Boyd's World-> Breadcrumbs Back to Omaha-> Back Again, Then There

About the author, Boyd Nation

As is my custom once a year here at Boyd's World, this week I'm turning over the reins to a guest author -- this year it's Blobo the Slightly Teal -- who can handle those pesky game reports better than I've ever been able to. I apologize for the late publication of this week's column, but, as Blobo's beloved grandfather Hamblo the Moderately Puce was prone to say, "Tales are best told after they've actually happened, lad, and pass me that bowl of grits."

This tale, of course, is but a small piece of the long history of Middle South that Blobo wrote in his dotage, which is kept in the great hall of his people, in that land which has long passed beyond the memories of Men, in much the same way as the Stuckey's restaurants have become slowly invisible. It tells the tale of the day a brave band of heroes sallied forth to engage the forces of darkness in Ox-Ford, or as it is called in the tongue of the old ones, Yok-na-pa-taw-pa.

For the first few cycles of our tale, Blobo himself knew only what the voices in the air told him, as he spent his time and considerable energy seeking to obtain some form of meat on a stick from the purveyors in the Stands of Concession. Apparently, there was some trifle in the Laws of Men about selling to one without shoes, no matter how coarse and hairy his feet might be. There was also a great and fearsome skirmish with the invisible host in the Facilities of the Stadium, as Blobo sought to relieve his burdens.

In the meantime, a great hero had arisen in the skirmish, one Paul, son of Gary, a Man from the North of Middle South, and a long-time warrior in the battles of the age. Young Paul had kept the enemy at bay through seven of the cycles, weakening at times, but allowing only one of the rebels free access to his dastardly goal and preventing any from passing through the walls into their desired home. As he tired, and his labors became more wearisome and yet more mighty, he was visited by Craig the Stout, Receiver of the Pitched Sphere and Defender of the Plate of Home. As brave Craig approached, he said, "C'mon, hoss, less just get on through this and go home. These folk make me a bit twitchy." As young Craig had struck the blow which gave our heroes the advantage in the fray back in the sixth cycle, his word carried much weight, and Paul, son of Gary bore down and demolished the forces of darkness once more.

His labors had become great and wearier still, though, and as he went to rest for the next cycle, conversation was held between Paul, Craig, and Ron, Chief among the Coaches and Keeper of the Rule of the Team (*). Although it was felt that Paul had earned much respect, he was weakening, and a new champion was needed. As his mighty eye searched the gathering place of the Men, it fell upon the Papelbon, long a favorite as a replacement hero, mighty of quick deed yet short of stamina. The Papelbon had, indeed, saved our mighty band many times before. He was reputed to have turned down a great bounty of gold to travel with the band yet again, but perhaps that is a story for another time. Quickly, as the time came to rejoin the fray, Ron told Paul to take his rest, and sent forth the Papelbon into the fray.

As the Papelbon strode forth to face the forces of darkness, he drew well upon the strength which he held in reserve for these times. The first rebel attacked, and was quickly dispatched by one of the Papelbon's Hunters. A second rebel strode forth, but was taken down with guile by the Papelbon and by the Guardian of the Third Base. As the fray seemed about to end, though, the next rebel suddenly was recalled by his own Coach, and his replacement managed to breach the defenses with a spell that befuddled swift Matthew Maniscalco, a visitor from the tribe of the East. As the close-fought fray began to look lost, though, the Papelbon reached back and caused the final rebel to weakly relinquish his attempt, sending the rest of the forces of darkness on the run. Much celebration and rejoicing followed, but that, too, is a tale for another time.

(*) As with all Teams, the one Rule of the Team was, "Thou shalt not be caught with the pipeweed, or thy days shall be short with the team."

Rather than keep returning to the subject of pitch counts and pitcher usage in general too often for my main theme, I'm just going to run a standard feature down here where I point out potential problems; feel free to stop reading above this if the subject doesn't interest you. This will just be a quick listing of questionable starts that have caught my eye -- the general threshold for listing is 120 actual pitches or 130 estimated, although short rest will also get a pitcher listed if I catch it. Don't blame me; I'm just the messenger.

(*) Pitch count is estimated.

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Boyd's World-> Breadcrumbs Back to Omaha-> Back Again, Then There

About the author, Boyd Nation