Tag Archives: Clayton Kershaw

If You Can Dodge A Wrench, You Can’t Necessarily Dodge a Wall: Dodgers Nail Nats With Headshot, Win Series

“He seems dead to me. Where’s the nearest meat grinder?”

Game 1:

Nationals 6, Dodgers 2

Bryce Harper plays the game of baseball the right way. There are only two steps to playing baseball the right way, and he excels at both of them in a fashion that you just don’t see very often in today’s game. They are:

1: Being really good at baseball
2: Smashing your head into things so hard that you bleed

There are a lot of players who are really good at baseball, though not many with Harper’s potential for greatness. But the art of self-inflicted head trauma seems to be dying out in modern baseball. Players these days are just too concerned with preserving the integrity of their skulls, and not enough with adhering to the time-honored tradition of causing blood to pour out of their faces  by hitting them really hard with solid objects. It’s sad, really.

But Bryce Harper gets it. He knows that baseball is about more than just hitting home runs, running fast, and playing great defense. It’s also about doing things that could potentially cause severe damage to the most sensitive part of the body.

Let’s hope some of the other Nationals start following Bryce’s heroic example and mutilate their own faces as soon as possible.
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HandKershaw Wipes Away Mucus-y Nationals as Dodgers Take Series Opener

"Ohhhhhhhh yeah, time to lick off some SWEET HAND JUICE. mmmmmmmmmm SO GOOD." -Clayton Kershaw
(Photo by Harry How/Getty Images)

Final Score: Dodgers 3, Nationals 2

Dame of the Game:

Adam LaRoche: 2-4, HR, 2 RBI, R, K. Adam LaRoche is the only one on the Nationals who remembers what to do with his large wooden club, which makes the rest of the Nats offense dumber than cavemen.

Shame of the Game:

Mark DeRosa: 0-4. Mark DeRosa is slugging .081. There should probably be a less positive-sounding word for that total bases/at bats average for people under .100.  Like “whimpering.” Mark DeRosa is whimpering .081.

——-

Ashes swirl over the battlefield. What was once a pristine field of grass and clay is now blackened and barren. The place reeks of charred flesh and death. Mike Rizzo, astride his trusty warhorse, surveys the carnage and grimaces.

The Nationals forces had made great advances in the early stages of the battle, fighting back the forces of Evil. Rizzo’s right flank, the Starting Pitchers, had been particularly successful, carving huge swaths in the enemy’s ranks and gaining valuable strategic territory. But after these quick victories, the enemy adapted. They sensed a weakness in the Washington army. The left flank–the Offense–was wavering. And this enemy was hungry for weakness.

The demonic horde pounced, and the flank’s collapse was precipitous. Adam LaRoche did his best to stave them off, waving his gleaming lumber like a man possessed, felling any enemy who came near. But he was not enough. Ian Desmond was actually possessed–after fighting reasonably well for a while, his eyes suddenly rolled back in his head and he turned around and punched a more-confused-than-normal Tom Gorzelanny in the neck. All around them, the lines were crumbling. First Michael Morse fell, an arrow protruding from his lat. Then Ryan Zimmerman, an axeblade jutting from his shoulder, crumpled to the ground. “You must…go on…without me…” he whispered, before his eyes glazed over. In the Bullpen center, Brad Lidge was randomly struck by a lightning bolt despite the fact that it was sunny. Weird. Continue reading

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