Seattle Sportsnet

So last night I watched the All-Star Game and, to be honest, I wouldn’t waste more than a paragraph writing about this monstrosity. Just know that Hong-Chih Kuo — yes, the Hong-Chih Kuo — came in to pitch for the National League, chucked a routine throw halfway to San Diego, gave up the American League’s only run, and left after two-thirds of an inning. That’s an All-Star performance right there.

That was a paragraph, so let’s move on. I had no intention of talking about a game I really used to enjoy anyways.

No, what I’m really here to discuss is this website and how it will relate to you and me as we move forward into the future. Because things are changing. And I think it’s only fair that I let you know.

Let me start by saying that everyone who runs a free blog or website reaches a certain point where they lose the enjoyment of publishing and begins to think of their writing as more of a job. Some of you may know my friend Zach, who used to run a site entitled The Big Picture. For a one-man show, Zach’s site was a testament to hard work. It was well-produced, well-written, and featured a decent number of paid advertisements. And then, suddenly, Zach called it quits. Back in December, he printed his final post, calling his own creation a “chore.” He had reached the breaking point and it was time to venture elsewhere. He hasn’t looked back since. It’s been eight months now, and I’m sure Zach is off enjoying life as he fully intended.

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Because if you’re a Mariners fan, there is only one true way to honor the passing of Mr. George Steinbrenner: with this clip from a now-infamous Seinfeld episode.

I challenge you to watch this and not laugh.

Because you love Junior.

*Editor’s note: This is a letter I sent to the Seattle Mariners organization on Sunday, July 11, 2010. It describes a situation that impacted me, directly, but at the same time concerns all fans of the team. I hope you will take the time to read it, and if so desired share your thoughts with the ballclub, as well. You can contact the Mariners directly by going here, or by sending an email to fanfeedback@mariners.mlb.com.

To whom it may concern in the Seattle Mariners organization,

Hi. We have corresponded before. The last time was during the 2007 season. On that particular occasion, an usher accosted me with his “Please Wait” sign while I was attempting to make my way to my seat on the 100 level. He had singled me out for whatever reason he deemed appropriate, while letting a group of well-dressed older gentlemen pass unscathed directly in front of me. He placed his sign in my path, which hit me in the stomach, and snapped at me to display my ticket. This was after I had walked back and forth between my seat and the concourse three times previously. I showed him my stub. He relinquished. I went on my way.

It was clear to me on that evening that I had been profiled by an overzealous usher. It happens. But it shouldn’t go unreported. To your credit, as soon as I informed the organization of the incident, the good folks on your staff did everything they possibly could to restore my faith in the team and the employees that represent the Mariners.

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When Jose Lopez tomahawked the living piss out of a chest-high fastball from Yankees relief pitcher Joba Chamberlain on Saturday night, well I’m not gonna lie to you, I nearly exploded all over rows 36 and 37 of section 132 at Safeco Field.

That would have been bad news for a bunch of self-proclaimed New York fans, who had been deposited in the seats in and around me by the Yankee bandwagon which happened to be rolling through town. Of course, knowing how classy most Yanks fan truly are, I’m sure most of those folks are used to getting jizzed on. And yes, I said jizzed. It’s my blog, I’ll do what I want.

Even in the midst of a lost season, the isolated incident that was Lopez’s game-winning grand slam home run could not have felt much better. That moment right there is what makes sports amazingly fantastic. It’s what we, as fans, live for. The unprecedented comeback, the euphoric celebration. It was great, just effing great.

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A visual aid, in case there was any doubt.

Thanks to loyal reader Amanda for taking care of the Photoshop work.

Immediate reaction to the news that Cliff Lee and Mark Lowe have been traded to the Texas Rangers for first baseman Justin Smoak and three others (via Facebook):

The deal is now being confirmed. Which means….F***IN RIGHT! WE GOT JUSTIN SMOAK! HOLY SH*T! HOLY SH*T! WE WIN! WE WIN! JACK Z., I’M HAVING YOUR BABY TONIGHT! LET’S GO! LET’S GO! MARINERS, BABY! MARINERS! THAT’S MY F***IN TEAM RIGHT THERE! THAT’S MY TEAM! BEEN WITH YOU SINCE I WAS BORN! LOVE YOU GUYS! LOVE YOU GUYS! JUSTIN SMOAK BABY! JUSTIN F***IN SMOAK! F*** YEAH!

Justin Smoak, for the win.

I love you, Jack.

Goodbye, Casey.

You have to be asking yourself this question after Thursday night’s “Decision.” It’s a legitimate inquiry. We already know that Mrs. James got with Delonte West at some point. So what’s to stop her from engaging in a little three-way with her son’s newest teammates?

What I really want to know is if she got a sampling from all of LeBron’s suitors. Six teams came calling for The King’s services. Did she fool around with Blake Griffin, too? What about Eddy Curry’s BBW ass? How ’bout a little Brook Lopez (Blo-pez, to the uninitiated)? These are the hardball topics that Jim Gray failed to broach. Come on, Jim. Do your job.

The consensus ruling we can take away from all this is that someone affiliated with the Heat has mad skills in the bedroom. Everybody knows that to get to LeBron, you gotta get to his mama. And I figure between D-Wade or the other newest Miami baller, Chris Bosh, one (or both) of them got the job done. Call it a Cleveland Steamer, if you will. Boom, roasted.

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And…boom goes the dynamite.

Epic fail.

Welcome to Bobby Ayala’s world, League. The outhouse is to your right, the doghouse to your left. You have your choice of rooms.

Enjoy.

*P.S. A round of applause to Seattle Times photographer Dean Rutz for capturing the quintessential image of mediocrity.

This hasn’t happened yet, as far as I know. But I figure if our favorite French-Canadian fireballer can get sidelined by stiffness in his shoulder, there are a handful of other stiffness-related ailments that could prevent Monsieur Bedard from taking the mound.

I don’t mean to make light of Erik Bedard’s situation — he is recovering from serious shoulder surgery, after all — but come on. You gotta come up with something better than “stiffness” to miss a start. I’m pretty sure the M’s front office has exhausted an entire thesaurus trying to find nice ways to describe the southpaw’s relative softness.

Remember a couple years ago when the guy was dealing with “impingement” in that same throwing shoulder? I just Googled “impingement synonyms” and here are a sampling of the words that associate themselves with this painful ailment: “kiss,” “thrusting,” “unlawful entry,” “whomp,” “ramming,” “rub.” So Bedard experienced a shoulder kiss. And went to the disabled list.

I don’t know, folks. As much as I want to believe Bedard, as much as I want him to succeed (and I do), and as much as I sincerely wish he’d turn himself into a bona fide ace, I just don’t see the boy who cried wolf ever becoming a fixture in a Mariners uniform. A fixture on the team’s training table, perhaps, but in a jersey? Not so much.

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Ever since the NBA stole my beloved Sonics and dropped them in the middle of Podunkville, USA, I’ve wanted nothing more than to see the world grab the league by its backside and plow it relentlessly into submission.

It’s not often that we get to see the world screw the NBA, but it could happen this year, this summer in fact. And that pillaging begins and ends with LeBron James.

Bron Bron, as we all know, is a free agent. He is willing and able to sign with any of thirty NBA franchises. Everyone has an opinion on where they think LeBron should land. Some people want him to stay in Cleveland. Some want him to go to New York. Some to Chicago. Some to Miami. Some to New Jersey. The list goes on.

There is one team, however, that isn’t getting the credit they deserve in their pursuit of King James. Even though they happen to reside in the nation’s second-largest media market. Even though they have plenty of ample cash to ink LeBron’s John Hancock. And even though they might very well possess one of the more promising nuclei in the National Basketball Association.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, in case you haven’t figured it out by now, the team I desperately want LeBron to sign with is none other than those underdog Los Angeles Clippers. I know what you’re thinking. But I don’t care.

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Larry Stone thinks Stephen Strasburg should be an All-Star. No one seems to agree with him. Except me. I feel you, Larry.

Here’s the thing. I have a theory about sports fans. If a writer proposes a semi-outlandish point of contention, self-righteous know-it-all bastard fans will seize the opportunity to showcase their knowledge in the comments section of said article by disputing the topic at hand, and simultaneously crucifying the writer in question. Yes, I just said that. Yes, I might be talking about you. Unlike Larry, no one’s paying me to write this, hence I can force you arrogant SOBs to take it right in the ‘nads.

Larry’s been trumpeting the cause for Strasburg as an All-Star for all of a few days. Throughout that duration, everyone and their mom — including Mariners manager Don Wakamatsu — has chastised Larry for his controversial opinion.

Child, please.

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On my best days, I will wake up in the morning, play basketball for two or three hours, rest in the afternoon, and play again at night.

I’ll play in gyms, on asphalt, in the sunshine, in the rain, under a moonlit sky, beneath the glaring fluorescence of floodlights.

I’ll play with men and women, boys and girls, teenagers, adults, senior citizens, white people, black people, brown, yellow, red, green, blue, purple. It doesn’t matter. I’ll play with anyone.

Some days I’ll be on, some days I’ll be off. Some days I’ll be smooth, some days I’ll be shaky. Some days I’ll be hot, some days I’ll be cold. But for every bad day, I’ll come back to make the next one good.

Basketball is a simple game. On one end, you’re tasked with putting a round ball through a circular hoop sitting ten feet off the ground. On the other end, you’re tasked with preventing an opponent from putting a round ball through a circular hoop sitting ten feet off the ground. It’s as easy as that.

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Forget Stephen Strasburg (and it pains me to say that, because I love the guy). There are players much more deserving of a trip to the 2010 Major League Baseball All-Star Game than the Washington Nationals’ young ace. And even though the flame-throwing phenom might end up in Anaheim on July 13, my only hope is that these three guys will join him there.

R.A. Dickey, Starting Pitcher, New York Mets

As more or less a career minor leaguer, R. A. Dickey hasn’t even had the opportunity to fathom what playing in a big league All-Star game might be like. This year, the knuckleballer — along with his 6-1 record and 2.98 ERA — should at least be allowed to consider Disneyland as part of his travel plans over the break.

A former first-round draft pick by Texas in 1996, Dickey has quite the backstory leading up to what has arguably become his most productive major league season so far.

After being taken 18th overall by the Rangers in the ’96 June Amateur Draft, a team doctor saw a photo of Dickey on the cover of a magazine and noticed that the right-hander’s pitching arm looked a little funny. The organization put Dickey through medical testing prior to signing him and discovered that he lacked the ulnar collateral ligament in his elbow, also known as the ligament that requires repair when a pitcher undergoes Tommy John surgery.

Because of this revelation, Dickey was offered a $75,000 signing bonus, as opposed to the $810,000 bonus the team initially had on the table. The University of Tennessee product was forced to accept this reduced offer, and thus began an unpredictable journey through professional baseball.

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