Why Dock Ellis? Forget about the acid thing for a second, and forget about the fact that he once said he never pitched a game in the minors when he "wasn't high." Forget the drugs, forget the drug counselor career he curiously, redemptively embarked on later in life. The guy was a fucking character. Ellis used to wear hair curlers during warm-ups so he could accumulate sweat to throw spitballs. Ellis admitted to inflaming racial tensions just so he could get reporters to talk to him. Ellis' sworn enemy was Reggie Jackson. Reggie Jackson! Ellis loved to throw at other players' faces. He lived for the intensity and bullshit and trashtalk of sport, not for the competition of it, but for fun. Ellis was one of those characters in baseball's age of personality who make everyone who came before him look like nothing but a steak-and-martini gormandizing dolt, and everyone after him a faceless, anonymous, contained machine devoid of life. Our baseball players now have about as much personality as they can fit into a shot of their cocks on this here site (and the cock-loiterers who post them). That's why we need The Untitled Dock Ellis Story: to remind us that there were once interesting people playing sports, and that the major leagues are now, like everything else that goes corporate to suck of the teet of The Man, homogenized, soulless bullshit. Dock Ellis is the antithesis of that. Dock Ellis is self-expression in athletics personified. Dock Ellis is the man. And yes: Dock Ellis pitched a no-no on acid.

Because this is a biopic, we're obviously going to have to cut between the epic no-hitter and everything else that happens in his life. Because Deadspin Films are innovative, we can even go into Ellis' future in a Tarantino-esque time-split, which is kind of an accurate representation of what it's like to live on acid for a day: you see through time. Time is your bitch when you're on acid. It has the consistency of a DORITO CHIP. It can easily be crushed and consumed and come out pretty much exactly the same on the other end.

Your best titles in the comments, please; the winner goes in the headline.

[This is FEK, BTW.]

Dock Ellis, as played by Dave Chappelle. Aside from his ability to pull off profoundly funny Drug Humor, Chappelle possesses the classic comic skill of originality when it comes to being incredulous with the way the universe works. Chappelle's been gone for way too long, and he's a good enough actor/comic to merit an Oscar-bait role, but not the kind of self-serious turns that comedy actors-turned-wannabe-drama actors take (see: Jim Carrey in The Truman Show, The Majestic, etc).

Donald Hall, as played by Jack Nicholson. This man will be our Naked Indian-like mystic, except he's going to be Dock's Crunchy White Friend, Donald Hall. Hall, who was eventually the U.S. Poet Laureate, wrote the book on Ellis, literally: Dock Ellis in the Country of Baseball. Hall is a fucked-up druggie with whom Ellis finds a common bond with. When Hall originally wrote his book, he wrote that Ellis was drunk on the day he threw his no-no. Which: no. Ellis was getting strange on some acid—fucking ACID—and Hall wrote as much in the 1989 epilogue to the book's paperback release. Why the hiding? Because Ellis was playing for the Yankees when the book was published in '76, and him and Hall worried about what George "The Narc" Steinbrenner would think.

Reggie Jackson, as played by Michael K. Williams. Every story needs a foil, and the rules and regulations of drug-fearing America are too obvious (and too easily evaded) for a guy like Dock. He needed a bigger problem, and he got what he asked for in Reggie Jackson, who was rightfully controlling a lot of the discussion about race in baseball when both players were in their prime. Mr. October had been around longer, was less mischievous, was the well-behaved of the two when it came to having decorum and sportsmanship. For what it's worth, he was also the better player, which maybe Ellis might've had the potential to be recognized as had he not played each game on drugs (but: bygones). Reggie Jackson famously hit a pitch thrown by Dock Ellis in the 1971 All-Star Game into a transformer, and Dock Ellis famously retaliated by hitting Reggie Jackson in the face with a pitch. This was basically how Dock Ellis did business. Michael K. Williams played Omar on The Wire. If you've never watched The Wire, I'm sorry. if you have, you know exactly—exactly—what I'm talking about. This is perfect.

Act 1: Dock's Old Age. In fact, the first flashback/flashforward—so we can get to the peak stuff in the story at the end—should be of Ellis winning the World Series in 1971 with the Pirates, a year after he pitched his no-hitter on acid. We then go into old age, when—living with his wife and his stepdaughter—he finally comes to realize that all anybody wants to talk about are the drugs he did. For the longest time, Ellis had to keep quiet about his incredible feat, for which he'd be inevitably shamed. People would throw accusations of performance enhancement and pejoratives about how bad drug-users like Ellis are not just for society, but for sport. Ellis eventually became a drug counselor and helped people out with drug problems, but let's get one thing straight:He eventually came to happy terms with his feat. And another thing correct, here: ACID is NOT a performance-enhancing drug, kids. Anything that can give you permanent psychological scars just from looking at your dick will not help you pitch *better.* We will talk about Dock's inevitable struggle with this fact when dealing with the people he helps advise when he becomes a drug counselor in his later, post-baseball years.

Act 2: Dock's Rise To Fame.More time sequencing! Dock's trying to trace back what the hell kind of wack-ass shit happened over the last 50 years. How he got to be who he was, the racism he faced as a kid. After his career, why he was left unfufilled by it. Even though he'd won the World Series, all he ever wanted to do was win a title as a Yankee. He got to the Yankees, but he didn't win a title. What he did do? Make a name for himself. Like the time a few months before he won the World Series in '72, on May 5, when a stadium security guard maced him in the face. Or like the May 1, 1974 game where he pitched at the heads of Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, and Dan Driessen, Tony Perez, and Johnny Bench (hitting the first three), before which, he tried to lift the spirits of his team with one of the best motivational speeches in baseball: "We gonna get down. We gonna do the do. I'm going to hit these motherfuckers."

Act 3: The Dock Ellis Acid No-No. The legendary game. Now he remembers. This is who Dock Ellis was. Mischief, incarnate. The spirit of the prankster. The guy pitched a no-hitter on acid. Fucking ACID. And the world was better off. People are still trying to petition to get MLB TV to show the game that Dock Ellis couldn't live down or past: he showed up twisted out of his head on drugs, and pitched the hell out of his game. We cut from the second-to-last pitch, to Dock Ellis, the drug counselor, living out his last days in California.

Finale: Looking back on baseball and the bewildered look on his face he had after he won his no hitter, an older, wiser Ellis realizes: MLB's full of cheaters, liars, addicts, and assholes, most of whom aren't even charming. At least he stood for something. Let's face it: Ellis was never gonna be Reggie Jackson, drugs or no drugs. If he tried, he would've ended up second-rate. The guy was something on to his own, and when he both comes to peace with and embraces his legacy in our denouement, he sees the light: Dock Ellis, Fuckup, Drug Addict, Folk Hero. A title over black: "Dock Ellis died on December 19, 2008, in Victorville, California, of liver problems. He was living out his last days as a drug counselor." We flash back to that last no-no pitch in his glove, ready to be thrown. Everyone in the stadium is going wild. It all goes quiet. And right as Dock Ellis throws, the ball starts singing to him, and it's singing this song. He throws, and we cut to black over the song.

Brandon Patch was on the mound, when he couldn't react in time to a comebacker. Six years later, a Montana jury awarded a family $850,000 for the death of their son, finding the makers of the aluminum bat liable.

Most importantly, the jury did not find the bat defective, in effect saying, the aluminum bat did what it's supposed to, and in doing so killed someone. This can't be understated: it's been proven, in a court of law, that aluminum bats are capable of killing.

So. Are we going to see youth leagues switch to wooden bats for the safety of their players? Is the NCAA going to outlaw metal bats to avoid future lawsuits?

Deadspin LLP can weigh in, but I don't think things will change just yet. For one, that $850,000 verdict isn't enough to dissuade Louisville Slugger from making them. I'm sure it's a drop in the bucket compared to their sales of the bats. Secondly, it was the manufacturer who was found liable, and not the league. Assuming a college player dies, it'll still be the bat maker's fault and not the NCAA or the school. That's the precedent set.

However, there's a potential chilling effect. Now that there is that precedent, it won't be much of a leap for future lawyers to argue that a league would be negligent by continuing to use these bats. Next time this happens, an attorney will say, "You knew this put players' lives at risk, but continued to use them anyway." And without vouching for the strength of that argument, all they'd need to convince would be a handful of jurors.

Legal matters aside, not much changes for those at risk. It's scientifically proven that the ball comes off a metal bat faster than a wood one. But it's also been shown time and time again that pitchers can't always dodge balls off a wooden bat either.

Mont. Jury Awards $850,000 In Aluminum Bat Lawsuit [AP]

ALDS
Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim over Boston Red Sox in five.
New York Yankees over Minnesota Twins in four.

NLDS
Philadelphia Phillies over Colorado Rockies in four.
Los Angeles Dodgers over St. Louis Cardinals in five.

LCS
New York Yankees over Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim in six.
Los Angeles Dodgers over Philadelphia Phillies in six.

World Series
New York Yankees over Los Angeles Dodgers in seven.

Here are facts about the Cardinals' first game this season, a 6-4 loss to the Pittsburgh Pirates.

**** The cleanup hitter was shortstop Khalil Greene, who might be a lesbian.
**** The third baseman was Brian Barden, who won the Rookie of the Month award for April and now plays catch with his daughter.
**** The left fielder was Chris Duncan, who had disc replacement surgery on his spine. By the July, the Cardinals were so eager to get rid of him that were willing to trade him for the least popular Red Sox player in recent history and totally infuriate the team's pitching coach.
**** The closer was Jason Motte, who gave four runs in the ninth inning to cost his team the opener.

To be a fan of any sports team involves an endless amount of rationalization and compartmentalizing. On July 2, 2009, the Cardinals were tied for first place, and I could not have cared less about Julio Lugo, Matt Holliday, Mark DeRosa and John Smoltz. I hoped the Cardinals could go get themselves some help to surround Albert Pujols' historic season and the career years from Chris Carpenter and Adam Wainwright, but that was only a theoretical notion, a plea for a deus ex machina to come and save us, to vanquish the looming Cubs dragon.

And then the reinforcements came, and suddenly, the nearly 34 years I've spent obsessing over the St. Louis Cardinals — making them the centerpiece of every human interaction, every event on the social calendar, every moment of walking around and breathing — coalesced in these new fellows. I've watched at least 130 Cardinals games this season, and you get to know the new guys. I can impersonate perfectly Holliday's little leg kick he uses to generate power, I can pinpoint exactly why DeRosa plays third base like the second baseman he is, I can recognize Lugo's absurdly scrawny arms from 500 yards away, and I can tell the exact parameters of Smoltz's epic bald spot. These guys, in the span of two months, have become members of my family.

Yet it still feels a little untoward. The Cardinals do not have a long history of mercenaries — ignoring, conveniently, that pretty much every baseball player is a mercenary by nature — and it feels a little like cheating, in the same way that the surreal lottery ticket of Jeff Weaver that came up in 2006 felt like cheating. (Seriously, his ERA that postseason was 2.42 in five absurdly stressful starts against the best lineups in baseball. It is unfathomable that that happened.) It is possible, probably even likely, that Holliday, DeRosa and Smoltz will all be playing for other teams next year (or, in Smoltz's case, golfing). We are making one run with them, and then we will send them on their way, a one-night stand that pops up every few months or so, the kind you nod to briefly, a nod both of you hope nobody noticed. There are no overarching storylines, no 24 years between titles, no long-suffering superstars making one last lap for that elusive ring. This is a moth-ridden quilt with temporary patches. The Cardinals will be a good team next year, and for a few years after that, perhaps even in perpetuity. But this Holliday/DeRosa/Smoltz business is a one-shot deal. How much did you root for Karl Malone and Gary Payton when they made their desperate attempt at a title. More to the point: How much did Lakers fans care? I love cheering for Matt Holliday; I even, stupidly, bought a Holliday 15 jersey. But I'm aware I won't get much use out of it. We're renting him.

That is to say: A championship always means something different to fans than it does to a team. If the Cardinals win the World Series this year, it'll be a joy to be shared with my fellow Cardinals fans, with my family, with all the souls who followed the ups-and-downs of a Frankenstein monster of a team, one that put it all together for one crazy August and was mostly listless (outside of Pujols, Wainwright and Carpenter, of course) the rest of the way. It'll be something we'll always remember. It'll be something that changes us forever. For Holliday, Smoltz and the crew, they'll have spent three months the best possible way one can spend three months, and they'll have made themselves a helluva lot more money. That's great.

But I think our way, the way fans do it, is way better.

One of the stranger conceits in the coverage of sports is the fallacy that past performance is indicative of future returns. It makes the least sense in college sports. People will write, "Illinois seems to have Missouri's number" (obviously I'm speaking of basketball, not football) as if what happened six years ago, with entire different players, coaching staff and circumstances, could possibly be relevant. As if someone looks at a member of the opposing team and says, "Holy shit, we always struggle with teams wearing black. Oh no!"

The Red Sox, Anaheim's first-round opponent, seem to Have The Angels' Number, which mainly means Angels fans are pretty goddamned sick of seeing the Red Sox every October. The Angels look better than the Sox this year in a random, flip-a-damned-coin five-game series, but they looked better last year in a random, flip-a-damned-coin five-game series. Unfortunate head-to-head dominance on this seems to affect fans psyches' more than it does the players'.

The Angels are a large-market team that somehow strikes the world as a small market team, and the fans react accordingly. (I particularly loved this Bud Selig is rigging the series for the Sox and ratings! fanpost at Halos Heaven.) Anaheim actually has a larger payroll than the Dodgers do, but I suspect none of you think of it that way. Maybe it's Anaheim. It's a lot freaking farther from Los Angeles that I realized. It's also one of those unfortunate ballparks in large metropolitan areas where you can't find anywhere to have a damned beer before the game.

For years, the Angels had a reputation, because they had a bunch of free swingers and because they were in the same division as Billy Beane's A's, for being an almost anti-Moneyball team, a team that won because of a great manager, "playing the game the right way" and an inordinate amount of luck. Well, this year, they had their Happy Gilmore "Happy learned how to putt! Uh-oh!" moment: They learned how to walk and get on base. The lowest on-base percentage in their lineup belongs to Vlad Guerrero. They also run like crazy, perfect against a team like the Red Sox, whose catchers should seriously consider throwing left handed because, well, yaneverknow. This team really is different. This team should beat the Red Sox.

But lots of things should happen in the postseason that don't. If the Angels lose to the Red Sox, it won't necessarily mean they just Can't Beat Boston. And it won't mean the Angels aren't better either. Sometimes shit just happens. Now, you will go to sleep. Or I will put you to sleep. Check out the name tag. You're in my world now, grandma.

The Red Sox clinched their postseason berth at 1 a.m. on September 30. They'd just lost to the Blue Jays and had to wait for the Rangers to lose their West Coast game until they could "celebrate." It was not exactly a wild bash. Here is how the Red Sox went crazy:

"Once the Red Sox lost, there was a bizarre feeling in the clubhouse. Some players packed up and went home, while others milled around and watched the Rangers-Angels game on television. Ortiz said he would go out to a local establishment and then return to Fenway if the Rangers gave him reason to celebrate. Rookie reliever Daniel Bard went to his apartment across the street to have a late-night dinner, but he was prepared to return and enjoy the clinching moment with his teammates."

It has been that sort of season for the Red Sox. They have chugged along, winning enough to outlast an uninspiring group of wild-card challengers, never really making the Yankees sweat, as uninspiring as a 95-win season can possibly be. Almost every Red Sox fan I talk to is far from optimistic about the postseason. It just doesn't have that feel, one told me.

This is a unique luxury for Red Sox fans, this notion that this year's team isn't the team, one that no other team's fans can possibly understand. (And after a year off from the postseason, that includes the Yankees.) It's a privilege to make the playoffs, a rarity, and that Pink Hat Nation generally seems more exhausted by his season than invigorated speaks to just how far they've come since 2004, since Johnny Damon was bearded, since that incredibly brief time in human history where the rest of the nation found the Red Sox likable. It doesn't have that feel. Please.

That is to say: Bah! The mad rugby scrum that is the baseball postseason has no time or patience for protestations of what is RIGHT and what is POSSIBLE. Certainly — here comes the Cardinals reference! — there are other teams than the 2006 version of the Cardinals that I would have desired to win the big pennant-spiky trophy. That didn't stop me from losing my shit when they pulled it off. The tsunami can strike anyone at any time. If the Red Sox beat the Angels and make the ALCS, who will even remember the regular season? Who will even remember it by ALDS Game Two?

I'm about to write something that will make you nauseous, so I apologize in advance. But: Doesn't this decade deserve another Yankees-Red Sox ALCS? Isn't that where all this is going? This has been the decade of Tiger Woods, of Lance Armstrong, of Tom Brady, of Favre of Favre of Favre, the decade in which we recognized brilliance, and then we recognized it again, and then we bashed it against the wall and pushed it in everyone's faces over and over and over and over. This has been the decade of overkill, the This Is The Greatest Super Bowl Ever and This Is The Greatest Gunslinger Ever and This Is The Greatest Rivalry Ever. It wouldn't be right to end this decade with a modest Twins-Angels ALCS. The Yankees-Red Sox rivalry transmogrified into the pulsating, tentacled mega-monster this decade, and it changed everything. It caused the sports networks to ignore any team west of the northeast corridor. It raised baseball salaries to unimaginable levels. It inspired everyone to start using steroids, and then pretend like they were stopping. It has dwarfed everything else in baseball over the last 10 years. None of us has been able to escape it. It has been the one part of baseball that resembles football. It is not humble and welcoming. It is loud and exclusionary. It is AROD AND JETER VERSUS PAPI AND MANNY TONIGHT ON FOXXXXXXX!!!!! It is exceptionalism and imperialism and everything that makes you want to throw your television across the room.

That all happened this decade. Doesn't it have to end that way? Could it possibly end any other?

See? Told you you'd get sick.

I was out drinking with Daulerio and Craggs last weekend, and the topic of Matthew Berry came up. (I think we were talking about Tucker Max or something, lord knows why.) I like Matthew Berry, I suppose, but I think his yuckity-yuck style just isn't pitched to my sensibilities. That is to say: I am a nerd. I'm more of an Eric Karabell guy. I prefer dorky facts presented mostly straight, dorkily. I'm not much of a party guy, I'm not all that much fun at all, really.

I'd drunk enough that night that I started thinking maybe you can divide all male sports fans into either the Berry camp or the Karabell camp. Craggs is a Karabell guy too. Daulerio, as you'd probably guess, isn't. Bill Simmons is a Berry guy. Rob Neyer is a Karabell guy. Stuart Scott is a Berry guy. John Clayton is a Karabell guy. You can make an argument that there's a third type of sports fan, the self-serious keeper of the moral center of sports, your Bob Costas, your Joe Buck, but I don't think those people exist outside of the world of sports media. I've never met anyone who truly believes in the soul of sports that doesn't actually work inside it. I'm talking about normal people. You're all Berrys, or you're all Karabells. (If you want to play the full Deadspin staffer game, Drew's a Berry, Dash is a Karabell, and so are Sussman and Kogod. If you dig into the past, Clay Travis was a Berry, and Rick Chandler was a Karabell.)

Those two paragraphs, probably more than a third of this "team preview," exist so that I can introduce my theory that the Rockies are the Eric Karabell of this postseason. (If you're wondering — and I'm sure you are! — the Angels and the Twins/Tigers are also Karabells, and everyone else: Berry.) They are a quiet, unassuming, just-the-facts team that does nothing spectacularly but does everything right. The rotation does not blow you away, the lineup does not blow you away, the bullpen does not blow you away. They are above average everywhere. We do not tend to value that. The typical let's match up these two teams head-to-head! previews that people put together will inevitably show the Rockies lacking. Someone will have better hitting. Someone will have better pitching. But few will have the steady combination of both. Those are the teams that often win, the ones that don't fluctuate wildly.

Of course, the teams that often win in the postseason are the ones that just get lucky and hot out of nowhere, which is why predicting outcomes don't make any sense, why it makes more sense to stay low-key and avoid bold proclamations. (More Karabell!) The Rockies are no longer a faith-based business, and all told, they probably never were (who knew USA Today had so much influence?) but they're still likable enough, in their affable, oh-here-we-are-out-here-in-the-Mountain-time-zone-don't-mind-us way. (You have to love that almost the entire team is homegrown.) The Rockies have been blessed by the magic humidor, the ball-sucking device that took away the team's identity but allowed them to play, and win, by the same rules the rest of us have to play with. If the Rockies make the World Series this season, they will be only the second National League team to reach the Series twice this decade (other than the Cardinals; the Phillies are going for this as well). No one would have expected this as recently as early September 2007. They're not in a pinball machine anymore. They play earthly ball now. Thank heavens.

My father was complaining to me the other day about the increasing probability that Matt Holliday is not going to be playing for the Cardinals next season. He was dismayed by the likelihood that he'll be at Fenway next year, or in the Bronx, or even in Anaheim. "He should love it here," he said. "It shouldn't be all about the money." As a well-behaved Midwestern boy from a military family, I am loathe to disagree with my father, but hey, Cardinals fans lamenting losing Holliday: Talk to the Rockies. If we lived in the perfect world of baseball finance that's never really existed, Holliday would be leading the Rockies' charge, not along for the ride in St. Louis. But then again, that'd be a little too flashy, methinks, a little too boldfaced name. That'd make the Rockies a Berry rather than a Karabell. I like the Rockies as a Karabell. I like Todd Helton and Huston Street and all those guys you never stay up to watch. I like these guys.

Oh, and by the way: May I be the latest to remind you that thanks to the plate that was never touched and the tag that was never made, the 2007 regular season never actually ended. Which is a relief. My fantasy team was terrible that year.

The 2009 New York Yankees are the first team I've ever spent any time in the clubhouse of — assuming that you will not allow me to count the 1993 Big Twelve Champion Mattoon Green Wave — and I'm not sure I've learned much about the players who dress in it, other than the facts that Joba Chamberlain has a Megan Fox-esque tattoo full of indecipherable words I suspect he wouldn't understand anyway, and that Nick Swisher has a picture of Cody Ransom in his locker. People always talk about clubhouse tension, but none of that would ever filter out to a point that the sad masses of notebookers would ever notice it. Not that they don't try, regardless.

This was the season that the Yankees' undignified lurch toward their past dominance actually worked, a cosmic confluence of circumstances that allowed them to sign the best three free agents and have them, lo and behold, to turn out to be pretty damned good. Of all the signings, Mark Teixeira was probably the most steadying. The literal opposite of a diva, he's a robot, a smiling semi-vacant switch-hitting machine, a man so lacking in personality that his at-bat song is "I Wanna Rock" by Twisted Sister. You can almost see the gears whirring and creaking in his brain. I do, in fact, like rock. Particularly Daughtry. What song would be express this feeling? How do I say, 'Boy, I sure could use some rocking right now.' That man doesn't even think in exclamation points. The last few years, the Yankees have needed players they never have to worry about. Mark Teixeira is the living embodiment of Someone Who Requires No More Thought. This is not a criticism of Teixeira. It is what makes him valuable. Well, that, at the .948 OPS.

More than Derek Jeter, more than Mariano Rivera, more than anyone else, the 2009 Yankees have taken the character of Teixeira, a relentless, robotic, blandly devastating instrument of destruction. Jeter, having one of his better years and mentioned by some as a possible MVP candidate, is actually eighth in his own lineup in slugging. Seven different guys hit at least 22 home runs, nine hit 13. Much of this is the new stadium, which sure did transfer from Luxury Suites homer-happy embarrassment to Home of Champions! awfully fast. But that stadium is going to be hosting a lot of games over the next few weeks. It plays to their strengths perfectly. And it's a lot louder than the old place. It really is. Place feels like college football sometimes.

At the beginning of the season, there was hope that this would be the year the Yankees' greed and inflated self-importance would finally be deflated, prey to age, PEDs, karma, Matt Taibbi's typically overexcited fingers. And there was something fitting about it, a gluttonous empire finally taken down by choking on its own bullshit. But, alas, that wasn't the Yankees; that was the Cowboys. I leave it up to you to decide whose downfall would be more satisfying. True life doesn't conform to Macbeth. Sometimes the most powerful win. Sometimes you don't even hate them for it. But usually, you do.

After the Cardinals won the World Series, the scene around Busch Stadium was what it would look like after a zombie apocalypse if all the zombies were actually puppies who exhaled nitrous. It was unabashed chaos, the landscape littered with googly-eyed Midwesterners, running into walls, lying around the ground kicking their feet in the air, climbing the Stan Musial statue outside, taking off their shirts and waving them in the air, as if beckoning for a rescue they hope never actually comes. A big happy bomb had gone off. It was our Woodstock. It was a glee riot.

In March 2007, five months after that night, I wrote on this site that I didn't want the baseball season to begin. This was the opposite of the way I had been raised, the way I am wired. I am the guy who will watch a meaningless Mets-Nationals game on Sunday afternoon rather than a Browns-Bengals game. Baseball is all that I care about. And I didn't want the season to begin. I wanted that game to last forever. I knew the Cardinals were a weak team in 2007, just like, all told, they were in 2006. I knew they wouldn't win again. I wasn't ready for someone else to take their turn. (That it turned out to be the darned Red Sox made it worse, and better.)

When the Phillies won the World Series last year, A.J. Daulerio, editor of this site, vanished for a few days. (I remember receiving emails from people in Philly at the time. "We think we just saw him at the Locust Bar!") Something about your team winning the World Series makes all the usual rules and regulations vanish. (To be fair, Daulerio generally comports himself, in his daily life, as if the usual rules and regulations do not apply, so I'm surprised anybody noticed the difference.) You are a giddy screaming mess for at least a week afterward. It feels like the logical end of something. It feels like the end of baseball.

As I wrote back in 2007, "anybody who says the first title just makes you hungrier is full of it." It is to the Phillies' credit that they have rejected this notion; they are going for it this year, all in, as if they didn't win last year at all. Cliff Lee, Pedro Martinez, Ben Francisco ... the Phillies are trying to fill in all possible gaps. I have no doubt that if Roger Clemens had any interest in coming in to be the closer sometime in late July, the Phillies would have at least considered it. They have the bloodlust of a team that has never won a title before. In the past, it would have looked desperate. Now it just looks like piling on. Good for them.

Still, it's bizarre to think that the lone repeat champions this decade would come from Philadelphia, doesn't it? (By the way, Philadelphia fans don't receive nearly enough credit for avoiding the Boston plague, immediately turning into our-shit-don't-stink self-important spoiled brats after winning a long-awaited title. They're pretty much the same miserable fucks they've always been, and you have to salute them for that.) From this angle, the Phillies look to have the ideal postseason team: Strong rotation, massive power, enough speed, little unimportant depth. They'd have to be the favorites, right?

But yes, oh yes, Mr. Lidge, the one guy who didn't get the memo that this year meant as much as last year, the one guy not playing along. It was inevitable, really, that Lidge, haunted Lidge, would turn back into the sadsack of Pujols-at-Enron-2005, body slumped over, bewildered that this could be happening to him. Even when he was so dominant last year, we all knew a reckoning was coming. We couldn't have known it would be this. But we know it could not last. He is more human than the rest of them. He is still hungover.

This could be one of the the last runs for these guys, you know. The two youngest guys in their starting lineup are Shane Victorino, 28, and Ryan Howard, 29. Chase Utley is going to be freaking 31 in December. Teams age fast. You have to grab what you can, while you can. Sometimes if you forget that you've won one, you might just win two. The Phillies' place in history is secure. That they don't think that's enough is impressive, and rare. Good for them.

Until the Dodgers did right by the denizens of eastern Missouri, southern Illinois and parts of Arkansas, Tennessee, Oklahoma and Kentucky by sweeping the Chicago Cubs out of the playoffs last season, the franchise, one of baseball's signature pieces of china, had not won a postseason series in 20 years, when Kirk Gibson was limping around the bases and Jack Buck's eyes were making him incredulous. This was so long ago that Dennis Miller, long-haired, sane and sufferable back then, in the anchor's desk at "Saturday Night Live," made a joke about it on the air five minutes after it happened. This is a very long time.

Los Angeles has been through a lot since then, race riots, O.J., mudslides, blackouts, David Lynch giving weather reports on the radio, Kobe, but they've never quite had the Dodgers at the center of the conversation the way they supposed they always should be. The Dodgers have been Vin Scully, plodding away alone every night like a national treasure encased in a snow globe, and they have been derivative would-be Lakers. The team never really adjusted, never really came down from the Gibson-Tommy Lasorda Dodgers, and they moped around with would-be replacements, your Jim Tracys, your Grady Littles, a brief flirtation with a by-then-obviously-crazy Davey Johnson. This team played Eric Karros at first base for 10 years. Eric Karros is a fine player, but if he is your signature attraction, your beacon in the storm, one can argue that you have chosen to have no soul at all. One can argue that you are killing time.

The Dodgers realized around 2004 that it was time to rip out the guts and start over, and they turned in a direction that couldn't possibly have fit in with their inherent character, hiring "Moneyball" cast member Paul DePodesta — the nerd, the Demitri Martin — to remake the team in Billy Beane's image. DePodesta made a few mistakes, the "fuck off you better believe I'm in charge" Brad Penny trade, and never understood that even though he had been asked to reinvent Think Blue, he hadn't, not really. He thought he was Conan O'Brien; the Dodgers secretly wanted Bob Hope; he turned out to be "Late World With Zach Galifianakis" on VH-1, ahead of his time, sure, but still unwilling to bend enough to understand what he'd been hired to do in the first place. He was born to be a doomed folk hero, a sitcom a small number of fans are rabid about but one that inspires most of us to shrug our shoulders and wonder what all the fuss was about. The best thing one can say about Paul "Google Boy" DePodesta is that his tale was the first time smart people picked up their paper and realized, "Hey ... Bill Plaschke is an idiot. I had no idea."

What DePodesta really did, though, was pave the way for Joe Torre and Manny Ramirez, the guy who made the Dodgers realize their true personality is like its city itself: Transplants tired of the anger planet elsewhere, heading to the sunshine and the convertibles and they "hey, man, will you read my screenplay?" All the gorgeous vacancy of Los Angeles that makes the rest of us despise the place while understanding, deep down, that we'd all be happier, probably, if we lived there. Torre gave the Dodgers class, Ramirez gave them drama and spectacle, and, ta-da, the Dodgers were the Dodgers again. Hell, Kirk Gibson's really a Tiger, deep down. The Dodgers are happy to take your disgruntled and tired, give them a tan and polish 'em up.

The ultimate irony of the Dodgers' success this year is that they're based in the principles DePodesta championed, and was run out of town for: This team gets on base like crazy. The lineup didn't turn out to be as deep in 2009 as everyone had been hoping — Russell Martin fell off a cliff, and we shouldn't have expected all that much from Rafael Furcal in the first place — but it is relentless, sort of a Yankees lite, like Torre now, really, hanging around, hanging in, looking up and saying, "hey, doggone it, look at that, we ended up here again." The rotation succeeds because of the bullpen; you just have to hang on, Wolf, Billingsley, Kershaw, and the geniuses at the end will take care of the rest. The Dodgers are not exciting, and if if weren't for Manny, they'd be a bunch of blandly efficient gods chugging to first base, waiting for you to figure out which one is Ethier and which one is Kemp and which one is Loney. Everyone will talk about Manny all October, but he's a name, not a number. You get a sense that no one in the clubhouse dislikes him, but no one talks to him much either.

Amusingly enough, the Dodgers have become a hot "overrated" pick this postseason, reminding people of the Cubs of last year, proficient in all ways and excellent in none, coasting on a stressless regular season with a foundation easily cracked in October. I am not so sure. The Dodgers are a young team disguised as one making a last lap around the track. They lull you into submission. You feel confident, you see Randy Wolf, you pshaw and then you look up and you're down 5-3 in the seventh, and when that happens against the Dodgers, in their stadium (where they won 50 games this year), you've already lost. Sleep on the Dodgers at their peril. They still haven't figured out a personality outside of interchangeable kids and transplants, but isn't that what Los Angeles has always been about anyway? Forget about it, Jack. It's Mannywood.

And then Mike Jacobs hit a solo home run, because the Royals are still in it.

The Twins will most likely lose the AL Central race at home next Tuesday, probably in the 12th inning.

Okay, hold on. I'm being handed something…sorry. Just a weird coincidence – they died on the same day. No murder suicide, or at least none that the police have discovered yet.

Anyway, after the deaths of MJ and FF we were left not only with gaping holes in our cultural wallpaper, but totally unimportant questions as well. Questions such as: Who, if anyone, can replace the King of Pop? How many times will the phrase "ubiquitous poster" be used in obituaries of the late Ms. Fawcett? And, most importantly, how does Marlins outfielder Cody Ross feel about all this?

Fortunately, Mark Newman of mlb.com is here to tell us

MLB REACTS TO JACKSON, FAWCETT DEATHS
King of Pop and Charlie's Angels star had fans around league

The year was 1976.

Farrah Fawcett had the poster that was on walls everywhere.

Just to clarify: in 1976, Farrah Fawcett owned a poster of KC and the Sunshine Band, which was at the time one of the most popular posters in America.

Michael Jackson was fronting "The Jacksons" — as the band started off on its own a year after leaving Motown. Johnny Bench and Cincinnati's Big Red Machine repeated as World Series champs, and this time it wasn't even close — a powerhouse sweep of the Yankees, following a three-game sweep of the Phillies for the National League pennant.

Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Johnny Bench...wait! Johnny Bench died? Fuck, that's awful. I was a huge "Baseball Bunch" fan.

American icons.

Wait...he...isn't dead? He should be dead because the other two are dead?

Holy shit you guys. I think the guy who wrote this article is going to kill Johnny Bench.

Farrah is gone now. She passed away Thursday from cancer.

Michael is gone now. He passed away at almost the same time due to cardiac arrest.

Everybody stop right now, and take 450,000 guesses as to what the next sentence is. I'll wait.

Okay, ready? Let's see if anyone got it right.

Sparky Anderson's team was one of the mightiest in Major League Baseball history, arguably in the top five, loaded with legends and a Hall of Fame manager.

They ALL died? At the same time as Farrah and MJ? WHY DIDN'T I HEAR ABOUT THIS? FOR FUCK'S SAKE THAT TEAM WAS ARGUABLY ONE OF THE TOP FIVE MIGHTIEST IN MLB HISTORY!

She was a symbol of beauty and then courage for so many. He was the King of Pop, fallen from this decade but nonetheless an icon for countless millions who always held hope he would find a graceful comeback, somehow, that would make us watch him again. You remembered or you were looking it up on Thursday, as hearts ached.

Nationals center fielder Willie Harris' heart ached.

[shakes head after reading]

[rereads last few sentences to make sure he read correctly]

[tracks down and sucker punches Willie Harris out of sheer confusion]

He was the reason that Michael Jackson's music filled Nationals Park throughout his team's 9-3 victory over Boston Thursday night. It was a somber and sad celebration, just as there will be Michael music during the Dodgers' Friday Night Fireworks event.

Sadly, another American icon has just passed away: the English language. Mr. Language was brutally murdered during a bloody online article about — we think — baseball players' reactions to the deaths of Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson.

"I heard about Michael Jackson when I was in the batting cage before the game," Harris said… "He is a legend, man. It's a part of life, but sometimes, it's a hard pill to swallow. I'm sure the entire world is saddened because of his death. But at the same time, you have to keep moving and pushing forward."

That's what baseball does. Nothing pushes forward like baseball, other than time itself.

Wait, I can do this. I was just playing Scattergories the other night and "Things that push forward like baseball" kept coming up. Let me see if I remember some:

Football
Basketball
Life
Disease
Giant bulldozers
Courtney Thorne-Smith
America
Mark Sanford
Fire
Hockey
China and Uruguay
Blu-Ray technology
Fleshbot

It was there when Michael came out with "Thriller" and "Bad" and his endless string of hits that helped define not just one generation but two. It was there through his turbulent days in recent years, during his fall from grace. It was there when Farrah drew critical acclaim and an Emmy nomination for her role portraying an abused woman in "The Burning Bed" — in 1984, the last year the Tigers won it all.

Yes, you're reading that correctly. "It" = baseball. Baseball was there when "Thriller" came out.

So that pretty much explains it. That explains why someone would write an article about how Willie Harris reacted to the death of Michael Jackson. It all makes sense now.

In 1984, Michael wore one glove, which is something in common with baseball players.

Can't argue with the facts, guys. That truly is something Michael Jackson had in common with baseball players. He also sang the song "Man In The Mirror," which is an incredible coincidence given that baseball players often look at themselves in mirrors. Some players are even "Bad" at baseball. Like Willie Harris!

"It's a bad day for the music industry, or for anybody," Cody Ross of the Marlins said after his team's game. "It's a sad day. He lived a good life — he made a lot of money and had some kids. Your heart goes out to his family.

And the award for most diplomatic eulogizing of a man who probably diddled some children goes to…Cody Ross! Florida Marlins!

"He made a lot of money and had some kids." Man, you just hate to see a guy like that leave before his time. Heaven got one of its angels back.

"When I walked in today and saw the news, I was taken aback. He one of the all-time greats — like the Babe Ruth of music.

Hundred bucks says Cody Ross was fed that Babe Ruth line just to make this article seem more worthy of exisiting.

"He's right there with Elvis and all those guys."

You know those guys. Elvis, The Beatles, Andrew Ridgely, Deion Sanders, Judge Judy…

I don't want to take away from the beautiful words spoken by Cody Ross, but I just don't feel like I'll be able to grieve properly until I hear from Braves hitting coach Terry Pendleton.

Braves hitting coach Terry Pendleton was born in Los Angeles in 1960 and grew up with Michael's music — and even joined Fawcett on a sitcom set. He said after Atlanta's game that, "you just think people like that are going to be around forever…You don't ever think they're going to die. "

Forgive me – seriously – if anyone out there is related to Farrah Fawcett, or finds this whole discussion offensive. But, I'm sorry – you didn't maybe see this one coming? You thought she would be around forever? The woman whose battle with cancer was chronicled on television?

(True story: when I graduated from college, I told my parents that my dream was to one day write an angry rant about Terry Pendleton's naïve comments about the late Farrah Fawcett that originally appeared in an online article written for mlb.com. Livin' the dream, Ma!)

Braves pitcher Jair Jurrjens, a 23-year-old Curacao native, said, "everybody listens to Michael Jackson growing up. ... It shocked the world. We lost a good entertainer. I hear he was making a comeback too. It stinks. He had some hits. I'm young so I didn't listen to him all that much. The 'Free Willy' song was good."

HERE LIES MICHAEL JOSEPH JACKSON
AUGUST 29, 1958 – JUNE 25, 2009
THE 'FREE WILLY' SONG WAS GOOD

Rays reliever J.P. Howell was focused on a big World Series rematch against Philadelphia, a game his team won at home, 10-4. But he also was talking about the shock of the day.

"I used to listen to his music so it's kind of weird," he said of Jackson.

I actually ran into J.P. Howell a few days ago at my local Best Buy (he was spending way too much money on HDMI cables but I didn't say anything). I was like, fuck, I gotta ask this dude about that weird Michael Jackson interview. Here's what he said:

"Yeah, I mean, Michael Jackson dying was kind of weird, like I said. Telling some guy how I felt about it – now that was fucked up. I mean, I'm J.P. Howell, not David Fricke or whatever…Anyway, you want to play some Beatles Rock Band?"

"For me, the Jackson 5 is the part of Michael Jackson's career that I admired most," Rays manager Joe Maddon said. "As a young group they were the bomb back then and they were so impressive because of their youth and their talent."

"Farrah Fawcett, we all remember Farrah Fawcett. And it's really a shame that the lady suffered. We all had that poster up on our wall at some point."

He's talking about the KC and the Sunshine Band poster.

"And God bless her, man, she was a beautiful lady. And it's very difficult to watch her demise that way."

People of mlb.com, here's what I'm thinking: It makes as much sense to ask Joe Maddon about the death of Farrah Fawcett as it does to ask Jaclyn Smith about the death of Nick Adenhart.

Ron Washington, the Texas Rangers' manager, was thinking back on wistful memories as people talked about Michael Jackson before that club's game against Arizona.

"He was from my era," Washington said. "He put out some outstanding music and some awesome dance steps. It was quite exciting. I don't know what to say except I'm going to miss Michael Jackson."

"So, yeah, are we done yet? 'Cuz like I said I really don't have anything to say. It took me fifteen minutes just to come up with that one line about the awesome dance steps. Can I please go? It's the middle of the third of inning."

"I was sad," Florida's Dan Uggla said, and that pretty much summed up what Thursday was like for a lot of people.

Dan Uggla, ladies and gentleman!

They played Michael's music during batting practice before Saturday night's Civil Rights Game in Cincinnati, home of that old Big Red Machine. It was for a completely different reason, though. It was to celebrate the soulful sounds of the Civil Rights movement at its height. Now they play it around the Majors, on radio stations everywhere, because there is no more Michael Jackson, and there is no more Farrah Fawcett.

Here is a fact. Here is how that fact is not related to the article I'm writing. Here is a reminder that two famous people died. Also, baseball.

Baseball is supposed to teach youngsters the value of teamwork and fair play. But sometimes the game is just so damn frustrating that all you want to do is drill some kid in the back with a fastball. Mercer Island's Brandon Lawler certainly understood that after allowing the tying and go-ahead runs to score in the top of the sixth (and final) inning against Georgia—an inning that included three wild pitches and two passed balls. His coach came out to talk him down, but Lawler was not in the mood.

COACH: "Hey, we're going to come up again."
PITCHER: "Is it okay if I just hit this batter?"
COACH: "What? No. No. Are you kidding me? ... Let's get this guy. Come on. We're still in this game. One-run game. You wanna stay in?"
PITCHER: "No."
COACH: "You wanna come out right now?"
PITCHER: "Yes, I do. Can I sit out?"
COACH: "No, you're going to first base."

Now I know a lot of people are going to get down on this kid for pouting and quitting on his team, but you know what? I guarantee you that more than few big leaguers have acted even more childish and pissy than this when on the mound. And it's hard not to sympathize with a 12-year-old who just messed up the biggest moment of his life in front of a national TV audience. Sometimes sportsmanship can go take a fucking hike.

Little Leaguer shows sportsmanship, heart in defeat [Stupid Sports Blog]
Warner Robins Rallies in Sixth [Little League]

Jericho Scott was the 9-year-old who briefly became a media sensation when he was deemed "too good" to pitch in his youth league. A year later, Craig Fehrman checks in on Jericho and finds that everyone got the story wrong.

NEW HAVEN, Conn. — Dom Aitro Field sits in a dense, hilly neighborhood, right behind a battered K-4 school where the "Free" in the "Drug Free Zone" sign has been spray-painted over. Still, when the weather's just right, the sunlight and the thick trees circling the field create a shadow that splits the diamond in half, from home to second to center field. The dugouts' peeling aluminum roofs and the wet laundry hanging 15 feet away seem to disappear. Dom Aitro Field becomes the perfect place for baseball.

On Saturday, Aug. 1, the weather's just right, and Mark Gambardella's New Haven All-Stars are playing in the PONY Baseball North Zone Tournament. It's a double-elimination affair, with the winner going to the Mustang (10 and under) World Series. And, in the bottom of the fourth inning of the tournament's first game, Jericho Scott nods at his catcher, takes a deep breath, and winds up.

You remember Jericho, right? Last year, he became a national sensation — the 9-year-old pitcher banned by his league for being "too good." He also became, in what is always a competitive category, the worst-covered sports story of the year.

The New Haven Register inaugurated the Jericho Scott era on Aug. 22, 2008, with a story on the controversy surrounding the Liga Juvenil de Baseball de New Haven. The LJB, an independent inner-city league, had told Wilfred Vidro, Jericho's coach, to stop pitching him because he threw too hard and presented "a danger to other kids in the league." When, two games later, Vidro sent Jericho back to mound, the LJB ruled it a forfeit.

Jericho didn't go viral until a few days later, when the sports blogosphere's major players latched on to a Register follow-up about Jericho's parents protesting the LJB decision. Old media and new media — both followed the same pattern, praising Jericho, mocking the LJB, and lamenting the everyone-gets-a-trophy contagion.

But there was always more to this story. At that non-game, the parents and players of Jericho's team allegedly chanted "losers" and caused enough commotion that the LJB had to escort the other team off the field. Several people heard Jericho's mother curse and threaten league officials. The LJB claims she said: "This will be the last year. Once the lawyer is done they're gonna eat shit and there ain't gonna be a league next year."

It's important to keep those words in mind when you learn the history of the LJB. Formed four years ago, the league and its volunteer staff give about 100 inner-city boys and girls — some fresh from T-ball, others who've never even played sports — the chance to learn, exercise and have fun. Look at what Jericho wore in all those sympathy-inducing pictures: sweatpants, mismatched shoes, an adorably oversized hat — this is not the uniform of cutthroat baseball. Or consider the LJB's response. While the league ended up disbanding Jericho's team, they offered to refund players' $50 registration fees, to put them on different teams, to keep Jericho as a non-pitching player, even to help him find a more competitive league. Most of these details came from Peter Noble, who emerged as the LJB's reluctant spokesman. While reporting this story, I became quite familiar with Noble's voicemail message, which, first in Spanish, then in English, offers daily updates for the after-school tennis program he also runs. He seems like a pretty stand-up guy, even if he never returned my calls.

All this to say that, when LJB officials acted to prevent Jericho from pitching, they acted intelligently and responsibly. They did exactly what a developmental league with a wide range of players should do — ensure that everyone gets a chance, not to win, but to improve. If an athlete becomes too good for his age group, he should move up. Youth sports leagues do this all the time.

Nevertheless, the media sided with Jericho, waving around "too good" as if it were an indictment of the league's actions and letting Jericho's camp get away with outrageous statements like: "It spoil[s] their summer and their childhood"; "He's trying to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders"; and "I'd rather have him in the midst of this controversy on the field than dealing drugs on a street corner," as if those were the only two options. Moreover, the media uncritically aired the Scotts' ever-evolving reasons for refusing the LJB's compromises — the Scotts wanted Jericho to remain with his friends; they wanted this particularly close-knit team to stay together; they wanted (this is my favorite) Jericho "to stay grounded"; or, in what became their final answer, they wanted to stand up to a full-blown conspiracy centering on the league's second-place team, which was sponsored by the LJB president's barber shop. (The kernel of truth: the LJB president was renting a chair in said barber shop while his own business was rehabilitated after a fire.)

This one-sided coverage was bad enough. But the media also overlooked crucial information. Not long ago, I talked to Gambardella, a local legend who's coached PONY baseball for the past 30 years — and Jericho for the past five. "The only reason Jericho went to that other league," Gambardella says, "was, well, I gotta take a vacation sometime."

So, while Gambardella took two weeks off, Jericho and a friend joined the LJB's season in progress, signing with a team that was already 4-0. Over the next five days, Jericho pitched 13 innings in three games, but the LJB was never his primary gig — that was the PONY league and Gambardella's All-Star team, both of which were a cut above the LJB. Yet the Register's viral hit mentions "another league" only in passing, and the AP story that ran on ESPN.com's front page doesn't mention it at all.

Neither did Jericho's parents, of course, since it undermines pretty much everything they've put on the record. Instead, with the entire media as their mouthpiece, the Scotts played the role of aggrieved parents and captured the national imagination. When CBS's Early Show did a short feature on Jericho, it made no attempt to explore the league's side of the story. When the Scotts told the New York Daily News that "five of the [LJB team's] victories were no-hitters that Jericho hurled," the paper fit it into its glowing profile — even though, again, Jericho pitched in only three LJB games.

Which brings us back to Jericho on the mound in New Haven, pitching for a spot in the PONY World Series. Despite the stakes, it's a youth baseball tournament like any other — camping chairs, distracted siblings, maybe 100 spectators in all, with a slight majority for New Haven's opponent, CBC. From a woman who kindly shares her bug spray, I learn that they came from Chesterfield, Va., an eight-hour drive away. It's a more suburban crowd than New Haven's, a sea of khaki shorts, and they like to grumble. "This is a horrible field," says one parent. "How did they get to host this? I mean, really."

Clearly, we're in for a bit of a class war. CBC's kids boast name-brand equipment bags, Space Age batting helmets, and, back home, as another parent proudly informs me, a "baseball complex" recently remodeled for $500,000. New Haven's team, in contrast, is a tough bunch of Italian-, Hispanic-, and African-Americans, and they're representing a city whose Little League barely found enough sponsors to survive. They have . . . well, they have an impressive array of chants.

Nevertheless, by the time Gambardella pulls his ace, New Haven's winning 20-0, and the CBC coach is frothing — literally, I'm afraid — at his players. In comes Jericho. Now, I'm no Keith Law, but I can play one online. One of the more telling sins journalists committed while covering Jericho was wildly overestimating his talents. The Early Show clocked him at 47 mph, but that's actually in line with his age group's averages. (And, again, let's contextualize the hype: In Beyond Belief, Josh Hamilton remembers throwing 70 mph at about the same age.) Jericho does have a smooth, compact delivery and a nice pickoff move, but, more than anything else, he seems really polished. He's a fun-sized Orel Hershiser.

Jericho, or "J," as his teammates call him, strikes out the first CBC hitter on three straight, but then gives up a home run to left, a double to right, a loud out to center, a double to left and another fly out. His final line is one inning, three hits, two runs, one strikeout, but, thanks to the 10-run rule, the game's over. New Haven has its first win.

In its next game, New Haven plays another Connecticut team, Stratford. Gambardella goes with his second-best pitcher, a finesse lefty who quickly gives up six sloppy runs. New Haven chips away, but, in the top of the fourth, they're still down 6-3.

Up to the plate steps Jericho Scott. As in the first game, he's batting ninth and manning second base. If Jericho is one of New Haven's five best players, it's for his defense; later in this game, he'll make the Web Gem of the weekend, a beautiful, bare-handed grab-and-throw. With the bat, his best skill is a preternatural eye at the plate. Against CBC, he walked and struck out looking (it was a terrible call), and here, against Stratford, he carefully works the count.

We're all a little shocked, then, when Jericho just smokes one to center. Stratford's outfielder tracks it, but it's gone — and to the deepest part of the park. Jericho basically skips around the bases; his mom whips out her cell phone and stays on it for the rest of the inning. New Haven never looks back, winning 13-6.

CBC's brain trust sticks around to watch the game, though the parents and players head back to the hotel. As New Haven starts sing-songing through another chant, the CBC coach shakes his head. "That is such an obnoxious team."

Whatever else they said, no one from CBC (or the other teams) mentioned Jericho's past. It seems unlikely that this was out of respect. Instead, even youth baseball junkies forgot one of 2008's noisiest stories.

While that story began online, it quickly crossed over to talk radio, then TV, with the Scotts receiving overtures from Letterman, Leno, Ellen, even Dr. Phil. But Jericho's biggest impact came in sports columns and blogs, where, as always, the Youth Sports Scandal was packaged as a simple allegory for decidedly grown-up concerns.

Journalists from as far afield as Idaho's Lewiston Morning-Tribune and Michigan's Grand Rapids Press weighed in. They worried about Jericho and his poor parents, raised a fist against Big Brother, linked the LJB to the subprime mortgage crisis. "Sort of makes you glad Michael Phelps didn't splash the water at the local swimming pool too hard when he was a kid, scaring the other kids," wrote one wordsmith. "Next, let's yell at him for being too good at math," opined another. (The blogosphere arguably outdid their print brethren. See this post, lovingly titled, "The Tale of Jericho Scott: Trophies For All! Let's Turn Our Kids Into Sissies! Why Not Socialism, Too?") Such reactions make it pretty clear why the story took off. It was never about Jericho. It was never even about sports. Instead, it was about one of our great national myths, an anxiety that dates back at least to the dawn of the 20th century. For a short while, Jericho Scott's story was Exhibit A in The Gradual Pussification of America.

Well into the fall — and well after the LJB season had ended — the Scotts kept their cause alive. They organized various fundraisers, from washing cars to selling memorabilia autographed by Jericho. And Jericho began lending his celebrity to other (actual) causes, attending a walk to fight sickle-cell anemia. This led to probably the low-point in the whole mess, when Gary Smart, who serves on the Sickle Cell Disease Association of America's national board of directors, told the Register, "Jericho's case is similar, in that he, too, is being set aside."

But the rest of the world had moved on. Or, more accurately, the media had moved on. Leno et al. probably lost interest after seeing the Early Show; it's hard to make compelling TV out of a cute kid who can't quite make eye contact. But the LJB held a press conference that, according to several accounts, was well attended. Even the Register's reporting improved — notably in Dave Solomon's column, which briefly quoted Gambardella. Here, then, were important updates, fresh angles, genuine news.

But if the media brought Jericho's story to life, they just as quickly left it for dead. (See the stalagmite-looking Google Trends graph.) Why? Perhaps they felt trapped by their own righteous reactions. Perhaps they needed to move on to the next big thing. Or perhaps it was never a story so much as a platform, with Jericho serving as a 58-pound human soap box.

On Sunday, Aug. 2, New Haven plays CBC again, and, this time, CBC jumps out to a big lead. Their fans, who apparently spent Saturday night cooking up their own chants, explode. "Give me a C!"/"C!!!" and so on, ending with, "What does that sound [?] like?"/"CBC!!!" In the dugout, their coach prowls. "Let's give 'em some of their own medicine."

In the top of the fifth, New Haven starts a mini-rally when Jericho steals home. (Throughout the tournament, New Haven runs the bases like the '82 Cardinals.) As he gets up, though, lightning flashes across the sky. The umps push the game to Monday.

Later that afternoon, the sun comes out, and I check back at the field. It's empty, except for four CBC parents. Three are on their hands and knees in the mud, bailing water with styrofoam cups; the fourth is taking pictures to document the now-playable field. If New Haven's fans seem like a more combustible mix — they include not only Jericho's parents, but also Vidro, his old coach and new team's rowdiest fan — it's the CBC contingent who, this weekend, at least, comes off as arrogant, entitled, paranoid and downright mean. The beauty of it is that, just like in Jericho's case, everyone claims to be "about the kids." "We just want them to play tomorrow," is how one of the muddy CBC parents puts it to me. "We don't want it to come down to a coin flip."

It's no surprise when sports parents behave badly (I won't even waste our time on the call to the cops after Saturday's game), but more than anything, more than a small youth league doing what small youth leagues always do, it was that blend of eccentricity and overcommitment that lay at the heart of Jericho's saga. The story of a 9-year-old boy who was "too good" was in fact the story of adults — parents and journalists alike — who were ultimately too childish.

On Monday, Aug. 3, the weather returns to just right, and CBC quickly finishes yesterday's business, 14-4.

One final game, then, to decide who goes to the PONY World Series. CBC turns to a short kid who throws a 12-6 changeup, if that's possible, and it's devastating. He easily strikes out Jericho, who leads off this game. In the bottom of the first, CBC scores five quick runs. Their fans are delirious.

New Haven fights back, tying it 7-7, but that's as close as they get. In the bottom of the fourth, with New Haven now trailing 14-7, Jericho comes in to pitch. It's a tough spot — two on and CBC's third baseman-slash-manchild at the plate — and Jericho struggles. A sharp single to right, a walk, a double to right-center, and it's over. CBC wins on the ten run rule, 17-7. As New Haven's fans graciously applaud, the CBC coach careens on to the field, slapping kids on the head and screaming, "That's it! That's it, right?" No fewer than fifteen parents charge down from the stands, all armed with digital cameras and camcorders. The CBC kids seem . . . relieved.

Jericho Scott pushes back his hat, keeps his composure, looks at Gambardella, then at his parents. More than anything, he seems shocked at how quickly it ended.

Craig Fehrman is a writer and grad student living in New Haven. You can find more of his work here.

Top photo via am New York. Second photo via The Grand News' Flickr account.

Baseball America's Dave Perkin was there and reports that Harper's troubles in San Diego weren't anything new:

Bryce Harper (Las Vegas HS), the 16-year-old catching phenom, was the marquee attraction at the Aflac game, and while he showed his premium defensive tools, his offensive performance was underwhelming. He grounded out twice and struck out three times, rifling his batting helmet into the dugout after his third whiff.

Over the past several weeks, scouts have been whispering that Harper was off of his game. Those suspicions were validated in San Diego. He could not catch up to a decent fastball and was badly fooled by every curve, flailing and missing badly. Harper's swing, sound previously, has gone backwards. He is far too long on the back end, he is lunging and diving at pitches, and his timing is drastically inconsistent.

That's OK. Even Chosen People slump from time to time. If I recall, the first Chosen One struggled for 40 days and 40 nights.

Photo by the Boston Globe

Taillon, Wolters Shine At Aflac [Baseball America]

Or so say the reputable American Sports Medicine Institute and Connecticut Children's Medical Center, both of which concluded independently that curveballs are no less stressful than fastballs on young pitchers' arms. In fact, curveballs are rarely at fault in arm problems for the up-and-coming tykes in Baseball America's rankings of the top elementary school players in the country.

Such a revelation, believe it or not, might be bad news for Little Leagues across the country. Curveballs will soon be like that random pretzel in the dugout, the one that everyone wants but everyone knows will be bad for them to eat during the game. Except the curveball won't be bad, and so everyone will throw it, and catchers will need their protective cups more than ever.

How, then, did baseball dads go for so long advocating against the curveball?

"Why did people believe the world was flat? Because one guy told another it was flat and it looked flat. Until someone discovered that it wasn't," he said.

Tom Friedman has seen the future of international baseball, and it's 6-year-old kids in the Dominican Republic throwing spitballs and knuckle-changes at a MLB training facility. Williamsport, watch out.

Two Studies Show That Curveball Isn't Too Stressful [New York Times]

On an MLB.com message board, fans are trying to organize a "peaceful rally" at the home of Mets COO Jeffrey Wilpon and his wife. This will ultimately prove ... something. I think it's, "get an unlisted number, you cads!"

Hey, it's not lookin' good for the team. The Mets are 10½ games behind the Phillies and 7½ away from a potential wild card berth. Their payroll is second highest in baseball, behind those other guys in New York. Also not helping the Mets' cause is a crammed disabled list, featuring Jose Reyes, Carlos Beltran, Carlos Delgado, Billy Wagner, John Maine, Fernando Nieve, J.J. Putz, Keith Hernandez, Jerry Koosman, Ed Kranepool, Mr. Met, and this guy. Maybe instead of a rally, these fans should be looking into whether or not there are tins of Agent Orange that keep going off in the clubhouse.

And then there's this. MLB.com message board guidelines say that "the posting of e-mail addresses and/or phone numbers of others is prohibited." It's certainly a gray area, since the address and phone numbers are links that anybody could find on the Internet.

Still, this demonstration has "bad idea jeans" written all over it. But who knows, perhaps the rally will be nothing more than a fun time had by all, where friendships are made and stories are told. Unless Luis Castillo forgets to bring the s'mores.

Mets rally at Wilpon residence? Sign up here! [MLB Forums]