more steroid users’ names leaked?

There are two types of people in this world
(i would have said
had i wished to

the shallow
and the deep

The shallow take a game of no import,
Give meaning to it, and call it a sport.
Take words that sound the same and make a song
Take ideals and call some right and some wrong.
They did for years, not knowing any worse
Or better; rigid morals, rigid verse.


the world

fell apart

and they were supplanted from the places that mattered
when the dead ball era gave way to lively batters
after the world was torn, and poets changed
ignoring conventions useless strange


to modernity

now they are deep, the poets
needing no useless fetters

how they feel

and the ones who are aware of this divide
(smart enough to know)
are the deep ones


For me it always will come back to numbers.
I was only a child that summer
Knowing no better, smart but far dumber
Than the deep. In the paper every day
I read statistics, then learned of the play.
First just a tally, then something more
Real people striving beyond the score.
Real people, I learned, the heroes who awed


ultimately flawed.

There are moralizers shaking impotent fists
Sighing for a past they’re too young to have missed
Brainwashed by nostalgia. The past may be checkered
But does it matter when each old-time record
Can be traced back, and forward to today?
That’s why we have to all play the same way.
No cheating, no distorting this succession
It must be one continuous progression.

there are the deep too
they have to
nothing can matter
but if they have nothing else
nothing to hold onto in a time like this
they have themselves
they know
that they are the smart ones
what those pitiful fools
will never be

But what if I was smart enough to know
That I was shallow? What if I could see
The thoughts the deep abandoned long ago
Were timeless, and the ones that spoke to me?

Then I would turn within myself and seal
Myself in an ivory tower
If  nothing else, the numbers would be real
Whatever the source of their power.

And I would be as shallow as they came
Although I’d know that I was shallow. It
Might not count for much as I watched the game
Enjoying each simple, meaningless hit.

But it would count, and it would be enough.
When heroes fall, and no one speaks for you–
Neither mourners nor modernists–it’s tough
But I speak for myself, for I have to.

Chicago 5, Tampa Bay 0

I’m fairly rational–you might say dorky in my passion for math–and proud of it. But “proud” can signify arrogant too. And if you, playfully or not, allow jinx to control you, what’s truly going on is that you, arrogantly, claim control. As if your talking has an impact on things it, logically, can’t.

Half a month ago or so, I was thinking about this sort of sports jinx. It was Saturday, I think, and on air, a guy was talking about that Friday’s no-no. Nothing to do with ongoing action, but no Cardinals had hits at that point. A jinx? That instant saw no sign of it.

I didn’t know what was going on today until it was official. I could go back to its broadcast; with 3 outs to go, it was said aloud. “Bring your family, watch this.” How much of this must you watch until you can claim it as I saw it? And what is that “it” you claim? You can watch all 27 outs, but this sort of magic is not only outs but also not-hits, not-walks, and so on. It’s a tricky distinction, but you know that kind of optical illusion with background just as significant as your “primary” focus? This, I think, is that kind of thing. You don’t know how good it is until you know what’s not occuring.

Sort of how lipograms work…

Man on the Moon

REM and a wild dream, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
Alvin Dark and a bitter team, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
Spitballs and subterfuge, drama we crave, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
Mister Fred Gladding racking up the saves, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
Let’s play baseball, see the stars, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
See you in space if you get that far, yeah yeah yeah yeah.

Hey, Alvin did you hear about this one?
Tell me did you have a great hunch?
Alvin, are you goofing on Perry, hey
Are we losing touch?
If you believe they put a man on the moon (man on the moon…)
If you believe that this is gonna leave the yard, then we’re cool…

Gaylord went hitting with a staff of wood, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
The Mets started hitting and they got real good, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
Seattle was troubled by a horrible start, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
Mr. Ron Santo watched the Cubs fall apart, yeah yeah yeah yeah.

Hey, Alvin did you hear about this one?
Tell me did you have a great hunch?
Alvin, are you goofing on Perry, hey
Are we losing touch?
If you believe they put a man on the moon (man on the moon…)
If you believe that this is gonna leave the yard, then we’re cool…

Here’s a little ticket for the diehard fan, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
Here’s a tiny footstep for a single man, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
Here’s a home run flying out of the park, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
Here’s a prediction from Mr. Alvin Dark, yeah yeah yeah yeah.

Hey, Alvin did you hear about this one?
Tell me did you have a great hunch?
Alvin, are you goofing on Perry, hey
Are we losing touch?
If you believe they put a man on the moon (man on the moon…)
If you believe that this is gonna leave the yard, then we’re cool…
If you believe they put a man on the moon (man on the moon…)
If you believe that this is gonna leave the yard, then we’re cool…
If you believe they put a man on the moon (man on the moon…)
If you believe that this is gonna leave the yard, then we’re cool…

Alvin Dark once said that a man would walk on the moon before Gaylord Perry hit a major league home run.

He was right by seventeen minutes.

Top Nine Things People Search To Get Here

It’s just a fluke that the 162nd day of Lipogram! Scorecard!’s existence happens to be today–the hole in the U. S. sports calendar. In order to fill the void, once you’re done “admiring” the new logo, here’s a list of some of the weird things people have typed into search engines to find this blog–not the nine most popular searches, but in my opinion some of the funniest. Some of these would have taken you to one particular post, others are more reflective of the blog at large. Enjoy!

  • no i’m not on roids tshirt (There are a surprising number of variations on the things-to-put-on-a-t-shirt theme for a post that was about things not to put on t-shirts.)
  • how many win as coach tony la russa (As of right now, if I understand the question correctly, 2,510. My blog is the second hit for that search in Google…)
  • longest lipogram on the internet (Also the second hit. I’m flattered, I don’t lay claim to that title…)
  • coming up with titles for papers (Again, this is what I’m not good at.)
  • a psalm about david & goliath (Good luck is all I can say.)
  • baseball score card light version dark v (No idea–I think this might have gotten truncated at some point–but I’m the third hit.)
  • scorecard honkbal (Third hit, but second hit if you exclude Dutch results.)
  • prettend winer (Google notes that the “results include words similar to the words in your search”.)

And finally…

  • some lipograms (Yeah, pretty much.)

162 games makes up a regular season; 162 days of blogging here has been a lot of fun. Hopefully, there’s lots more to come. However you came across this site, thanks for being here.

Twins 6, White Sox 4

En route to the Metrodome, we discuss whether our hometown hero is the best hitter right now. My friend thinks so, I don’t, but I don’t counter with some other guy. I just don’t know enough to judge yet.

The Twins’ fifth hitter doubles, scoring two. Nobody out. Goodbye, no-hitter. The White Sox pitcher needs forty pitches to get out of the first; the Twins pitcher needed seven.

In the top of the second, everything stops. Some Twins employee jogs into the outfield, picking up the first big, multicolored shore sphere which people were bouncing out beyond left field. This sort of thing is not permitted in the Metrodome. Once it is duly removed, the competition goes on. The White Sox score runs one by one, until in the middle of the fifth it is 4-3.

Some guy successfully proposes on the screen. The Twins go down one-two-three. To the sixth. Konerko singles, Pierzynski doubles, Getz connects, driving it deep to right. Cuddyer runs over, coming up with it. People cheer quite loudly, considering the visitors just tied it up.

But there’s lots of noise when Joe comes up in the bottom of the seventh. Before the pitch, the hit, the winning run, we cheer like we know how it will go. Once it does occur, my friend grins. I smile too.

With two outs in the top of the ninth, we get up once more. We keep shouting.

Somebody runs out into the outfield to pick up the second bouncy sphere to wind up there. It is the third or fourth, or higher, I’ve seen in just one night.

Then Wise grounds out to first.

Due to high winds, we’re told to use the revolving doors upon exiting. The Metrodome does not “push” me out like it so often does. It’s just this goofy feeling, nothing serious, but I hope I feel it in the future.

Federer 3, Roddick 2

There are several sports that I understand.
And there is tennis, on the other hand.
There’s incomprehensibility more
To tennis than attempting to keep score.

We joke as we leave, at nine-thirty, two
Sets in. “So do you think it will still be
On when we get back?” Last year it was. We
Assume it won’t be this year, but we’re wrong.
The match is that long. When we come back from
Church, it’s still morning–but only for some.
In Wimbledon, it’s evening, and the game
Evening, the same scores for each man. They
Fight through the sweat, continuing to play.
The aces are high and over the net.
Each serve skillful, yet some errant. But then
They get the chance to serve the ball again.
A nice idea–for third grade volleyball,
I think. Shouldn’t all mistakes have a cost?
Shouldn’t each play help figure out who lost?
But that’s not how the game works. So I watch,
Not minding each botch. There’s forgiveness here
Whether or not I find the logic clear.

This Cap Is My Cap

This cap is your cap, this cap is my cap
Just snap in the snaps, one size fits all-cap
From the bright red visors to the ugly logos
This cap belongs to you and me.

As I was driving that ribbon of highway
I wondered if the game would go my way.
From the Motor City to Golden Valley
This land belongs to you and me.

Oh look, six runs is how far we’re trailing
The starting pitcher is clearly failing
I wonder if lazy fans are bailing
This lead belongs to you, not me.

I’ll save my writing that uses no e
For someone better than Kevin Slowey
Good thing we have phenoms nicknamed Joey
Could this ballgame belong to me?

We want lots of runs, we’re very greedy
The lead decreases, we feel less needy
That’s how we do it! Thank you, Joe Crede.
These runs belong to you and me.

And now it’s tied! Yes, you can compare us.
Thank you, Joe Mauer. Thanks, Brendan Harris.
The hats are thinking, If both teams wear us
There is no difference we can see.

So now we’re going to the tenth inning
Both teams are trying to do the winning
But the night is only just beginning
This night belongs to you and me.

They pulled ahead, oh yeah sure you betcha
It’s the fourteenth now, so time to stretch, yah
Look out you Tigers, we’re gonna catch ya
Scoring belongs to you and me.

But now things are getting somewhat tricky
Our last reliever is surnamed “Dickey”
This situation’s a little sticky
This rally is for you, not me.

Wake up the bats now! Hustle, don’t dally
We score one more run, is this a rally?
No–that proves to be the only tally.
This win belongs to you, not me.

I had no choice born into this nation
It often gives me exasperation
But that won’t stop me from celebration.
Morning belongs to you and me.