That doesn’t mean Braves-Phillies has stopped being exciting! On the Contrary:

 

Today was a good day. He was feeling very good. Exciting baseball! Walkf-off homers, A no-hitter. The Braves defeated the Phillies. That means he gets to troll them today in full. Craig walked over to his high chair bottle of bourbon in hand.

“Craig, you’re not drinking this early in the morning are you,” said Tiffany as her head appeared on the 70″ LED screen.

“Of course not my dear, this is for Chipper!”, he anwsered, pointing to a small Chipper Jones bobble-head on his side table with a small shot glass in front.

“Where have I seen this before?” Tiffany wondered aloud as Craig poured Chipper a shot of his finest.

“Perk up my dear, your team the Angels, won and Mr. Weaver tossed a no-hitter.”

“That’s true,” she said. “And your team managed to overcome Halladay after a serious deficit. Though with the score you’d swear it was the Eagles and Falcons playing.”

Craig straightened and paused, with a frown on his face. “Those two teams again. I’ve heard them before but what league exactly do they play in?”

Tiffany was about to answer, thought better of it, and said: “I’ll catch you later for HBT Extra Craig.”

Craig shrugged and started to goo-goo and ga-ga over his Chipper Jones bobble-head. “Who’s a great sure-fire-first-ballot hall of famer? You Are!!!”.

This was posted yesterday morning, apparently after playing great and exciting baseball, they opted to mail it in the next day.

 

‘The scene was electrifying! The stadium was full. Hordes of unhappy fans chanting and shouting. At home plate, there was a large Guillotine. Several hooded men brought out a man in a blue and black uniform. He was an umpire. His transgression? He declared a pitch two feet off the plate a strike, pitch-trax evidence was undeniable, that location was nowhere near the strike zone.

The Jumbotron clearly showed just how gregarious the blown call had been. As the man was taken to home plate, Cody Ross extended his arm, made a fist and then pointed his thumb…. downwards. The hooded men fitted the umpire on the Guillotine and struck the lever… CHOP! One less horrible umpire.

The next one to come out had the opposite problem. A pitch clearly in the box, over the plate, being called a ball. Tsk, tsk. After a short look at the Jumbotron evidence, Roy Halladay extended his arm, made a fist and pointed his thumb… down! CHOP another umpire bites the dust… The crowd goes wild. The message has been sent. Clean up your act, or else…”

Tiffany finished reading with her eyes growing wider with each word. She looked up at Craig, who was, as usual, sitting in his high chair, puffing bubbles while wearing his Braves Bathrobe.

“So what do you think?, asked Craig.

Measuring her words carefully, she answered: “I’m not sure MLB would like your proposal for holding umpires accountable Craig…”

Oh come on! I’m sure he’s fantasized this scenario once or twice… heck I’m sure Roy Halladay was thinking it last night…

The Braves 1995 Championship Team portrait hung above the faux fireplace. In front, the Phanatic Rug lay on the floor. The portrait recessed into the wall giving way to the LED 71″ screen. It lit up, and 16 different pictures in a grid showed the various events of Baseball. Ozzie Guillen was crying in front of the press in one screen. Another showed highlights of Jonathan Broxton’s meltdown, and the top right counter was showing the Red Sox’s woes and flummoxed Bobby Valentine giving a press conference.

A middle square lit up with Tiffany Simons. “Morning Craig, what topics do you have for me to include in HBT Extra?”

Craig, sitting in his high chair, bubble pipe in hand, bathrobe tidy, answered: “I want to piece on Jeff Francoeur.”

Tiffany did a double take. “THE Jeff Francoeur? The failed Braves superstar? The guy you can’t stand at all?”

“Oh, I’ve mellowed a bit and have had chance at perspective this last year. He’s not really such a bad guy. Sure there were high expectations. But these things happen all the time in baseball. It’s time to accept Frenchy for the player and person he is and not the one we wanted him to be.”

Tiffany looked at Craig sharply. “He sent you Pizza didn’t he?”

Craig, pursed his lips and denied it. “No, of course not. I’m a professional, I do my analysis and reporting based on events on and off the field…”

Craig’s foot was oh so casually pushing a pizza box under the Phanatic Rug…

I almost did a bobblehead post… but this seemed better. I wish someone would send ME pizza… (sigh)

Craig’s 71″ LED screen lit up with Tiffany’s face. She was apparently holding a few index cards. “Hi Craig, I got your messages, you wanted to add a topic for the next HBT Extra? Ozzie and the political overreaction?”

Craig was sitting in his high chair as usual puffing away bubbles from his pipe. Shifting his collar on his Braves bathrobe just a bit he explained. “Of course Tiffany, Ozzie is a fountain of great press given the sheer inanities he tends to utter. In this occasion we have reason to cut him slack due to the general media’s over-reaction. They’re almost rioting down in Miami over his Castro comments.”

“Oh I agree, they’ve gone a bit overboard. I mean yes, the comments are not good but he did apologize. They should just move on.” Tiffany reordered some of her index cards to include Ozzie’s in her batch.

“And now Rosenthal is pushing for a 30-game suspension of Guillen. Outrageous.”
Craig was now gesturing a little with his bubble pipe, as if to indict an invisible Rosenthal sitting in front of him.

“Well… anyone can overreact if you push the right buttons,” Tiffany said watching Craig carefully.

“Not me,” Craig said sitting back in his chair and propping his athletic sock clad feet up. “I’m as calm as a lake on a windless day.”

“Oh Really”, Tiffany said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’ll remind you that you called in a few favors and had that poor HBT reader’s car towed and given some manufactured parking tickets for using a spring training picture to argue that Chipper Jones was in the worst shape of his life.”

Almost immediately, Craig shrank in his chair just a bit. “That’s different,” he said waving his hand dismissively. “He had it coming! He was being disrespectful to Chipper! That was basically slander.”

“Sure Craig, sure it was…”

No, I am NOT referring to that time Craig got a little miffed about Chipper Jones ST photos… what on earth makes you think I’m referring to that?

“And that’s a wrap Craig!”, said Tiffany. “We’re finally back.”

Craig sat back in his high chair, puffing a bubble or two on his pipe, before replying. “Indeed we are my dear Tiffany, this year promises to be even more entertaining than last year. The storylines, the players, ex-teammates facing each other. We already have the Ubaldo-Tulo feud at full speed.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Tiffany, looking at her notes on a clipboard. “I did call Joe Torre and he said he’s doing his utmost to ensure Ubaldo’s suspension is upheld.”

“Good man Joe, I despise these little beaning wars,” said Craig, biting on his bubble pipe. “There was a time for that, when Baseball was not the civilized sport it is today. In this day and age there is no place for 90+ mph fastballs potentially maiming baseball players. You want to watch athletes inflict pain on each other? There are other so-called sports you can watch for that.”

“You mean like Hockey?”

“Is that the one where the throw the ball into a net to score?”

“It’s not actually a ball.”

“No ball? Then how can it be a sport?”, said Craig with a suspicious expression on his face. Like Tiffany was pulling his leg or something.

She looked at her watch. “Well, I have to be going Craig, I’ll see you next time to record the next HBT Extra.” She said goodbye and her face disappeared from the screen.

Craig leaned back in his chair, adjusting his bathrobe, rubbing his feet on the Phanatic rug. Opening Weekend. His large LED 71″ screen split into several smaller screens showing all the previews and highlights for the exciting match-ups. Pujols was on one screen, Fielder in another. Valentine with another straight-shooting unfortunate comment. Yeah, it’s no coincidence this week was Good Friday.

“So, it has begun…”, he declared with anticipation.

I am undecided as to whether alter-Craig can actually name a sport other than baseball… So I did a slight touch up here not present in the comment section.

T.J. Simers was sitting at his desk typing up another article with his singular brand of journalism. He was so engrossed in his own writing that when his cell phone rang he automatically answered it without even bothering to check the Caller ID.

“Simers speaking, go ahead.”, he said.

“Mr. Simers, I see you continue to write disgusting nonsense that you call baseball articles in the L.A. Times.”

“Calcaterra,” said Simers, sitting up in his chair. “We seem to do this every year. Just write your little blog post in your insignificant site and try to learn the craft from real professionals.”

“I’m doing far more than typing a post this year Mr. Simers,” answered Craig. “You see, that Matt Kemp bobblehead on your desk has a GPS tracker. And you’ve made the mistake of leaving your window open.”

T.J. had a confused look on his face and when he lifted the Matt Kemp bobblehead on his desk, a white chalky X was scribbled under it. “Oh…f-”, was all he had time to say as a 100mph+ baseball smashed into his forehead through his window at his study. If you were to follow the trajectory of said baseball backwards in time it would go out the window, across Los Angeles, go out over Las Vegas between two aircraft, through the mid-west all the way to Ohio and enter a small window into the tube of a super-cannon within a very specific Lair, where said cannon was being held by a man in a Braves Bathrobe, spectacles and chewing on a bubble pipe as he depressed the trigger.

“So, what the frak have you been doing lately?”, said Craig, as he calmly took the bubble pipe out of his mouth and polished it on the arm of his bathrobe.

I’m sure Craig fantasizes doing something like this to T.J. Simers on an annual basis.

The Craig Blimp floated above the Indian’s spring training complex. It now sported the nice logo on its tail. The massive view screen lit up on its side and the man himself was visible puffing bubbles from his pipe at a prodigious rate.

“Indians’ fans, lend me your ears”, Craig began. “How long are you going keep that caricature of a logo on your baseball team? It’s racist and quite frankly very ugly. Do baseball a favor and pressure your team into ditching any merchandise with that absurd figure. Chief Wahoo has outlived his usefulness. Oh, While you’re at it, get rid of all that pink apparel too. It’s offensive to female baseball fans, especially the shirts with such clever phrases as ‘Talent Scout’. Seriously, Mary McDonnell doesn’t approve. That will be all.”

Craig cut the connection as he settled in his high chair at the ST outpost. “That’s telling them, right Miggy?”. He turned to his side table where a Miguel Cabrera bobble-head righteously wore a tag proclaiming SI, MOTHERF÷$&ER.

“Damn right, mother- [bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep]

 

I neglected to post this as soon as I made the comment in HBT. Yeah well, having a newborn baby in your home will throw off your schedule somewhat…

If you were to tune in to NBC you would see a scratchy video feed, a bit muddled, but you would hear a pair of voices in the background:

“Is it ready yet?”

“Almost. You know Craig, NBC won’t be happy you’re taking over the signal.”

“Everyone must be properly aware of this situation. It’s important for Baseball!”

“Haven’t you been controversial enough with this topic?”

“The truth is only controversial if you disagree with it!”

The screen now changes to show a man wearing a bathrobe, smoking a bubble pipe. The background isn’t readily distinguishable.

“You’re live Craig!”

“Greetings viewers. I have interrupted this signal because the bickering has become intolerably long. It seems I have not written enough over the past week explaining to you why standard procedures must be followed in our country. They are our only guarantee that Authority can’t abuse its power. Simply put, we have rules in place that are followed to determine properly beyond any reasonable doubt the occurrence of an event. We here at HBT are serious in our craft and do not easily partake in rumor or innuendo.”

The figure adjusts his collar one more time before finishing his speech:

“So, for the last time: Chipper Jones is not in the Worst Shape of His Life! That photo was taken when the wind was blowing! He’d only be fat from one side if that were true!”

I am of course, referring to when Craig was tormented mercilessly over a Chipper Jones in ST photo.

Winter was ending. Pitchers and Catchers were reporting to their respective Spring Training Camps. Craig sat down in his kitchen enjoying a nice morning Taco while using his tablet to look through the various news items of the day (Baseball related of course, is there any OTHER kind of news?). Still the day was a bit cloudy and gray, a reminder of the season. Suddenly, a small red light on his kitchen counter flashed on and off with a corresponding buzzing sound. Craig creased his forehead in mild surprise and put down his taco and his tablet.

Walking to the counter he pressed the red button, and a set of high powered binoculars lowered from the ceiling and stopped in front his kitchen window. He looked in and the Columbus skyline greeted him (the binoculars were for show, in reality they received the picture transmitted by a remote camera but it was much cooler this way!). He was interested in one landmark in particular: LeVeque Tower, once the tallest and most elegant building in Columbus (stupid Rhodes Tower!) it was still a cultural beacon of the fine city.

He increased his magnification to examine a specific spot and there, on the wall he spotted… the SIGNAL

The SIGNAL

He needed to go… NOW! He walked to his study, and pressed two keys on his piano and a wall panel moved aside to reveal an alcove. He stepped in and slid down the pole until he emerged in his Lair already in proper lair attire (Bathrobe and bubble pipe). Already the 1995 Braves Championship Team picture gave way to his 71″ LED Screen. Tiffany graced his screen as it activated.

“Craig! I got the “signal”, but wouldn’t it have been easier if you had just sent me a text message?”

“Oh Tiffany, where’s the fun in that? Is everything ready?”

“Yes indeed,” she smiled. “I’m curious as to how you appropriated that… rover? tank?”

“It’s a Tumbler my dear Tiffany,” said Craig while puffing a few bubbles. “Chris Nolan said I could have it since he finished his movies and would no longer require it.”

“Impressive! Well everything is packed in for your trip to Phoenix. Food, drink, bubble pipe refills, Downy for the Bathrobe, NBC Sports credentials, suitcase with your civilian attire, the works.”

“Excellent, I’m on my way then. I have to hurry. Without me Spring Training won’t be complete and can’t begin.”

Tiffany rolled her eyes, “You know Craig I’m not quite sure Baseball deserves you.”

Craig missed the tone of her voice completely and straightened his posture looking quite seriously. “Oh my dear Tiffany, I’m not the blogger Baseball deserves (only the Braves deserve me), but I’m the blogger it needs!”

He pressed a button turning off the display before Tiffany could recover from that one and moved off to the garage annex. The Tumbler was already primed and ready. He strapped himself in and engaged the driving system. Everything felt right as he accelerated through the tunnel and out of the camouflaged entrance to his Lair and emerged among the back roads of Ohio. It was time to head for Phoenix… and Baseball!

Craig waited patiently sitting on his high chair, refilling his bubble pipe. Tiffany confirmed she received his package and promised to call. On his side table he had some rather unusual prototype baseball cards. The light on his chair blinked and he pressed it.

In front of his fireplace, where the Phanatic rug rested, the Braves 1995 Championship Team picture recessed into his wall and a massive 71″ LED screen surged forward. The display lit up with a small inset picture of Tiffany. Surrounding her image where schematics and charts on the design of his baseball cards.

“Hi Craig, I got the cards, I must say they are a bit… strange. I agree the market could use a change, but I’m puzzled by some these.”

Craig immediately stood up and skipped closer to the display. Good thing his Brave’s bathrobe was tied securely! “My dear Tiffany, I realized that with the foul baseball card company monopolizing the market, innovation and creativeness have been stifled for more than decade. I sense an opportunity to bring baseball cards into the 21st Century. Using a lot of high tech.”

He picked up a Roy Halladay prototype card: “As you can see it’s not just a card, it’s a very thin electronic device. Instead of just one picture of Roy Halladay, you get several ones as the card transitions them. On the back of the card, his stats are continuously updated through the internet… or will be once the season starts of course.”

Tiffany raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting Craig, but what’s wrong with this Roy Ozwalt card?”

“Oh that! Until Ozwalt actually accepts an offer, the card computes the probability of signing with a team and fluctuates the pictures to possible team uniforms. Once it’s announced the card will settle on the final configuration.”

She nodded uncertainly and held up another card: “Miguel Cabrera? What’s this BSOHL label on his card?”

“The card keeps track of which ball player is in the Best Shape of His Life. We have a fellow Twins’ fan who keeps the database updated and the card reflects this accordingly. You should see the Jose Reyes one, fans have a choice between Dreadlocks and no Dreadlocks.”

“All very interesting Craig, it’s certainly outlandish, but this kind of tech looks pricey. How much are each one of these going for?”

Craig started to speak, held a finger up and then frowned. “That could be a problem, the best price I can come up with is $500…”

 

If anything I’m probably underestimating the cost of such a baseball card. Wouldn’t it be neat to have something like that though!?