Friday, April 06, 2018

A 2018 Ping Pilgrimage into the Deep South

In the wake of the death of Augie Garrido, also known as the “Godfather of College Baseball,” Gigante, Nonrunner, and EYL decided a trip to the Dirty South to watch SEC baseball for three days was somehow a normal, necessary endeavor for three men in their mid-30’s. Marriage, kids, and America’s youth all presented obstacles, but oh well.  Anytime you can catch a 5am flight to Memphis, Tennessee; drive down to Starkville, Mississippi; and then drive further down to Baton Rouge, Louisiana; you have to nod your head and say “sure,” don’t you?

If any sort of normal adult logic was applied to this trip, it would have been shut down long before it even started. Yes, Augie had just died, and we all know that is a really fucking big deal, but traveling to Mississippi for no other reason than to watch college baseball (Ping), slug Budweiser, and chew fresh Redman still makes little to no sense to most well-adjusted, sane people educated inside California’s elite university system. Then again, this is the Tide Dirtbags we are talking about. Logic left the building way back in the days when the Godfather rubbed two Louisville Sluggers together and started the league.

So the alarm went off in San Francisco during the 3 o’clock hour on a Friday morning. Gigante hailed a Lyft (Uber has a distasteful glass ceiling), and set out across the Bay to Oakland, a stone’s throw from the fabled San Leandro Ballpark where so many SFNABA championships have been battled out in the dog days of August. No, he wouldn’t be pitching today, but this was another kind of ship run altogether: Three states, three Ping games, and three titters… all in three days. Yeah, sure.

After meeting EYL in Oakland before the crack of dawn, wheels were soon up to Dallas, where Nonrunner was first allowed to get involved, arriving at an overpriced airport restaurant bright eyed and bushy tailed (Economist in hand, pressed collared shirt, etc). He might as well have been wearing a name tag with the phrase “responsible adult” on his left breast. Between bites, he proudly discussed a recent trip to the titter with his new big-shot boss in Big D. Nearby patrons tried to not hear about it, but they all did anyway. The Tide was officially on vacation. 

Before long, the three aging Tide members in search of a religious baseball experience touched down in Graceland, aka Memphis Tennessee. They didn’t know it yet, but they were about to adopt a simple formula over the next three days: “Ping.Travel.Titter.” There was little time for anything else.

Doctor Dre’s 1999 album “2001” blared over the speakers of a nondescript, economy sized Chevy sedan as the Tide Trio followed their Google machine due south toward Mississippi. The first Ping game of the trip was just mere hours away. The SEC opener at the “New Dude” between Mississippi State and Vanderbilt. The renovated Left Field Lounge in Stark Vegas awaited. Emotions ran high. Freedom rang loud.

Beside a quick stop at a gas station Arby’s, the journey into Stark Vegas was otherwise seamless. The first stop on campus grounds came at an area grocery store that focused on chew, cigarettes, and light domestic beer. Mississippi Bulldog red and southern hospitality trended throughout the tiny city. It had literally nothing in common with Las Vegas. Across the street was the motel. Once inside, Nonrunner loudly confirmed he had seen our very room on a 1998 episode of “Cops.” Nobody laughed because it was true. 

The Uber ride over to the newly renovated Dudy Noble Field was a short one, but just long enough to enjoy a few cold ones with the driver’s approval. The driver took his hospitality a step further when he offered up a review of the town’s local titter. “Oh boy, The Pony. Fellas, yeah, that place is pretty shitty. One of those Truck Stop Titters if you will. But suit yourself,” he explained/warned over the static of Mississippi local FM radio.

Nonrunner simply nodded his head in approval as he gazed out the window toward an unmarked water tower. “Sure,” he thought. “Fucking, SURE.”

When the Tide finally arrived at their first Ping field of the trip, they were met with misty rain and a dose of society. Mississippi State had somehow ruined the Left Field Lounge with their 2017 stadium renovation. Gone were the homemade wooden decks laid atop old trucks in the outfield. Where drunk fans drove right up to the outfield fence, climbed on top of their rig, got more drunk, and rooted on the Diamond Dawgs. Instead, concrete had been poured to support shiny new seats and electronic barbeques. Signs and plaques signifying which wealthy alum had paid for what “lounge box.” Somehow, society had struck once again, even in the heart of the South.

As it were, the sparse, half-filled crowd provided a backdrop to a typical SEC dogfight between two hungry top-25 teams. EYL eventually assumed his post directly behind the Vanderbilt dugout and began to dig into the group of successful and talented 19-year-olds a few feet below him. The lights were bright and the crowd was quiet; good chatter was essential. On a big stage, he delivered, eventually earning multiple stare-downs from Vandy’s top-prospect on the mound that evening. Mission accomplished.

By the 7th inning, due in large part to a booted ball from MSU’s trusted shortstop, Vandy had the game firmly in hand. As expected, adversity was already starting to rear its ugly head. The three Tide members were sitting in an empty stadium in Starkville, getting rained on, and heckling a team that was winning by five runs.

In order to increase morale, the fellas each enjoyed the freedom of smoking a heater while drinking a Bud in the “New Left Field Lounge.” All was not lost, you could say. Cigs are still aloud inside the New Dude. Thank christ.

Cigs were also most definitely aloud inside the aforementioned Pony, a 15-minute drive from the epicenter of Stark Vegas. 14 dollars got you in the door, not to mention two free complimentary American beers to help get your engine running hot. What ensued was straight out of a scene in Varsity Blues, except the girls were half as good looking, if that. The average “entertainer” was 180 pounds of pure Mississippi, with an un-ashed cig hanging from her mouth. Nonrunner was in Hog Heaven to say the least. If one wanted to avoid a future slump for the rest of their lives, the opportunity was certainly there for the taking.

The grand finale of the night featured a young man who looked ten years older than he was. Titter personnel dragged him up onstage with his shirt off, back hair and wrinkled tattoos everywhere. He was on his way to a life in the military the next morning. This was his grand sendoff. Fortunately, everyone seemed too drunk to notice how depressing it all was. EYL lit his sixth cig of the evening and looked up at the midnight edition of SportsCenter, searching for answers that weren’t there.

By Saturday morning, the Tide Trio woke up determined to hit their stride. As they piled into their rental for their second college in as many days, anything seemed possible. After all, #16 seed UMBC had just knocked off #1 seed Virginia the night before. History was in the air.

With Gigante nursing a slight hangover, Nonrunner popped his customary morning greenie and took the wheel for the drive to Louisiana. The closer was in and he was throwing GAS. Blue skies, rolling hills, a 30-rack of Budweiser in the back seat. What could go wrong they asked?

“Ohhhhhh fuck,” bellows Nonrunner. “They got me.”

EYL wheels his head around in the back seat, open Bud in his right hand, only to find a Mississippi state trooper hot in pursuit. We were fucked alright.

In the matter of seconds, Nonrunner went from a renegade Southern Man only concerned with freedom, into a shrewd father with an impeccable understanding of the law. Meanwhile, EYL acted like a f****t in the back seat who couldn’t find his seatbelt. Fortunately, we didn’t have a loaded pistol in our glovebox, just a bunch of Thrifty Car Rental receipts.

Who knows if the trooper had seen this before? Three white guys in a small rental car flying down a deserted highway in Bumfuck, Mississippi just so they could make the first pitch of a college baseball game that night. Maybe he hadn’t actually. Regardless, he left Nonrunner with a hefty ticket without ever bothering to look under EYL’s Budweiser shield in the back seat. Or maybe he just didn’t give a fuck. That was never clear.

Soon enough, the Tide was back on the highway with nothing more than an expensive story to tell. The mission remained the same, get to Alex Box Stadium before first pitch.

Of course, driving the length of Mississippi in one day will make any man hungry, so naturally the idea of a proper food stop was eventually raised. “We’ll just get some BBQ in Jackson,” suggested Gigante, as confident as ever. “Says here on Thrillist there’s a place just off the freeway. Great reviews. Who’s in?”

As the Tide’s rental car pulled into an un-kept parking lot in front of an old, nondescript building, EYL couldn’t help but wonder if they were lost. “So, uh, this is the place you found online? Are you, I mean, are you sure?”

“Yes I’m fucking sure, the sign says E&L BBQ right over there, does it not? What’s the issue?” asked Gigante.

Next, picture three white guys form the shores of the Bay Area walking into the most authentic BBQ joint in all of the south. As the door shut loudly behind them, there was no sound except for Gigante’s flip-flops and an oversized metal fan loudly cooling the entire place. You could literally see dust in the air through the window blinds. A line of 20 quiet patrons formed at the cash register, wrapped around the fan and ended with an armed security guard. Nobody was white, not even close.

EYL proceeded to take off down a back hallway titled “Toilet out of order” (the “out of order” part had been crossed out with a Sharpie). By the time he reached the end of the dark hallway, he finally was able to pinch off a nervous piss. “What the fuck is the Tide doing at E&L BBQ in Jackson, Mississippi?” was the only thought he could muster.

Back in line, EYL, Gigante and Nonrunner waited for upwards of 25 minutes, not sure of what to talk about. When the lights came on and it was time to order, Gigante towed the rubber and painted the corner gracefully, “Yeah I’ll take your rib sampler please. Extra sauce. Large Sweet Tea. Thanks.” Meanwhile, EYL could barely remember to speak his own order. “Ribs,” he thought to himself as he made the order. “With the most normal amount of sauce that is humanly possible to have here. And a small Doctor Pepper. Because I’ve had that before in California.” 

After receiving their food in the most un-environmentally friendly way possible (huge black to-go bags, styraphone boxes and cups everywhere, plastic forks in plastic packaging) the Tide followed Nonrunner’s idea to eat-in and occupy one of the eight open tables in the back. Not one other patron was staying to eat inside, but fuck it, Nonrunner thought, Roll Tide.

EYL couldn’t eat his (surprisingly) delicious dish of ribs fast enough. “I’m ready to roll when you guys are,” he halfway begged. “Just give me a minute, fuck,” exclaimed Nonrunner. Both hands drenched in BBQ sauce with no clean napkins in sight. Eventually, they were on the road yet again. EYL’s Kangaroo Court date would be set for May it was decided.

The Tide would arrive in Baton Rouge at about 5:45pm local time in advance of the scheduled Missouri V. LSU tilt that night. Hotel guests were greeted by a free magazine with Shaq’s mug on it. The Tide suddenly had new life it seemed.

After a shit, shower and shave, the trio was off to Alex Box Stadium on the campus of Louisiana State University. It did not disappoint. Clearly it was a mecca.

The place smelled like baseball. Orange sunset over the banks of the Mississippi river, packed crowd, knowledgeable fans, multiple national championship banners, an onsite hall-of-fame room, purple and yellow everywhere. The place was magical.

But even with the best home-field-advantage in college baseball at their backs, the Tigers still would fall short in front of the LSU faithful on this night. A late fury of homers wasn’t enough to overcame a rocky first few frames. The Tide would move to 0-2 on the trip. Adversity was setting in once again. Would they waiver?

That night, the Tide stayed true to the adopted moniker of “Ping.Travel.Titter.” and found their way to another one of the South’s not-so-heralded late-night establishments. The story gets a bit blurry from there on, but what we do know is that Nonrunner shot his shot, if you will, and Dikembe Mutumbo was there to meet him at the rim and spit all over it. He was subbed off the floor immediately in favor of a veteran guard off the bench. The Tide were now 0-3 on the trip. This was a team loss.

Back in California, it was Danger’s birthday. A man who knows a thing or two about battling through adversity and making it out to the other side. He provided the Tide Trio with a facetime that nobody really remembers. But sure. Danger did his job. We could hit Missouri’s Sunday starter, he assured us. He was right.

Sunday in Baton Rogue brought a rainstorm of biblical proportions. Outside of a 100,000 seat SEC religious cathedral known as Tiger Stadium, Gigante, EYL and Nonrunner were drenched by the Lord above. They were alleviated of all of their sins. But unlike Rudy, they weren’t allowed to actually step foot inside the stadium. The grounds were too hallowed we were told. So be it.

After taking pictures of the dangerous, full-sized Tiger/mascot that is caged outside the parking lot, the Tide crossed the road to Alex Box for their third game in as many days. As is so often the case, the sun started shinning all over the Tide by mid-afternoon; not a cloud in sight.
The baseball on the field was pure. Diving catches from both corners of the outfield, a leaping play up the middle from LSU’s second baseman and an ungodly hose from Missouri’s catcher that was still somehow run on.

LSU would eventually prevail and as the Tide piled back into their rental car, they each looked around and swelled with a sense of pride of what they had accomplished. They had proved the naysayers wrong. So many people said it couldn’t be done or at least shouldn’t be done. Three Ping games in two different states in one weekend was a task too tall they said. But instead the Tide stood up and got the job done. It had to be done and thus they did it. If for no other reason, then to make Augie Garrido smile down from baseball heaven.

Roll Tide.

Posted by section925 on 04/06 at 08:19 PM

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Jon Danger still missing, Tide still rolling…

The Tide is off to a hot 7-1 start to the 2017 campaign and Jon Danger still simply does not give a fuck. After an 8 ½ month stint overseas (a “party” deployment trending as #JonderLust on the internet) Danger is allegedly back stateside, ready to give Trump’s America the old college try.

Active and extended members of the Tide family waited with bated breath for Danger’s triumphant return to the diamond on Sunday at Albany High School, but sadly his presence was not granted. Rumors swirled of his wearabouts in Los Angeles, or in a dimly lit back office of a border patrol dungeon. No one can be quite sure. Hope still remains that he’ll punch the clock when the time is right, grab a piece of the rope and pull on yet another Tide ‘Ship run.

Even sans Danger, the Tide has been really rolling as of late. More often than not, Aussie Luke has been climbing the hill, organizing his wet lettuce beneath his Tulane replica, and pumping the pearl until the cows come home. The word dominant comes to mind. Sunday was no different. The only notable blemish came on an EBAC double into Albany’s Triple’s Alley, causing a bellow of disgust and disbelief.

On the offensive side of the baseball, the Tide has swung an uncharacteristically collective hot stick. Everchill will tell you it’s due to the SFNABA’s rapid overexpansion and watered down pitching, but the Tide has been raking. Double digit runs has become the norm. Big flies, doubles, dying quails, you name it.

Sunday in particular saw Tahoe Pete breakout in a major way. Positioned in the two hole, the 2014 Boston Red Sox Fantasy Camp MVP collected hits all over the yard, including a inside-the-park-grand-slam into the aforementioned Albany High School Triple’s (Thank Christ it doesn’t have a sponsor yet) Alley.

Without going full stat ran on you, other hits were collected, by numerous players without names on their backs, to the tune of 12 runs over nine complete innings. However, no at bat was more exhilarating, inspiring, exhausting, or suspenseful than Gigante’s AB in the top of the 4th. Coming off a swinging strikeout in the 2nd, and a career exclusively as a pitcher up and down the coast of California, Gigante dug in for an at-bat that left even Everchill 100% satisfied. Clawing back from a 1-2 count, spitting on sliders a half-inch off the black, diving over the dish to spoil two-strike heaters into the neighborhood dog park, you name it, the AB had it all. #44 went to war for a good five minutes there, to the absolute delight of the three Tide faithful in attendance, for the sole purpose of not letting the 4th inning die an easy death.

After the battle was won, and Gigante lumbered down to first base, Two Hole and Tahoe Pete returned the favor with back-to-back knocks, all but ending EBAC’s pipe dreams of competing with a rolling Tide.

Of course, Everchill will tell you this all means shit. Heading into Memorial Day at 7-1 without wins over the Wood, Topes and Bay Sox is the equivalent to lighting the lamp in Isla Vista on Halloween. Shit is not that hard. Fortunately, those benchmark battles lie just around the bend.

Top of mind among Tide brass headed into MDW is if and when Non Runner will return safely from his Dick Funeral in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Book makers in Atlantic City are essentially calling it 50/50 at this juncture. Jason Stark, who recently got canned by ESPN, has begun covering the SFNABA as a last resort. Stark is reporting that Non Runner’s infected finger is great cause for concern, as narcotics and antibiotics have never proven to be a compatible cocktail.

“It’s all fucking bullshit,” Non Runner explained to Stark in a recent column on “I’m headed down to Cabo to party my fucking dick off with my boys. If that’s a crime, oh well. It’s my fucking pinkie for Christ sake. I’ll go Ronnie Lott on it if I have to.”

It remains to be seen if Non Runner comes back in a body bag, missing a digit, with a bright red braciole hanging from his legs. That would really be a shame, but the Tsunmami organization needs to keep its edge somehow.

Housekeeping: Remember to donate to Non Runner’s adopted son on

Swinging a Hot Stick: Tahoe Pete - Singles, doubles, hotly debated bombs.

Bump Kings: Aussie Luke - Established the inner half by dotting three guys, then proceeded to fulfill his advertising sponsorship deal with Sherwin Williams on the outside black.

Chatter of the Week: Drunk Cal Baseball Fan in Berkeley razzing 7th ranked TCU - “I’ve seen better hands on a clock, Michael!” “Michael, you like to wear your romper tight, don’t you Michael?”

Everchill - “I like the book to reflect the game accurately. So sue me.”

Non Runner - “Turns out part of the reason he’s at 194 pounds is that his meal plan got cancelled and his b**** ass mom is being as useful as tits on a bull.”

Upcoming: Idle, #Pray4Tommy

Posted by section925 on 05/24 at 10:52 AM

Wednesday, May 03, 2017

It’s the end of the world as we know it, and the SFNABA seems fine

As you read these words, the 2017 blog season is officially upon us, which means we completely skipped 2016? That’s gutwrenching.

Well here’s some walk-up music for you. Enjoy it.

Yeah, kinda nuts, depending on how high you are. Tsunamis do start with earthquakes. And yeah, “team by team reporters baffled, Trumped, tethered” is weirdly accurate for a tune that old. But oh well. What we have here is a group of men with tunnel vision, who realize how important it is to trust the process and continually refine their holistic approach to hitting. Dirtbags with an utter disregard for their 5-1 record, 3 bombs on Sunday, and continuous flirtations with team no-hitters. A team who smells blood in the water with the San Francisco Fog rolling onto Alameda Island this weekend, committed to driving Skullcap Lawyer’s head into the sand and beating him senseless with a pro cut braciole fresh off the train from Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Yes, Jon Danger Hirsch is still on the other side of the world, still failing to give a fuck, still feeling fine, with no real signs of cuming home to the Trump Zoo and taking a job in Marketing. But even in his absence, Danger has still managed to pull on the same proverbial rope, religiously making sure to corral a Southern Pacific rally hog prior to Tide first pitch each Sunday morning. The third world slump buster routine has apparently paid dividends, judging by the Tide’s gaudy run differential here in 2017. His ‘86 Mets diet crossed with Eastern yoga meditation leads us to believe he won’t soon slow down and climb off his motor bike. If an when he does, an August at-bat at SLBP in crunch time inevitably awaits him, with Jake Taylor pacing the concrete dugout, Old Crowe methodically going through the signs, and Omaha half playing catch with his son down the left field line.

The “One More Year” moniker is two years old now. “Why Not Us?” has also come and gone. So we have that working against us. But fuck…

Planning a wedding, raising a kid, blowing up a knee, unrealistic sales projections in the FiDi, none of it has slowed down Wrong Way Sal, thanks to a foam roller and a beef-friendly CrossFit membership.

Gigante, tethered to the DL thus far, has failed to hit anything lower .500 and play flawless D at first base despite not climbing the hill just yet.

Aussie Luke, when not hobnobbing with the Black Mambas of the world, has delivered an ungodly Wins Above Replacement score. 

Nuke, and his brother from The Program are quietly starting to shove and mash, respectively.

Tahoe Pete hasn’t gone to Tahoe yet, or rampaged a wedding, but the night of the season is still young…Hyphen is swagged out as usual, Yellowish Livestrong M-Frames driving results…Bumstead bought a Honda van, forfeiting traditional Marina Beef and zeroing in on divorced techies in Noe Valley with bitchy attitudes and bigger checkbooks.

Rizzo’s WPW empire continues to grow. Stockholders rejoiced to see him buy a new pair of pants. Tom D’s swaggy Kris Bryant kicks really got the boy’s on Wall Street rock hard.

Toddamus seems relatively unconcerned with the whole enterprise, even in the midst of making web-gem-of-the-decade type plays on the hallowed ground of Rickey Henderson Field…Godfather continues to grind from afar, his Doyers recently going back-to-back-back jacks at Chavez Ravine, anchored by Dirtbag Bro King Red Turner.

So there you have it. At least for now. As always, tune in and stay tuned. You never know when Jake Taylor is gonna call your name, or pencil himself in to hit, but that’s a longer story, in need of a booth at the 500 Club, with warm Racer 5. We’ll get to that later. More stuff will happen in-between. For now, Roll Tide…

Posted by section925 on 05/03 at 03:05 PM

Thursday, August 13, 2015

John Danger Hirsch knows about Benders

John Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck about Figoni going off cycle and losing 30lbs in the offseason, that Larson’s retirement Sandusky’d the blog, that Everchill managed to add another name to Abbot’s list (RIP Tamir*), or that E-Dub screams FUCK!!!!!!!!! loud enough to startle Hellen Keller. Danger doesn’t give a fuck if TJ is the world’s skinniest football player, that Gigante made an adjustment, that Sean Chase punishes baseball’s like Adrian Peterson’s kids, or that Todd’s moustache makes him look like a rapist. Danger doesn’t give a fuck about Kalush’s emoji’s, that Reed punches his clown watching Tim Kurkjian, that Sal hits off speed pitches as good as he pulls out, or that Old Crowe coaches 3B like he’s at a silent disco.

You might think that Danger gives a fuck about your fame and influence, but he doesn’t. Danger doesn’t care that Sneaky Pete looks like Vinny Chase… movie star looks won’t save a tribesman from the list. Danger doesn’t give a fuck that Ricky Henderson big league’d What Pros Wear™, or that Little Joey settled for Punky Brewster, despite Proud Dad’s pleas. Danger could not be less impressed if you fly around the world with One Direction, that you used to DP Venezuelan chicks with Gregor Blanco, or if your meal is comp’d in Denver when the server recognizes you as Klutch. Danger doesn’t even give a fuck that the Tide are mercy ruling the San Francisco Giants in the Wife and Girlfriend department.

That’s right, John Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck about any of that because the Godfather fucked cancer and the Tide rolled 7-6 against the Benders on wild card weekend. Pitching and defense has been the foundation of the 2015 Tide campaign. If you told Danger that the Tsunami would hang up a 7 spot and have the entire staff available he would bet you all the cocaine in the world that the game would be a snooze fest. Interestingly, Two Hole reminded everyone all week just how good our run differential had been against the rest of the league so the jinx was in. Next time… shut up Tom! (How anyone fucks you remains one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of life.)

Godfather started the game with strike one down the dick… but it was Gigante (hell bent on proving to Rizzo that he had made an adjustment) who stepped up to render the Benders bats helpless against a red angry Giant. With a bullpen full of aces, Gigante exited after 6 strong innings and a constant peppering of “two out rall-ahh” by Willie McGee’s uglier cousin. Due to the constant threat of a rally, Tony was nowhere to be found (JK Evan….ah who gives a shit he won’t read the email anyway).

Rucker took the mound in the 7th ready to continue his year long dominance, however the curse of the pale WASP began to unfold. After a few uncharacteristic walks/miscues the Benders were threatening to send the Tide packing. Given the 2015 Tide is more loaded than ever, a first round exit in such close proximity to the Golden Gate Bridge would have surely sent Jake Taylor swan diving to a watery death. Lucky for the Tide, Young J Hardaway and the baseball Gods helped to tip the scales for the good guys… a close call at 2nd and a passed ball to take the lead. Kangaroo Jack took the bump in the 9th refusing to be rattled by a bunch of silly Americans in pinstripes. In a tense 9th inning that saw the tying run reach first base the side was retired on a line drive to Two Hole and just like that the Tide survived and advanced. Next up on the road to the ship will be the Aces at Stenzel Park on Saturday.

Bump Kings: Godfather for fucking cancer and throwing out the 1st pitch

Dropping Braj: We’re certain someone got a hit. Really can’t recall. Possible that we hit 100 groundballs to the infield that were all kinds of zoo’d. Who knows?

Tootblan: It wasn’t Cam’s fault Rizzo bunts like dogshit

Inexcusable: Stranding 87 runners in 8 innings

Getting Involved: Spice firing up the post-game BBQ and fire pit. Well played sir, well played.

Getting Over Involved: RIZZO, for fucks’ sake, stop beating up Baby Spice!

Posted by Autocorrect on 08/13 at 12:59 PM

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Jon Danger Hirsch Doesn’t Give a Fuck About Drake

Jon Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck about Drake. Or the beaten-like-a-dead-donkey story of the “high cost of living” in San Francisco, or a 5-year plan involving the word “marketing,” or the FDA recommendation for Creatine intake, or the Oakland A’s ongoing fire sale, or going under the needle for some new ink, or spraying down a bunch of drunk techies with cheap champagne, or Everchill’s constant dryhump ruining what’s left of his arm, or 86ing one of Bumsted’s derelict friends from SFAC, or waking up on time for a game, or wearing batting gloves, or punching his clown, or the 10-9-1 Benders, or dick balloons, or a mound rebuild, or what the pros are wearing, or praying for Ratto, or LinkedIn, or going hogging, or the Super Regionals in Fort Worth, or talking shit to Tony. Refreshingly, he still doesn’t give a flying fuck about any of it. 

It’s a good thing someone doesn’t care about Drake. God knows we need more people in this world taking a similar stance on the matter. But I suppose you can’t blame people like Old Crowe feeling a bit agitated at the Canadian pop-star’s recent publicity stunt. If releasing a “dis-track” and throwing shame at Philadelphia’s own Meek Mill won’t get Old Crowe riled up, I don’t know what will. But slapping a photo of a galloping Joe Carter on said track? Well there is the line in the sand. No way, bud. Not on the same day Cole Hamel’s contract gets dumped off to a bunch of oil barons in Arlington. That will make Old Crowe’s blood boil right there.

But who knows, maybe I’m wrong about this. Maybe Sq****’s pending IPO might smooth things over. Maybe Old Crowe can just point and laugh. What we do know is that Jon Danger doesn’t give a fuck. About any of it.

The 2015 Tide are approaching August baseball for the fifteenth time together, and Old Crowe still hasn’t aged one year during this period. Unlike basketball (see: Franchise, Stevie), I guess the process of grinding for rec-hardball ‘ships does indeed keep you young.

Winners of fifteen games thus far, the Tsunami’s official record actually reads “16-3” thanks to a godforsaken forfeit from an outfit named the Benders. As fate would have it, the soon-to-be 17-3 Tide will square off versus those very same Benders on Wildcard Weekend. A money grab with the TV networks if there ever was one, Wildcard Weekend will essentially serve as a spring training tilt for the Figoni’s of the world. A chance to dust off the braj and purchase some Apple Care at the only Mac phone store in Monterey. Next up will be the Aces in the Ocean Divisional Series (ODS) followed by the Isotopes in the Ocean Championship Series (OCS). Then the all-elusive Ship at SLBP. Where the dogpile will occur and the Foley Cup will be awarded.

But before we can find out where the Tide are going (down Broadway in a tinted out black town car), it makes sense to take a step back and see where the Tide have been first.

Where the Tide have been is inside The Joint, at a funeral and everywhere in between. Bourbon Street, the base of Touchdown Jesus, The Friendly Confines, the Cactus League, Omaha Nebraska, the wedding alter, South America, Chiraq, back to The Joint, SFAC, The Field Tommy Found, and that’s just the start.

As is well publicized, The Godfather placed himself on the 30-Day DL back on December 7th. This lead Gigante to utter the famous line, “Time to start pulling on the same rope for The Godfather. There is no ‘I’ in ‘Fuck You Cancer.’” No truer words.

So off ‘Father went to The Joint, equipped with a 24-pack of lubed up rubbers issued by some nameless hot nurse probably named Becky. He proceeded to climb up on the hill with an Orel #55 on, dust off the dirty rubber, and waste no time pumping the pearl and painting the black and fucking cancer.

Meanwhile, Gigante and co. were off to Louisiana for his Dick Funeral in early January, charging hard with the motto “What happens below the Mason-Dixon Line, Stays below the Mason-Dixon Line” written under the cap of his Tide hat. Pucks flew, jiggle joints were patronized, beads were tossed, yes. But more importantly, TommyGun Sal squatted down in a NOLA bar and worked on his pop time for a good 3 minutes. Thankfully, all members of the platoon made it out of the war zone alive.

It wasn’t long, however, until we were alerted of the news of Ernie Banks’ passing. If Let’s Play Two was half as athletic and born in the Bay Area, you can bet your ass he would have played in the SFNABA for many an Ernie Banks Specials. The Tide responded as Ernie would have liked, playing more baseball.

But to play, you need a field, and the Tide didn’t exactly have one, so TommyGun grinded his dick off and found us one. A field to call our own, or “The House Tommy Found.”

By February, Godfather was back out at an area field swinging the goddamn dick from the left side. “I got better today,” Godfather would explain.

It wasn’t long thereafter that Rizzo was off to Arizona to visit his world champion son, Joe Panik. Camera in hand, he cajoled his way into a green collar dugout, and rubbed elbows with Will Ferrell and Rickey Henderson. “In the Big Leagues, they usually can give you the right glove,” Rickey explained.

Rizzo returned with stories from the Promised Land, but also warned his Tide brethren about mistakes made even at the highest level. “Not everyone responds to wall-to-wall carpeting in the right way. And that. That is a rotten shame,” he lamented.

Such fodder was needed for what was deemed the “Mound Rebuild Of The Century” at Paul Goode Field. Of course, it ended up being a day-long clusterfuck, but Danger brought a few new tattoos to the party, so that helped. Other topics of discussion included the good old days when 2Hole routinely went hogging on Benard Street, if Ratto is still alive and how wooly Coachella has become due to trends in the modern society. 

On the field, the Tide were their usual selves during the regular season. Pitching fantastic, hitting ok, and running the bases like they don’t really give a fuck what Everchill thinks. Sure, their dicks went limp against the Wood as they have a habit of doing, and they split an Ernie Banks with the Topes, but other than that, it has been fairly chalk.

The Road To Omaha seemed to keep some Tide members adequately distracted from their professional lives during the month of June. The More Ping Less Bling Degenerate Gambling Pool attracted more Dirtbags than ever before. The Florida Gators were the Tide’s Ping team of choice. And thank God. Betting on UC Santa Barbara to win anything but the Wool Olympics or a Commie Kickball game is evidently a fool’s errand. Irregardless, the pilgrimage to Omaha was made and a few lucky Tide members were fortunate enough to take the Ping Right of Passage. Between EYL’s 10-hour bus ride wading through the cornfields of Iowa and Gigante’s now famous 7-IPA 11-run 4th inning at The Blatt gastropub, the Tide certainly learned a lot about themselves. 

As the summer has wore along, and June turned into July, the Tide organization learned of tragedy with the passing of Young J. Hardaway. One of the OG’s, J. Hardaway played in what some call “The Larson Era.” He was a player and a man whom no one spoke poorly of, but rather always respected. A Tsunami player who paved new roads in the SFNABA alongside (to name just a few) Larson, Everchill, Old Crowe, Danger, Omaha, Brill, and of course The Godfather.

Fortunately, with as much heartache as the Tide dealt with in July, Godfather was able to provide some positive news for Tsunami Nation. “I have effectively FUCKED CANCER,” announced ‘Father. His clean bill of health had arrived.

Of course, as July now turns into August, Godfather is quick to remind us that the dogfight still rages on and the same certainly still holds true in the SFNABA, albeit on a much smaller scale.

Wildcard Weekend kicks off on Sunday August 9th at 1:30pm. Let the Tide roll… 

Posted by section925 on 07/29 at 10:43 PM

Wednesday, January 07, 2015

“Godfather’s Rehab Assignment”

The Godfather of the SFNABA, the almighty creator, put himself on the DL on December 7th. Not with a strained oblique or a sore hammy, but with cancer.

Because it was cancer, he took the liberty to put himself on the 30-day DL, rather than the customary 15-day DL. It was a typical stand up move by Godfather, giving Jake Taylor, Old Crowe and the rest of the Tide front office suits enough time to make any personnel moves (ie. call up some cocky schmuck from the California JUCO burnout circuit). No one in the old-man wood bat community quite has the clout to put Godfather on the DL, so he went ahead and announced it himself, like the man he is. All told, Godfather only spent 25 days on the DL. He came off the DL on New Years Eve, 2014.

Godfather put himself on the DL on Sunday, December 7th. The first words of the Disabled List announcement read, “Well shit…”

Within the announcement there was link to a new blog authored by the Godfather himself, titled: “FUCK YOU CANCER.”

The title is more appropriate for The Shitter Twitter than anything else, but Godfather isn’t the type of guy to go with the generic “Stand Up To Cancer (S^2C)” slogan. He’d rather just say, “Fuck you cancer” and get on with it.

Godfather came out of the gate swinging a relatively hot stick, all things considered. His first post was titled “When, Where, What, How?” as in “Give me the fucking ball, Skip, and get out of my way. My cutter is moving today, and my Uncle Charlie is falling off the table. I’m going to head out there and put a couple new salt lines on my Tide hat. Come get me in the 6th or 7th inning. And make sure the post-game IPA is cold and hoppy, would ya?”

Godfather outlined things bluntly in his first post. One of the rules was, “Do not send flowers (read: I’m not a fucking pussy, you guys).” Fair enough.

Non Runner showed up shortly thereafter with some other derelicts from the Tide roster. To see Godfather, sure, but mostly to take stock of the wool in the UCSF nursing corps. (There was plenty of it, thank God). Poker night fell through, but Non Runner cracked enough racist jokes to make up for it.

Three days later, Godfather took to the web to inform us that he had talked his way into a room of his own, complete with a nicer TV and (presumably) hotter nurses. Chemo had started and Godfather took time to remind us that there was “no excuses.” Well fine then Godfather, no excuses, including chemo.

By the end of the week Godfather was wrapping up “Round 1” of chemo. Just absolutely kicking the shit out of it. Mike Tyson style, inside the MGM grand in Vegas, black shoes with black trunks. No robe, just walking into the ring with his shirt off and boxing gloves on, foaming at the mouth, demanding someone to ring the bell so he could go fuck some cancer up a 4am.

By the following week, after a brief look around at the Rock Bottom Hotel (a site Non Runner has seen too many times on flights back from Miami), Godfather was back in good spirits, in a new room. An illegal PED called Neupogen was pumped into Godfather, much to his delight. The soap opera wool wasn’t half bad either.

By the 20th of January, Godfather was back down in a dark valley, this time it resembled a Jon Danger-Columbia-bender type dark valley, but it wasn’t long before he was back up for air, with his Amazon Fire TV stick firmly in hand and his Iron Mike black trunks still on.

By year’s end, Godfather was well enough to issue a few press passes, namely to It was the first time media outlets had heard from the gentle giant in almost a month. ‘Father assured his fanbase he’d be off the DL by the beginning of 2015 and he took the time to talk Los Angeles Dodgers hot stove, lamenting the loss of Dee Gordon, but welcoming in Howie Kendrick with open arms.

Godfather is home for now, enjoying some MLB Network and recharging his batteries for some more 9 inning battles at UCSF, high above Big Rec. It’s only a matter of weeks now until SFNABA pitchers and catchers are due to report, in the league that the Godfather created. If you need to find him, he’ll either be at his house, UCSF, or the yard. Just don’t send him any fucking flowers.

Roll Tide…

Posted by section925 on 01/07 at 03:13 PM

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Jon Danger Hirsch does not give a fuck about nicknames

Jon Danger Hirsch, aka Meatball, aka Kickstand, aka Red Sea, aka Stumpy, aka Logs, aka Crotch, aka Chuckles, aka Mission: High, aka Playground, aka Freedom, aka Sarge, aka Body Heat, aka First Born, aka Sasquatch, aka La Mision, aka First Come First Spermed, aka Silver Tip, aka Foggy Bottom, aka Bubbles, aka Bubba Coke, aka Bubba Blow, aka Bubba Slopes, aka Prong, aka The Intruder, aka The Incubator, aka Barley, aka Wheat Germ, aka Boils, aka Gutter Balls, aka Alley Love, aka Nose Machine, aka Kitty Litter, aka Front Door, aka Side Exit, aka Airplane, aka Peaches, aka Cream, aka Johnny, aka Penicillin, aka Nine Nostrils, aka Poor House, aka Fancy Tits, aka The Jew of the Nile, aka Dessert First, aka Pulp, aka Short Sword, aka Swordplay, aka Roid Balls, aka Oklahoma, aka Now And Never, aka Sun Child, aka Doc, aka Bob Saget, aka Colonel Stiffy, aka Blow House, aka Rape Whistle, aka Bareback, aka Sidewinder, aka The Doorman, aka Johnnie, aka Hot Dog, aka Hot Links, aka Professor Testicles, aka Senor Muffins, aka Yeti, aka Sport, aka Tip, aka Rod, aka Slippery Gooch, aka Sugar Beet, aka Horse, aka Donkey Nuts, aka Monkey, aka Slappy, aka Kosher Bacon, aka Nail Gun, aka Torch, aka Statue of Puberty, aka Slurpee, aka Toe Jam, aka Apples, aka Pasta Sauce, aka Mayor Vagina, aka Mayor Boobs, aka Mime Troupe, aka Peanuts, aka Lickity, aka The Hebrew Hustle, aka Muddy, aka Mudder, aka Mud balls, aka Muddy Gooch, aka Mudhen, aka Toledo, aka Eggs, aka Tel Aviv, aka Sizzler, aka Outback, aka The Straw That Soaked the Camel’s Back, aka Doggy Door, aka Brazos, aka Moses, aka Big Moses, aka Lil Jacob, aka Possum, aka Possum Balls, aka Semen Sock, aka Sperm Gun, aka Wildfire, aka Buttdigger, aka The Mechanic, aka Sloppy, aka Lil George, aka Big Rizzo, aka Lil Mike, aka BJ, aka Fingers, aka Toes, aka Racer 69, aka Jewlicious, aka Hebrew National, aka Cock Snot, aka Coke Snot, aka Coke, aka Slopes, aka Sugar, aka Soda, aka Dog Dick, does not give a fuck about nicknames. Jon Danger wants some hits. Hard ground balls through the pitcher’s wickets. Soft liners over third. Seared fastballs into the gaps.

This is not about the Philosophy of History, guys. Nobody invited you here to think. Last I checked nobody’s last name was Hegel or Kant. We’d prefer you hit. “Drop some Braj,” is it, how they say? John Fucking Ratto is not walking through that door. Toddamus is not walking through that door. So to hit we need momentum. And for momentum we need camaraderie. As a very wise man once said, no matter how funny the accent: “We may not have much, but at least we’ve got each other.” So let’s fucking act like it. And get out to ballgames. And give each other shit online, especially the simple ones (like the ones whose SS#s are 56#-8#-####). (they can take it; they don’t always know what’s going on). And then hit like you’re still the cocky 18-year-old whose best friend’s girlfriend is dying to sleep with you.

Tsunami Several, All Blacks Uno
Gigante shoved. Defenders flailed. Enjoy Your Lipper raked. The ABs ran out of gas.

Tsunami Lots, All Blacks Dos
We’re not the ones trying to start a Southern Hemisphere war between the two inbred alcoholic adrenaline-junkie junk-toothed outcasts of the English-speaking world. All Blacks is a kiwi Rugby team (union? Probably. Maybe 7s? who can be bothered? Who can’t be fucked?) The fact is we’re the ones with the real Aussie and the ABs seemed much more Burlingame than Shire.

Thor pitched a helluva game in heavy heat, especially considering he spent several of the first hours of his day gathering patience in right. Rizzo heartily supported him, coaching even, all the way from centerfield. Quiet Guy made a career play up the middle, attributed the safety meeting between games. Gigante took about five hours to get some Gatorades. Daniels and Taylor looked 20 at the plate, 49 in the field. Taylor refused to hit it where they ain’t.

Bump Kings
Zero nominations received by deadline.

Hot Sticks
Enjoy Your Lipper, 8-11, 64 RBI.

Daniels, 0-0, 2 RBI.

Thor and Quiet Guy had some hits, too, maybe a few others, but Taylor refused to send over stats in two weeks time despite years of begging for blog.

Glove Love
Thor!: New solution at shortstop: get these pitchers diving, covering some ground!

Quiet Guy: Ok, so let’s not talk about Game 1. Let’s just remember Game 2 and the Alomar-like range and throw to a giddy, scooping Everchill.

NSFW: Incredible dive and glove. This category dos not necessarily include throwing.

Vinnie Chase didn’t fuck up. Who else can say that.

Jake Taylor: 9 innings. Zero injuries.

But in reality there’s been some really shitty gloveplay lately, and it can’t all be blamed on Mercury in retrograde and an overhyped Seth MacFarlane acting debut. Catch the ball. Throw the ball. Score one or two runs and let the pitchers do the rest.

NSFW: “It’s hard to film and fuck at the same time. It’s doing a math problem and . . . fucking.”

Self-Esteem League
12-10-5. First game in 14 months. But remember: yes, we are talking Co-Ed here.

Basepaths (or, This Week’s Adventures In Dying):
Technically it wasn’t a base-running error. Just a miscalculation of speed. CS does not equal picked off.

And then there was the time Old Crowe threw up the brakes before the parrot-armed LF picked up the ball. Thank you, Tsunami, for not stopping.

Game Balls
Gigante, sure.

Thor, sure.

Enjoy Your Lipper: SURE, SURE.

This Week’s Tsunami Spotlight: An Interview With Second-Best Friends

Jonh Danger Hirsch: 26. 3/17/87.
Laser Show (Rizzo): 27 already. 8/23/86.

JDH: Sherman Oaks, CA.
LS: Whappinger Falls, NY.

LS: The Yankees, of course!
JDH: Dodgers, man, all the way.

JDH: Is that a real question?
LS: I think we’re both gonna say the back of her throat, obviously.

JDH: The draft. Like five, six years ago. Think I was wearing like a painter’s cap and a belly shirt.
LS: Trade, actually. We met some shady guy at the draft, then that night he called and said he was trading for me.

LS: As in Tom and me. Black Label. Moved across the country together—figured we should get to play together.

LS: Think they traded like a bunch of first round picks and some meals.
JDH: It was a BBQ. And one first rounder. A low one at that.
LS: Total steal.
JDH: Here we go blowing the coaches again.
LS: Foundation of a team. For brisket. You must appreciate the thriftiness.
JDH: Awesome. I’m sure Daniels needs the ego boost.

JDH: I don’t think either of us even thinks about it.
LS: Did he kill Jesus? Personally? So of course we can be teammates. Hell, we can be friends.
JDH: And more than that.

LS: I don’t know what he means, actually.
JDH: You’re right. I guess friends and teammates covers it. (giggles)

JDH: Polk Street. North Beach, I guess.
LS: We hang in the Mission too. When I have cash. When I’m not planning on getting some anyways (winks).

JDH: I’m just gonna say his smile.
LS: His arms. Of course his arms. But his mustache is his second-best feature.

JDH: Bradley Cooper.
LS: Vinnie Chase when he’s tan though.
JDH: But Bradley gets tan too. Give him an afternoon in Santa Cruz.
LS: Either way they’re one and two.

LS: When I was fourteen.
JDH: Bull-fucking-shit.
LS: Wait, are we talking about finishing too?
JDH: What do you think?
LS: I’m pretty sure penetration counts.
JDH: Well, in any case, you’ve again won the sympathy vote.

LS: I’m not gonna justify that with a response.
JDH: Probably the transfer. I don’t mind a skin once I have it on.

LS: I thought we were here to talk about baseball.

JDH: Peace is undefeated in wars.
LS: Long as you don’t call count the Middle East.

Two Or Three Of These Were Actually Said
"I'm so not homophobic, Dan, I have a couple of guys in my B.O.M.B." - Autocorrect

“No, you don’t get it—it’s the white half of me that teaches math.”  - TuLin

“Fine, so one’s ever called me Kickstand exactly, but I'm 6'5 and by all accounts proportionate.” - Gigante

“He was such a leader. The mustaches. Beer. And people still talk about the shower games he created. Legendary.” - Borenstein

“I did so much Goddamn blow last night.”  - Old Crowe

“The fatter the butcher the tastier the beef.” - Elevator

“Hey relax.” – Jake Taylor

“Of course I don't have any painkillers. Even if I did I wouldn't have any.” – Toddamus

“The funny thing is, I just started SFNABA as a tax shelter.” - Godfather

“Lots of times we don't even take our clothes off. We just lay there, eyes locked, and we talk. And you know what the amazing thing is? It's just as good. It's almost even better.” -Homewrecker

“Why the fuck is Pete named after a New Testament figure?” - Jon Danger Hirsch

“I also know Fraser’s worst moment. She has orangutang titties and bug eyes.” - Autocorrect

Cutting Room Floor
Something about Rizzo and Black Label trading places in their rooftop Jeter Fathead Gloryhole.

Going Forward
Topes. John. O.
Ribs and steak for Sal.
Gigante salad.
Thunder from Down Under.
Why not us? Why not, indeed.
Posted by Tsunami34 on 06/12 at 09:48 AM

Saturday, April 12, 2014

“The Quintessential Experience” by Tom Hickey

Hi everyone,

Please indulge me for these moments of personal reflection.

I love the game of baseball with a passion I seldom match in other areas
of my life! That’s why this 59-year-old boy can be found in uniform on a Sunday playing the game that’s given him so much since his first organized game in 1950.

I play for love, and like true love, I ask nothing in return—except
for the ability to play and be contributory to my team and the game
itself. The joy is in playing—and the bonus—is the experiencing of the nuances of the game.

I must share my experience of April 22, 2001. No matter how long I play
this game—a new experience looms just ahead—to impress me that I
haven’t seen or felt everything.

In my 50 years of playing baseball I never hit a ball over a fence in a
game for a home run. I never experienced the exhaltation of trotting the
bases, rounding third, slapping the hand of the third base coach, and
looking up to see all my teammates waiting at home plate with giant
smiles (and, in this instance, looks of amazement that they had just
actually seen what they saw) on their faces. Sunday, it happened!

8th inning. Down 3 runs. Bases empty (if this were a movie, the bases
would have been loaded, and, my personal joy would have been
unrestrained because the homer would have won the game.)
3-1 count. just trying to get on base. I’ll take a walk, or, just make
good contact. Hit it hard. Find a hole. Get on so our better hitters can
make something happen.

The pitch. Letter-high fastball. Too good to take. Swing…....

I never experienced the sensation and joy of “getting all of it” and
getting under the pitch so that in that brief mega-second the
realization that the ball had “a chance” to go out was real.
Being a life-long “singles hitter” my only home run came at age 14 on a
field with no outfield fences. Batting right-handed, I hit the gap in
left-center and raced around the bases sliding home ahead of the tag (if
you’ve seen me run—maybe racing is an exaggeration.)

This time, batting left-handed, the sound of aluminum (I miss wood)
meeting baseball was “pure”. There was a “ringing sound” which means I
got it “all”.

I knew I had pulled the ball and 3 steps out of the batter’s box my eyes
went to the rightfielder. He started back slowly, then increased his
speed to the fence looking all the way like he had a bead on the ball.
I knew I hit it well to the right part of the field, but, would it
carry? He was at the temporary fencing not able to go farther. At that
moment my heart fluttered (and not for the usual reason a man my age
feels a heart fluttering sensation) as I saw him look up and the ball
sail about 10 feet over the fence.

Suddenly, the joy was replaced by concern. what would be my style of
trotting around the bases? Should I give a Kirk Gibson arm pump as i
approach second base? Should I raise my right arm to the sky?
No, I’d be traditional. Don’t want to show up the pitcher. After all,
how good could he feel allowing such a hit to someone my age. Nope, show
respect for the game and for the fact we still trailed by 2 runs. The
score was what was important. How can I celebrate when we are down to
our last two outs?

I believe baseball’s god smiled on this oldtimer. HE granted me an
opportunity before I go off into that corn field with Shoeless Joe and
Roy Hobbs and Crash Davis.

The fact that my sons stood at home plate, wearing the same uniform I
wore, with pride in their eyes, truely made me a blessed man.

- Tom Hickey

Posted by section925 on 04/12 at 09:21 PM

Wednesday, April 09, 2014

Jon Danger Hirsch Doesn’t Give a Fuck About Leland Yee or Raymond ‘Shrimp Boy’ Chow

Jon Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck about Leland Yee or Raymond ‘Shrimp Boy’ Chow... or bedlam in the streets of the University of Santa Barbara, or tech bros acting chill on tech buses, or gentrification fucking up the mission, or preseason slumpbusters, or Shabazz Napier, or Pablo Sandoval’s playing weight, or Jim Johnson getting booed in Oakland, or what the pros are wearing, or Apple’s new operating system, or the cut fastball Nuke worked on over the winter, or anything that doesn’t involve inexpensive blow and girls tanned to a perfect golden brown.

Yeah, no really, he doesn’t give of a flying fuck about any of it. And why would he? Listed on LinkedIn as someone “with a passion for Marketing”, Danger has put his fabricated five year plan on hold to purposely lose himself in the deep depths of the disjointed concrete jungles of South America. Occasionally he’ll stumble upon an internet cafe, at which time he usually has enough presence of mind to drop a line to Tide brass, letting the higher ups know that he is still alive, still is wearing a dirty wife beater, still has Jose Canseco-esque arms, and still has plenty of subterranean wool around in order to light the proverbial lamp when needed.

Even with Danger’s whereabouts unknown, (along with his hipster baseball pants and massive lipper and white Nike’s and oversized left handed stick) the show must go on, people. And so it has...

Welcome to 2014, folks. It’s here whether you signed up for it or not. All the veterans are a year older, a year wiser, and a year less athletic. The team Old Crowe put together, in the league Holy Godfather created is now in its 14th year of public service. That’s 14 years of not being afraid to throw on a dirty rubber, but who’s counting?

The captivating/galvanizing hashtag of the winter came from the big thumbs of Gigante. “#OneMoreYear” was the rallying cry. Appropriate when you consider that this flock of weekend warriors epitomize the idea of being “Day to day.”

2012 saw the Tide triumph over the Topes in one of the most classic baseball series on record. The ball hit to Tom at third, the Jeter-like backup from the heady Toddamus, the dramatic out call, the frantic celebration at the mound after Gigante’s final strikeout, the post game Bud Lights on the grass behind the third base dugout, the Tide’s collective hard-on going limp at SLBP the next weekend versus the upstart Wood. Twenty twelve had it all.

2013 again brought a plethora of excitement for the hometown fans. @TideDirtBags was born, the TST was in full-bloom, Larceny started a family, walk-offs became the norm, and the regular season Wave rolled to an unprecedented 18-2 mark in the regular season.

Unfortunately, the dream of a no holds barred dogpile on the mound in San Leandro and a ticker tape parade in a black town car down Market Street was not to be. Instead, the Tide fell to a lawyer with a do-rag, Brandon Phillips, and a schmuck from UC Davis who Abbot happily traded away. The Final Four loss was lowlighted by the now infamous “Monterey Massacre”. “Thumbs In Figoni” apparently lost his wits about him, guzzled one too many tequila shots at a beachside wedding, shattered his iphone, and woke up the next day two hours after the first pitch of a monumental playoff tilt. The word “gutwrenching” came to mind. Still does to this day.

But really, who are we kidding. Fuck it. It’s 2014 now.

As the Wednesday, April 18, 2012 headline plainly reads on, this group of grinders is clearly “No Longer the Fat Chick Anyone Can Fuck”. Instead, the Tide are a major player in the SFNABA landscape. A force to be reckoned with, if you will.

The big money pitching staff of Nuke and Gigante is still very much intact for another go around. Their silent rivalry still burns. Gigante’s signed minor-league baseball card still waits in vain on eBay.

Added to the pitching staff this year is an advertising Senior Creative from Australia. Sure, he may not have been born in America, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t pump the pearl and swing the dick like he grew up playing on Sean Burrough’s Long Beach Little League World Series team. The guy brings some edge to him as well. From some ink on the arms to an impressive in-game lipper, some see shades of taller, righthanded, more laid back version of Danger on our hands. That’s only if you look hard enough.

Everchill Abbot also threw into the mix a new first baseman. His name is Spencer, but his on-field name already appears to be Rube Baker. With a body resembling Adam Dunn’s, the 4-year Ivy League starter looks more than capable of dropping braj. (sidenote: Rube’s Penn Quakers never quite won the Ivy title during his career, thus, Beustad and Toddamus never had a chance to gamble on him in the annual “More Ping Less Bling” college baseball pool, (coming your way again this June)).

Jake Taylor, as expected, came into camp “In the best shape of his life” and it shows!

Nuke spent the winter cyber-bombing team@sftsunami email chains, while Gigante spearheaded the “One more year” hashtag, crossfited to retain his velocity, and did his best to keep a leash on Tommy.

Tommy grinded all winter at his office in the FiDi, because that’s all he knows how to do. He also crosfitted his dick off in order to offset 2-week long Miami benders.

Vic still is the same stand-up individual, who might steal your car, Regards.

Consulting is who-knows-where. Probably in the south bay, quietly saving East Palo Alto from imploding onto itself, about to send out an e-mail offering up a pair of Giants tickets to the desk jockey with the quickest trigger finger.

Beustad spent the winter dicking off in Utah. Lifted a lot of weights with no apparent results, waited the tables of the eastern seaboard’s ultra-asshole-elite, updated his instagram feed, didn’t get laid, punched his clown a lot.

Rizzo and Tom retained their bachelor pad on Benard street. Both appear to have also retained their better halves. Tom’s insurance brokerage house appears to be booming, What Pros Wear likewise.

Toddamus and Tamir don’t look a day older. Their lives equipped with the reason and responsibility lost on so many Tide members over the years. Old Crowe is also back in the third base coaches’ box, with a new pair of snazzy cleats he found on WPW.

Hyphen’s return to the bay is pending, more on that later perhaps. For now he’s enjoying the wall-to-wall carpeting one can only find in So-Cal.

Godfather’s winter visions of a second ship in a wool-infested area of Arizona fell off the table like one of his Uncle Charlies, but one day, one day that trip will happen...

Games 2 and 3: Tide Rolls over the Oakland Athletics

The Tide have jumped out of the gate early in 2014 with a perfect 3-0 record. Game 1 saw a bomb from Figoni, as well as a roller coaster ride from Tom. Games 2 and 3 gave us a doubleheader sweep of a new SFNABA expansion team, the Oakland Athletics.

The A’s were no match for the two headed monster that is Nuke and Gigante. Both right handers dealt in their respective starts. Aussie Luke also showed off his arm during the twin bill. By the looks of it, the powerful bloke is not afraid to dot a guy, nor is he afraid to paint the black.

Glove Kings:
Rube Baker.
For his effortless scoop at first base after a drop third strike. Four years of baseball practice inside a gym on a snowy day in Pennsylvania really paid off there, I tell ya.

Bump Kings:
Nuke and Gigante. Per usual. Nothing to see here.

Dropping Braj:
Tom D.
Guy swung it all day down in Albany vs the A’s. Shot an opposite field gap with the bases drunk, minutes after the Tide was on the wrong end of a pending perfect game. Everyone scored on the knock. RBI were had. Not sure anyone was on the book at that time to record it.

Honorable Mention Dropping Braj:
Aussie Luke.
Announced his presence with authority with an oppo bomb over a silver monster in right.

Quote of the Week:
“My arm feels fucking awesome, you guys. Molly is a great anti-inflammatory.” - @NonRunner

TST of the Week
“#Pray4Tommy” - @EYL, @Gigante

The Tide take their traveling circus down the peninsula to face off with defending SFNABA champions, the Isotopes. Yes, as you may or may not have heard, this is #TopesWeek. Get your tickets while you still can. A huge walk-up crowd of rogue girlfriends and parents in their mid to late sixties is expected. Last year the Tide lost to the Topes 12-2. Mind you, this was without Fluffy on the 25 man roster. See you at the yard...
Posted by section925 on 04/09 at 05:41 PM

Thursday, May 09, 2013

Jon Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck about what the fucking pros are wearing

Jon Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck about labor and delivery, barometric pressure, Tough Mudders, adapted screenplays, El Nino, vaginal hygiene, brother on brother Super Bowls, Frank McCourt, Magic Johnson’s son, the Eurozone, Kim Jong Un (Lil Kim!), cholesterol, east coast versus west coast (both have plenty of Jews, far as he’s seen), the McRib, Sandra Bullock, sixty-dollar T-shirts, surfing, crabs, lubrication, sinkholes, Batch 19, Black Crown, gluten-free, cage-free, farm-raised, locally-grown, heroin-laced, molly-spiked, Iron Man 3, Marc Gasol, torn Achilles, Mel Kiper Jr., March Madness, ozone, Oscars parties, evolution, intelligent design, steroid acne, Mork, Mindy, sunblock, laundry, lunar eclipses, solar flares, NOPA, wiping front to back, Armenians, MaxPreps, deodorant, fuel efficiency, The Richmond, long division, iced tea, white smoke over the Vatican, Hogwarts, the metric system, Kindles, The Dish Network, reruns, refunds, Hegel, slow jazz, San Jose, margarine, the Arab Spring, Code Red Mountain Dew, Colonel Jessup, pouting, winter Olympics, Bob Sagat jokes, dandruff, psoriasis of the liver, salmon roe, truffle oil, perpetual motion machines, Colonel Buendia, salt-rimmed margarita glasses, Geno Smith, lasting septums, The Brothers Karamozov, two-eyed strippers, Plan A, or what the fucking pros are wearing. He wants a blog. Give him a fucking blog. A real fucking blog, not some watered-down, heavy punches-pulled, new age, touchy-feely, Blog 2.0-bullshit. Jon wants the heavy bag. The big girl at the end of the bar with the biker already going down on her. Chicken-fried steak. Sheperd’s Pie. Five shots of whiskey and an IV of wolf adrenaline. Dethklok. Roman Bulldozers. Ass play. The gooch. Orgasm.

This is not a drill, people. This is real fucking life here. Fasten your seat belts and bite down on something.

Tsunami 7, Aces 2
The most retarded play in Tsunami baseball history repeats itself roughly every other time Laser Show runs the basepaths. A close second is Daniels taking a 3-2 pitch off the face like a date-raped cow napping on a driving range. Fortunately, Laser Show’s not here for his math, because his standard response of doubling next time up, scoring, and then explaining that, “I made it up for it, see!” does not hold up to advanced analytical examination: (-1 + 1 = 0; while +1 – 0 = 1; and +1 + 1 would actually = 2; imagine: 2!). So no, Mike, we’re not better off than we were before. Get yourself a graphing fucking calculator.

As for Daniels, well, Duck! It’s just plain stupid to go the plate with newborn-care reflexes. He still looked tough, though, sure. Even played it cool on the basepaths when teammates began heckling him from their fuzzy far-off dugout. You won’t get a rise out of Tsunami veterans.

At the plate, Black Label protested coach’s decision to bat him third by swinging like a Black Sock and striking out more times than he did last season, but Cooper came through with a big drive in the first to score Taylor from first. No one was driven in from second base because you’re not allowed ghost runners and Coach has yet to really consider the full potential of the Non-Runner designation to preserve outs. Old Crowe played a joke on Danger as the latter neared and rounded third, refusing to signal anything at all from the third-base coaches box, but the joke was on O.C. in the end: Danger refuses to do what anyone tells him to do in any situation outside of the bedroom, anyway, and scored easily. Just after Nuke tested how fast he could throw the ball off a moving composite barrel, Outlaw came to bat at the right time the next inning. With runners everywhere, he battled the straining Aces ace for seven hours, taking pitches and fouling them off, outlasting the determined Ace until Outlaw’s Adderall kicked in for the 15th or so pitch: game-breaking sharp single through the hole.

With the Tsunami tripling their preferred run output and then some, it was up to the prized staff not to spoil the party. Gigante looked the second most productive offense in SFNABA straight in the pants, and he liked what he saw, using the first nine batters faced to ripen his highlight tape. Nuke took a full stomach of Ike’s dirty sauce to the mound and experimented with dominance, wind currents, sudden energy loss, and applied existentialism in an uncharacteristically uneven performance. Or maybe he just wanted a little Danger. Happy to oblige, Jon D. Hirsch located Aces at first and second before borrowing a belt and remembering that his out-pitch is swagger. Backed by an extremely original and underused defensive alignment, Danger threw successive confidence balls until the Aces at last accepted their destined defeat.

Bump Kings
Gigante is good, you guys. 12K, 5 IP, O ER, 2 H, 1 BB. Just three base runners. Fuck. And, unlike certain several Tsunami hurlers, he doesn’t make fielding his position look like intoxicated judo.

Hot Sticks
Bradley Cooper with the big first-inning blast to score Everchill Taylor from first. Admitted thanks to the centerfielder who got swallowed by the moment.

Outlaw with the eighty-pitch clutch at-bat to drive in Daniels with two on and two out.

Everchill Taylor looked two years younger.

Laser Show had some, I think, but still.

Glove Love
Old Crowe calls Aces outfield “Little league. Worst I’ve seen in a while.” Drops fly in right. Redeems self by tracking down fly in center Daniels ignored.

Cooper and Danger in double-secret competition to take most time delivering ball to outstretched heavily-panting salivating Taylor. No worries, though: tie goes to the runner, but out goes to the winner on this day at Balboa Park.

Bradley Cooper. 31-game streak threatening to draw significant local media attention.

Basepaths (or, This Week’s Adventures In Dying):
Laser Show: Does anyone have a leash?

Black Label: Brilliant fucking dead stop on way to second in front of cannonball, exactly twelve feet in front of the bag, sending Laser home and drawing throw, everybody safe. The particularly rare RBI from 1st base. Well done.

Daniels: SB! Well at least the ump said so.

Game Balls
Gigante. With authority and ease.

Whoever paid off the base umpire.

The base umpire.

Black Label. He’s not an ass at the plate very often, far from it, but even when he is he plays SS and Catcher and he drove in a run from first base. Contract could get expensive real soon.

Outlaw. Big hit, even after being hit himself. With a bat. Ouch.

Well somehow we’ve already played over a third of the season. Yikes. Someone other than Vinnie Chase should probably start hitting. The starters should start stretching out. Coach should take care of his gear. And we should probably catch up on the offseason before we barrel into the All-Star break.

Offseason Moves

Jon Danger Hirsch completed his Ph.D. in Dolores Park and applied for a post-doc fellowship.

Tu-Lin tried to pop a wheelie on his motorcycle.

Autocorrect fostered twin tapeworms.

Homewrecker continued his pursuit of immortality, slept with a female midget this time.

Bradley Cooper launched a provocative podcast, insured his hair, proposed to at least one non-traditionally beautiful heiresses, got new brake pads on his home, registered to vote, built a park-adjacent treehouse for a homeless couple, and started worrying about cell phone radiation.

Black Label started several small fires in his pants.

Godfather had a room named after him in a jiggle joint near the University of Nevada-Reno campus.

Figoni rode the elevator up a floor, then down again, then up to the penthouse, and so on.

Lorenzo Gigante jerked off naked in a room full of mirrors.

Borenstein put potato chips on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Laser Show conquered vertigo, rejected condoms, protested pass-word protected adult content sites, shaved hourly, drilled a hole-in-one in a solo round at Lincoln, kept it to himself, bought white jeans, protested traditional team colors, paid immeasurable attention to professional athletes’ attire, rocked the chain and, once again, played up for his league.

Frankel won $37,400 on Jeopardy.

Toddamus did not tell a single lie.

Omaha, Consulting and Daniels succeeded evolutionarily.

Old Crowe hired four day laborers to remove his downstairs bath tub, dig a hole thirty feet under his building, install a secret phone-booth-sized room down there, create a hydraulic door to close his bath tub over the hole, wrapped the day laborers in plastic, murdered them with an exacto knife, composted them, went to Whole Foods, waited till his new fiancée was fast asleep, went deep down into his secret room, tried a thin slice of roasted pork, didn’t like it, didn’t finish it, threw up what he swallowed, set charges in the room and along the tunnel, demoed the room and the hole, made a quinoa smoothie, and went back to bed. Started a clothing company with Kelso in the morning.

Everchill Taylor experimented with heroin, silky lingerie and bicycle accidents.

Consulting signed the original Port Huron statement.

Nuke fucked up the email chain.

Outlaw’s whereabouts: unknown.

Tsunami Teammates Behind the Scenes

Daniels, texting on a Thursday morning: Go for a run? Bike ride later?
Everchill Taylor, three minutes later: No, I want to be nimble for Sunday’s game.

Frankel: It’s like I’m never mentioned in this blog except for being Jewish.
John Danger Hirsch: I know. I’m so sick of being stereotyped. [re-buttons his jorts, adjusts pink tank top borrowed from mother]

Autocorrect: Getting pretty tired down here.
Lorenzo Gigante: Keep trying.

Black Label: Hey, Mi—
Laser Show: Shut up, Tom.

Nuke: Damn, Vic, where’d you get this sweet ride?
Outlaw: Stop asking questions or get out of the car.

Laser Show: I wish I could put whatever you put in your arms into my penis.
Jon Danger Hirsch: I wish you could put your penis into my arms.

Autocorrect: Is this even doing anything?
Lorenzo Gigante: Well your braces sure aren’t helping.

Jon Danger Hirsch: Mike! You know Morgan, right?
Morgan: Hi, Mike.
Everchill Taylor:

Daniels: Fatherhood!
Consulting: Doing things.
Daniels: Crazy, man.
Consulting: Performance.

Black Label: Mike, what do y—
Laser Show: Nobody loves you, Tom.

Jon Danger Hirsch: Do you think I’m fat?
Sam Galifinaikas: You’re beautiful.

Autocorrect: How was Vegas? Elevator?
Figoni: Got on and just pushed all of the buttons!

Godfather, 9:30 pm on a Friday: Getting late, Matty. Text you tomorrow.
Old Crowe: [been asleep for one hour]

Black Label: Can I see it?
Kelso: No.
Black Label: I just want to know how I stack up.

Jon Danger Hirsch: Maybe I should work out more?
Sam Galifinaikas: Like we already don’t spend enough time apart!

Homewrecker Chase: Giants game. Your place or mine?
Laser Show: Well not my fucking place. Tom obviously lives here.

Daniels, texting on Saturday morning: Gym? Bball?
Everchill Taylor: Busy, dude. [opens Racer 5, winks at creeped-out girl walking by his porch, laughs]

Sam Galifinaikas: Do you think I’M fat?
Jon Danger Hirsch: Not really, no, I mean, ugh, no of course not!

Black Label: Mike, do y—
Laser Show: How anyone fucks you, Tom!

Tu-Lin: Can we ever beat those guys in Kan-Jam?
Laser Show: Maybe if we break Todd’s arm.

Daniels, texting on Monday evening: Bike fixed yet?
Everchill Taylor: Nope. Sucks. [laughs, shows text exchange to 500 Club bartender]

Toddamus: I hope everyone’s not giving you too hard of a time.
Black Label: That’s what she said.
Toddamus: Shut up, Tom.

B. Cooper: If you were Neo, would you’ve chosen the red pill or the blue pill?
B. Cooper: [wrinkles face, rubs chin, drives his house up and down Ocean Beach, parks, rubs chin, repeats, clears throat] Well, there’s just no way to know until you’re in that situation.

Black Label: Sabathia’s looking shar—
Laser Show: Damnit, Tom! [stands up, leaves room] We can’t sit in silence for just one weekend?

Autocorrect: Wanna find a better team?
Lorenzo Gigante: I don’t know. We already got the jerseys.

Laser Show: I said break TODD’s arm.
Tu-Lin: My mistake.

Daniels, text on Thursday, 7 pm: Ocean Beach, run or bike?
Everchill Taylor: I wish! Swamped. Still at work in San Jose.
Daniels: Bummer. Just gonna head to The 500 then.
Everchill Taylor: [spits out Racer 5, grabs hoodie and sprints out of 500 Club]

Going Forward
Rivalry week is once again upon us, you guys. Saturday, 1 pm-ish, hosting the Bay Sox after an eternal road trip. In the meantime, enjoy the fog, sear your meat, get plenty of rest and, above all, try not get captured.
Posted by Tsunami34 on 05/09 at 10:09 AM

Friday, April 26, 2013

We don’t blog losses around here

Isotopes 12, Tsunami 2

We don’t blog losses around here.  But Bradley Cooper did sum up the weekend well:  “We win that game with Fluffy on the 25 man roster.”

Posted by Tsunami34 on 04/26 at 04:50 PM

Thursday, April 18, 2013

John Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck. No seriously. He didn’t even show up

John Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck. (No seriously. He didn’t even show up). Danger has better things to do on a Sunday afternoon, like giving everyone free beer, surfing Cliphunter until it’s time to inject his Winstrol, taking key bumps in the storage room at Liberties, and looking at new pictures of brown art on Sam’s phone. While those are certainly questionable priorities, it sounds like a lot more fun than Section 925’s Sunday afternoon spent working on group projects, playing his podcast, and sexting Autocorrect’s chubby ex co-workers….spare me!

Luckily for both of them the Blue Claws didn’t show up either and the game looked a lot like the train being run simultaneously on Avra at Coachella (pictures to come). Lorenzo Gigante got thru 6 innings on 54 pitches and used more effort for his jaw dropping Shart timed perfectly during the final pitch-A nice tribute to his girlfriend for coming out.

Bump Kings:

Lorenzo Gigante- 6 Innings, 54 pitches and another near perfect performance that stays intact with the 9-3 putout that almost was.

Nuke Kalush- 1 Inning and no runs but he assured us he could go 2 or 3 innings if needed. Jake Taylor has the icepack ready should his lips swell up against the Topes next Sunday

Droppin Braj:

Homewrecker: Mammoth double that easily would have been out had Karma not kicked up the winds as punishment for fucking everyone’s wife.

Toddamus-Finally realizing we aren’t Cal State Fullerton and our 3 hitter doesn’t bunt……EVER.

Ronnie Coleman- Hard single in his first at bat in 8 years proving that hitting is just like riding a pussy elevator. Bonus points for introducing Rizzo to the Babe Ruth.

Autocorrect-2-4 with a great Willie Mayes Hayes Impersonation

Nuke Kalush- Bases clearing double on a foul ball which will surely be used as evidence for more AB’s.

Outlaw Chu- Nail in the Blue Claws coffin with a double down the line

Larceny- How the Tsunami ever score running the bases this way?

Nuke- Minus 1 for running a hard 90 right past 2nd base when a slide makes you safe by a mile- Further evidence that you should embrace being a pitcher.


“Cam never sent out porn in the In or Out email”- Jake Taylor
“It’s must be easy to pull your muscles when you have so many”-Jake Taylor

Posted by Autocorrect on 04/18 at 09:31 AM

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Jon Danger Hirsch Does Not Give a Fuck What Hand You Throw With

Jon Danger Hirsch Does Not Give a Fuck What Hand You Throw With

What? Where am I? Why are you here? We’re playing the traitors? Now? Really? I just went to bed, asshole! You say we’re down Tu-Lin and Larson? And they have a lefty on hill? And I have to hit?!?! What’s the scouting report Jake? Wait, fuck that, we have to stop for coffee! I will not play without coffee… and beef jerky…

Sure, he might whine about it, but truthfully Danger does not care who we are playing, how they throw, or what color the rulebook is. He wakes*. He rakes. He jingles and jangles down to first with the same shit eating grin of a man who knows that his success is truly, unequivocally, genuinely ironic. Unlike those Shawn Kemp jersey wearing hoopsters… his #22 is legit, original and screams to the world: “I raked today, but you know, whatever. It woulda been just as cool if I hadn’t.”

Toddamus on the other hand, does not share Danger’s reckless willingness to drop the dick at all costs. He sees a lefty and decides that the best way to show his respect, is to bunt. Or at least try to. I mean, what’s the point in swinging? When a guy throws from the devil’s side of the hill, you’re clearly better off just giving yourself up. It’s the right baseball play!

Fortunately for this team of masturbating marauders, Bradley Cooper is not here to bunt. He brought his braj all the way to Oakland, so he might as well swing it around**. Got leather? Yeah, he’s got that too. Might as well flash it. Clean uni? Screw it. He can park the EB Edition outside of the ‘mat this week. Gotta get to the #ship, even if it runs you a few quarters for extra detergent. Sure, Sure.

Bump Kings -
Lorenzo Gigante – We know he’s not really a stats guy, but maybe just this once… 9 IP. 14 K’s. 2 Hits. 0 Runs. Perfect through 6. 0 LGMTANWF***. Win. Hold. Save.

Droppin’braj -
Cooper – 2-3 with a huge RBI. Fundamentals: 2 Headfirst Slides, Sac Fly
Lawn – Huge RBI in the 1st to get LG the rare lead… Clutch.

Flashing Leather -
Cooper – stop hogging the blog space. Saves the shutout with a dive Greg Luganis would have been proud of. Grace. Beauty. Sure.
Emr – Keeps the PG bid alive making a play deep in the hole… no 2-Hole, not that kinda hole… keep your head out of the gutter.
Taylor – T insists his eyes were open the whole time. T is a nice guy.

Larceny; or How the Tsunami Ever Score Running the Bases This Way is Beyond Comprehension -
TAFKA**** LaserShow – 1 (-3 on year)
T – Almost gets picked off first by the Bay Sox backup C. With a 4 step lead. Probably just wanted to remind LG that we could still fuck this up somehow, so focus!

What the Fuck? -
Nuke - We’ve all been down this road before… wisdom teeth come in, don’t quite fit, and need to be removed… it happens to just about everyone… WHEN THEY ARE FUCKING 12! Who misses Rivalry Week to go to the goddamn dentist?!?! This couldn’t wait until September? Maybe do it on a weekend off? No. Rivarly Week. Thank god he didn’t tweet pictures of all the hand-crafted ice cream he ate to soothe his irritated jowels at Che What. The. Fuck!?!?

Disabled List –
TAFKA LaserShow – Power outage. We will now employ the double cut for 2/3rds of our starting OF until we can raise $3k for Tommy John.
Kirby Daniels – Paternity Leave. Welcome to the 3&U squad, Kole!
Nuke – Whatever. See above.
Danger – Sore arm. Do NOT try to jerk off with pine tar, you guys.

Coach’s Pet –
4:00am. 2-Hole just wants you to know that he’s up and ready for the game.

TTOTW – 140 Characters or Less –
*** This feature has been put on hiatus due to lack of interest***

Things We Know About Autocorrect From Facebook –
*** This feature has been discontinued because it sucked and I still don’t have Facebook***

On the TST -

Enjoy Your Lipper – I just had an intervention with myself

Enjoy Your Lipper – California public schools straight hemorrhaging money today as Jake watches 8 hours of MLB baseball.

Jake – Mrs. Daniels is in labor, you guys!
Danger – Oh Boy! I mean, oh girl!!!
2-Hole – So this means Kirby can make the game on Sunday now, right?
Jake –clearly. Once the baby is out, you can get a babysitter. #fact

Old Crowe – Kalouche!
Homewrecker – What injury does he have?
2-Hole – Wisdom teeth I think.
Homewrecker – I didn’t realize you used your teeth to pitch.

Toddamus – Tonight is 2-Hole’s 1 year butt-sex anniversary.

Up Next –
Blue Claws. In Albany. Presumably not New York, but who the hell knows in the “SF” NABA. Could be anywhere really. Probably best to set your alarm for noon, Danger.

Footnotes and Errata -
* With some coercion
** To be clear to the young lady BC met at a bar, he swings it in the least gay way imaginable… really! Just because he was there with a tightly denim clad Danger and he said he was, he’s not. Really! Not that it would be bad if he was, but he’s NOT! Seriously. /we thinks he doth protest too much…
*** Lorenzo Gigante My Teammates Are Not Worthy Face™
**** The Artist Formerly Known As
Posted by Jake Taylor on 04/11 at 10:45 AM

Friday, April 05, 2013

John Danger Hirsch Will NOT Take Your Charity

John Danger Hirsch (& LaserShow) Will NOT Take Your Charity

Look guys, they were getting screwed. It’s not like the guy deserved to get tossed. And so what if the guy at the plate was the only dude in their lineup to make solid contact all day? Who cares? It’s rec baseball. Let’s strike this fucker out. Fine.

So sure, you forced us to take an out to start the 9th. Thanks. But we do not want to win that way. It’s not sporting. Here, you go to first… and YOU go to first… and YOU go to first! Now it’s a fucking baseball game. Someone call Gus Johnson, ‘cause this shit just got real.

Bump Kings –
Fraser. Didn’t break a sweat. Was ready to get loose for the save… no stats… because we all know that for the big guy, the only stat that matters is WINS.*

Droppin’braj –
Practice? We’re talkin’ ‘bout practice? Homewrecker wake up, shoos away the once virginal to be bride, and swings the goddamn dick. So take your condescending emails and shove it, Jake.

Flashing Leather –
T. A brisket well earned. Bailing the drama queens out with a 4-3 double play to end the game.

Larceny; or How the Tsunami Ever Score Running the Bases This Way is Beyond Comprehension –
LaserShow (-4). At 3rd. With Todd up. And no outs. At least he said he was sorry.

What the Fuck? –
2-Hole goes Kelly Leak on routine pop-up to Jake... from 3rd base. Knocking out Jake’s front teeth in the process. Larson, concerned for personal safety, calls Tom off on next deep fly to right. (Only upshot, the first appearance of the Lorenzo Gigante “My Teammates are Not Worthy” face. We missed you too, big guy!) So seriously 2-Hole… What. The. Fuck.

Disabled List –
Sources say, Tu-Lin, attempting to dunk a women’s basketball over a midget, comes up 2 feet short of the rim, trips over said little person and tries to pull off the old one-handed landing. Bad move, Kelli Strug. 6 pins later, and we have the best one armed scorekeeper money can buy. Big thanks to Poppa Larry for the late night update.

Larry – “Compound left arm fracture. At Kaiser now..
Jake – “Is this for real?”
Larry – “Too real.”
Jake - /Chokes on own foot
Larry – Tu-Lin is looking forward to opening day....for 2014. He's threatening to become a pitcher now. I think it's the morphine talking.
Toddamus – YES! Morphine! Its about damn time.
Tu-Lin - what's the going rate for home brews vs. 5mg oxy tablets?

Coach’s Pet –
4:30am. Lasershow just wants you to know that he’s up and ready for the game.

TTOTW – 140 Characters or Less –
@tidedirtbags Is this fucking amateur hour out here, Blue?!?! No it’s a fucking amateur LEAGUE… You’re GONE!

@tidedirtbags Getting pucks on net early tonight. Tomorrow’s opening day. #wakeandrake

@tidedirtbags Tried to order fierce new #ship hats but @lids4hats customer service was not very raguey… sad. #flair

@tidedirtbags “I’m an athlete. I’ll play anywhere on the field. Like Tim Tebow, except I fuck.” – Sal

*NOTE - This new blog “feature” was requested by LG on the TST. Out of respect/fear/lack of better ideas, we’ll give it a whirl. If it sucks, take it up with captain pouty face. Honestly, this blogger doesn’t have facebook, so maybe you had to be there.

Things We Know About Autocorrect From Facebook –
1) He LOVES Miami
2) He’s generous to the homeless… but will not tolerate ingratitude
3) Paleo had been a challenge, but rewarding
4) He can’t spell for shit
5) The transbay terminal fascinates him

Up Next –

Footnotes and Errata –
*This is a complete falsehood. The following is an entirely not comprehensive list of stats Lorenzo Gigante is known to care deeply about:
1) Strikeouts
2) Strikeouts/9 Innings
3) Strikeout to Walk Ratio
4) ERA
5) FIP adjusted ERA (*aka what his ERA would be if his teammates weren’t such a bunch of slapdicks)
7) WAR
8) Broken Bats
9) Hits allowed
10) Bra Size
Posted by Jake Taylor on 04/05 at 10:29 AM

Thursday, August 23, 2012

John Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck about selling out.

Not to Mike, not to Matty, not to me, not to anyone did he ever once say, “Hey, boys, let’s go out this 2012 campaign and focus on winning some integrity awards.”

So Danger doesn’t care that the 2012 Tsunami so completely, so definitively sold out their legacy of Clemente award winners and character guys and poor men’s Jim Abbott’s. He’s fine that management decided their lust for even a blood-stained shot at the ship meant welcoming the likes of clutch-hitting sodomites, known drug abusers, hog-tying perverts, homophobes who like gay people, winking-emoticon junkies, and fifth-grade math teachers.

But this past off-season at the devil’s market wasn’t the end of the story, and it also wasn’t the beginning. So let’s rewind, take our time and do the job right. Let’s. In the beginning there was the Godfather, and the Godfather wanted to pay baseball. So he did. And he was fucking good. He threw 85 on the mound and scared the shit out of all the batters, most who were half his size. Then he pinched the wrong tail, perhaps a niece of the baseball gods; or maybe he fleeced one of their sons in a card game, maybe in a saloon at the crossroads of Cooperstown and hell; no one knows for certain the dooming deed, but in any case the baseball gods struck down upon his mighty right shoulder and took away 33 mph of his speed. So he gave up the baseball, gave up his love of seeing sawdust in a hitter’s hands and of painting the black with electric guitar.

Then one day the Godfather played catch with a ranging Assyrian, and he saw that, though slowed, his stuff was still moving. He could change speeds with his spinner. He could repeat his delivery. He realized he wanted to play baseball again, gods of the diamond be damned.

So he started a fucking league, named it SFuckingNABA. And he pitched for the Fog. And other teams came and joined this league, SFuckingNABA.

The fifth team to join this league was straightforwardly named Team Five by their straightforward empirical steward, Old Crowe. Crowe didn’t eat meat then or now and he didn’t want any meatheads on his Team Five. He wanted good strong non-religious-Mormon-like ballplayers and he wanted them to be even better citizens off the field than they were players on it. Yes, before you jest, some years this was easier than others, largely due to the quality of performance on Saturdays in Big Rec, not because of any vile acts later those nights.

But Team Five struck gold with a few draft picks and lottery ticket free-agent signings, and by the time the Omahas and Epsteins and Brills and Jake Taylors were in their prime, Old Crowe had decided to call them his Tsunami. Above his bed, in green and black magic marker, he painstakingly (hour after hour for weeks, mind you, laying on his back atop scaffolding just inches from the ceiling) scratched his own Sistine chapel, his Mona Lisa, his vegetarian roar in standard urban-American graffiti font, his battlecry to the entire SFuckingNABA in just two words:



(this was all long before hash marks#)

And for awhile there were many regular season victories for the Tsunami, even against the Godfather and his off-speed sorcery for the demon Fog. And sometimes there were post-game beers, team bbqs, a golfing day here and there. There was even a game at what they called Pac Bell Park way back then. Ooh-ooh, and let’s not forget: there was a hot girl! Mel. She played right field. Didn’t hit so much. But cute! Nice! And even after she hung up her cleats and sports bra, she’d come to the game and she’d bring her hot younger sister too.

All seemed well enough in the Tsunami region of SFuckingNABAland, one opening-round playoff loss seen as a sign of hope, of more playoffs to come, a beginning, certainly not an end. But then the dormant evil that lurked in some of the newest and unchecked Tsunami came out of the space behind their computer desks and revealed itself as Bay Socks. Yes, the horror! Multiple lotion-coated, semen-crusted Bay Socks dropped their Tsunami robes and revealed their true identities, leaving the side of good and light to form their own collection, the team now known forever in history as the Bay Sox.

And they did it like a week before the 2006 season, the cheesedicks.

At this point, gentle reader, I ask you to kindly fight any temptation towards sympathy. This is not a double-feature on Lifetime and it’s not a CBS Sunday Night Special. This was real life, and the real fucking Tsunami didn’t turtle, they regrouped the management, rebuilt the roster and reloaded the fun-cannon that they’d been spraying all over SFuckingNABAland for the past few seasons.
Posted by Tsunami34 on 08/23 at 08:36 AM
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