My day job (I moonlight as an obsessive Marlins fan) has taken me out of town quite a bit lately. I normally seethe when I am forced to miss multiple ballgames, but when it happened this past weekend, I felt something strangely akin to relief. (I know! The horror. I have considered checking myself into a mental institution--will keep you posted). For once I didn't mutter a single complaint about all the games I would miss. In fact, after watching some pretty dismal Marlins baseball lately, missing a few games seemed exactly what the doctor ordered.

Still, even with a less-than-encouraging homestand, when I arrived home Sunday I was happy to be able to catch at least part of the final game. I sat down in front of the flat-screen just in time to watch Renyel Pinto take over for Chris Volstad, who had held the Cubbies scoreless through 6. Ahhh, the world seemed right at long last...

Eight runs later, the Marlins were out of the inning. Volstad's shutout was wasted. The loss was recorded. The distance between the Marlins and the top of the NL East was expanded. And I was pretty much longing for another business trip to make it all go away.

Ugh.

Seems the Marlins have been playing musical chairs all season long to see which element of the team is going to suck real bad on a given night. In the first half of the season, the starting pitching was the odd man out. Luckily, the super-offense and bullpen were there to pick up the slack and help keep the Fish near the top of the division. Recently our starting pitching has come out blazing, and the offense has decided that this is a really swell time to go into hibernation. After working doubletime to make up for pitchers who averaged about 1 1/3 innings per start the first half, the bullpen is barely clinging to life. And the defense? Well, that has mainly stunk all season long, so it doesn't really fit in this little analogy, now does it? (Well, not unless you compare it to that one smelly kid that your mother always forced you to invite to your parties, who just hid under a table the whole time and wet his pants while the other kids played games.) 

As the Marlins head out West to begin a 14-game road trip, I'd like to think that at some point we can begin operating on all cylinders. Put a string of wins together, like more than two. Instead, the only thought I can muster is: What'll it be tonight, fellas? Are we gonna leave 23 runners in scoring position? Make sloppy mistakes running the bases? Lob the ball into the stands to add another error to our seemingly endless list? Will we take a shutout into the eighth only to watch the 'pen give up 12 runs? Or how about a good old-fashioned blown save by our trusty closer? That's always fun! 

Oh, the possibilities are endless. Makes me kinda happy that the games are out West, and I'll be snoring through most of the carnage.

Didn't think so. But it never hurts to ask.

I was getting set to complain about the injustice of the Mets facing teams like the Pirates while the Marlins have to battle the likes of St. Louis, but then I saw that the Mets bullpen decided to play Fish this afternoon and blow a game. So, thanks to Aaron Heilman, heading into tonight's contest the Marlins are once again tied for second place in the NL East. Hopefully Philadelphia will suffer a similar fate tonight at the hands of Manny and the Dodgers, and the Fish can inch a little closer to first place. 

A mere 2 1/2 games stand between Florida and the cursed Phillies, and as is my custom, I am remaining thoroughly optomistic about the Marlins's chances down the stretch. Feeding my positive thinking are the following facts:

~ The only Marlins reliever who doesn't currently make me shiver in my boots has just been sent to the DL.

~ Scott Olsen injured his ankle in his start Friday night and could possibly miss a start.

~ Our beautiful infield grass is now a pile of rubble in the wake of the Dolphins's cleats.

~ Norman Braman has yet to be assassinated.

Then again, they say every cloud has its silver lining. And ours is...uh...Paul LoDuca is a Marlin again!

October, here we come.

THE MARLINS HAVE BEATEN JAMIE MOYER!!!

He can throw all the 23-mph pitches he wants, but the curse has been broken. Last night the Fish scored two runs off Moyer while Josh Johnson shut out the Phils through six, and that was just about all it took to get the job done.

Uh, almost.

As with every game in Philly, it couldn't go off without just a little bit of drama. The Marlins pitching staff actually combined to shut out the Phils last night, but the box score doesn't quite reflect that fact, since a Shane Victorino line drive foul was called a 2-run home run by third base umpire Dale Scott. Thanks to Alfredo Amezaga's RBI single in the top of the inning it didn't really matter, but had the game been tied as a result of the call, I'd be writing a blog of a very different nature this morning.

As Joe Frisaro reported for marlins.com:

"Tuesday's game was being used for information gathering by the league regarding the possible adoption of instant replay. A special camera situated near the Phillies dugout was positioned down the left-field line for testing purposes."

Coincidence? I think not. It was pretty obvious after he blew the call that Dale Scott is in favor of instant replay, and he was doing his best to sway the folks at MLB by making last night's game a perfect example of why it needs to be implemented ASAP.

I've heard all the arguments on both sides, and all I have to say is that if it helps us beat the Phils, I'm all for it.

8-0, Marlins.

I am not shedding any tears this week after the Marlins talks with Boston fizzled out, and Manny Ramirez ended up in LA. I mean, come on. Is this team seriously in need of another player with defense that is on par with the rugrats I umpire in rookies division Little League? One who mauls sweet elderly folk when he doesn't get his way? Probably not.

I'm not gonna lie, Manny may have been entertaining to watch. But I doubt he would have been much else, and I'm content to never know for sure.

At the same time, though, I don't see what Boston was thinking here. I'm sure that all the Marlins asked was for the Sox to give Manny to the Fish for free, then throw in a few million dollars, plus two or three of their top prospects for good measure. In return, they likely would have received Jeremy Hermida (who, as every one knows, hit a grand slam in his very first major league at-bat, which makes him indispensible to any team). Not sure why the Red Sox wouldn't positively jump at the chance to make a deal that sweet, but I guess they have their reasons.

While the Marlins didn't end up doing anything too exciting before the trade deadine, I still feel as though I'm watching a brand new team. The final piece of the puzzle that is the starting rotation has returned from the DL, which--to me anyway--is more thrilling than anything the Marlins could have traded for. Ricky Nolasco, Scott Olsen, Josh Johnson, Anibal Sanchez, and Chris Volstad...Ahhhh. It is an odd feeling to be confident that the Fish have a really good chance of winning every single night. (Uh, subject to change as soon as the Marlins land in Philadelphia Tuesday to face the antichrist also known as Jamie Moyer).

If you can't afford the luxury of a gym membership these days, just become a Marlins fan! It's free! And, according to the trusty heart-rate monitor I wear during games, watching a Marlins come-from-behind win burns 8% more calories than the treadmill alone.*

Why spend long, boring hours in your local gym when sitting on the couch watching the Fish dig a hole for themselves--before climbing out--will produce the same results? Yeah, that's what I thought.

The Marlins lead the National League in come-from-behind wins, with 31. That includes last night's wild game to open the series vs. the Mets. And sure, I'm not going to complain about a win, but seriously guys. As thrilling and heart-pounding as it is to watch you come back from a deficit, it may be a nice break to, you know, not have a deficit to fight back from. Just every once in a while.

HLD&S GAMENIGHT UPDATE: Since the Fish are so enamored with the come-from-behind victory, naturally they want to hurry up and get behind. Top of the first: 1-0, Mets. Get a towel and some Gatorade, people. Here comes your target heart rate.

*any health-related statistic that you read on this blog is 87% likely to be a 100% fabrication. HLD&S is not responsible for any injuries or medical expenses incurred by following the health advice on this blog. Or for your expanding behind. Not our fault either.

Splitting a four-game series at Wrigley Field should satisfy me, I know. But I also know that we coughed up a 5-0 lead in the series finale. And by "we" I mean Rick Vanden Hurk. And Mark Hendrickson, who didn't exactly thrill me out of the bullpen, either. Come on, guys. Um, how many two- and three-run homers does Mike Jacobs need to jack for you???

Oh well, all we can do is put yesterday behind us as the Marlins welcome my second-least favorite team on earth: The Mets. Ugh. There aren't enough prescription drugs in the world to take the edge off of my distaste for the Mets, but I guess series vs. New York are a necessary evil when you cheer for a NL East team. (Yes, I have considered moving my loyalties elsewhere, but so far I can't seem to make the jump. It's probably the wonderful stability of the organization. That, and the ownership's "win at any cost" attitude. And let's not forget our gorgeous ballpark.)

Now that the Mets are in first place in the NL East, beating the snot out of them is crucial. This is our time. This time it counts. There's only one October. Just do it. The chicken runs at midnight. Win one for the Gipper...and here is where I run out of words of inspiration.

Win, please.

From where I sat last night, Rick Vanden Hurk looked like what I imagine an ant looks like from the top of the Empire State building, so it was natural to question whether that was actually him on the mound. Especially since he sported a sleek new slider and a faster fastball, pitched five innings of no-hit ball, recorded seven strikeouts, and got himself out of a bases-loaded jam without allowing any runs. I mean, this isn't exactly the Vandy we enjoyed endured at the start of the season. I felt a bit like I was watching the happy family reunion at the end of an extreme makeover show. You know-- where a lady who looked like a truck at the start of the show has been transformed into Miss Universe, and her loved ones are sobbing uncontrollably as they see the new-and-improved look for the first time.

Um, who are you, and what have you done with Vandy?!

Oh, who am I kidding? We don't care who you are, or what you've done with him, so long as you hid the body real well, and you keep pitching like this in his place. 

Welcome back, Hurk. Good effort.

Last night I got a small taste of what it must have felt like to be Steve Bartman. Well, except for the fact that I may not need to join the witness protection program. And that my actions did not potentially destroy the World Series hopes of my favorite ball club (though by the sound of all of Dolphin Stadium boo-ing profusely, you'd think that's exactly what my actions--or lack thereof--did).

In the sixth inning, as I began to enjoy my standard ballgame snack, the obligatory "Kiss Cam" shots flashed on the screen. I shook my head at the camera man in our section, sending him a look that I thought said "you have a better chance of getting snowed on in hell than getting a shot of the two of us kissing." I guess the message got lost in translation, however, because in the next moment I was up on the screen with a friend of mine. So we did what any self-respecting people--who don't want to grope each other on camera--would do, and smiled as we continued to eat our snacks. They gave up a few seconds later and moved on to a few more frisky couples throughout the stadium. And that was the end of that.

Er, wait. No it wasn't. Moments later, we found ourselves back on camera, being encouraged by the crowd--and the drunk guys in our section--to redeem ourselves. When it became clear that we weren't going to give in to the demands of the in-game entertainment director, 14,000 people began to boo us profusely. I felt as though I had just snatched a fould ball from the innocent hands of a freckle-faced six-year-old, or punched somebody's grandma in the face. Seriously, people? For not kissing?! Who is to say that we're not related? That his girlfriend is not in the restroom? That my boyfriend is not a violently jealous sumo wrestler? Apparently my reasons for keeping my lips to myself didn't matter to anyone in the stadium. Especially not to the males in my section, who took great personal offense to my non-kissing, and began to turn to me, one at a time, and scream at me. Geez.

Since I seem to have grieved the souls of 14,000 people, HLD&S will issue a public apology shortly. I would just like to mention, though, that watching strangers feel each other up has never added to my enjoyment of a baseball game. But maybe that's just me.

I guess John Baker was angry at my lack of PDA as well, because two innings later, he attempted to murder me. As he struck out swinging, his bat hurled 150 feet into the stands, right at me and my camera-shy buddy. You know how foul balls always appear to be heading right for your face, and then they end up 17 sections away? Yeah, that's not what happened with the bat. It appeared to be flying directly toward my skull because it actually was flying directly toward my skull. There was only time to cover my face and brace for impact. Thankfully, the loud crack I heard miliseconds later wasn't my head, but rather the empty seat right in front of me. The bat struck the orange plastic, cracking it about six inches across (click photo to enlarge) before ricocheting into the next section over, into the hands of a waiting fan.

Whew.

I still maintain that since the barrel of the bat missed my head by about 3 inches, I am its rightful owner. Various stadium personnel, however, disagree.

*     *     *     *     *

Hook, Line Drive & Sinker would like to thank Kim Bokamper and several CBS 4 employees who graciously searched through last night's game footage for us, to find the video evidence of our near-death experience. Well, thanks to the employees for finding the footage, and to Kim for not kicking us out of his workspace so close to the 11 o'clock news.

Than this guy:

I hate you, Jamie Moyer. I hate you. You and your 46-mph "fast"ball. Go away.

Oh, Daniel.

Thank goodness I am forced to rise with the, uh, [whichever creatures rise six hours before the rest of the world], because my inability to stay up past 11 PM kept me from actually witnessing Dan's meltdown last night.

So while I go about my day pretending that it never happened, the rest of the Fish fans can try and erase the memory from their brains by focusing on the positive aspects of Dan's All-Star game appearance. (Yes there were. Trust us on this one.)

STUFF THAT DID NOT GO REAL BAD FOR UGGLA LAST NIGHT:

1) This year everyone with a mic actually knew how to, you know, pronounce "Uggla."

2) Dan did not trip as he trotted onto the field when they announced his name (thankfully he saved the clumsiness for the actual game instead.)

3) A grenade was not thrown at Dan from the stands.

4) Three entire things did not go real bad for Danny last night.

And if none of the aforementioned positives are enough to console you, take heart-- there's always the trusty ankle injury we can blame for his miserable All-Star performance.

Note: HLD&S editors sincerely apologize for the title of this post. We tried to resist, but in the end the urge was simply too strong. (just ask any of the--roughly--12 billion writers who did a piece on Dan today.) 

I know it's supposed to be a baseball game, but come on--couldn't they have spent just a few minutes on pomp and ceremony? Taken themselves a teensy bit more seriously?  Rushing through the starting lineup as though it's just another ho-hum game seems wrong somehow. I mean, did they not get the memo that this time it COUNTS?! This is not merely a baseball game! It is an historic event that should be hyped and touted and milked for every last drop of drama it could ever hope to possess, squeezed bone dry of anything remotely resembling theatrics, ballyhoo-ed to the point of nauseating everyone in attendance and/or viewership...you get the point. 

With that in mind, could they not have come up with a few more old timers to honor tonight? A few more awards to present to people? More of the cast members of Sex & The City to make speaches to the crowd? Perhaps they could have added a few more seconds to those melodramatic pauses in between the player/hall-of-famer/groundsmen/hot dog vendor introductions. If they were merely short on subject matter, goodness, they could have bothered to take a few moments to remind us (ten thousand times) of the majestic/regal/stately edifice that is Yankee Stadium, the glorious richness of its history, and its impending demise. Or at very least bother to make mention of Josh Hamilton's heartwrenching triumph over adversity. Somebody just wasn't thinking tonight.

It only took 43 minutes to announce the starting lineup, guys. That is downright shameful. If you can stretch a 12-minute homerun derby into 3+ hours, there is no reason the actual All Star game can't go six or seven hours, minimun. Maybe ESPN is just running low on drag-this-thing-out-as-long-as-humanly-possible material. If that's the case, they should look into adding a few more commercial breaks to the ordeal. (Am I the only one who thinks there was a sad lack of advertising during the game?)

Geez, was any baseball actually played tonight? I'd like the last four hours of my life back, please. I guess that's why God invented the mute button, a fact I will not be forgetting at the All-Star break in '09.

EDIT: It appears the powers that be have read my blog, and acted accordingly-- 15 innings should stretch things out sufficiently.

This week Scott Olsen pitched a gorgeous game and and was FINALLY rewarded with a win, after more than two months without one. Josh Johnson made his triumphant return from TJS, and far exceeded our expectations in his first start since going under the knife. Chris Volstad was called up at long last and pitched an absolute gem, fulfilling all of the fantasies we've been having about this kid for the past several years.

Four quality starts in a row. Two starters flirting with complete games. A four game win streak. Kevin Gregg's sudden enlightenment to the fact that he's supposed to saving--rather than blowing--games...I hardly know what to do with myself, other than walk around with a ridiculous grin plastered to my face, prompting a slew of questions as to my sobriety.

Of course, just so we don't get overly festive and dip into that eggnog a few too many times, there's the one lump of coal in our stocking this holiday season... Andrew Miller, who is decidedly bad at pitching a good 83% of the time, has had another miserable start to a ball game. He gave up seven runs against LA today and exited after a mere 1 2/3 innings. Yeah, yeah, save your "potential" rhetoric for somebody who hasn't heard it a billion times, and who still thinks it is a valid excuse for continuing to put Miller on the mound every five days. Funny thing about potential, folks--it doesn't do anything for anybody until it is reached. That's why minor league clubs were invented. When he can throw strikes consistently and get outs consistently, and get through the bloody first inning without giving up 72 runs consistently, then we'll talk. Until then, he should see about hitching a ride to New Mexico on that shiny red sleigh.

A holly jolly July to you all. And to ya'll a good night. (That is, assuming anyone can actually have a good night after watching a game like the one we're watching.)

After quite the speedy recovery from Tommy John surgery, JJ will take his rightful place in the starting rotation, making his first start against the Dodgers Thursday night.

While HLD&S will certainly miss Tucker's youthful energy (read: erratic pitching), and Mark's...uh...ability to impersonate a telephone pole, we are excited by this latest development in the rotation. And anyway, whatever Josh lacks in height--his 6'7" frame looks downright puny next to Hendrickson's--he makes up for in his ability to, um, you know, get people out. Which kinda helps when you're a Major League pitcher.

OK, OK, so the Messiah bit might be a little much. I know I shouldn't get my hopes up too high, so I have lectured myself repeatedly these last weeks, as JJ's return drew near:

"Now, GameFish, settle down. There is no guarantee Josh will just saunter up to the mound after more than a year off for TJS and dominate the opposition."

"Get off of the table and stop that ridiculous dance at once. There is no way to know if JJ will pitch six straight no-hitters to celebrate his return to the rotation."

"Stop screaming before your neighbors call the cops! We can't possibly be sure that Josh will pitch any better than Mark Hendric--HAHAHA!!! Gotcha. Carry on."

Ah, my inner realist. Such a kidder, that one.

Sure, we don't want to have unrealistic expectations for Josh as he returns to the rotation, but the bottom line is, JJ at his very worst just might be a heckuvalot better than what we've been watching here lately.

Welcome back, you big lug.

And a hearty welcome to Chris Volstad, as well, who was called up from Double-A Carolina at long last. Those things you recorded yesterday (I believe they are called outs) were a nice change of pace for us fans. Thanks for that. Welcome to the big show.

Seriously, I don't even know where to begin to put into words what I think about last night's game. Or tonight's, for that matter. Eight runs in four innings, Ryan Tucker? Really?! Does anyone on the Marlins's pitching staff know how to get outs anymore?! (Clearly, the answer is NO.)

But back to last night, blowing a nine run lead takes a lot of effort. And so my hat is off to Olsen, Tankersley, Miller, Kensing and Gregg, who somehow managed to make it happen (and by "somehow," I mean "through their putrid pitching.")

You smell that? It is the smoke rising from the charred remains of our blown out bullpen.

On orders from my cardiologist, I can no longer discuss last night's game. And so I will leave you with this thought: Our bullpen is giving me ulcers, and Kevin Gregg is the worst closer in baseball.

The end.

Actually, the two-game, walk-off-win streak has had very little to do with any improvement to the pitching staff, but let's not split hairs here. Wins are wins. And while I would love for these late-inning/extra-inning rallies to be unnecessary, they are highly entertaining when the Marlins are the team pummeling each other at home plate when all is said and done.

Since my words of inspiration have been working so well to boost the performance of the team, I have decided to direct a few at Mark Hendrickson: *Ahem* Dear Mr. Hendrickson, you have been sucking real bad. I am beginning to dread your starts with the same trepidation I feel before a trip to the oral surgeon for a quadruple root canal when I know that my insurance doesn't cover novocaine. Please consider not pitching like a girlscout tonight, and give the Fish an actual chance to win this ballgame. Thank you.

In other news, HLD&S Gamenight is cancelled again this evening, as I will be at the ballpark. Probably spending most of the evening taking cover from the monsoon that is likely to pour itself directly over Dolphin Stadium as soon as the words "play ball" are uttered.

Go Fish.