Adam Wainwright and Yadier Molina: The video. (I’ll have more to say when I’m finished grinning about last night’s game and/or treating the ulcers I’m developing over tomorrow’s. For now, enjoy.)
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[Update: If you're a Yadi/Waino fan, be sure to see the latest post for more of them!]
Rough loss today, huh? After dominating the Pirates yesterday, the Cards played an uninspired game this afternoon, marked by miserable defense, shaky pitching, and near-complete helplessness at the plate against Gerrit Cole, the latest in the neverending string of rookies who have managed to make this otherwise fearsome team look small and timid.
Let’s cheer ourselves up with photos of Yadier Molina and Adam Wainwright hugging each other.
I know it’s fashionable to root against the Cardinals right now, but really, how can anyone root against this smile and these dimples and those big tattooed cannons wrapped around that high-altitude neck?
That’s the traditional version of the Yadi-Waino hug, but there’s also the hand-on-top-of-hat variation, which conveys more of an “Attaboy, I knew you could do it, you big adorable dude” message, I think. You’ll note by looking at Wainwright’s right hand in these photos that this is no “bro-hug,” no rapid series of fist-pounds followed by a “no homo” disclaimer, but a real embrace. I assume they teach proper hugging technique in the minors, because that’s The Cardinal Way, but clearly these two have (as they say on reality TV) taken it to the next level.
I have no idea if these two are buddies outside the park, but I like to imagine them getting lunch in the off-season and greeting each other like this before ordering three different entrees and eating off each other’s plates:
Remember when they were just young exuberant things and their hugs had takeoffs and landings?
These days they’re less rowdy and more quietly affectionate, less fireworks-display and more evening-by-the-fireplace.
The original caption on this next one says that Yadi and Waino are “celebrating,” but celebrating is when you pump your fist and pop a champagne cork. This? This is love. This is I’m never more myself than when I am in your arms. This is It’s totally cool that your blog post is turning into bad gay erotica because we’re just that comfortable with how much we adore each other.
“Wait, which arms are yours and which are mine?” “Does it really matter?” “No. No, it doesn’t. Never leave me.”
I feel better already.
An off-day? What kind of cruel joke is this? Just when the Cardinals are whipping up some Mike-Shannon-grade momentum and the Reds and Pirates are trending in the other direction, just when the magic number’s finally been shaved down to 1, all three teams are grinding to a halt for one barren and excruciating Thursday. What’s a Redbird fan to do? Here are a few humble suggestions to get us through to mid-morning, at least….
Tying ourselves into knots over the possible postseason match-ups ahead
How about we….
Have a dance party with the Cardinals! Click right here; that’s the page of results you get from searching “St. Louis Cardinals dancing” on Youtube. Watch a few of the clips. Watch the rest of the clips. Fall even more deeply in love with this utterly lovable team.
Grieving over Michael Wacha’s oh-so-close-to-a-no-hitter on Wednesday evening
How about we….
Take a few moments to marvel at how young this guy really is, and how many years he’ll have ahead of him, assuming he stays healthy, to get that 27th out. Seriously: Wacha was born on July 1, 1991, one day before Axl Rose trashed St. Louis’s Riverport Amphitheater and five weeks after Thelma and Louise first visited the Grand Canyon. This is his Little League picture, and it was taken after the turn of the millennium. These are his parents, and they aren’t in costume—they were actually children of the 1980s. Wacha figures to be around for a while, and there’s a better-than-average chance that we still haven’t seen the best of him. (If you need something else to marvel at, how about the fact that Wacha’s brilliant performance was only the second-best start we’ve seen from a Cardinal rookie pitcher this season?)
Fretting over the long and ever-shifting list of injured Cardinals
How about we….
Read this beautiful article by Derrick Goold about how Jason Motte lost his season to Tommy John surgery but found a whole new calling, helping kids with cancer. This isn’t your standard-issue heartwarming story, and Motte isn’t your standard-issue celebrity do-gooder. If you’re not sufficiently verklempt after that one, check out this sweet piece about a Cardinal fan club whose members, all suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, still enjoy connecting with one another over their memories of Redbird highs and lows from decades past.
Postseason-baseball-induced stress claims thousands of victims every year, but the first step to surviving it is preparation. You may not be able to predict the exact moment when the anxiety, rage, and/or nausea associated with Cardinal playoff baseball will strike, but you can be ready for it by assembling a Postseason Survival Kit ahead of time.
You’ve still got a few shopping days left, so ABOTO has compiled a list of must-haves that should get you through the next few weeks:
1) Rescue Remedy
Rescue Remedy is a gentle herbal formula designed to help ease stressful or traumatic situations. Pipe a few drops onto your novelty foam finger before you wave your hands wildly in the air, and let its calming energy diffuse throughout your den or sports bar! Note that the patented blend includes clematis, which, according to the manufacturer, helps re-center those who “withdraw into fantasy worlds,” so keep some on hand to spray in the face of your irritating friend who says things like “Normally I wouldn’t root for the Reds, but I just drafted Neftali Soto last week!”
You’ll want a powerful anti-nausea aid available for those times when Pete Kozma grounds into a 15th-inning double play or Lance Lynn gets to first base with all the speed of an adolescent comic-book collector who hasn’t discovered mouthwash. There are plenty of options on the market, but Pepto-Bismol is the obvious choice for Cardinal fans, since they already have a Rally Squirrel right there on their Facebook page! (User comment: “Why a squirrel?” Pepto response: “The better question is why not a squirrel?”)
3) The You-Doo Doll
Certain situations—for example, when Mike Matheny lets his beleaguered closer talk his way back into a game when he’s getting lit up and there’s a lefty warmed and ready in the pen and sweet mother of mercy I’m getting mad again just thinking about it—demand something a bit stronger. Enter the You-Doo, a do-it-yourself voodoo doll that you can customize by ironing on the face of a deserving Cardinal before sticking it with pins. You can’t do that with a bobblehead! Hint: Keep an extra You-Doo around; you never know when the next Don Denkinger or Jeffrey Leonard will come along.
4) The SwatComm
There’s lots to shout about, good and bad, when October rolls around, and you shouldn’t have to mute your expostulations just because not everyone on your street or cell block wants to hear them. The Swatcomm is a high-tech selective-listening device developed for use by SWAT teams and other specialized tactical forces, but we’re confident it can be adapted for postseason purposes as well! Now, only your chosen comrades will hear your screams of “WHY IN THE NAME OF JOHN McCAIN’S TWITTER ACCOUNT IS CARLOS BELTRAN BUNTING??” while your neighbors, pets, or fellow churchgoers are spared. Gosh, if only Tony La Russa had had one of these instead of a wonky bullpen phone in Game 5 of the 2011 ohgodpassthepeptoagainit’sallcomingbacktome.
5) The HeartStart Home Defibrillator
Sure, we joke about the “Cardiac Cardinals,” but seriously, how confident are you that you won’t have a heart attack if there’s another Game 6 in St. Louis’s future? (SEE? You had a little one just thinking about it.) Be safe, not sorry, by keeping a HeartStart Home Defibrillator charged and ready this October. This portable cardiac device, complete with Cardinal-red carrying case, makes it easy to revive your fellow fans after a blown save or a devastating TOOTBLAN. (Don’t forget to pass around some blank DNR forms with the Doritos!) (NO REALLY I’M NOT KIDDING WHERE IS MY FORM I CAN’T DO THIS AGAIN.)
6) Cardinal caskets
And if all else fails and your feeble flesh is no match for the rigors of October baseball, you’ll be glad you pre-invested in a custom Cardinal casket. These snazzy coffins are velvet-lined, long enough to fit all but the tallest big-leaguers, and emblazoned with the MLB logo lest you forget that Bud Selig is still calling the shots even after you leave this mortal coil. Don’t wait until you’re faced with a long fly ball to Nelson Cruz or a near-riot by tomahawk-wielding Braves fans to ask “Will my loved ones and drinking buddies know my wishes in case THIS is the game I don’t survive?” Plan ahead.
[An open letter to the newest and potentially coolest Cardinal]
There’s so very much I need to say to you, Mr. Axford, and I probably ought to start with an apology for the fact that I used to think you were yucky back when you were a Brewer who was mowing down my team and making Duck-Dynasty-foreshadowing grooming choices, before this happened and I realized that you and I would probably get along just fine.
But my prose, like your hair, is better short than long, so I’ll let bygones be bygones and keep this brief.
I know you like art, since you tweeted about it yesterday and you had a fairly awesome 80-second stint as an unofficial docent at the National Gallery. So, as a gesture of welcome, and as my way of letting you know that I’m already pretty attached to your Simpsons-quoting, film-festival-supporting, hair-donating, Jason-Motte’s-pants-wearing self, I made you this. I call it “Axford in the Leaping Laird’s Den”:
I hope you like it.
P.S. Peter Paul Rubens helped but I did most of it.
On the grand scale of historic tribulations faced by the Jews, the 2013 MLB season probably doesn’t rank all that high, but it’s been a tough time nonetheless for those of us who enjoy seeing the occasional Chosen Person succeed on the baseball field. (I include myself on that list, even though I’m technically only half-Jewish, and my Presbyterian mother is the one who makes the challah that’s to die for.) It’s been one test after another: Ike Davis couldn’t hang onto his spot in the Mets’ lineup. Jason Marquis was lost to Tommy John surgery. Max Scherzer has a fantastic Jewish-sounding name to go with his fantastic 18-1 record, but alas, he’s a goy. And Ryan Braun….just feh.
So I think it’s time for us to appoint an honorary Jew, and I’d like to nominate Matt Carpenter for the job. Yes, the very first thing his Twitter profile tells us is that he’s a Christian, and I want to be clear that I completely respect that choice and understand that he’s probably not going to change his mind and get Bar Mitzvahed based on one blog post. Don’t worry, Matt—Judaism isn’t an evangelical faith and I’m not out to convert you. But I can’t help noticing that you’re the Jewish baseball icon we’ve been waiting for. Here’s a half-decalogue of reasons why:
1. Matt’s a mensch. What’s a mensch, you ask? A person of integrity and character, with a strong work ethic, a clear sense of right and wrong, and a deep sense of responsibility—and, usually, someone who doesn’t call attention to those aspects of him- or herself. That’s a perfect description of how Matt does his job. He cheerfully accepted a reassignment to second base, worked doggedly with Jose Oquendo to become an extremely solid fielder at his new position, and scooted back to third when Kolten Wong was called up from Memphis. As a leadoff hitter, he takes patient, scholarly at-bats, working counts and studying a pitcher’s offerings in addition to getting on base at a rate that puts him among the best in the league. He’s so reliably early to the park that Mike Matheny had to threaten him with a fine in order to keep him away and get him some rest during a recent mini-slump. And remember last week, when he came to bat in the 12th inning with a second chance to finish a natural cycle with a walk-off homer? He didn’t swing wildly for the fences—he took a six-pitch walk and came around to score the winning run a few minutes later. That’s the definition of mensch-hood, right there.
2. He looks the part. The dark features, the Milhouse-esque eyebrows, the thick brown hair that I feel confident would blossom into a Jewfro given the chance, even the rugged hands bare of batting gloves: it all fits. (Oh, you didn’t know he didn’t wear batting gloves? Sorry! You must have missed the eight million times the Cardinals’ broadcasters have mentioned it!) (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)
3. He appreciates a good meal. By his own admission, he had to ditch a junk-food diet and shed some weight in order to evolve from college prospect to big-league threat, but he still tweets out requests for restaurant recommendations and appreciations of good grub. (I was disappointed when he asked for dining suggestions in New York City and didn’t take me up on my idea of forgoing the restaurants and just eating knishes from the street carts, but maybe next time.)
4. His childhood hero was another faux-Jew. That’s right: Matt’s idol was Lance Berkman, a Christian who has so often been confused for a Jew that a baseball writer once flew a thousand miles to write a feature on the supposedly Semitic slugger, only to discover his misconception when he got to the stadium.
5. I have the T-shirts all ready. You’d buy a “My MVP is a Jewish Carpenter” shirt, wouldn’t you? I’ll make you a good deal on it.
The Hebrew saying “Ad me’ah v’esrim shana” literally means “May you live to be 120″; figuratively, it’s a statement of appreciation and a hearty wish for long and healthy life. I’d like to amend that and apply it to Matt Carpenter, in the hope that he remains a Cardinal and a marvelous mensch till the bitter end…whether or not he actually decides to swap his baseball cap for a yarmulke.
P.S. Check out this great interview with Matt, and this profile from a few months back.
P.P.S. I meant what I said about respecting his Christian faith, but he’s already tweeting about retirees in Florida, so I think maybe I’m onto something here.
Rejoice, ladies! Bleacher Report founder and CEO Bryan Goldberg has raised $6.5 million to start a website just for us women, as he’s very, very excited to tell us in this piece.
Oh, sure, the commenters on that post and the collective Captain Bringdown we know as the feminist blogosphere—oops, and now NPR too—aren’t thrilled about his new venture, for a bunch of reasons, including:
- the new site’s super-edgy name (“Bustle”), which simultaneously conjures frenetic lady-busyness and a Victorian ass-enhancing device;
- Goldberg’s repeated assurances that he’s going to give us girls “world affairs and celebrity gossip,” “an Egyptian revolution” and “the next ‘Bachelorette’ selection,” all in one easy URL, because naturally we don’t want to chip our nails by having to make multiple clicks to cleanse our news-clogged palates with the refreshing sorbet of Real Housewives tidbits;
- his use of totally non-patronizing and non-distancing language such as “Knowing the difference between mascara, concealer, and eye-liner is not my job,” so we’re all clear that just because he’s going to make millions of dollars off what he thinks women care about, that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t consider it silly in the extreme (and oh by the way he’s totally not gay);
- and his seeming unawareness that the only thing that’s novel about his concept is that he, unlike all the women who have created similar websites in the past, is working with $6.5 million of start-up funding that most of us ladies couldn’t get our manicured hands on quite so readily.
But maybe that’s unfair, and if a guy wants to use his reputation and his resources to create something for women, shouldn’t we be applauding him rather than rolling our mascaraed eyes? Maybe Bryan’s the real deal—check out this question that he asks and answers in his article:
Is this a feminist publication?
You’re damn right this is a feminist publication.
Well then! When I read this, I think of George McFly in Back to the Future saying “Do you really think I should swear?” Bryan seems very serious about this feminism thing. Bryan means business, everyone.
Yeah. He means business. Literally.
Cynic that I am, I decided to try to find out whether Bryan had ever publicly claimed the F-word for yourself when he wasn’t clumsily trying to win over a new female audience—and whether his prior online ventures had done anything to establish the sort of feminist (or feminist-ally) cred that would earn him the trust of his new target demographic. I began with Bryan’s Twitter feed, and dug back a few months looking for any sign of his passion on women’s issues. I didn’t see anything about, oh, the widespread legislative attacks on reproductive rights and equal-pay laws, but I did find this, and this, which, uh, at least acknowledge the existence of the female of the species, I suppose.
Okay—what about Bleacher Report, his immensely successful sports website, which (as he informs us in the article) is worth more than the Washington Post? Bryan created, and has spent several years at the helm of, one of the most widely-read sports sites on the interwebs. In what ways has his magnum opus manifested his feminist passion? Sure, Bleacher Report, like most sports sites, targets a primarily male audience, but has Bryan used this impressive platform to highlight coverage of women’s sports in order to spark more widespread interest in them, or seek out female writers and bloggers, or take a strong and consistent stand against the sexism and objectification of women that permeates too much of popular sports culture?
Well, let’s look at the evidence. While Bleacher Report does generally steer clear of obvious and repugnant sports-adjacent misogyny, their track record where the womenfolk are concerned is not so shining as to persuade me of their CEO’s feminist cred. They’ve run a number of articles and posts about the impact of sexism on women in sports—but they also saw nothing wrong with publishing a horrific 2008 piece ranking the “hottest” female Olympians. (The post was slammed throughout the progressive parts of the internet, but I can’t find any evidence that Goldberg or anyone else associated with the site ever responded or apologized.) They ran this piece rightly bemoaning the fact that MMA star Ronda Rousey’s “superlative grit and athleticism” had been overshadowed in the media by raunchy sexist headlines that trivialized her achievements….but they’ve also taken every opportunity to notify their readers of Rousey’s appearances on the cover of Maxim, her assessments of other fighters’ “racks,” and male fighters’ assessments of her hotness. As I glance over the BR home page this morning, I’m heartened not to see any photos of token babes in bikinis (I’m looking at you, Sports Illustrated and ESPN), but less excited to realize that every single one of the almost eighty athletes, media figures, and columnists pictured on the page is a man. (If I want to read about women’s sports, I have to click the “Other” tab at the top of the page.)
The point isn’t that Bryan Goldberg is an outright misogynist; I don’t believe he is. The point is that as far as I can tell, he was never—in his public persona, at least—a “you’re damn right” feminist until he had a pile of venture capital and a marketing plan to back up that worldview. I’d be more inclined to give him a mulligan on the obtuse launch article, and to acknowledge that it’s not really his fault that a straight white guy can get the sort of financial backing for a women’s website that most women can only fantasize about, if I saw much evidence that he’d used his existing web empire to promote the cause of women, actively and without self-congratulation, in an arena where sexism and inequality are still the champions.
P.S. If you’re interested, the top stories on Bustle this morning are “Hooters chain deems Bob Filner too sleazy,” “Incarcerated women may be making your underwear,” and “Learn to breastfeed while you dougie.” So, that’s $6.5 million well spent, then.