Pete Kerzel's Blog

MacPhail's wasting away ...

Sat, 31 May 2008 16:26:19 GMT

As if I needed another reason to like Orioles President of Baseball Operations Andy MacPhail, I got a musical one the other night.

Taking advantage of the rain delay Tuesday night (gotta love those ninth-inning interruptions), I tracked MacPhail in the hallway outside the press dining room. He was looking at the frames photos of Orioles who have appeared on covers of magazines such as Sports Illustrated.

We spent about five minutes talking about the upcoming MLB draft, and a few questions in to the interview, MacPhail's cell phone started making music to indicate an incoming call.

But not just any music. It was Jimmy Buffett's "Margaritaville," the chorus to be exact.

Yes, it appears Andy MacPhail is a Parrothead.

We spoke for a few seconds about Buffett and I mentioned that I was going to Citizens Bank Park in a couple of weeks for my 85th show since 1978. MacPhail smiled, but stopped short of wishing he could attend. Of course, there's much more demanding business with rebuilding Baltimore's baseball club.

The Force is with you (and mighty annoying to those around you)

Sat, 17 May 2008 17:35:57 GMT

It's been fun to see some energy injected into Camden Yards the past few weeks. But with new found energy comes responsibility -- and I'm talking to the folks who cheer on their favorite Orioles in a most annoying way.

Specifically, the Luke Scott fan who sits in front of the press box. Now I've always been of the belief that you pays your money and you speaks your piece. What sense would it be for a journalist to argue against freedom of speech or expression.

But this week, during the invation of the Red Sox Nation, in the midst of all things Manny, Scott Fan started bellowing -- and never stopped. He's channelling a "Star Wars" theme and it starting to get to me (and others).

"Luke (only it's more like Loooooooooooooooooke!), I am your father."

"Luke, the pitcher was the master and you were the Jedi. Now you are the master and he is the Jedi. You are the master, Luke."

And so on. Every time Scott hits. Thankfully, it's only when he's at the plate. Of course, for all I know Scott Fan may be high-tailing it to the left-field bleachers when Luke is on defense.

Cheer all you want, but get some new material. You get points for pop culture references nicely integrated with current sports. And your passion is impressive. But unless the "Star Wars" chant is beer-fueled boisterousness, well, it's starting to get on everyone's nerves. It's a wonder the Camden Yards gestapo hasn't already given you a warning, pal. Of course, it you're bellowing in your seat, you're not standing up, so that's probably OK with them.

Just try to vary the chants and cheers, OK? Look, when I used to sit in Section 34 with Wild Bill, we weren't exactly penning masterpieces. "C'mon Ken, hit it in the bullpen." "Hey, Roenicke, hit it down to Overlea." Simple, functional, traditional. But that's just my opinion -- that chants and cheers should be a few words at most, not long-winded diatribes that last a pitch or two.

Of late nights and mistakes ...

Tue, 06 May 2008 01:49:53 GMT

West Coast road trips by the Orioles are a bad-news, good-news proposition.

The bad news is that you often don't get to find out the game's result until the next morning (c'mon, fess up -- you fall asleep before the game is over because you're a responsible adult who has to be to work in the morning).

The good news is that listening on the radio as sleep overtakes me brings back vivid memories of my youth, when I'd sneak a handheld transistor radio under my pillow, then turn the sound down ever so low so I could hear Bill and Chuck paint word pictures of my beloved Birds as I drifted off to dreamland.

Years later, mom and dad admitted they knew I had the radio, but figured I'd just pester them if they took it away. So, in order to get their own good night's sleep, they created a parental win-win situation. The kid was happy, the parents were well-rested.

Now, for those of you who think a certain Greek baseball team owner has cornered the market on poor -- and decidedly fan-unfriendly -- decisions, I ask you to look 35 miles to the south of Baltimore to Nationals Park.

Friday night's game against Pittsburgh was supposed to feature a postgame firreworks extravaganza. It didn't happen, and the Nats -- who generally make good decisions and consistently please their fans -- were to blame.

A slowly paced game and a 25-minute power outage conspired to douse the fireworks. Apparently, the Nats promised their new neighbors along the Anacostia that they'd never shoot off fireworks after 11 p.m. It was a deal make in good faith with the best of intentions.

So at 10:45 p.m., the public address announcer made the announcement that the display would not be held. Just to drive home the point, the message was printed on the mammoth scoreboard in center field. And the fans did not take kindly to the news, chanting "We want fireworks," accompanied by staccato clapping, through the final two innings.

Sadly, the Nationals had the whole situation in their own hands. By starting Friday night games at 7:35 p.m., instead of the more traditional shortly-after-7 p.m. first pitch, they put themselves behind the proverbial eight-ball. In an era where three-hour games are the rule and not the exception, the decision showed unusually poor planning.

Perhaps President Stan Kasten remembered the firestorm created about 20 years ago in Atlanta, when the Braves went 20-some innings and into the wee hours of July 4 before prevailing in a marathon. The planned fireworks display went off as scheduled -- about 4 a.m., mind you -- and residents of the neighborhoods around Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium must have thought they'd woken up in the middle of the Civil War. Of course, there were only a few hundred folks in the stands to enjoy the festivities.

If I were a paying customer who had bought a ticket to last Friday's Nats' game, I'd be steamed. But the fact that the home team exacerbated a bad situation by cancelling a promoted event -- good intentions aside -- just doesn't cut it in terms of an explanation. I mean, if a team were planning a bobblehead giveaway, could someone make a unilateral decision to scratch the promotion and not expect hurt feelings and vocal protests?

Call me crazy, but I can't see Orioles management allowing that to happen.

Whither the boxscore?

Thu, 10 Apr 2008 00:00:13 GMT

A week into baseball season, and the Orioles' hot start has been tempered by something our local daily newspaper has done. Yes, The Sun has bastardized the baseball boxscore.

Go ahead, check it out in the morning paper. Oh, it looks like the same recap you've become accustomed to seeing. But dig a little deeper and you'll find some disturbing trends -- all in the name of saving precious space and making things fit nicely.

For now, we'll concentrate on the pitching lines. Yes, there's still a W and an L to signify the winning and losing pitchers. You've got to know the pitchers of record, right? But what happened to the records, as in:

Sarfate, W (2-0)

Well, you've got to dig deeper. That information has been removed from the traditional pitching line and banished to the bottom of the boxscore in paragraph form. So has the pitchers' ERAs and the number of saves. Now you've got to pore over lines of agate type to find information that used to be easily accessible.

At least the Orioles are in the American League. What's happened in the N.L. makes the designated hitter look appropriate by comparison. The starting pitcher remains in the lineup for each team. And if someone pinch-hits for the starting pitcher, or a relief pitcher who follows him, the pinch-hitter is listed. But not the relievers. They are shown only in the pitching recap. Simply put, they've disappeared from the traditional recap. Lord only knows how these agate masters will work complicated double switches during extra-inning games into the boxscore. But the days of being able to read the boxscore and discern the events of the game appear to be gone the way of the four-man rotation.

Why has this been done? Insiders tell me it's a space-saving measure. All those lines add up to enough room for an extra brief or a slightly larger photograph. And the way the A.L. and N.L. recaps are laid out, it allows the page to look nicer. The boxes are all about the same length and the stories approximately the same number of words. Remember the old New York Times slogan -- "All the news that's fit to print"? It's as if The Sun has adopted a new mantra: "All the news that fits, we print."

Every baseball fan, every roto geek, every kid who ever raced to see the morning paper before leaving for school should be outraged at this cheap tactic. But it's not surprising. A few years ago, The Sun shrunk the boxscores so they would better fit the page design. Now it's happened again.

I usually don't vent at my media brethren. Stone-throwing ain't my style. But when I called the paper to complain -- as a loyal home delivery subscriber, not a reporter -- I got the big brush-off. Yes, I was told, they've gotten complaints. No, I was told, it probably won't be changed. Thanks, I was told, for sharing my opinion.

Something tells me a deluge of calls might have an impact. Just don't try to find the number for the ombudsman -- the role The Sun turned into the "reader representative." Turns out it was discontinued a few months back in anothe wave of changes that are supposed to benefit the paper.

Lonely, solitary folks

Tue, 18 Mar 2008 20:36:09 GMT

FORT LAUDERDALE, Fla. -- Not so long ago, the entrance to the players' parking lot at Fort Lauderdale Stadium was crammed with people at 7:30 a.m., when players started arriving for a day's work at the Baltimore Orioles' spring camp.

Now, on a good day, you'll see -- at best -- a handful of people, clutching looseleaf binders fill with baseball cards or other items in search of autographs. And when did getting autographs become the exclusive domain of middle-aged white guys? What became of the kids?

Apparently, the national media and the local media types aren't the only ones who figure the Birds will have a rough go at it this season. I'm not jumping on the 100-loss bandwagon, since I believe it's incredibly difficult for a team to lose 100 games in this era. But we're in for a long summer.

Fans are also showing their indifference, maybe because they're tired of too many losing seasons, and maybe because they don't see enough starpower to warrant their time seeking signatures.

Family Fun - Mora, Mora, Mora (Mora, Mora, Mora)

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 21:39:20 GMT

FORT LAUDERDALE, Fla. -- One of the nicest parts of Orioles spring training is watching the interaction between players and their families. In the more relaxed setting of Fort Lauderdale Stadium, players and their girlfriends, wives, kids and relatives interact a lot more openly than at Camden Yards, where they are held in a special waiting area until players are ready and dressed after a game.

Before Sunday's 11-3 rout of the Washington Nationals was done, third baseman Melvin Mora was already on the lookout for his clan. And when you're looking for six kids, you don't have to look too far.

Still in uniform, Mora emerged from the clubhouse while his six kids (including those adorable quintuplets) rounded the corner. One by one the kids spied their daddy. "Papi," they squealed with delight. "Daddy," yelled one. Soon, Mora was engulfed in a mass hug, with the proud papa in the middle eating it all up.

Mora's family is one of the fun things about covering the Orioles. The quints dress alike -- Sunday saw the two boys in orange polos with white, black and red stripes; the girls were adorned in pink sun dresses with clear, plastic, purple sandals -- making finding them in a crowd a little easier.

I joked with Mora in the clubhouse after the reunion that he's almost got his own team filled out. "The girls are better than the boys," he smiled. Obviously, they take after their dad. But based on the spirited game of tag I witnessed -- with the Mora kids dominating -- the boys cold hold their own.

Retriever Pride

Sat, 15 Mar 2008 21:43:51 GMT

While I've always been proud to be an alumni of UMBC, that pride has come with a caveat: explaining the acronym to people staring blankly, not quite sure how a school with "University of Maryland" in its name is not affiliated with its big brother in College Park. (Of course, it once was -- when I graduated in 1982, I received a diploma from Maryland, since the Catonsville campus was still considered a satellite site.)

But today, sitting in Champps American in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., (shameless plug, but a great place), I burst with pride when my Retrievers beat Hartford for their first America East conference tournament title and an automatic bid into the NCAA tournament -- also a first for the good folks at what I used to know as Loop Road.

I can only imagine the halftime speech by coach Randy Monroe. He probably reminded his Retrievers about that 20-point second-half lead they squandered earlier this season, though they prevailed at the end. He probably reminded them that starting strong meant nothing -- it's how you finish that sticks in folks' minds. And he no doubt pointed out that after a long season full of adversity, 20 minutes of hard-nosed basketball was all that stood between his team and immortality.

If the pictures on ESPN2 were a fair indication, the RAC Arena was rocking. I've covered UMBC basketball for almost eight years, and I've seen some dreadful games in an empty arena. This year, the vibe was different. An infusion of transfer talent and point guard Jay Greene, who plays like a 7-footer in the heart and guts departments, made a difference. Even when injuries forced Monroe to go with a six-man rotation a few weeks ago, the Retrievers didn't wilt.

Seeing the unbridled joy of Monroe cutting down the net, seeing the thrill on Greene's face as he played to the crowd in the final minutes, was enough to bring tears to my eyes. My waiter, who noticed me dabbing my peepers, congratulated me -- after asking lots of questions about UMBC throughout the game.

It's going to be like that for the next week or so -- people asking about the strange acromyn that defines the Retrievers. Good for UMBC, since the answer will give a damn fine university an opportunity to explain who it is and what happens there. Sleepy little Catonsville just got a little less sleepy.

Enjoy the accomplishment, Retrievers. I think you'll be rewarded with a 13 or 14 seed, and a matchup against a legacy program in the first round. I don't know if you'll luck out and get to the Washington, D.C., subregional, but that would be a great boon for your families and your fans.

This alum -- who has to be unbiased most times he sets foot on campus -- is bursting with pride tonight. Maybe it's better that I watched the game in a bar, where fist pumping and "Yeah Baby!" is allowed.

And while we're on the subject of basketball in Baltimore and the surrounding area, remember this: UMBC and Mt. St. Mary's are gong dancing on the men's side. They will be joined by either Copping State or Morgan State from the MEAC. Coppin's women qualified for the women's tournament this afternoon.

Forget about the Terps and the NIT. It's good to be a Baltimore basketball fan today.

Warm Chocolatetown thoughts

Sun, 24 Feb 2008 16:27:50 GMT

Spending the weekend in Hershey, Pa., watching one of the American Hockey League's stellar franchises. If you've got the opportunity to get up to Giant Center for a game, by all means do it! It's a wonderful venue and the action on the ice is pretty good, too.

Last night's game, of course, was not one of the Bears' better performances. They stormed to a 3-0 lead in the first period, then allowed the Philadelphia Phantoms to reel off five unanswered goals. No killer instinct, playing back on their heels from the second period's start, trying to be too fancy with the puck -- just the kind of stuff that drives coaches nuts.

Walking around Giant Center last night made me long for the Bears' former Chocolatetown home, Hersheypark Arena. The old barn is still there, on the fringe of the amusement park, and hosted a district wrestling tournament this weekend. Oddly, Friday's wintry mix forced basketball tournament action at Giant Center to be postponed, but not wrestling at Hersheypark Arena. In other words, not all things that are newer are better!

Hersheypark Arena is, was and always will be my favorite place to watch a hockey game. The seats rose from the ice in one continuous deck, creating an intimate venue. Bad seats? Not a one. You could sit in the highest seat, as far away from the ice as possible, and still have a bird's eye view. If you were lucky enough to have seats next to the benches, you might be sitting next to a team's backup goalie, who had to sit on a folding chair in the runway from the dressing rooms because bench space was at a premium.

And then there are the Hershey fans. No offense to the few thousand die-hards who always showed up to see the Clippers, Skipjacks and Bandits, but the chocolate farmers know puck. They're among the best fans in any sport I've ever encountered, especially when it comes to the subtleties of the game. From the opening faceoff to the final horn, they're totally into what's happening on the ice. That hasn't changed since the Bears switched buildings. But I still miss the old barn.

Hershey is also the site of two of the funniest sports lines I've ever heard -- one I witnessed, one was passed along to me from a friend.

Years ago, while waiting in the lobby of Hersheypark Arena for tickets that had been left for me and some friends, one of the chocolate farmers sauntered in. He must have been about 350 pounds, dressed in overalls over a slightly-too-small Bears jersey. He took one look at the marquee advertising that evening's Skipjacks-Bears clash and uttered these now famous words: "What the hell is a Skipjack?" Only when he said it, it came out "Skeeeeep-jayyyyyyck."

Then there was the time, years ago, that some of my friends came to Hershey to see the Clippers play. At Hersheypark Arena, you either ponied up extra money for preferred parking or parked and hiked from the amusement park lots. But there wasn't really a clear demarkation of what started and ended and where. So my buddies drive in, breeze past the entrance to the preferred lot and park near the door. Mind you, this upsets the delicate balance of all things in the universe, and the lot attendant quickly rushed to them -- they were now out of the car and walking to the front entrance -- pointing out their faux pas.

"Excuse me, but that's preferred parking," the lot guy said.

Never skipping a beat, my friend replied, "Well, I prefer to park there," and into the arena he went.

Priceless.

Word association ...

Sun, 17 Feb 2008 20:31:41 GMT

As we deal with chilly temperatures, forecasts of wintry mixes and wonder whether Home Depot will still have shovels and salt, I offer these warm thoughts:

The four most wonderful words in the English language: Pitchers and catchers report.

The three most wonderful words in the English language: Full squad workout.

The two most wonderful words in the English language: Play ball!

Pardon the interruption ...

Sat, 09 Feb 2008 20:21:37 GMT

News flash ...

Tony Kornheister -- yes, the ESPN chatmaster, himself -- is sitting in the RAC Arena at UMBC right this very minute. If you catch this afternoon's Binghamton-UMBC game on MASN, you'll probably see him. Five seats in from the aisle, right behind the bench.

This isn't really news. Kornheiser is a regular whenever the Bearcats visit UMBC. He's a Binghamton alum, and this is one of the closest visits of his alma mater to his D.C. base of operations.

What's news is that -- for the first time in memory -- he isn't hiding under a ballcap pulled down over his mostly shiny dome. And -- you might want to sit down for this -- he's not talking. His mouth is closed. Has been for about five minutes. Ne nods to his friends in conversation, but says nothing. This may be a first.

I wonder if he has noticed the kids in the UMBC student section, who are armed with placards of Kornheiser's face on tongue depressors, much like the faux faces he will often dons on his ESPN show.

Update -- he opened his mouth.To yawn. Now it's closed again. Alert the Guinness Book of World Records folks.

Hey, Rocket, I triple-dog-dare you to tell the truth!

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 18:17:37 GMT

The reason most people aren't buying the drivel that Roger Clemens is selling isn't because he's gotten bad public relations advice or because the most dominant pitcher of my generation has seemingly said all the wrong things at all the wrong times (for the record, both are true).

The reason people don't believe Clemens' vehement denials that -- despite what his former trainer has told federal authorities and Major League Baseball fact-finder George Mitchell -- that he's never used steroids or performance enhancing substances is because Clemens doesn't have a good track record at telling the truth.

I've got personal experience on this subject.

Back in 1993, when I was in my first season covering the Orioles for the AP, Clemens showed up in the Red Sox clubhouse at Camden Yards one Monday with his pitching hand bandaged. Turns out he had been bitten by a dog. And when a star pitcher gets bitten by a dog, it's news (even though every reporter has been told that "dog bites man" is not a legitimate story).

Here's the skinny as Clemens gave it to us that August afternoon. He was riding down Interstate 83 at 6:30 a.m., when he spied a dog on the highway. He pulled off, assuming the dog had been hit, and wanted to move the injured animal to the side of the road. In that process, he was bitten on the right thumb. He went to Johns Hopkins Hospital for treatment, received a tetanus shot, but stitches were not required. The dog was put down and later tests for rabies came back begative.

As far as Clemens was concerned, that was the end of the story. Especially since he wasn't going to miss his next start in the rotation.

When the reporters gathered around him started peppering him with questions, the likeable, animal-loving Clemens growled and snarled like a mangy mutt. When I asked him what I felt was a logical question -- what, pray tell, was he doing driving on I-83, returning to the team hotel at 6:30 a.m.? -- "The Rocket" abruptly ended the interview. He walked away, muttering something about how he had tried to be forthcoming only to be (if you'll pardon the expression) bitten in the backside.

Sound familiar? Everyone's against Roger. Roger's tried to be truthful, but no one believes him. Roger is forthcoming, but Roger gets burned. Funny how the same scenario is now being repeated. And if you think he's going to stand in front of a congressional hearing next month, think again. I'll bet he comes up with some excuse -- probably proffered by his smooth-talking lawyer, Rusty Hardin -- to bail out of the hearing. My money is on the fact that, since he's suing his former trainer for besmirching his character, Clemens isn't at liberty to answer questions concerning a case currently under litigation.

It's sad, but then again, I guess you can't teach an old dog new tricks, can you?

Say what?

Sat, 05 Jan 2008 21:59:13 GMT

One of the nicest things about covering college basketball is those arenas where you get to sit right on the court. Sadly, some programs have moved the media into the end zones (or worse vantage points). But when you're courtside -- as I was at Loyola for the Greyhounds' 69-67 loss to Fairfield on Friday night -- you get up close and personal with coaches and players. In most arenas, reporters are seated on the sideline opposite the benches; at Rietz Arena, you're between the opposing teams.

Which is how I got to hear possibly the funniest line from a college basketball coach in a while.

During the first half, Fairfield guard Jonathan Han was having trouble getting through a double team on the press. Every time he tried to dribble over midcourt, two Loyola players would collapse on him. At one point, Han fought through the double team, elbows flying. We're talking about a kid who's listed at 6-foot-0 and maybe generously listed at 160 pounds. He's lanky, wears a headband around a cop of hair and looks a little like a Q-tip dribbling a basketball.

Well, Han made a shot and, while running up court, started taunting the defenders who hadn't stopped him. Just the usual trash-talking, arm-waving and the like.

To which Fairfield coach Ed Cooley said -- to his own player, no less -- as Han jogged by the bench:

"You may look like Tarzan, but you're playing like Jane."

Good one, coach!

One from Column A or one from Column B?

Tue, 01 Jan 2008 00:08:25 GMT

In the results-oriented world that is the modern-day NFL, Brian Billick's deficiencies as an offensive guru finally caught up with him. That's why Steve Bisciotti reconsidered and reversed his decision to keep Billick, turning New Year's Eve into a frenzy of speculation following the coach's firing.

Only time will tell if it was a good move. Should the Ravens merely accept someone else's recycled castoff, it's a step in the wrong direction. The move was made to shake things up, and is obviously only the first step in what will no doube be an active offseason. By the time the Ravens convene at McDaniel College next summer, they might have also bid adieu to Steve McNair, Mike Flynn, Ray Lewis, Terrell Suggs, Jonathan Ogden and/or others.

My gut says one of two things happens -- and neither of them involve hiring a "flavor of the month" type. After all, that's what got them into trouble with Billick in the first place. Yes, he won a Super Bowl, and we'll be forever grateful. But he never delivered on his promise as an offensive genius. In the end, it cost him his job. Not his ego. Not his insistence that he call the plays. Not the injuries.

So, where do the Ravens go from here?

They could promote from within, rewarding defensive coordinator Rex Ryan with his first head coaching position. That would allow for consistency -- as Ryan would no doubt keep some of the coaching staff intact -- and send a message telling the Ravens that Bischotti thought the messenger and not the message needed to be changed. After all, defense is what the franchise is built upon. Even in this year's struggles, the defense kept the Ravens in games, as opposed to the offense getting them within striking distance.

Or they could go outside of the system and hire an established NFL coach. Bill Cowher comes to mind, and his no-nonsense style would be a polar opposite of Billick's tenure. The added bonus, of course, is that the notion of Cowher motoring eastbound on Interstate 70 would annoy the bejeezums out of those black-and-gold-clad Steelers fans who seemed to be everywhere at M&T Bank Stadium on Sunday. Silent, yet; but still everywhere.

My guess is that the Ravens will act swiftly and Bisciotti will be decisive, knowing that his decision will put a stamp on the team's offseason machinations.

Billick's firing is sad only because it makes him the fall guy for an underperforming bunch of players who sleepwalked through the second half of a 5-11 campaign. The injuries hurt, but when you're forced to dress an offensive tackle as a tight end, and to dip deep into your practice squad for reinforcements, the problem obviously isn't the coach or the plays he's calling.

Thanks for the hard work and the dedication to the franchise, Brian. You deserved a better fate. Even if all coaches are hired to be fired, it's not fair to gloss over a good coach's achievements in the rush to see who will replace him.

The "new" math

Sun, 23 Dec 2007 04:18:00 GMT

So, let me see if I've got this straight ...

UMBC beats American in men's basketball.

American beats Maryland.

Therefore, by the commutative theory of relativity -- or some such nonsense, learned in third grade and long since banished to the far reaches of my cluttered brain -- UMBC can not only hang with its bigger brother from College Park, but thoroughly thump its shell.

Still not convinced? Look at this afternoon's UMBC thrashing of Hampton, a team that hung around with Maryland for most of a game (well, before things in the la-ti-da non-conference side of the GaryLand schedule went south). Hampton was barely beated by the Terps and then routed by the Retrievers.

Well, as much of a rout as it can be when you're down to nine healthy players, two of whom rarely play, except in the waning seconds of blowouts. Coach Randy Monroe deserves kudos for his team's gut-check victory over the Pirates.

A lesson in "spin"

Sat, 15 Dec 2007 17:36:00 GMT

In the wake of the Mitchell report on steroid use in Major League Baseball, I thought it might be appropriate to consider the public relations spin that has been in process since the document's Thursday release.

Between stints in newspapers and publishing, I spent 10 years as a media relations executive, public relations writer and interviewing coach in the health care and higher education arenas. For that reason, I look a little differently at the aftermath.

In crisis communications -- i.e., when something in your organization goes wrong (especially if you're to blame), the s--- hits the fan and you know people are gonna come looking for responses -- there are several accepted steps in the response protocol:

1. Acknowledge your mistake.

2. Accept the blame.

3. Explain how the mistake happened.

4. Tell how you will act to make sure it never happens again.

5. Apologize to your constituency, reinforcing the fact that you're culpable for the mistake/error.

6. If any confusion exists, repeat steps 1-5.

With the possible exception of a couple of Orioles (one past, one present) and journeyman backup catcher Gary Bennett -- who told The Washington Post, "I can only speak for myself. It's the truth, so I thought I should say so." -- no one seems to have grasped the obvious.

Baseball fans are infinitely forgiving. The White (er, Black) Sox throw the 1919 series, are banned, then become cult heros and movie fodder. Baseball keeps African Americans out of the game until the early 1950s, and now we laud the game for its diversity. Work stoppages? We'll come back in droves when the game is resumed. Cancel a World Series in 1994? It's OK, we'll focus on Cal Ripken's pursuit of the ironman record, then the McGwire/Sosa chase of Roger Maris' hallowed 61* mark. It's almost like when you slap a baseball fan across the face, he asks for another whack. Thank you, sir, may I have another?

So pay close attention to the mumblings and rumblings that will follow in the wake of Mitchell's report. Roger Clemens' attorney denies that his client should be connected to the report, pointing out that Roger passed all tests administered. He fails to note, however, that tests can be beaten, that players sometimes have advanced knowledge of when they'll be tested (until the most recent regimen of post-Congressional follies testing) and that not being caught doesn't prove you never engaged in prohibited behaviors.

Funny, when David Justice blares out that he wants Clemens and others to take the report to task no one notices that he's merely shifting the focus elsewhere. Why doesn't Justice confront the accusations against himself in a forceful manner?

The saddest part of the post-Mitchell madness is that we've introduced another word into the vocabulary, one that retains an Orioles connection to this forgettable era of performance enhancing substances. Now, you can "Bigbie" a friend, of be "Bigbied" by a pal. Larry Bigbie, probably fearing for his own livelihood before he high-tailed it to Japan for the upcoming season, threw ex-O's teammate Brian Roberts (and former minor-league next-locker-neighbor Jack Cust) under the proverbial bus, offering Mitchell uncorroborated, second-hand, heresay accounts of alleged use of banned substances. Guess that means Bigbie won't be walking around his former Brewer's Hill haunts like a king anytime soon.

Yes, a 409-page report with a lot of supporting photocopies of checks and delivery slips takes a while to digest. But once that process is over, then public hue and cry usually follow. In this case, I expected a lot more condemnations, denials and criticism.

Instead, we've gotten David Segui -- who replaces Kevin Bacon in the multiple-degrees version of baseball's steroid saga (I can connect player A to steroids in x steps, and they all end with Segui) -- standing up for Roberts, saying, essentially, that Bigbie threw him to the wolves (and, that Segui's then-pre-teen son, and not Roberts, lunched with Bigbie, Segui and the New York Mets clubhouse guy who was the major supplier, but that's another whole rant in the making).

Segui stood up, took his own medicine (after taking some banned substances) and acknowledged his behavior. Like him or not, Jay Gibbons faced the music and accepted his punishment. Maybe Gibbons saw the debacle that was Rafael Palmeiro and decided he didn't want that to be people's lasting memory of him. A few of the players involved in this sordid mess understand how to react. The others? Maybe we'll find, 20 years and who knows how many baseball scandals from now, that steroids and HGH have an effect on both short- and long-term memory.