Willingham came back from his suspension quite motivated. (SF Chronicle)
Hours after he was suspended by Major League Baseball, Willingham took the field Monday night and made a statement to anyone who thought such a penalty would get him down.
He enjoyed his most productive game as an Athletic, driving in five runs in a 7-2 victory over the Rangers. The right-handed batter hit a three-run homer off lefty C.J. Wilson and a bases-loaded single off righty Ryan Tucker, collecting half of the A's four hits.
In 101 games in Seattle, Bradley, who turned 33 last month, batted .209. Yes, he was going to get along with manager Eric Wedge this time. Yes, he was going to get help for his anger issues. Yes, he was going to stay on the field. Yes, he was a handful or two.
And yet, in a team environment and having chosen a very public life, Bradley was barely tolerable when he was healthy and hitting. As baseball went, hitting was his redeemable quality, and sometimes he did it well.
Probably, his moods and behavior were not his choices, and that’s why I usually viewed Bradley sympathetically. In so many areas of his life, he seemed to seek the fight. Likely, before it came to him.
Ryane Clowe out for game 6, "flu-like symptoms" (CSN Bay Area)
Cal football: COLD BLOODED! (NY Daily News)
"CBS declined to match Fox's offer," an industry source said Monday night. "They let Johnson's people know today."
Johnson now moves to Fox as an NFL and Pac-12 football play-by-play man.
A nice Posnanski blog post about aging (Joe Blog)
This the trouble with age. Nobody tells you that you are too old to do something. It just happens. It's like Chris Rock told my friend Scott Raab in a typically brilliant line about Christian Slater: "I remember I used to see Christian Slater movies all the time. One day they just stopped making 'em. He didn't get a memo. No one passes you a note."
That's how it goes with age too. No memos. No notes. One day, you simply find that you cannot run as fast, cannot jump as high, cannot react as quickly, cannot sprint without sparks of pain flying off your left knee. There comes a day when you are in the car, going somewhere, and suddenly you think: "Wait, where am I going?" There comes a day for most of us -- not all of us, but most of us -- when the music starts sounding the same (and too loud), when the fashions stop making any sense to us, when the agony of the morning after outflanks the thrill of the night before. One minute you're singing how you hope you die before you get old. The next minute you're playing halftime at the Super Bowl. Nobody tells you it's going to happen.
Not sure if this has been linked, but a semi-new Hyperbole and a Half. (Hyperbole and a Half)
She's also writing a book!