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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Never mind all the hearts and flowers and other commercially-driven humbug of the day, because there’s something far more important going on: Pitchers and catchers report today! Woo Hoo!
Oh, and GO NATS!!
Update: Forgot to mention that I watched “Major League” the other evening just to get in the mood. I always fast-forward through the love-interest plot line these days. I also have “Bull Durham” coming from Netflix. I really dislike Costner, Robbins, and especially Sarandon, but it’s such a good BB movie that I really don’t mind them here.
Well, it’s Sooper Sunday once again and the nacho fixin’s are all in place and ready to go.
Ol’ Robbo really hasn’t paid much attention at all to pro football ever since Marino retired, but the Gels and I still generally catch the Big Game.
This year, my greatest motivation for watching is the possibility – however remote – that the Patriots fall on their collective backsides.
Ol’ Robbo detests New England. Granted, some of that is because of my residual bias from being a former long time Dolphins fan. But I’m also old enough to remember the days when they were perpetual bottom-feeders, and back then they bore their lowliness with a certain humility and dignity. However, as soon as they became successful, they immediate turned into a gang of the most obnoxious and arrogant jackasses. And the Cult of Tom Brady? Sick-making to a degree.
This seems to be a thing with Bahston-based sports teams (which see the Sawx ever since their break-out season in 2003). Perhaps it’s something in the water.
Anyhoo, I couldn’t tell you Thing One about Atlanta, and I have no earthly idea how they’ll do against the Belichick Juggernaut, but for what it’s worth, GO FALCONS!
UPDATE: Oh, and on a much, much more important note, only nine days until pitchers and catchers report! Ol’ Robbo can’t wait for the boys of summah to return. GO, NATS!!
UPDATE DEUX: Sorry, I was thinking of the 2004 Sawx, when they came back from a 3-games to nada deficit to take the Yankees in the American League title bout. Best. Series. Evah. And I was supporting them whole-heartedly the entire way. Since then? We hates them.
POST-GAME UPDATE TROIS: Dammit.
As you might imagine, ol’ Robbo is shaking his fists at the Heavens this morning. Of course, after my commenting below that we had an advantage going into last night’s game because of No Kershaw? We got Kershaw.
The Baseball Gods are cruel.
Oh, well. It was fun to watch with the Gels and at least we didn’t disgrace ourselves. (I mean the Nats didn’t. I don’t think Mrs. R was too keen on the way I was yelling at the teevee.) One can’t help wondering whether the big bat of Wilson Ramos might have made the difference in such tight games.
As for going forward, I have no deep preferences. A Cubs/Indians series would be sweet, of course, and I think I’d wind up rooting for the Tribe, if for no other reason than that the Mothe is from Cleveland and she’s been talking about 1948 and Satchel Paige a lot recently. OTOH, something in me thinks the Cubbies are finally going to break the Curse of the Billy Goat this year.
We shall see.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo decided to spare you his usual Columbus Day rant about the absurdity of virtue-signalling to which this day has become increasingly subject in recent years.
I will also say up front that I most emphatically did not watch the debate last night. Nope, nope, and nope. Instead, I got about half way through “The Longest Day” before dozing off. (I think I may have a cold coming on.) And as a general matter of policy, I’m not going to say a single word here about the elections until after they’re done. (Well, okay, just one: Yeesh!)
Instead, I’ll just toss out a couple comments on things near and dear to me at the moment.
First, I may have mentioned it here before a week or two ago, but I sat down this morning to try and puzzle out what to do about winterizing the two boxwood urns out on the Port Swiller patio. (This is a picture of the one. And the other is like unto it.) It would seem that my idea of wrapping them in some kind of insulation has some merit to it. So my plan is, in the next couple weeks, to drag them into a corner out of the wind and surround them with a double layer of bubblewrap and burlap.
Second, how about ol’ Robbo’s beloved Nats? Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ve got ourselves a series now! The Family Robbo will be glued to Game 3 later on this afternoon, praying that Gio can keep it together and that Jayson Werth is right about the monkey.
What else is there to say except:
UPDATE: FWAAAAAH!! A hellevah good game! Two shots to go to make it to the NLS. What possibly else is there to say but:
LET’S GO NATS!!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
It’s been rayther a long time since ol’ Robbo has reported one of his signature bizzarro dreams here. Well, guess what? That drought is over.
It seems I found myself in a long, long procession or pilgrimage of people, a surprising number of whom I actually know in real life or via the innertoobs. They seemed to be searching for The Way or The Light or some sort of Answer. It became clear to me after a time, however, that there was nothing holy about what I was seeing, and that it was, in fact, some kind of cult of personality presided over by an evil spirit. (The people themselves, however, were not evil, just deluded. Don’t ask me how I knew these things. I just did.)
It seemed that every now and then a dissenter would be singled out in a kind of cat-and-mouse game played by the forces of evil. The dissenter would be put to an impromptu show trial and then carted off to the executioner for torture and/or beheading.
It also seemed that there was some kind of underground movement that sought to save such dissenters. Apparently, it was very good at getting them away from the captors but didn’t really have a clue as to what to do with them afterwards, and the freed dissenters typically were re-caught.
At some point in my dream, the scene shifted from a broad, rolling upland to the interior of an impossibly large railroad car. As I stood in the crowd, I suddenly realized that people were quietly slipping away from my sides and that all at once I was quite alone. I found myself facing a woman lounging on a sofa. I don’t think she was the actual guiding force of the cult, but believed she was one of the senior lieutenants. I don’t remember what she or I said specifically, but the upshot was that I was accused of Crimes Against The Body and sentenced to death.
I then found myself in a field, apparently awaiting execution. There was a group of people near me who seemed to be praying. I asked them if I could borrow a Bible. One of the group immediately handed me what turned out to be a missal instead of a Bible. But he also (accidentally, I think) handed me a wallet, which I immediately turned over the wrong way, spilling out all the contents. I hastily tried to gather up a large number of credit cards, paper receipts and cash, and was much distressed that I couldn’t seem to get them all back into the wallet. I don’t recall how the affair ended.
Next, I found it was Time. A group of people gathered around me and started hustling me off to the place of execution. Some of them were taunting me, but others slipped in close and muttered things like, “We’ll get you out,” “We haven’t got a plan yet, but we’re working on it,” “Just keep your eyes open and watch for opportunities,” and the like. Curiously, I found I had no faith that they could spring me, but also was not greatly distressed about it. My overall feeling was of calm resignation.
I arrived at the execution spot, where I understood I was to have my head chopped off. It was just an open place in the field with a square marked off in yellow paint. Apparently, somebody had forgotten to build a proper platform, so there was going to be another delay while they sorted things out. Meanwhile, a major league umpire was standing nearby, kicking his heals as he waited to officiate. For some reason, St. Thomas More suddenly wandered into my braims, so I sidled up to the ump and said, “I understand this axe-man is a seasoned pro. Well, I’m just rookie meat. So will you please be generous with the strike zone?”
And then, as they say, I woke up.
(The only part of this dream I can explain in absolutely concrete terms is the presence of the fuming ump. The Family Robbo went to see our beloved Nationals play last evening and there was an almost two hour rain delay before the game began. The rest seems to be a bad mash-up of Msrg. Robert Hugh Benson’s The Lord of the World and Terry Gilliam’s “Brazil“.)
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Has ol’ Robbo mentioned here before his firmly-held belief that Tuesday is the worst day of the week? Well it is, simply due to the fact that it has absolutely nothing going for it. Monday, for all its awfulness, is at least a bridgehead. Wednesday is, of course, Hump…DAAAAAAY. Thursday is down hill and Friday speaks for itself. Tuesday is nothing more than a freakin’ hole in the week.
Anyhoo, to fill that hole, a few stray thoughts:
♦ Before I forget it, and in connection with the Wednesday link above, I have to say that ol’ Robbo is continually impressed with the consistent brilliance of Geico’s teevee advertising (which I see through watching my beloved Nats play on MASN). Campaign after campaign after campaign – from cavemen to geckos to bad ideas – whoever comes up with this stuff is truly gifted. It’s one thing to get an occasional home run, but these people hit for the freakin’ cycle. And speaking of which, for some reason ol’ Robbo finds their latest amusing enough to repost here:
(Full disclosure, by the bye, ol’ Robbo is not a Geico customer or paid shill. We’re USAA through the Old Gentleman’s military stint and quite content with it.)
♦ And speaking of ol’ Robbo’s beloved Nats, they just dropped their fourth straight to an out-of-it NL East team playing for nothing but pride tonight. I know the odds of us not clinching the pennant at this point are in the SMOD 2016 range, but come on, guys!
♦ Speaking of sports, last Sunday ol’ Robbo was asked by one of his Mass buddies who doesn’t pay much attention to the current so-called “culture” to explain the whole NFL national anthem kerfluffle. Whelp, I was able to give her a brief description just based on what I see on the Innertoobs, but the fact of the matter is that ol’ Robbo really hasn’t watched pro football at all since Dan Marino retired in 1999. This was partly because the ‘Fins were the only team I ever followed and they have gone to hell since then, and partly because NFL Sunday afternoon advertising is raunchy enough that I didn’t want the gels seeing it. Overall, I don’t think I’ve really missed very much.
♦ It would be extremely foolish of ol’ Robbo to comment on the state of the Presidential race at this point, at least so far as endorsements go. But one thing strikes me as peculiar: Normally, my corner of NoVA and my commuter route into the Imperial City are, by this point, wall-to-wall with yard signs and bumper stickers. This year? Almost nada. Just about the only signs I see in the immediate neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor are for the local incumbent House member. Make of that what you will.
♦ Good thoughts would be appreciated: The next two days ol’ Robbo is being forced to go on “retreat” with his office colleagues. Usually, I’m pretty good at being able to dodge work-related functions, but I gather there’s no getting out of this one barring accidental amputation of a limb or kidnapping by Boko Haram. Sigh. In my experience, “retreats” are both boring and dangerous, and the only thing to do is to keep one’s head down, one’s mouth shut, and one’s most political smile firmly nailed to one’s face.
♦ Speaking of face, ol’ Robbo is trying out a new prescription set of gas-permiable hard contact lenses this week. (My venture into disposable soft lenses proved an abject failure.) They seem to work reasonably well for my near-sightedness. The trouble is that they also bring my far-sightedness into, er, very sharp focus: wearing them, I can’t make out much within a four or five foot radius without a pair of store-bought 2X reading glasses. I’m having trouble here understanding why I go to the bother of contacts in the first place.
♦ Relatedly, while getting fitted for the new contacts, I also got a prescription for a new pair of glasses. My current pair is about four years old and I’ve had nothing but grief about them (in terms of aesthetics) from Mrs. R. This time, I got the Missus to come down to the Hour-Eyes with me. “Here,” I said, “You pick out the frames!” And she did. Despicable pre-emptive surrender? Or ingenious seizure of the high ground? Your answer may very well depend on your marital status. (Hint: “Yes, dear” can be a double-edged weapon.)
Whelp, I suppose that’s enough hole-in-the-week plugging for now. Pass the port to the left as you take it in, if you please.
UPDATE: Day One of Robbo’s retreat featured the predictable “team-building challenges” and a lot of middle-management level blether from an HR consultant (what a racket that is!) about effective communications with different personality types. Forehead? Meet table! As a colleague of mine put it sotto voce, “Here’s an idea: You’re all grownups…Act like it.”
UPDATE DEUX: Nats’ Magic Number now down to, er, deux.
Ol’ Robbo cannot help but note that his beloved Nats advanced to a an early season record of 11-3 this evening. Life is good. Yes, I know that we’ve been feasting on other NL East teams so far, teams that range from the mediocre to the appallingly bad, but that’s what the best do, isn’t it?
I didn’t make my usual preseason predictions this year because, frankly, I hadn’t the faintest idea what would happen, what with all the turnovers and changes. However, up to this point, I am quite pleased with all aspects of our game: offense, defense, starting rotation, and bullpen. Based on an admittedly meager record, I’m beginning to feel we will win the NL East again. What we do against the Cubbies in the playoffs, I can’t even begin to contemplate.
Post-season fantasy aside, my biggest reservation so far is with new manager Dusty Baker and his damned toothpicks. I don’t mind that he perpetually chews on one, but it bugs the hell out of me that he from time to time sucks it all the way into his mouth. Every time he does so, I find myself cringing and thinking, “Buddy boy, sooner or later that thing is going to get lodged in your wind pipe. Then where the hell do you think you’ll be?”
Eh, Dusty’s been around a long time. I can only assume he knows what he’s about. In the meantime, what else is there to say other than
UPDATE: Make that 14-4 after we swept the hapless Twins. (We may need moar brooms.) Nonetheless, NOVA-C speaks sooth in his comment. We have one more home series against the Phils this week (ol’ Robbo and the family are going to Thursday’s game – skybox tix, if you please) before a brutal road trip against the Cards, Royals, and Cubbies, all of whom are teh goods at the moment We shall see what we shall see.
R.I.P., Joe Garagiola, who died today at age 90.
Perhaps I date myself, but ol’ Robbo remembers very fondly the major league ball games Joe called for NBC back in the late 70’s along with color man Tony Kubek. I’d played a couple years of little league before that, but listening to Garagiola and Kubek on those lazy summah Saturday afternoons definitely was the primary source of that still, small voice in the back of my head that said, “Ya know? There’s something to this whole baseball ethos…”
Thank Heaven, I’ve never lost it.
God bless, Joe. “Hit ’em where they ain’t.”*
* Spot the quote.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Well, spring training 2016 is now officially underway and ol’ Robbo is starting to get seriously excited about Opening Day, which, for his beloved Nationals, is set for April 4 on the road in Atlanta.
While in past years I have made fearless predictions regarding the Nats’ prospects for the season, this time I find myself shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head in ambivalent silence. There are so many unknown and unknowable variables in the mix – new manager, some new position players, new starter rotation, new bullpen combinations – that I simply haven’t the faintest idea what’s going to happen over the summah.
Most of the prognostications I’ve read so far predict that the Mets are going to take the division again, with the Nats hovering somewhere just behind them. I’m not so sure about that because I think the Mets’ reputation is somewhat overblown. Yes, they made the Series last fall. But they played well above themselves last year, especially at the end of the season, in what I still think was something of an adrenaline-fueled fluke. I’m not a’tall sure they can repeat that. Also, the Nats beat themselves last season, what with injuries, bad managing and general malaise, playing below themselves. If the team gets itself together, it’ll roll all over the Mets. (And the rest of the div. Get outa here, Miami!)
Of course, as I mention above, that’s a mighty big “if”.
I shrug my shoulders once again. What else can one say except
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo was able to get out for his accustomed lunch time walk today after being denied such pleasure earlier this week due to snow and rain. As I hoofed along, it seemed to me that there was a faint but real hint that spring might not be all that far off. You know how round about the second half of August you suddenly realize that the light has changed and that how ever awful summah still is, it is definitely coming to an end? Well, I think I saw the same thing in reverse today. Also, I noticed that people seemed to be moving about with a bit more jauntiness in their step.
Of course, ol’ Robbo is in the Mid-Atlantic. Your mileage may vary depending on where you are, but sooner or later the same sort of thing happens even way up tah Maine. (Mid-June, in fact, according to the Mothe.)
Anyhoo, it was a good feeling. Snowzilla apart, we really haven’t had anything like a nasty winter round here this year, but I can’t remember one I’ve been more eager to get behind me.
Probably a sign of age.
Nonetheless, bring it on.
Oh, and pitchers and catchers report tomorrow. How sweet is that?