Barry Zito should have quit, but he didn’t

In every unironic way imaginable I am a Barry Zito apologist. The possibility of a Hudson/Zito reunion/match-up in Oakland next Saturday (9/26) for me is orbiting somewhere in the same solar system as being invited to the closed-door Creed/Balboa bout or standing next to Fredo in that weird Cuban sex club and discovering he’s the worst brother ever or being on set when Montalban invented the term Corinthian Leather.

By Andrew Pridgen

I feel Barry Zito. Every ounce.

Barry Zito is listening to Outkast next to your buddies with a three-beer buzz playing Tecmo Super Bowl getting ready to go out. Barry Zito is the point in the road trip when you’ve just topped off with gas, have a 100 miles to go, Haddaway comes on the radio, a full Cherry Coke slushee in one hand and a bag of Chex Mix in the other and your hosts for the evening just inbounded with a picture of three bottles of wine on the counter and smoke coming from a barbecue in the background saying hurry up and get here. Barry Zito is the tingly tingle of anticipation in my hands upon hotel check-in when I ask where the pool is and the desk person in the jacket and gold name tag obliges with their cute little pen drawing a line through the maze on their cute little map. Barry Zito is being the first in line at Starbucks on a Saturday, clipping into brand-new bindings, flopping on the couch after an afternoon spent cleaning toilets and discovering Tootsie just started on Epix and getting an email saying your work’s anniversary dinner cruise just got put on wind hold.

I thought my Barry Zito love was snuffed out for good like blonde extras in Nicholas Cage thrillers with this on closing day 2013: Mark Kotsay, a teammate of Zito’s in Oakland who faced his friend in his last major league at-bat, ended his career with a K: “If I had to strike out in my final at-bat, I’m glad it was against a former teammate whom I respect and love. I’m happy for Barry. It was a special moment for both of us. I texted him and he responded. He said, ‘Man, that was gnarlier than the World Series. I love you my brother. I have so much respect for you. I love that it was us together out there. See you soon.’”  

It was over and at that moment I recalled standing on the edges of an interview with Zito after his first start in Scottsdale in a Giants uniform. He had a MTV-Unplugged-Kurt Cobain-green cardigan on and resembled every Bachelorette contestant kicked off after the Fantasy Suite episode. He was genteel and respectful to the Bay Area media guys who were equal parts ready to anoint and crucify him. They asked about his breaking ball and his contract and his arm strength and his mechanics and his hitting but really, he just wanted to talk about music and lit up when one of the Japanese media guys asked whether he added any new axes to his quiver in the offseason.

This 2015 campaign is on Advil and ice for both your Oakland A’s and San Francisco Giants. The prior would be host to the worst record in the league and powered down sometime in mid-March after shipping the would-be AL MVP to redefine the hot corner north of the border. The Giants scrapped like former champs do, but this week they officially shut down the seasons of Joe Panik, Brandon Crawford and Hunter Pence, otherwise known as the team’s ventricles and aorta. In their place, the call-ups and a look at what could be: one Mac Williamson—whose name sounds like a guy batting clean-up on your Bases Loaded team—who was literally gone fishin’ when called up the club Thursday. Trevor Brown, an outfielder with pop, who will ease the pain of Gregor Blanco (concussion) and Brandon Belt (knee to the head) as they check on VRBO from the dugout. Shoo-in for the 2015 NL MVP runner-up, Buster Posey will end the franchise’s injury-addled dynastic hangover at first—but he’s about the only opening day starter left on Bochy’s lineup card for the season’s final fortnight.

The perennial free-dealing and free-falling A’s bumped Zito up to their MLB roster this week after the legendary southpaw showed up and worked in Music City for an entire AAA season with nothing but one goal in mind (more on that in a second).

Zito, who has had the same type of mixed quasi-retirement as the Foo Fighters (<– Give it up to Barry Zito, he’s not going to loll around Moscone Center or the Bill Graham Civic in a fucking lanyard mugging for Salesforce dipshits and being their #lifehack celeb selfie puppet…) doesn’t yet want to spend his days strumming his acoustic and wondering whether it’s too early to queue up for a buzzing pager at PF Changs. Or maybe he still needs a little pocket change after being the only man on this scorched coast to lose money in Bay Area real estate in 2015.

Either way, Zito had other plans. Instead of waiting for that AARP digest to show up in his mail box he said, eff it, I’m going to grow my hair out like Kenny Powers and pitch.

The 37-year-old was 8-7 at Nashville with a 3.46 ERA; improving with a 2.89 ERA after the All-Star break. Opponents hit .234 against him this year and after a truncated start Aug. 6, he packed it in for the last month with shoulder tendinitis.

He was told he wouldn’t be up with the club this year.

Even then, Barry Zito didn’t quit. And now he’s coming home: “This is where I started,” he said this week referring to the fact that he gets to pitch in one of the handful of stadiums left with trough urinals. “That mound in Oakland is where I threw my first major-league pitch, and I don’t know how it’s all going to shake out with the rotation, days and all that, but I’m going to throw one of my last major-league pitches probably on that mound.

“That’s like storybook, it’s amazing.”

See: One goal in mind.

You and me and him and everyone else get to fade into oblivion a little bit every sunset. We’re all little cellular modules and we shed a little bit of that dream daily as we wind like a tornado in slo mo toward our eventual place in the ground. Is there a metaphysical or physical reason for me to like Zito? Perhaps. Maybe it’s the friction he eschews the positive ions he exudes. Maybe it’s the fact that he tells the last guy he strikes out he loves him.

It doesn’t really matter. It’s a game. It’s a boy’s game. Barry Zito has already given himself over to the fact that he’s old and his time in the game has passed and he’s doing this for some kind of love and respect he didn’t think he thought he had. He’s humble and is ready to be more humbled. He has already been living with—accepted—unconsciously perhaps, his mortality as a construct relating to chalk lines and a ball of string wrapped in leather. That he’s replaceable that the world spins whether his stuff falls off the shelf or not. He’s a husband, a father, secure in his faith and possibly regretting whatever it was he was doing that made him come out the gate 0–4 with a 6.60 ERA and dyed blue hair in 2005. But here he is, winsome and encouraged. It’s not about age or ability or passion. It’s simply about having this one idea and sticking to it. It’s about finishing what you start.

Barry Zito should have quit, but he didn’t. Somewhere in Santa Barbara or Los Angeles or Oakland or San Francisco…or even in Nashville, he learned this: the moment people tell you to give up is the moment you shouldn’t.

 

How the 2014 World Series has made baseball something it hasn’t been for decades, fun!

Ned Yost said it but you were all thinking it by now: “I’m sitting there thinking it’s Game 4; it’s tied 2-2, this is a phenomenal series, it’s exciting, it’s fun. And we got another great game tomorrow that we get to play.”

There it is—and that’s from the mouth of the manager who just lost game four. He’s skippering a team which hasn’t won a pennant in 29 years and neither he nor his players seem to care that it’s been three decades or three weeks. They’re not just happy to be there, they’re happy you’re happy they’re there.

I get why most of America is rooting for the Royals. It’s a Cinderella story and one the game and its oft-beleaguered but most intriguing “small markets” (a misnomer: revenue-sharing insures all markets are big markets) needs.

That said, I’m not quite sure folks are rooting as much for the blue and white as they against the region that makes you buy devices you don’t need every year and a half and makes multi-millionaires billionaires out of assholes like Sean Parker who decide to do things like fuck up forests in order to stage a Hobbit wedding and then write a check for $2.5 million in fines like it’s a parking ticket.

But a closer look reveals the San Francisco and the Giants’ smoke and mirrosmanship is an accurate reflection of today’s professional baseball.

Allegiance to a team is like saying you’re a fan of Tide or Clorox or Coca-Cola. That you not only enjoy their product, but you actually cheer it and the front office on from afar. Your fandom—of any franchise—is simply padding the pockets of the handful of owners. In this case very wealthy owners who through gate sales, TV deals, development rights and concessions, stand to make a mint off your experience.

But let’s put all this aside, shall we? Because when you think too hard about the land of venture capital you realize some 19-year-old right now is developing an app that simulates a whiteboard on mobile that’s going to be used in meeting spaces across the world for like two months. In the meantime, someone bigger is going to gobble up this piece of shit technology and that same icky little savant is going to have a cool half-billion dollars in the bank, enough to never have to go to McDonald’s again, unless he wants to go there with actual LeBron.

…Because it’s all scalable economies. Because your time is valuable, to the teams, the networks and their advertisers. It is the millions of little yous that give teams like the Giants a ninth zero after their first comma and put teams like the Royals who were purchased for less than their current payroll in 2000, not far behind. So at the very least, by watching and cheering and feeling something more—you are actually contributing to someone’s vacation estate on Larry Ellison’s Lanai.

And for the first time perhaps since 1991 when the Braves and Twins seven games of spectacular baseball (three of which went into extra innings) and ratings bonanza (a 29 share), real baseball is being played out there.

I’m talking Giants third baseman Panda Sandoval plucking a grounder bare-handed and whipping it to first for an impossible out. I’m talking Royals’ center fielder Jarrod Dyson laying out in the wet grass leaving Dad-sized divots in his wake for a crucial mid-rally out. I’m talking about the kind of shut-down relief pitching that baseball hasn’t seen—well, ever. The 21-year-old phenom Brendon Finnegan, at five foot eight still short enough to deliver your paper (if you still took a paper) yet outsized enough to gobble up and grind out the heart of the Giants’ old-guard of the postseason.

If Finnegan is all finesse and no flash, his foil would be the Giants’ mercurial rookie reliever Hunter Strickland whose game-two meltdown was so profound they had to scrub him off in the showers like Meryl Streep in Silkwood. He’s all bombast and 97-mph heaters with no movement (except over the fence: the rookie owns the MLB record for round-trippers given up in a postseason with five …and we’ve got three games to play).

There are more story lines than a season four of the Wire: The enigma: Hunter “The Preacher” Pence and his scooter (we get it Joe Buck, he rides a scooter) and signs. The superstar in waiting: Eric Hosmer and his star-making performance at the plate and as a vacuum down the first-base line. The future: Fresh-faced Joe Panik, the New York native and the one that got away from the Yankees organization (their belated “You’re Welcome” for SF’s Joe called DiMaggio), announcing his arrival by combining with Brandon Crawford to create a vortex where grounders go to die in the Giants’ middle infield. The chosen ones: A four-man KC outfield platoon of Alex Gordon, Lorenzo Cain, Norichika Aoki and Jarrod Dyson are so quick to the ball oftentimes their infield and pitchers linger after the final out, standing there in a fugue state trying to count up the notches in their heads.

What started out to most of this country as an undercard match-up: an underestimated Giants squad sitting on the dock of the bay in the permanent shadow of the $2 billion hedge fund-owned Dodgers with the $235 million payroll and a manager who can’t quite figure out how to win with the Cuban answer to Barry Bonds and the second-coming of Koufax; and a Wild Card from the misbegotten and oft-forgotten flyover division that is the AL Central. KC who woke up the nations (and their own upstart fan base) the last two weeks of September with a brand of baseball that, well, looks like 9-to-5 guys putting on their hard hats and running the base paths and getting timely hits and pitching like every out actually does count. It’s everything fictional author Terrance Mann set out to write about when he stepped into that corn field.

Yes. Baseball is back. Real baseball. Your grandfather’s baseball. Post-war baseball. Baseball with suits and ties. Baseball with steals and signs and stealing signs. Black-and-white baseball. Baseball worthy of the scorecard it’s remembered upon.

And one more thing: In just three more games, the Bud Selig era—a 22-year dirge blemished with a strike-shortened season, a cancelled World Series, a generation of puffed-up drug-addled cavemen which he spawned in his own lab only to turn his back upon, an All-Star game ending in a tie, Armando Galarraga’s getting cheated out of a perfect game, the All-Star game …deciding on home field advantage (?)— comes to an end. Fitting, to say the least, the players have finally revolted. And this year, in Selig’s swan song, this hand-wringing, sac-bunt swinging, inning-ending double-play bringing, purist’s journey has brought ’em back.

Mighty Bud waving his revenue-sharing wand has done everything in his power to usurp the game of the one thing it has always been: fun.

His mission to turn a child’s game between the lines into a bottom line …has failed.

Pints and Picks Week 4: No bye week for bad bets

Each week DPB’s Kyle Magin and Andrew J. Pridgen will pour on the prose with Pints and Picks™. Who to wager and what to drink while doing it. Here then, is their point-counterpoint for Sept 27, 2014. Or, if you’re in the car, simply scroll down for the recap (they may be verbose, but it’s better than clicking through a slideshow).

AJ: Kyle, why are there bye weeks in college football? I mean, I get why they’re there in the NFL—basically an opportunity to get arrested in the club and for the league to fuck with fantasy owners who deserve to be fucked with. But there’s no reason for this in college other than maybe to see what FCS campus gets the biggest spike in date rape and frat house electronics raids over the idle weekend.

I only ask this because bye weeks in college used to not exist and now that they do, it brings an even bigger air of “professionalism” (air quotes) and indentured servitude to the amateur gridiron ranks. If the NCAA said, “We schedule bye weeks around midterms because academics” I’d be good with that. Happy even. But the real reason is to stretch out the post-season and turn college football into a 20-week endeavor (i.e. almost two-thirds the academic year) for the almighty bottom line—of which the athletes themselves see not a penny (and that’s where the lap top thefts come in).

Since you’re pretty good about finding out the why of things the way I’m good at identifying the season of Magnum PI (and episodes) where he tries to track down the ghost of his allegedly deceased wife, let me know if you know.

Otherwise, I take it now that you’re off the schneid you’re not taking a bye this week.

Me, I’m still trying to feel this week out like a Junior High dance. There’s no match up that stands out as a stone cold lock; and it has to be watchable to be (not a word: betable). <-One of my cardinal rules—the other is to never trust a Yelp reviewer whose mouth is wide open on their profile photo.

For now, a couple quick comments:

• Why is Wyoming traipsing around the country in pursuit of getting bitch-slapped? Is it like an anything-is-better-than-staying-home-and-risk-getting-shot-in-the-face-by-Dick-Cheney thing? First Oregon and now Michigan State? It kind of reminds me of those Pat Hill-era Fresno State teams which burned through their Southwest miles to go get rolled up by the SEC and ACC and Big-10 before limping back to the parched Valley and dominating, um, Wyoming …and most of the rest of the Mountain West. To be fair, Wyoming does have a slightly guttier squad than they originally got credit for (think corn snow-fed defense) and should give Sparty fits for at least a quarter or two. If you can get a first-half prop bet for the Cowboys at +10 or above, that’s better odds than your drunk-as-fuck out-of-town guest trying to pull a credit card advance on the gaming floor.

• Missouri on the road at South Carolina getting only 6.5. The Gamecocks are hotter than a rescue pit mix locked in a ’93 Aerostar in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly since forgetting Manziel was in the NFL and dropping their opener against Texas A&M. The Cocks have won three straight and Missouri is reeling from what should’ve amounted to a midweek January stumble on the hardcourt to the Hoosiers at home last week. Can Mizzou regroup or will South Carolina’s Mike Davis and Brandon Wilds harass QB Maty Mauk who already has four ints to go with 14 teeders …and, you know what, this spread sucks. Fuck this game.

…I’m going to pause right there and say I was running some errands with a buddy during the lunch hour today (he’s planning a birthday party for a one-year-old which basically means crappy burgers, a weird sheet cake that is actually just flypaper with white frosting and a couple of fifths because apparently one is too young to remember seeing your folks and their friends black out) and we ended up at Costco. Still $1.50 for a polish and a soda.

The thing is, we were the only sub-octagenarains dining there. All these Burns-postured McMurphys who’d escaped from “Serene Gardens” next door were gumming on these intestines and entrails pressed into a tube while gangsta leaning off their Rascals made me wonder: Do the old folks know something I don’t? Like, If I have one meal left, it’s gotta be Costco (because it is glorious, especially when you remember to ask for the slaw) or does it just kill a lot of time to try to gum down a dog the size of your shriveled and veiny neck midday on a weekday when you’re at the station of life when time, quite literally, can’t go any slower—and yet, you don’t have much of it left.

I guess what I’m really trying to say is, I just have a lot more questions than answers this week.

Kyle? You there? You still reading?

Kyle: AJ, the middle school dance analogy couldn’t be more apt. I have an overwhelming urge to skip this week completely and tell all of our readers I was off doing some really cool stuff. In reality, I’ll probably be reading Madeleine L’Engle and trying to stay up for MadTV and hope my father (who, coincidentally, is visiting this weekend) doesn’t come out and turn it off when they swear for like the only time in the whole show.

MadTV featured the stylings of Michael McDonald (not this one, not that one, this one), a USC alum, and that’s my segue into talking about one of the only games that probably matter this weekend. With no ranked matchups, it’s going to be interesting to watch Oregon State-SC (-9) in the sense that it’ll be interesting to see your neighbor walk out the door with his 14-year-old dog tomorrow. Hey, still on the right side of the dirt, eh Fido?

The 2-1 Trojans are a technically, I suppose, still in the playoff race. Stanford exposed SC’s inability to get anything done in the red zone with a run game that’s hampered when it doesn’t have room to breath in a game the Trojans won 13-10. Boston College pantsed SC’s run defense in a 37-31 victory on Chestnut Hill. Both of these tell me the men of Troy aren’t yet sound in their line play. Mike Riley’s Beavers aren’t very good at running the ball on aggregate—they’re 91st in rushing in the nation—but in the first quarter, few offenses are as effective at running and passing the ball as 3-0 Oregon State, who put up more points early (10.5) than every other team in the Pac 12 North. If they can kick the Trojans’ line in the teeth early, I think OSU Quarterback Sean Mannion can play keep-up with a very potent SC passing attack.

Surveying the rest of the college football landscape leaves that bye week to be desired.

American Conference favorite Cincinnati visits Ohio State as a 15.5-point dog, and that’s halfway intriguing. Looking at the rest of this schedule is sort of like looking at the area surrounding Charleton Heston after that ship crashed in the first Planet of the Apes. Guess we’ll have to get walking.

AJ: Kyle, nice call on bringing the pops to town during the week of bettors doldrums. Now, instead of sitting indoors and inhaling the second-hand smoke of the sports book, the two of you can ramble around the Sierras inhaling the first-hand smoke of arsonists.

I think we agree this is a trap week as far as NCAA wagering goes. None of the spreads seem at all enticing and, as you pointed out, the dearth of compelling matchups (besides conference-centric spoiler games like Stanford at U-Dub) make this the week to take a BCS breather—and set the crosshairs on October baseball.

Namely Mr. Magin, the prospect of four very disparate and very under-(over?)achieving-for-different-reasons West Coast franchises making it to the playoffs.

It’s a Freaky Friday moment for baseball West of Lovelock. You’ve got the perennial lovable A’s who went out and made a splash at the trade deadline, only to wallow in the second half like so much locker room sludge through the AL West with dead arms and a listless clubhouse en route to a wildcard berth.

You have the predictably unpredictable Giants across the bridge who had a fiery start and a nine-game lead in May only to lose two-time world champion aces Matt Cain from the starting five (still unknown injury) and Tim Lincecum (still undiagnosed velocity problems) but somehow picked up where Oakland left off and went not with the big trades but with the white-flag youth movement: Hunter Strickland, Chris Hesten, Erik Cordier and even skipper’s son Brett Bochy have all contributed on the mound. Back-up backstop Andrew Susac has been clutch off the bench and in spelling Buster Posey and infielders Joe Panik and Matt Duffy have been key contributors plugging the middle whilst performing at the plate. The suddenly youth-infused G-men didn’t have enough in the tank to catch the boys in blue with the quarter-billion-dollar payroll and the world’s greatest stadium, but they do have a good chance of beating the Pirates in the wildcard sudden-death scenario and finding themselves the object of Joe Buck’s scorn again.

In Southern California, it’s a battle of swollen payrolls and depleting expectations. The Halos, who had all but given up on The Last Investment Albert Pujols till he decided to come out of the orange groves and hit a respectable .273 with 28 bombs and 104 RBIS (and he’s not done yet). Mike Trout is baseball’s lone superstar right now and the singing cowboy’s starting rotation featuring innings eaters Jared Weaver (18-8, 3.52 ERA), CJ Wilson (13-10, 4.61 ERA) and Matt Shoemaker (16/4, 3.04 ERA) suddenly looks like baseball’s best even without the services of Garrett Richards (13-4, 2.61 ERA). The hedge fund-backed Dodgers’ have the best pitcher in baseball in Clayton Kershaw. The once-in-a-generation starter-next-door has mastery of three pitches usually thrown in a way three different pitchers might; fastball, 90-plus, a makes-you-swing-from-the-heels slider in the high-80s and an elevator curve in the mid-70s. It’s like facing vintage Barry Zito, Pedro Martinez and Greg Maddox—in one at-bat. Kershaw recently notched his 20th win, has an ERA under 1.80 and tosses 100-pitch complete game shutouts like Drysdale the get away afternoon after a Saturday night bender. Kershaw alone almost makes one forget that any player who came up under Castro thinks hitting the cut-off man is a Fredo Corleone reference.

You got your Tigs Kyle, but the prospect of not only an all West Coast World series, but LCSs makes me giggle. I know Fox shares Erin Andrews’ resting bitchface scowl when it comes to the knowledge that KC, not NY will be in the playoffs and Mr. Jeter’s farewell bonanza is but a week away from coming to a cleaned-out-locker and teary press conference halt. All that historic footage from the pre-device ’90s shelved for roll out at Cooperstown in 2020. And what the fuck will Ken “He shoulda been-a dentist” Rosenthal talk about as Buck cuts Harold Reynolds off on the cutaways with no DJ?

With that, I’d like to be a sort of World Series wager Sommelier. First off, like a fine wine, many teams age into BETTER odds of winning Bud Selig’s final Commissioner’s Trophy as the season matures. But like your great aunt’s Bradford Exchange plate collection, not all teams go up in value. At the start of the season the last-place Red Sox were 12/1 (ditto Rays). The aforementioned Yankees, who are now 300/1 to take a Champagne bath, started out at 14/1. The Orioles who started the season at 35/1 are now 13/2—not bad for a runaway division champ. And your Motor City hardballers are a solid 6/1. For my money though, I’m liking either the A’s or the Giants at 12/1 to bring the hardware back to the Biggedy. After all, Giants fans, it is an even-numbered year.

Kyle, I know you’re headed out the door to see nature’s splendor with the man who pulled you out of oblivion and plopped you on this big blue-infused chunk of spinning granite, but I KNOW you’re laying down your World Series picks this week… so, (Pacino voice) what’dya got?!

Kyle: AJ, I’ve never been more happy to talk baseball during betting season, a sport I usually avoid at the book like the plague. It will also grease the wheels of conversation with the old man while we’re waiting for his knees to stabilize after I drag him up a few thousand feet above his normal playing altitude.

I, too, think the road to the World Series is definitely coming through California. Too many hardball-related planets are aligning with the Golden State. Dave Stewart is LaRussa’s new lapdog in Arizona. Scully is back again next year! I found out, just this week, that they still have an MLB team in San Diego.

As a Tigers fan, I hate to say it, but the Los Angeles Angels of Disneyland at 9/2 to win the series is the best bet at the book. Jeff Weaver is a horse, Matt Shoemaker has walked one guy for every 9 he’s struck out since the break and Wade Leblanc hasn’t given up a run in his last two starts headed into the postseason. Everybody has been getting on in front of Albert Pujols and he’s been driving all of them in—he’s got roughly an RBI per game over the last month, while Mike Trout continues to ape Barry Bonds with his slugging prowess. Gordon Beckham and Howie Kendrick have gotten on-base as often as anyone in the league over the last month. There’s just no way I see someone getting around this time save some massive power outage from Pujols and Trout.

In the NL—and I know this won’t be popular with much of our readership—I like the Dodgers. I don’t love them at 9/5, but in the “who’s going to win this thing” sense, I think we’re geared up for a freeway series. Which, wow, Randy Newman is going to RAKE royalties from FOX. It’ll make Erin’s Dancing with the Stars schedule manageable—I won’t have to put up with her whiny-ass Instagram posts from a private jet about #grinding from coast to coast.

We’ll get some hoity-toity reminders from the New Yorker about all the poor-ass people who got bulldozed out of Chavez Ravine 60-plus years ago to make way for one of the top-five stadiums in baseball. It’ll be gross and engrossing, all at once.

The Dodgers’ Matt Kemp, Justin Turner, Carl Crawford and Scott Van Slyke have been hitting the living shit out the ball over the last month—all four are in the top-15 of OPS over that stretch. Even with Puig’s second-half power outage, I don’t see how anyone else keeps up with the boys in blue. Selig passes out his last trophy south of the Grapevine.

AJ: Gotta agree it may be Los Doyers’ year and hey that Randy Newman song was supposed to be ironic; like how big a shithole-where-small-town-dreams-go-to-die-with-a-gooey-tarpit-center LA is. It makes me laugh every time the Dodgers notch a W and it bounces off the Hollywood sign and into the night. I love it! I love it! I love it!

Oh, yeah, the Huskies are better than David Shaw’s listless and unproven farm squad. Take the dawgs and the 6 points against the Cardinal (at home!) for a share of the Pac-12 North lead.

The PnP Recap:

Last week:
AJ: 3-3
Kyle: 1-2

Overall:
AJ: 8-12
Kyle: 1-7

This week:
AJ:
• Washington +6 vs. Stanford
• SF Giants (or Oakland A’s) at 12/1 to win the World Series

Kyle:
• Oregon State +12.5 @ USC
• LA Dodgers (9/5) or LA Angels (9/2) to win the World Series