So I went and saw the Bats play the Durham Bulls on Friday and Saturday Night. Fellow Red Reporter Gray joined Braves Fan Kurt and me on Friday night for Hobbs' first professional appearance in front of the home folks. On Saturday, I went with a larger group to watch HIM pitch. I have lots of thoughts from the two nights and a few pics (I'm terrible with cameras--fair warning). It was a busy weekend in Reds fandom. Hobbs tearing through town (You haven't lived until you've seen the JumboTron flash  "SLG%: 1.182"), The Java Man, Marcus McBeth napping in the dugout like a condemned man, HIM, Joey Votto, the Team Lassie, and the ever comatose Mark Bellhorn. Go here for the first installment of Hobbs

Up today is David Dewitt Bailey, Jr. AKA Homer AKA [TBD] AKA [TBA]

While the weather was beautiful on Friday night, Saturday in the Triangle was overcast and threatening all day. I woke nervous that the game would be cancelled and that I'd miss my chance at seeing the most anticipated Reds pitching prospect in my fandom. I had been telling tall tales to my friends about Homer for a solid month before the game. I kept reciting to Braves Fan Kurt Homer's stats in Louisville this year like the Rain Man. Kurt was nice enough to feign enthusiasm, but he's a skeptic by nature and probably just wanted me to shut up. I tend to buy him beer when he placates my Reds fandom, however. Cunning creatures, Braves fans.

My friend Ashley actually bought the tickets for Saturday's game and didn't notice that the game time had been moved up to 6:30 pm until about 5 that afternoon. When she called to tell me, I kept a calm facade* but I felt sick that I might miss watching Homer's pregame warm-up. Traffic and parking were insane. I had been boasting that I knew a back route to the DBAP that would help us beat the plebes. I was wrong. That's not fair; let me rephrase that: WOW, WAS I MFING WRONG. It took us 15 minutes to park once we got to the DBAP; I had to fight the urge to sprint out of the parking garage, toppling feckless youths and vaulting little leaguers. We apparently met up with a few more friends at the gate; I didn't realize they were there until about the 3rd inning. (Which, incidentally, is also the moment I realized I had not purchased any alcoholic beverage yet, obliterating my previous mark for abstemiousness of 6 min., 17 sec set at the 2001 Louisiana State Fencing Jamboree.)

I left my group at the gate and waded through the mass of smelly humanity as quickly as I could towards the left field stands. And there he was. HIM:

First Impressions: tall, lean, an enticing bouquet, rich color, stong legs, not strongly acidic; pronounced notes of chocolate, almond, and oak. A lingering note of stoicism. Tigrmetrics. Seriously, my most vivid first impression was that he seemed incredibly relaxed and calm, but there was no wasted body movement. He didn't slouch or walk around the mound or breath into his hands. Total machine.

I began gushing. I told Homer that we were all simply thrilled that he'd deigned to perform tonight. How utterly utter it was of him, to be sure. He blushed and waved off my blandishments with his gloved hand. The honor was all his he intimated. I managed to capture his demurral :

After a spell, I noticed that I was only one among a number of fans wearing Reds jerseys or apparel watching Homer warm up. Indeed, there was much more of a Reds fan presence there on Saturday than on Friday. My Jason Larucifer shirt prompted a number of Reds fans to approach me laughing or look at me sourly (obviously French, or as my sister says it "Frainch"). All with whom I spoke had come to see Homer and almost all thought that we'd get to witness his last start in the minor leagues--an event we'd later tell our kids about or, in my case, my paternity suit lawyers. As Homer finished his warm-up and walked back toward the dugout, a scout who had been watching him very closely and trying to talk to the Bats pitching coach, yelled "See you next month in Cincinnati!" This old dude next to me yelped and we high-fived. A flawless high five, too. You guys are the dorks; not me. Homer putting his shitty jacket on:

The Bats spotted Homer 2 runs in the top of the first courtesy of a Pedro Lopez walk and a headstrong horse that Hobbs thought needed breaking. (Lopez later hit one of the most mammoth yacks I've ever seen, clearing the famous bull atop the Blue Monster in left field by about 15 feet).

Then Homer came out........and absolutely sucked. His velocity was topping out at about 91 (though he did throw a 94 fastball once in the first), and no hitter seemed fooled by his off-speed stuff. Indeed, I became convinced in first three innings that he must be tipping his off-speed pitches because the Bulls appeared to be anticipating his curve ball. My friends, because they're my friends, immediately began making fun of me. After Valendia hit a 2-run jack with no outs, my friend MoFo (Asstro's fan) told the people behind me to make sure that I didn't try to throw myself off the top of stadium before she got back from the concession stand with a glass of hemlock. I foolishly said that I would let her draw a mark on my face with blue sharpie for each baserunner Homer allowed. Hmmm. One of my better ideas. Homer's icy stare:

The good news is he settled down and his velocity rose steadily through the game, as did his strikeouts, and his enthusiasm. I actually forgot at the time that he might have felt unprepared in the first because of the rushed start time. His final pitch was a 97mph fastball that Dustan Mohr didn't even bother to swing at. The best news: Homer has an absolutely fluid motion: no hitch, no rock, no changing arm slots. Braves Fan Kurt was also impressed with how consistent his motion was when pitching from the stretch as well.

I'm a moron so most of the rest of the pictures I took on Saturday didn't come out because I screwed up the light setting. Grrrr. I did get a few more interesting things, that I'll post in an odds'n'ends diary tomorrow if it's okay with sukr. As a n00b, I defer to his veteran presence.

On a last note, here's Todd Coffey chewing the fat with Phil Dumatrait on Friday night:

If you lean in real close to your monitor, you can still hear me screaming GET AWAY FROM HIM. STAY AWAY FROM HIM. RUN, PHIL, FUCKING RUUUUNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*complete lie