It started out as a Cub blog with cuss words. I'm still cussin'; it's the Cub part I'm a little squishy on these days.

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Friday, August 13

Sloth at the Yard

I attended most of yesterday's loss to the Padres. Since I don't actually go all that often, I always find it necessary to paint a picture for you when I do go.

My seats were GREAT! Sec 220, sixth row, right behind Michael Barrett's new #8. The temp was about 60, the upperdeck overhang covered us, which would be important later on yesterday. The wind was blowing in from left field, which promised to keep offense down. You can usually count on being annoyed or offended by some yutz nearby who either drunkedly shouts lame obscenties or conducts monkey bizness on his cell phone. But yesterday, distractions were provided by a man and his family in front of us. His kids were cute, probably 15 months and 30 months, and he in seat 4 and his wife in seat one effectively sealed them off in a reactor in which they bounced around like radioactive nuclei.

I'm sorry, people. Infants and children below the age of 4 really have no business at Wrigley. There is nothing for them to do, they'll never remember being there, and since it is packed to the gills every day, it is so easy to get them lost, bumped, dinged, dented, etc.

Anyway, speaking of lost it over a couple of calls that, although correct, could have went either way. It changed the complete tempo of the game. It was raw and wet, and it seemed that San Diego would have been content to just pack up and get the hell out of Dodge. But Clement walked guys on base, forcing the Padres to try to do something with them. A remarkable play and flip by Grud to Nomar, followed by a ill-advised chuck into the dugout, turned what could have been a all-time inconceivable double play into a run scored and a man on second. Nomar had to leap in the air to avoid getting creamed on the bag while controlling the flip. From where I sat, contrary to what the Tribune says today, he looked off the bag. Bruce Froemming, who ought to be selling used cars somewhere, the fat fucking toad, probably SHOULD have called him out, based on the effort alone. Most umps do. Not this fat fuck. He hates us, and makes it a point to waddle his fat ass around like a faggot peacock and just fuck us whenever he can.

Anyway, the argument, and an ensuing argument over a bad call on a check swing appeal, got Larry Rothschild thrown out of the game, the home plate ump spent the rest of the day tuning his rabbit ears rather than calling the game, the momentum completely turned, and after a couple of rain delays, the Pads decided that since they were going to be late anyway, why not bring home a win?

Clement looked lost yesterday, but the defense did cartwheels to keep him scoreless through five. Barrett, my new favorite Cub, looked pathetic against Jake Peavy. Grud and Corey hit well, as did Ramirez and Lee. Alooooou put on a display at BP, and I was convinced that he was going to hit one. We booked after the seventh inning rain delay, since we had a train to catch, so we didn't see Nomar's blast, which was a pity.

Now, did Sam-Me really tell us to fuck off after the third of his four whiffs? Yes, he did. So, I promised to write this Wednesday, but I wanted to wait to see what happened yesterday, since it would have looked pretty stupid to call a man out, then watch him do well in person.

August 13, 2004

Sammy Peralta Sosa
Albatross, Chicago Cubs
1060 West Addison
Chicago, IL 60641

Mr. Sosa,

I have hated your motherfucking guts since the day you came to the club. I have had to endure your selfishness, greedy, delusional and destructive behavior since day one, Mr. 30/30 Mall. We have NOT won a World Series with you, so you have no right to consider yourself infallible, beyond reproach, and uncoachable. You are NOT Michael Jordan, you are NOT Roberto Clemente, you are NOT a gladiator, a warrior, or a leader. Of all the people that have passed through the doors of Wrigley Field, you are probably the last person to deserve the good fortune you have consumed these last 12 years, for I could have taken any one of the thousands of major leaguers I have seen in my life, shot him all full of steroids, and watch him do what you have done.

My e-mail address is Have your people contact me, and if I can verify that it is in fact you, I will provide you with my phone number, address, and anything else you need. I want to fight you, Sammy Sosa. I want to fight you, hand-to-hand, no weapons, no entourages, just you, and me, in a dark alley or in my backyard. I am three inches taller than you, more than 50 pounds heavier, and even though I know you have strength enhanced by the illegal drugs you ingest, I am so fucking mad at you for fucking up my team's salary structure for the last dozen years, I will fight dirty, and shove my knee against the small of your back until I can hear it crack, then I will shit on your head and piss in your eyes, you sad sack no-good rotten excuse for a man.

Leave your rum bottles at home, you pussy-ass punk.


Rob Letterly
Mendota, IL

BTW: Mike C, don't YOU ask me to fight. I AM scared of you....