Williams Beta to argue records case

Posted on May 30, 2007

Tuesday, November 8, 2033

Williams Beta to argue records case

by Reade Seligmann
Associated Press Writer

NEW YORK (AP) – Commissioner of Baseball George W. Bush will today hear arguments on both sides of the continuing battle over the achievements of Yankee’s infielder Ted Williams Beta. Bush is not expected to make a decision until late next week.

Lawyers for Williams Beta are expected to argue that the slugger’s accomplishments – in particular this season’s on-base-percentage of .612 – should be added to the official MLB records for the original Ted Williams, now known as Ted Williams Alpha. Williams Alpha once held the major league record for career OBP at .481, but was surpassed by Barry Bonds during the 2008 season. The addition of Williams Beta’s percentages from this and last season would regain the record for the collective Ted Williams.

Clone rights advocates fear that the Williams case will re-open a wound well on its way to closing: whether clones are themselves unique individuals or extensions of their former selves.

“We’ve come too far,” said Darrin Miles Beta, reproduced from late Scottish meat magnate Darrin Miles Alpha. “We felt we were only a few years away from finally beating this silly Beta label, and now this. If Williams wins, he’ll set back clone rights five, maybe ten years.”

Miles and others worry that while they have gained a superficial level of acceptance in the US, most Americans are waiting for a reason to reject them. The oldest clones are only 25, and have not yet had a chance to establish themselves in communities. Williams Beta, at 24, is in one of the few professions in which someone so young can gain such national recognition. Many fear that a ruling in his favor all but damns the case of clone rights, especially considering the US Supreme Court’s increasing reliance on the precendents of professional sports decisions.

“It’s like the Brett Favre thing back in, what was that, 2010?,” Miles Beta points out. “Once the NFL said you had to count five Mississippi before rushing him, suddenly the Court agrees that, yeah, some people are important enough to require special treatment. Sports dictate the direction of this country. I just don’t want to see everything we believe in change because of some silly records.”

But not everyone takes Miles’ devil-may-care attitude towards the stat books. Reached for comment in his suburban Los Angeles home, former San Francisco Giants slugger Barry Bonds – who currently holds the single season On-base-percentage record of .609 in 2004 – said he didn’t believe Williams Beta’s case had any merit at all. “What the [expletive] is everybody so puzzled about?” Bonds asked. “This guy, he’s not even a real person. He was made in a little bitty tube. That’s not sports, science people. That’s [expletive] is what that is.” Bonds has held this position since the announcement of Henry Aaron Beta in 2017. It is widely rumored, though never substantiated, that Bonds tried to clone himself, but that the boy produced was the scrawny, wiry teenager Bonds now calls his youngest son.

This is not the first time the name Ted Williams has been associated with controversy. Williams Alpha, a Boston Red Sox great in the 1940s and 50s, died of heart failure in 2005. His head, body, and some DNA samples were suspended in liquid nitrogen with the hope that medical advances would one day allow him to be thawed and re-animated. The procedure was at the time considered ghastly and absurd, and Williams Alpha’s children fought bitterly – and publicly – over the fate of the body. But while it and its brainy counterpart still sit frozen, some DNA samples were used in 2009 as the first high-profile use of the then emergent technology of human cloning. In fact, it was the cloning of the Williams DNA that spurred US lawmakers to finally deal with what was on the brink of becoming a shadowy black market industry.

It seems the only person not speaking publicly about the case is Williams Beta himself. Despite the debate between the conservative right – claiming that clones are nothing more than soulless copies of real people – and the progressive left – who believe that clones are unique and fully human – Williams Beta has refused all requests for interviews. Perhaps he desires only to rise above the squabbles of a nation divided and to stick to the real business of America, which is sports.

Head Case

Posted on May 17, 2007

Note: Upon hearing the NFL’s continued insistence that there is no correlation between repeated head trauma and long-term cognitive difficulties (including dementia, early onset Alzheimer’s disease, decreased motor function, memory loss, and depression), we at Sport is Stranger than Fiction sent our very own investigative reporter to the home of Dr. Ian Casson– a spokesman-physician for the NFL. His goal was twofold. First, he had to avoid speaking to Dr. Casson at all costs, because, come on, what’s the point? Second, he had to rifle through the good doctor’s records to give us as much background information on his mental state and his other beliefs. We’ve transcribed his report below.

Other Note:In order to protect our reporter’s identity, we’ll just call him J. Greco. No, that’s too obvious– let’s call him Joey G.

When I arrived at Dr. Casson’s house, I was disturbed to learn that your promised diversionary tactics– standing under his bedroom window at night and making spooky ghost sounds in order to scare him away– had failed miserably. The house was occupied by Dr. Casson, his wife, two Pomeranians, and some guy with a mohawk. Working on the assumption that the mohawked man was there to work security, I took it upon myself to sneak up on him and choke him with piano wire (you’ll note that I’ve attached a bill for the wire, and for the Purell hand sanitizer I used to clean the spittle off of my hands) and hid his body in a garden shed. I noted that inside the shed Dr. Casson stored several items, including multiple sacks of mulch, a pair of paint-splattered boots, and a ziploc bag full of assorted screws that didn’t seem to fit into anything in particular. Conspicuous by its absence was a lawnmower. As I later learned, however, Dr. Casson does not see any correlation between owning a lawnmower and having shorter grass. This, it seems would be an appropriate time to note that Dr. Casson’s yard is so overgrown that a few weeds tickled my beautiful nose, which, as Kevin Gonzalez knows, is a nose that does not like to be tickled. I stomped through the yard and back toward the house.

I then proceeded to sneak into the family room (a job made easier by the fact that, as I later learned, Dr. Casson does not see any correlation between owning– not to mention locking– doors and deterring intruders), inciting a whirlwind of Pomeranian yippiness that was only quelled when I stopped to pet the dogs. My original plan had been to distract the dogs with a chain of sausage links, but I was hungry and saved the sausage for myself. Once satisfied with my petting, the dogs wandered off and promptly disappeared in the thicket of the backyard. I’m not sure if they ever returned.
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Home Opener

Posted on May 11, 2007

By: Adam McGrath

Very, very early on the morning of April 9th, Pat McCarthy and his buddy Tim Donahue walked up to the front door of Casey Moran’s, one of the ubiquitous Irish Pubs that populate Wrigleyville. Normally, these two would have been stumbling out the door at this time of day, instead of waiting in line to show their IDs to get in. Today, however, was different. Today was the Cubs Home Opener, and Casey Moran’s was the place to start the day off right, by drinking lots of Bud Light and trying to win tickets to the game from the members of the Q101 Morning Fix, who were doing their first live broadcast ever.

“So far so good,” Pat said to Tim, as they were each handed a complimentary T-shirt for being two of the first 200 Cubs fans through the door at 5:30 a.m. on a Monday morning.

“I guess the weekend continues,” replied Tim, as he searched to see if his favorite bartender was taking this special shift.

The weekends were what these Chicago natives had been living for the past couple years. As they shared a dorm room at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, they now shared a two-bedroom apartment in a mid-rise building on the 1100 block of N. Lasalle St. It was only a couple quick stops on the L down to Harold Washington College, where Tim taught students older than himself how to put a paragraph together. Pat, on the other hand, had an hour-long commute out past O’Hare to the U.S. Cellular Headquarters, where he’d been moving up in the New Acquisitions department.

Both young men had grown up with a passion for the Cubs, groomed by their fathers and uncles to root against the Billy Goat curse and maintain hope that the championship would come to the north side. The sting from the White Sox’ glorious journey to the top two years ago, and the city’s embrace of that feat still lingered in everyone’s minds.

“Ginger Jordan looks pretty good in person,” remarked Tim, as he scoped out the setup of the eclectic group of comedians/disc jockeys from the still nascent morning radio show that was a blend of skits, bits, and legitimate journalism.

“And did you have any idea that Clarissa Jenkins, the traffic girl, was a white guy putting on a black woman’s voice?”

“Holy shit, you’re kidding me! That’s almost as funny as Jim Lynam’s rants about Lance Briggs.”

“Yeah, he’s passionate about his Chicago sports – check him out there in his high school football jersey. He looks like he’s had a rough night.”

“I wonder what McCarthy will say today—probably be something snarky about this being the Cubs’ year.”

And that was the real topic for discussion today, how the Cubs might actually make it back to the playoffs, and not blow it like in ’03. Thankfully, the names Thome and Konerko were the furthest words from the crowd’s lips today. With the acquisition of Soriano, and the return to form of D. Lee, the offense looked like they might be able to put up some runs this year. The two young men chatted about the players to watch, the $300 million spent in the off-season, and whether Dempster would be run out of town if he insisted on blowing every save opportunity thrown his way. Not to mention the new manager of the club, the singular Lou Pinella.

“Maybe he can bring some fire to these guys,” Pat said.

“Well at least we better not see him napping in the dugout.”

The early morning matured as the bar filled up with Cubs fans, an even mix of young, preppy North-siders and rugged die-hard fans sporting their Ryne Sandberg jerseys. The Bud Light flowed, hopes were voiced, Madina Lake played some tunes, and everyone had a good laugh at the jokes of the radio show crew. Every hour they gave away a pair of tickets to the game, but Tim and Pat were not among the lucky winners. They left Casey Moran’s around 11 with nothing more than their novelty T-shirts and a good buzz going. They had already decided to stick around the ballpark even if they couldn’t get into the game, so they made their way over to The Cubby Bear to try to get a seat and some grub. On the short walk over, they passed the massive line outside the gates, filled with buzzing Cubs fans from all walks of life. Even though the team was only 3-3 after their first week on the road, nothing could dampen the crowd’s enthusiasm. They spotted the “Woo-Woo” guy near the front of the line, taking pictures with some small children, while others looked down at their feet, reading the inscriptions on the personalized bricks that were planted in the sidewalk during the off-season.
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The Day Harvey Masters Ran out of Things to Say About Sports

Posted on May 8, 2007

The studio lights burned into Harvey’s skin like a summer sun. His tie tightened around his corpulent neck and he felt the sweat dripping down his side and channeling into the folds around his hip. The back of his suit was soaked through and he was sure everyone on the set could smell his fear. And still they were only seconds away from switching onto camera 4 and demanding that he offer 150 seconds of profound insight on every sport in the world.

The words crept up the teleprompter. Now let’s whip it over to Harvey Masters, the SportsMaster, for his outrageous take on the day’s events! For the last three years, his daily segment had always started like this, except sometimes, instead of being outrageous, he was passionate, or intense, or in-your-face. Once, he was sassy, and for a few months last year, he was XTREME.

Maybe he could have thrust the chair backward and dived under his desk, huddling up there until everyone just left him alone; let the camera hold on his empty, spinning chair for the full two-and-a-half. Let the empty desk tell them everything they needed to know. But this was the wrong industry for that kind of stunt. Just two weeks ago, Harvey himself had called Gilbert Arenas a gutless punk for using torn knee ligaments as an excuse to skip the first round of the playoffs. “Everyone faces obstacles,” Harvey had shouted, “but most of us overcome them instead of using them as excuses! Only difference is, he gets paid millions while schlubs like us get peanuts.” He’d ended that segment with his trademark flourish— running his hands back through his thick curls and then pointing them at the camera like a pair of six-shooters. Because he was a straight-shooter and that’s what straight-shooters do.

No, he couldn’t hide. The bloggers would crucify him if he backed out now. But he had nothing to say. A man can only narrate a 6-4-3 double play so many times before he runs out of words. He can only discuss the moral implications of steroid use in baseball for so many days in a row before the dead horse has been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp. He can only analyze the facial expressions of a football coach so many times before he wants to throw himself in front of a train.
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Post-Draft Blues

Posted on May 3, 2007

Toby came downstairs and stepped right over me as I laid there, my face buried in the carpet like I was grazing. I heard ice cubes clatter into a glass, and then he opened the fridge to pour himself a drink. The fridge didn’t close, but his bare feet scraped slowly across the rug. I pictured him walking like a zombie, arms outstretched and eyes vacant, and then I felt a kick in my ribs.

He toppled over me, a knee driving into my kidney and his glass dropping onto the back of my head. It didn’t break, but it hurt like hell. I thought I might be bleeding, but the run-off on my cheeks tasted like orange juice, and I knew I was okay. I turned my head so that my right cheek was pressed against the floor, and I could see Toby, now lying across me so that we looked like a lowercase T.

“I’m laying here,” I said.

“Didn’t see you,” he said, his voice muffled by the carpet. “Did you catch my OJ?”

“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” I said, and tried to smack him on the back. I barely grazed him.

“What a terrible day.”

“You wanna get off me?”

“I will,” he said, but I knew he wouldn’t. He turned his head to look back at me over his shoulder. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

“Nothing to do.”

“Guess we could move.”

“Like that’ll help us get over this draft,” I said. I unleashed a showy sigh so that he could feel my disapproval in my breath on his cheek. “It’s too late, man. Everything’s already ruined.”

“How the hell could they draft a quarterback?” He slapped his palm on the floor. “They already have McNabb! Why not take a linebacker?”

“Could we not talk about it?” The Eagles had blown another draft just 6 hours before, and my season was ruined before it had even started. I wished I was dead, if only because it would keep me from having this same conversation for the fifth time today. “Just get offa me and leave me alone.”
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The Two Loneliest Men in the World

Posted on May 1, 2007

[Tom Brady dials Randy Moss’ phone number after getting word that the Patriots have traded for him, and Moss answers after 19 rings.]

Moss: If you’re calling to invite me to that surprise party for Al Davis, I already told you– I ain’t going!

Brady: Hey, Randy, I heard we traded for you.

Moss: [inhales deeply, as if smoking] Who’s this?

Brady: Tom Brady.

Moss: Like the Brady Bill, with the guns and all?

Brady: No, like three Super Bowls Tom Brady. Best quarterback in the league Tom Brady.

Moss: [coughs painfully, as if forcing a golf ball from his throat] Doesn’t ring a bell.

Brady [sighs]: The dude who knocked up Gisele.

Moss: Oh, Tom Brady! I know how that is. I’m on the hook with four kids—she get you for all the babymamma money yet?

Brady: Not yet. [scratches chest with receiver so Randy can hear the manly bristling of his chest hairs, which are going prematurely gray, but no one knows that except for Andruzzi, and he’s sworn to secrecy.]

Moss: She got me man… draining me, dude.

Brady: How much you paying?

Moss: I don’t know—I don’t pay no attention to that shit. I just go by the house with a sack full of nickels. You know how it is— when you’re rich you don’t write checks, right?

Brady: Yeah, I guess. Coach B holds my money for me. [yanks his empty pockets outward into Hoover flags like a cartoon cat who can’t afford to buy the ukelele he’s set his eyes on, and then remembers Randy can’t see him, and then smacks himself in the head for being so stupid, and then wonders if Randy heard the smack on his forehead.] He promised he’ll give it to me when I retire.

Moss: How you know he ain’t spending it?

Brady: Have you seen how he dresses? He looks like my retarded cousin after a shopping spree at the thrift store.
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