5 things on my mind: Kyle Gibson silences critics, 'Moneyball' still rips, and unavailable bullpen lameness

Keep reading to find out what the favorite part of my day job is.

“How can you not be romantic about baseball?”

Expectations are a fun thing to turn around, especially for a professional athlete. When the St. Louis Cardinals signed Kyle Gibson in the first week of free agency, the collective response was like if your mom told you that she made chicken casserole for the whole week: Meh was the word.

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SEVEN INNING GIBSON

Flash forward a few months to last night in San Diego, the second stop on the road trip that could be more kind after a series loss to Los Angeles, and Gibson had a chance to reroute the season opening road trip. A big start would calm the fears about the rotation, and also be the third solid start in a row after Miles Mikolas and Zack Thompson went to dinger school.

That’s just what Gibson did, throwing seven innings and only allowing a pair of solo home runs to go with four strikeouts. Can you remember the first time a Cardinals starter went seven innings for the first time last year? I can’t off the top of my head, but the new guy scratched it off the list on the fifth game of the year.

Gibson, who has pitched for six teams, had a rough six week patch of work in 2023, inserting double digit madness into his overall stat line and making it seem like he was Garrett Stephenson. After a start against Mike Shildt’s Padres, a team that boosts some credible power. Gibson is the living embodiment of Johnny Cash’s “I’ve been everywhere man,” so he was unfazed.

The Cardinals staked him to a 3-0 lead, and he never gave that up. It could all go bad this weekend against Miami, but enjoy that Gibson salad that 90% of fans were wrong about. He did exactly what the team signed him for: INNINGS. He’s also wearing Jason Isringhausen’s number, so that’s something extra to cheer for.

A BURNED OUT PEN IN GAME 4?

For ESPN baseball on Sunday night, the Cardinals went into the game shorthanded in the relief department. It turns out that three games of action had zapped half the bullpen, leaving only the shitty part. When Steven Matz left the game after a stellar 5+ inning performance, the pen had to close out the rest.

With the game on the line and six outs to get, reliever John King became a quiet kingdom of sadness when Max Muncy hit a bomb off him. A game in hand became a game out of hand, and the reason given by all 47 team reporters was that a few pitchers were shut down and unavailable. As Tony La Russa would urge, it’s… the second week of the season. When did we start cuddling these arms?

Bob Gibson would roll in his grave or jump up out of the casket and kick someone’s ass if he heard a starter couldn’t go six or a bullpen hand couldn’t pitch a few nights in a row. I get wear and tear, but it’s too early for that reasoning. As Jake Taylor would urge, there’s still 157 of these games left so the idea is to pace the “weak, lame bullshit” excuses.

Can you imagine Tony La Russa or Whitey Herzog telling a media member in the first week of April that an arm may not be available? Give me a break. At some point, pitchers become stocks to owners that had to be bubble-wrapped at all times. Let them pitch. That’s why you have three levels of minor leagues at your disposal. Use them.

Now excuse me, I’m going to tell my boss-who reads and SUBSCRIBES to this newsletter-that I am unavailable tomorrow due to the wear and tear of two work days in a row. No thanks. I do the job, whine about it quietly with some dignity, and suck it up for the next day. Last time I checked, Paul Goldschmidt didn’t move toilets and tubs in the morning… not that he couldn’t figure it out.

THE BEST PART OF MY DAY JOB

On the road. Every single morning I clock in, there’s the promise of a ride in the truck. We load them by 6:30, so the sun is only peaking out or starting to wake up when I pull out of the parking lot. A residential drop. A company or warehouse could be first. I could literally drive into Tubular in Chesterfield to deliver a few ten foot sticks of cast iron pipe. Each day is different, no matter how long or short the route is.

Obstacles stand in your way all over. Angry drivers. Trash trucks, woodchipper vehicles, school buses, dog walkers, walkers, and any cynical set of eyes will find you and what you’re doing. There’s pitching with two outs and two on in the ninth, and there’s unloading a tub with the owner, neighbors, and possibly eight or nine animals watching your every move.

I sweat through two shirts on a windy, fall day. The truck can become a hot tub; combine that with constant movement, and it’s perspiration highway every shift. I’m quitting the gym this week because I get enough of a lift on the job. All I would do at a gym after work is scan my phone on the ab machine with 25 minute rests in between sets. As The Rock said in a recent wrestling promo after the director tried to yell cut before he knew what the big man was cooking: Fuck that!

But I love my window time, as my co-worker and jack of all trades John Sexton called it during our week of training a year ago. In our first week, there was a flat tire and a tub that literally took me going into Aaron Donald mode to push through a doorway. Like I said, who needs a flat bench after 4pm when you can get paid to work out.

It all starts tomorrow at 5. As Lucas Hood told a bartender named Sugar, “I don’t know what’s coming… but it’s coming.” Find some wellness in the gig, even when the gig pushes you to the ropes mentally and physically. Find a part of it that gives something extra to you. If not, it’ll swallow you fucking whole.

*I pardon the interruption to inform you that yes, we are using curse words on this newsletter/blog. You better fucking believe it. I don’t care if it makes me look less professional. What do you know about being a professional writer? Hold on, I don’t care. Tell that to ABC News and Rolling Stone Magazine film critic Peter Travers, who uses the f-bomb like a literary missile strike. Charles Bukowski used it, because writers should be allowed to write like their mind thinks at some point in their lives. AP Style? Fuck that!*

FIELD OF DREAMS, MONEYBALL AND BULL DURHAM WALK INTO A BAR

In addition to Major League, I digested three other baseball classics this past week. The Brad Pitt-starring, Aaron Sorkin-written Moneyball was the last one. After inadvertently turning on my favorite Bourne film at the moment (#4), I made an audible to the Oakland A’s underdog tale.

Back in 2002, Billy Beane (a rarely, if ever, better Pitt) and Peter Brand (Jonah Hill playing a few real life characters rolled into one) had a wild idea about how to build a baseball roster. Instead of acquiring expensive “types,” they went for the most wins and best bargain. The late Philip Seymour Hoffman makes for a great Art Howe, and Chris Pratt invests Scott Hatteberg with true heart.

The script is the real MVP. It doesn’t let up, with Sorkin pelting the viewer with baseball geometry sessions mixed with dugout and office talk. The scouting room scene early on is so memorable because it’s like converting the writer’s West Wing world into a sports front office. It’s Tommy Gun, rapid fire dialogue at its best.

Netflix has it ready to stream. You’re welcome. Watch it now, and turn the Cards game after a few innings have been shaved off.

2024 LACKS A GREAT MOVIE

Granted, we’re only in April’s driveway at the moment, but zero movies have left me with a “holy crap” feeling yet. I haven’t watched enough so far, but it just seems that the year gets off to such a slow start that we’re all paddling upstream by the summer’s real launch. If studios released more viable movies early in the year, the end of the year slam wouldn’t be as harsh. Outside of The Beekeeper and a couple other solid movies, there’s more treasures to be found on television.

A fellow critic asked me what I’ve loved so far this year, and nothing came up. Small sample size issues be damned, one can hope that the first three months of the year don’t remain an afterthought to distributors. Movie theaters can’t hinge their hopes on movies with blue people or human actors in tights, or a Barbenheimer lightning strike, each year. Spread the goods out.

That’s all. What was supposed to be direct and carry some brevity turned into a rant, but shorter with slightly more structure. This “rant” was also free, but the longer one later this week will be an exclusive post for paid subscribers. I hope you learned something here, or at least gained some perspective. Feel free to comment, subscribe, and read a few other things on the site.