After the 2017 World Baseball Classic and a phenomenon called “Shlo Mania” that swept Asia like a malfunctioning robotic vacuum, the continent is finally returning to normal. Residents of Japan are getting back to regular life after the government issued an official statement saying, “Go home. Go back to work. Stop looking for Shlomo. He is gone. Everything is going to be ok, we think.”
The hysteria comes after the visit of Team Israel and their right handed pitcher, Shlomo Lipetz (aka Shlo J Simpson), the largest mammal to set foot on the island since Godzilla. The people of Japan were instantly fascinated with Lipetz (9 feet, 540 pounds) who dresses like an evil magician or an extra from Thriller. “He is so cool. I think I saw him in Star Wars,” said one Japanese fan who had been waiting outside the team’s hotel for three days to get a glimpse of Lipetz. “Yes. Yes you did. That was definitively him,” I reassured the hopeful if tired man who claimed to be a part of a newly formed gang called the “Shlo Boys” who dressed in slightly altered women’s clothing and were attempting, and failing, to grow beards thicker than barbecue sauce in the style of Lipetz, their hero.
It is unclear where exactly Asia goes culturally or politically from here. Shlo Mania has thrown nations as far east as Japan and as far west as Mongolia into unexpected uncertainty. Centuries of carefully honed and revered obedience are being questioned at every station of society. “We didn’t know you could do that,” said the prime minister of Laos. One thing is for sure following the 2017 World Baseball Classic… Asia will never be the same.
To witness Shlo Mania in action, view the video below…
Ladies and Geetles, the rumors are true, I am a gay acrobat– Wait, what? – That’s not what you were talking about? – Good. Me neither. Well then, on to the next matter of business, to address your concerns, the Team Israel roster for the 2017 World Baseball Classic has been announced. And now, without further ado or needless reference to extracurricular activities, I, King of Jewish Baseball, using only the power of all technology and swords, humbly present to you, Team Israel, aka the Greatest Jewish Baseball Show on Turf…
Team Israel for the 2017 World Baseball Classic, the Greatest Jewish Baseball Show on Turf.
As expected, there has been a flurry, a slurry, a swirly, if you will, of media about the team, far too much to share here with you considering your undoubtedly short span of attention, much too much, much too much. But I will share one…
If you cannot make the trip to Seoul, South Korea with the team, which inevitably you cannot and which you will never forgive yourself for, there is still a way to be a part of the team. Using only the new and highly questionable technology known as a “video camera”, a group of “filmmakers” has decided to make a “movie” about the team. A movie is a like a photograph but the images move around and make noises. Anyhow, click the link below to find out more and then donate actual money to the crew so they can make the film and so you can feel less guilty about not being there in person.
What’s the Chottest Channukah gift of 2016? That’s easy. ISRAELIS DRIVE ANYTHING, the book. That’s right, Ladies and Geetles, using only the secret new technology called an “iPhone”, and obsessive compulsive behavior, I, the King of All Jewish Baseball, have created the world’s foremost useless collection of photos of Israelis driving… well, anything. I hunted Jazz Carriages, Donkey Carts, and Family Edition Mars Rovers through the streets of Jaffa, Israel for over three years. And now, without further ado, I humbly present THE BOOK. So go! Run! Click the link! Channukah is coming…
We are going to Korea for the World Baseball Classic. I think Korea is near Houston, or somewhere else in Mexico. I’m not sure. I’ve never been there. But I hear it’s nice in March.
Meetings for all 16 teams took place in New York City. The most powerful witches and wizards of the baseball universe sat around the table plotting their upcoming run at global domination, glaring from behind fake eye patches, Donald Trump masks, Oculus VR helmets, and other various symbols of evil and the near future. Who will win? Who won’t? Who will raise the cup and wear the ring? Who will get lost and show up late for batting practice? These were and still are the pressing questions of the hour.
Do not let the smooth taste fool you. As the seasons change from fall to winter, from baseball season to the off-season, reps of each team slip away from meetings to begin their clandestine work, getting commitments from players and coaches. What appears to be the slow time of the year is instead time to work, re-arm, and prepare for the Great Battle of Ultimate Enlightenment known as the World Baseball Classic.
World Baseball Classic Inc. released the full tournament schedule. Guess who plays the opening game? Papa New Guinea versus Alaska. Just kidding. It’s us. Israel. And guess who we play? Korea, the hosts, wherever that is.
Ladies and Geetles of the congregation, you may be seated.
It is true, what you have heard. I, King of Jewish Baseball, after many years in exile, recently returned to Cleveland, city of my upbringing, to be inducted into the Shaker Heights High School Hall of Fame, a great institution. Think Cooperstown, but more important. Ah yes, Cleveland, C-town, the Land, great shining city on a river, that caught fire, once, a long time ago, we won’t talk about that, a city built for millions, and occupied by nearly several thousand, a city that will steal your heart, and your wallet, denying both, returning neither.
I traveled to Cleveland in a machine called an airplane they sent to ensure my safe passage. Upon entering the city, I noticed the streets were lined with stray dogs to celebrate my return. They had also boarded up all the windows of the houses to prevent any damage the ensuing party would surely cause. I was, after all, a unanimous first ballot inductee.
The Hall of Fame was nice. There were chandeliers and food. They said my name into a microphone several times, and I was permitted to speak. But, to my amazement, at the conclusion of the evening, they asked me, along with everyone else, to leave. I had my things and had begun to unpack when it was explained to me that I and my fellow inductees of the class of 5777 would not be living out the remainder of our lives together in the Hall of Fame, and that the Hall of Fame was not even a real place, and that we were in a country club that had been rented for the night. I was disappointed, to say the least. They foolishly assumed that we all had “jobs” and “homes”, and more, that we had achieved some level of stability or monetary success with our various accomplishments and contributions to humanity. But you know what they say about assumptions…. they’re almost always right.
We were a food writer, a comedian, a mathematician, a drummer, a CEO, a doctor, an activist, and a King of Jewish Baseball. We were different ages, races, and lived in different places. We had almost nothing in common besides the unavoidable truth that we had all, at one point, attended Shaker Heights High School. And now we were forever bound by the cosmos, and the committee of people in charge. We had one magical evening together, and breakfast the next day, of course, I am, after all, a gentleman.
My friends in Cleveland asked me what I am going to do now. I looked at them with disgust. What were they going to do was the question. I’m in the Hall of Fame. I will live out my days basking in the glory of recognition, wandering the corridors of a hall that does not exist. That’s what I am going to do.
Thank you, thank you, thank you to the Shaker Heights High School Alumni Hall of Fame.
It was an honor and a privilege.
To hear about all of the things, check the Podcast below…
“Each one of us now has to deal with the loss individually and collectively. We each will project our own sense of self-doubt onto the game. We will each feel that our individual contribution is somehow responsible for the outcome. So what do we do? How do we deal with being on the doorstep of history only to ultimately not be allowed inside?
Sunday night in Brooklyn, we did it. The guys did it.
Four years ago, Josh Zeid was on the mound when we lost. Sunday night in Brooklyn he was the winning pitcher. Four years ago Cody Decker, like all of us, sat in disbelief in the clubhouse after the game. Sunday night in Brooklyn, he hit an 0-2 fastball over the left field fence putting the game out of reach. Four years ago, Charlie Cutler was ejected in the 9th inning of a tie game we eventually lost. Sunday night in Brooklyn, in the 8th inning, he hit a two-run double to right field making the score 9-1 in our favor. Four years ago, I was offered a job, move to Israel, Peter said, run the baseball program, play for the national team. And I went.
Before every game, during the national anthems, I thought about the guys back in Israel, the kids and the coaches, and wondered if they were watching. So did the guys on the team. We talked about you a lot. We looked at pictures of the ratty baseballs you hit every day. We did it for you. We are sending baseballs back, and bats, and catchers gear.
The fans were great, all the guys who played in the IBL back in 2007, the guys up in the press box, it was like the Jewish Baseball Summit at the park. They’ve been waiting for this. A reporter I spoke to teared up. Skip tried to make a pre-game speech and could barely get the words out, which said everything. I paced in the coaches room in the clubhouse. Then we did it. We did it. We did it. Lavarnway hit a ball about 450 feet over the scoreboard in left field. I asked him if he ever hit a ball that good. It’s been a while, he said. It’s been a while for all of us. Four years, 1,462 days, to be exact.
And then we did it. We did it. We did it.
Team Israel for the 2016 World Baseball Classic qualifier. FUCKING CHAMPS.
I arrived to America September 11th, 2016. It was a Sunday. An American Football game played on a giant television at the airport and an even bigger American flag hung over the entrance to US customs like a blanket too thin to keep you warm. The smell of cinnamon buns and shiny little hot dogs filled the air. Eagles soared high overhead. Security guards chased the eagles with insufficiently sized butterfly-nets screaming, “How did these eagles get in here?” as the birds swooped down attacking us. Ah yes, this was really it, the America I had heard of, land of opportunity… and everything else.
Here in America they speak a language called English. I understand every word. It is amazing. Bushy tailed animals called squirrels stand on their hind legs and look at you then run up a tree. When people make eye contact, they acknowledge each others existence with a smile or a nod as opposed to simply staring blankly at one another, the traditional Middle Eastern greeting. The money is green and thick as t-shirts. Giant trees and shopping malls grow from the cool, moist earth. The streets are wide and bumpy from the changing weather. They call these “seasons”. They say it will be “autumn” soon, whatever that is.
I do not know of these things. I am but a simple man from a far-off land called Israel where I was once a King. In Israel, water does not fall from the sky. The rocks have been turned to dust, trampled by 10,000 years of conquering armies and our unforgiving sun god Ra. It will take some getting used to. For now, a nice family has taken me in. I live in a small room in their home. I am like Brooks in the film Shawshank Redemption. I must be reintroduced to society after so many years away. And likes Brooks, I must stand on my wobbly little stool and chisel my name into the rafters overhead, into the book of life– wait, Brooksy hanged himself, well then like Morgan Freeman’s character, the one who did not hang himself, but instead went out into the world to pack groceries and fulfill his dreams. That’s right, Ladies and Geetles, theKing of Jewish Baseball is back and ready to rock. Using only the power of imagination, and other new technology, we will go on this adventure together. Like the poet Big Boi used to say… “Me and you/Your mama and your cousin too.”
Team Israel reports this Thursday for the 2016 World Baseball Classic Qualifier. We’ll roll into Brooklyn early next week, a few days before the games begin. Here we go, again, like last time, but better. I am not sure how much writing I will be able to do. I may have to resort to short hand to keep you all updated, so check me and other members of the team out on anti-social media.
Ring the alarm, Tenor Saw. Sound the bells of Notre Dame, Quasimoto. Swim, Fish. Caw, Crow. Shoot through the night sky like bottle rocket, Mr. Comet. The rosters for the 2016 World Baseball Classic qualifier to be played in quaint Coney Island, Brooklyn, September 22-25, have been birthed into the universe like millions of baby seahorses. That’s right, Ladies and Geetles, the rosters of Team Israel, Brasil, Great Britain, and Pakistan can now be viewed by you and others typically not trusted with such sensitive material. Using only the power of telepathy, and your mobile device, of course, feel free to read through the list of names, peruse the data, project final scores, diagnose line-ups, discuss amongst yourselves, but whatever you do, keep me out of it. I will be busy practicing collecting elbow guards and other such weighty responsibilities of a 1st base coach. See you in Brooklyn, Fam.
Help support Team Israel for the World Baseball Classic. Click the link below to view our team crowd funding campaign…
We came up short, again. It’s the cycle. Try, fail, try again, fail again, try again. Failure is the rule, success is the exception, in baseball, at least. Pain is the rule, health is the exception. It goes like this…
Prepare. Practice. Play.
Focus. Fixate. Fantasize.
Nothing else matters. Put everything on hold. Do it after the tournament. No calls. No emails. Stay with the guys, the team, the group. Eyes on the prize. No distractions. No pain. Ignore the hip. Nothing hurts. Play hard. Put it on the line. Don’t leave the hotel. Don’t waste energy. Rest. There’s another game tomorrow. Good vibes.
We win the first 3. Beat Belarus big. Barely beat Poland. Beat Austria big. We’re rolling. Eitan hits a walk-off slam against Poland. We can’t lose…
Then, we do lose, it goes wrong, against Lithuania, a team we should beat, every time. The nightmare. 7 errors. Day game after a night game. Try to rally. Get it together. Get the energy up. Can’t do it. These tournaments are not normal. Everyone wants to win. We’re playing for our countries. Every game is game 7. The night before, the Austrian fans were still in the stands going crazy after 3 hours in the rain in the 9th inning with their team losing 10-1, cheering, drinking, singing. It’s intense.
We lose again the next day to Sweden, barely. Dean starts the game. Deano. Best pitcher there. I like our chances. It’s a good game. Back and Forth. We’re winning 5-4 in the top of the 9th. Dean throws 140 pitches. Go to Shlo. Definitely Shlo. Big Shlo. The Magic man. Shlo already has 2 wins in the tournament including a complete game 2 days earlier against Austria. But Sweden scores 5 runs in the 9th, 9-5, them. Shit.
We can still do it. One guy at a time.
We score 3 runs to make it 8-9. Single, single, single, passed ball, single, passed ball, single. They’re nervous. Simon is on 1st, the tying run. I am up, the winning run. 2 outs. I can hit one out to win it, hit one in the gap to score Simon from 1st, or at least get on base and keep the rally alive. It’s perfect. I am the one, the King of Jewish Baseball, the captain, couldn’t script it better. I want to be up there, and I think the guys want me to be up there too. I feel good, already have 2 hits in the game. Ball 1. Ball 2. Take a strike. Strike 1. 2 and 1, perfect, fastball count, my pitch, see it, hit it. Ground ball to short, shit, in the hole, at least, maybe it will get through. But he makes the play. That’s it. It’s over.
The guys. Damn.
Let go. Let the pain set in. Be tired. See how bad the hip is. It’s bad. Don’t fight it anymore. Get a drink. Stay up all night. Get sick. Fly home. Go back to work. Life. Reality. Tell everyone you lost, 3rd place out of 6. They tell you it’s OK with a hint of pity. It is not. Think about the games. Write a blog post. The 2-1 fastball. How did that happen? How did I not hit it out of the park, or in a gap somewhere, at least? Was Sweden the better team?
If we played badly, it would be easier to understand. But we didn’t. We were good. We averaged 8 runs a game. Our pitchers did a good job. The top 5 hitters in our line-up all hit over .400 with on base percentages over .600. Our 3, 4 hitters had 20 RBIs in 5 games. Our pitchers had the lowest ERA in the tournament. Austria and Sweden were good, but we were just as good, maybe better.
Usually writing about it makes it feel better. Not this time. The hip hurts. Maybe we just need time. Next European Championship is in 2 years. I’ll be 37. Damn. The cycle. The disappointment. The hope. We did good. People know us now. They know we’re good. We were close. We can do it. The young guys can do it. It’ll be their turn next time.
Brothers. The 2015 Israel National Team. I love you guys.
Allow me, King of Jewish Baseball, to dutifully tell the tale of last week and an Ancient and Holy Tradition, the 2nd Annual Israel Baseball Summer Classic, the under 21 National Team versus the Senior National Team, 5 games in 5 days, a very short marathon, the Puppies vs. the Old Dogs, blood sport, war, Great and Sad Theater of Humanity, acted out on the nearly flat surface of a parallel dimension, the baseball field at Baptist Village, Israel.
Old Dogs win the first two games of the series. Enter Sandman. Mariano Rivera is in Israel! We get this picture of him holding his stylish new Israel Baseball sweatshirt and ask him if he wants to throw out the first pitch at the final game of the Classic.
New closer for the Israel National Team.
Of course he does. He is, after all, the Greatest Closer of All Time and we, the IAB, are The Most Powerful Clandestine Jewish Baseball Organization in the World. It only makes sense. He would love to throw out the first pitch and meet the kids who play baseball in Israel.
Mariano is coming. Tell Everyone. Bring him in through gate in left field. Play Enter Sandman when he walks in. Rent a sound system, hire a photographer, security, invite the press.
Meanwhile, the series rages on. The Youngs battle back, using their switchblades, mainly, and easily win the next two games, tying the series, and setting the scene for a 5th and final showdown, a rubber match for all the shekels, and, as assumed, eternal life. In the backgound, Mariano. Will he come? Or won’t he?
No phone calls, no meetings, no confirmation, looking like no Mo. These guys are hard to nail down. I once sat up memorizing Doc Gooden’s career statistics, 1984 Rookie of the Year, 1985 Cy Young Award winner, 1986 World Champion with the New York Mets, 1996 no hitter with the New York Yankees, 2000 World Champion also with the New York Yankees – only to have him no show the next day. It’s not easy accepting the love of so many adoring fans, I know, Dr. K, Mo, the King of Jewish Baseball, it gets tiresome. Exit Sandman. Cancel. Tell everyone, contact the press, he isn’t coming.
But people will do what they want to do, or, at least, in this case, will still do what they had planned on doing, so they came anyways, some of them, at least, from Jerusalem, from Raanana, from Modiin. They came for the food, but stayed for the music, as they say, came for Mariano, but stayed for us, the Greatest Jewish Baseball Show on Earth, give them what they want, the rabid, viscous fans, a close game, stand-up doubles, an autograph, and chocolate, by god, give them chocolate.
Game 5 was tied in the bottom of the 9th inning, 5 to 5, coincidentally, or not, when the black sky opened and owls with the bodies of rabbits filled the horizon, Snake Birds and Horse Men vomited Earth and Sea, and the Old Dogs scored a fatal and final death blow, a 6th run, ending the game and tournament, both teams exhausted. It was a good game, in a weird way, thanks to Mariano Rivera. We will tell people he is coming to every game from now on.
Tomorrow, we have the IAB Annual General Meeting, a thrilling event, no doubt, like the White House Corresponence Dinner, just like it. We will gather around a fire and and join hands and ask the Great Mother for visions of the past and future and drink bottled water as our ancestors did. And then, after the meeting, it’s off to Greece, that’s right, Ladies and Geetles, put on your gold chains, your leather jock strap, and your white batting glove, because the Under-21 National Team is coming to Greece! We are playing in the Baseball World Cup in Athens. Anything could happen. We could win, the economy could collapse, again. I will magically switch from Fish to Coach Fish, from short stop to the 3rd base coaches box, and we will, we know this much, at least, as always, play baseball.
Check #roadtoathens on social media to keep up with our quest for glory and ultimate victory.
