The braves recently held their Youth Baseball Classic, in which kids ages 5-12 competed in a tournament!
“We are thrilled to sponsor this competition among the next generation of great baseball players and help sustain a program that develops not only athletic abilities, but character and teambuilding skills.”
–Geri Thomas, Bank of America Georgia Market President
TIMMY TAKE YOUR GLOVE OFF YOUR HEAD AND QUIT THE MINDLESS CHATTER. THIS IS NOT A FUCKING JOKE. I AM ABOUT TO SEND A 110 MPH GROUND BALL TOWARDS THE IMPORTANT PARTS OF YOUR BODY AND YOU AREN’T GOING TO BE ABLE TO PROTECT YOUR SELF WITH MEMORIZED DINOSAUR FACTS.
WE ARE TRYING TO BUILD THE NEXT LEGACY OF ATLANTA BRAVES BASEBALL, SO IF YOU WANT TO KEEP SHITTING ON HANK AARON’S FACE YOU CAN DO IT FROM THE GUIDANCE COUNSELOR’S OFFICE IN YOUR LOW-INCOME PRE SCHOOL.
EVERYONE ELSE WHO WANTS TO TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY, YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES FOR A WATER BREAK.
TIMMY YOU ARE ONE POKEMON REFERENCE FROM GETTING RED TAGGED BY THE END OF THE AFTERNOON.
On May 18, 2008, is yet another critical game of the Ohio Cup, the Indians and Reds were locked in a hot contest watched by no one. The Reds were up 4-1 in the 6th inning when up stepped Michael Aubrey, a young man who used to be the best baseball player in Louisiana. Little did he know, he was seconds away from his first Major League hit–a sultry home run over the right field fence off Edinson Volquez.
Years later, Aubrey was passed around by bottom-feeders and wound up in the Washington Nationals farm system, in a Triple-A contest between the Syracuse Chiefs and Durham Bulls, which probably more people were watching than that first one.
Then he hit four home runs in four at bats.
This barely interesting story just goes to show, there are people in the Nationals farm system that aren’t Bryce Harper. For some reason.
New York Mets
We could sit here and pretend Fred Wilpon was trying to motivate his team, but when you whip out pantomimes of their worst moments and refer to them as “a shitty team,” well. There’s not a whole lot left to talk about.
“You never know with these things,” Johnson said. “[The shoulder] is going to tell me.”
“Hey, Josh,” it whispered. No response. Josh had drifted off to sleep, finally, after a few nonchalant chuckles at the SNL season finale. He wasn’t a big Timberlake, but it was clear the kid was a born performer.
Gentle snores masked a frantic dream. Josh’s subconscious was bringing back memories of 2007, when he’d willed himself back to full strength after Tommy John surgery. He’d returned sooner than anyone could have predicted–a mere 11 months–but he most certainly hadn’t done so with a tree limb for an arm and a demonic clown as a personal trainer. His subconscious had also dragged in some imagery from falling asleep with the TV on.
“Jooooossshh,” it tried again. Josh twitched in his sleep, but did not awaken. Patience was beginning to wear thin. It had something to tell him, and it wasn’t going to wait until morning.
Like the central figure of “Don’t Wake Daddy,” Josh shot up like somebody just landed on the wrong noise space.
“Wha… what is…” he stumbled through his awakening, lost in the dark.
“Josh,” it said, finally successful. “I’m ready.”
Johs turned to face his shoulder, eye brows arche din irritation.
“I just wanted to… to tell you. That I’m ready to go.”
Josh shrugged, turning making his shoulder both the weapon and the victim of his indifference. “Yeah, great. You know I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”
Shoulder grew silent, ashamed.
“I just thought you’d want to–”
“Please shut up.”
Josh fell back down against his pillow, restless. Another night of disturbed slumber.
“I’m sorry, Josh.”
“You seriously need to stop talking.”