A debut that actually almost lived up to the hype

    I was hoping the Pirates could come through.
    I was hoping Steven Strasburg's fastball would be a little flat.
    I was hoping that after the typical frothing at the mouth about something, our national media folks - hellloooo, ESPN - would be bopped in the head a little bit.
    And then little Stevie goes out and strikes out 14 for Washington in front of - and these next few words aren't uttered much in the Capital - a capacity crowd in D.C.
    Now, we get more frothing, clearing out Cy Young's locker in Cooperstown and printing Washington playoff T-shirts can caps and how in about 12 months, the number of male babies named Steven will have increased exponentially in the Washington area.
    Ug.

Perfection rules

    It's been a quality week.
    Certainly many others were gratified to know that we live among examples of perfection as well as compassion when umpire Jim Joyce blew the call and perfect game Wednesday night.
    It's was as if all the gutless yet perfect posters at the bottom of stories online had a meeting.
    People, the guy made a mistake, in public, recorded for history. And he admitted it. Didn't make it on purpose, didn't hide, didn't take a day off. Came back the next day behind the friggin' plate where his work would be judged on almost every pitch.
    What's your level of perfection under such - ehhh, yeah, all of our screwups tend to come away from that spotlight, nowhere near a collection of drunken fools who throw stuff on the field and whine about everything.
    Get a grip.

Super Bowl in NY = the Oscars in Tacoma: out of place

    I have nothing against New York.
    Except the Yankees, courtesy of A) being an American not living in New York; B) growing up an hour north of Baltimore.
    Nothing against the Giants or Jets or football in the greater New York area.
    But the Super Bowl in New York/New Jersey in February?
    Actually, let's get it straight. It's in Jersey, so call it Jersey. It's a few miles/slash/half an hour from the heart of New York City. It's Jersey, as in "Jersey Shore" and "Real Idiotic Housewives from New Jersey."
    Frankly, I don't really have anything against Jersey, either. Except Newark.
    It's fairly hysterical that an event that is only partially about the event is going to be held at a winter wonderland.
    The least they can do is leave the Christmas decorations up in The City.

Please, LeBron, stay, stayyyyyy just a little bit a-longerrrr

             The debate:
            Did the LeBron James era in Cleveland end around 10:30 Thursday night?
            The guess is that the majority of those who guess on such things figure he is gone, ostensibily to Jordanville or Frazierburg.
            The Cavs were upset by Boston, and upset in less than a full series. Few of us saw that coming, even with the Celtics having a healthy group.
            LeBron, dog, stay in Cleveland. Make Cleveland yours. It's available, you can do it, and you'll be surprised: you'll like it. Don't break up this team. Don't turn Cleveland into, gulp, Atlanta.

Here lay the late Atlanta Hawks, died in the middle of a playoff game

    So, you say you'd like to coach the Hawks, huh?
    After Saturday's exhibition - and it resembled exhibition basketball more than playoff basketball - it's pretty easy to start the office pool on when things to shaking out, and it'll likely begin with Mike Woodson getting a pink slip.

At least the idiot asked permission, pre-Taser

    Tase away, game cops, tase away.
    In fact, more people ought to be tased just on the general principal that the most folks are poster children for birth control.
    A Phillies fan,  a 17 year old who called his dad for permission, ran onto the field Monday night at Philadelphia, and was chased and then Tasered.
    At least the budding upper-management candidate had manners.
    "Dad, can I run on the field?"   
    "I don't think you should, son."
    "This would be a once in a lifetime experience!"

Take a breath, let Heyward play and earn his reputation

     It was a shocking line.
    No hits, four at-bats, and two runners left on.
    Those in the locker room after Atlanta's 2-0 loss to Chicago in the Braves' third game of the season again saw that Jason Heyward only has hair on his chest, no big red S.
    And - holy Sidd Finch, Batman - Heyward's numbers have been worse by a bit than those of the last Great Braves Hope from metro Atlanta, Jeff Francoeur.