Dear Santa: Or, What I Want for Baseball Christmas (2018 Edition)

The Christmas wish involving Angel Hernandez is one that all baseball fans can support. (via Keith Allison)

Christmas is nearly upon us, baseball fans, and so in service to that gift-getting holiday, I hereby pose a seasonal question: What do you want for Baseball Christmas? By making clever use of the comments section, you are welcome to articulate your yuletide wishes to me, or, more strategically, to dear old Santa Claus.

Just name it! I’ve been assured St. Nick is listening.

My wishes? My wishes, once answered, are key to the health of the Pastime.

For Baseball Christmas, I want …

… announcers to stop using a player’s first and last names as a bootlicking way to further consecrate that player’s greatness.

What, exactly, do I mean by this? I’ll tell you what I mean by this, Santa, and will do so by giving you a particularly odious example. During the National League Wild Card game, on October 2, the ESPN broadcast crew of Matt Vasgersian, Jessica Mendoza, and Alex Rodriguez called Jon Lester “Jon Lester” at least 38 times.

I say at least 38 times because I began counting only after I had noticed this conspicuous nomenclature and the über-bootlicking delivery with which it arrived.

But hey, I hear ya, Santa. What, you ask, is wrong with calling Jon Lester “Jon Lester”? What’s so awful about calling him by both his given name and family name, best to distinguish him from the Jan Lesters and Jon Listers of this world?

Here’s what’s wrong with it, Claus.

Coupled with the reverent tones and deferential rhythms that emanated from the booth that night, it came off as overly and unnecessarily worshipful — the broadcast equivalent of a political candidate’s bought-’n-paid-for TV ad, all tinkling piano and rolled-up sleeves. Jon Lester: the right man, at the right time, for the right job.

Indeed, it pointed to a practically religious adoration for a pitcher who — let’s face it — is totes mortal, just flesh-and-blood and aging like the rest of us. Proof?

Heed these lines, delivered exactly as Jon Lester’s agent would deliver them during arbitration hearings.

  • “That’s Jon Lester. He gets strong when it counts.”
  • “That’s Jon Lester being the super-competitor he is.”
  • “That’s Jon Lester in a nutshell.”

I kid you not. I kept waiting for this: “That’s Jon Lester being Jon Lester.”

Or even this: “If Jon Lester pitches like Jon Lester, then Jon Lester will win!”

On the broadcast in question, Lester was rarely just “Lester” and only a couple of times “Jon.” Apparently, last names alone are reserved for the Giolitos and Gausmans of the game, pitchers whose relative mediocrity has disqualified them from an ingratiating form of name recognition.

“Vintage Jon Lester tonight,” said A-Rod in the bottom of the fifth.

Koob and Groom Double Down for the Browns
Two days, three games, and 20 no-hit innings.

Then in the bottom of the sixth, with the Cubs and Rockies waging a low-scoring war, the broadcasters referred to Jon Lester as “Jon Lester” on seven separate occasions. Seven! The weird part? The weird part was that Colorado starter Kyle Freeland was the guy pitching at the time. This is like going to a Maroon 5 concert and talking about Imagine Dragons the whole night. Or maybe vice versa.

Meanwhile, Kyle Freeland was actually out-pitching Jon Lester in Jon Lester-like fashion, yielding zero runs in 6.2 innings pitched to Lester’s one run in 6.0 innings.

And who, you might ask, is Kyle Freeland?

Well, on October 2, he was Freeland. Just Freeland.

… an end to the “Official Whatever” of Major League Baseball.

I don’t know about you, Santa, but for me, hearing that Supercuts is “the Official Hairstylist of Major League Baseball” is like hearing that TGIFridays is the Official Fine-Dining Establishment of the French Open. It’s like hearing that Dollar General is the Official High-End Retailer of Better Call Saul.

I mean no offense to Supercuts. After all, I get my own hair cut — or “styled”—  there. For confirmation, call and ask for Janine! But that’s just it, Santa: Though genuinely skilled at spitting sunflower seeds and scratching myself, I am not a major league baseball player. Instead, I am but a baseball writer, a man who, despite his ability to place commas in sentences, earns in one fiscal year what a major league player earns in one fiscal minute.

(Subtracts the 10, adds the zeroes … yep, that math checks out.)

Seriously, are we to believe that Bryce Harper, he of the ’do so distinguished that Lloyd’s of London should insure it for $10 million, journeys to the nearest Supercuts, waits his turn while reading “Kelly Ripa Opens Up” in People magazine and finally plops down in a barber’s chair so that D.C.’s version of Janine can talk about her Persian cat for six minutes while clipping his hair?

C’mon. If TV has taught me anything, and it has, it’s that a man like Bryce Harper — a well-heeled aesthete who regards his hair as he would a priceless Rodin — likely hires a chic Frenchman named Jean-Luc to style his locks one strand at a time, with scissors made of space-age alloy and a styling gel derived from narwhal marrow.

But that’s not the entirety of it, Santa. Hear my grievance, and hear it in full. What bothers me about this “Official Whatever” business is not just the perceptual mismatch between a millionaire athlete and a cut-rate (ha-ha!) salon, it’s the “Official Whatever” business as a whole. Why is it necessary? I’m no economist, so I can’t say, but does Supercuts really get business because of this marketing ploy?

Yo, I saw your ad on Sunday Night Baseball. (Gazes in mirror.) Bieber me!

If not, what’s the point? Do Supercuts execs get access to Supercuts suites at Citi Field? Is there an end-of-season party at which Mike Trout playfully shampoos the V.P.’s hair? Do they stage the Follicle Classic each October?

And it’s not just Supercuts, Santa. It’s Barbasol. It’s Hankook Tire. It’s OxiClean.

Yep, OxiClean is the Official Stain Fighter of Major League Baseball. And did you know, Santa, that Taco Bell is the Official QSR —  that’s quick-service restaurant  — of Major League Baseball? It’s true! Whether Rob Manfred gets free cheese on his Cheesy Gordita Crunch is anybody’s guess, but the fact remains that when it comes to official QSRs and Baseball, the originator of the Beefy Crunch Burrito is the pick.

Yep, Taco Cabana can go pound sand.

Anyway, Santa, the whole thing is weird. Give me this gift and I’ll see about making you the official Christmas figure of the Summer Olympics.

… Angel Hernandez to get a clue, or baseball to get some robots.

I don’t know what kind of cable package you have up there at the North Pole, Santa. Or is it satellite? Whichever, your TV reception might be kind of spotty. If so, perhaps you’ve never seen Angel Hernandez perform his duties as a major league umpire. Perhaps, too, you haven’t noticed the growing clamor for automated strike zones —  “robot umps,” the people call them, programmed to recognize each batter’s strike zone and thus be exempt from human fallibility.

Santa, these two things —  Angel Hernandez’ performance as an ump, and the growing clamor for automated strike zones —  are not unrelated. Indeed, they’re as related, as connected, as Barney Fife’s performance as an officer of the law and the historical outcry for, and eventual introduction of, RoboCop.

Or something like that, Santa. I’m really not sure. My cable is out.

In any case, Mr. Claus, I’m not alone in calling Hernandez a hack. Following the Yankees’ ALDS Game Four loss to the rival Red Sox, on October 9, New York starter CC Sabathia felt the need to say this: “I need to say this. ” (See?) “I don’t think Angel Hernandez should be umpiring playoff games. He’s absolutely terrible. He was terrible behind the plate today. He’s terrible at first base.”

Sabathia himself is not alone in being a big leaguer critical of Hernandez. During the 2017 season, Tigers second baseman Ian Kinsler got all up in Angel’s grille, as they say, following a disputed call during a game against Texas.

“I’m surprised at how bad an umpire he is,” Kinsler said afterward. “He needs to reevaluate his career choice…. He needs to find another job.”

It is important to note that CC’s and Ian’s assessments are merely opinions, girded by human emotion and heightened by the residual heat of battle. It is also important to note that the opinions are supported by fact. Across the past three seasons, Hernandez’s calls at first base were overturned in 14 out of 18 video reviews. His 78 percent overturn rate exceeded the 60 percent overturn rate for all first-base calls during that span. A more specific example is this: In Game Three of the 2018 ALDS, four of Hernandez’s calls at first base were submitted for video review and three were overturned. Afterward, fact met opinion when TBS analyst Pedro Martinez told viewers, “Major League Baseball needs to do something about Angel.”

Santa, since Baseball won’t do anything about Angel, or his similarly bumbling brethren, you’ll have to do it. You can help him find another job, as Kinsler suggested, by delivering at least one RoboUmp to MLB headquarters at 245 Park Avenue, New York, New York.

If not, then please, in the spirit of Christmas, perhaps gift Angel Hernandez a clue.

… MadBum to stop blowing snot rockets.

Santa, I realize you’re super-busy, so I have no idea if you’re going to remember this: Last Christmas, I asked for a different Madison Bumgarner-related gift: for MadBum, if at all possible, to stop staring down opponents, cursing batters and threatening them with actual physical harm.

Whether you remember it or not, Santa, you delivered, and in quite a creative fashion. First, you kept MadBum on the disabled list until early June —  and here’s the clever part, Santa—  by having him break his pinky finger on the final day of spring training. His pinky finger, Santa! On the final day of spring!

Next, you made sure MadBum’s Giants were, for once, bad, a full 10 games back by early September. The effect of these two episodes —  MadBum’s broken pinky, the Giants’ broken hopes — was that the big lefty wasn’t around for the first half of the season and that he didn’t matter in the second. Heck, maybe he did stare down a batter. Who knows? I mean, nobody was paying attention to the Gigantes.

It’s like Socrates said, Santa: If a southpaw stares down a batter and nobody notices, did he stare him down?

So don’t think I don’t appreciate what you did, Santa. I do. But it’s like Janet Jackson said three decades ago: What have you done for me lately? And the thing is, MadBum still bugs me. Those snot-rockets are disgusting. I mean, I’m a dude, a red-blooded, meat-eating dude, and yet despite all that, despite every indication that I would regard MadBum’s snot-rockets with some respect, I still think they’re gross.

Left nostril, phhhhhhht.

Right nostril, phhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhht.

And right there in broad daylight! When children are watching!

Santa, I think you’ll agree that if MadBum persists, he should have the decency to place a blank canvas near the mound and act as the second coming of Jackson Pollock, delivering abstract action paintings full of fractal-patterned mucus.

Better, though, would be for MadBum to snuff the snot pageants.

… pundits to stop saying a good Yankees season is “good for baseball.”

Listen here, Kringle. Last year, at Christmas, I asked for a very personal and important gift: that the Yankees disappear. Granted, it was a massive ask, much like my Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader petitions of yore, but the larger point is this: You failed, and miserably, to deliver. The Yanks are still around.

For proof, just Google “Yankees.” You’ll get 335 million results, and not one is a match for “Oh, wow, you guys. The Yankees have disappeared!”

Santa, it’s not enough to say that the Yankees are painfully ubiquitous. Turn on MLB Network on any given day and there’ll be some celebrity Gotham chef delivering his patented twist on Yankee Bean Soup (this time with more Bernie Williams Broth!) while reminiscing about his days of playing tenement-style stickball and copying the singular stance of Chris Chambliss. There’ll be some two-bit TBS actor —  star of the hit drama NYPD TCB —  reminding the rest of us that no stadium in baseball has quite the same “electricity,” quite the same “feel,” as Yankee Stadium, this despite the fact that every stadium in baseball, provided its resident team is winning, has precisely the same feel as Yankee Stadium, not to mention the same electricity.

And how ’bout that National Game of the Week, Santa? Whatever they call it, and on whichever network, it’s always the same ol’ Pinstripes and the same ol’ reverential tones, as if the Yankees were comprised entirely of Jon Lester.

So, yeah, I get it: Just as JPMorgan Chase & Co. was “too big to fail,” the Yankees are too big to make disappear. Not even David Copperfield could do it, and if I’m not mistaken, he made the Statue of Liberty go AWOL.

That being the case, Kringle, give me this gift: Make those self-styled “pundits,” many of them born and raised in New York, refrain from telling all us corn-fed villagers that a good Yankees season is “good for baseball.” Mind you, I understand the “facts,” such as they’ve been given. To wit: Game Seven of the 2017 ALCS between the Astros and the Evil Empire became the highest-rated program in the four-year history of FS1. The 2009 World Series, which pitted the Death Star against the Phillies, coaxed 6.2 million more viewers per game than did the 2008 World Series.

Like I said, Santa, those are facts. But this has nothing to do with facts.

This, in the fashion of Ian Kinsler and his anti-Angel rant, is all emotion.

It’s a fact, for example, that Nickelback sells a lot of albums. Many people like them! But that doesn’t mean they’re good for music — or good for me. I don’t like them.

… Marlins Man to vanish.

Santa, you’ve been famous for a very long time. Wikipedia informs me that you first came to prominence in 1863, when famed illustrator Thomas Nast stepped away from political cartooning just long enough to illustrate your likeness for the January 3 issue of Harper’s Weekly. From there, with the help of Coca-Cola ads and TV cartoons, your celebrity grew.

In short, you did it the old-fashioned way: slowly, patiently and without the sort of look-at-me vanity that would inspire many in your modern audience to request gift certificates for liposuction and nose jobs as stocking stuffers. Put it this way: You make your annual run at midnight, when nobody sees.

Point is, you didn’t get famous by sitting behind home plate in a garish orange jersey, occasionally wearing your visor sideways. That, Santa, is the path to fame endeavored by so-called Marlins Man.

Again, Santa, I’m not sure about your TV reception, so in case you’re the one Earthling who remains unaware of him, Marlins Man is the omnipresent “superfan” who, as mentioned, sits directly behind home plate during high-profile ballgames while doing everything in his power to draw attention to himself. Look, everybody! He’s tweeting to one of his Twitter disciples who just saw him replying to one of his Instagram apostles who just saw him answering one of his Facebook acolytes!

Egad, Santa. If this dude ain’t symptomatic of modern America’s bizarre fixation on fame, not to mention its tacit endorsement of superficial means to acquire it, then I don’t know who is. Phrases like “fame for fame’s sake” and “their 15 minutes are up” have been done to death, Santa. That dead horse is beaten. Still, I find no better way to articulate my Christmas wish than to request that this egomaniac’s fame-for-fame’s-sake clock be set at 14:59 … and ticking.

… Manny Machado to clean up his proverbial act.

Did you watch the playoffs this year, Santa?

If not, know this: The Dodgers’ shortstop’s play read to many as downright dirty.

Against the Brewers in Game Three of the NLDS, he went hard into Milwaukee shortstop Orlando Arcia on a double-play attempt and got nailed for interference. In Game Four, he appeared to purposely spike first baseman Jesus Aguilar. Longtime observers observed, “Observe! It ain’t the first time!”

In 2014, he threw his bat at A’s pitcher Fernando Abad. In 2016, he brawled with Royals pitcher Yordano Ventura. In 2017, he spiked Boston second baseman Dustin Pedroia. Baseball can be a rough sport, Santa, but it ain’t rugby. Get this guy to chill.

Aromatherapy, perhaps?

Better is a six-CD set of nature sounds: birdsong, waterfalls, whatever it takes.

… All-Star week to feature an Inside-The-Park Home Run Derby.

Santa, I realize I sound like a cantankerous old man yelling at puffy white clouds shaped like cute little puppies. Indeed, based on a quick appraisal of my wish list, it would appear that I am chronically upset — nay, enraged —  by baseball’s status quo offerings, i.e., intractable toxicities like MadBum’s aqueous secretions.

And so, in contrast to my usual manner of appeal, I hereby request that you place in baseball’s stocking a derby that removes the back-back-back from the mouths of overwrought announcers and replaces it with a go-go-go!

Can’t you just imagine it, Santa? Here’s Billy Hamilton, having socked the gold-colored ball to the center field wall, racing ’round the bag while the third-base coach windmills his right arm like some Harvard dweeb at his first Burning Man rave.

And here’s Trea Turner, having slapped a worm-burner down the line, racing toward home for the eighth time in four minutes. According to science, Santa, he has burned 12 billion calories already, and we’re only midway through the first of five rounds!

Do it, Santa. Do it for baseball.

… Bartolo Colon to pitch one more year.

Santa, at the risk of offending Mrs. Claus and her noble efforts to up your kale intake, I will say this: There is but one major leaguer so plump as you, and nearly so aged, and his name, blessed for all eternity, is Bartolo Colon.

More than merely an Everyman, more than just a roly-poly figurehead for motivational moments at the weekend gym, Colon is baseball’s big ol’ embodiment of unmitigated entertainment and unbridled joy. At his current age of 45, and his current weight of nearly 300 pounds, Colon transcends the constraints of a “mere curiosity” to become the object of our amazement, even our awe, and definitely our vicarious fist-pumping glee. He’s a superhero, Santa, in a size-kajillion suit.

See him hit his only dinger, at age 42, off the Western Metal Supply Building!

See him go behind the back to toss out a baserunner!

See him take a liner off the belly … and laugh!

See him pitch a perfecto into the eighth inning against the defending champs!

See him do all of this, Santa, with an amiable grin, as if he understands that somehow, through some weird miracle of genetics and nature’s grace, he has managed to drag a softball player’s body across a major league field.

See him, Santa, and you will understand: We want to see him again.

… Jed Lowrie to stop wearing that giant Gazoo helmet.

Santa, I realize it’s a safety issue. I realize the Oakland infielder is better prepared to absorb a blow to the noggin whenever he wears that industrial-grade, NASA satellite-sized object on his head, but whenever I watch the guy play, I just can’t see past it.

No, literally. I can’t see past it.

… Khris Davis to stop punishing my team.

Mr. Claus, as long as we’re on the subject of Oakland A’s, let me say this: Stop Khris Davis. By whatever means necessary, be it an ebola-covered necktie in his stocking or a beautifully gift-wrapped relic from a cursed mummy’s tomb, stop this dude from dingering my beloved Rangers to death.

I’m not near a computer right now, Santa, so I cannot confirm the data, but if memory serves, Davis hit 327 home runs in 62 at-bats against Texas in 2018. He added 800 doubles. If he is not stopped, and stopped soon, he will surely hit several base-loaded triples with two outs and the A’s down by three.

… Joe West to receive a free seven-month cruise.

As you know, Santa, Christmas is not just a gift-getting holiday. It’s a time for giving, too. In the spirit of yuletide benevolence, I ask that you give Joe West a free cruise, destination unknown, lasting from early April through October.

Santa, if it’s supporting facts you want, I’ll supply them. Cowboy Joe, as they call him, has been a major league umpire for 41 seasons, working more than 5,000 games. That’s a lot of “steee-rike threes,” Santa, a lot of “yerrrrrrrrrrrrrrr outs!”

What’s more, he is 66 years old — like you, well past retirement age.

Clearly, the guy deserves to sit back and sip a Mai Tai while three bratty kids from Orange County scream about the wave pool. In efforts to make it happen, Santa, I am citing those facts and those facts alone. I mean, yeah, it’s true that in a 2010 players poll, West ranked as the second-worst umpire in the big leagues, and that in a 2011 poll, 41 percent of players ranked Cowboy Joe as the worst umpire in baseball.

But those are just, like, their opinions, man.

Santa, it’s not opinion that argues on behalf of a 30-week Dramamine regimen for Cowboy Joe. Again, it’s fact. And the fact is, West is a leading practitioner of what we in the business call the “ump show.” What’s an ump show? An ump show occurs whenever an ump decides — quite rightly, Santa!—  that thousands of fans are watching the game for just one reason: not to see the planet’s best ballplayers, no, but to see umps “do their thing,” just as Meryl Streep does her thing onscreen.

Frankly, it has gotta be exhausting. Living up to those expectations? Performing for all those demanding fans? Santa, you understand. I mean, haven’t you ever wanted to ditch your responsibilities and head out on the open seas?

… Gerry Davis to get a sense of humor.

Santa, while I’m on the subject of umpires, do me this one last thing, will ya? Give Gerry Davis — baseball’s second-most senior ump, after Cowboy Joe—  a humor implant. I hear they’re doing wonderful things with plastic surgery these days.

Seriously, St. Nick, this guy could go on a four-day Vegas weekend with Chris Rock and the ghost of Mitch Hedberg and return to his suburban home only to complain about the biscuits at the $5.99 breakfast buffet.

Case in point: A couple of years ago, in Arlington, Davis famously told Adrian Beltre to get back in the on-deck circle. Just as famously, Beltre did the opposite: He dragged the circle to himself! Everybody laughed, Santa.

Everybody! — except Gerry Davis. He gave Beltre the thumb.

What kind of life is that, Santa? It isn’t a wonderful life.

… another Adrian Beltre.

Eh, who am I kidding, Santa. There will never be another Adrian Beltre.


John Paschal is a regular contributor to The Hardball Times and The Hardball Times Baseball Annual.
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Dennis Bedard
Member
Dennis Bedard

Dear Santa. Please order the scheduling wizards to stop having the Yankees and Red Sox play each other 100 times a year and then conspiring with Fox and ESPN to broadcast each and every one of those games on Sunday night or Saturday afternoon.

GoNYGoNYGoGo
Member
Member
GoNYGoNYGoGo

Dear Santa,

Please get announcers that don’t make me hit the mute button. And please, I’ve been good., please break the strike zone box on the tv screen.

hopbitters
Member
hopbitters

I have never understood why there isn’t technology for selective mute. I mean they have separate mics for everything from the announcers to the umps to the bird stuck under the awning – put each one on a separate track and let me still hear the ballgame while muting the announcers. Or even pick and choose which announcers. Here’s another thing: why can’t I watch the video from the home TV broadcast with the audio from the away team radio announcers? Make it happen. I will give you money.

Lanidrac
Member
Lanidrac

You could always mute the TV and turn on the radio (although you wouldn’t get the home/away split, although I don’t understand that preference in the first place). The only problem is that the radio and TV broadcasts work on separate delays. Santa, please get them to synchronize the delays on the various broadcasts.

MikeS
Member
MikeS

Dear Santa,

All I want is to see Manny Machado in Pinstripes. White Sox pin stripes.

manormachine
Member
manormachine

I like the snot rockets and Marlins Guy! I hope you get a lump of coal.

mwallach
Member
mwallach

Get Michael Kay off television

Original Greaser Bob
Member
Original Greaser Bob

Fuck the Mike Moustakas five minute gum chewing close up. That’s why no one wants his sorry ass.

adrock75
Member
Member
adrock75

Vlad Guerrero up for opening day.

slarkin712
Member
slarkin712

Santa please remove Nickelback from history. I know that you’ll have to erase them from the minds of all the living, but it will definitely be worth it. I’ll be extra good this year and eat all my broccoli if you just eliminate the existence the worst band ever assembled. Oh…only for baseball requests. OK, I wish that you would bring back the blog “Fire Joe Morgan” and the existence of JoeChats on ESPN.com. Love you Santa!

dblair1134
Member
dblair1134

Dear Santa,

I know this is a lot to ask for, but I want a salary cap in baseball. Many people will be against it, but I know that eventually you can come through. Just imagine, finally a team like the Athletics and Rays can win a World Series! The league will be fair and the popularity of the league will grow. With the league being more competitive teams will start to gain more fans as they can actually compete for a championship. Well Santa, if maybe one day you could come through, that would be much appreciated.

Lanidrac
Member
Lanidrac

A strict salary cap just doesn’t work as well as you think it does. Set it on the higher end, and several teams still won’t be able to spend up to the cap limit. Set it on the lower end, and player salaries will drop unnaturally (thereby embittering the players’ union), while too many talented and normally affordable players will find themselves released or non-tendered every offseason like in the NFL (although not to the same extent as long as MLB still has guaranteed contracts).

martyvan90
Member
Member
martyvan90

Yankee tickets I can afford.

mrknutson
Member
mrknutson

All I want is for 33% of the revenue players bargain for to be to be put into a slush fund where they are paid by there performance that season. So if Mike trout comes up at 20 and earns 10 million he gets it and some dude sucks he gets paid like he sucks. I want to see players have a bonfires reason to perform and distribute pay to the people who deserve it when they do. It will also incentivize them to not act like overpaid candy asses and play more often. Screw this test we pay you… Read more »

Lanidrac
Member
Lanidrac

Hmm, that’s an interesting idea that wouldn’t technically mess with the service time based salary structure that lets small market teams have their competitive windows, but I agree that the union would never go for it.

Gus
Member
Gus

Please Santa, send Major League Baseball back to Montreal as soon as possible. It’s been 14 long years since our Expos left and we miss them dearly.

Johnston
Member
Johnston

Dear Santa: For the good of baseball, ask Elon Musk to please launch Angel Hernandez and Joe West into permanent Mars orbit. Thank you.

hopbitters
Member
hopbitters

So much good stuff, John. Sure there’s your annual call to ship my team to the Northern Nowhere League, but I admit to being less than enthused with them myself at times (and the coverage, always). However, as great as all those wishes are, it’s the last one that comes closest to my own. I was really hoping that the Yankees would give him a one-year deal to play third and mentor Andujar over there, then take him in one of those “Special Advisor” type roles in perpetuity. In lieu of that, I’ve settle for just more Beltre in any… Read more »

FLANSTER
Member
FLANSTER

Great article!!! Lots of good points, especially Yankees saturation and Marlins Man, who is a total fame-seeking clown.

4d3fect
Member
4d3fect

So funny, I laughed so hard I think I gave myself a hernia. (thanks?)

Lanidrac
Member
Lanidrac

Dear Santa,

Bring back “Baseball Tonight” on ESPN/ESPN2. It was SO much better than those highlight shows they have on MLB Network.

kjohn
Member
Member
kjohn

Dear Santa Claus, May I address you by full name, as I do regard you in highest reverential regard? Please bring my mother-in-law a new red table cloth. Tonight, in time for Christmas dinner tomorrow. It was my fault, not yours, but I really need your help. Actually, it was John Paschal’s fault. But I don’t think he’ll buy my mother-in-law a new red table cloth. I was reading his letter to you over breakfast just now. At first it made me smile. Then it made me chuckle. Then laugh out loud. But when I got to the inside the… Read more »