Ready For Your Close-Up, Mr. Cecil?

We knew moves were coming, and Bastien reports that Purcey is on his way down to Vegas along with Burres and Bullington, all to make way for Cecil, Robert Ray and Brian Wolfe. Cecil likely starts Tuesday, meaning Ray goes tomorrow. Fine, but I'm more anxious to see Brett Cecil (who's name always makes me think, unfortunately, of Poison, but that says more about me than it does about him) make his first start.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have in store a long afternoon of anticipation: firstly for The Tao's Friday Rock Out, and then for Halladay's start tonight against the O's.

Scholar Disapproves of the Manner in Which You Spend Your Leisure Time

All those hours you spent watching Ryno and the Cubbies on WGN, or Fergie Oliver and Don Chevrier on Labatt Blue Jays Baseball, were not only wasted hours, but they prove you’re an idiot.

“Sports fans,” writes David P. Barash, professor of psychology at the University of Washington, “may simply be the comic sidekicks of nationalists.”

Well.

Mr. Barash seems certain that the impulse to watch others engage in sport is an evolutionary remnant of the very real notion of safety in numbers, but that a truly evolved human being, a civilized person, has no need to engage in such nonsense. So if you do it, you’re a Neanderthal. This is basically Mr. Barash’s take on things. Or, to cite his example, you are essentially on par, intellectually, with an oystercatcher.

It’s supremely tempting to place the nub, the locus of Mr. Barash’s argument in the schoolyard, to call it the residual animosity of a 98 lb weakling habitually victimized by bigger, more agile, more sports-oriented boys. It is, we might reason, the classic nerd-vs-jock tension, and in that scenario this article – published in The Chronicle of Higher Education, no less – is his grand revenge. By debunking the ridiculous myth of spectator sports, he’s pointing out the absurdity of the very core of those bullies’ beings. As I say, it’s tempting to do that, but I’ll abstain (or did I just go ahead and do it anyway?). I will hasten to add that he does take pains to point out that it is not the act of sport that irks him or seems to him pointless, but the act of watching others do it:

Thanks to spectator sports, each of us can know fame for most of our lives, so long as we are satisfied with the ever-shifting, warmed-over shadow of someone else's.

Do you see the problem here? A straight line from that reasoning leads to this: why watch the play when you could write it or act in it yourself? Why read the book when you could write it instead?

It’s also worth noting, according to Mr. Barash, that professional athletes are, by and large, louts. Gamblers, womanizers, cheats. To that I say this: Hate the artist, love the art. I dig me some Miles Davis. Does the fact that he was known to treat women like punching bags diminish the power of Filles de Kilimanjaro? Or his heroin habit; does it negate the beauty of In a Silent Way? Do VS Naipaul’s less-than-exemplary personal habits obscure the literary merit of a book like A Bend in the River?

Well, likewise Pete Rose.

But the soft, indefensible heart of his argument, the creamy centre of his ultimately bitter concoction, the most jagged clavicle nestled among his many bones of contention, is this. Are you are ready for it? Instead of wasting your time watching sports, Mr. Barash posits,

You might try reading a book, talking with your family, going for a walk, wrestling with the dog, listening to some music, smelling a flower, making love…

Germane points, all. But here’s the thing, Mr. Barash: I do all of those things. Every damn last one of them, and I expect I’m not the only sports fan who does. Because sports fans are not cardboard cut-outs, they’re not two-dimensional space fillers, and they’re not simple-minded rubes devoid of attention spans who would rather suckle at the mollifying teat of The Great Distraction than actually question, engage with or otherwise give a damn about the world, any more than academics are.

I read (and write!). I walk. I wrestle with (and get bitten by) the family dog. I’m obsessive about music, from punk to jazz to, yes, even classical. I garden. I have sired a child in blessed wedlock. I even like theatre, especially if written by the man probably not pictured here (and for the record, though I do love a good conspiracy theory, I’m a Stratfordian).

And I also love sports. Love them. Baseball in particular, but sports in general. I love watching sports for a number of very visceral reasons – the motion! the colour! the noise! I know that when I turn on a game, or go to see one in person, I’m going to see a sequence of events that are both unpredictable and unique, and that’s a rare thing. Sport is not merely the rehearsed movement of automatons, but a human drama; to watch a game is to find yourself in the presence of genuine narrative, the intertwining of untold number of stories, like a vast social history being enacted on a playing field. Read David Maraniss’ biography of Roberto Clemente, or the stories of Ring Lardner, or You Gotta Have Wa, Robert Whiting’s look at Japanese baseball, and try to tell me that there’s nothing more involved than a “children’s game.” Sport is an intersection of humanity, at once a communal celebration and an individual test.

I am also drawn to watching sport, I think, for a lot of the same reasons I love to read literature, to listen to music and to watch films, and to engage in any number of other manifestations of humanity’s fondness for (and utter need of) the arts, and that is the pleasure I garner from watching individuals succeed utterly, to watch someone push the limits of what it is possible to do with the human body.

It’s rare that a scholarly article gets my back up like this one did, but Mr. Barash’s argument seems untenable, paper-thin, reactionary. All of us move in several circles during the coarse of the day, and at times you find yourself in the company of those who you know don’t share your passion for sports, and if you’re like me you wonder what it would take to convince these people of the merits of spectatorship. I’m grateful for the chance to carefully consider the question, so I guess I owe the author thanks for that. But I can’t help but feel that the argument which inspired this post wasn’t so much carefully considered as it was spit out. The genteel forum doesn’t alter the fact that David Barash felt something in his gut and then went about constructing a spurious (and almost spiteful) argument to support it. It's fine if you're not a fan. I support that. But don't ridicule fandom because you don't understand what it means to love to watch.


Elsewhere!

• Oil Can Boyd, 49, wants to pitch in Ottawa? I think that’s amazing, and perfectly harmonious with the amicably hucksterish tone that low-level minor league ball should strive to attain. Seek the balance between competitiveness and fun. I know I’ll try to make it to the park for one of his starts.

• Oh, Tao. As if I didn’t love you enough already, now you go and tell of your fondness for Joe Pernice? I am, truth be told, a tad obsessive about Pernice, the Scud Mountain Boys, Chappaquiddick Skyline, the Pernice Bros., and just about everything else he’s had his hand in. I already dug the Friday Rock Out feature, but then you go and do this? If I weren’t already married… And straight…

• One of the upsides to the Griffey signing for the Mariners is one I hadn’t considered: his elder statesman persona taking the pressure off of Ichiro to be the presumed leader of the team, and putting to rest all that clubhouse chatter from last season. This might just work out after all. Does Ichiro do the things necessary to win? If you mean being a leadoff hitter who collects 200 hits every year and plays stellar defense too, then yes. If you mean giving rousing locker room speeches or coddling the youngsters, then I guess he totally does suck. Now Junior can give the speeches.

Shut Up Shut Up Shut Up

Shut up Scott Miller I am not listening to you shut up I don't want to hear anymore of this shut up shut up shut up.

Five Things to Know About Scott Miller:

5. Hates babies and puppies.
4. Doesn't even like baseball.
3. Has to produce these things for all 30 teams before Spring Training is over, so he's tired, and alright, maybe doesn't have time to do, y'know, research, so leans pretty heavily on whispers and unsubstantiated rumours.
2. Two Ts, Two Ls.
1. Needs to shut up.

How long, Scott Miller? How long will Doc last in Toronto? Until the day he dies. That's how long.


Also:

If'n I had the means to do so, I'd be eager to see Brett Cecil make that start on Wednesday. Do we see him in The Five this season?


Elsewhere:

Ichiro loves Griffey! Quite honestly, this has the power to make me feel differently about the signing.

And I know it's easy to heap superlatives on someone's writing when their views mesh so well with your own, but USS Mariner's coverage of this whole thing has been great reading. And yes, Ichiro is a future HOFer (if there is any justice in the universe, which isn't a given, of course).

The Bottom of the Order's 2008 Regular Season Wrap-Up

Part-Time Lover

You have to admire my commitment to a motif, don't you? All season long, I've been late with the news and reactions, if I've been there at all. And now I'm late with my season wrap-up, originally intended for posting on Sunday night. I understand now why most of the blogs in the Jays universe who manage to post daily or near-daily content marry the work of more than one contributor. A little like the Jays, I more or less limped to the finish of the '08 season, and now it's time to regroup, assess damages, and determine priorities for next season. Whatever form this blog takes in going into '09 isn't yet clear, but I do intend to be back. In the meantime, I'll be around for the postseason and for what comes after -- deals, near-deals, recriminations, winter meetings and those inescapable longings for baseball that strike in the dead of January.

Take These Broken Wings

It's all over but the crying. Look, there's plenty of blame to go around. We all had high hopes, reasons for optimism. The pieces were there, and they might not be next year.

It seems to me that, at different times, everything was in place, but never at the same time. The pitching was the only constant, give or take a few games, and beyond that you had flashes of brilliance amid disappointing stretches for the guys the Jays were counting on. Once Hill went down, there was a hell of a lot of shifting going on around the infield, and that had its ripple effects. Scutaro proved a nifty pick-up as a result, going where he was told and acquitting himself capably.

The injuries didn't help, and neither did the time it took to sort out the mess in left field. Below-expected offensive performance is the big culprit, of course, a huge letdown from what we thought we'd see going into the year. But I'll side with Lloyd the Barber and say that it was still a pretty damn good season to watch the Jays. Maybe that's just my quick-setting historical revisionism at work, but what the hell. Cito's aim of finishing ten games over .500 was, in fact, a bang on prediction, and that'd give them the NL West, so that's something. I mean, you know, if they switched leagues and if the Big One would just hurry up and swallow up everything west of the Ontario-Manitoba border, or whatever. And, and, we all got swept up there, for a few brief, shining moments in September -- September, mind -- and it was exciting and awesome and we dared to think that a Wild Card might be ours. How amazing was that?

Requiem for a Dream Forestalled

There's an ineffable sadness linked to the final Sunday of the season, it seems to me, at least when your team is missing the playoffs for the umpteenth consecutive season. They play nine, like they've done 161 times previous, only once the 27th out is recorded, everybody's going home, just like that. It happens so quickly. Just ask Mets fans.

But there's always next year, so they say, and it's not to early to crow about our chances in 2009. There are buckets of positives. We have the best pitcher in baseball, for one. We'll have a full season to see what Lind can do. Maybe we'll have that elusive big hitter to anchor the middle of the order -- there are a few candidates available this winter. And who knows, we might even have AJ back.

You Lift Me Up

Just one last awkward, slobbery kiss for those non-official outlets of Jays news, conjecture and hilarity that brightened my world on a daily basis. The Tao, the Drunkards, the Lefties, and the rest -- they're all up there on the links list. But I want to reserve a special word for the Ghostrunners' Wednesdays with JP schtick: that shit was funny. Also, Hum & Chuck's Ballad of Doc and AJ was as touching as anything on Oprah's list, and more true.

Thanks, y'all. Though I wouldn't have thought it possible, you make baseball even more enjoyable.

What We're Playing For

Last night's game was just the tonic for a fanbase feeling dyspeptic from frustrated expectations, impending rotation breakdowns, and the prospect of yet another lonely October. Sure, the Yanks won, and that's plenty shitty, but the game felt like it meant something, and that gave me a charge. There's always a little animosity between Toronto and New York (AL), whether because they share a division, or because A-Rod is something less than a gentleman, or because the Hogtowners are trying to shrug off the inferiority complex they covertly direct at Gothamites while prattling on about diversity and cleanliness and relative safety (this, secretly, is kind of nice to see for me, since I grew up in Ottawa and have to endure on an ongoing basis the Sens-Leafs rivalry which is, in the 613 area code, merely the mask applied to Ottawans' hatred of Torontonians and their World Class City status, while Ottawa, nominally the capital of Canada, wallows in cultural provinciality [Jesus, I'm glad I moved out of Ottawa]).

Anyway, what with all the love directed at the Yankee Empire recently, and their now-abandoned ballyard (I was guilty, sure, all that Bronxian smog and grit obscuring my judgment, as well the massive Foster's I was able to track down, but then so too was Lloyd the Barber moved to say a kind word or two), it was nice to be reminded that these are the Yankees, and we hate the Yankees. Last night's game was full of spleen and invective, and it was a hell of a lot more intense than you might expect from two teams in a dogfight for third place. But it was obvious that both teams want to see the other finish in fourth.

So what, I hear you saying. Who cares how far out of the playoffs the Jays finish, the point is that they missed the playoffs -- again. Bullshit, I say. It might be third place, but it's our third place. Now let's take it back.

Falling into Place

You knew pitching like that couldn't go unrewarded much longer.

I've been scarce around here, and have failed to comment on any of the 4 wins the Jays have strung together since that abysmal roadtrip stumbled to its inevitable conclusion. That has been the result of real life (read: non-baseball) responsibilities, but as the streak grew, it came to possess a momentum of its own. Sometime early Sunday I thought, What if my failure to post is all that's making them win?!

That's a stupid line of thinking, but if you're a baseball fan I dare you to tell me you haven't had similar thoughts at some point in time. It's the philosophy behind the rally cap. It's why boxer shorts, t-shirts and jocks sometimes go unwashed. Its hockey corollary is the playoff beard. It's myopic and self-centered, but it's a tempting thought, and proof that fans are wont to seriously invest emotionally in their teams.

But rationality prevails this morning; clearly, it's the continuation of some absolutely absurdly amazing pitching, coupled with some actual offense that has the Jays winning in May. The second half of the equation was, of course, sorely lacking for most of April, and the results were horrid.

The line separating these wins from those loses still feels razor-thin, though, and they serve as a heady reminder of the precariousness of baseball streaks. I'd be more comfortable if Toronto cashed even a few more of their RISP (7/33 in May), built huuuge leads, and had to lean less on their starters. Still, Ws are Ws.

My Commitment is Less Than Total

As I hinted up there a few short paragraphs ago, I got things going on, real life stuff, that has and will continue to prevent me from posting as often as I'd like. Basically, prepping a house for sale in a matter of weeks. You know all those things you look at every day and think, One day I gotta get to that? Well, imagine learning that you have a few weeks to get them all done. It means a lot of paint, some drywall, a ton of elbow grease, some grass seed, yada yada. Most importantly, it means listening to games instead of watching them, and not having time to write about them when they're done. But it has also underscored for me the incredible commitment shown by my fellow bloggers. Guys like The Tao, the Ghostrunners, the Southpaw and the Drunkards (and everybody else I'm forgetting to mention) do this because they love it, and they do it every damn day. Whatever shit Buzz Bissinger says, you guys are fun to read, and you make me a better baseball fan.

Anyway, when all this is over, I'll be closer to the Jays, and (probably? hopefully?) back to posting on a regular basis.