiter cousin. As such, you hardly ever see a Yeti pulled over for a busted tail light.

Actually, the link above refers to noted British wildlife dude Sir David Attenborough’s reiteration of his belief that Yetis may well exist. "I'm baffled by the Abominable Snowman - very convincing footprints have been found at 19,000ft. No-one does that for a joke. I think it's unanswered."

The A’s were off yesterday, no game, no workouts, no nothing. Sounds like a recipe for trouble. I haven’t checked famed exposer of celebrity monkeyshines TheSmokingGun.com yet today, but I sure hope none of the A’s ran afoul of the notoriously ill-tempered Sheriff Joe Arpaio. Here, a group of malcontents toss a raging monkeywrench against the machine of Sheriff Joe. Bless you, young malcontents.

Fox the fox
Rat on the rat
You can ape the ape
I know about that

Alternatively: Why don’t you pass the time by playing a little monkey baseball? It’s hypnotic.

That’s gold, right there!

Alyssa’s pitch: "Wanna monkey around?" Her book hits the shelves later this month. Two choice excerpts:

Yeah, I dated three baseball players. Not only that, they were all pitchers, imagine that. (But the one in the middle was a lefty so I don't know if he really counts).

Ouch.

I don't have much of a social life, but I do have season tickets for the Dodgers.

Double Ouch.

Mets say they're ready to shock the monkey.

The gist: Mets say they’re done choking; plan to fall from contention in July this year.

We're offered Moet - we don't mind Chivas
Wherever we go with bring the Monkey with us

By the way, when caring for your Brass Monkey, it turns out the main concern is not the frigid depths of winter ("cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey"). That’s apocryphal, as the naval scholars cited by Oregon Magazine explain. The truth is, you need be most concerned for your brass monkey’s extremities in the heat:

Even when weather was involved, it was often heat rather than cold that was meant, as in the oldest example known, from Herman Melville’s Omoo (1850): "It was so excessively hot in this still, brooding valley, shut out from the Trades, and only open toward the leeward side of the island, that labor in the sun was out of the question. To use a hyperbolical phrase of Shorty’s, ‘It was ’ot enough to melt the nose h’off a brass monkey.’ "

If you still lack a projection system as the 2009 season draws nigh, you could do a helluva lot worse than The Marcel the Monkey Forecasting System. The Marcels are made available free by the famed tangotiger, who for all his smarts seems nevertheless to miss an important point when he describes his creation thusly:

"Actually, it is the most basic forecasting system you can have, that uses as little intelligence as possible. So, that's the allusion to the monkey."

One day the engineer wanted a bite to eat,
He left the monkey sitting on the driver's seat,
The monkey pulled the throttle, the locomotive jumped the gun
And did 90 miles an hour down the mainline run.

My five favorite monkeyball diaries ever. (Yeah, that’s right, I called ‘em diaries. By the rancid name of fanpost t’would ne’re smell as sweet)

The Lonesome Release of Toddie Linden

Billy, Injuries and the Jack of Custs

The Charge of the Light-Hitting A

Brokeback Stadium

In San Fran Bay did monkeyball
a floating baseball-field decree

And even I don’t have the DLD writing stamina to compile a list of links to my favorite monkeyball comments. There’s too damn many of them.

And now there’s not enough.

I guess I'll go to Florida and get myself some sun
There aint no more opportunity here, everything's been done
Sometimes I think of Tweeter, sometimes I think of Jan
Sometimes I don't think about nothing but the Monkey Man

DLD 020609: Warm Springs Infernal

FreeSeatUpgrade — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 18:32:53 -0000

There’s an axiom in political event planning: never book a room you can’t fill. Nothing looks worse on camera than a bunch of empty seats, but by contrast, a standing-room-only crowd makes your (candidate/cause/publicity stunt) look vibrant and in high demand.

The A’s apparently took this thought to heart, as the intimate event they’d planned for 25 or so Fremont residents became a throng of 700 protestors who turned out in opposition to what’s become the A’s new preferred Fremont ballpark site, near the future Warm Springs BART station. Also near the New United Motors (NUMMI) plant, and a bunch of current residents just across the 680 freeway.

More than 700 protesters, according to police estimates, lined the street outside Weibel Elementary School at 6:30 p.m. holding up anti-A's signs and chanting "No Stadium."

…The rally was organized to demonstrate the opposition in Fremont's Warm Springs district to the team's proposal to build a ballpark near the planned Warm Springs BART station, and across Interstate 680 from a residential neighborhood. Residents fear the ballpark would lead to added traffic problems and result in fans parking on their streets and walking through their neighborhood.

…With such a large turnout for the rally, A's officials cancelled the planned information session and invited 500 of the protestors into the school's multi-purpose room to field their questions.

As usual, the Newballpark Blog is a fine place to find information. The A’s plan for the Warm Springs site appears to be "decoupled" from the housing component which ostensibly will pay for the park…in other words, no more "ballpark village," just a village at Site A to pay for the ballpark somewhere at Site B. That presumably would be the same plan to be used for a San Jose ballpark. Or an Oakland one.

Box Office Report

FreeSeatUpgrade — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 00:26:12 -0000

Hooray! Just returned from the A’s Box Office with a stack of tickets as thick as my phone book. Well, I’m a sophisticated urbanite RAF, so maybe not my phone book. But it’s as thick as the Greater Hickory Metro Area phone book, that’s for sure!

Some notes:

Can’t beat the box office. No Ticketmaster Transaction fee, no Inconvenience Fee, no print-at-home fee. For the cost-conscious consumer it’s worth driving a fair piece to buy tickets without the usuriousness.

Amusingly, the A’s web site makes it sort of hard to figure out how to buy tickets in person. The information is not included on the General Ticket Info page, nor can it be found on the Single Game Tickets page. Instead, you need to leave the ticket section of the site entirely, and find your way over to the Ballpark A-to-Z Guide page, then under the letter A (oddly) you’ll find "A’s Box Office," where you’ll learn that:

The A's Box Office is located on the North side of the stadium at D Gate and is open on Monday-Friday, 10am-6pm and Saturdays, 10am-4pm, closed on Sunday.

The Box Office is also open for every A's home game. On all weeknight, weekday and 6:05 weekend day games, the Box Office opens at 10am. On weekend games, the Box Office opens at 9am. The Box Office is open on gamedays until 30 minutes after the game at the D Gate Box Office.

I’m guessing that the A’s decision to ditch Fan Fest this year put quite a dent in their opening weekend ticket sales. I went at 2:00 today, first day of sales, and there was almost no one there. One couple was walking away as the Aphid and I walked up, and another pair arrived as we were leaving. And that’s it. The A’s appeared to have eight tickets sellers on duty, and they, um, had some spare time on their hands. My transaction interrupted their card game.

That said, today as always, the staff at the A’s Box Office rock. They are invariably helpful, patient, and possessed of a section-by-section…nay, seat-by-seat…knowledge of the vagaries of the concrete bowl we call home. What’s the best way to avoid the sun at a May afternoon game? Or to be close to a restroom with a diaper changing table? Where are you most likely to be assaulted by seagulls, smokers, or Sox fans? The A’s ticket staff knows.

The team store was open. Had no player-specific jerseys or tee-shirts, except for some Chavez’s, of which I imagine they own numerous shipping containers full. OTOH—no Crosby’s! They’ve obviously learned to wait out the roster storms before stocking the inventory. They do, however, have six different sizes and styles of Stomper dolls available! Also, as always the A’s have a lot of A’s gear for infants, but not so much for elementary school aged kids.

I’ll buy more game tickets later when I know my schedule better, and after I’ve exhausted my various sources of freebies. I’m especially interested in the much-improved Friday Family Pack Deal—four Plaza Level seats for $50, plus four hot dogs, sodas, and bags of peanuts. A fireworks game for my family of four last year ran us $56 for Plaza Outfield seats ($18 each for two adults, $10 each for kids). So for 2009 we're looking at better seats, for less money, plus food. Ex-cellent. < twiddles fingers >

Also improved for this year: last year’s introduction of "premium game pricing," where tickets for games against the Giants, Red Sox and Yankees cost more than other games, has now been rolled back to apply to only the most high priced tickets. Us Joe "Quaff a pre-game BART lot" Sixpack types will pay the same for all 2009 games.

The $2 Wednesday deals are better than ever! This year, no home Wednesdays are excluded…Royals or Red Sox, Rangers or Giants, Twins or Yankees, makes no difference, the A’s will sell you two dollar ticket.

What’s more, the sections with $2 beauties have been expanded this year to add the "Plaza Level" section. Previously, the deal applied only to the Plaza Reserved (aka Upper Bleachers) and the Plaza Outfield (aka Plaza Oblique, near the foul poles). Now you can find $2 tix from Section 225 on the third base side and 209 on first base, at the outside edge of the infield dirt. For me this may not have a huge real-world affect—my butt pretty much only meets my actual assigned seat on Opening Night and when I have my kids along—but for the rest of you right-standing law abiding folk, this is good news.

Tangent—please, someone tell the A’s how absurd their section naming is. If you’d never been there, would you think that "Plaza Reserved" are actually much worse seats than "Plaza Outfield" or "Plaza Level"? Or for that matter, that many seats in the "Plaza Infield" offer substantially better views than those in the "Field Level." For God’s sake, there’s four separate price ranges which have Plaza in their name. I think they should adopt a more colorfully hierarchical nomenclature. "Well, Roy Halladay’s pitching that game, so give me two seats in the Plutocrat section...I can’t afford the Brahmins. But next week when KC’s in town I’ll take two in the Plebe section and look to upgrade. But I draw the line at Peasants…they’re revolting"

Two tickets for Opening Night, front row Section 241…close enough that Ryan can hear me but not so close that Ichiro can point me out to the cops. Two tickets to four of the five Wednesday day games this season, and four tickets to every Wednesday night game. 38 tickets, $90. These are the good old days.

DLD 100808: That election everyone’s talking about

FreeSeatUpgrade — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 16:11:04 -0000

That’s right…the Fremont mayor’s race and what it might mean for the A’s. What, you were thinking about some other election? No CGVinista me…I’m keeping it all baseball, all the time. At least until Late Night with Roy Williams kicks off the UNC Tarheels’ 08-09 men’s hoops campaign…in just two weeks!

But I digress. The question was elections we can discuss freely on AN. And the answer is…the Fremont Mayor’s race! In today’s East Bay Express, Robert Gammon provides a primer on this campaign, describing the three candidates in the mix and what a victory by each might portend for The Ballpark at Wolffish Acres at Fremont. Here’s the lineup:

Mayor Bob Wasserman, incumbent and primary A’s-to-Fremont booster

Former Mayor Gus Morrison, primary A-s-to-Fremont opponent

Councilman Steve Cho, would-be holder of the middle ground

Gammon lists the obvious Wasserman = good for ballpark, Morrison = bad for ballpark equation, but adds a few interesting aspects, such as:

At this point, the mayor's race appears to be too close to call. Under city rules, whoever gets the most votes wins, even if that person fails to garner at least 50 percent of the vote. Some political observers, including Wasserman himself, and former longtime Assemblyman (FSU: and Fremont Ur-developer) John Dutra, think Wasserman and Morrison, who are both Democrats, may cancel each other out, allowing Cho, a Republican, to slip past them. "That concerns me the most," said Mayor Wasserman. "Every vote Gus Morrison gets is a vote for Cho."

Wasserman, however, has some significant advantages. As of last week, he said he had raised more than $100,000 for the campaign, far more than either of his competitors. It's also more than he has ever raised for a mayoral campaign before, he said. In addition, most of the city's political power structure is backing him.

(Cho) also expressed interest in letting Fremont voters have the final say on the A's deal. "Talking to people, there's a good number that do want a ballot measure," he said. He indicated that he would support such a move, but said he would not initiate it. However, some team backers say they believe an expensive election campaign could prompt Wolff to abandon the proposal altogether. "If you think of a project at that level — $1.8 billion or more — the more uncertainty you put into the situation, by putting it on the ballot, makes it tougher for the team to find investors," Dutra said.

…Regardless, Wasserman and Dutra say that neither the Wolffs nor the team plan to get involved in the mayor's race even though it could ultimately determine the team's future. If they did, voters might view it as an attempt to sway the election. Wasserman said he hasn't even spoken to the Wolffs in the last two months.

So what happens if Wasserman loses? Some Oakland officials, including City Council President Ignacio De La Fuente, believe the A's can be convinced to stay put.

The game isn't over until it's over. Also: "You gotta be careful if you don't know where you're going, otherwise you might not get there" Also: "You wouldn't have won if we'd beaten you."

Who's writing this script? Tom Perrata? Or Don Perata?

Peanutball, The End. Apachylypse Now

FreeSeatUpgrade — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 06:24:29 -0000

Darkness. Bats on balls.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Fade to slabs of sunwashed gray concrete. Crack. Crack. Stadium plaza: Ticket Services…Staff Entrance…Will Call…Crack. Curls of hot dog steam. Crack.

Massive concussions. Crack. Flames consume the crumbing park. Crack. Crack. Crack. Music:

This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end.
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end…

Oakland. Shit. I’m still only in Oakland. Every time I think I’m gonna wake up back in the jungle. A gas station opening, or a whiny brat’s birthday party. When I was home after my last tour I hardly said a word to my booker until I said yes when she quit. I’m here a week now. I’m waiting for a mission, getting softer. And every minute Arte squats in the bush, he gets stronger.

I woke in a third deck camera shack strewn with parking lot bounty: all the backwash I could beat the recyclers to, and a hundred stepped-out butts salvaged for one last drag. My eyelids broke the crust of pus and tears and blinked in the new day; I blearily scanned the room for something to fend off the shakes. The dregs of the pruno bowl, a little hair of the dog. Literally…I made it with flea treatment samples left from the Dog Day game.

Everyone gets everything he wants. I wanted a mission, and for my sins they gave me one. Brought it up to me like room service. It was a real choice mission…and when it was over, I’d never want another one.

"Captain Stomper, sir? Are you in there? We have orders to escort you downtown."

I was going to the worst place in the world, and I didn’t even know it yet. Days away and dozens of miles down a Bay that snaked through the war like a main circuit cable and plugged straight into Beane. It was no accident that I got to be the caretaker of Colonel William Lamar Beane’s memory. There is no way to tell his story without telling my own. And if his story is really a confession, then so is mine.

Sergeant McCarver dragged me to my feet. "Joe, give me a hand here. Come on Captain, let’s get you cleaned up. " A trip to the grounds shed got me a garden hose shower, a mower blade shave, and resin bag for the chafing. Soon after I was in the back seat of a civilian Plymouth Reliant, the sergeant at my side, door locks retracted, heading up 880 in the slow lane. Broadway, 10th Street, then parked at the loading ramp of the Oakland Marriott. "This way Captain Stomper." McCarver led me through the bowels of downtown Oakland’s finest hotel, up the service elevator, and to a suite on the top floor.

They were expecting me. More than I could say. Colonel Bob Watson stood just inside the door. Behind him was General Allan "Bud" Selig, CINC NoAmBall. He sat uncomfortably, unsmiling, million dollar stars on his collar, a 10 dollar haircut on his head. No tip. He had sworn never to set foot in Oakland again.

Watson started. "Come on in, at ease. Want a cigarette?"

"Yes, sir, thank you." I leaned in for a light. His Zippo said 1981 ALCS. Burn.

"You’ve worked a lot on your own, haven’t you?"

"Yes sir, I have."

"Your file shows a mission to Pac Bell Park in 2006."

"I’m not presently disposed to discuss that operation, sir."

"Did you not investigate the A’s medical staff later that year?"

"Sir, I am unaware of any such operation, nor would I be disposed to discuss such an operation if it did in fact exist, sir."

Selig spoke. "Bob, play the tape for Captain Stomper." Watson flipped the toggle on a reel-to-reel rig which was old back when Selig sold car undercoating to Milwaukee’s stupidest. The voice on the tape was Billy Beane’s:

"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That’s my dream. That’s my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor, and surviving…"

Another transmission: "We must cut them all. We must designate them. Rook after rook, vet after vet, draft class after draft class. And they call me cold-hearted. They lie. Those nabobs. How I hate them."

General Selig stood. "Colonel Billy Beane was one of the most outstanding front office men this league has ever produced. He was brilliant, and a good man too. Well along the road to joining the inner circle. But now, his ideas, his methods have become…unsound." Selig must have thought I looked skeptical. Actually I was trying to sidle my chair close to the minibar. "Colonel Beane has been operating outside the bounds of convention and basic front office decency. Over-slot signing bonuses. Latin American free agents. Spooning chum upon the major league roster."

I thought I understood: "And you worry this shows disdain for the fans?"

"Fuck the fans. Beane is showing a gross lack of respect his place in this league. What is General Ilitch to think, or General Wilpon, or Kaiser Reinsdorf? These men are established leaders, and Colonel Beane is out of line. Unsound."

Watson took up the company line. "Beane’s crossed into the South Bay with his Sabrgnard army, who worship the man like a god. And I have some more shocking news to tell you, Stomper. Colonel Beane was about to be arrested for tampering. For signing Michael Inoa before his betters had had their chance."

Selig wanted to finish this. "You see Stomper…in this business, things get confused out there, power, ideals, the old morality, and practical competitive necessity. Out there with those blind loyalists it must be a temptation to be a god. Because there’s a conflict in every GM’s heart between the sentimental and the ruthless, between good and evil. The good does not always triumph. Sometimes the dark side overcomes what Veeck called being a good loser. Every man has got a breaking point. You and I have. Billy Beane has reached his. And very obviously, he has gone insane."

Selig needed to hear me say it. "Yes sir, very much so sir. Obviously insane."

Watson laid it out. "You will proceed down the Bay with a Marabito Patrol Craft. Pick up Colonel Beane’s path in Fremont. Follow it. Find him, infiltrate his team by whatever means available, and terminate the colonel’s command."

This wasn’t registering. "Terminate? Colonel Beane?" It seemed surreal. Selig’s voice rose. "He’s out there operating totally beyond the pale of any acceptable GM conduct. And he’s still in the field signing prospects!"

Selig drew himself up to the full height the twisted bastard could reach. "Terminate with extreme prejudice."

Back in the Plymouth, the private drove down Broadway with Sgt. McCarver again flanking me in the rear seat, as though I might bail out at any moment. Tampering? Shit, charging a GM for tampering in this world was like handing out speeding tickets at the Indy 500. But I took the mission. What the hell else was I gonna do?

At the end of Broadway we headed left. McCarver said nothing. The silence became him. Down the Embarcadero, past discount retail, bad food, and parking lots, desperately for an anchor attraction, some kind of draw, which Oakland never could manage to deliver. A village or something. We approached the marina area I knew well…people forget that bait is food too. And like the whalers of London’s day, I knew to follow the seagulls to find meat.

We parked and entered Quinn’s Lighthouse. With a nod to the surly, muscled hostess (note to the intrepid: she’s unamused by the old sneak-the-trunk-onto-the-beer-tap gag), the sergeant led me straight through the dining room, kitchen, and out the back door to a small dock on the estuary. To my new ride: a Navy PBR, a small cheap patrol boat, which would ferry me down the Bay. The boat slept three…we were five on board.

The crew was mostly just kids, dumb ballplayers with one foot in their graves. The machinest, the one they called Ziggy, was from Kansas. He was wrapped too tight for the Bay…probably wrapped too tight for Kansas. Kirk on the forward guns was a famous golfer from the Long Beach. You look at him and you wouldn’t believe he ever threw a real fastball in his life. Craft, the guy called Patrol Craft, was from some South American shithole. Light and space of the Bay had really put the zap on his head. Then there was Thomas, the Big Chief. It might have been my mission, but it sure as shit was the Chief’s boat. His massive brow furrowed as he looked between my orders and the maps in his hands.

"There are about two places in the Bay where we can draw enough water to get into the South Bay. They’re both hot, belong to Arte." I told him not to worry about it. Didn’t help. This wasn’t his first trip south. "About six months ago I took a man down past the bridge at Dumbarton. He was regular Army too. Heard he shot himself in the head."

We headed downbay slowly, hugging the coast. The air dripped with the fetid sweetness of wetland decay; clouds of gnats swarmed our heads like sportswriters to free food. Hot jungle slowness. With Beane. At first I thought they’d handed me the wrong dossier. I couldn’t believe they wanted this man dead. First round draft pick, can’t miss skills, good face. World Series rings in Minnesota and Oakland. Then not just into the front office, where so many ex-jocks foundered, but straight up the ladder. Assistant GM. GM. Part owner. He was being groomed for one of the top spots in the corporation. Until he went too far.

A shout from Kirk brought me back. "Balloons off the port bow, ten o’clock!" A half mile off Alameda and closing, slowly, were six rainbow-striped hot air balloons in tight formation. It was Air MKT, First Squadron, Ninth Regiment out of Oakland, Lieutenant Colonel Mike Crowley commanding. First of the Ninth was an old cavalry division that had cashed in its horses for hot-air balloons, and gone wafting around the Bay, looking for the shit. They’d given Arte a few surprises down here. Crowley’s balloons were supposed to have met us five clicks further south, but Air Marketing, well, those boys just couldn’t stay put. We came ashore to meet them.

They had landed on the beach across from Alameda’s finest retirement home, well-appointed luxury by the Bay for those who could afford to age gracefully. Other than their staff and my crew there wasn’t an unwrinkled non-white face for miles.

Colonel Crowley stood tall in the flagship balloon, wearing rainbow suspenders. He hit the sound system: "Oh I can’t fight this feeling any more…" Then from the megaphone:

"Citizens of Bayview Acres! Don’t miss 80’s Night at the Coliseum next Thursday! Seniors in Spandex get $2 off admission! Between innings groove to the tunes you love from Depeche Mode and Flock of Seagulls! Enter the big hair contest!"

The carnage was brutal. Seniors fell dead in their tracks. Amid the scattered bodies walked Crowley, fast, tossing trading cards. "A-Ha…Great White…Night Ranger…Duran Duran…everyone loves those guys." I went to catch up, a confused Saarloos at my side. "Hey Captain, what’s he doing with those?"

"They’re death cards."

"What?"

"Death cards. Promoting next week’s game. Lets Arte know who did this." I’d caught up with Crowley now. "Colonel Crowley, sir. Captain Stomper. I’m carrying priority orders from CINCNoAm. Your unit is to get us a few clicks downbay."

Before Crowley could answer one of his men came running. "Colonel, I think one of those sailors is Kirk Saarloos." That stopped him. "Kirk Saarloos, the golfer?" Kirk nodded. "It’s an honor to meet you, Kirk. I’ve admired your putting for years. I like your chipping too. I think you have the best short game there is."

"Thank you, sir." Saarloos didn’t know what to say. Crowley could talk golf in a charnel house, but the scene was too gruesome for the rest of us. I needed to get back on target. "Colonel, sir, if you look at this map, we need your help getting down here, just past the Oakland Airport. Once there we’ll have a clearer shot south."

"That village you’re pointing at is pretty hairy, Stomper." Crowley looked for one of his men. "Farhan, what to you know about that point just past the airport?"

"Back nine?"

"Of the Monarch Bay Country Club. It’s got a long par four into the wind, a dogleg with a tight bunkered green, and a tough little par three right up against the water. Fantastic back nine."

"Well why the hell didn’t you tell me that before? There aren’t any good courses in this whole, shitty East Bay. It’s all goddamned public links. We’ll get you there, Captain. We’re the First of the Ninth…I’ll take that point and hold it as long as I want to. Hell, a sweet back nine!"

Farhan stammered. "But it’s really hairy in there, sir. That’s where the trampoline promo turned tragic. They tore the hell out of us. That’s Arte’s point!"

"Arte don’t golf!"

We launched before dawn, somehow. Crowley’s men lacked focus. The Colonel was the three-Red-Bulls-for-breakfast type…paced frenetically, barking orders, free-associating ad campaigns. 100% Hazeball. But he wasn’t a bad officer, I guess. He loved his boys and they felt safe with him. He was one of those guys who had that weird light around him. You just knew he wasn’t gonna get so much as a scratch here.

In the command balloon Crowley laid out the plan. "We’ll waft in low, from the West, out of the rising sun." Pause. "About a mile out we’ll put on the music. Yeah, Celebration. No one loves Kool and the Gang like golfers. Our support balloon packs a dot matrix to handle instant ticket sales."

The course looked clear on approach. Empty, even. Arte was nowhere around. Nor were any golfers. A handful of groundskeepers worked the greens, spraying fertilizer. It was time to get moving south. "Course looks clear, Colonel. And closed. Thanks for covering us; we’ll cast off from here."

Crowley was disconsolate. "Kirk, grab your clubs! We can get in a few quick holes." It wasn’t going to happen. The revolting smell was overpowering. Crowley knew. "Do you smell that? Nothing else in the world smells like that. I love the smell of chicken shit in the morning. You know, one time we had the BBQ Plaza sold for five games straight. When it was over I went to sell it again. We didn’t find one buyer, not one stinkin’ company picnic, nothing. The smell, that chemical fertilizer smell, the whole place. Smelled like…marketing." He grew wistful. "Some day this season’s gonna end." He wandered off to sell luxury boxes to the guys mowing the course.

Someday this season’s gonna end. That’d be just fine with the boys on the boat. They weren’t looking for anything more than a way to home plate. Trouble is, I’d been back to Oakland, and I knew it didn’t exist anymore. Still, if that’s how Crowley fought the war, I began to wonder what they really had against Beane. It wasn’t just insanity and ineptness…there was enough of that to go around for everyone.

Days into nights, heading south in every sense. A couple clicks above the San Mateo Bridge we floated past a crazy scene at the evaporation ponds, where Yogi Berra and Julio Franco were fronting a Make Your Own Salt fundraiser for MLB charities. The entrant with the least noxious salt got a ticket to next year’s Home Run Derby.

Arte didn’t get much Home Run Derby. He was dug in too deep or moving too fast. His idea of great R&R was cold rice and a little rat meat. He had only two ways home: death, or victory.

Things were starting to slip on the boat. Saarloos had gone feral, his face camo’d with algae and eyeblack, his mullet slicked into a mohawk. Patrol Craft couldn’t stop playing his tapes from home, his mother’s anxious plaints clear in any language. Ziggy burned spliffs in a futile attempt to dull his fears. And Chief Thomas said nothing, hands grimly fixed on the wheel, 10-and-2, following orders. I asked what he was thinking. "I don’t think, Captain. My orders are I’m not supposed to know where I’m taking this boat, so I don’t. But one look at you and I know it’s gonna be hot."

"We’re going downbay a few clicks south of the Dumbarton Bridge."

"That’s Santa Clara, Captain!"

"That’s classified. We’re not supposed to be in Santa Clara, but that’s where I’m going. You just get me close and I’ll cut you and the crew loose."

That was the day we lost Patrol Craft. Arte’s bullet from behind some shore trees. Lucky they didn’t get all of us. Carlos slumped against the bulkhead with the life drained from his open eyes, Mrs. Gonzalez’ voice still playing on the tape: "Espero que usted venga a casa pronto."

The present is that much more grim when your future is gone. I could feel Beane getting closer. As if the boat was being sucked downbay and the water was flowing back into the jungle. Whatever was going to happen, it was not going to be the way they called it back in the Marriott.

The next day was Thomas’ turn. Crossing under the Dumbarton Bridge, a rain of arrows hit the boat, like little toys. Ziggy was laughing…until a length of rebar drove through the Chief’s broad back and straight out his chest. He died on the deck of the boat. Thirty canoes with native warriors floated up silently, surrounding us. Beane’s men. Taking me home.

Bay fog hung low on the water, yielding only gray translucence to the noonday sun. We floated up a hidden marshland inlet to a dilapidated aggregate plant. Few ever saw this side of Fremont. And none reported back. Hundreds of the Sabrgnards lined the banks in utter silence, every eye on us, every hand on a gun, or a machete, or a laptop. At the dock, the rusting cranes now dangled corpses above the channel. Severed heads topped the rusting gates.

"Holy shit, that’s Frankie Menechino!" Kirk was about to snap. "There’s Terrence Long and Jeremy Giambi. Fuck, Adam Melhuse…he used to catch me!"

A man with a small wooly chin beard waved frantically. His headband was a twisted black and orange bandana; a notebook and tape recorder bumped in the KNBR bag around his neck. Boxes of remaindered books surrounded him. His bellows shattered the solemnity. "It’s all right, it’s all right. You’re all being approved."

He didn’t fit the profile, and I said so. "Who are you? Could we, uh, talk to Colonel Beane?"

He spat out his words like chaw. "Hey, man, you don't talk to the Colonel. You listen to him. The man's enlarged my mind. He's a poet-warrior in the classic sense. I mean sometimes he'll, uh, well, you'll say hello to him, right? And he'll just walk right by you, and he won't even notice you. And suddenly he'll grab you, and he'll throw you in a corner, and he'll say do you know that "gain" is the last part of the word "bargain?" I mean, I'm..no, I don't…I'm a little man, I'm a little man, he's, he's a great man. I mean…"

He could tell we were unconvinced. "The heads. You’re looking at the heads. I, uh…sometimes he goes too far, you know…he’s the first to admit it."

A squad of Beane’s men surrounded me, led me to a dank collapsing building up the hill. It smelled like slow death in there. Malaria. Nightmares. This was the South Bay, alright. Everything I saw told me Beane had gone insane. The place was full of bodies. Washed-up veterans. Wasted draft picks. If I was still alive, it was because he wanted it that way.

I was pushed through the door of a barely lit room, all shadows and marsh gas. I saw the silhouette of a head move, dripping Bay water through his thin unkempt hair. "What did they tell you, Stomper?"

"They told me you had gone totally insane and that your methods were unsound."

"Are my methods unsound?"

"I don’t see any method at all, sir."

"I expected someone like you. Are you an assassin?"

"I’m a mascot, sir."

Beane looked at me for the first time, disdainfully. "You’re neither. You’re an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks to collect a bill."

I woke in a bamboo cage with my arms bound. How long had I been out? Flies crawled on the dried blood on my skull. The journalist gave me a smoke.

"Why? Why would a nice guy like you want to kill a genius? You know that the man really likes you. He likes you because you’re still alive. He’s got plans for you. I mean, what are they going to say, man, when he’s gone, huh? Because he dies, when it dies, man, when it dies, he dies. What are they going to say about him? What, are they going to say, he was a kind man, he was a wise man, he managed payroll, he found value? Bullshit, man!

"Do you know what the man is saying? Do you? This is dialectics…one through nine, three outs, nine innings, no maybes, no supposes, no fractions…you can’t win the division, you can’t go out and win the division, you know, without, like, you know, with fractions. What are you gonna do, beat the Angels by one-quarter, three-eighths? That’s dialectic physics, OK? Dialectic logic is there’s only love and hate, you either cut somebody or you trade them."

Beane walked in, surrounded by smiling Sabrgnard children, and snarled at the ignorant reporter, who fled. Beane’s face was drawn thick with camo paint. He dropped something in my lap. It was Ziggy’s head. I screamed in horror.

Beane left and his men untied me. I followed him. On the Bay, I thought that the minute I looked at him I’d know what to do, but it didn’t happen. I was in there for days, not under guard, but he knew I wasn’t going anywhere. He knew more about what I was going to do than I did. If Selig back in the Marriott could see what I saw, would he still want me to kill him? More than ever, probably. And what would the fans back in Oakland want if they ever learned how far from them he had really gone? Still, I sat with him.

"Value. Value has no face…but you must make a friend of value. Value and ruthlessness are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies. I remember when I was with Minnesota…seems a thousand centuries ago. We went into training camp the first week, a hundred of us. Tom Kelly broke us into two groups, mine on the field, and the other to the cages inside to hit. Not five minutes later an old coach came running after us and he was crying. He was crying, he couldn’t speak. We went inside and…and…Kelly had gone in and cut all of them. Prospects and vets stacked like cordwood on a one-way bus to the bush leagues. Kelly left their bats in a pile on the floor. And I remember…I…I cried, I wept like some grandmother. I wanted to tear my teeth out. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. And then I realized…like I was shot…Like I was shot with a World Series ring, a diamond ring right through my forehead. And I thought: My God, the genius of that. The genius. The will to do that. Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. And then I realized that Kelly was stronger than I was. Because he had the strength to do that. If I had owners and front office men and managers like that our troubles here would be over very quickly. You have to have men who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to cut without feeling…without passion…without judgment…without judgment. Because it’s judgment that defeats us."

They were going to make me a major for this and I wasn’t even in their fucking army anymore. Everybody wanted me to do it, him most of all. He just wanted to go out like a soldier, standing up, not like some poor, wasted rag-assed renegade.

Come on baby take a chance with us
Come on baby take a chance with us

I drew my machete and crept forward through the dimness. Beane smiled. I swung. Again. Again. Cutting out a tumor which had long since spread far beyond the infection. Slashing the lifeblood from the organization’s throat. Beane fell, and rasped out his epitaph.

"The value. The value…"

The Sabrgnards parted wordlessly before me. I collected Kirk and left, on the boat heading back north, upbay, where the Coliseum and the old madness were always waiting.

DLD 081208: Gio’s like the sweetest guy ever

FreeSeatUpgrade — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 20:45:46 -0000

It’s late and there’s no DLD. So goes life when your team 1) had an off day yesterday; and 2) sucks. But I cannot let a certain something go unobserved by you, my A’s fan brethren and sistren.

But lo! a ray of sunshine doth pierce this veil of sorrow! His name is Gio Gonzalez, and as Susan Slusser chronicles in today’s, well, Chronicle, he’s like a cross between Gandhi and the cutest puppy dog ever.

He comes from tough beginnings, which taught him and the kids in his Hialeah Florida neighborhood how to hit back up the middle:

Gonzalez's cousin, Orlando Dager, agreed, saying, "He went from nothing to this, it's hard to believe it. We played with tires and cardboard for bases, threw them down under the big electrical poles. If you hit it left or right, you'd hit a window and you'd be out, so we all learned to hit it up the middle. If we had a rock to hit and a broomstick to swing, we were playing."

So many windows were broken that Gonzalez's father, Max, had a window-replacement company on speed dial and worked out a discount rate. Gonzalez recalls many cuts and bruises from sliding on the rocks and glass, and twisted ankles from stepping in holes.

And he loves humanity:

"Gio, he wants to save everybody," Dager said. "He can meet you today and he wants to try to help you. There's a bum in Hialeah and Gio is his best friend - everyone who sees him has to give him money and food because of Gio. He goes over and above."

Gonzalez said the man is named Joe and he said he's always tried to help him out when he can. "Whatever's in my pockets, whatever is in the car - I can have $10 bucks and be starving, but I think, 'Well, I have a home I can go to,' so I give it to him," Gonzalez said. "I've told everyone if they pass Joe under the bridge at 103rd, make sure to give him money or food or books, because he loves to read."

But more important than any of that: he remains immune to the venal corrupting influence of some of his fellow A’s starters…he’s gonna wear the home whites!

Now, here he is, taking the ball tonight in Oakland.

"I'm telling you, I can't wait to put on that white uniform," Gonzalez said. "That will be the prettiest uniform I'll ever see."

No other links required.

DLD 071508: Baseball's Greatest Dicks

FreeSeatUpgrade — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 18:33:57 -0000

Apparently there hasn't been an everyday Dick in the big leagues since Dick Schofield pulled out of baseball after the 1996 season. Twelve long, hard years of Dicklessness.

Lest the Golden Era be forgotten, Cam Martin of the Bugs and Cranks blog has erected the definitive All-Dick Team. A's great Dick Green pops up, as does the famously rigid Dick Williams. And no such list would be complete without the legendary Dick Pole (no additional joke required).

In non-Dick news, A’s pitching coach Curt Young gets some props from the Trib’s Monte Poole:

On an Oakland staff rich with luxury cars and sports cars, Young was the beige Camry. Sensible. Reliable. And low maintenance…

His name is Curt Young, and he's the fifth-year pitching coach of baseball's No. 1 staff. Nobody this season has been more miraculous while practically invisible. "I kind of like it that way,'' he says…

Manager Bob Geren offers nothing but praise; then again, he is on a 260-game optimism streak. The pitching staff, to a man, believes in the coach.

DLD 071108: Can I see some ID, kid?

FreeSeatUpgrade — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 16:33:58 -0000

I commend you to this fine tale of one man’s refusal to accept the end of his dream, to play professional baseball, and the outlandish steps he took to sustain it. In short: lie about age, briefly join A’s organization, get cut, move to Australia, lie about name age with a newly created Aussie persona, don goofy wig, suffuse skin with anti-aging cream and thrice-daily shaves, and finally make it onto a professional ballfield at age 36…only to be undone at the last by a hidden ball trick. Worth a read. Also reminds us that some things never change:

Pohle reported to the A's "Diamond City" complex, a multifield facility they shared with the Pittsburgh Pirates. There were hundreds of players in camp, major leaguers and minor leaguers from both organizations…

After a month of workouts, Pohle assumed he'd made the team and was ready to begin his pro career for real. But then Daytona Beach manager Bobby Hoffman called him into his tiny office one day…Hofman told Pohle that "he could play" but that the organization had more money invested in other players, guys who had to make the team. He handed Pohle an envelope and wished him luck.

By the time Pohle packed his bags and looked inside the envelope, he realized the A's hadn't even afforded him the dignity of a flight home. "I had to ride a train all the way from Florida to Los Angeles," he remembers. "I arrived at the station at 3 a.m. and I didn't want to wake up my sister, so I walked the six miles to her place. When I got there, I found parking tickets all over my car. I spent my first day back in California holed up in the police station."

In other news: Emil credits Ty Van Burkleo for yesterday’s walk-off. ‘"Everything (Van Burkleo) said (Jimenez) could possibly do, he did," Brown said. "He gave me the game plan, and I kept it in the back of my head."’

Greg Smith has tied the A’s single-season pickoff record and is just one away from expunging the most odious name in the Oakland record books: Kenny Rogers. (Also here: Sweeney day-to-day with pinky, Bowen to play more in next few weeks, and Sean Gallagher will wear lucky number 36.)

Terry Steinbach won the 1998 All-Star Game MVP award…too bad they spelled his name wrong on the trophy.

DLD 060608: Mmmm, Doughnuts…

FreeSeatUpgrade — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 17:17:17 -0000

It’s National Doughnut Day!

Customers can stop by participating Krispy Kreme retailers and get a free doughnut! Stan Parker, Krispy Kreme Senior VP of Marketing, says:

Whether it's a cruller or a Hot Now Original Glazed, we are providing the community with a small gift of thanks.

National Doughnut Day, always observed on the first Friday of June, honors the Salvation Army "Lassies" of World War I.

The original Salvation Army Doughnut was first served by Salvation Army in 1917. During WWI, Salvation Army "lassies" were sent to the front lines of Europe. These brave volunteers made home cooked foods, and provided a moral boost to the troops. Often, the doughnuts were cooked in oil inside the of the metal helmet of an American soldier. The American infantrymen were commonly called doughboys. Salvation Army lassies were the only women outside of military personnel allowed to visit the front lines. Lt. Colonel Helen Purviance is considered the Salvation Army's "first doughnut girl".

The Angels are in town tonight. All three games will be televised! Here’s hoping the Angels fall into a fiery pit of doom. I’ve always been more of a Devil man myself:

DLD 060208: Lights on, no one’s home

FreeSeatUpgrade — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 19:49:44 -0000

I was going to add this as a simple link in someone else’s DLD. But it’s past noon and there ain’t no such beast, so here you go: Sunday’s Tribune followed up on an earlier "attendance sagging" article with a Carl Steward column which basically consisted of angry emails from fans who aren’t going to many/any games in Oakland this year.

"I was a partial season-ticket holder for the past four years, but I just gave up this year after the (Nick) Swisher trade," wrote Eyleen Nadolny of Kensington. "Ticket, food and parking prices are also a big part of the equation."

"I think that the A's are fan unfriendly," wrote Harry Craycroft of Concord. "I have tried to get tickets online and because I have a dialup (connection), I have had problems because of the time limit I am required to enter the information. Also, I have purchased tickets for some of the games that only have standing room. Why should I have to stand when the upper level has seating covered over?"

"Every year the A's see their favorites traded away, together with talk of moving out of Oakland," wrote Barbara Addicott of Berkeley. "How does one maintain fervor for the team when one's "baseball heart'' is continually being broken?"

For my part, I don’t much like C-Stew, nor am I a fan of angry rhetoric bereft of sound underpinning. Really. So while I can intellectually rebut or discount many contentions (Prices too high? Not compared to most of the rest of MLB. Lost fan faves Swisher, Haren and Scoot? Check out Smith Eveland and CarCo!) that’s largely beside the point, which is this:

Many Oakland fans—by which I mean in this case folks who go to multiple games each year—perceive that ownership has slapped them in the face in multiple ways. From the third deck closure to ticket price increases to roster rebuilding to Wolff’s repeated rejection of Oakland. The "Fremont or leave the state" rhetoric, the pining for a more moneyed fan base, and the baffling needless rejection of Oakland even if Fremont fails which he unloaded at the Commonwealth Club a few months back.

It doesn’t matter whether the fan perceptions of ownership's disdain are accurate… the perception exists, and it’s widespread enough to abet a pretty serious tank in the attendance figures.

Maybe that’s alright with Wolffish (cf monkeyball—raw attendance numbers do not equal raw revenue). Maybe all these lost fans will be replaced thrice over with wide-eyed open-walleted long-suffering South Bay’ers who appreciate the chance to see big league ball. But it all leaves a pretty sour taste in my mouth…and I’m still going to games! Those who’ve stopped must really be hurting.

Also: Bo Diddley is dead. Damn.