Owie Kendrick

Here's an update on my fantasy baseball team thus far, told through a series of open letters to Howie Kendrick:

May 20, 2008

Dear Howie,

Hey, buddy. It’s me, Ryan. You know, the guy who drafted you in the sixth round? The guy who deliberately chose you even though Miguel Tejada was still on the board? How are you feeling? How’s that hammy? Still sore? I’m sorry that you don’t feel well, Howie. I wish there was something I could do to make you feel better. You’re in my thoughts, Howie. Everyday. I’d say that you’re in my prayers, too, but your injury and the time you’ve missed this year have led me to believe that if God does exist—and I have my doubts now—then He's nothing more than a twisted puppet master intent upon killing my fantasy baseball team's hopes, one strained hamstring at a time.

I need you, Howie. More than ever. Guess who I’ve been starting in your absence? Here's a hint: His name rhymes with "Sticky Leaks," and even after getting eight hits in the past five games, he's still not hitting his weight. It's Rickie Weeks, Howie. Rickie Weeks. And let’s just say that it took Rickie weeks to get that average above Mendoza this year.

Don't make me beg, Howie. I’m sorry that you’re in pain. I’m sorry that this muscle strain continues to sideline you. I’m sorry that your papier-mâché cotton candy motherfucking hamstring is still sore. I’m sorry that it’s taken you and your goddamn silly putty fucking body almost seven fucking weeks to recover from a goddamn motherfucking “hamstring strain.” Really, I am. I think I strained my hamstring once. I can’t really remember. Because it was a fucking strain. I probably just walked it off, or I poured some Tussin on it, or I drank beer until it didn't hurt anymore. The point is, it didn't prevent me from maintaining my active lifestyle of tossing the football around and occasionally running to catch the subway. Whatever happened to playing with a little pain? Remember Lou Gehrig? Does that name ring a bell? In his final full season he smacked 29 dongs and put up a .933 OPS, and he was in such bad shape that they ended up naming the fucking disease after him. So get well soon, Howie. Or don’t. Whatever. I’m riding the Clint Barmes train now.

Warmest Regards,
Ryan

That better be one of those special hamstring injury-healing pies

May 22, 2008

Hey Howie,

I'm sorry I got mad at you yesterday. I know that you want to be out there playing. And thanks for your reply. Thanks for pointing out that you wouldn't even take yourself in the 6th round, that your own mom waited until round 10 to pick you, and that I drafted "like Matt Millen" this year. If that's the case, then I guess that makes you my Charles Rogers, huh? Or my Mike Williams? Or my Every-Other-Stupid-Fucking-Bust-Ever? But really, I know your absence is only a small part of why my team is wallowing in 6th place right now. I can’t blame you for the Fukumori Experiment. Or the great Kelvim Escobar Dice-Roll of 2008. And, much like drinking Jagermeister or betting on boxing, drafting Mark Teahen seemed like a good idea at the time. The fact that your hamstring apparently has the tensile strength of dental floss had no bearing on these poor draft-day decisions. I know this.

But you're still out. With that same muscle strain. The latest news is that you've gone "back to the drawing board." Help me out here, Howie. What the fuck does that even mean? MLB disabled lists tend to be, at best, nebulous realms of half-truths and meaningless designations, but I gotta admit: this has been the longest "15 day" stretch of my motherfucking life—even longer than those two weeks during the summer after my sophomore year in high school when our air conditioner and cable kicked out at the same time. I read a lot during those two weeks, Howie. I'm reading a lot now, too. Like how your hamstring strain has been downgraded to a "more severe hamstring strain." I want you to get better, Howie. And I know you want to get better. But Barmes is raking like a fucking gardener right now, and Rickie Weeks is getting on base any way he can. So take your sweet time, pal.

Best,

Ryan

This is how Ryan looked when his 6th round pick went down... and stayed down

May 23, 2008

Howie,

Yeah, that was me going through your trash last night. And yeah, I'm the one who's been mailing you those envelopes stuffed full of ham and string. And yes, I was the guy standing outside your window last night yelling, "If I need that goddamn DL spot for anyone other than Hafner, your ass is waivers-bound!" Thanks for calling the cops, Howie. This is the pat on the back I get for drafting you in round 6? I had faith, Howie. Now all I have is a resisting arrest charge and a few bruised ribs.

I woke up this morning and saw that your Yahoo News and Notes box had that red flashy thing on it. I clicked it, hoping to get some good news. Instead, I got this giant middle finger of a Player Note:

May 22 Lyle Spencer, of Angels.MLB.com, reports Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim 2B Howie Kendrick (hamstring) worked out Thursday, May 22, and said his leg felt much better than the last time he ran. There is no timetable for his return.

Thanks a fucking lot, Lyle Spencer. Your leg feels better, Howie! That's great news! And yet, there's still "no timetable" for your return. In the meantime, Chris Young just went on the DL after taking an Albert Pujols line drive to the face. Oh, and ol' Moist-Hands Alou strained his calf last night and was immediately placed on the DL. I guess you don't take too many chances with the body of a 173-year-old. And Barmes will inevitably stop raking soon, and I don't know if I have the stomach to ride the Rickie Weeks Sooper Dooper Looper for the rest of the season. So I'll ask again: when are you coming home, Howie? Because what my team really needs right now is a .300 hitter who contributes little else across all the other stat categories. You know, like Moises. Without the piss-covered hands.

Fondly,
Ryan

An actual MRI of Howie Kendrick's hamstring

May 24, 2008

Dear Howie,

Clint Barmes just went on the DL. Fuck the world.

Sincerely,
Ryan



May 25, 2008

Dear Aaron Hill,

Hi, my name is Ryan…

Get Your Preak On

The Preakness has a bit of an identity problem. It has long been called the middle child of the Triple Crown family, without the pomp, revelry, and sophistication of the Derby, and missing the historical significance and affluence of the Belmont. The Preakness’s contribution to the Triple Crown is: do not fuck this up. Its race track, Pimlico, is not only illustrative of Maryland racing, but a microcosm of its host city.

Pimlico’s crumbling infrastructure and lack of investment in its facilities and its neighborhood have become more obvious with each passing spring. Dilapidated homes and closed store fronts are the face of an area that prosperity has passed by. Perhaps the most telling comment on our society and its growing wealth gap is not the failure of such neighborhoods, but the refusal to confront or even acknowledge the problem. For evidence of this count how many different ways the announcers refer to the neighborhood tomorrow during raceday. Be sure to look out for: working-class, traditional, or up-and-coming (my favorite). Make no mistake: it is a ghetto and we ignore it. The solution is not easy and for some reason I don’t think it involves million dollar investment into games of chance whose expected value are negative (but that’s a whole other post). Oh, and while we’re on the topic, kudos to ESPN’s Travel department for finding inventive ways to describe the neglect.

“Pimlico is nestled in an older, non-touristy neighborhood and the races serve as a stand-alone event for visitors, who come and go while enjoying other sections of the city.”

“Pimlico is not built for sightseeing and mingling.”

“You'll find a fair amount of on-site parking at Pimlico, but it's truly best to avoid the congestion with a light rail trip/shuttle bus ride or metro subway/shuttle bus ride.” (read: don’t stay anywhere near here)

“Many Preakness-goers stay 6 miles south of Pimlico in the downtown Inner Harbor hotels.” (staying near Pimlico is like mooning God)

"Located 15 miles north of Pimlico, Hunt Valley offers several hotels out of the hustle-and-bustle of downtown." (sure it’s halfway to Pennsylvania and offers little to do, but it’s a not a terrible option for those that would like to live to see Monday.)

"Hotels on nearby Reisterstown Road also are an option." (Reisterstown Road: a slightly safer ghetto)

The rest of the article lists the nightlife options, other attractions, and restaurants, NONE of which are located anywhere near the track.

Preakness is a spectacle. It has a unique and storied tradition and should be a showcase of Maryland, like the Derby is to Kentucky. But every spring, we miss our chance. And each year, the writing on the wall becomes bigger and bolder. Will I be attending this year? Absolutely. Will I have mixed feelings? No question. What can be done? It’s not an easy answer, but something must be done. We risk losing the race and, more importantly, we risk losing yet another generation of impoverished Baltimore youth.


(PS, gambling is fun.)

Just in case you ever are captured by a supervillian

If you enjoy brain teasers, here are about 90 that have had me going for almost a week now when I should have been working. Enjoy.

http://www.ouverture-facile.com

P.S. I am on puzzle 31, and it is making me very angry.

In the Kitchen with Oakley

Jeff just emailed this to me. It needs to be shared with the world.

Fucking hilarious.

Yinka Dare, Four Years On

The other day, Ryan and I were emailing, and discussion turned to Yinka Dare, as it often does. I forget the context. It doesn't matter, really. We email about Yinka so frequently – along with Boubacar, and DeSagana, and Jahidi – that the references all tend to run together. Anyway, midway through one of his emails, Ryan admitted that he'd forgotten that Yinka had died. After a few minutes spent questioning Ryan's commitment to ludicrously athletic yet terribly uncoordinated African centers, it struck me: Yinka Dare has been dead for over four years now. The world has largely forgotten about him. Sure other terrible and awkward players have tried to take his place in the Terrible and Awkward African Center Pantheon, but for me no one was quite like Yinka.


Sort of like the Kennedy assassination to our parents I remember exactly where I was when it happened. My buddy Jon and I were at some lame house party in Georgetown scrolling ESPN’s bottomline for fantasy baseball updates when the death of Yinka Dare flashes by. To have his death announced on ESPN’s bottomline was a cruel, cruel irony for a man who never once had made the bottomline before.

Yinka Dare was 7-foot-1, 270 pound Nigerian with no semblance of basketball ability. This did not stop Big Yink from comparing his game to Hakeem and Shaq. He called himself “an ideal center.” He said he’d be “better than some of the best big men who ever played.” He made these statements not as a precocious rookie but a couple years into a remarkably dismal playing career.

You see Yinka Dare wasn’t just bad, he was astonishingly bad.

During his first year he played in one game for three minutes, had one turnover, committed two fouls, and missed his only shot – an airball of course. He promptly tore his ACL and missed the remainder of the season, thereby earning over $300,000 per minute.

The next season, Dare’s “best”, he racked up 626 minutes of play in 58 games. Per game he averaged 2.8 points, 3.1 boards, 2.0 fouls, and 0.0 assists. Or more accurately: 0.000000 assists. As in none. In 58 games, in 626 minutes Dare had 72 turnovers, but not once did he pass to someone who hit their shot. Not even once.

Midway through his third season, in his 77th game, and after 770 minutes of NBA playing time this Ripken-esque streak came to an end. Sadly there is no youtube clip to commemorate the occasion, but it is said that Yink was ecstatic, whooping it up, and overjoyed. It’s unclear if this exuberance led him to declare that he’d be one of the best of all-time, but it surely must’ve contributed. After all, assists don’t grow on trees, I suppose.

Dare played in just 10 games the next season before being cut. He bounced around the CBA and USBL until 2003 before retiring.

In 2004 Yinka collapsed and died in his home in New Jersey. A medical examiner determined that Dare had a heart attack due to an arrhythmia condition discovered when he was in college. All accounts were that Yinka was a kind, gentle person, a respectful and good kid.

I’ll always remember Yinka Dare fondly. The man played 1,002 minutes in the NBA and had just four career assists. His ever-present smile, delusions of grandeur, and basketball ineptitude made him a hard guy not to like. It’s been ten years since Yinka last played in the NBA, and I’m not sure we’ll ever see another player so bad and yet so likeable again.

CJAU

I'm not sure how you pronounce this fellow's name, but I sure hope it's simply read as 4 letters of the alphabet.

http://buffalobills.com/blog/index.jsp?post_id=3433

RAMS ADD FORMER BILLS DRAFT PICK: The St. Louis Rams have added Bills 2007 seventh-round pick C.J. Ah You to their roster.