02.04.07 STEVE TRACHSEL IS SLOW, CRAPPY

Baseball makes a futile effort to capture your attention on this Day of Days by throwing Steve Trachsel's name into the rumor mill.  Apparently the Cardinals, Nationals and Astros are set to begin a bidding war for the free agent pitcher.  This only further illustrates the dilution of pitching talent by expansion, and the mediocrity of National League pitchers.  You may notice that no teams from the Junior Circuit have thrown their hats into the ring.  Trachsel's agent more than likely issued a Maddux-edict to prospective buyers – "Steve would prefer to stay in the NL." i.e. "Designated hitters will make him cry."  Trachsel has had two good seasons in the last four years, but he certainly benefited from the Mets' monstrous line-up in 2006.  Forty years ago, he would be Bob Miller. Who's Bob Miller? Exactly.

Hate is a strong word to use for a NL pitcher, but I deliberately employ it in Trach's case.  You see, although I'm a White Sox fan and viewed most of my '90s live baseball at Comiskey II, I occasionally would take the Red Line north to heckle the Cubs and try to score at the world's largest beer garden.  Trying to pick-up a female Cubs fan is a delicate process i.e. requires much falsification ("I'm a broker from Lake Forest."), and if you "know" one, the situation becomes ever more complicated.  Much like sleeping with someone from the opposite political party, both participants realize their soul-damaging mistake, and a terrible contest ensues.  One can only cross enemy lines again to meet the same foe if one has a desperate biological need to fulfill; at that time, she will rebuke you. (I've lost this battle many times.)  Invariably, Trachsel would be pitching at these games, and he is the SLOWEST WORKER EVER.  He would receive the ball from Servais, take off his hat and wipe his brow with his forearm, tuck his glove under his arm-pit, rub the ball, descend the mound, kneel to check his spikes, circle the mound, ascend the mound, kick the mound with his heel, wipe his forehead again, toe the rubber, look-in for the sign, shake it off, shake it off again, and again, step-off, and wipe his forehead again.  If the batter stepped out, he would begin this torturous act all over again, and he did this between every effing pitch.  I remember attending a game one 95° day, and I woke up in the ICU five days later.  No wonder Football is now America's Pastime.

Nonetheless, Trachsel is due for a big pay-day.  Who should we blame?  Let's make it, hmm . . . Andy Messersmith. -KD