On the one hand, we have Jason Giambi. I have never in my life seen an athlete and a city so perfectly matched as Jason Giambi and Oakland. The long, scraggly hair and unkempt goatee, the tattoos and T-shirts, the motorcycles and fast food–his blue-collar attitude fit the blue-collar East Bay to a T. He was as much Oakland Raider as Oakland Athletic. Had he remained, I think he may have been the most revered athlete in East Bay history. Perhaps even with the steroids.

Instead, he left the A’s to join the Yankees, where he promptly cut his hair, shaved his beard, covered his tattoos, put on a suit and tie, and started doing deodorant commercials. Who was this guy? To Oakland fans, it seemed like such a betrayal–to Oakland and to Jason Giambi.

When Giambi returned to the East Bay, Oakland fans booed him more than they had ever booed anyone before or since. I think Oakland fans recognized something in him they did not like: the willingness to sell his soul, to give up his true nature for some dubious higher aim.

Now, he has confessed to using steroids. And now, Giambi will be booed and taunted everywhere he goes, not just Oakland. It’s sad, because I think Giambi has a genuine desire to be liked. He wants people to “be excited” for him. Instead, he is now a character in a morality play, personifying the consequences of temptation.

Jason Giambi is a classic tragic figure, a person whose one character flaw leads to his downfall. I am reminded of Icarus, whose father built him wings to escape the Labyrinth. Icarus ignored his father’s warnings, and tried to fly too high, to reach the level of the gods. He flew too close to the sun, the heat melted his wax wings and Icarus crashed into the sea.

Barry Bonds, too, is a classic figure, but he is not a tragic one. Bonds hasn’t sold his soul to the Devil; he is the Devil. He fell a long time ago. He knows there are great forces that oppose him, constantly. He accepts this. He knows who he is. He doesn’t pretend to be anything else.

The media will try to bring down Bonds, to make him pay for his sins. It won’t work. You can’t make the Devil pay for his sins. He’s already in Hell. Hell doesn’t bother him.

The Devil doesn’t answer to mere mortals. There will be no apologies.

Here is a painting by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, called “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”:

Icarus is barely visible, splashing down in the lower right corner. W.H. Auden wrote of it:

In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

In the long run, it is Bonds, who holds so many records, who will symbolize this sin. And this is the saddest part of all for Jason Giambi. Baseball will sail calmly on. The flight of Jason Giambi will be forgotten. And his fall will be nothing but a little-noticed splash in a large, busy landscape.

The jinxes of Boston mythology
With hexes, malicious astrology,
And curses of Ruth–
Are bogus. The truth
Is found with a faith in Theology.

There’s a scene in Winnie-the-Pooh where Owl’s tree blows over in a storm. Owl looks around bewilderedly, asking “Who? Who?” Finally, Owl spots Pooh, and asks, “Pooh? Did you do this?”

“I don’t think so,” says Pooh.

There’s a fundamental Owlness to human psychology. As children, when our thought processes are formed, everything in our world seems to be caused by the willpower of our parents. So we naturally look for human agents (or supernatural ones), whose acts of willpower (or lack thereof) cause every event in our lives.

The Boston Red Sox won the World Series last night. Congratulations!

Who did this? Who? Who? Owner John Henry, was that you? General Manager Theo Epstein, did you do this? Manager Terry Francona? Consultant Bill James? The goddess Venus in eclipse?

And why did it take so long? Babe Ruth? Harry Frazee? Tom Yawkey?

The St. Louis Cardinals got swept. Somebody did that! Was it Tony LaRussa? Walt Jocketty?

The Yankees didn’t win another championship. Who did that? George Steinbrenner? Brian Cashman? Joe Torre? Mel Stottlemeyer?

So Happy Owl Day today! And enjoy the next one on November 3. You know what to do.

Meanwhile, players and voters move on, like the wind.

The Periodic Table of Blogs was getting a little stale, so I got out the axe and chopped it up and stirred it around a bit.

Twenty-four blogs got swapped. This time, a lot of business blogs have appeared that seem worth checking out. How many of them will survive the next cut?

Varitek, Walker, Calero.
Anderson, Sanders, Cedeno.
Matheny, Martinez,
Embree, Ramirez,
Roberts, Tavarez, Arroyo.

Wakefield, Morris, Marquis.
Reyes, Rolen, Reese.
Isringhausen, Lowe,
Renteria, Foulke,
Eldred, Suppan, Ortiz.

Schilling, Cabrera, Taguchi.
Luna, Molina, Mabry.
Youkilis, Leskanic,
Myers, Mientkiewicz,
Womack, Millar, Mirabelli.

Haren, Bellhorn, Timlin.
King, Mueller, Williams.
Pujols, LaRussa,
Kapler, Francona,
Nixon, Damon, Edmonds.

I’m busy working on some big projects, so blogging is and will be light here for awhile.

If you need a baseball poetry fix, I suggest heading over to Grapez, as Greg Perry blogs the ALCS in verse.

Attack. Attack now.
The flame devours the candle.
Intense. Relentless.

A pool of spent wax.
A dark room. The scent of smoke.
A cold memory.

An underdog’s dream is expiring
After Nathan’s now-infamous tiring.
Anyone with a brain
Would have used Jesse Crain.
Do the Twins now regret Gardenhiring?

The fate of the Astros looks glowing
When Clemens or Oswalt is throwing.
But Atlanta can fight
If their karma is Wright,
Or if Houston goes Backe-Munroing.

Though pundits are plotting and planning,
The stats they are scouring and scanning
To lay out who wins–
The Yankees(!!!) or Twins(???),
Are worthless when Johan’s Santanning.

To triumph, the Angels will need
To use their advantage in speed.
Boston needs early licks,
For beyond inning six,
The Halos won’t give up a lead.

Both have rotations in doubt.
Each has their best starter out.
The defensive play
Slightly favors L.A.,
But on offense, the Cards have more clout.

Sadly, this needless divorce
Stems from an odious source:
Ownership greed
And failures to lead.
I feel sick from their lack of remorse.

Out of the bullpen, a chair
Catapults into the air
Landing some blows
And breaking the nose
Of a soon-to-be millionaire.

Said Baseball: “Flee Hurricane Frances!”
“We’ll watch how the stormfront advances,”
Replied Tampa Bay.
“We’d much rather stay.
And on Monday, we’ll just take our chances.”

Come Monday, the storm was still blowing.
That morning, no planes were yet going.
The Rays had to wait.
They arrived much too late.
“It’s a forfeit!” the Yankees were crowing.

Said Tampa, “The weather’s to blame.
If a ring’s won with this, it’s a shame.”
Bud bought Tampa’s story.
So sorry, Joe Torre,
You’ll earn your wins playing the game.

Here is a translation into baseball, of a French essay, via Two Blowhards.

What I particularly appreciate in the batting act of the swing is this impression: to gradually become the instructor of the body of the pitcher.
At the beginning, it feels a little flat, difficult. It is not obvious how to activate “the right spot” on the first blow of the ball. I feel awkward, as if I did not have anything to grasp there. And then quickly, the small encouragements of my opponent (his choked sighs, his hands run through his hair) comfort me. I feel self-assured, willing to take walks.
I take my time, I vary the pleasures: my swing travels like adventures through the strike zone, from top to bottom, inside and out, pulling to left, fisting to right, small blows of the ball in each neighborhood, the bat kissing the ball, all that in the area of the strike zone, of course. One should not harm the intimacy of the young pitcher, settling immediately inside his strike zone. Extending would be impolite and that could be interpreted as disrespect. The charm would be broken.
I also like to vary my approach, without losing sight of the goal: the long swings and slow contacts, smooth and generous, suddenly replaced by feverish rotations, several loose tremors, then return to the lazy strokes. After some time (generally, up to 10 minutes of this small play), my opponent starts to lose the control of his body. Initially, light tremors begin on the level of the thighs, like small revolts. Often, it is at this time that it approaches one of its fingers, then reaching the wrists, then settles on the elbow. If this does not happen to him, I take the hand of authority to him (but carefully) by directing the ball where needed to create the desired effect. This gesture makes him understand that he can be cherished if he wishes it, that there is nothing to be afraid of from now on. When we find the release point, the fusion between us takes place.
At certain times, I escape, I escape from reality from the act. I find myself elsewhere, thinking of something else. Or rather, I do not think of myself any more as a private individual. The ball works like a small adventurous animal while my spirit is spread out and is spread in the blue light of a kind of batting nirvana over which a most serene calm reigns. But the least shiver, the least small cry, the least herky-jerking of my opponent awakens me suddenly. I find my spirits, I rediscover this pitcher’s body which is offered to me.

Thus the at-bat can last a long moment. I think well of having extended the at-bat for nearly one hour, without leaving the batter’s box, fouling off pitches like a discrete rain beating in rhythm on the panes of a window. Generally, one conceives the swing as preliminary. It is perhaps for that reason that I prefer to continue it until the end, by argumentativeness. Until the end, i.e. until my opponent cannot retain any more and finally yields the home run, although he did not expect it yet. This is what I wanted to say by presenting the image of the instructor. Little by little, the music even becomes more present, pressing. It invades all space, reality and imaginary, until it is not possible any more to be concealed with its power.
During all this time, I take guard not to neglect the other parts of his body. I cherish his overall size, his belly, the way his hands settle near his hips, how he lets them slip along the thighs. My eyes continue on, down the legs to the feet. Then I seize in my mind his rotator cuff with a delicate firmness, I fantasize of passing his labrum between my fingers, and I feel it begin to yield almost instantaneously. All these physical contacts allow me to return to the task, concretely, that it is a pitcher who is there in front of me, with the heat and the silk of his skin. A pitcher!
After a more or less long time, when the storm is ready to burst (not before), I start to focus in his strike zone. Previously, it has sometimes happened to me that I’ve swung surreptitiously before the pitch, to intimately match his hip rotation with my hip rotation, but without ever going further. And then I slip the bat onto the ball, easily now, since all the batting from this point is inflated with desire. Short swings, timid, preparatory entries. At this stage, my forearms are taken with a regular tremor, my fingers are activated without more any reserve on my bat. I know whereof I gained. Soon, I will enjoy.
What excites me more, it is when the at-bat cannot retained any more, when I place my hand on my bat, that my body by itself dares to exert a significant pressure in order to make sure that I will keep going. Its size twists, its chest is drawn up, its eyelids drop with a marvellous grace. And then it comes, I can feel it, I even taste it, I accompany the pitcher’s release point as if I were a guide, an instructor in the cockpit of a plane. Lastly, after contact, my body rests, and I feel his whole body softening like butter between my hands, all of which comes on suddenly, as a great smile settles with the hollow of my face. It is like a relief.

I left it all to trust and am very happy. It may seem silly, but I have the impression of being a winner. I succeeded in becoming a master over the mysterious throwing machinery. I bored the intentions of my opponent, his delivery becoming entirely my own, until this small piece of me which is the ball seemed to become directed by my will. We have created–we have made–love.

Barnacled batter’ll
Sail a full circle, and
Soon he’ll go line his last
Run batted in.

Mariners drift back to
Antediluvian
Edgar Martinezless
Teams that don’t win.

What on earth is Ken Williams thinking?
Is he crazy, or has he been drinking?
Loaiza can pitch.
He fills a good niche,
But Contreras has always been stinking.

A miracle falls to the Cubs,
Getting Nomar for nothing but scrubs.
Will the Expo and Twinkie
Cabrera and Minky
Be cheered in the old Boston pubs?

DePo’s no dapper old dandy.
Fans hate his nouveau operandi.
He got Finley and Mayne,
But he didn’t obtain
Redemption by pulling in Randy.