Tag Archives: cars

NLDS Game 2: Buschwhacked

At a disgusted Davey Johnson’s request, Sean Burnett tries to rip his nose off. (AP Photo/Jeff Roberson)

Did the Nats win: Uhh…no.

Was it fun to watch: Is it fun to watch your entire family be instantly incinerated in a car accident?

Visceral Emotion of the Game: I feel like I’m dying a little bit inside. Wait, maybe it’s just a cold? No, no. Definitely dying.

Back when I used to dabble with the bats and balls myself, I had a coach who always used the same encouraging words when the team would go down 1-0 early in a game. “If you never score a run you’re not going to win anyway.” This was, logically, true. And it was comforting even though it omitted the fact that it was now impossible to win the game without scoring two runs.

When we gave up four runs early, the line had to be modified. “If you don’t score four runs in a game, you don’t deserve to win anyway.” This statement was less logical–after all, how do we know whether anyone deserves anything? What does it even mean to “deserve” something, in a world without karma or absolute good or reasonable grading for my English papers or an appropriate number of sexual partners given my impeccable taste in sweatpants? But after I got past my teenage existential crisis, this too was comforting. Four runs seems like a reasonable amount of runs to get in a game.

Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Beastiality: Morse Forces Himself on Unwilling Phillies


Eury Perez hastily scrambles out of the grasp of a lustily thrusting Jeremy Horst. (AP Photo/Matt Slocum)

Final Score: Nationals 7, Phillies 3

Dame of the Game:

Michael Morse: 2-4, 2 HR, 2 R, 4 RBI. Once was not enough. His appetite is insatiable.

Shame of the Game:

Tyler Cloyd: 5 IP, 6 ER, 6 H, 2 BB, 4 K. His poor pitching was almost too sweet for the Nats. I might even say that its excessive pleasantness for Nationals batters was cloyding.


And then there were three.

Three miserable little numbers, cowering in fear at the end of the road as the Natmobile careens wildly towards them, leaving a trail of crushed and crumpled numbers lying in its wake. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, and 5 are already a distant memory, and 4 now shudders its final dying twitches.

The details of the grisly affair seem almost superfluous. Number 4 was just another nameless victim of the out-of-control Natmobile. The goal is too near to worry about the particulars of the collateral damage.

At the end of the road lies the NLDS. The Natmobile is an unstoppable force, and the objects in its path are decidedly movable.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Tasty Morsels: Homers Help Nats Chow Down on Houston

Lucas Harrell forgot his sled, and the fact that it wasn’t snowing, and the fact that he was supposed to be pitching. But he’s persistent. (Photo by Bob Levey/Getty Images)

Final Score: Nationals 5, Astros 0

Dame of the Game:

Michael Morse: 2-3, 2 HR, 3 RBI, 2 R, K. Morse’s first home run was a tape measure shot, and I don’t mean everyone’s favorite drink where you grind up a tape measure and mix it with vodka.

Shame of the Game:

The Houston Astros franchise. It doesn’t get much more shameful than playing for them, or being otherwise employed by them, or hoping they’ll win.


On Sunday night, the Astros probably lay in bed thinking “man, the only way this season could get worse is if we got swept by the Nationals.” Not just because such an outcome would be demoralizing, but also because literally the only result of a four game series that would actually cause the Astros’ winning percentage to go down significantly would be a sweep.

The Astros’ season just got worse.

It’s pretty sad. Beating the Astros is kinda like walking down the street and shoving children into oncoming traffic. Or assassinating someone who’s already hanging from a noose. Or setting a retirement home on fire. Or telling Tom Gorzelanny’s date that he has an STD. Just cruel. Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Live Free or Clipp Hard: Nats Survive Closer’s Explosion

Tyler Clippard, just after nearly blowing the game and just before ultimately not blowing it. Also, the top of someone’s cap.

Final Score: Nationals 4, Mets 3

Dame of the Game:

Jordan Zimmermann: 6 IP, 0 ER, 4 H, 4 K. Video of Jordan Zimmermann speeding along mountain roads in a sports car, running down Mets batters on every curve. Cut to: young boy turns to the camera, whispers “Zimm Zimm.”

Shame of the Game:

Tyler Clippard: 1 IP, 2 ER, 2 HR, 2 H, 3 K, Save. The beauty of the save statistic is that it’s possible to give up two home runs in the only inning you pitch and still receive one. And by “beauty of” I mean “reason why no one should ever care about.”


Ah, the joys of seeing the Nats win in person. Being so close to Michael Morse that you can practically taste his grease. Being so close to Jason Bay that you can practically taste his disappointment in the way his life turned out. What a thrill.

It didn’t occur to me at the time, but in retrospect I shouldn’t have bothered to come to the game until Jordan Zimmermann was out of it, since it was obvious neither his opponents nor his supposed supporters were going to score before then.

Sometime in the first 5 1/2 innings of inevitably uneventful baseball.

Even when the first 2/3 of a Nationals game are essentially predetermined by Jordan Zimmermann’s effectiveness and his offense’s hatred for him, there is always one good reason to be in Nationals Park around the middle of the game: the running of the presidents. And last night’s race was perhaps the best I’ve ever personally experienced. Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

If it Feels So Right, How Can it Be Wang?: A Disabled List Love Story

“Taiwant you so bad,” whispers Cyndi in the ear of a sweat-glistened Chien-Ming Wang. The bar reeks of desperation and despair, and no hopeless scent is more acrid than Wang’s. He has just been non-tendered by the New York Yankees, following a miserable injury-plagued season and a half. But Cyndi’s gentle touch on his shoulder is the opposite of non-tender.

His shoulder. The reason why his $5 million contract is gone. It has still not fully recovered from the season-ending surgery he underwent in June. Wang shivers, and he doesn’t know if it’s from the sadness or the desire. Cyndi clearly thinks it’s the latter, giving him a wink as she retreats behind the bar to take another customer’s order. Wang puts his head in his hands. He can’t do this. He has a wife and a young daughter. How could he live with himself if he betrayed them? And yet…his career might be over. Nothing in life seems to give him satisfaction anymore. Maybe he needs Cyndi.

She whirls back around to face him and hands him another drink. “So, what do you do?” she asks. “I…uh…sell cars.” Want doesn’t want to disclose his true identity. “What kind of cars?” “Uh…mostly…gray cars. With doors.” She nods and smiles. He’s not sure if she believes him or not. “My shift is over. Want to get out of here?”

Wang wants. Cyndi leads him out of the bar, grinning at him. “I can’t wait,” she tells him breathlessly, “let’s run to my home!”

“NO!” shouts Wang, his eyes filled with fear. The last time he ran home he sustained a season ending injury in Houston. Cyndi is taken aback, but doesn’t ask for an explanation. “Let’s just walk. Carefully.” She agrees.

They are in her bed, ripping each other’s clothing off like . Nothing stands between their naked flesh but the last shreds of Wang’s guilt. Continue reading

Tagged , , , ,