Final tilt in a series of three jousts between the Reds (41-62) and the Padres (45-59) because 2016 baseball is exactly like two plague-ridden knights riding directly at each other at top speed holding giant poles.
Whelp, somebody isn’t in the lineup, and somebody else is.Because “day off,” according to the Reds, who think you are profoundly stupid.
— Cincinnati Reds (@Reds) July 31, 2016
|1. Billy Hamilton (CF)
2. Zack Cozart (SS)
3. Joey Votto (1B)
4. Adam Duvall (RF)
5. Brandon Phillips (2B)
6. Eugenio Suarez (3B)
7. Jose Peraza (LF)
8. Tucker Barnhart (C)
9. Homer Bailey (P)
|1. Travis Jankowski (CF)
2. Alexi Amarista (LF)
3. Wil Myers (1B)
4. Ryan Schimpf (2B)
5. Jabari Blash (RF)
6. Christian Bethancourt (C)
7. Jose Rondon (SS)
8. Adam Rosales (3B)
9. Paul Clemens (P)
WHAT I AM GOING TO WRITE ABOUT HOMER BAILEY
Homer Bailey returns today but I’m not going to type about that because I have to tell you what happened on my way to work today instead. It gave me a sense of what it might be like to play on this team.
You know it’s going to be a good story because it starts with my car bursting into flames. This happened to my Toyota about a month ago and I’m mostly mad because the neighbors said the flames were shooting out of the hood to heights of four feet and I missed it. I had been driving my nephews around all day and was dropping them off at their house, as aunts do, to be fed and have their education, clothing, and medical care paid for. I am grateful that no one was hurt and also that I happened to park away from the driveway, because “You set my house on fire with my children inside of it” is going to win every argument, every time. My brother-in-law also saw his life dream come true of seeing me hauled off in the back of a Green Township police car, so really, win-win.
I start there because it settled the issue of whether my husband and I would become a one-car household. He is a pilot and I am not, and when he drives his car it would sit forlornly in the employee lot awaiting his return, whereas mine is key to procurement of the things I need to run a household, such as raw chicken and heavy narcotics.
So now I’m unexpectedly the captain of his car, which I drove to my volunteer post as a USO hostess at the airport, and which–and it should not shock you that I’ve done this before–I managed to lock with the keys in the ignition, engine running, because when this girl seeks adventure, she finds it by trying to squat on all fours in a white pencil skirt in the middle of the blacktopped CVG employee lot on a 94 degree day, searching in vain for a hide-a-key.
This was my cue to call and text and call and text and call and text and call and text IN CAPITAL LETTERS Josh The Pilot, who of course had not yet unsilenced his phone from morning church services. I am a charter member of AAA, because when you are me, you spend huge chunks of your life peering in at keys sitting jauntily behind locked doors, tires with odd metal objects sticking out of them at alarming angles, and, as we just saw, smoking husks of 2005 Camrys. But I was in a secure lot which is enterable only with a badge, a password, and a valid key Johnny’s Toys Birthday Castle, and my friends, there it was, true despair: I was in a place where AAA and all its TripTiks couldn’t help me now.
Then I caught sight of the employee shuttle and realized that there were adults about, real adults, adults who unlike me remember to turn the CrockPot on after dumping the raw chicken in. I flagged it down, climbed aboard, and informed the driver, two TSA agents, one Delta captain, four flight attendants, and a baggage handler that my Master’s degree and I had just locked the keys in my car with the engine running. Yes, it was my car. No, not on purpose. No, I have not reproduced, for the good of the human race.
The driver, in her pity, dispatched a member of The Greater Cincinnati-Northern Kentucky Airport’s finest, and he came in his large scary car, opened his door, opened my door, got back into his car, which had been left unlocked, and drove away.
By now Josh The Pilot had unsilenced his phone and had called to find out who was dead.
ME: First thing in the morning, we are getting a hide-a-key for the stupid Vibe.
JOSH THE PILOT: We have a hide-a-key.
JOSH THE PILOT: Somewhere in the house.
The up side is, we now know who is dead.
Well! Now I could start my day. I ran to security, and beeped as I walked through the metal detector, and was informed that SURPRISE!! They’d seen how well my morning had begun and were now going to offer, as a bonus, a random trip to the body scanner. That’s fine. It was Good Bra Day. Let them look.
BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE. As we all know, the real danger in this nation stems directly from German Catholics with no sense of direction and a pair of figure skates which have somehow become tied to the Halloween tablecloth in the closet.
“I need your right shoe,” said the TSA agent.
“Why just the right?”
“There are some chemicals on it and we need to scan.”
That would be the GooGone Josh applied to the soles in order to remove the fresh chewing gum lying in wait for me at the Bars and Bells booth at Our Lady of Lourdes festival. Cincinnatians! When shall we come to grips with the great evils gambling has visited upon us?
What this has to do with baseball, of course, is that I now feel pity towards this team as it heads to work today, rather than my usual anger and contempt, because look– sometimes even when you’re trying your best, you just step in gum and lock your keys in your car and don’t get so much as a quarter return at Bars and Bells. And what we need to do in these situations is to avoid panic.
We need to find a competent adult with a big scary car and a coat hanger. And a day off.
Homer’s numbers are easy to not-copy, not-paste today. We should have pitchers arising from the dead from every team, every day.
|ERA||IP||SO||WHIP||ARM CONTAINS TENDON PULLED FROM ANOTHER PART OF THE BODY WHICH WAS THEN THREADED THROUGH HOLES DRILLED INTO BONE AROUND ELBOW?|
A THING FROM TWITTER
— Swarles Barkley (@SwarlesBarkley_) July 31, 2016
Walt Jocketty makes small children cry.