First off, and to head off the the inevitable 'He's done so much for us', 'it's a fan's job to support the team', 'you smell and your pants smell and your socks smell too' posts,let me just say that I write this as a protagonista - to say something unpalatable, that I don't entirely believe myself, to try and draw out thoughts on the matter at hand.

To wit - would a healthy Eric Chavez be a threat to the future success of the Oakland Athletics, and possible the world as we know it?

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Before we start, wouldn't  Pirates of the Caribean and the search for Davey Jones' Locker have been more interesting if it had been about, uh, Davey Jones' locker? (don't open that at work)

So - What’s going on with Billy Beane? He’s made some curious moves of late. Jack Cust is allowed walk, Coco bloody Crisp (!!!!!) seems to be about to become an Athletic (though, unlike crocodiles in Egypt, I’m still in denial about this one), none of us are still any the wiser about who might be running out from third to collect Patterson’s throws in from shallow left field.

At least talk of Adam Kennedy seems to have died down. Small mercies. But as I say – what’s going on? I present, for your consideration, some possibilities.

Possibilities that I’ve mostly made up, though one of which is almost certainly true.

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I’m here to talk about the Pass… and Move. And, in a way, the Liverpool Groove.

So, in the Summer of 2010, just around the time we’ll be wondering why Travis Buck was able to produce in Chicago, but not in Oakland, it’s the 2010 World Cup. Yes, this is mostly about Soccer. Skip to the bottom now, if you want. But you’ll be missing out on some more comedy rapping, is all I’m saying.

Anyway, the World Cup. We’ll circle back round to that in a minute.

As some of you may know, I haven’t had a proper job for a while (incidentally, if anyone needs some web marketing done, get in touch. Or, yknow. A lawn mowed?). But this doesn’t mean that I lack ambition, or anything. Oh no. A couple of friends and I are in the process of putting on a Soccer Film Festival this summer, to coincide with the World Cup, called Goals on Film.

And yes, coming up with that name does represent one of the crowning moments of my life.

I’ve always thought that a great sports film is one that transcends the sport that it’s actually about – it’s got something about it that you don’t have to care, or know about the sport in question in order to enjoy it. Major Leagues, for instance, makes sense if you changed it to a film about a struggling Scrabble team, trying to make the grade, copying with the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune to win both the day, and the chance of a sequal.

I scored 331 at Scrabble over Thanksgiving, incidentally. This is another crowning achievement of mine.

Anyway. Hopefully we’ll be able to transcend Soccer, and tap into the universality of sporting endeavor with our choices of film.

So, this festival is a loooong ways away, right? Right! Why am I mentioning it now, aside from self indulgence? Well, our website is launching tonight (fingers crossed!), at www.goalsonfilm.com, and on Friday morning, 9am, I’ll be live blogging the World Cup draw, live from My Front Room. I’d like to extent the offer to all and sundry to join us, as I mock Sepp Blatter's comedy head.

He still has more hair than I do.

So as this is meant to be a DLD, and not just simple self aggrandizement, I’d like to leave you with something.

Soccer has a long history of teams (and players) releasing pop singles to coincide with events as monumental as finishing third in the second division. I myself have featured on two of them, but alas, these are lost to history.

Here are some of my favorites:

New Order, World in Motion 

True story – they wanted to call this song ‘E for England’. It was made for the 1990 World Cup in Italy. England lost on penalties. England always lose on penalties.

Lyndisfarne and Paul Gascoigne, Fog on the Tyne

One of the worst pieces of music ever made. Of all time. Ever. Paul Gascoigne was something of a soccer equivalent of Manny Ramirez, except his breasts were comedy plastic ones, and not the result of a steroid masking agent.

Scotland – we have a dream,

For the World Cup in 1982. Alas, they didn’t quite match up to the heights that this song touches (anything with a whispered voice over is ok by me), and they went out in the group stages. England, of course, didn’t even qualify this year.

So – anyone care to contribute a favorite sporting song?

Failing this; what’s your own greatest sporting achievement? Mine was winning the 200m spring when I was 10 years old, and the kid who finished before me was disqualified for cutting into my lane. I would totally have taken him, is for sure.

Ok, so, short notice, I know, but if there are any San Francisco based A's fans (or, for that matter, anyone who wants to make the journey over), a friend and I will be putting on a baseball postseason classic softball game on Sunday. We'd  like you to play! Which means, obviously, we don't have enough friends between us to cover the numbers, but hey. We can't all be popular. Or likeable.

Anyway, the link to the craigslist post is here. Uh, he didn't mention in that that we're aiming (roughly) for around 1ish. Or twoish. There or there abouts, anyway.

Also, it'll probably be in the Rolph park, which is super near the Cesar Chavez exit from the 101. Though, the 49ers have some gridiron game, so the 101might not be the best idea. Either way, come one, come all. Though, you should email the craigslist thing, just to make sure we know numbers / we can reach you to cancel if no-one's going to make it.

What else are you going to do on a Sunday afternoon - watch football, eh? eh?

oh.

So, here's the thing. This has been kicking around in my head for a while. Some people think that Jack Cust is a pathetic AAAA player, whereas I've got a room cleared out in my basement for when he retires and needs somewhere to live. He is that sort of polarizing figure. The stats say he's a valuable player, but the strikeouts frustrate the hell out of people.

I wanted to try to explain why he's an amazing baseball player, an American hero, if you will, without using ‘figures' or ‘math' to show how he helps the team.

For as everyone knows, these be the devils work.

Firstly, let me say that I get the frustration with him. The fact is, he's been one of the A's best position players for the last couple of years, and that's precisely the problem. He's been the cleanup guy, the big hitter on the team, the headline. This is the ESPN position, the guy that's meant to put the A's on the Sportscenter highlight reel; look around the league and see who else is there; that David Ortiz, Alex Rodríguez, Bengie Molina. It's no wonder that some people look at Jack, heavenly glow emanating from him or no, and feel a sense of envy. In short, he represents the failings of the A's over the last few years, and as such, no matter what records he manages to set, is the target of much frustration.

I get this, but I disagree.

Let's look at what baseball teaches us. Like nothing else in this country, baseball informs us that failure is a common occurrence; it teaches us to look at the long term outcome, that if work hard and hone your skills, stick to the plan, then eventually, sooner or later, good things will come. It's the blue collar dream, and quite unlike any other sport we have here - dominance is not for the heaviest, or the tallest, or the strongest - these are advantages, sure, but not definitive ones. Not for baseball the triumph of the strong that is football, or the organized traffic of NASCAR. Step up to the plate, and if you fail, as you most likely will, come back next time and do the same thing, and again, and again.

So, that leads us to some questions. Am I more in love with the concept of baseball than winning? Where does Jack Cust fit into this sepia tinged eutopia? And why doesn't Word spell check recognize the word eutopia?

 Well, what does he do? Truth be told, not a whole lot. Let's not get into his fielding here, because not even his most ardent supporters would argue he should be in right field on a daily basis (short stop, on the other hand, I would pay to see, but that's a whole other story). Anyway, Jack's approach is entirely based on one thing - looking for a pitch to hit, and then swinging at it. If he doesn't get the pitch, maybe he walks. He has a great eye, after all. Maybe he strikes out. Maybe he's called out on a ball. Maybe he makes contact, and grounds out.

This really isn't the point. The crux of the matter is, Jack Cust is a paragon of the postmodernist methods of repetition, the Bauhaus school with a Bat, an example to all of us of how to marshal our (considerably more limited) talents into something that is useful in society. Maybe some of us will hit a home run; maybe some of us will ground out to short. I speak metaphorically, of course. But the point is, he'll bounce back and do the same thing again, and so will we. He tells us more about the human condition than any of these other flashier players with their triples, or productive outs, or whatever. Keep trying, and eventually you might go deep. Or just beat out an infield single (as I mentioned before, this, incidentally, a tattoo that I'd like to get, if someone wants to design it - a Jack Cust head first dive into first. I know it's not exactly realistic, but I think it would represent the determination of the guy. And it'd definitely get me laid. Well, probably.)

Maybe you don't want this from sports. You want to escape, rather than have to consider the drudgery that is our slow march towards the inevitable.  That's fine. Jack Cust's not the second coming of Christ (but they do have a lot in common, if you think about it - they both have silly beards, neither has their genius recognized in their own lifetime, and they have the same initials. I'm not saying, I'm just saying. You'll look mighty silly if you start booing him and get struck by lightning), so you don't have to like him. I just think you're missing out on some of the fundamental beauty of baseball if you don't. Ignore the short term frustration, concentrate on the greater goal.

Here's the short version:

Jack Cust = Andy Warhol + Bruce Springsteen + Jimmy Carter.

Shit, I just used some math.