No se puede decir en la television

Twins color man Dan Gladden dialed up a bit of his baseball Spanish in trying to describe the mental state of centerfielder Carlos Gomez after he chased a bad pitch in the ninth inning of tonight's game. "He's saying, 'Coño -- why did I swing at that.'"

Maybe he is and maybe he isn't, but you can't say "coño" on television.

Candlepins for kaddish

Boston sportscaster Don Gillis has died. He hosted the Saturday morning bowling show, "Candlepin Bowling"* from the time of the Articles of Confederation until 1995. The show was filmed in specially constructed candlepin lanes in the basement of the WCVB-TV station building. Though legendary among Bostonians, the show was pretty much unwatchable, unless your idea of a good time is candlepin bowling, followed by slo-motion replays of candlepin bowling.

The show aired on late Saturday mornings, and it was basically what you watched after cartoons but before the Creature Double Feature if it the weather was so bad that you couldn't go outside. Don Gillis was a big wheel down at Channel 5, and the show was relentlessly flogged with promos that tried to capture both the excitement of candlepin bowling and Gillis' breathless commentary. The thing I remember, and couldn't find on YouTube, was Gillis trademark shout, "The seven-ten split!"

In honor of Don Gillis, here are some examples of the unexpected glories and cruel vicissitudes of candlepin bowling. It's just like life, except with smaller balls.


Above: An unlikely strike; Below: How do you not pick up that spare?



* I erroneously wrote that the show was called "Candlepins for Cash". It's corrected above.

"Dogging It To First" was taken?

The exterior of the new Nationals Park is too monochromatic and grim to be worth a picture. From most angles, it doesn't even look like a ballpark, because of the decision to affix concrete parking structures to the entrance. Inside, it's functional and certainly an upgrade over the dismal RFK Statium and its shabby, carpeted playing surface.

But one area in which Nationals Park shows real esthetic imagination is in its the way it marries concession stands names with baseball cliches. To wit:

Exunt Offerman

In 1990, wunderkind prospect Jose Offerman became the first player in Los Angeles Dodgers history to homer in his first major league at bat. And, as nice bookend, it appears he hit a home run in his last professional at-bat as the leadoff hiter for the Long Island Ducks of the independent Atlantic League.

Symmetrical. Storybook. The stuff that dreams are made of.

Not quite. Here is a look at what is very probably his last professional plate appearance, in a game against the Bridgeport Bluefish.

Because he was hit by a pitch, and subsequently attacked the pitcher with his lumber (coincidentally concussing Bluefish catcher John Nathan on his back-swing), it does not technically count as an at-bat.

38 Pitches

Curt Schilling is a bloviating douchelord, but the man can throw.

So what if he sullied the mystique and aura of the first Red Sox championship in 86 years by stumping for George Bush in New Hampshire and, according to some wicked paranoid conspiracy theorists, turning the election.

And so what if he speaks of himself in self-aggrandizing Bibilical overtones, or accuses the sporting press of being lazy hacks.

And especially so what if he suggested that Barry Bonds might have a history of being less than truthful.

I mean, I was there for Stigmata II in Fenway, when Curt shut out the Cardinals over six blood-soaked innings, giving the Red Sox a commanding two-game lead in the series.

But listen, bitch, Public Apology is the title of my blog. Not yours.

Maybe this is your way of telling me to be a more active blogger. Fine. I get that. But please, next time at least ask before you copy me.

Also, love the change-up. Really great.

Panic in Wallenda-land

Last year, blogging hubris doomed my glorious rookie fantasy baseball season. After posting an entry titled I Am A Fantasy Baseball God, I quickly went from the position of unassailable front-runner to forgettable also-ran.

Can the fates be harnessed in the opposite direction? If so, then know this: My fantasy team (the Frying Wallendas) was so incompetently assembled that I could have done better with the autodraft.

I selected puffed-up rookies Mark Gordon and Troy Tulowitzki, who have as of this writing combined for an anemic 5-for-34. I opted for two players, Scott Podsednik and Johnny Gomes, who aren't even full-time starters. And I backed myself into a lineup-setting corner with the choice of Frank Thomas, who only sets up as a utility player. Oh, Ramon Hernandez and Johnny Damon both suffered early late spring injuries that are keeping them out of the action in the early going. Plus, I only picked two closers.

I'm not in dead last at the moment, but it is only a matter of time.

It isn't you. It's F.W. Thomas.

F.W. Thomas is getting the band back together for one blow-out gig. On Monday Feb. 12, just hours before the outbreak of Valentine's Day, you are invited to pay money to attend: The F.W. Thomas Performances: The Breakup Episode, featuring the art of Mike Lowery, the words of Matthew Summers-Sparks, the music of the great Gino Madrid, and, if we can get our shit together, the WORLD'S FIRST-EVER BREAKUP SLAM, in which audience participants, pre-screened by volunteer snake wranglers, will share woefully hilarious tales of romance gone awry.

Read more at the F.W. Thomas blog.