Slickhawk kicks off Episode 4 by verbally suplexing another one of Seattle’s most loathed creatures. It’s a Karate Emergency tradition.
We then dispose of your Facebook hoaxes in a raging dumpster fire, analyze all the Golden Tate rumors, theorize about Momma Lynch’s grammatical acumen, weigh in on the Mariners front office, piss on the ashes of Oregon football, and tie it all together with a deep and meaningful conversation on dating one’s ex.
Check it all out in the fourth installment of Karate Emergency: The New Class, and be sure to find us on iTunes!
Geoff Baker, that rascal. He retires from his job as Mariners beat writer to take a new gig as The Seattle Times’ Chief Investigator, Pain In The Ass division. All that stuff he could never say about the M’s when he was an objective reporter? It shall now flow onto the interwebz like champagne in a nightclub frequented by Pacman Jones, splashing liberally onto the breasts of intrigued onlookers who soak up the spillage with smiles on their faces. This is a new era of badassery in local sports media, an era punctuated by whatever Baker shall uncover when he is not sailing the skies in hot air balloons or sampling fine cabernets in exotic locales.
As you may have read over the weekend, Baker’s inaugural foray into the world of sports business reporting (or whatever that title he’s inherited proclaims he does) was a bit of a ground-breaker, an earth-rumbling piece about the Mariners’ front office and their unique brand of dysfunction, the kind that paralyzes fans everywhere into a veritable dumbfounded/angry/terrified hybrid of a stupor. Sure, we’ve known for years that the Mariners were run by a bunch of bumbling idiots. But Baker’s piece not only highlighted the stupidity of the team’s decision-makers, it got reputable sources to speak on record about that stupidity in expansive detail.
Imagine you’re a parent and you’re in a bind. You have a kid that you need to get rid of for an hour and there is nobody who can watch him for you. You don’t have a choice, either. You have to go do this thing without your kid, no matter what. You’re stuck, and now you’re sitting here hyperventilating with a child screaming in the backseat of your car, wishing you’d never procreated in the first place.
And then, all of a sudden, you get a call back from a trusted friend who’s willing and able to spend an hour with your kid. Saved! You rejoice. Everything has worked out for the time being. You leave the little one with your friend, go live up to your obligations for sixty minutes, and then return…to find…disaster.
The truth is, I don’t hate the Mariners. I never have, never will. You don’t hate the Mariners, either, I imagine. You might say you do, but you don’t. No one hates the Mariners. The Mariners don’t invoke hatred. Outside of the bubble that is Mariners fandom, the world could care less about this team. They are a punch line, if that. Rival fans — and I use the word “rival” very loosely — don’t give a damn about Seattle. For those of us who do give a damn, the passions evoked by our favorite baseball team are far more painstaking than detachment. What the Mariners inspire is a feeling that borders on apathy, yet results in frustration. It is that emotion, a reluctant resignation to a fate with a tragic ending, that makes this situation unique in a very sad, special way.
First of all, let me be clear: this isn’t JUST about Josh Hamilton. Sure, the Mariners were rumored to be in the hunt for the services of the 31-year-old outfielder. And yes, they failed miserably in their quest to land him. But come on. Let’s be real here. Did anyone really, truly believe the Mariners had the wherewithal to sign a free agent of Hamilton’s ilk? The most coveted free agent of the 2012-2013 class? No. We didn’t believe it. We might have hoped. We might have prayed. But we didn’t believe. Because we can’t believe. Believing requires faith. And the Seattle Mariners have destroyed ALL our faith in recent years. They are Lindsay Lohan behind the wheel and we, their fans, are reluctant passengers. This will not end well. We know it won’t end well. But we hope and pray that it WILL end well. Ultimately, our hopes and our prayers go unanswered.
The Mariners are murderers of happiness. You wake up one morning full of blissful ignorance, stupidly giddy over nothing at all, and then the team you love with all your foolish, little heart comes and craps on your day with remarkable aplomb. Why do they do that? Why do we let them? These are questions no one has answers to.
I don’t like Don Wakamatsu all that much. I think he’s too passive, he lets the team run itself, and when things start to spiral out of control (as things have had a tendency to do this year) he has no way of reeling the troops back in before they go AWOL.
That said, I really don’t like the way the Mariners organization has continually thrown Wakamatsu under the bus lately.
Wak might not be the right man to lead this ballclub, but he doesn’t need to get screwed by his bosses day after day, either. It’s one thing to suck at your job. It’s another thing to suck at your job and blame someone else.
Between Wakamatsu, general manager Jack Zduriencik, team president Chuck Armstrong, and CEO Howard Lincoln, all four of these men currently suck at their respective jobs. Three of those men — Zduriencik, Armstrong, and Lincoln — are using their authority to make Wakamatsu the scapegoat for their collective failure. That’s f**ked up.