The A’s are doomed. The Red Sox are gonna win this series. The Curse of the Buck strikes again.

Every time the A’s have lost a postseason series since 1988, somebody named “Buck” has broadcast at least one game of the series. 1988 and 1990 World Series: Jack Buck. 1992 ALCS: Buck Martinez. 2000 and 2001 ALDS: Joe Buck. 2002 ALDS: Buck Martinez.

No Bucks broadcast the 1988 ALCS or the any of the 1989 playoffs, when the A’s won the World Series.

The only exception is the 1990 ALCS, which the A’s won, where I assume Buck Martinez was calling it for some Canadian outlet, but I haven’t been able to confirm that information.

Anyway, I just found out that calling this series for ESPN Radio will be: Buck Martinez. Aaaaaagh!

I think it’s a conspiracy. The networks dream of having the Red Sox and Yankees play each other. So to ensure they get it, they simply say “Buck you, Oakland!”

Perhaps we can buck this curse. Do not listen to the ESPN Radio broadcast, no matter what. If you’re at the game, do not look at Buck Martinez for any reason. Avoid him like a vampire avoids the sun. Don’t even look up towards the broadcast booth, for you might accidentally see him. If a Buck calls a game and nobody listens, does it make a sound?

Of course, the Red Sox have their own curses. Is Bucky Dent a curse? Are both teams therefore bucked? What happens when curses collide? Which curse is stronger, the Buck or the Bambino? Perhaps it will end up as Billy Beane said in the Chronicle this morning: “Like ‘Rock’em Sock’em Robots,’ where both heads pop off at the same time and no one can continue.”

Either that, or someone will somehow manage to buck their curse. Does the buck stop here? I would like nothing more than to wake the networks from their dreams and tell them and their curse to go buck themselves: “Buck, your time has come! It’s the A’s vs. the Twins! Buck off!”

The first round of playoffs begins
With the Yanks playing host to the Twins.
If Minnesota can score
This one won’t be a bore,
But if not, New York easily wins.

If the Marlins decide to omit
The chance to let Barry Bonds hit
They will still, in my mind,
Need somehow to find
A way to defeat Jason Schmidt.

Atlanta postseason? Ho hum.
Their presence is making me numb.
The Cubs! Holy Cow!
In the playoffs! Oh, wow!
Let’s hope Dusty won’t do something dumb.

If Hudson and Zito and Foulke
Get beat up by Manny’s big stroulke,
Oakland cries yet more tears
Having lost four straight years,
Unless Boston finds new ways to choulke.

No one, from what I can see,
Deserves the AL MVP.
It seems, although I’m not sure why,
That losing teams need not apply,
And when we look at winning teams,
No one had a Year of Dreams.
So let’s default to second place,
And say that A-Rod won the race.

I hate the playoffs while the A’s are involved. I want them to win so bad, that I get only a minor sense of relief if they win, and extreme disappointment if they lose. I actually enjoy the playoffs more when the A’s aren’t in it.

I also hate going to games against the Red Sox or Yankees. I hate it because I hate being surrounded by obnoxious fans who think they own the place. For that reason alone, I really don’t want the Red Sox or the Yankees to win the pennant.

So I’m trying to envision these playoffs unfolding, and I keep thinking about playing the Red Sox, and then possibly the Yankees, and then possibly the Giants (whom I would also hate losing to, because they have every advantage over the A’s except World Series championships, and being the jealous guy that I am, I want it to stay that way).

The thing is, that even if the A’s win the World Series this year, I’m probably not going to enjoy any of it while it is happening; I’ll be too nervous. They only way I will be able to enjoy it is in retrospect. Perhaps I should just do as Billy Beane does: don’t watch it until it’s over. I’d save myself quite a bit of money in playoff tickets.

Does anyone else ever feel that way, or am I just nuts?

Dry brown leaves cluster
beneath the barren branches
of a fruitless tree.

Empty plastic cups,
hot dog wrappers, peanut shells:
waste of a season.

He heard something pop in his wrist. This could be a serious blow for the A’s. Not only for losing Guillen, but for getting Terrence Long again. If Guillen is out for the year, forget what I said about being optimistic about our offense in the playoffs.

Meanwhile, Long was complaining that Ken Macha didn’t explain to him why he’s been sitting lately. “I feel like they feel they don’t need me to win.”

Well, duh.

Macha’s reply: “Too bad. He’s 2 for his last 19. I’m sticking to what I always say – if you give good at-bats and hustle all the time, that’s what you’ve got to do. Our focus should not be on who’s in the lineup but on winning these games.”

The jury’s still out on how good a manager Macha is, but I like him just for statements like that.

The sweet swing of Pujols
has very very few holes,
but the big bat of Barry
is the most very very.

When Manny Ramirez got sick,
He wouldn’t go swing his big stick,
And then he ignored
The mad media horde;
Is it his head or his skin that is thick?

Military spending causes Japan anxiety.
It’s “nothing short of humbug in adult society.”

In the NL,
is Willis, Dontrelle.
Cabrera, Miguel
is a Marlin, as well.
Reyes, Jose
as well as Seo, Jae
plus Wigginton, Ty
are each a Met guy
but are not outpacin’
their mate Phillips, Jason.
Montreal has Day, Zach
who got hurt but came bach
and Vargas, Claudio
whom I also applaudio.
The strikeout/walk ratio
of Ramirez, Horatio
does not really sway
like the Brave Hodges, Trey.
St. Lou got to know
the surprising Hart, Bo.
Podsednik, Scott
has really been hot.
The flying Byrd, Marlon
Is the Phillies’ young darlon.
Not much could prepariome
for Robertson, Jeriome
who along with Lidge, Brad
make Houston not bad.
Williams, Jerome
makes Pac Bell his home,
as does Foppert, Jesse
who is sometimes impresse.
But I cannot abandon
my choice of Webb, Brandon.

The AL could pitch
arms like Harden, Rich.
Another to like
Was MacDougal, Mike.
A good future’s facin’
the Tribe’s Davis, Jason.
Don’t bet a casino
against Lopez, Aquilino.
You can take a good chance
on young Carter, Lance.
And Soriano, Rafael
also threw really well.
Two words for a Yankee:
Rodriguez, Frankie.
Teixeira, Mark,
hit balls out of the park,
while Baldelli, Rocco
also showed socko.
Detroit’s Munson, Eric,
could make balls atmospheric,
while his mate Monroe, Craig
is a real powderkeg,
like the Tribe’s Gerut, Jody
whose bat is explody.
And they’re thankful to have his
young friend Hafner, Travis.
But in the AL
I pick Berroa, Angel
who wins neck-and-necky
over Matsui, Hideki.

The wind tells the sails
the secret of its power
in its dying breath.

Unknowable messages
whispered from father to son.

Dontrelle Willis has dazzled baseball fans with his funky motion and charming personality. He returns to the Bay Area tonight for the first time as a major leaguer to pitch against the Giants.

Suddenly, he’s become a huge star. There’s a great interview with him in today’s Miami Herald. The San Francisco Chronicle had a feature article that detailed how he got his unusual delivery playing with some buddies against the wall of his apartment building.

It almost didn’t happen. Because of me. But the events you are all familiar with all unfolded because I, too, once had a great interview.

Unemployed

After we graduated from college in 1988, my girlfriend (now my wife) Pam and I decided to go spend a year in Europe. We returned to our hometown, Alameda, a year later, broke and jobless. Pam’s brother Sam was kind enough to agree to let me stay in his apartment until I could find a job.

After three months, I still hadn’t found a job. Things were looking rough, and then the big earthquake hit. My job prospects, already slow, came to a complete halt.

Sam was nice, but I could tell I was starting to cramp his style. He had a fairly small apartment, and it didn’t look like I was going to be moving out anytime soon. Two more months passed. So when the largest apartment (of five) in the building opened up, Sam considered taking it. We went in and looked at it. It was certainly much more spacious than the old one.

The Interview

That week, though, I had a job interview out at UC Berkeley, and I nailed it. It was the best interview I have ever given, to this day. I was charming and funny. I had great answers to all their questions. I made it practically impossible for them not to hire me.

So I got the job, and I moved out. Sam decided not to move, and instead, Dontrelle Willis and his mom moved in, into the apartment with the wall against which he first learned to throw that weird-looking pitch.

Every little thing you do triggers a great chain of events you can’t even begin to predict. A job interview I had at UC Berkeley set off something that may, in the end, save baseball in South Florida. If my interview had gone poorly, Sam might have moved into that apartment instead of Dontrelle, who wouldn’t have come up with that funky delivery, and Miami would not now be abuzz.

Is your favorite team in trouble? Threatening to move? Give me a job interview! I am currently unemployed, just as I was back in 1989. I need a job, I can write, and I can do magic with a computer. Take a chance! You have no idea what you are missing.

A still August lake,
like a smooth mirror, reveals
yourself to yourself.

Perhaps you’re a stone,
scratched, flawed, dull, dark, dense, heavy,
sinking slowly down.

Or, like a prism,
the light shines on you and you
make it brilliant.

Autumn awaits you.
Ripples inch you back and forth.
Nothing is resolved.

Personally, I prefer Torii.
Though Erstad sure is a nice storii.
I’m aware of what Andruw
And Cameron canduw;
Give ’em all gold glover glorii!

Ten years it took Aaron Guiel
On buses for muiel after muiel
Of motels and diners
To work through the minors
And prove that it all was worthwuiel.

The season’s a journey that’s long.
The trip splits the weak from the strong.
I’m a fan who likes thinking;
Primer‘s got some smart linking;
But all I got was a dumb, stinking thong.

Knowing exhaustively nature’s norms essentially dehumanizes you.
Destiny offers no natural explanations. Logic lobotimizes you.
A picture perfect image erases reason,
so complete happiness overtakes everything. Noteworthy endings woo each incoming season
Like a coveted kiss energizes you.

Giants lose. An unexpected sight
emerges rapturously. Suddenly, twentyfive Angels–despite
skeptics, having interpreted each little detailed statistic,
expressing concern, knowing such triumphant expectation is novelistic–
seize a lovely, magical October night;

move out lightly into nighttime air;
float upward; lifting like majestic eagles, rare,
wonderfully elegant birds, eschewing rest,
wings outspread over their escaped nest.
Gravity’s imposing lair,

succumbing passively, its evil zapped, its ordeal
overcome, remarkably terminates its zeal.
Whirling Angels swirl higher, buoyantly upwards, rising near
our celestial heaven. Observers appear
flabbergasted. Impossible, graceful gliding is nebulously surreal.

Reality or dream? Reality is grounded, unlike eagles. Zoom,
phantom eagles! Realists can’t imagine victorious Angels loom
above. No dreamers ever require substantiated observations. None.
Proof angels literally, materially exist? It requires one
miracle, one lilac in nature abloom.

Said Gillick, “I’ll upgrade my staff.
Benitez is better by half.
Nelson is full
Of nothing but bull,
And now I can have the last laugh!”

The Dodger offensive attack
Is lacking in men who can hack.
They way that they’ve played,
They are all overpaid;
They doubtlessly don’t deserve Jack.

The Reds situation is bleak.
Guillen’s trade was comic and weak.
Who gives a dang
About Aaron Harang?
And Valentine’s much less than Greek.