The Last Days of the Oakland A's

The Athletics. The poor, unloved Athletics. After being evicted from Philadelphia, Kansas City and now, Oakland, baseball's homeless team must now content themselves with three years in a minor league ballpark in Sacramento until their (a-hem) next forever home is completed in Las Vegas, Nevada.

You may be familiar with their story. Or you may not. In the event you are not, let me fill you in.

One of baseball's original sixteen teams, the Athletics began life in Philadelphia. One of two teams in what was then the nation's third-largest city, they were managed by Connie Mack from the get-go. Despite his talents as a manager (and later as an owner), the Athletics endured a bi-polar existence that ping-ponged between championships and extended periods of last-place finishes.

Were they the supreme example of the sport as suggested by the WWI-era teams of Eddie Collins, Charles Bender and Eddie Plank, or as suggested by the 1915 team that struggled to 109 losses after a dire sell-off ?

Were they the imposing late-twenties and early-thirties teams of Al Simmons, Jimmie Foxx, Mickey Cochrane and Lefty Grove, or the abysmal, cash-strapped squads of the forties and fifties?

The details are unclear to me, but those hapless Athletics couldn't compete with the Phillies, (who posted losing records every year between 1918 and 1949 with one, sole exception—1932). If nothing else, it goes to show how deeply stressed the Athletic's finances had become. They couldn't even contend against the team that had been the worst in baseball for three consecutive decades.

By 1954 it had become clear Philadelphia wasn't big enough for both of them. The Athletics left for the green pastures of Kansas City, Missouri following the conclusion of the season. But despite a new city, new ballpark and new ownership, the Athletics continued to flounder. By 1967, their attendance was half of what it had been in 1955.

Unlike their wandering cousins, the Boston/Milwaukee/Atlanta Braves, they had yet to discover a permanent home. But in the spring of 1968, Oakland looked like a good bet.

California was fresh. Underdeveloped. Awash with opportunity. It had yet to morph into the most-populated and most-expensive state in the lower forty-eight. The cities by the bay might have even conjured up notions of a west coast New York City, where instead of the Yankees, Dodgers and Giants competing, the Athletics and those same Giants would vie for superiority in northern California.

It didn't take long for the Athletics to warm to California sunshine. A promising crop of young players emerged, among them Reggie Jackson, Sal Bando and Catfish Hunter. Within five years, they'd anchor baseball's newest dynasty; a battling bunch of mustachioed long-hairs with the reputation for being rugged non-conformists.

They were baseball's new breed, and like them or not they won three consecutive World Series, becoming the first team to do so since the 1951 Yankees. Only the 2000 Yankees have done it since.

But like Connie Mack's golden-era teams, circumstances didn't allow fans or players to enjoy that success.

They had been owned since 1960 by Charles Finley, a flamboyant Insurance executive. To his credit, he devised all sorts of promotions to induce the good citizens of Kansas City into attending Athletics games. From that standpoint, he resembled Bill Veeck.

But despite his non-traditional eye for promotion, he was strictly by-the-book when it came to paying his ballplayers. As a result, the team was rife with acrimony. Players fought for wages commensurate with their skill level and were met with fierce resistance.

Adding to the drama, Finley was a hands-on owner. He loved to meddle. Rosters were constantly re-shaped in accordance to his whims. Likewise, manager Dick Williams seemed constantly on the hot seat. Nope. George Steinbrenner had nothing on Finley.

After a fifth-straight division championship in 1975, the Boston Red Sox swept the Athletics 3 – 0 in the ALCS. It was over.

With Catfish Hunter completing his first season with the Yankees, his former teammates were likewise eager to move on. Reggie Jackson and Ken Holtzman were traded to the Baltimore Orioles. Joe Rudi was traded to the Red Sox. Sal Bando was granted free agency and signed with the Milwaukee Brewers. Bert Campaneris was granted free agency and signed with the Texas Rangers. Rollie Fingers and 1972 World Series hero Gene Tenace were also granted free agency and signed with the San Diego Padres. Vida Blue was traded to the Yankees.

Within a year of the 1975 division championship, the Oakland Athletics were unrecognizable. The sell-off had nothing on those Mack himself had been forced to make following the 1914 and 1932 seasons.

Even more ironically, another problem that had plagued the Athletics in Philadelphia reared its ugly head 2,879 miles to the west: where were the paying customers?

Even before seven-figure attendance counts became standard, the Athletics rarely led the league. They finished second in 1930 and '31, fielding a team of four Hall of Famers. And in Mack's first golden-era, the 1910 and '11 editions actually led the league. But more often than not, the Athletics were also-rans when it came to ticket-selling.

And that didn't change in Kansas City—or Oakland.

An uncle had gifted me with a subscription to Sports Illustrated while the Athletics were in the midst of their World Series threepeat, and it pointed out that their1974  attendance was eleventh out of the twelve teams in the American League. The year before it was eighth.

Why?

Whatever irritations and distractions Charlie Finley couldn't provide, playing for minuscule crowds did. While the crowds that showed for the Series were certainly enthusiastic, I have to feel they paled in comparison to the crowds they would have drawn in Chicago, Philadelphia or New York City. Detroit. Boston. And so on.

In Major League Baseball, only the Minnesota Twins and the Giants drew more-poorly than the singular team en route to a third-consecutive world championship.

There never existed a concentrated volley of criticism regarding the location of the Coliseum. Or the neighborhood in which it was located. Being a new arrival (as well as a world champion) in a sparkling, ten-year-old stadium should have been a recipe for success. But it wasn't.

Perhaps the most-plausible reason it wasn't was a general lack of interest.

San Francisco embraces the 49ers, the Giants and (more-recently) the Warriors pretty vigorously. Apart from the NFL Raiders, I'm not sure Oakland did the same with their teams. And I hasten to point out that even those beloved Raiders now play in Las Vegas.

As we have seen in Miami and Tampa Bay, perhaps Oakland was never an ideal home for a major league baseball team. Perhaps the Giants were enough. And as the succeeding fifty-years have shown, that brief period wasn't an outlier. When the Athletics played well, fans showed up (so to speak). When they didn't, fans stayed away.

They were one-hundred eighty degrees removed from the Chicago Cubs.

Add in a municipal government that seemed indifferent about either updating the Coliseum or building a new stadium and it led to an opportunist like John Fisher hijacking a team and skulking away like a snake oil salesman to the next municipality whose ego required a professional sports franchise.

All aided and abetted, of course, by Major League Baseball.

Watching the video of the Athletics last game in Oakland was heartbreaking. It existed outside of the confines of profit and loss statements. It existed outside of legal briefs and continuances and sheafs of confidential documents. It existed outside of empty texts from team management that only intended to relay the message “It's not our fault.”

The video contained people. Three-dimensional people who were there to share their joy and sorrow. To articulate the pain of losing a civic institution like a ballclub. They rejoiced in the commonality they had shared. They didn't talk about consumer panels or attorneys or securing public loans.

They talked about—gasp—baseball.

They talked about life, and how it happened in and around the Oakland Coliseum. They talked about friends and neighborhoods and communities. And how a greedy, selfish billionaire and an indefensible municipal government gave it to the city of Oakland—without so much as an offer to treat them to a dinner out.

Nobody could get nothing done. With one notable exception. (And the good citizens of Las Vegas are building him a brand new baseball stadium.)

My Joe Biden Confession

I was disappointed when the Democrats announced that Hillary Clinton would be facing-off against Donald Trump in the 2016 Presidential Election. But not because of any ill-feelings I have towards the former First Lady.

She performed brilliantly in her role as Secretary of State and was a distinguished First Lady, suffering through her husband's infidelities with remarkable dignity.

No, my disappointment stemmed from a what I believe was a prefabricated agenda to serve the Democratic party. Not only would they be the first party to elect a Black president, but the first to elect a woman as well.

Instead of waiting to gauge the national mood and deciding on the best possible candidate for that particular election, Democrats decided to send Clinton into battle—regardless of her opponent.

Yes, there was a fair bit of arrogance in the assumption she would defeat whomever the Republicans ran against her. What's that old expression about counting your chickens?

As it turns out, Clinton was Trump's ideal opponent. Not only was she roundly despised by the GOP, but an issue involving e-mails she sent and received as Secretary of State played right into Trump's hands.

And a perfectly-timed announcement by the F.B.I. just days before the election cinched it.

Despite losing the popular vote by a count of nearly three-million, the orange-haired cretin ended up in the White House thanks to the electoral college.

Next election we were offered Joe Biden. He was a career politician and a longtime Senator from Delaware, yet I wasn't enthused. Nor were any of the Democrats I spoke with. This was the guy who was going to take down Trump and his obsessive-compulsive cult?

Eight years ago, I had rooted for Bernie Sanders. In 2020, it was Elizabeth Warren. Now I would have to choose between Trump and Biden. If I haven't already made it clear, I was under-whelmed.

I shouldn't have been.

It turns out that after four years of Trump's ignorance, arrogance and general fecklessness, Biden's grassroots, plain-as-day sensibility were just the cure Democrats had been looking for. (Modesty requires me to admit that at the time, I just knew his name wasn't 'Trump'.)

This time, Biden took the popular vote by seven-million and pummeled Trump in the electoral college. But despite the sound whipping, Trump's ego would not let him go gently into that dank, dark Republican night.

Nope. President Petulant displayed his rigorous ability to manipulate, stating before Election Day that if he didn't win, the election was 'stolen'.

How's that for covering your ass?

Despite getting the re-counts and investigations he demanded, guess what? He still lost. By 7,059,526 votes.

He carried the lie forward, as did the intellectually-disadvantaged folk who constitute his cult. Seeing a 'Trump Won' banner in 2023 was the saddest and most-pathetic example of voluntary stupidity I have ever seen.

Why not claim that water isn't actually wet? Or that Wendy's was selling nuclear arms to Libya?

Again, I have diverged from the original intent of this post. Joe Biden became president under very trying conditions, not unlike those of Barack Obama. Trump's non-intervention with the pandemic and its fallout created a crisis much worse than it needed to be.

But come to think of it, like anything that didn't directly affect billionaires, it was Trump's standard operating procedure. Like all Trump-centric criticism, it was a hoax. It's rigged. It's a witch-hunt. It's the product of radical left-wingers.

Sigh. Doesn't anyone like Donald?

But I warmed to Joe Biden. As bland and ego-less as he was, Biden settled the ship. He didn't appoint Trump-tards to every judicial opening. He didn't hand additional tax breaks to billionaires and their companies. He worked to maintain voter's rights and championed reproductive rights.

He decried the nation's runaway gun violence and worked to inhibit it.

Best of all, he didn't receive love letters from Kim Jong Un or pretend that Vladimir Putin was anything but what he is.

Yeah, his handling of immigration could have been better. And guilty or not, he was held responsible for inflation not returning to pre-pandemic norms. And let's not forget we're still sending weapons and money to Israel even after they have admitted to genocide.

But he has greatly restored America's position as a world leader and a tireless champion of democracy. That counts for something. Especially when your opposition seeks to destroy it.

And on July 21^st, he made a decision almost unfathomable in the politics of the twenty-first century. Owing to a poor debate performance three weeks earlier, he announced he was—for the good of the party—removing himself as a candidate for President of the United States.

Wait—you mean selflessness isn't dead?

Can you imagine Donald Trump doing the same thing? Even with a central nervous system suffused with fentanyl?

Of course not.

President Biden's acknowledgement of duty and responsibility happened in a city stuffed with preening egos and selfish power grabs.

“Wait. You're doing that because it's the right thing to do? Wow. You're setting a really bad example for the rest of us, bro.”

And so he was. 

Unburdened by the monstrous ego that controls his opponent, Biden took a step back, realized the momentousness of the occasion and realized he wasn't the best man for the job. Democrats are fortunate Donald Trump is incapable of making the same decision.

Thank you, Joe. You are truly a man amongst men.

Wither Caitlin Clark?

Can you stand another piece on Caitlin Clark? (Don't worry—if your answer is 'no' I completely understand.)

Ironically, that is part of the problem. You see, deserved or not, Ms. Clark is the most-heralded female basketball player to enter the WNBA in some time. And there has been much speculation as to why.

There are many potential reasons. First off, she's white. And secondly, she's heterosexual. In a league primarily made up of gay Black women, that makes her an outlier from the word go.

And when she shows up with a shoe contract and several corporate endorsements (as well as the cover of Time magazine), what I call the jealousy factor skyrockets upwards. It's very easy to imagine competing players thinking “I'll take that bitch down a notch or two.”

And many have. From her opening night struggles where she set a WNBA-record with 10 turnovers to a recent game versus the Chicago Sky in which guard Chennedy Carter administered an indefensible cheap shot to her, there appears to be a concerted effort to baptize Clark into the hard knocks world of professional basketball.

And adding to the drama is the fact that Clark is, yes, a trash-talker. Which is fine—as long as you can back it up.

Before a three-point contest during an NBA All-Star weekend, Larry Bird stood up in the locker room and faced his competition. “Which of you is going to finish second?” he asked. There was no response.

And just who won that three-point contest?

Guess.

However vigorous Clark's chutzpah, it has been tested. And will continue to be. At least until she demonstrates a Michael Jordan-like ability to shred her opponents and devour them.

To her credit, she has maintained a very marketable demeanor in public, appearing gracious, confident and in control. She has everything to gain and nothing to lose by ignoring her haters.

They will exist regardless of her career arc.

But this isn't the last of Caitlin's indignities. 2024 is an Olympic year, and the USA must assemble an Olympic team to participate. And the basketball neophytes who have recently descended on the WNBA have made their feelings clear: as the most popular player the league, isn't it Caitlin's birthright that she be named to the team?

Not quite.

While event-specific teams such as this may appear otherwise, the powers that be seek the best players for these teams, not the most-famous. And whatever her potential, Caitlin is not one of the premier point guards in the WNBA. She very well may be one day, but not today.

Struggle isn't new. Nor is it unusual. Ms. Clark is the latest in a long line of highly-talented athletes who made the jump from college to the pros and didn't find instant success.

But given her level-headed and focused approach, success is imminent. We (or rather, you) just needs to be patient.

The Shaq Attack, 2.0

I'm not sure it matters now, but I never came to terms with Shaquille O'Neal. His bruising physicality was in many ways a burden, as fellow players, coaches and NBA executives all saw in him the potential to be The Greatest Player Ever.

No pressure, right?

Without ever having had that kind of pronouncement bestowed upon me, it's hard to understand it fully. But I suspect it was a 24/7 cam of expectation.

And Shaq was pretty good. He led a young Orlando Magic team to the NBA Finals at the age of 22. After jumping ship to join the Los Angeles Lakers (why isn't that a cliche yet?), he and Kobe Bryant formed a powerful duo as the Lakers ran off three consecutive championships in '00, '01 and '02.

But as we saw with the Jordan-era Bulls, success quickly became a game not played on a basketball court. Who was the better player? Who deserved most of the credit? Who was the leader the rest of the team turned to when things got tough?

These squabbles caught fire much quicker in L.A. than they did in Chicago, and the inevitable power struggle between O'Neal and Bryant led to the former leaving Lakerland after the 2003/04 season. That was also the last time Shaq n' Kobe went to the NBA Finals as teammates.

After exhausting the Laker front office with multiple injuries and escalating salary demands, O'Neal was jettisoned to the Miami Heat.

A stellar first season seemed to bode well for his stay in Miami, but before long the all-too-familiar foot/ankle/toe injuries set in. O'Neal managed to play just 59 and 40 games the next two seasons.

He managed a minor comeback in 2008/09 with the Phoenix Suns (playing in 75 games), but the end was clearly near. After a year each with the Cleveland Cavaliers and the Boston Celtics as a second-stringer, he retired.

In the end, O'Neal is a study in contradiction. While his athletic abilities were routinely described as “limitless”, those assessments did not take into account O'Neal's personality. Despite a public persona that was playful—almost childlike—he suffered ruptured relationships with scores of the people he played with and for.

And that's not even taking into account the media.

At the core of those disputes were O'Neal's outsized ego, petulance and a work ethic that frequently left coaches scratching their heads. Lakers' coach Phil Jackson even referred to him as “probably the only player I coached who wasn't a worker.”

Trapped between unlimited physical potential and a personality not hard-wired like Bill Russell's, Larry Bird's or Michael Jordan's, Shaq was almost doomed to fail. No matter how well he played, the perfection of infinity always lay ahead, untouched.

But Shaq's critics had their points. He struggled to hit half his free-throws, a fact which the opposition frequently exploited. And when properly motivated, he could be a monster on defense. Problem was, he wasn't always motivated.

He showed who he could be in the 2000/01 season and was deserving of the MVP trophy as a result. But he never reached those heights again. It appeared he was (gulp) satisfied. Bryant and assistant coach Tex Winter weren't shy about expressing their frustration.

O'Neal's pettiness was spotlighted when he publicly criticized those who elected Sun's guard Steve Nash to consecutive MVP trophies. Nash, a likeable guard who served as the engine for the team nicknamed 'The Solar Express', somehow stole the votes that, by right, were O'Neal's.

Sigh.

And O'Neal did it again recently, using the pulpit afforded him by cable TV's 'NBA on TNT'. Only this time, the thief was Denver Nuggets center Nikola Jokic, who was unfairly awarded his third MVP in four years.

Even more curiously, the two players he openly questioned happen to be white. It could be coincidence, and it could be something else. Not being a social media subscriber, I am ignorant of any opinions he might have offered on Black MVPs.

At any rate, this tempest is certainly interesting. Especially since Nash is a Hall of Famer and—barring a career-ending injury—Jokic will be as well.

It leaves me wondering: is O'Neal projecting his own disappointment over winning a single MVP award onto Nash and Jokic? Maybe he has regrets. Maybe he wishes he had done certain things differently.

If so, welcome to the club, Shaq. Nearly all of us have those thoughts at some point in our lives.

But at the age of fifty-two, I wish you could express those thoughts without besmirching the accomplishments of others.

Many people would say you have enjoyed a disproportionate share of life's gifts. It's a shame that largesse hasn't created in you an equally vigorous sense of graciousness.

You know, the way you were fawned over as a player.

Robbie Gould

Robbie Gould announced his retirement recently. To all but the most ardent NFL fans, that name likely means very little. But to those who follow the sport, Gould was one of the best place-kickers ever to play the game.

His talent might have been a little hard to see at first, being that Gould went un-drafted after a distinguished career with the Penn State Nittany Lions. Even moreso after being waived—twice—after two pre-camp visits with the New England Patriots and Baltimore Ravens.

In what must rank as the most cerebral insight ever experienced by Bears management, Gould was first located working for a construction company in Pennsylvania. He was then invited to a work-out at Halas Hall and subsequently signed to a contract shortly into the 2005 season.

If it even needs to be said, the Bears don't do things like that. Over the hill linemen? Sure. Inconsequential wide receivers? Of course. Dubious quarterbacks? In a heartbeat.

Hall of Fame quality place-kickers? Nope.

That low-profile introduction may have been a godsend, as no one outside of northeastern Illinois was paying much attention. But within eighteen months Gould was kicking in a Super Bowl and being named as a first-team All-Pro.

Yeah, he was pretty good. And he stayed that way for a long time. Long enough to retire as the tenth highest scoring player in NFL history. Given the Football Hall of Fame's reluctance to admit special teams performers, it may be a while before we see him inducted.

But that's on them. Not us.

After an awkward dismissal from the Bears on the eve of the 2016 season (supposedly, then-GM Ryan Pace felt the Bears' kicker was getting old and expensive), Gould signed with the New York Giants for a season. He then moved on to the San Francisco 49ers.

And on December 3, 2017 he had what must've been one of the greatest games of his life. Against the Bears—in Chicago—Gould kicked five field goals in a 15 – 14 49ers victory. (God how I'd love to kick five field goals against a former employer!)

And the equally-expensive kickers Pace replaced Gould with? Connor Barth—followed by Cody Parkey. Anyone still wondering why Pace no longer works as an NFL GM?

With a franchise more-appreciative of his singular talents, Gould went on to kick in two more Super Bowls. What's more, he did it without a posse. He did it without complaining how disrespected he was by his salary. He did it without telling every camera in the locker room how good he was.

As a former NBA point guard once observed, if you're as good as you say you are, you don't need to remind people of it every day.

Gould merely focused on his job and devoted himself to the performance of that job to a very high order. And despite the low-key demeanor, people noticed. At a time when the Bears were trying to mask their on-field mediocrity, team execs made it a point to talk about quality individuals filling quality rosters.

But when the cameras were turned off, the Bears unceremoniously dumped two of the best examples (running back Matt Forte was the other) they could ever hope to find. Which made me doubly happy for that 49ers-Bears game in 2017.

You might consider me a Bears fan after reading this post. Truth is, I realized the absolute state of their fecklessness before puberty even hit and abandoned them for the Dallas Cowboys. Which makes my regard for Robbie Gould still-more remarkable. 

Amid what were mostly unfavorable circumstances, Gould went about his work as if every game were a Super Bowl; as if nothing less than his best would suffice. He never told anyone about it. He just did it. Teammates noticed. Word got out. While physically-diminutive by NFL standards, Gould's reputation morphed into a Julius Peppers-sized giant.

He. Got. It. Done.

I forget who said 'Revenge is a dish best served cold', but know you were never cooler than you were with San Francisco, Mr. Gould. Congratulations.

 

The September Fade

No, it's not the latest hairstyle sported by Harry Styles as he tours the world. Nor is it the latest iteration of Donald's comb-over. Nope. The September Fade is the semi-annual collapse of the Chicago Cubs on the odd years they are actually in contention.

I've only been following the Cubs since 1968, so I'm hardly an expert. But they have an unpleasant habit of fading in September. Do I remember the jokes about the Cubs relocating to the Philippines and renaming themselves the Manila Folders?

Sadly, yes.

For purposes of juxtaposition, the 2016 Cubs followed up a sizzling August (22 – 6) with a stupendous September, going 17 – 10 as they wrapped up the NL Central division. The previous year, after having embraced the idea they were legitimate contenders, the Cubs also followed up a torrid August with an equally-torrid September (19 – 9), ending the year on an eight-game winning streak.

(You will excuse me for not mentioning that after taking the season series from the New York Mets 7 – 0, they disappeared against them in the National League Championship Series, falling four games to none.)

Even after a slow start in 2017, they caught fire in late-summer, going 16 – 8 in July, 17 – 12 in August and 19 – 9 in—you guessed it—September. In 2018 they managed a still-impressive 16 – 12 record, tying the Milwaukee Brewers for the division lead. (Naturally, they lost game one-hundred sixty-three at home to those same Brewers, managing just three hits in a 3 – 1 loss.)

Following that defeat, the Cubs went on to lose another game—also at home—in a one-game wild card series to the 1927 New York Yank...er, I mean the 2018 Colorado Rockies. The score was 2 – 1, but at least the Cubs totaled six hits.

In a manner of speaking, the immediate future began in 2019. In what was widely seen as a make-it-or-break-it year for Maddon and company, the Cubs played well, ending August with a 73 – 62 record, in second-place just 2.5 games behind the St. Louis Cardinals.

But do you remember September?

The Cubs crashed, going 11 – 16 and losing ten out of their last twelve games (which included a season-high nine-game losing streak).

So, yeah. This isn't new.

Most famously there was 1969. After enjoying a five to nine game divisional lead from mid-May through Labor Day, the Cubs went on to lose seventeen of twenty-five games that September, which included a season-high eight-game losing streak. It was enough to subvert a very healthy divisional lead to the point where the Cubs stood eight games behind the New York Mets by season's end.

In an era where only division winners were invited to participate in the post-season, it was a brutal end to a campaign that had success-starved Cub fans rekindling their belief in Santa Claus.

I hate the Mets to this day. And I always will.

2008. The Cubs were cruising along at a 100-win pace when September struck. They enjoyed a division lead that grew to 10.5 games by the 22^nd, despite the Cubs suffering through what was easily the worst month of the season (12 – 12).

It was perhaps fortunate that September had just thirty days.

The good news was that the ninety-seven win Cubs were opening the divisional playoffs against the 84 – 78 Los Angeles Dodgers, who not only held the worst won-loss record of any of the MLB post-season combatants, but the worst road record of any of the five National League post-season entrants.

To Cub fans who hasn't yet surrendered their innocence, this was a sign from God that the Cubs were headed to the World Series. To those of us who had lost our virginity some time ago, this pairing merited only a reserved and distant “Hmmm.”

The Cubs wasted no time in snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, losing game one 7 – 2 and game two 10 – 3 at Wrigley—to the second-worst road team in the playoffs. I didn't even bother checking the score for game three. Didn't need to. I knew instinctively they had once again found the cloud in the silver lining.

Unlike other Cubs teams that had suffered a difficult September, the 2008 squad distinguished itself because it had also experienced a difficult October, something the 1984, 1989 and 2003 clubs were also familiar with.

Yes, for the masochistic Cub fan, it was a season to remember.

2023 didn't plumb those depths, but managed to hold several peculiar qualities all its own.

First off, you should know the Cubs held the third-best run differential in the National League for the majority of the season. Their pythagorean won-lost record was 90 – 72, a full seven games above their actual record.

This was going to be a continuation of the second-half success last year's team enjoyed. And with new additions like Cody Bellinger and Dansby Swanson plus the return of Kyle Hendricks, why wouldn't it be?

Read on, dear reader. Read on.

So what went wrong? The Cubs punched well below their weight. They ran notoriously hot and cold. Slumps and injuries held an all-access pass to their locker room.

Jameson Taillon and Drew Smyly appeared in April to be decent-quality fourth and fifth starters, but that didn't quite happen. Taillon's first half was a disaster, and Smyly never got untracked and was relegated to the bullpen.

However good Marcus Stroman was in the first half (and he was Cy Young-nominee good), he tailed off during the Cubs' visit to London and never recovered. (A cartilage-injury to his ribs helped ensure he wouldn't.)

Hendricks arrived in June and was a great help. But the Cubs couldn't score when Hendricks was on the mound. Ten of his twenty-four starts resulted in a no decision, and what usually happened on those occasions was that the bullpen would extend to the opposition the generosity Hendricks himself refused to.

That left Justin Steele. The new guy in town had a breakthrough year and was a deserved candidate for the Cy Young trophy until a couple of late-season starts went south.

Then there was the bullpen. It was a bullpen-by-committee kind of deal, with Adbert Alzolay emerging as the eventual closer. And for the majority of the year he was quite good. But his calendar contained a 'September' too, and he was sidelined at the most critical time of the year.

There were lots and lots of blown save opportunities in September, something that doesn't align well with post-season play. Over the last thirty days, only the Atlanta Braves and Kansas City Royals created more save opportunities (thirteen) than the Cubs' dozen. The Cubs could only convert four.

There's no telling what those eight blown saves (defined as a lead lost in the eighth or ninth inning) did to the club's psyche. But the position players weren't without blame as slumps coursed through the lineup in a highly-democratic fashion.

Swanson, the Cubs big free-agent signing, had a good year defensively but his offensive production was on the weak side. Specifically, he hit just .184 in August (OPS of .662) and .236 in September—not the numbers you're expecting from a triple-digit signing.

Seiya Suzuki rebounded nicely at the end of the year, but could only manage a batting average of .177 in June (with a slugging percentage of .228 and an OPS of .475) and .240 in July (with a less-bad slugging percentage of .350 and an OPS of .660).

Even Bellinger slumped, hitting .226 in May and .250 in June with slugging percentages of .300 each month. But a month-long knee injury hit him in mid-May, so..

He also tailed-off in September.

The lasting picture I have of the 2023 Cubs is that there always seemed to be someone on the IL and/or enmeshed in a deep slump. Suffering from a lack of depth, this was a club that could not afford to be hamstrung by a starting pitcher or positional player or bullpen closer struggling. And yet it was—repeatedly.

The powers that be maintain the Cubs weren't supposed to be contending for a playoff slot, which helps not one iota in picking up the pieces of this broken season. That wasn't the point! They were contending. And they choked.

On the other hand, the Dodgers, Atlanta Braves and Baltimore Orioles won 305 games between them. The Orioles and Dodgers were swept by teams that won (respectively) 90 and 84 games.

(Just for fun, I'll add the 99-win Tampa Bay Rays, who were swept in the wild card round by a 90-win team, also.)

The Braves will likely bow out of their series tonight to a team that also won 90. That's four teams—all substantially better than the Cubs—who went 1 – 11 in October.

Maybe that's the reason we keep watching—the immutable and unexplainable mysteries of sport.

Yeah, There's an App for That

Map My Walk (a free app offered by athletic apparel manufacturer Under Armour) came into my life via a sibling, who advised installing it when she heard my complaints that my phone's stopwatch wasn't quite the tool it promised to be.

Map My Walk was ready, willing and able. It could (and did) record my entire workout. Given the pitiable performance of the aforementioned stopwatch, it was a huge and welcome blessing. “You mean it stays on the entire time? Not just for, like, twelve minutes? Wow!”

Life was good. Calories burned, steps taken, the distance covered and the time it took to do so were all faithfully recorded and stored. Sure, there were days when Under Armour would encourage you to “upgrade”, rendering the app unavailable to anyone who didn't wish to. But it was just a single workout. The app was back to normal the next day.

I don't remember the first time a problem reared its ugly head, but this year they have become almost routine.

First off, I begin and end my walk at fixed points. In other words, I begin and end my walks at the exact same place every day. And yet Map My Walk has computed the distance traveled as anywhere between 2.22 and 2.29 miles.

Huh?

Then there's the pause button. This is supposedly a courtesy offered the user who needs to temporarily suspend the timer to either tighten a shoelace, chat with a friend, pick-up after their dog, etc. It is also employed at the finish of the end-user's walk.

The problem is that it only works about two-thirds of the time. “Look! I've hit pause a dozen times and the clock is still ticking! Wow!” The concept of 'pause' is, at these times, purely theoretical. As is the idea of obtaining an accurate and reliable record of your walk.

Left unattended, the clock will run until your phone's battery is drained. (On a personal note, I advise avoiding this outcome whenever possible.) To prevent battery failure, continue to press the pause button. While doing so may provoke long-term cartilage and/or nerve damage, it can be justified in the event your phone's battery survives.

Turning off the phone is another option.

So the pause button has decided to work today. Quickly press the new button (hold to finish) that should appear just to the left of the pause button. Keep it pressed until the red minute hand has completed its cycle.

(I should take a moment to salute the hold to finish button. It is the lone function on Map My Walk that has performed as intended.)

Okay.

With the data from the walk now secure, you no doubt want to save it for future reference. And here's where we encounter the first glitch seen continuously for seven consecutive days.

Go ahead—press save workout. Where once your record was installed in Map My Walk's file, it has recently greeted me with the message stating there has been an error. If I wait fifteen minutes and attempt it again, it will work.

The facts of your walk can then be moved into your file.

But yesterday, there was no appeasing the save workout beast. It refused, time after time, to save my workout. And naturally, there was no relevant help on the app's site. I suppose I should take some solace from the fact I wasn't asked to upgrade.

With no other solution in sight, I decided on the tried and true reboot. Delete the app. Re-install the app. It saved the workout the save workout button refused to. In my innocence, I thought I had fixed/restored/enabled Map My Walk. Dare to dream!

This morning, Map My Walk again refused to save my workout. Deleting and reinstalling the app made not a whit of difference. Most of my fingers are presently unusable.

It's been fun, Map My Walk.

Goodbye.