There you have it. Your irrefutable evidence that what a professional sport whose leagues (multiple) operate under some idiotically non-uniform rule regarding something as fundamental as batting orders doesn't need is more, never mind any, pitchers "trying" to hit. Granted, the visual of Max Scherzer flashing the form of a 5-year-old in fouling the MLB equivalent of a floater pitch off his face during the practice of something he has little need to make perfect was sadistically hilarious. However, I think we can agree that if the only reward to be gained from a 3x Cy Young-winning stud stepping to the plate is a blooper fit for 'America's Funniest Home Videos' then it doesn't quite match up with the risk of him sacrificing nothing more than a straight schnoz and an intact septum with a bunt. I assume the same could be said about having almost all of baseball's best arms focus primarily on throwing. Maybe having everyone play a game, whose plunge in popularity was pretty much predestined due to its refusal to adapt to an era in which excitement is at an all-time premium in professional sports, by the same rules could be a good idea. That is, if maximizing entertainment value by protecting pitchers from themselves, highlighting the game's greatest hitters, and showcasing the most lethal offenses available were anywhere near as traditionally gratifying as (near) automatic outs are in the National League.
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While I think that "aggressive arguing" is a pretty lame basis for a suspension, I can't really get myself too riled about a player being sentenced to a one (of 162) game timeout. Especially since it was for challenging the eternally fragile masculinity of umpires that are well-known for accepting any and all forms of screaming, yelling, and finger-pointing, so long as it's part of their own, and only their own, over-reactionary displays of emotion. Simply put, Manny Machado basically asked for supplementary discipline with a how he acted in throwing around his helmet, his bat, about five dozen words that require censorship, and the most pugnacious of pointer fingers, so I'm not all that upset that he got it. Where I draw the line, however, is with the Umpires Association's weaponizing the internet against him by having their 65-year-old intern hike his khakis up to his nipples and looking up what a hashtag is before centering his spectacles and slowly-but-surely typing out a bunch of inflammatory phrases, letter-by-letter, to show widespread disapproval of player disagreement all throughout the Twitter machine...
Tagging the MLB, the San Diego Padres, and...::audible gasp::...Buster Olney in their attempt to libelously label Manny Machado an unappreciated purveyor of nonsense throughout any and all internet groups that are religiously checking up on the recent additions to #Disappointed and/or #TemperTantrum? Well, in my opinion, that's taking vigilante justice too damn far....never mind setting the intended use of technology as far back in society's rearview as baseball's repressed sensibilities. An Emotionally Battered and Beaten Orioles' Fan Apologetically Out-Raced Two Kids for a Foul Ball6/13/2019 
You know what, credit to that poor bastard. I typically find it obnoxious when adults go scrounging around for relatively useless foul balls that would mean so much more to the children standing idly by so as to not get bowled over by boozehounds, but a little self-awareness goes a hell of a long way. As evidenced by his own bittersweet words, that dude very clearly didn't like what had become of him as a person as he got on all fours to swipe a little bit of joy away from the next generation. He wasn't happy to play the unruly asshole, but three decades is a long ass time that's undoubtedly been made to feel exponentially longer by the unrelenting thanklessness of rooting on his favorite team live. You know the extent of what that man's 30 years of loyalty have been rewarded with? Zero World Series, zero pennants, one division title, one wildcard berth, and one record-setting Ironman streak that now serves as symbolic in reminding him that the "best" part about Baltimore Orioles' baseball is its consistency in taking the field. Point being, you're goddamn right he's going take what he can get, even if he has to begrudgingly take it right out from under the puppy dogs eyes of children who might as well get used to leaving Camden Yards disappointed. Not because he wants to, but because he basically has to if he's going to justify continuing to show up to watch the worst team in the sport as they go nowhere fast in a painfully familiar fashion. 
Look, I get that baseball has a number of rules that have somehow remained unwritten in ink since they were unofficially instituted by the gaggle of white men who chiseled them into the walls of their culture-less cave. I even understand that the most important of those rules is that one must not express emotion nor enthusiasm, and especially not personality, while playing a kid's game at the professional level. I just ask that we make one very small amendment, with that being that you are allowed to take a second or two to admire your hit when you've bombed it hard enough for it blow a hole in the side of a vessel. Personally, I think Max Muncy earned the right to round the bases solely in backhand springs with a blast that damn near demanded its own firework display, but something tells me that multiple generations of closed, insecure minds like Madison's would disagree with that assessment. Therefore, I just reasonably request that pitchers eat their humble pie and use the proverbial napkin to wipe their tears when they get taken a distance that would most accurately be measured in leagues. Especially when the aesthetics of his earned run were about 100x more worthy of his attention than the relatively reserved, run-of-the-mill celebration happening as a kayaker narrowly avoided being left lost at sea with a concussion.
Nope, you ain't going to fool me. While I know baseball loves their no-hitters far too much for a team to take it lying down when one is spoiled by a desperate, yet entirely legal attempt to get on a base, I'm not letting the wool get pulled over my eyes on this one. Never mind whether or not it's right to maliciously ruin a potentially momentous accomplishment with a boring ass bunt, because THREE pitchers combining for 9 hitless innings of Minor League baseball is not a potentially momentous accomplishment. As far as I'm concerned, it's much more likely the benches cleared because they were filled with disgruntled athletes playing the game at an unglamorous level who were looking for just about any excuse to ring out their frustrations on the necks of the opponent before boarding another bus. I'm going to grant them that benefit of the doubt, for it's a much better excuse than being butt hurt that a spotless start and some solid relief appearances didn't go down in a largely unread record book with a huge asterisk next to them. Right or wrong, dropping a bullshit bunt for no other reason than to rain on the parade of the team that's walking all over you is liable to get your chin checked, but the type of no-hitters you fight to the death in defense of are for one pitcher and one pitcher only. As can be seen in how easily that "fight" was broken up. 
We may be 60-some-odd games into the season already, but now? Now, baseball is officially in full swing. After all, nothing signals that were back in midseason form quite like an old white guy with his feet firmly entrenched in a repressive sport comfortably spitting outright insults over the boring ass beat of baseball's institutionally racist drum. To be clear, you don't have to understand the newfound fascination with athletes rocking at least slightly restrictive jewelry while playing professional sports. As an avid supporter of players showing personality, that's one of the few things that even I can't wrap my head fully around, as not even the power of prayer could completely stop a Jesus piece from getting in the way as it swings aimlessly from one's neck during the course of a highly competitive game. What you do have to understand, however, is exactly what you're doing when you stumble over (See: "...and stuff") a pointed critique of a young talent while making it seem as though his charisma had him cruising for a bruising before calling him a "prick" for merely looking back at the pitcher who plunked him. Lazy qualifiers aside, this isn't the first time Steve Blass couldn't even find the right words while going pretty far out of his way to lash out at those who, love them or hate them, make for the closest thing to appointment television for a league that's otherwise unfamiliar with the concept....
While I can't imagine either unsubtle mini-rant is the most intolerant thing ever heard on an MLB broadcast, both are just painfully typical of the type of unadaptable attitude that keeps alive the caucasity of a counterproductive culture that actively deters viewership. The best thing about baseball is that it's as diverse as it's ever been. With that comes varying sensibilities that aren't always going to fit in the same rusty old cookie-cutter that dates back to the days in which "colored" was a compliment. The truth is, while the word "prick" seemed wildly inappropriate, I don't even necessarily place the most blame on 77-year-old Steve Blass here. He's very clearly aged out of a sport that still shamelessly panders to those likeminded by allowing him to drivel on about the "good old days" during which predominantly white dudes conformed to playing a kids' game with a stick lodged entirely up their ass. Simply put? Be better, baseball. 
As far as a reminder of how losing early and often might manifest itself throughout a long, painstaking season that is completely devoid of hope, they certainly don't come any more inexplicable and embarrassing than that. I'd honestly accept "I guess I ran away from home in hopes that my absence would help remind people that I still exist as the catcher for a woefully irrelevant Mariners' team" as an excuse. After all, it might legitimately be the most logical reason for Omar Narvaez to have no hesitation in going to back up first with a man on third. I've always said that 162 games is an egregiously long season for a sport whose postseason is disproportionally short. Nothing supports that argument quite like the Mariners already self-fulfilling a prophecy of suck with 99 games left to go before they are granted the sweet, merciful release of time away from a team whose chemistry looks to be that of someone who earned themselves a suspension by taking liberties with a lab project. I'm not even sure they could play the field more stupidly than they did during that particularly laughable instance, but I also don't feel comfortable counting out the idiocy that might arise during the actual dog days of a lost summer. Be it due to a lack of talent or an abundance of abject apathy, bad teams tend to make bonehead plays. However, those plays appearing to be made by those without a brain inside their thick skull this early in the season is not the greatest of signs of things to come during games that are far more likely to grow increasingly meaningless than not. Even if I due appreciate the comic relief of an umpire casually stepping aside to avoid being beaned by a perfect throw to an abandoned plate. 
As far as college baseball is concerned, this is the perfect storm. The volatile front that is put on by umpires with fragile egos who have no qualms with abusing their power in making split second decisions that can alter the outcome of games, meets the cold front of a moronically strict institution whose rigid rulebook proudly over-punishes the "amateur" athletes they are actively exploiting while offering them no form of recourse. An ejection during the most pressure-packed moment of an NCAA tournament game, plus as automatic 4-game suspension during the postseason, all for harmlessly referring to a borderline and potential game-clinching call as "horrible" in an entirely non-threatening way. Such a shit-storm of injustice raining on the head of closer Michael McAvene and the rest of the Louisville baseball program could only be the result of a ruling made under Murphy's Law...if Murphy was a sanctimonious prick with an authority complex whose law was designed to be without amendment as if it were written in blood. Who knows, maybe the NCAA eventually changes their mind and acts in the interest of common fucking sense, for the first time ever, by overruling such a diabolically dumb act of discipline. That said, the fact that they didn't immediately do so speaks volumes about the objectively bad business of an organization that brings in billions on the backs of under-appreciated ball players. Their support of their own insanely sensitive and self-interested official, who could not possibly have been more in the wrong, in sticking to a nuance-free script that favors absolutely everyone else above the featured talent is hardly surprising. What it is, however, is disappointing, and that's saying a lot as the expectations of even a baseline level of intelligence out of the NCAA were already non-existent. It can't possibly be put to words, because "horrible" doesn't even come remotely close to describing the stupidity of such an undeserved suspension. 
It's only a matter of time. Unfortunately, I say that not of the MLB taking additional preventive measures to ensure the safety of fans during the routine occurrence of absolutely tattooed foul balls, but rather the fatal tragedy that will force them to do so if they don't heed the harrowing warning of a 4-year-old being sent to the hospital by the brunt of one. That may seem like a prisoner-of-the-moment exaggeration, as it sounds as though the little girl on the ass end of Albert Almora Jr.'s rocket of a line drive was one tough customer, but that moment could be almost any moment. Seriously, just ask the NHL what happens when you tempt the fate of high-speed projectiles (that are increasing in velocity as athletes continue to evolve) exiting the playing surface towards those entirely unequipped to protect themselves from them on a regular basis. Someone quite literally had to die before the NHL came to it's senses regarding netting that hardly registers as such to the naked eye anymore. Hell, someone could have easily died last night had that errant foul ball happened to catch her in a more prone position. Look no further than the distraught reaction of a player whose livelihood is baseball for a reminder that baseball is not more important than life itself. Therefore, it stands to reason that the damage controlled by a largely transparent safety precaution is worth an ever-so-slightly obscured view of the sport. There will always be the hypocritical crowd that says you should never not be paying attention while in the stands. The single, solitary commonality between that crowd is that none of them have ever been struck in the jugular with a bullet of a ball during the inevitable instances in which they missed a pitch while turning away to take a swig from their beer or a bite from their hot dog. Not even the outrageously over-the-top diehards who score the entirety of every game keep their eye on the ball for 3.5-4 hours, and if you're seated down the baselines then all it takes is half-a-second for said ball to obliterate your earhole. Sigh, if only there were some sort of harmless precaution that could be extended so that we wouldn't have to victim blame fans for not having the laser focus and/or fundamentals of the professionals whose brand of entertainment they certainly aren't paying good money to emulate. In all seriousness, all the well wishes go out to that young girl and her family. Here's to hoping for a quick and uncomplicated recovery, as well as an untarnished love of baseball. Hopefully a highly humanizing response from the person who was unfortunate enough to hit her is enough to get through to baseball in making sure her ER visit wasn't in vain...
From both a mental and physical perspective, this honestly might be the laziest lie ever told in the history of professional athletes trying to cover-up their non-sports related ailments. From the lack of critical thinking that went into crafting it to the full-on refusal to thumb through his contract looking for the list of activities it actually forbids him from partaking in, Carlos Correa basically pushed the bar down the basement steps in setting a new shameful standard for injury excuses. Full disclosure, this came damn close to reaching "too stupid not to be true" territory, but the thought of a physical freak of nature in his athletic prime having a bone cracked via a comforting caress of his rib cage, of all things, requires the suspension of far too much disbelief. Like, assuming that Wreck-It Ralph wasn't the one providing him in-home back rubs and that a 24 year old MLB superstar didn't mystifyingly develop Osteoporosis overnight, this absolutely has to be a case of Carlos Correa covering all his bases (excuse the pun) in making sure he can't possibly be at fault for his fractured rib. It's certainly a thorough one as claiming you were lying motionless, naked, and vulnerable while being recklessly rubbed onto the IL definitely absolves you of all blame. What's not thorough, however, is the rationale and reasoning (or lack thereof) that went into deciding that the malpractice of a masseuse was the tall tale that he and PR team were comfortable telling. 
You know, there's just something so beautiful about a 250 pound third baseman doing his best work in the field while plopped comfortably on it. I don't say that as a fat joke, as the lumber-endangering legacy that is Vlad Guerrero Jr. averages more talent and athleticism per pound than has been blossomed throughout my entire family tree. Rather, I say it as a description of a play that probably could have been made from his feet if he cared enough to stay on them. Of course, gunning a guy out at first while making the most impactful of impressions in the dirt is also a credit to his freakish physical abilities. Still, not passing up a single chance to take a load off while doing so is the type of dedication to the thicc life that will have bootylicious big boys everywhere proudly sinking their cheeks into their seat and looking up to the throne on which Vlad Guerrero Jr. would prefer to be sitting in between uproarious at-bats...
This just feels like far too positive a development. A player on the Mets showed up extraordinarily late only to make an immediate impact on the game that he was stuck listening to in traffic throughout the first three innings? Like, the New York Mets? That seems very off-brand for a team who somehow made on-brand a slugger fracturing his ankle falling off an undisclosed animal while already on the 60-day IL...
On second thought, I suppose it is quite fitting that it took someone traveling up from the minors, by any desperate means necessary, as an unexpected injury replacement to make a major impact for a team that can barely walk without finding themselves wounded. The player who has spent the least amount of time surrounded by what is both figuratively and literally a long suffering organization that has every right to be suspicious of the sky falling actually makes for the most likely subject for a five-star feel good story. The Mets might be cursed by terrible luck and a worse training staff but even they need to give a guy a proper warm-up and more than a couple innings spent in their jersey to brush the bloom from his rose or break a bone from his body. The mental image of Rajai Davis' sucking down free waters and anxiously looking at the clock from the backseat of someone else's car as his driver stopped and started his way through New York City traffic is relatable for Queens' natives. The type of random and rare moment that makes you smile, shake your head, and appreciate the silliness of sports, well, not so much. 
Graceful. Just so...graceful. Like a "someone pass Ken Griffey Jr. the condiment carrier and a set of utensils because it's about damn time he eats his heart out" level of graceful. I wonder if that comparison makes the compliment sound less gender specific, because I hardly mean for it to come off like a buzzword that undercuts the impressiveness of the absolute rocket that was promptly dismissed over the left field fence solely because it was hit by a woman. Instead, it's really just meant as a credit to the perfect fluidity of the picturesque swing into the exclamatory bat flip that seamlessly followed. Whether the physical flawlessness of that performance had anything to do with her femininity, your guess is as good as mine. However, you can't tell me that everything about that execution wasn't beautiful enough to bring a tear to Tim Anderson's eye, regardless of the size of the hands from which it came. That doesn't make powering it over the opposite field wall any less beastly, but the rhythmic release of her bat in conjunction with the smoothness of her transition into a trot does serve as pretty good evidence that the fairer sex does have a substantially superior knack for the visual arts. I guess women do mature faster, because that celebration made every Bryce Harper bat flip look like an underdeveloped ugly duckling in comparison to what was Alysen Febrey’s aesthetically pleasing swan-like display of slugging. Take a lap Robert Redford, because this natural truly knows how to nurture anything left out over the plate. 
In the same vein of "me thinks the lady doth protest too much", the MLB being so overly sensitive to racial issues that they mistakenly manufacture them (See: Tim Anderson's suspension for using the n-word towards a white pitcher) where they otherwise wouldn't exist truly speaks to a harrowing history of pale players being preferable. They are like a dog owner repeatedly stepping in old shit that's spent decades festering because they failed to do an adequate job picking it up the first time, if said old shit was actually just the aftermath of an entire extensive era of dehumanizing segregation. Granted, I could totally see the Tiki torch types being incredibly unoriginal in adopting the long-standing sign language of six year olds as their call to frail and fearful arms, but does Wrigley Field not have WiFi? My sense happens to be quite common so I've never had to look it up, but I'd imagine you'd need not more than one single Google search to learn that a gesture so harmless that it has it's own goddamn emoji on Apple products has no legitimate affiliation with actual white supremacists. Personally, I would think said gesture would be universally understood as part of the decidedly non-discriminatory circle game by now. That said, even if it's not, assuming that an 'a-okay' sign ironically stands for intolerance solely because it's being shown over the shoulder of an African American analyst makes the Cubs, above anyone else, look bad. I suppose there's about a 1-3% chance that a fan who purchased a front row seat tried (and, more importantly, failed) to pledge his allegiance to the Aryan Nation once he got within a black man's camera shot. Theoretically, it's not impossible that was moronically meant to be a proud display of prejudice. In execution, however, no one with a brain capable of spelling 'context clues' saw it as such. Therefore, even if the person who flashed it was being racist, he doesn't even deserve the publicity of an investigation aimed at outing him as a racist because he flat out stinks at being racist if he got trolled by fellow racists into using a non-racist gesture for racist purposes. If he wanted to show a little courage and conviction in his caucasity then he'd deal with the repercussions of showing up behind home plate in a pointed white hood next game. Until he does, I'm just going to assume that he was innocently messing with the television audience, like hundreds of thousands of teens before him, regardless of the skin color of the person from which they happened to be receiving insight at the time. 
At least he chose the right sport, I guess? I suppose it could be worse than having his life-altering decision to pursue basketball reinforced by a pitch gone so wild it would make the underage girls half-nakedly inhabiting late-90's Spring Break hotspots seem under control. At the very least, it's about the only bright side he can look to in distracting him from the dark memory of throwing a breaking ball that'll be sure to get his balls broken for the foreseeable future. I've always been amazed by how hard a time other professional athletes have in doing something that, in front lawns all across the nation, stereotypically serves as most kids' first foray into sports. I find the idea that grown adults could be so embarrassingly far off in throwing a ball 60 feet at a velocity of their choosing is baffling enough in its own right. Therefore, a former MLB pitching prospect seeming as though he was trying to intentionally walk a beer vender really lets those with no baseball background off a hook that pales in comparison to the one on that schizophrenic slider. So, here's to hoping Pat Connaughton continues contributing consistently off the bench as a complimentary player on a quality Milwaukee Bucks' team. Not only only because I have no reason to root against him, but because the Baltimore Orioles just lost his number after he damn near kneecapped an innocent bystander with his last chance at considering anything above tee-ball pitcher to be a sensible backup plan. 
I initially figured the MLB concussed themselves doing the amount of mental gymnastics it must have taken to conclude that a black batter using the n-word towards a pitcher named Brad (I'll let you guess the race on that one) off-camera while presumably being ejected for getting plunked after celebrating a home run on the previous at-bat was a suspension-worthy offense. Unfortunately, on second thought, I think something far more stupid is true. I think that they actually found this decision to be a simple one that, to them and them alone, made all the sense in the world. That would be far more on-brand, as baseball's braintrust sharing an understanding of the cultural complexities of the n-word with the former high school acquaintance you had to unfriend on Facebook after the umpteenth teen he felt it necessary to publicly comment that it's actually ALL lives that matter isn't surprising. Disappointing that the executive decision makers for a league with a massive minority presence are still the type to quietly wonder why rappers are given free reign with a root word that haunts the roots of their pastime's pastime, sure, but not in the least bit surprising. Tim Anderson triumphantly tossed a bat in a way that demanded the attention of the demographics least likely to give a crap about mid-April baseball, and received a heater to the hip as his punishment. That's really all it had to be. Yet, the league in which institutional racism is still a sore subject (that is ironically sometimes seen through the repression of personalities) basically struck out swinging on what was supposed to be an intentional walk in creating an uncomfortable conversation by bending over ass-backwards in being overly sensitive to "racial insensitivity" at its most irrelevant. The fans didn't need to know that a hard 'a' was dropped and, considering the circumstances, the players certainly shouldn't have cared that a hard 'a' was dropped. Therefore, regardless of the fact that Brad Keller was also suspended a start, this was a counterproductive overcompensation and/or a sign that the MLB still doesn't understand how to get out of the way of their own, for lack of a better word, whiteness. After all, seeing as old white managers get away with loathsome language on a weekly basis, they basically pulled the race card on themselves in thinking what was inconspicuously said was as "racially charged" as it was culturally influenced. 
I say the following definitively as someone who wouldn't dream of watching a full 9 innings prior to late September at the absolute earliest. I'm more than fine with 10 minutes being added to the running time of a Major League Baseball game by a senior citizen ball shagger so long as his spirit shines as brightly as that of the Orioles' ball boy. That endearing elder might have the first step of Manny Machado in late May, but - as far as his effort is concerned - you can call him Mr. Hustle...even if he'll undoubtedly tell you to stop aging him and just call him Johnny. I know baseball's braintrust has started checking their watches with the hopeless regularity of a teenager nodding off during post-lunch history class. However, if they want to maintain a little love in their game then the Grandpa who speed shuffles only to package each souvenir with a smile is just the guy to do it, as he's irrefutable proof that you can actually send a man to do a boy's job. Plus, as an added bonus, if Baltimore ever needs someone to replace Chris Davis' production in the lineup, I could certainly think of less enthusiastic people to provide an easy out. 
I think what I enjoy the most about that lowlight is just how absolutely, positively certain the person who prematurely mounted the wall was that he was going to dismount with the week's top highlight in hand. Of course, the graceless fall from grace was also pretty goddamn hilarious, as was the ball serving as an extra in bouncing over the wall entirely unencumbered for a ground rule double. However, that split second in which Marcell Ozuna realized, much like someone treading water in the ocean while helplessly watching someone make off with their personal belongings from the beach, that the elements were not about to work in his favor is the stuff that the most timeless of bloopers are made of. Aside from in embarrassing videos of white teenagers scaring themselves sober halfway through the filming of attempts to impress their friends turned catastrophic injuries, that wide-eyed moment of dread in which he was forced to bail on his reenactment of a Ken Griffey Jr. classic in belatedly getting back down to the ground to catch a routine fly ball was unlike any I've ever seen. And honestly, to simply call it a miscalculation would be a loogie of dip spit to the face of math as we know it. It was as if any old crack of a bat unconditionally triggered an involuntarily decision to recreate the dream sequence in which he actually did scale the wall like Spiderman to Superman snag a ball that was hit about 25 feet further. Other than that, there's nothing else that could possibly explain such an illiterate reading of the situation at hand. Marcell Ozuna's brain wanted to play hero ball and wouldn't take no for an answer, while his body just decided to play the role of its little brother in following right along without hesitation. A monumental mental mistake became the most self-deprecating of physical comedy, in case you needed to be reminded of the inevitable up's and down's of a journey through which the blind are leading the blind. 
Honestly, if loving that "handshake" is gay then call me Neil Patrick Harris. I say that not because I wasn't taken aback by the casualness with which two professional athletes cupped each other's genitals in front of thousands of onlooking fans in broad day light. Instead, I say it because I can't get enough of the mental image of the old, repressed alumni of 'The Goose Gossage School of Hyper-Masculine and Emotionally Constipated Hardball' grabbing their left breast in narrowly avoiding an untimely demise at the sight of some platonic holster checks between the boys. Again, having my testicles given a celebratory squeeze by a teammate wouldn't be my preferred way of celebrating a solid swing of the bat. However, so long as it gets people to try to suppress their laughter long enough to have a serious debate about the social acceptability of homoerotic self-expression during sport then I fully support it. There's not a fanbase that would be made more uncomfortable in their sexuality by two big, strong pillars of manliness gleefully checking the balance of each other's account at the sperm bank then that of a Major League Baseball team in Texas, and their distress leaves me almost as satisfied as firing off the only gun I care to unload when I'm anxious. 
NBCS- In the wake of the replay, Brenly went on about how “Machado, one day, is gonna pull one of his hijinks on the wrong guy and he’s gonna get dropped in his tracks, and he’s gonna deserve it,” as Berthiaume threw in a some “yeahs!” Brenly again called it “all such a bush league act.” They went on to talk about how Machado will always be the villain and “we just saw why.”
After the play was over and the next batter came to the plate, the camera focused on Machado in the dugout and Berthiaume offered a disgusted “300 million dollars!” while Brenly offered another “just a tired act.” They showed the replay again, and this time, from the center field angle, it was plainly obvious that the near-bump between the Machado and Murphy was accidental (Machado reacted in surprise and pulled back when he realized he was near Murphy) yet Brenly called at as if it were on purpose, adding a disgusted “and just to make sure, tosses the bat near his feet” as if this were some premeditated crime. ------- Seeing as we're talking about someone whose laziness leapt clear over the language barrier he tried to blame it on when - during the playoffs, no less - he decided to renounce trying hard as something that's just not part of his game, I have no problem with labeling Manny Machado as bush league. The guy has done some scummy shit over the years to earn that reputation, so it will rightfully precede him as he continues to get paid hundreds of millions of dollars to casually trot the base paths throughout the remainder of his laughably lucrative career. That being said, can we at least let him come remotely close to earning his scathing reviews before anyone publicly goes scorched earth on every fiber of his existence as a professional athlete? Just take another look at this "bush league" play that had Diamondbacks' announcers speaking of Manny Machado as if they were disavowing the devil himself...
There's just no way you can convince me that every unoriginal insult they directed at the opposition's most polarizing player wasn't read ruthlessly from their game notes, as if they've had it prepped on the tip of their tongue since they first took a gander at the schedule. Again, I'm all for a little Manny Machado hate, but all jumping the gun does is ruin the novelty of the unrelentingly repressed reaction when he is actually is being an asshole. So I plead, just give it time. It'll come, I promise. There's no way someone with such an apathetic personality gets guaranteed that amount of money and continues to give whatever small amount of fucks he did prior. He's entirely capable of going full 'Big Daddy' and tossing the stick at the feet of an unknowing opponent in hopes of tripping him. Therefore, there was no reason for the Diamondbacks' broadcast team to get ahead of themselves as the boys who cried bush league when an incident that's actually inexcusable is inevitably right around the corner that Manny Machado is slow to "accelerate" through. |
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