Sons of Buhner

Willie Bloomquist playing catch with Joe Jarzynka.


Bret Boone and Joey Cora after a movie.

I would just like to point out that the Mariners' failure to get anything resembling adequate production from Carl Everett was only matched by my failure to complete the multi-part series devoted to educating him about dinosaurs. Now that he is gone, I feel no desire nor need to continue this long-abandoned task, and would prefer it if everyone would kindly neglect to bring it up. The mere thought of either Carl Everett or dinosaurs disgusts me, quite frankly, and I am glad I will never have to deal with either of them again.

On a completely unrelated and innocent note, I am planning a vacation to a remote Latin American island, where a British tycoon has promised me "the experience of a lifetime" in his "brand new, Prehistoric-themed theme park." I can in no way see how this little adventure could possibly go wrong.

The trade deadline looms, and so far, the Mariners have done this:

Back in June, they traded Asdrubal Cabrera for Eduardo Perez. Hardly news, I know. It is now almost August. But I felt I should bring this up, not only because it factors into a comment I will make later (who will this comment be about? Don't touch that dial!), but also because it seems to hint at a possible tradition forming within the Mariners front office: acquiring players who are the offspring of former major leaguers. What mountain of evidence do I have for this? The draftings of Jrs. Griffey and Cruz, and the acquisition of Griffey Sr. (although that was, admittedly, this theory in reverse). Eduardo, of course, being descended from Tony Perez, and about half as talented, is further "proof," though even by now this entire point, barely a paragraph old, seems contrived and moronic--a situation I will rectify by taking a cheap shot at Willie Bloomquist: I hear the M's wanted to acquire Bloomquist's dad, as well, but it turns out he's leading his beer league softball team to a city championship, and also would not want to degrade his honor by taking the same field as his son. Hey-o!

On a side note, we lose the wonderfully convoluted first name of Asdrubal Cabrera. It's a wonder more kids aren't named Asdrubal. Or, in the tradition of Nomar Garciaparra, Laburdsa.

Early July, they trade Eddie Guardado and cash to Cincy for Travis Chick. Everyday Eddie had been downgraded to Every Three-Or-Four Day Eddie, and while I admit I know little about Travis Chick, his name provides ample ammunition for chauvinist hecklers should his time ever come. I, on the other hand, would more likely conjure up a witty slam involving his name and Scottish rock outfit Travis, possibly relating to their album titled The Man Who, though it is exactly this sort of behavior which leads me to have beer "spilled" on me so often. Needless to say, it probably rains so often on Mr. Chick because he lied when he was seventeen, and while I'm sorry about his driftwood-like career, the truth is he's been drifting for quite a long time.

July 14: Released Jeff Harris, on Bastille Day. Needless to say, a bittersweet day for Harris, whose brief sojourn in the majors is likely over. A good story, though, and if only he were left-handed or a schoolteacher, Disney might make a movie out of it.

July 26: A day of celebration, as Carl Everett was sent packing to pastures unknown (might I suggest The Land Before Time?), and the Mariners at long last acknowledge the mistake made in acquiring him. Better still, Chris Snelling gets called up from AAA. Hooray!

And then, a loud, long chorus of boos and hisses, as the de-Koreanization of the team begins with the trade of Shin Soo-Choo to Cleveland for Ben Broussard. The team's most promising Korean player sent away in return for one-half of Cleveland's old DH platoon. The other half? Why, none other than Eduardo Perez! What a happy coincidence! Not one, but two players that Cleveland deemed expendable at the same position, now plying their dually-ineffective trade right here in Seattle. Although facilitating the demise of Everett, this move is greeted with much skepticism by half-Koreans all over Seattle, especially when Choo goes yard off King Felix two days later, supplying the game's only run.

In all fairness, though, Broussard probably isn't that bad, and by that I mean he's not Carl Everett, and he probably at least acknowledges the existence of gigantic prehistoric lizards.

July 27: Chris Snelling is placed on the 15-day DL (cue ironic, knowing laughter), with an impingement in his left shoulder, whatever the hell that is. Is his body just making up ways to break down now? When he returns from this, should he be placed on 24-hour spontaneous combustion watch? Are there any rules specifically prohibiting bionic men from playing professional baseball? Because if there aren't, I'd like to suggest that as a remedy.

As for the rest of this squad, the only remedy other than a weak AL West would appear to be some kind of magic. Preferably the kind that turns Willie Bloomquist into Carlos Lee, and also somehow acquires him from the Rangers in return for them paying his contract. Come on, Bavasi! Wave that wand!

I've been thinking about different forms of the letter -- what it means to address a piece of writing to an intended reader -- and, of course, about the Mariners. In this series, the two trains collide. Today's attempt is a dramatic blank verse address.

Dear Bavasi, I've been promiscuous
But now am true. I've seen the teal and blue
As merely two among a multitude
Of equally worthy hues -- even, at times,
Spun the color-wheel and found excuse
To cheer whichever combination stuck.
It's been a long two years, in short, since I
Last found the strength to clamp the daily irons
To my legs and listen through the mid-action ads
From Fairly, Rizzs and Henderson long enough
To hear Guardado tank, or Felix fire
Some blanks, or Sexson break a game in half
With a light-tower blast. But here I am: a fan
Again, and blessed to be one, with you to thank,
Bavasi. Take my thanks about as far
As next Thursday, then toss them out. Rumor is,
Some roster play's upcoming. Rumor is,
Petagine's gone and Everett's going.
Fare one well and fuck the other (although
I find it difficult to root against
Even King Craptastic as long as he's got
A compass rose on his cap). But what comes next
Is always more important than what's done.
Rumor is, Chris Snelling's coming up,
And gets at-bats or Hargrove's out the door.
I'd love to see it -- 'HARGROVE OUT THE DOOR' --
But here's the thing. I've got a running loop
Inside my head that's been there since October
'95. A low line-drive down the third-base line,
A body rounding second, rounding third.
Rewind, repeat. A low line-drive
Down the third-base line, a small bird
Flying just above the water. That's all.
And hearing "Snelling coming up," that's all
I see. Bavasi -- make the call. Andy

This one might be a tough one to swallow, Carl.

Yes, we all know you don't believe in dinosaurs. Hence this educational series. However, it is entirely likely that you also don't believe in the evolution of species, as well, and here we may have some trouble. For today's "dinosaur" is the pterodactyl, that winged beast which many people point to as evidence that our feathered friends of today evolved from the giant reptiles of many yesterdays.

Dinosaur? Evolution? Before you throw a blunt object at your monitor, please ask yourself this question: Why am I, Carl Everett, using a computer? Surely these things can also not exist in the universe you inhabit.

But once you've come to terms with technology, let me attempt to justify the pterodactyl for you. First and foremost, it may not exactly be a dinosaur. Quoth Wiki (pedia, not Gonzalez):

"Prehistoric flying reptiles are sometimes referred to as dinosaurs but this is strictly incorrect. The dinosaur term is more correctly restricted to the upright-stance terrestrial reptiles, so includes neither the flying reptiles nor the aquatic varieties, such as Ichthyosaurs, Plesiosaurs and Mosasaurs."

Well, that's a start. Not strictly a dinosaur. So there may be, hope against hope, a chance for this majestic beast to fit within your worldview. But ah, yes, the ever-present roadblock of "prehistoric." "How can anything be pre-history?" you're asking yourself. "Surely nothing can exist before history, because history begins with man, and nothing preceded man, and certainly not any giant flying lizards, for is it not written that Noah took two of every animal onto his Ark, and thus saved the beasts of the Earth from the wrath of our Lord?" Or maybe I am confusing you with that crazy preacher guy on TV. Yeah, that's probably it.

Regardless, a flying lizard, dinosaur or no, is going to be understandably difficult for you to accept. But to take a page out of your own book,* Carl, I will destroy your inherent disgust for the idea of a pterodactyl by utilizing a lack of any research and little capacity for reason. Did you know:


--Pterodactyls, not storks as is commonly believed, deliver babies?

--The original name for the "screwball" was the "pterodactyl," because of the similarity between the screwball's trajectory and that of a pterodactyl swooping down upon its prey? And none other than Ty Cobb coined this term, and you can't argue with those kinds of intellectual credentials.

--Ozzie Guillen's mother is, in fact, a pterodactyl? This explains your simmering hatred for your former skipper. Also he is Ozzie Guillen, but he can't help that.

--Pterodactyls can be summoned by simply arranging a set of runes in a "V" pattern on the outfield grass? It's true. When summoned, pterodactyls can be bade to claw the eyes out of any umpire who wrongs you on that day. For a small fee, they may also claw out the eyes of your manager, but will unfortunately leave your team's plucky utility man unharmed. For this purpose, you must summon a triceratops.

So you see, plenty of reasons to love the pterodactyl. The knowledge that Ozzie Guillen's father knocked up a pterodactyl should be more than enough to launch another scathing attack on him, and making such knowledge public could very well destroy him. Sure, the pterodactyl embodies much of what you loathe and despise--dinosaurs, screwballs, Ozzie Guillen--but it also helps fuel your anger and forge your determination to continue to occupy roster spots better suited for more talented players. Whereas the T. Rex is a kindred spirit, the pterodactyl is a mortal enemy--and you, Carl Everett, are a man reliant on having mortal enemies.

The pterodactyl completes you. Please don't deny it any longer.

* Suggested title: Patrick Sheehan, I am suing you for slander.

Well done on hitting your first home run as a Mariner, Carl Everett! As a treat, and as inspiration for you to hit many more, preferably against AL West competition, here is the first in a series of articles geared towards helping you appreciate those most fantastic of prehistoric reptiles, the Dinosaurs.

Many people have made many jokes at your expense regarding your apparent disbelief in the existence of these magnificent creatures. These sorts of people should be rounded up and shot, preferably after being read some kind of incriminating Bible verse. After all, let he who is without sin be the one to cast the first stone, right? Did I get that right? I'm sure you will let me know via e-mail (which, by the way, also doesn't exist).

I've decided to take quite a different approach: education. Sure, we undervalue it in this country, as we undervalue most things that do not involve gasoline or naked women, but that doesn't mean that a little of it can't go a long way. And in your case, Carl, quite frankly, you've got a long way to go. So without further adieu, let's talk dinosaurs!

First off, the mighty Tyrannosaurus rex, Latin for "tyrant lizard king." Could there be a more apt dinosaur to introduce Carl Everett to? I submit that there cannot. Wherever you have gone, whatever clubhouse jungle you have stalked, mere mortal ballplayers have scattered in fear, while the rodent-mammal-like members of the media have tossed potshots from safe positions beneath the underbrush of the First Amendment. Also, overextended metaphors appear to have followed. Nonetheless, there is more than just being a tyrant (I guess not so much a lizard or king, now that I think about it) that you have in common with the T. rex; let's look at stature:







As you can see, strikingly similar. Although you've definitely mastered the art of upright walking, bear in mind that given the 70 million extra years of evolution at your disposal, this is hardly surprising. More important is the similarity in the arms: drawn in close to the body, bent at the elbow. Not, as some have indicated, a sign of weakness or the inability to convincingly hit a baseball, but a sign of strength and individualism, and all the more reason to develop tree trunks for legs and a set of razor-sharp teeth.

The T. rex is probably the most renowned predator in the history of the world, immortalized in such terrifying films as Jurassic Park, Tammy and the T-Rex, and The Land Before Time (more on this later). Likewise, you, Carl Everett, are one of the most renowned predators of team chemistry in the history of baseball. Though the advantages/myth of "team chemistry" are a matter of some debate, there is no debating the fact that you destroy it, mercilessly completely, wherever you come across it.

Efforts to compare your relative athletic ability are beyond my expertise; however, the kind folks at Wikipedia have this little entry that you can use as a primitive guide of sorts.

So you see, Carl, there is little to fear from these giant beasts. There is little reason for you to deny their existence, especially given their similarity to you, and also the fact that they're pretty freakin' cool. You remember that part in Jurassic Park when the T. rex was chasing down the Jeep with Jeff Goldblum in the back of it? Can't you sympathize with wanting to rend Jeff Goldblum limb from limb with your massive jaws? Would you not also chase a vehicle through the jungle in order to do so?

See, Carl? You've got a lot in common with Mr. T. rex. Don't disavow the past, Carl; embrace it. A man can forge a bond with figures of bygone eras, with movements of societies past, with giant land-borne lizards of ages long ago. The life of a professional athlete can be lonely, and can wound the soul; dinosaurs like the T. rex, whom you share so many similarities with, have the potential to heal those wounds.

Keep hitting dongers, Carl. Let the dinosaurs flow like so much river water into the ocean of your heart.

Goddammit Carl. You have no respect for my laziness. Nor, apparently, scientists.

Looks like I'll have to rush that report on The Land Before Time.

M's win, M's win, hooray hooray. I read on ESPN that Ichiro said it's the most excited he's been in a long time. So, what, I guess playing for your country in a half-assed series of exhibitions is not all that big a deal, huh?

My point all along.

Carl Everett arguing with a Scientist.

Carl Everett trading stock tips with a vending machine.

I'm a pretty big fan of the British television show Red Dwarf, and I own all seven of the released seasons on DVD. Like most DVDs, they all contain these little things called "Easter Eggs," little hidden "treats" buried deep in the menu screens, or requiring a specifically-timed push of the "select" button. Anyway, none of them are all that interesting, really, and aren't much good for anything besides being nerdy and wasting time.

After watching yesterday's game before heading out for the family Easter gathering, I noticed that there are similar inconsequential hidden delights in every seemingly mundane regular season baseball game. A lot of them have to do with deconstructing the comments made by the announcers, adding context where they fail to (or where it makes what they say seem even more ridiculous). Again, just a way of being nerdy and wasting time, but then again baseball is the kind of spectator sport that facilitates--and almost even requires--such snarky behavior. And, as has been well-documented and complained about, the current crop of announcers for the Mariners provides plenty of material.

More interesting to me were little visual eggs I hadn't noticed, out of sheer ignorance on my part. First, they've added a little "LOB" column to the traditional commercial-break line score. A very small thing, again largely inconsequential, but it does come in handy when trying to convince optimists and other assorted nincompoops about the futility of our offense. Not that an offense hitting against the likes of Josh Beckett could be expected to do much anyway. Still, when it comes time to play K.C. and we're holding a slim 3-2 lead entering the eighth, I look forward to jabbing a finger at the LOB number and saying "I told you so." Thank you, FSN.

Second, the sheer joy, perhaps ironic, that I get from watching Adrian Beltre hit. It is very rare in this day and age to see someone waste their obvious talent in so publicly humiliating a fashion. It is somewhat akin to watching Michelangelo fill in a coloring book and consistently color outside the lines. It is something to be appreciated, in my book. This is a failure more immense than Jeff Cirillo, more comical than Rich Aurilia, albeit slightly less bare-handed than Kevin Mitchell. Enjoy it while it lasts; he got two hits today, that son of a bitch. He keeps this up and he'll have to relinquish his post as the world's highest-paid defensive specialist.

And now, an abrupt segue to my next topic: Dinosaurs. When will it become cliché and old hat to make fun of Carl Everett's disbelief in dinosaurs? It probably already is, actually. I'm sure he and everyone else have heard it all before, just as every tall person's been asked what the weather's like up there and fellow SoB Eric has been asked how his courses at Clown College are going (he has a big nose). But the far more important question is: When will making fun of Carl Everett's disbelief in dinosaurs cease to be fun? The answer to that, I believe, is never.

With that in mind, I've decided to try and educate our dear Designated Hitter with an informative series of posts about the giant lizards. I figure it will work best on an incentive basis, namely: for every homerun he hits, I will address a specific dinosaur or aspect of dinosaur history, instead of doing something useless like donating to a charity or whatever. It may not help him any, especially considering he can't read,* but I know I'll enjoy it and hopefully everyone else will too. Besides, if he mashes 40 jacks for us this year I'd be more than happy to scramble for resources about dinosaurs.

Since he's already hit two this year, and I'm just now deciding to do this thing, I'll have some catching up to do. Expect a couple of posts over the next few Patrick Business Days, or in real-time, three to four weeks.

*Attn: Carl Everett -- Please direct all libel suits to my solicitor. My accusations of your illiteracy are my own, and do not reflect the views of the other SoBs, who barely even acknowledge your existence.