All about the Canó

Here are two things I realize: Most people who actually read this thing do not care about baseball. Not one bit. The other realization is that those who are baseball fans, hate the Yankees.

With those two givens in mind, I'd like to point out a current oversight in this MLB season. The victim? One Robinson Canó.

Who is this Canó, you ask? He's the starting second baseman for the New York Yankees. He's only in his second year as a Major-Leaguer, yet he's hitting .341 (as of 9/24).

The baseball geeks among you will notice something. That number would put Canó in third place for the MLB batting title, 6 points behind Mauer and 1 point behind Freddy Sanchez. You might also think to yourself, "Hey, I remember all that hoopla about the batting title. I thought it was Jeter who was in third..."

And you'd be correct. Canó is not (yet) part of the title chase. Why? Minimum plate appearances, that's why. You see, the second basemen spent a while on the DL this year. As a result, he only has 480 plate appearances. In order to challenge for the title, he must have... well, I let the MLB official rules explain.

The individual batting champion... shall be the player with the highest batting average..., provided he is credited with as many or more total appearances at the plate in League Championship games as the number of games scheduled for each club in his league that season, multiplied by 3.1 in the case of a major league player.

According to the math laid out in rule 10.23(a), this would mean 502 plate appearances by the end of the 2006 season. Today, for a Yankees player, it would mean 480 appearances (techinically, it's 480.5, but the example in the rulebook implies that they round down). What does rule 10.23(a) define as a plate appearance?

Total appearances at the plate shall include official times at bat, plus bases on balls, times hit by pitcher, sacrifice hits, sacrifice flies and times awarded first base because of interference or obstruction.

Here's the line for Canó: 455 AB, 18 BB, 2 HBP, 4 SH, 1 SF. That adds up to 480 appearances. Which means, Canó should finally be qualified for the batting title. But is he up there? No. And he bloody well should be.

Again, most of you reading this probably could care less. After all, Canó's going to the playoffs with the freakin' Yankees. And, it's doubtful he'll catch up to Mauer (although, if Mauer goes 8/28, and Canó goes 10/28...). But damnitall, give the man his due, I say. When was the last time the Yankees had an offensive starter of this caliber that actually came up through their system? You'd have to look back to the time when Jeter/Posada/Williams broke out in the mid-'90s.

That's all I'm saying. Go Canó.

[This post brought to you by the insanity of the XBL. It can be blamed entirely on Chappy and Kramer.]

It's hee-eere...

Finally, after all the tribulation of the last two (and a half) months, the computer is back and online. I'm gonna eat this beer-battered kielbasa, have a Drambuie on the rocks, and surf me some Internet.

Why am I so blessed?

Okay... so the computer is back. It works bee-you-tifully. Never crashes, fast as hell. It's great. All the documents and music are there. Huzzah.

Now comes the time to get a high-speed connection. I register for one through our cable provider, and I get a set-up packet in the mail. Fine. I hook up all the cords, plug everything in, restart the computer, get a signal through the modem, and start the installation/registration process.

And it all comes crashing down around me. What starts as a simple, "oh, the installation program doesn't recognize the network adapter," turns into an entire evening. I spend a couple hours trying to get the installation program to realize, that yes, there is a network adapter. It's on the motherboard, and it's connected to the Internet. No, it's not, says the program. Yes, it is, you ornery sumbitch, I think at it as I try do eat dinner.

Eventually, I call the company's help line. After 30-45 minutes, we've tried everything. Everything. Not only did I do everything right, but the computer got online to download an updated installation program (no help), has an IP address, and was pinging with the tech's computer... nothing. Program still says, nope, can't find it.

By the time this is all done, the night is completely shot. Thankfully, the tech was uber-helpful, and wrote up an order for manual registration. In other words, sometime in the next day or three, our Internet connection will let us past the company's "you need to register" page.

Sigh...

Attack of the Needy Writers

Great Odin's beard, that was harrowing.

Okay, so there I was, waiting for a train. I was all excited about attending this weekly writers' group meeting yesterday. But I had to book out of work and catch the right trains, because it was waaay on the north side. So north, I bumped my head on the suburbs. With impeccable timing, the El trains have one of their weekly major hiccups.

Eventually, well over an hour later, I stumble into a library, only 5 minutes late. There's only one other writer there. She seems nice. Three others drift in.

And that was it. Four writers. Not just four writers, but four writers who were all old enough to be my grandparents. All of them. And here's little ol' me, with my iPod and my CBLDF t-shirt.

But it gets better. The first person to read her stuff is an old southern woman (who's been living in Chicago for 30+ years). She's not a bad poet, and not a good dental hygenist. She's loud, domineering, and grating. She paints writers (herself included) with the broadest stereotypes possible. Apparently, it isn't writing if you can still be socially adept, sober, and emotionally and financially stable.

Granted, there were a couple of the writers had some great ideas. Great ideas. After an hour or so, I learned why there were so few in the group: interpersonal conflict, lack of dedication, life changes... The group might have died, except the library parking was free.

And into this came me. I represented the future of the group. By gum, if they could keep me around, this group might come back from the ashes. Perhaps if the woman whose hearing aid's batteries I changed... if she shared ALL her poems with me, I might stay. Maybe, just maybe, if the toothless and domineering one talked long and loud enough, I'd keep coming back.

I left there, feeling like an outsider being dragged into the unwanted role of a savior. A shot of vodka blunted that feeling. I fear that if I don't go back next week, I'll be condemning the group to its fate.

But I can't go back. That was so not worth skipping dinner for.

Pardon My Dust

Seriously... (hack, hack). Are there cobwebs growing here?

What's really frustrating is that I've written a couple blogs (on paper), but don't have the free time to transcribe them at work. However... the computer should be currently on its way back, traveling w/ Stephy on I-80/90 as this gets posted. Then I can type them up, put them on a disc, and upload them at work. Huttah!

Of course, I'll retro-date them, since things like the Homeland Security drill and the terrible weather happened in the past...