Cup of Coffee: May 8, 2025

Good morning! And welcome to Free Thursday!

Those who aren't paid subscribers should know that I'm traveling at the moment, so a good bit of the newsletters this week feature guest posts. It's great stuff but, as you'll see today, some of it serialized so you totally want to subscribe to read all of it. And all of my other serialized dumb jokes and various bits of farting around.

And That Happened

• Boston's Wilyer Abreu hit two homers against Texas on Opening Day. He did it again yesterday. Maybe Texas shouldn't pitch to him? Also, Alex Bregman hit his 200th homer;
• In the Padres-Yankees game Trent Grisham came off the bench to hit a game-tying home run in the eighth inning and J.C. Escarra hit a pinch-hit sac fly in the tenth to give the Yankees their first walk-off win of the season. Even crazier: Devin Williams was used in a high-leverage situation, starting the tenth inning. He walked a guy and hit another guy to load the bases but he left the bases stranded, so let's laud him for that at least;
• Earlier in that Padres-Yankees game Dylan Cease carried a no-hit bid into the seventh inning before Cody Bellinger’s one-out homer tied the game at one. Two batters later Cease left the field with a trainer and was seen flexing his right forearm in the dugout. The Padres said later it was just a cramp and they weren't concerned but I dunno, are they familiar with how pitchers will always break your heart?
• The Mariners came back from a five-run deficit to stun the A’s in West Sacramento. The win secured their ninth straight series win, which is their longest such streak since they won 15 series in a row during their 116-win 2001 season;
• The Reds beat Atlanta but they got bad news when ace Hunter Greene had to leave after three innings with an apparent groin injury. Did I mention that pitchers will always break your heart?
• Robbie Ray tossed six innings of one-run ball against Chicago, making it eight straight unbeaten starts to begin the 2025 season. The Giants are tied with the Mets for the second-most wins in all of baseball, one behind the Dodgers; and
• The Angels came back from down three in the bottom of the seventh and still down two in the bottom of the ninth to beat the Blue Jays in walkoff fashion. Kyren Paris' seventh inning homer tightened it and his leadoff walk in the ninth began the rally that, two singles later, that Jorge Soler finished with a bases-loaded, bases-clearing double off of Jeff Hoffman. Also: this game ended at 5:30AM London time, at which point I'd already been up for a good while because of dumb travel sleep patterns. Just sayin', it's really weird following a west coast Wednesday game from your laptop in an empty hotel lobby as the sun rises on a Thursday morning.

The Scores:

Guardians 8, Nationals 6
Astros 9, Brewers 1
Cardinals 5, Pirates 0
Giants 3, Cubs 1
Mariners 6, Athletics 5
Mets 7, Diamondbacks 1
Dodgers 10, Marlins 1
Red Sox 6, Rangers 4
Phillies 7, Rays 0
Yankees 4, Padres 3
Reds 4, Atlanta 3
Twins 5, Orioles 2
Royals 2, White Sox 1
Tigers 8, Rockies 6
Angels 5, Blue Jays 4

The Daily Briefing

• A PNC Park employee was caught on video whipping a fan with his belt at a Pirates game. There are a lotta levels to this one. Like, he may have actually been defending a coworker in all of this. I'm guessing we'll learn more about this later;
• Sticking with Pittsburgh, Kavan Markwood, the 20 year-old Pirates fan who fell over the 21-foot high Clemente Wall at Pittsburgh's PNC Park last week, told the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review that he was "alright" and that he will be released from the hospital in about a week. He described his injuries as "broken everything." His doctor specified, saying Markwood suffered injuries to his brain, spine, and lungs in the fall. That's not what I'd call "alright" but it's also the case that it's been very long since I've had the confidence and optimism of a 20 year-old;
• The Seattle Mariners announced yesterday that they’ve traded righty Luis F. Castillo to Baltimore for cash. But that's OK because they had a spare Luis Castillo. Only because I took a boat underneath a couple of bridges yesterday that made me think about such situations do I find myself wondering if the Orioles were 100% sure that they were getting the Luis Castillo they had in mind;
• Clayton Kershaw is expected to make one more minor league rehab start – this time against Triple-A hitters on Sunday, not complex league kids – and, if the Good Lord's willin' and the creek don't rise, he will likely be activated by the Dodgers when he's eligible to come off the 60-day injured list in nine days; Finally:

JT Snow once saved a three year-old kid's life and now he's out there speaking truth about power. The guy he's talking about cheats at a game he claims to love despite the fact that no one would ever care what his score was. People tend to show you what kind of person they are.

The Colorado Springs Vibes: A love letter to minor league baseball

By Adam Hardy 

I don’t know their names, I don’t know their stats, I don’t know their record. I just know it’s fun to have a beer and a hotdog, sit in the stands, and watch some baseball.

Colorado Springs is an odd city. Our best local record store has the tagline, “Keep Colorado Springs Lame.” I live eight miles the way the crow flies from the 14,000 ft peak of Pike’s Peak, which inspired the song we all had to sing in grade-school choir, “America the Beautiful.”

I live in the center of the city, confusingly called, “East Colorado Springs” on Google maps, halfway between NORAD and the NORAD backup headquarters buried in Cheyenne Mountain. In the event of a nuclear exchange, I’m pretty sure the bomb will explode right over my house. Not to mention the entire GPS satellite constellation operates just east of the city. In summary, I’m doomed.

On a positive note, we have the Rocky Mountain Vibes. The Vibes were an affiliate of the Brewers until Rob Manfred gutted the minor league system and have been operating independently in the Pioneer League ever since.

Every year for Christmas, since my wife and I moved here, her parents have gotten us a 10-game ticket package. We love baseball. We’ve been to 15 MLB stadiums, and like a hunter displaying animal heads on the wall (I’ll always find that weird, BTW), we display the nacho helmets we’ve slayed.

But there’s something beautiful about watching a game when you’re not looking at a player’s OPS or analyzing pitching changes. You can just watch the game. You get to have that singular moment without worrying about the standings, or if Miguel Tejada Jr is slow on his swing. The stakes are low. We’re simply watching very good athletes compete at their best and enjoy watching.

I’m a big fan of Bill James, I’m an analytics nerd, but there’s something so lovely when you don’t have to think about those things. Spend $10 for admission and buy a beer.

I’ll nerd out on you about stats, but sitting and just watching baseball is gorgeous. 

Contributing to SABR

By Mark Morowczynski

I had heard of the Society for American Baseball Research, better known as SABR, for years, but in 2019, I decided I wanted to dig deeper into my fandom of baseball, so I joined. It was a lot at first. There are regional chapters, research committees, annual conferences and magazines, books, and an active mailing list, which often has answers to questions you'd never thought to ask. I was slightly overwhelmed as I tried to consume things I found interesting, which was nearly everything. SABR also provides ample opportunities and encourages its members to participate in these various research projects.

The two projects that are the most accessible to anyone are the Biography Project Committee and the Games Project Committee. The Biography Project goal is simple: to produce comprehensive biographical articles on any person who ever played or managed in the major leagues, as well as other persons who touched baseball in a significant way. The Games Project is similar: to put each game in historical context — whether that history is of a particular player, team, season, or something even broader.

In 2023, my friend Eric Conrad, a fellow SABR member and Red Sox fan, decided we would pick a player and complete their bio. When the opportunity came up to contribute to an upcoming SABR book, "Sox Bid Curse Farewell: The 2004 Boston Red Sox" we signed up for Sandy and Anastacio Martinez, two cousins that were on this team. We dug deep into the research of these two players and eventually were able to interview both to complete their biographies for the book.

When we finished the Red Sox book biographies, Bill Nowlin from SABR asked if there were other topics we would be interested in. This question led us down the path, and we discovered that there was nearly nothing written about the 2005 White Sox. As a White Sox fan, I was not surprised. In 2024, a book project kicked off about the 2005 team; Eric, Bill Nowlin, Don Zminda, and myself would be the co-editors as well as contributing authors. At the start of the 2025 season, the book was released, just in time for the 20th anniversary.

Though I lived through this season, being a SABR member and participating in this book project reminded me of things I had forgotten. It also gave me new insights about this historic team, which was one of only five teams in history to lead their division from the first day of the season to the last day, frequently called going wire-to-wire, and win the World Series. The 2005 White Sox were 11-1 in that playoff run.

I would encourage you to look up that favorite player you had that nobody else seemed to notice or a game that was memorable for you in the SABR research collection. If something exists, read it. You might discover something new or unlock something deeply forgotten. If nothing exists and you are up for it, join SABR and dive in. You'll be glad you did.  

Other Stuff

The Florida Story: How I quit drinking and learned to love the bomb – PART 3

By Matt

Subscriber Matt's guest post was long as hell, so we've broken it up into three parts. Tuesday was Part 1. Yesterday was Part 2. Today is Part 3. I'd say "enjoy," but that seems a bit off here.

All of what I had been told by the other captives at the facility, all of what I had witnessed, real or imaginary coalesced into a clear idea in my head: This place was bad and I needed to leave NOW. So I started to make a fuss. I asked to call my Wife. NOPE. I asked to speak to the current supervisor and asked them to commit to a departure date. NOPE. So I asked to speak to the counselor’s boss. I wanted answers. When exactly could I leave? What were the conditions where they would open up the door and let me walk out? What were the metrics I needed to meet?

It may not surprise you to hear that I was not given the calm reassurances I was looking for. More hemming and hawing. More vagaries and open ended dates of a possible exit. Another facility was once again mentioned. Full on terror ensued (in my head). They tried to talk me off the ledge, but there was no recovery at this point. When I set my mind to a goal, I see it through. I’m stubborn like that. And now my goal was to leave as soon as possible.

I demanded to make a phone call to my wife so I could explain why I had to leave. That was denied, again, which absolutely did nothing to calm me down. I became more agitated and insistent that I get my shit and get to the front door and leave this place in my rear view, preferably before the sun set. 

They finally relented and got my wife on the phone. Little did they know that I wasn’t interested in being placated at this point…I was the one doing the explaining here! I didn’t have much interest in her pleas to stay (if she even pleaded; that’s a little murky). I just wanted to explain to her why I needed to get the fuck out of dodge. I was confident that she’d have my back. Having not found success in calming me down with my phone call they began to relent on my possessions. 

Somehow I ended up with my cell phone, and at least some of my stuff. I threatened to just start walking down the road and away from that wretched place but my captors didn’t seem inclined to let me depart at a time and manner of my choosing. At some point a sheriff, or a cop (did I call them? I think I did?) showed up to intervene. Boy, was I in the shit now! I had fully transformed my notion of bougie rehab into an outright redneck circus. I was rational enough and spoke clearly enough to the LEO to explain that I was there on my own free will, that I had voluntarily checked myself in, and that I was now voluntarily checking myself out. The cop confirmed to the fine citizens of the rehab facility that they couldn’t stop me. He was free to go fight crime, or whatever else it was that he was doing prior to our meeting, and I was free to continue pleading for my freedom. Now we were getting somewhere. Now we were REALLY ready to start negotiating the hostage release. 

Them: Just stay till Sunday. 

Me: NO DICE. 

Them: Ok, how about we get you to a hospital from here? 

Me: Uh, how about you get me to the airport chief?

Them: Fine, we will take you to the ER, and if a doctor looks at you and decides you can leave then we will send you on your way. 

Me: Wait, there’s not a doctor on-call at this place? Never mind, I’ll do whatever, just let me leave.

So they loaded my backpack with pills, and me into a van. Could it have been the same one I rode here in? Along with the pills came some vague instructions on how to continue my treatment. I still recall the blister packs they came in, as they were quite unusual to me. They looked like they came off a giant roll of pills, torn off at the correct perforation that corresponded with my dosage. I can almost imagine the orderlies reloading the reel of pills every day as part of their duties. 

In the van rode the oldest and most motherly of counselors they could muster, for obvious reasons. Also along for the ride was some sort of orderly/driver whom I assume was there in case I got out of line. The muscle if you will. But with my freedom close at hand I was on my best behavior, dear reader.

A short drive later we arrived at the nearest hospital and I asked them, as nicely as I could, to simply drop me off at the door. Tuck and roll motherfuckers. Unfortunately that wasn’t on the menu. The counselor walked me to the check-in nurse and only after I threatened another scene did she relent and leave me to my business. My ER stint was very brief. The doc began his battery of questions which I quickly cut off. Do I have to stay here? No. See ya Doc. Don’t be a stranger.

I didn't really understand the risk involved for me at this point. I don’t know that it would’ve changed anything. Like, if they told me “Hey, you could seize out and die without continued medical intervention” would that have changed anything? Probably not. I wanted off the Florida hillbilly rehab ride, I wanted out of this state, I wanted to see my wife and hug her. So I walked out of the ER, called an Uber, and then called my wife. I got to a hotel, got a room, and eventually on a plane and back home that Saturday night. I’m so proud of myself for graduating rehab early. Overachieving is my modus operandi, no doubt.

So, the question remains of how much of what you just read is accurate, or is it just how I recollect it. Have I filtered it for my benefit and yours? Have I shown you my warts so that you may choose a different path, should you be presented with a similar choice? Was this whole exercise simply a way for me to write some shit? My memories argue about this topic on a semi-regular basis. Usually as I’m trying to slip off to dreamland.  

The next day we went to my in-laws' house to tell them the adventures of their alcoholic son in-law. I'm in their living room, four days sober, telling them the harrowing story of my escape from hillbilly Florida rehab. And the next thing I remember was waking up to paramedics surrounding me. The benzos from my trip to Florida had finally worn off and I had a grand mal seizure due to alcohol withdrawal in front of my terrified wife and my in-laws.

That has since made for some awkward holiday conversations, but I had set my mind to not drinking anymore and when I set my mind to something, I do it. Boy I’m stubborn like that. I've stayed sober. A year into my sobriety I began therapy and my mental health has never been better. It's now been almost four years and I'm still alcohol- free.

Why write all this out? Catharsis? Proof? Maybe to share how drowning your sorrows and avoiding confronting your personal demons, or trauma if you like, only has so much play. If someone reads this and gets help sooner than I did, or makes better use of their own resources than I did, it would be a good thing. Too many people of my generation, and the ones before, don’t ask for help. It ain’t in their vocabulary. I should've asked for help LONG before paragraph 1 of this story, but I didn’t. That’s a missed opportunity, a mistake others shouldn’t repeat.  

I don’t miss it, the booze, but for the very rare occasions when a cold brew on a hot day would go down smoothly. “I think a man working outdoors feels more like a man if he can have a bottle of suds. That's only my opinion.” I do miss the social lubricant part which always did make the glad-handing and back-slapping part of my job much easier. And many other awkward social interactions that an introvert like me must endure.

But I don't miss the fuzzy head, the hangovers, the extra weight in my waistline, the high blood pressure, and the slow motion suicide. I’m grateful for that. Turns out I DO want to live past, oh I don’t know . . . 52 or 53. 

EPILOGUE

It wasn’t until a few months later that I came across a news item that validated the fears my lizard brain had while I was in rehab. It turns out Florida has some of the loosest laws in the country as to what constitutes a “rehab facility”. There’s a cottage industry down there of business that get folks into their system and won’t let go of them until either (a) mom and dad can’t pay for junior’s treatment anymore; (b) they’ve collected every penny that insurance will pay; or (c) the patient is all better (the least probable outcome). 

Was my place one of these places? I don’t know. Everything I described above sure felt real and valid when I was there. But also I was hopped up on so many drugs and withdrawing from a couple/three years of VERY heavy daily drinking that I certainly wasn't in my right mind. I do know that something deep down sent up some massive alarm bells. I absolutely felt trapped there, for reasons unrelated to my recovery. I didn’t want to escape to go drink. I just wanted to escape that place. 

Regardless, if this tale of woe is the price I had to pay to stop drinking, then it was worth it, even if I’m wrong about the facility, and I panicked over nothing. Which I guess, when I put it that way, it means that any debt I owe to myself is paid in full. I did my penance, plus some, but I still feel like I got off cheap. I should give myself a bit more grace regarding the end of my drinking days.

Thus ends one of the lowest points of my life, if not my bottom. Hopefully my tale can be useful as an example of what NOT to do. More importantly, if you are reading this, and any part of it makes part of your brain twitch with recognition ASK FOR HELP! From me, your spouse, your pastor, or your doctor. Do not hesitate, do not wait a day longer. Free your mind and the rest will follow.

Peak Ohio

From ABC News:

A woman has been arrested after a raccoon named Chewy was found holding a meth pipe in the driver’s seat of her car in what police are calling a “strange encounter on patrol” in Ohio.

People ask me why I travel as much as I do. If you lived in Ohio you'd try to leave it as much as possible as well.  

You don't say, John

Yesterday Chief Justice John Roberts, speaking at a public event in Buffalo, talked about how an independent judiciary has to "check the excesses" of the president.

If only we knew who or what was responsible for the excesses of the president.

London Dispatch

Yesterday we split up, with my dad and I taking a boat from Westminster down the Thames to Greenwich to visit the National Maritime Museum while Allison and my mom went to Highgate Cemetery.

This was about as perfect a division of pursuits as one could imagine because (a) my mom does not do well even on calm waters and doesn't care about naval history even though my dad is really into it; and (b) my mom LOVES cemeteries – especially kinda creepy Victorian-era cemeteries – while my dad is generally not into being reminded that we are dust and to dust we shall return. So we went east and they went north and it worked out well.

I didn't really get any good pictures from the Greenwich trip because I was navigating and, in the museum, pushing a courtesy wheelchair, and we were chatting and things, and because the light is not great for pics in the Maritime Museum. But we saw all the cool Admiral Nelson/Trafalgar stuff, including the coat he was wearing when he got got and his bloody socks and breeches (though, per the placard near them, the socks and breeches featured someone else's blood, not Nelson's own. It was a hell of a day).

We also talked about the inverse relationship between how intimidating a fighting ship looks vs. how deadly it is, at least in the modern era. The basic breakdown:

• A ship of the line in Nelson's day had 100 damn guns and looked as impressive as hell, but . . .
• A battleship of 100-140 years later had far fewer, but bigger guns, and could singlehandedly sink the entire British fleet of Nelson's era if it got "Final Countdowned," but . . .
• The guided-missile cruiser my dad served aboard in the 1960s had much smaller guns and less-visible weaponry on it but helped obsolete those battleships, but . . .
• The Aegis cruiser my brother served on in the late-80s and early-90s had almost no visible guns of note but could obliterate all of the ships in the previous three bullet points combined without breaking a sweat. And even that ship was decommissioned two years ago.

Both of use agreed that, on a purely aesthetic level, the older ships were bitchin' as hell.

I also reminded him of what he told my brother and me when we were young when we asked him why he joined the Navy. His answer, mostly flip, but not fully, was "in the Army, I figured, people are shooting at you. In the Navy they're shooting at your ship. I liked my chances better that way." He agreed yesterday, however, that that dynamic didn't really apply in the "ram-your-ship-into-the-other-ship-and-start-shooting-people-with-muskets" days.

Also: when we saw an 18th century sextant and I jokingly asked him if he used one of those in his navy days he said, "no, but my predecessor did." This flows nicely with his decades-old joke about how he was in the Navy in "the days of wooden ships and iron men" which, sadly, no one at the museum gave him a chance to share yesterday. A guy working there did see my Brentford hoodie, however, and congratulated me on my team beating Manchester United last weekend. I said "not a big feat this year." He said, "I know." I asked him who he supported. He said "Manchester United." Welp.

I don't have as much play-by-play about my mom and Allison's outing apart from knowing that she had a good time. Which I knew she would because, as mentioned, she lives for cemeteries. Like my parents have built entire road trips around taking my mom to interesting cemeteries. When we took Anna and Carlo there back in 2022 we bought her a picture book of the cemetery and she absolutely loved it, to the point where she was talking the ear off of the tour guide yesterday:

We split up again in the evening, with my parents going to dinner at a pub near our hotel while Allison and I got omakase at a place called Juno in Notting Hill. Juno is a tiny, six-seat place nested inside Los Mochis, a fusion Japanese-Mexican place which we've been to before on previous trips and which we loved. But despite it being a six-seat thing, Allison and I had the place to ourselves for the early seating, with chef Han Heung taking care of us over 15 courses:

Hirame, two types of toro, hamachi, crab, scallops, osetra, wagyu with bone marrow melted over it with a goddamn blowtorch, and all manner of other things, paired with sakes I couldn't even begin to identify but which were great because we said "just bring me what you think works best." Also, like Los Mochis, Juno does absolutely everything gluten-free, which isn't always a given with sushi, so it was every bit as stress-relieving for Allison and me as it was delicious. And oh my God was it delicious. It was one of the best meals I've had in my life.

Bonus #1: Chef Heung said that they're starting to get way better fish at these sorts of places in London because Asian sellers don't want to sell to the US anymore "because of tariffs." There are at least eight things in there I know nothing about – sushi-grade fish supply chains are not a thing with which I am at all familiar – but he did say it and didn't sound like he was trying to make a joke. It's totally possible that's just a thing he says now to make smalltalk with Americans while trying to impress them with his restaurant, but it speaks to how "Trump is kinda ruining everything in America" has become an increasingly common talking point everywhere.

Bonus #2: Chef Heung is a baseball fan who had Randy Johnson as a guest in his restaurant back when he was a chef at Nobu and said he did his best not to fanboy but was TOTALLY fanboying anyway. After we talked baseball for a minute. Heung, who is from South Korea, made sure I knew who Shin-Soo Choo was. Dude, of course.

Back at the hotel we had vespers, which is Allison's favorite cocktail – it was more or less invented in her favorite James Bond property – and which our hotel's bar specializes in, made with its very own gin. Several bottles of which we've smuggled home in our luggage in the past and definitely will be doing again when we go home.

Not the busiest day in London, but a nice one. Today: a trip to Oxford, where we'll do our best to fake it and look smart.

Have a great day everyone.