Opening Day

Opening Day. Are there any two more exciting words in the English language? "Free beer", perhaps. For Matt Clemm, "Taco Tuesday" may elicit equal excitement. For me, Opening Day means hope. Maybe this is the year. Maybe this time, all of my hard work will pay off. Maybe all that time I spent reading and pouring over numbers and spreadsheets will have actually paid dividends. Maybe the Baseball Gods will finally stop pissing all over me, and my team will perform exactly as awesomely as I expect. Maybe this year, Lucy won't yank that football away, and I'll kick it straight through the goalposts.

Then, before the first game has ended, all of that hope completely drains from my system and is instantly replaced by that familiar sensation of simmering rage in the pit of my belly, and I ask myself, "Why, why, why do I waste my time playing this stupid fucking game?"

Tony Chamra hates me. That is the only explanation I have as to why he forces me to open each season in the pit stain of New Milford. Don't get me wrong, I love the town itself. I was born and raised there. It is a quaint New England village that seems to have been hermetically-sealed in a time capsule. You walk along its lush town green, lined along each side by little mom-and-pop-run shops and buildings that have stood since before the American Revolution, with a World War II tank at one end of the green and a statue of Abe Lincoln at the other, with a green-painted bandstand at its center, and it feels as if you've been magically transported into a Norman Rockwell painting.

But if you stroll a little further away from this heartwarming scenery, toward the darkened waters of the Housatonic River, you will soon spot its looming presence on the horizon. Then, that smell will invade your nostrils and there is no mistaking where you are. Nestle Field, home of the despicable Blazers.

It is an eyesore amidst the lush New England landscape. Its architect must have been the same person who designed the Death Star. Gray, bleak, and uninviting. As you approach the monstrosity further, you begin to see and hear them. Pretentious New Milford fans, strolling toward the ballpark in their Izod-clad ensembles, with their white linen pants and boat shoes. Between discussions about their yacht club and the most recent editorial by Paul Krugman, you will hear these modern-day Yuppies brag about how bored they are with their favorite ballclub. "Winning a hundred games every year has become so mundane," one will say. "Why, it's hardly worth the effort to watch them anymore, knowing the outcome is predestined. If it weren't for the fabulous brie and wine selection at the Stadium Club, I'd probably forgo the entire charade."

Oddly enough, mixed in with these self-impressed snobs are legions of farmers smelling of manure and working-class joes covered with grease and oil. For the most part, these fans fill the right field bleachers, where they continue the proud Blazers tradition of performing a "roll call" where they give the middle finger to every member of the opposing team.

Our spring training schedule was a bit limited this year, and we played only six games. Oddly enough, all six were against the Blazers. When we won all six of those games, I knew right away that we were in trouble for this Opening Day Series. Surely, the Baseball Gods were fucking with me earlier than usual. My suspicions seemed unwarranted at first, as we took a 3-0 lead through the first six innings.

Our ace, Stephen Strasburg, has always struggled against the Blazers (with one notable postseason exception), but he was in cruise control throughout this game. After seven innings and 107 pitches, it was time to lift him and turn to our bullpen. And that is when Lucy yanked the football away once again.

We spent the winter trying to secure a closer. We tried to trade for one and failed. We tried to sign one in the auction, and even bid more than we ever wanted to bid for a reliever, and went 0-for-3. That left only three viable closers on the free agent market, and with the eighth overall pick in the draft, we felt fairly confident we would get one of them. But no. So, instead, we settled for the consolation prize of David Phelps.

Aside from issuing a few too many walks to left-handers, Phelps is a pretty decent reliever. Used in the right situations, he could be tremendously useful. I brought him into what I thought was an appropriate situation, where he would face two right handers in the next three batters in the order. Instead, Blazers skipper Anthony Peburn pinch hit for his expensive shortstop, Troy Tulowitzki, sending lefty Greg Garcia to the plate instead.

No problem, I figured. Garcia draws a lot of walks, and Phelps issues a lot them, so that's probably what will happen. But no. Garcia doubled to lead off the inning. After Phelps whiffed another left-handed pinch hitter, that brought righty James McCann to the plate. Let me pause here a minute to give you McCann's numbers against righties:

.201/.243/.268

I wasn't even sure why McCann was in the lineup, frankly. I was ecstatic when a pinch hitter wasn't called to hit for him. My ecstasy didn't last long. McCann roped a base hit to center, easily scoring Garcia from second.

No problem, I thought. We're still up by a run. New Milford had Carpenter, Betts, and Freeman stepping to the plate. Carpenter and Freeman are both left-handed, and Betts can't hit lefties. So, the no-brainer move was to send my best left-handed pitcher, Mike Montgomery, out to the mound to shut this shit down.

The first batter, Carpenter, whiffed. Visions of winning the OL Manager of the Year swirled in my head.

Betts, who -- again -- can't hit lefties, singled. That's okay, though. He's still a good hitter, and we only need one more out.

Up stepped Freddie Freeman, New Milford's $13.5 million free agent winter bonus baby.

Double to the gap. Two runs scored. Game over.

That familiar sensation of boiling blood churned in my gut once more. Welcome, old friend. How I haven't missed you a bit.

That sensation continued in Game Two. Masahiro Tanaka, who our offense beat like a red-headed Jesse Pinkman in the preseason, completely shut down our righty-bashing, tailor-made-for-Nestle Field lineup. We managed all of two bloop singles through the first six innings. Gary Sanchez put us on the board in the seventh with the first home run of his BDBL career, but that was all the scoring we would do in this game.

After a 6-0 preseason, we then sat with an 0-2 record for the games that actually count.

Game Three kept the blood boiling. New Milford carried a 4-1 lead into the seventh inning. Once again, our high-octane offense decided to take the day off. Or so it seemed. Finally, in the seventh inning, the Cowtippers I knew and loved in the preseason finally showed up. Trea Turner got the ball rolling with a three-run pinch-hit bomb -- the first of his BDBL career. We scored four more runs in the eighth inning, and three more in the ninth. We scored 11 runs in the game -- ten of them in the final three innings!

At last, we had our first victory of 2017.

Just as it seemed our 2017 season would be filled with even more disappointment, we had reason for optimism once again. Hope was alive. Maybe this could be our year after all.

We handed the ball to Junior Guerra in Game Four, and he did not disappoint. He gave us six strong innings of shutout pitching, allowing just three hits and four walks. We then turned the game over to our bullpen trio of Rubby de la Rosa, David Phelps, and Sammy Solis. Incredibly, they managed to handle the workload, surrendering only one run.

We escaped with a split. If you had told me before this series we would split, I would've been disappointed. If you told me in the sixth inning of Game One that we would split, I would've been extremely disappointed. Given the circumstances, however, we'll take it. This is the first time since 2012 that we haven't begun a season with a losing record after one series.

One thing I have learned about this 2017 Cowtippers team is that they are extremely fun to manage. There is just so much flexibility on this roster. I can move guys around in the starting lineup or during the game, and really take advantage of situations as they develop. If I need a power bat at a certain point, I have one. If I need a guy to draw a walk or put a ball in play, we have that, too. Nearly every player on this team can steal a base if needed, and nearly every one of them can go first to third or second to home without much risk.

We have three players on the active roster who are rated at shortstop, three who are rated in center field, and one who is rated at third base, shortstop, and left field. In the bullpen, we have three relievers who are also rated as starters. We have righty-specialists, lefty-specialists, and reverse-split specialists. It really is fun moving all of these chess pieces around the board.

Best of luck to all my fellow GM's and managers this season. May Lucy not yank away your football.