Old Dogs

Things are pretty heavy in BlueJaysLand these days. The Tao's come down with some sort of PTSD shit usually reserved for veterans of Iraq, a "former teammate" that is so clearly Gregg Zaun (the piece did not say "former teammate/current Blue Jay") stuck Alex Rios's head on a pike in the middle of Bremner Boulevard. Add the coming inning controls exerted over bright spots Cecil & Romero and shit is gloomier than a Tragedy record.

Now my hands are wrung out like your sister's panties after a Jonas Brothers concert, so I've decided to give back via an anecdote from this past weekend. It's barely Blue Jays related (but somewhat!) and should also serve as a warning to any and all of you in your mid-twenties. Live now, it won't last long.

So the Reverend, EL Leal, and I make our way to Niagara Falls to attend the bachelor party of a mutual good friend. Some golf and assorted shenanigans are expected. If you've been reading here long enough you know I'm a new dad so there isn't much time for hedonism. I got the "we don't want Frank the Tank to come out" style speech before I left and genuinely wasn't up for heavy drinking.

We play our round of golf, I'm focussed on recovering past glories there more than the next appearance of the cart-tart. We return to the hotel for some drinks and pizza. I'm taking it slow, all is well. The guys we're with are pretty "regular dudes". They're into bottle service and night clubs and being bachelors of commerce. Whatever, good guys, we all get along. I generally dread the disco dancing aspect of their standard nights out because: 1) fuck that shit 2) seriously, it's the worst 3) I'm cheap and it isn't.

But we drank a lot of beer at the hotel so I'm coming around on the idea. We go to the club and do the pretentious "too cool for the lineup" dance and eventually get in. Booze arrives, we indulge.

Fast forward XXXX hours: I awake in the hallway of our hotel. On the 16th floor. A room attendant stands over me.

"Where is your room?" He asks sweetly.

Vowels and consonants fall out of my mouth, roughly in this order: "ajflksdjfklsdj 1911 (that's on the 19th floor if you're scoring at home.)"

This kindly man gently escorts me to my room where I promptly pass out alongside the snoringest GROFman around. I wake up some time later (fully clothed with a bonus mouthful of carpet fibers) and begin to fish through my pockets.

• Wallet? Check.
• Room key? Check.
• Money? Check.
• Phone? Check.
• Blue Jays gift card? Check?????

There was a Blue Jays gift card right there in my back pocket! The fuck? Now I carry a couple gift cards as they're my "get into the 100 level" free passes, but why wasn't it in my wallet where it belonged?

Ahhhhhh right. While unsuccessfully trying to access (likely) every room on the 16th floor with my actual room key, I obviously went into my wallet for the correct key that I obviously stuffed into my wallet and obviously opens any door I need and obviously tried as many locks as I could with a Blue Jays gift card. Obviously.

Hardly a high point in my life, but not even within shouting distance of the lows. Overall a proud moment and reason for optimism. I didn't die! Nor was I mugged. The Blue Jays were there for me when I needed them most. I won't forget it Roy, I won't forget.

A Farewell Note to This City

You may have noticed things moving a little slowly around here this week. I've packed up the Barbershop and moved out of Toronto. Lloyd the Dead-eyed Suburbanite at your service.

This doesn't mean too much as far as GROF is concerned, aside from my new mancave from which to issue my missives.

I'm going to miss the crap out of Toronto, the city I enjoy so much. But I move with zero regrets. I have other stuff to think about aside from my proximity to clover coffee machines and 4am nachos. Not that I won't long for those things, I'll make do like the rest of the slovenly croc wearing mouth-breathers universe outside the 416.

Moving sucks, I'm literally standing in my kitchen without a stick of furniture right now. Moving also sucks because I haven't seen Scott Rolen do anything awesome in two days! TWO! And I know he's been doing awesome stuff. Dammit.

So bring on the Phillies and new challenges and shit. I'll be back after a brief hiatus (two days tops, my blood starts to itch without regular exposure to blogger gamma rays) ready to do what must be done. Later hipster jackasses!

Ranking Up the Joint

Good old Fangraphs, the fertilizer that helps little ghostrunners grow, has been running down and ranking each front office based on several subjective categories. Your Toronto Blue Jays landed in 20th place, the bottom end of the middle! The grades break down thusly:

• Ownership: C+
• Front Office: C
• Major League Talent: C+
• Minor League Talent: B
• Overall: C+

Somewhat disappointing, but hardly unexpected. Dave Cameron credits JP with building a top tier bullpen with castaways and misfits, though he warns the continuing brain drain from Toronto is a sign people are dying to get away from JP. He summarizes the Jays chances and other things you already know in a terrifying, succinct manner:

However, from a macro perspective, the team has enough flaws to make them significant longshots to keep up with the New York/Boston/Tampa triumvirate in 2009, and another year of middling success might not save Ricciardi’s job. The Jays are in a tough division, but as the Rays have shown, a well run organization can overcome competition. The Jays don’t qualify as a well run organization right now.

Sigh. I'm not too worried about it. I will be shocked if the Red Sox aren't number 1 with the Rays in the top 5 in the this ranking. Who cares, you may ask? Scott Rolen, Roy Halladay and Travis fucking Snider sure as shit don't, they're too busy being awesome.

The Canadian Disease

My boy eyebeleaf is nothing if not determined. His straight up posi-vibe reminds me of a Time Flies show I didn't attend. But just as flagrantly ripping off Gorilla Biscuits and Chain of Strength seems like a good idea, pining for Jason Bay is not a good thing.

Jason Bay is on the wrong side of thirty (aren't we all?) staring at a contract year in a hitter's ballpark. Not one single element of that sentence excites me in the slightest. He's pretty poor defensively, and with all the young talent coming up, there isn't room for Vernon Wells's shittier, whiter brother. Sorry I-B-Leave, I love ya, but let's get together and stretch our boners for somebody young and awesome like Russ Martin or JOEY VOTTO. That I can get behind. Or in front of, I'm not to fussy on control, man.

Grumble Grumble Elliot Grumble

Bob Elliot is a true solider for Canadian baseball, working hard for 30 years to bring Canadian baseball stories to the light of day. The fine gentlemen of Bluebird Banter got him to answer some questions recently and it makes for a fine read. I must comment that this conversation obviously took place over email as nobody talks like Hemingway writes. Stac-ca-to Elliot. The Bluebird Banter guys are all professional and stuff, and have been bringing the goods all spring long.

Other things

• The Baseball Analysts have been, uh, analyzing baseball and come up with some pretty interesting pitch location information. And the graphs are really pretty. The latest examines home run rate by pitch location. Down and in to a lefty isn't a good idea. Low and away to anyone is always a good idea.
• Yankee season ticket holder climbs atop soapbox, tells world new stadiums aren't always a parade of greatness. Is promptly raped by wallaby and mouth-breathing commenters.
• Patton Oswalt is king of the geeks, orders his subjects to shape up.
• Alex Rodriquez in the second round? Felix Hernandez in the fourth? Ubaldo Jimenez in the fifteenth??? My fantasy team is pretty great.

Make Your Own News

As you are well aware, the offseason fucking sucks. My incredible foresight allowed me to knock up Ms. Moseby 9 months ago, knowing there wouldn't be anything to write about anyway aside from the birth of the Barber's assistant on Saturday morning.

Now that I am a dad, my entire world view has changed. My days of mancrushes are over, as I no longer see baseball players as five tool studs or original characters. I see a toxic concoction of Ed Hardy, chlamydia, and road beef. Even you Rocco, stay the hell away from my kid!