And next, on the Deuce ...

You know, we relocated two months ago and drunkenly forgot to mention it here, BUT: we're over at What Would Tyler Hansbrough Do?, making fun of TJ Yates, live-blogging the ACC basketball season, and drinking a lot of Jack Daniels. Change your bookmarks and add us to your RSS reader, yo.

"Guess who's pitching tonight?"

Here in the NC -- aside from FOX's weekly national games -- we get baseball on three channels: ESPN, WGN, and TBS.

This means we watch a lot of Braves games and we hate on them (but it's baseball) and we watch a lot of Cubs games and I have rage blackouts at the Big Z on a regular basis (but it's baseball). But more than that, mostly we just watch a lot of Cubs games in general: they're on, Len & Bob are frequently drunk, and it's baseball when there's otherwise no baseball on the TV.

And more than even that, it means that Ted Lilly is stalking us. I've probably watched three or four dozen Cubs games this year, and at least half of those I've watched with shep., and at least half of those -- so we're talking a dozen games at least, here -- Ted Lilly has been pitching.

We've seen Jason Marquis throw a few times. We've mocked Sean Marshall's oddly squashed face a few times. We've seen the Big Z melt down more than I care to think about. And we've seen damn close to half of Ted Lilly's starts this season, and we can't figure out why.

Does WGN love Ted Lilly particularly? Is this a fluke of the broadcast schedule, a whim of WGN's carrying of Cubs games that we've just been subjected to?

No, it's clearly this: Ted Lilly wants shep. and me to love him. I mean, come on, people: he's on ESPN tonight, begging for our love. Ted Lilly wants us to stalk him, so he's stalking us instead.

Ted, I'm sorry. We're very busy with Matt Wieters and Andrew Carignan at the moment, and I know it's hard, but we don't love you the way you love us. If you don't get off our TV, we're going to get a restraining order.

Seriously, Ted. You're starting to creep us out.

"You know, that guy's still there."

You would never know it, if we were to talk about National League baseball today, but I had aspirations to be a Houston Astros fan once. True story: it was 2003 and one of my dearest friends was blogging about them from Houston and, you know, I thought they were sort of endearing? What did I know, I'd never followed a National League team before.

In retrospect, I blame it all on Roy Oswalt.

Most people don't know this, because they're less crazy than I am, but Roy Oswalt has one of the lowest active ERAs in baseball, second only to Pedro Martinez. Roy Oswalt has had multiple 20-win seasons. Roy Oswalt cannot swing a bat at a baseball to save his life but he'll hit you in the head with it, motherfucker, because Roy Oswalt takes shit from no man. Roy Oswalt is now, and always has been, six feet of smoking southern bad ass technology, even while recovering from re-occurring groin injuries that laid him out for over a season.

Roy Oswalt is sort of amazing, although I might be biased; he non-ironically drives a tractor, he throws like a machine, and he looks a lot like my brother. In my head, Roy Oswalt is like the Chuck Norris of baseball.

Roy Oswalt's ferocity and drive and 90 mile-per-hour fastball made me love him, absolutely and completely. They made me care about his team, made me want the tshirt and the cap and the kool-aid and the whole goddamn Minute Maid Park experience, until his team turned around and signed my favorite pitcher out from under me. The Astros and I, we've never really been able to move past that because I wasn't a National League fan -- I'm an American League fan. I am a Yankees fan, born and raised in the Empire State, and while Don Mattingly is the first athlete I remember, Andy Pettitte was the first Yankee I ever loved.

Fast forward four years.

These days, everybody knows Andy Pettitte is back in New York, sans a new championship ring, because Houston wouldn't give him the contract or the money he wanted, and New York was just desperate enough to offer him both. Roger Clemens rode Pettitte's coattails back to avoid separation anxiety, or something? The television wants me to believe it's because he doesn't have a Cingular phone? Obviously he just needed 27 million dollars to buy one!

Roy Oswalt, through all their shenanigans, has stayed in Houston. He's a rock like that. The immovable object in the face of the irresistible force that was the Clemens/Pettitte hypothetical baseball homosexual circus in the middle of Texas, and now it's blown over and his team has fallen apart and he kept on keeping on, trying to hold the pieces together.

I watched the Astros/Dodgers game tonight; it was hard for me. But I was drinking and Roy was pitching, an experimental method to achieving awesome good times, and it worked: he threw 109 pitches and held the Dodgers to one run for eight innings and the bullpen didn't blow it in the ninth, he earned his 13th win for the season. He was pretty awesome. It was all pretty awesome.

During the fifth inning (although I can't be entirely certain, I did not TiVo), the cameras did the long pan down the visitor's dugout while the ESPN announcers discussed the futility of Houston attempting another playoff run. At the far end of the dugout, at least six feet from any other member of his team, sat Roy Oswalt. He was slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, watching the Houston at-bats, and after every portent of doom proclaimed from the booth -- the injuries, the anemic bats, the exodus of starting pitchers, Brad Lidge: great headcase or greatest headcase -- the camera would re-focus on Roy's face and one of the guys would say, "that guy's still here. He's going out every fifth day, and he's doing all he can. They don't even deserve it, but he's giving them everything."

That guy's still there. Fuck, I love him. Maybe I should try to learn something from this! Stand by your boys, even after they kick you in the fruit stand! But seriously, not if they're the Houston Astros. Those dudes will screw you over every which way they can, from stealing your players to sending them back again, without signing any draft picks in between. You know, I thought the Yankees signing Andrew Brackman was bad. Roger Clemens and Andrew Brackman. Sheesh.

"I missed the proliferation of Glavines."

shep.: I hope Lou gets in a fight with someone.
dex.: *hopeful* Tom Glavine?

I really, really hate Tom Glavine. Like. A lot. I hate Tom Glavine more than I hate Rick Pitino, and I hope the Cubs stick it right up his ass tonight. YOU DO NOT DESERVE NICE THINGS OR 300TH VICTORIES, MR. 1994 STRIKE NL PLAYER'S REPRESENTATIVE.

His hair notwithstanding, he was a good dude.

shep. and I spent a lot of time making fun of Skip Prosser's hair, but the fact of the matter was, he was a class act, a great coach, and a genuinely good guy. When I was in middle school -- many, many years ago -- I spent a season paying five bucks a game to watch a very young Skip Prosser coach Loyola (MD), and he was a joy to watch then, too. Someone who genuinely cared about his players, the fans, and the game.

It causes me great sadness to report that Prosser died this afternoon after suffering a heart attack while jogging. shep. and I want to extend our condolences to Prosser's family, the members of the basketball program and athletic department of Wake Forest University, and the Wake faithful; college basketball lost one of the good ones today. RIP, Skip.

It is designed to break your heart.

I think I'm having a baseball renaissance.

Not that it ever really went away -- I loved baseball before I even loved Carolina basketball, and even with the basketball, there are days when the game is simply a vehicle for everything else I love, the living breathing weeping cheering Carolina nation, you know? But baseball, man, baseball I love for the game. The sound of the bat, the 6-4-3 double play, watching a really good pitcher break a curve a full foot and a half for a called third strike.

I'd kind of forgotten that. shep. suckered me back into it last summer with her fantasy league, and after 10 years -- from when they broke my heart with Davey Johnson, through the photos of Moose holding up the Yankees jersey that tapdanced on my soul, to Bedard and Guthrie and Loewen and Cabrera this year, smart good young pitchers who love the game -- I almost sort of got back together with the Orioles last year. We're having a trial reconciliation. If they don't trade Brian Roberts or Nick Markakis or Adam Loewen or Eric Bedard away, we might get back together for good.

The thing is, see, I feel like baseball's the only game where college and the pros are the same. It's the same game, 90 feet between bases and watch the hitters who pull to the left, and the NBA bears no resemblance to college basketball for me and I couldn't give less of a crap about football, so. Baseball it is.

I forgot about how much I loved baseball, though; I became a Cubs fan in Chicago because Wrigley was right there and my friends had become Cubs fans. Gone from Chicago, I am less and less invested as the team I loved four, five years ago is traded away, injured for good, just gone for whatever reason. The Cubs were like that guy you sleep with while you're taking a break from the love of your life -- it's pretty hot sex and it satisfies a craving, but it's not a forever thing. (Except with the Big Z. The Big Z and me, we're forever, even if I did dump him off my fantasy roster. He deserved it. He was sucking. I HAVE NO REGRETS, JOHN MAINE IS AWESOME.) Being a Cubs fan for me was never quite about being a baseball fan.

And in some ways, rooting for the Heels this year was not quite about being a baseball fan, not at the beginning -- and then, suddenly, under the lights in the Bosh and the sunlight in Omaha, it was. Wishing for Dustin Ackley to find his slumpbuster. Picking apart Robert Woodard's herky-jerky motion on the mound, skeptical no matter how good he is or how many times they say someone taught him that way on purpose. Trying to find the exact hole in FedEx's swing. Watching the outfield shift, watching Seth Williams go ass over teakettle and come up with the ball, spitting grass and hat six feet from where he landed.

Plus I currently own both the AL leaders in wins, two of the top three in AL strikeouts, the second leading AL era, the AL stolen bases leader, and the NL leader in batting average on my fantasy team, which helps. (The fact that I willing gave Jake Peavy to shep. burns me daily. DAILY, I TELL YOU. But I love her, and she loves Jake, and so. I think I was still drunk at 10 a.m. on a Saturday when I agreed to that. I remember saying, "But only if I can find someone awesome to replace him." CC Sabathia is awesome, but he is not nearly as hot as Peavy. And also he got shelled this afternoon and he's on notice.) Fantasy baseball might be sort of dumb, you can keep your opinions on that to yourself, but it makes me pay attention to the game in way that nothing else ever has; not my Orioles, not just the Cubs, the game.

And I walked over to the Bosh on Monday, linked my fingers in the gates that won't be there this time next year because they're tearing it down and building a park like this program deserves and just looked at the field all empty. And tonight, shep. and I, a little tipsy on beer and Jack Daniels and definitely flush with the cool, clear evening, walked out there again, hooked our fingers in the chain link fences, peered into the batting cages, tried to figure out if we climbed into the stadium, just to sit in the dugout and stand on the mound, could we climb out again. (The answer was no, we could not, and also we didn't want to be banned for life when campus security caught us.) For long moments in the Sunday night game during the regional at the beginning of June, nobody I cared about on the field and it wasn't about Carolina at all, it was just about wet grass and the halos on the lights and shep. counting balls and strikes on the backs of the rosters crammed in my scorebook while I stood in line for more bottled water.

I love Carolina basketball, but I just love baseball.

I can't stop thinking about baseball, like I go to sleep thinking of pickoff moves and doubles to right center and wake up thinking about how Woodard's hitch will play in a rotation with Jake Peavy and in between I think about Josh Horton's hands and Andrew Carignan's 94-mile-an-hour fastball and Eric Bedard's run support. I'm in the middle of a stretch where I feel like I'm not just having a bad week, I'm having a bad life, but then I think about the hit-and-run and somehow it's better. Baseball, man. It's designed to break your heart -- but sometimes it's the thing that saves you.

An Open Letter To The University of North Carolina Baseball Team

Dear Coaches Fox, Forbes, Holbrook and Howell; dear Cardiac Heels:

Thank you for giving us a team like you gave us, a team we could love completely and obsessively and probably a little unhealthily. Thank you for making us love college baseball so much that the only place we'll be in June next year is Omaha. Thank you for getting thrown out of games on the force of your convictions; thank you for trusting your players enough to leave them in the lineup.

Thank you for being bad ass new gods and studs who hit bombs. Thank you for the black uniforms. Thank you for ERAs under 2.00 and double plays and catches made against the wall, for sacrifice bunts and doubles off the warning track and home runs when we need them. Thank you for the at-bat music that made us laugh, thank you for nicknames both of your making and our own.

Thank you, Joshie, for putting yourself on notice, for loving the the game more than anyone else in the world, for always smiling. Thank you, D.Ack, for being the best freshman in the country, for breaking aluminum bats on grand slams. (shep. would also like to thank you for being hot like burning.) Thank you, FedEx, for being the heart of the team, the one we always believed in no matter what. Thank you for proposing at the CWS, Benji, even if dex. did want to marry you herself. Wooten, thank you for wanting to always be on the field, and for the sacrifice of the tooth -- you're the one we want watching our backs in a fight. Thank you, R.Wood, for coming back for your senior year, for career victories, for the face you make when Coach Fox takes you out of the game. Thank you, little Timmy and Kyle, for being part of a freshman class that scares other teams. Thank you, Reid Fronk, for being the kind of lead off hitter we needed, thank you, Chad Flack, for swinging the big bat at the most crucial moments. Thank you, Mike Cavasinni, for coming back, for continuing to play, and for making a backup catcher at Georgia Tech think that shep. loves him.

And thank you, Andrew, for being the kind of player -- committed to his teammates above anything else -- that we're proud to have playing for our university. Thank you for being the bad ass new god; thank you for coming back with your head high and your fastball in the 90s.

Thank you for proving, over and over again, that the game is never done until the 27th out in the ninth inning is recorded. Thank you for being a team we could love like we do love you.

Regardless of what happens tonight -- thanks for being awesome.

dex.

I can say: REIDFRONK is totally on notice.

I would live-blog tonight's UNC/Miss State College World Series game from my pineapple couch here in the CH, just to stick it up the NCAA's ass, except that a live-blog involving me and shep. would mostly involve a lot of commentary on who wears the high socks for Carolina, who should wear the high socks for Carolina, who shouldn't wear the high socks for Carolina, and also a lot of discussion of catchers', uh, assets.

So you're spared. Count your blessings. Go Heels.

Now I have to go make another drink. A strong one. A really strong one.

ETA: Carolina has now scored 26 runs in the 6th inning or later over their last four games; they're 3-1 in that time. I'm okay with this, because they keep winning, but come on, guys, can't you score some earlier just so my heart catches a break?

San Diego: the MLB team I always forget exists.

In an effort not to make a flailing all-caps post about the Tar Heels' excellent College World Series advancing victory over South Carolina tonight, I share with you my favorite story about a major league ballpark, which was triggered in my mind by seeing a reference to Petco Park elsewhere on the internets:

Seattle relievers were dismayed to find out when they got here that the beautiful, still-new Petco Park does not have a bathroom in the visitors' bullpen, which is down the right-field line, on the opposite side of the field from the visitors' bench.

No one was more dismayed than lefty Matt Thornton, who had go to the bathroom during the game Friday night. To do so, he had to climb over a fence to reach a public restroom, where he had to stand in line.

"I met a guy named Stan, who invented a baseball cap with a handle so you can take it off fast to catch foul balls," Thornton said. "He said he tested it at a batting cage on pitches at 75 mph and caught five before the seams started to give out."

Closer Eddie Guardado said that the visitors' bullpen in San Francisco doesn't have a bathroom, either.

"It's not that bad there; the dugout is closer and you can run back," Guardado said. "Maybe it's just they didn't think of it, or maybe they're trying to be cute. It could be tough to pitch well if you gotta go, you know?"

From The Seattle Times. Stan! I'm sorry, two years later, that story still cracks me up. He had to wait in line! In full uniform and spikes! Ahahahahahaha.

In conclusion, I leave you with the text message I received from shep. upon her viewing of the Tar Heels' celebration: THAT IS A BIG PILE OF DUDES I LOVE

And it was, dear readers, it really was. It was a very large pile of dudes that we here at Coming Up Carolina love, and I can only hope that no one bit Andrew Carignan while he was on the bottom of the pile. He's got to go to Oakland in a couple of weeks and learn how to be a hippie from Danny Haren, after all.

And the Heels have to go to Omaha and give shep. a College World Series title for her birthday, so I feel teeth should best be left out of it. The victories can continue.

(ETA: I just watched the large pile of dudes again -- thank God for TiVo -- and, hilariously, Tar Heels outfielder Kyle Shelton, who usually spends games sitting in the bullpen by himself to shag foul balls, completely overshot the large pile of dudes and went flying over the far side of the pile. Kyle Shelton, I love you, and I feel sad for you when you have to sit by yourself in the bullpen. In case you ever Google yourself to know if people love you.)

An Open Letter to Matt Wieters, Starting Catcher for the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets.

I trust you to choose well, Mr. Wieters. And by choose well I mean, say yes to the Devil Rays during today's 2007 MLB Draft, if Tampa Bay decides they need catching more than pitching and pick you instead of David Price. Durham hosts a Devil Rays farm team! I'm just saying: you will not want for anything.


Anything.


Alternately, Baltimore! It would please dex., that's for certain.


stalkery-ly,
shep.

Day 4 of the NCAA Baseball Chapel Hill Regional (a day late and several dollars short)

I got no numbers for you today, except for these: UNC 6, WCU 5.

If you wanted to recreate Game 6 of the Chapel Hill Regional in your own home, here's a recipe: gather 2000 of your closest friends. Put them all in a ballroom that's mostly made up of metal. Turn the heat up to 90 and hang sun lamps from the ceiling. When your 2000 closest friends get thirsty, charge them three bucks for a bottle of water. Invite a couple of people who will make your 2000 closest friends whisper and point every time they do anything remotely interesting (local celebrities would work). Spend three hours showing your 2000 closest friends a film that's primarily disappointing but has a surprise happy ending. Have them scream and wave their arms and clap their hands and leap onto the metal sculptures you've provided for them, assuring that your 2000 closest friends are so slippery with sweat that at least a handful will fall right back off after having leapt up.

Listen to the sounds of 2000 of your closest friends being deliriously happy. Scream until you're hoarse. Wish you could go back 5 days later and do it all again.

And then you've got yourself Game 6 of the Chapel Hill Regional. And, also, probably a sunburn.

Photos here.

Day 3 of the NCAA Baseball Chapel Hill Regional, By The Numbers

Games delayed by rain on Sunday: 1
Hours delayed game was delayed: 6
Games postpooned 'til Monday by rain: 1
Number of event staffers needed to dispel standing water with brooms (and a mop): 4
Number of people photographing event staffers dispelling standing water with brooms (and a mop): 2
Number of event staffers who flirted with us: 2
Hours spent in dex.'s car, waiting for the rain to stop: .75
Former ACC athletic directors seen: 1
High school coaches of Brian Roberts sat with: 1
Foul & home run balls shagged by shep.'s new nine-year-old BFF: 3
Half-innings delayed by umpire bathroom breaks: 1
Annoying ECU fans going home tonight: many, many, many

Four games in three days, and tomorrow we go back and do it one more time.

Day 2 of the NCAA Baseball Chapel Hill Regional, By The Numbers

Runs scored by Jacksonville University in this regional: 0
Hotasses on the Jacksonville University team: 20+
Coaches ejected from the ECU/UNC game: 2
Bad calls made by the umpires in the ECU/UNC game: 14,007
Innings during which it rained: 3
Earned runs given up by pitchers with ERAs under 2.00: 2
Earned runs given up by pitchers who were catching during the at-bat previous to their moving to the pitcher's mound: 1
Pitchers who caught the 1st through 6th & 8th and 9th innings after throwing the 7th: 1
UNC third basemen remaining ON NOTICE after the game: 1
Other UNC players remaining ON NOTICE after the game: 0
UNC players who would be ON NOTICE if they were not Dustin Ackley: 1
Teams that will be wearing purple and yellow during tomorrow's first game between ECU and WCU: 2

Every day should include desperate bottom-of-the-ninth rallies that result in victory, and end with burgers, beers, and the greatest manager shit-fit EVER THROWN.

Day 1 of the NCAA Baseball Chapel Hill Regional, By The Numbers

Temperature at game time, Game 1: 91 degrees
Temperature at game time INSIDE THE BOSH, Game 1: 105 degrees
Bottles of water consumed by shep. and dex.: 7
Pitchers used by ECU in their 9-8 victory over WCU: 6
Pitchers used by UNC in their 6-0 victory over Jacksonville: 2
UNC starters who were probably annoyed that they didn't get to pitch a complete game: 1
Batting line for the top three batters in the UNC lineup: 1 for 11, 2 K, 1 BB
Batting line for the rest of the UNC lineup: 9 for 19, 6 RBI, 0 K, 2 BB
UNC basketball players surreptitiously photographed by dex.: 2
Jacksonville baseball players' asses touched by dex.: 1
Old guys who told dex. that her hat was "very nice": 1
Number of new underage BFFs made by shep.: 1

dex.: Reid Fronk sounds like something you do in the dark in the bedroom.

shep.: Those were some good looking college boys getting off that bus.
dex.: They just kept coming. It was like a fucking clown car.

The only real thing we have to say about anything other than the fact that Robert Woodard is a badass new god is that it was really REALLY hot today. REALLY HOT. But as a whole, today was A+, would watch again.

dex: yeah, but what do we CALL our jj redick tag?

NBA officials say: Billy Donovan leaving Florida to coach JJ REDICK. This is kind of the best thing that shep. and I have been given this year, we cannot lie.

In case Jeremy Foley is interested, shep. and I feel that UNC assistant Joe Holladay would be a superb choice for the head coaching position at the University of Florida. And we've got a good suggestion for Joe Holladay's spot on the Carolina bench, as well. Warren Weston Miller would be an excellent assistant coach. Our interest in this subject is purely scientific, I assure you.

shep.: If somebody offered me $27.6 million, I would coach J.J. Redick.
dex.: And by coach, you mean beat in the locker room at halftime?
shep.: Well, I was thinking service sexually, but beat in the locker room at halftime would work too.

And, oh yeah, the Heels are ACC Champions, bitches.

I woke up this morning in my childhood bedroom with an inexplicable hangover and the feeling that shep. and I had done something truly ridiculous yesterday, which was odd, since the sum-total of my drinking on Sunday amounted to a single beer at the O's/A's game and I always adhere to the Rule For Drinking Beer During Hot Weather At Baseball Games (half a bottle of water for every beer, which is only problematic when you miss ninth inning rallies because you're in line for the women's bathroom), and also since, honestly, when do shep. and I ever do ridiculous things, especially when we aren't even in the same state? NEVER. Well, hardly ever.

Once I downed two cups of coffee and shoved the cat in his carrier to start the six hour trip home to the NC from the parentals' place in Baltimore, I remembered: oh, yeah, yesterday shep. bought us All-Session passes to the NCAA Chapel Hill Regional.

So that's what we're doing for at least a good chunk of this coming weekend: watching Carolina play WCU, ECU and Jacksonville for the right to go to the Super Regional. If you're going to be at the Bosh for any of the games, we'll be the people sitting down by the opposing team's dugout hassling on-deck batters and assessing catchers' ... talents. shep. has big sunglasses. I will be wearing a spectacular hat, and will have a digital camera in one hand and a scorebook in the other. We promise to make lots of off-color jokes about the fact that WCU's mascot is the Catamount, and possibly embarrass ourselves horrifically, like always.

In other news, if Daniel Cabrera promises not to suck like a Hoover anymore (like he didn't yesterday), I shall make myself present at all of his starts. Luckily, I think that the likelihood of Cabrera not sucking is low, so I can save on game tickets.

Even Tahmoh Penikett would look wretch in these robes, I cannot lie.

Fact: even if you have Reyshawn Terry's arms, cheekbones, and sweet 16-foot jumper, you still don't look good in Carolina blue graduation robes. I don't think anyone looks good in Carolina blue graduation robes. (This is not the only reason that I attended my own recent graduation as an audience member, but it was one of them. Except graduate students get to wear black, BUT I FOUND THAT OUT LATE, OKAY?)

Regardless, congratulations to the Tar Heel basketball class of '07 -- Reyshawn Terry, Warren Weston Miller, and Dewey "Biscuits" Burke (our nickname for Reyshawn is not fit for a family friendly blog, alas) -- on their graduations and to Coach Dean Smith on his honorary doctor of laws degree. Y'all make me proud to share a graduating class with you.

"I wonder if Greg Oden's beard and Adam Morrison's mustache go on play dates." -- Len Bias Cocaine Surplus of Deadspin

Baron Davis's beard is the older brother who takes the NBA Facial Hair Play Group to Chucky Cheese.


In other news, the backup catcher on the Georgia Tech baseball team thinks that shep. is in love with him.

somehow, this is all Tyler Hansbrough's fault.

There was a longer post here about my life karma, currently in the green (good weather, full set of teeth, favourite Tar Heels returning), and how it's feeling perhaps affronted by the recent burst of serenity in my life. Being my life karma, it's decided to take reckless matters into its own hands and find new and improved ways to fuck me over this spring.


That post is gone now because it was stupid.


All I can say is, of course the Yankees' baby-faced Phil Hughes, twenty-year old pitching prospect extraordinaire, went down last night with a hamstring injury during his second major league start. Of course he did. After all, he's only pitched three AAA games. Such things are destined to happen! Oh, and he might miss a month! Well now! Shock of America!


During the NCAA playoffs dex. and I spent an unreasonable amount of time making deals between ourselves and fate, all in the name of basketball. We would cheer for teams we hated, or compliment coaches and players we'd rather see lying dead in the street, in an attempt to garner better karma for the Tar Heels. Ultimately, losing to Georgetown could not have been our fault; in March, I said more nice things about Billy Donavan than the total amount of time I talked to my family, and words cannot describe how difficult that was for me.


Would I trade one of the returning Tar Heels for a healthy starting rotation, or a bullpen that won't burn itself out over the next month? No, I wouldn't, and not just because dex. would kick my ass from here to Asheville. But if Bobby Frasor could throw ninety miles an hour and had a reasonable sense of control, I would strongly consider chloroforming his ass and driving him to New York myself, just to see how he could do. Seriously. I have a really spacious trunk.

Conversations that happen at Four Corners after midnight when shep. is tipsy.

dex: Nomar's growing facial hair! I guess Mia is too busy to have sex with him now.
shep: He's helping take care of the twins, and this baseball career takes a lot of time.
dex: He has to get his own water now.
shep: It's hard to be Nomar when he has to get his own water.

Sometimes, things related to the White Sox are not all bad.

I have two Tar Heels on my fantasy league (where shep. is already soundly kicking my ass) team this year. Two! And if BJ Surhoff hadn't gotten old, I would have three. I have a great love for the Weej, as my high school boyfriend called him. I miss him and his old-man knees and the fact that he caught until his knees got too bad, then he played third base until his knees got too bad, then he played in the outfield until his knees got too bad, and then he DH'd for a while after that, until he couldn't stand up anymore. That's dedication to the game, man.

... Wait, what was I talking about? Right. Tar Heels on my fantasy league roster. I have two Tar Heels on my fantasy league team, Andrew Miller (RP, Detroit) and Chris Iannetta (C, Colorado Rockies). This pleases me, because it speaks volumes for Carolina's baseball program.

My point was: this year, the Tar Heels baseball team has a starting pitcher who pitches out of the bullpen on his off-days, just because he can, who lists Guitar Hero as his favorite video game, and who was a chess champion in middle school. Seriously. Is there anything not to love about this baseball team? I THINK NOT.

The joy of watching this team this year hasn't been that they're good (which they are) or that they win (which they do) -- it's been how they win. On Friday night, against Duke, they won 7-0 on a complete game shutout by Robert Woodard, and they had one extra base hit, a late-game solo homerun by Chad Flack.

One. One extra base hit. They scored six runs on the strength of walks (good eyes at the plate, because the Duke pitchers were good), singles, and smart, smart base-running. It's a textbook definition of small ball -- solid hitting from everyone in the lineup (well, not really; Tim Federowicz is slumping, and slumping bad, lately, and it was really the very very top and the very very bottom of the lineup that won the game on Friday night), smart baserunning and a quick (read: lots of stealing) starting lineup, and solid if not inspired pitching. Woodard gave up a bunch of hits, but it didn't matter, because the defense was good and he never got rattled. (He does, however, have the weirdest motion on the face of the Earth, and Dontrelle Willis, I'm looking at you -- Woodard kicks, pauses, and finishes delivery, when there's no one on base. It's supremely strange to watch, makes him look like a robot.)

Carolina Baseball has been fun to watch this season because they're playing smart baseball. To steal a line from the White Sox, they're playing grinderball. Play hard, play smart, play fundamentally solid, and trust your pitchers. And you'll win. (I still think that Benji Johnson has better rapport with his pitchers than Federowicz -- Johnson is a smart, gentle sort of catcher, who knows exactly how to call for each of his pitchers, and knows how to adjust on the fly -- but Federowicz hits better and has a better arm, so I guess it's a trade-off.)

Grinderball -- it's the kind of baseball that looks boring on paper but turns out to be a hell of a lot of fun to watch.

(Photos, such as they are, are here.)

Just slighter nicer than if Greg Paulus decided, in this thin NBA point guard class, to go pro.

Sometimes, when we're really, really lucky, shep. and I do get nice things.

an open letter to the university of north carolina basketball teams, plural

I only have one word for the University of North Carolina men's and women's basketball teams right now. It's not a complicated word. It's not a word they'll have to look up in the dictionary, if they want to comprehend its meaning. It's a pretty simple, everyday, ordinary sort of word.

That word is finish. As in, finish off a game.

As in, don't collapse as the pressure goes up.

I watched last night's women's Final Four semifinal on the TV in my bedroom, with sort of a growing dread in my stomach for most of the second half. It was like a horror movie -- where the heroine is going to open the door/go down to the basement/run outside of the nice safe house, and there's nothing you can do to stop her except shout helplessly at the television.

When Carolina shot out to a 12 point lead with 7 minutes left, I could see it coming.

When Tennessee closed the gap to six, I could see it coming.

And when Ivory Latta started missing every shot she took, I put the covers over my head and turned the sound off, watching the last two minutes of the game with one eye, barely peeking over the top of my comforter, and only the sound of my own breathing for company.

It was like some horrible kind of deja vu. It was like watching the men collapse against Georgetown all over again, except worse: in the Final Four, with a starting lineup made up mostly of upperclassmen, against a team that's won more national championships that any other women's team. I mean, honestly, what's Pat Summitt going to do with her 7th trophy, put it in her guest bathroom? At least I could hope that JT3 could stop riding his daddy's coattails if Georgetown won the whole shebang on the men's side. Pat Summitt can win titles on her own, without any help from Sylvia Hatchell's team falling apart in the final minutes.

So seriously, basketball teams: what gives? So much talent, and so little ability to put an opponent away. Look, there's no shame in routs -- if you can rout a team, rout them. I'm a fan of the good old fashioned rout. It's harder to climb back from 25 down with four minutes left than from 4 down with 6 minutes left. But instead you guys never managed to give that final killing blow, and I just don't get it. And the photo of Ivory Latta on the front page of the Daily Tar Heel today made me cry.

And because I would be remiss to call these teams out without thanking them, as well: thank you both, for seasons that went above and beyond my expectations for fun, and heartbreak, and spectacular behind-the-back passes. Thank you for Ivory Latta, popping her jersey and flexing her muscles and running her team like a machine. Thank you for Erlana Larkins, and Camille Little, and LaToya Pringle. Thank you for Rashanda McCants, who reminds me of her brother more and more every day, and who's going to be a force to be reckoned with next year. Thank you, men, for bringing me a new appreciation of the running game, and for letting me love this team so much that my heart did break when you lost. Thank you for reminding me that there's always next year.

And thank God baseball started yesterday. If I'd had to wait for baseball after these last two Tar Heel games, I might have developed a bigger drinking habit than I already have.

An Open Letter to Bobby Frasor, Point Guard for the University of North Carolina Tar Heels.

Dear Bobby,


It's going to be okay.

No, really, it will be. It will! I doubt it feels that way right now; you may be a little more pessimistic than me, and you've certainly earned that right. But, all things considered, these last four and a half months were by no means a waste of time and effort. In lieu of all the obstacles you've faced, I think you did rather well this season. You did! I refuse to believe otherwise. I mean, come on. Stress fractures! Back spasms! Freshmen usurpers! (We all love him, but don't tell me he couldn't be seen as such.) That's rough, my friend, and I've never seen it get you down. You've weathered it all -- and now, in these last moments, this final heartbreak of a loss -- and it sucks. I know it sucks but I promise you, you'll get through it, and it'll make you stronger, and you will be amazing.

We don't know each other so this letter probably offers little in terms of comfort or reassurance, for either this season or the next, but I wanted to thank you. Thank you, Bobby, for 2007. Thank you for keeping your head high, for keeping your eyes open, for nailing those inside passes to Tyler, for sinking those three-point shots at the beginning of the season that were pretty enough to make me cry. Thank you for your bad jokes; thank you for busting on Wes Miller; thank you for laughing at yourself. Thank you for cheering just as loud as I did.

Next year, kid. I'll be there, cheering for you.