Deep Left Field: Lyricism is just another four letter word

Sam…last of a breed dying over something or another.

Last Thursday night John Smoltz stepped onto the field wearing his new team’s colors, toed the rubber of Nationals Park and threw a pitch in anger. It was his first start without a tomahawk on his chest in twenty-plus years. He was amped up, wild and very hittable in his first inning of work, but then settled down and turned in a useful performance. In all honesty it looked quite a bit like his first start upon returning to the rotation in Atlanta, after his closer years. No matter how hard I grimaced and whispered vile curses under my breath, his shoulder did not fall off. Sometimes Little Baby Jesus is just plain worthless.

Prior to the start the Washington Times ran a piece by Thom Leverro headlined “Smoltz is the last of a dying breed.” Ignoring for the moment that Smoltz is not in any way shape or form the last of a dying breed; hurlers across baseball, from Smoltz’ new teammate Josh Beckett to his old team’s newest phenom Tommy Hanson are proof positive that smoke-throwing righties with wicked breaking balls are far from joining the dodo and long relief specialist on the extinction rolls; I must protest.

Generally I avoid the “a sportswriter wrote something wrong” meme. There just doesn’t seem to be much sport in shooting those poor barrelled up fish. Rather than venting about something less than insightful someone else said, I’d rather spend my time saying something insightful. Or in the absence of that, blindly yelling rage into the void until some god of some heathen realm brings me a second bloody World Series banner. But in this case, I must protest.