Amidst the Jubilation, An Ode to Seattle

As a lifelong Blue Jays fan who worked selling popcorn as a teenager at Exhibition Stadium in the team’s first two years of existence from 1977-1978, I was delighted with the outcome of Monday’s game seven. After all, World Series appearances are rare enough; my memories of the back-to-back championships of ’92 and’93 are getting a bit hazy. I still remember exactly where I was watching those final games and I certainly remember the last at bats. Some of the other details are dimming, and I would prefer to attribute this to the number of years gone by rather than any diminishing capacity on my part. Whatever happens in the upcoming finale with the Dodgers, just getting there is an accomplishment worth celebrating.

Yet a part of me was thinking not just of the jubilant Jays, their families hustling on to the field, the delirious fans in the stadium and the millions jumping up and down in their family rooms, but rather of the vanquished Mariners. This, of course, is the Blue Jays twin franchise, birthed in the same year of 1977, and it has never managed to attain the lofty heights of the World Series. They came achingly close this time. Up two games to none going home for three, then up three games to two, and up through six innings of game seven. Undoubtedly, they likely felt this was their year. Having outdistanced the Astros for the division, with the Yankees and the Red Sox out of the way and having outlasted the Tigers in a memorable fifteen inning deciding game, they must have felt that destiny was finally riding shotgun with them.  To then have things wrenched away by one swing of the bat must leave a hollow feeling. To consider all the pitches thrown over those 162 regular season games and the 12 playoff games that followed, and the hope that the players and fans carried over those eight months and then realize that it all vanished in one swing of the bat is to understand that baseball is an especially cruel game.

Of course, as a Toronto sports fan, part of me thought about those poor Mariner players lingering in the dugout watching the official and unofficial on field celebrations; they looked like ghosts unable to move, forced to watch the victory party as part of some instinctual need to make the unimaginable real. For who amongst Toronto fans has not been in that dugout too, forced to watch other teams rejoice, staring in a daze as the shattered athletes speak numbly into reporters’ microphones, and quietly pack up their equipment to await another year? It may be that the trauma of being a Toronto sports fan has resulted in my having an overdeveloped empathy for the heartbreak of others. And yes, I know that some Seattle fans cheered when the heroic Springer was kneecapped by a Brian Woo fastball, but you can’t condemn an entire fan base for the actions of a callous few.  And yes, I know Seattle is an American city and we continue to find ourselves in the midst of a trade war with the U.S. But that doesn’t mean their pain was any less real.

As the League Championship Trophy was being presented to the Blue Jays, I was hoping that someone would spare a thought for the Mariners amidst the Dionysian fervour. Could someone not recognize a Seattle team that had a great season and came one run short? Could someone not offer them some hope that one day they will arrive in that promised land that has been so elusive? Apparently not. Baseball lacks the closure of the handshake lineup that distinguishes hockey. And on this evening of wild abandon, as the CEOs and Executives stepped to the microphone, it was as if there wasn’t even another team playing. They were made invisible. With all the gushing about “a great group of guys”, I kept waiting for someone from that great group to acknowledge the Mariners, their season, their pain. None was forthcoming.

Nor did reporters ask Schneider about his managerial counterpart Dan Wilson or about his thoughts on how tough this had to be on the opposing team. Maybe if you’ve waited your whole life for something and you get there, you take a moment to consider the people who have waited even longer and are still waiting. And so, in the midst of the jubilation, a part of me is a bit sad that the victors could not take even a moment out of their revelry to consider the flip side, the crushing of hope and the long wait for spring training. How hard would it have been to spare a few words of encouragement to an organizaton that has been waiting almost fifty years to contend for a championship? Yes, it would have just been words. But when the game is over, words are all any fan has to hang onto.

From “No Brainer” to “Brainless”: The Contract Extension of John Gibbons

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There’s a lot to be excited about on the current Toronto sports’ scene.  The beloved Maple Leafs have made the playoffs with a young squad considered ahead of schedule.  The Raptors are about to begin what many hope will be a deep playoff run.  TFC is hoping to improve upon its best season ever last year.  But what’s the fun in writing about success, when you can write about the Blue Jays’ wretched 1-9 start to the season?

Even in the worst case scenarios, pre-season predictors generally thought the Jays could dip below .500 and fall to the bottom two teams of the American League’s Eastern Division.  Nobody thought they would be playing .100 baseball.  Sure, they are going to improve—no team can maintain such an abysmal pace over the course of a long season.  But the damage done by such a horrid start is often impossible to overcome, especially because seven of their nine losses have been at the hands of division opponents and because they play in a very competitive division.

Here’s another ghastly thought to consider.  On many fronts, the Jays could get worse as the season wears on.  Their relief pitching, universally thought to be the team’s Achilles’ Heel, has been pretty good, with one or two exceptions.  The starting pitching, an acknowledged strength, has been about as advertised.  Twice through the rotation, they’ve received two excellent starts from Marcus Stroman, two good starts from Marco Estrada, two mediocre starts from J Happ, and one really good start from each of Francisco Liriano and Aaron Sanchez.  In only one game, Liriano’s first, did the starter bury them.  So even if the hitters perk up, they might find that the pitching goes south.

The batters have been awful.  Not only are they striking out in droves, but they have been horrendous with runners in scoring position.  Their go to move has been hitting into double plays.  Donaldson has hit for average, but is injured now and looks like he might have one of those seasons where the body never completely heals.  Aside from Tulowitzki and Morales, no one has produced clutch RBIs.  Pillar and Smoak have looked more disciplined at times, but Travis, Bautista, Martin, and Pearce have been wretched.

Then there’s the manager.  Back at the beginning of April, amidst much congratulations to John Gibbons on his contract extension, I expressed my reservations on twitter.  My complaint with Gibbons is that he rarely if ever asks players to move outside their comfort zone.  God forbid he should ask Jose to bunt or to move a player over.  He does not manage to manufacture runs; he waits on the three run homer.  And when times were good, and the baseball world was feeding the Jays fastballs, Gibbons was a popular manager.  Doing nothing with a group of veterans that are pounding baseballs over fences apparently makes you a “player’s manager”.  But we got a hint of what would happen when teams started out thinking the Blue Jays in last year’s American League Championship against the Indians.  The manager was slow to react, or perhaps more accurately, paralytic.  So the fans kept waiting for the Jays to start looking for breaking balls, but they never did, and the series was over in the blink of an eye.  What looked to some like laid back Texas wisdom in the last couple years’ playoff runs (“The bats will come around, but they battled out there”) is now exposed as a lack of imagination and strategy.  Even little league managers know that when you are in a team wide slump, you need to shake things up.  It’s the hockey equivalent of “put pucks on the net and hope for a greasy goal”.  But Gibbons has been loathe to bunt, to run, to try to surprise teams and to try and pressure teams into making mistakes.  He’s still playing for the five run inning.  With the pitching the Jays have received, they should be at worst a game below .500 and at best, a couple games above that mark.  Meanwhile Gibbons continues to be the country bumpkin, stroking his stubble, marveling at the impotency of the bats, serving up cliché after cliché.  Well here’s a cliché for you John courtesy of a true genius, Albert Einstein:  “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results.”  For years, this quote could be aptly applied to the Maple Leafs who would overspend on aging veterans while giving away young talent that others would develop into stars.  Now Atkins and Shapiro, having erroneously equated team success with good managing, have endorsed a manager that thinks the epitome of creativity is changing up your leadoff hitter.

Meanwhile the Red Sox are loaded, the Orioles are solid and the Yankees and Rays have exciting, young talent that will be good for years to come.

Maybe the Jays turn it around.  Maybe they go on a torrid streak in June and are battling for a playoff position in the fall.  Far more likely is that after the Leafs and Raptors have finished participating in playoff contests, Blue Jays’ nation is going to get awfully tired of Gibbons’ post game laments. And his contract extension which many called a “no brainer” might be viewed more simply as brainless.

Watching the Blue Jays lately is like…

After Friday’s stinging loss, third in a row, plummeting with no reversal in sight, I posit that hoping the Jays make the playoffs is like being in a relationship with someone way out of your league.  You know she is going to break up with you sooner or later.  What’s the point of getting her to agree to go to the Wild Card Dance (which is looking more and more improbable), if you know she’s going to break your heart a week later?

The entire city feels as if this huge emotional investment for half a year was just dropped down the toilet.  So what do we do?  We act the way we might if we got dumped.  “Oh, I was going to break up with her anyways.  You know, she did so many things that drove me crazy.  This way, I’ll have more time to do important things.  We were in a rut.”  Yeah, right.  Heartbreak is heartbreak and it sucks. (Photo credit:  ctvnews.ca)