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April 3, 2017.

Ray gets me the HotCut early.  It's Cleveland at Texas, Kluber-Darvish.  Kershaw is to the HotCut what a magnet is to iron filings but he goes opposite Jhoulys Chacin and the Padres today, so the HotCut takes a pass.  The first game today is at 12:05 central daylight today.  I'm at work but I'll try to listen and will be on the lookout for bridges all day—a bridge being a lone game in action bridging the baseball crevasse of nothingness by taking us clean from one game to the next.  I'll work on that description over the course of this season.

I have been listening, off and on, to Marlins at Nats.  The Marlins struck first but Strasburg yielded only those two runs over six innings.  Lind pinch-hit and sent a ball into the stands to put Washington up 3-2.

Later....  Treinen fans Ozuna.  Nats win, Strasburg is 1-0.  I don't want to get into other games, other scores.  I'm agnostic to them—this journal is going to be about games I'm watching or listening to, or getting accounts about from Ray.  The rest will be lost to this history.

It is almost time for the HotCut.  I am sitting outside and it is raining.  If there were a game in St. Louis tonight it would, at best, be delayed.  On the way home from work I listened to Padres at Dodgers.  Kershaw gave up an unearned run.  Back at home I was deep into Jays at Orioles.  Trumbo went jumbo on emergency closer Jason Grilli.  He's one of the few players out there who are older than we are, Ray.  I want to root for him in that way.  We won't have any such players in a couple more years.  Beltre, Beltran, Uehara—maybe he'll pitch forever.  How old is Ichiro?  I've got to work on this list.  Joaquin Benoit.  I've got time.  161 games kind of time.

It is a peaceful rain and I'm in that alcove on the back deck, just out the back door.  As long as it is a straight-down, sleepy sort of rain I am dry and quite at peace though I am not wearing my reading glasses and my eyes are feeling stodgy, waterlogged, tired.  That Jays-Orioles game went eleven at least.

Phillies-Reds has gone bridge.  Indians-Rangers should start any minute.  Phillies are up 4-1, Jeanmar Gómez on to save the game.  Promptly, he yields a Scott Schebler single.  Votto went 0-for-4 in this one—maybe he'll bat again.  No walks.  Hamilton 1-for-3 with a 3B.

Scooter Gennett, now a Red, has yarded Gómez.  Hamilton bats, he flies out.  The bridge was that tenuous.  To the 'Cut!

Darvish gets through the first.  He put one on.  Kluber now, and Tom Hamilton brings it to us.  The AtBat app is not acknowledging that Top 1 happened and it is vexing me.  Can you believe Michael Brantley is in the lineup?  I had given him up for D-U-N.

The Rangers have jumped Kluber like a broke-down car.  It was 5-1 after a three-run shot by Odor (his second homer of the night...he is like a little stick of dynamite...that leg kick...I've been prejudiced against him because he doesn't walk, but the power isn't letting up...).  B has Kluber on her team—we are both down to just the one team, my relief—and she wanted the Rangers game turned off.  We migrated to the other Texas game, Mariners at Astros.  Springer jumped Felix on the first pitch, bottom one.  Then Bregman placed one back up the middle.  Minute Maid nee Enron is buzZing.

Tal's Hill is no longer.  Keuchel fans Leonys Martín, who can't be much longer for the league.  Biggio threw the first pitch to Bagwell.  Biggio looked as expected: trim, tan, and taut.  Bagwell looked rough.  I couldn't place him at first.  I even thought, "Ken Caminiti?"  I am not texting all of this but I believe I am doing one better.  Beltrán goes down looking.  I think now I can fill this 'Skine by the time of your birthday—easily.

B has taken June out for a walk so I am am checking back in on the HotCut.  Knowing I am writing this for other eyes means I need to pay attention to penmanship—I hope you can read this.  I write small, at times cramped, quick—so I will work to let these words roam.  It's 5-3 Texas.  Darvish had them loaded top five then got a squibber which became a double play home-to-first.  He's got Brantley on the ropes.  Twenty-six pitch inning but he's free of it.  They're back from their walk and I will hit the pause button.

It was 436' to center before at Minute Maid.  Now it's 409'.  Springer—who joined Terry Puhl as the only Astros to homer in the season's first at-bat—now reaches on catcher's interference (Zunino).

Jeff Nelson—the pitcher or the umpire?

Keuchel walks Valencia and they're loaded.  Up comes Martín and he continues to pave his own way to the waiver wire.

Nomar MaZara.  Twenty-one homers last year, only one against lefties.  Boone Logan faces him now.  Logan's Roadhouse.  It's happening again.  MaZara down on strikes.  Logan was pretty good last year, adjusting for Coors Field in his numbers.  It's 5-4 Texas after seven in the 'Cut.  Two-for-two so far on the 'Cuts.  'Cuts vs. Clunkers, 2-0.  CarMart, Lester, Kluber, Darvish.  How many Cy's in there?  Lester and Kluber one each?  Like I said I've no device near me, I'm just spit-balling here.  This is part of my plan to keep records at least for the 'Cut.  The Bridges project is even more difficult because I cannot constantly monitor the ongoing baseball atmosphere, though many days I will come close.  The 'Cuts are more discrete, finite in that way.

Felix lifted after five, maybe lifted with a bit of an injury?  The announcers allude to it but I missed it.  Vincent on.  Bregman walks, Altuve singles, AB to third.  Correa it seems homered last time up.  He's got the craZy eye-black smear going he employed in the WBC—Demolition style.  Sac fly, Bregman in.  Now, old man Beltrán.  He has gotten rid of his dye-blond WBC beard.  That really made him look old.

Unbeknownst to me, Cleveland has tied it in Arlington.  5-5 in the 'Cut, bottom eight.  Miller is on to face Odor.  Odor is a fierce little dirt dog wolverine of a player.  He grounds out, going down to a knee.  Maybe there is a hole somewhere in that swing but he is strong and quick and comprehensive in his swinging plate coverage.  Miller fans Lucroy, easy.  To the ninth.

Post-script.  I'm sorry to say I then fell asleep, missing a Sam Dyson implosion in the process.  Miller got the win.


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