Time Out

Yes, dammit, I noticed.
In the unbalanced travesty known as inter-league play, my beloved National League managed this year to amass a collective record of just 98-154 against those [persons of questionable ancestry] from the other league-- a thoroughly demoralizing winning percentage of .389. Granted, that's not nearly as low as The Smirking Marionette's approval ratings, but it's still pretty bad.

Obviously, this puts me in something of a political pickle.

Oh, sure... I could point out that I have always trumpeted The National League's style of play rather than its relative level of talent, but --while that assertion would be technically accurate-- it would likely be seen as side-stepping the issue.

Another option, of course, is to simply say nothing at all and whisper a prayer to Alexander Cartwright that no one notices the deafening silence. While there are probably legions of readers out there who would like me to exercise that option more often, across a broad spectrum of topics, there are also those who would deride me for taking the coward's way out-- tucking my keyboard between my metaphorical legs and slinking stealthily toward wings, stage right.

Or I could go the other way: Continue to bray like a donkey --or, for that matter, like an [donkey]-- loud and hoarse and off-key, like a guest conductor at Wrigley Field transforming one of the grand old cathedrals of the grand old game into the world's worst karaoke bar, blithely proclaiming the last bastion of good ol' nine-on-nine baseball to be morally superior to the other league (which, by the way, it is) regardless of the final score. Hell, I might even throw in a line about how "the meek shall inherit the earth." Don't put it past me!

But to do that at this particular juncture in time and space would make me sound like some half-crazed, dirt-encrusted desert hermit, ranting and raving at the coyotes and the cacti about evil political machinations and alien bodies at Groom Lake and secret takeover plots and big white vans with heavily-tinted windows bristling with invisible antennae and performing impossible maneuvers on mountain roads and white-shirted bespectacled clerical types hidden away in sterile bunkers tweaking dials and listening intently while you recite Maggie Estep in the shower and how freedom is a relative term at best and an outright illusion at worst and how we have become society of self-importance and oh by the way please read my blog and... uh... What was I saying?

Oh, yes: The truth is, the meek shall not inherit the earth. The meek shall inherit runners at second and third with nobody out and the game on the line, an RBI machine designated the DH-1 standing at the plate, slowly grinding the bat handle into sawdust.

So... what to do?
Well, for one thing, I can retreat into the flexibility of the English language. Henceforth and until further notice, I will refrain from using phrases like "the vaunted National League." Instead, I will favor adjectives like "the venerable National League." In the words of Billy Crystal, see what I did there?

For another thing, I will root heartily for the savory irony of the senior circuit's squad besting their counterparts in the upcoming All-Star exhibition, thereby securing home-field advantage for the League Champions in this fall's Whirled Series. Now, wouldn't that be tasty?

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He stands six-foot-one and weighs-in at about 180 pounds. His hometown is Rio Piedras, Puerto Rico. Somehow, the Cubs got him from out of the Mets' farm system. As of this writing, he had appeared in just 14 major league games-- three times as a pinch hitter (0 for 3). Overall, he's hitting .310, slugging .552 and has accounted for seven Total Runs. He's played 14 innings in left field and 39 in right. Officially, he has yet to make an error-- although he did misjudge a fly ball on Sunday, which ultimately contributed to a run for the white stockings. Not that it mattered. He made up for it by slamming his first two home runs... and on his twenty-fifth birthday, no less.

Most importantly, he is the proud owner of a thoroughly delicious name: Angel Pagan. The Pagan Angel. The perfect nickname to make him The Official Favorite Ballplayer Of The Blasphemes Blog. The Pagan Angel. You can't beat that.

Actually, if all the broadcasters are to be believed, he pronounces his surname "puh-GON," which makes him sound like some sort of obscure geometric shape. Five will get you ten, however, that this rookie from Puerto Rico doesn't really pronounce his first name "AIN-gel," so right there the broadcasters are, as usual, already half-full of [stool sample] and there's no telling what the proper pronunciations really are.

It remains to be seen just how far above or below mediocre The Pagan Angel will turn out to be... but you've got to love the nickname.

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P.S... Bud "The Obtuse Angle" Selig must go.