Introducing: The Friday Friar

A weekly introspective on one of the most endearingly unsuccessful teams in sports. One week’s worth of games, one email, one slice of perspective on the state of the San Diego Padres.

First Things First: WTF is This?

My son turned one last month. Or I guess it's been two months. Who knows? It's all been a blur—the sleepless nights, the bottle schedules, the horrifying hiccup fits that are apparently totally normal (according to several texts with our doctor). But tangled up in this first-year knot was an existential crisis.

I always assumed by the time I had kids I would have life pretty figured out. I'd have a serious career, a serious lifestyle, and a serious identity—one definitely devoid of childish temper tantrums about my beloved San Diego Padres. But somewhere between Xander Bogaerts’ 199th inning-ending double play and our inability to score a single run at home, I confronted some questions about my life I didn't see coming. Is this sustainable? Can I be both a dad and an obsessed, pathetic sports fan? When will this end?

Then, somewhere between my 13th and 14th cup of coffee, I realized something: It will never end. And that is exactly the point. It’s not about rings, wins, or result-based outcomes—it’s about the dialogue. And by dialogue, I mean hours and hours (and hours) of complaining about our favorite baseball team and whether or not they’ll ever win a championship. God forbid they ever win, because what would we all talk about then? That’s right, we’d simply start over again.

So maybe one day I’ll wear a suit to work and carry important documents in my briefcase, but I’m going to leave some room for my Padres baggage. I’ll neatly fold my memories of Trevor Hoffman’s devastating change-up, Brian Giles’ bleached hair, and whatever the hell happened to Khalil Greene next to my calculator. Then I’ll pass that baggage off to my son. 

Maybe that’s what this newsletter is, a reminder that life is about the silly things we care about. Maybe sports are no different than art, and the beauty is in the interpretation. Or maybe we all just need something to talk about. Because without the dialogue, the complaining, the baggage—life would be really, really boring.

Okay, back to the question in the headline: WTF is this?

This is The Friday Friar—a weekly introspective about one of the most unpopular, unsuccessful teams in sports. One week’s worth of games, one email, one slice of perspective on the state of the San Diego Padres. 

You can enjoy it every Friday with your morning coffee. Why Friday? Because you’ll be in a better mood when you read it. Why launch this exactly 79 games into the season? Because now or never, baby.

If you’ve made it this far (into both the newsletter and your Padres fandom), sorry for the uphill climb. Here’s what I’m thinking for this week:

Manny Machado Might Be An Eternal Antagonist

Man oh man oh manny. And not in the Don Orsillo voice. In more of a resigned, subdued, “I shouldn’t have to worry about this guy” kind of voice. When he arrived in 2019, it was the dawn of a new era in San Diego. He was an all-star, a gold glover, a bonafide superstar that was seemingly hoodwinked into signing with…us???

I’ll be the first to say it: It’s been a really fun ride. Manny is freaking good. His presence at 3rd base alone makes us a swaggier organization. The way he blows bubbles in the box. The way his swing is the only right-handed nomination for Prettiest in Baseball. The way he nonchalantly swipes ferocious ground balls and fires darts to first base from every possible arm angle. I mean seriously, it’s as if he could never use the same arm angle twice in a row, because that would be very uncool. Same goes for his cleats. Also his arm sleeve. You get it.

Manny has absolutely embraced his role as the leader of this team. He deserves credit for that. He wants the spotlight, he wants the responsibility, he wants to build something special in San Diego. I’m just not sure he understands how. And that’s not even my biggest concern. 

What keeps me up at night is the idea that Manny Machado was designed by the baseball gods as a worthy, beatable villain for the rest of the league.

Stick with me here. In “The Sandlot,” there’s an iconic scene where our scrappy protagonists are confronted by a more polished, uniformed group of players that are looking to punch down on some lesser competition. These bullies are practically nameless, faceless devices for our beloved Benny the Jet and Smalls to conquer. It’s not even the climax of the movie. 

Manny in a past life, probably.

Like Machado, these kids were minted by the institution of baseball. They invited the Sandlot boys to their home field—intending to wield all of their privileged training and talent against a group of misfits playing for nothing other than a love of the game. We’ve all seen the movie. It doesn’t go well for the bullies.

Manny carried us to a nice playoff run in 2020. Then again in 2022. But looking back, it still feels like the sexy, star-studded Padres were plotted perfectly at the end of a more divine, magical journey for the Dodgers and the Phillies. “They took down Manny Machado and the dangerous Padres to get here,” says any and all media.

Baseball is a bizarre, spiritual experience of a spot. There’s no scientific way to win. Core strategies are agreed upon, but the magic appears on the margins. It can’t be forced (don’t get me started on the Swag Chain). I genuinely believe that Manny is searching for answers, I just fear he doesn’t know where to look. I have some ideas though:

Embrace the Villain Role

I don’t need to see Manny putting his arm around the guy that just roped a 2-run triple to put us behind. I don’t need him to preach patience to the media when asked about losses. I don’t even really need him to be nice to his teammates. Hot take: His blowup on Fernando 3 years ago was a classic good idea / bad execution situation. Get mad. Demand greatness. Press a little. Maybe a diamond will pop out. Or better yet, a ring.

Take the Reformed Bully Route

It doesn’t happen for the rich little leaguers in the Sandlot, but a tried-and-true movie trope is when a flawed character has a change of heart—recognizing their mistakes and joining the good guys. I don’t think Manny is a bully, per se. But I do think his annoyance with the media for asking very reasonable questions skews in that direction. Maybe it’s time to get a little self-reflective and shift the vibes. 

Just Focus on Being Manny

This is likely the answer. Manny might one day find his footing as a leader, but for now he’s gotta get back to the basics. He’s 31 years old. Why does it feel like we’re already riding out the ugly years of his contract? I’m going to call it self-inflicted. Like I mentioned earlier, he has embraced the expectations that have come with his arrival. But “Hall of Fame Third Baseman” and the “Leader of a World Series Contender” are two completely different jobs. 

So let’s just focus on the first one—reminding the rest of the league that you should get a little sweaty when Manny digs in. The rest will work itself out. There’s plenty of precedence in the way of amazing players winning World Series Championships without being the leader of their team. Manny Ramirez with the Red Sox (Big Papi), Alex Rodriguez with the Yankees (Jeter), Juan Soto with the Nationals (Max Scherzer), Pablo Sandoval with the Giants (Bumgarner)—all quirky in their own way, all making massive impacts on championship winning teams.

I would welcome a more mercurial version of Manny going forward. Get him out of the spotlight and into the shadows, like Batman in The Dark Knight Rises. Full vigilante mode, sucking the soul out of starting pitchers with head-spinning efficiency. Tatis can be Robin, Schildt can be…Alfred? It doesn’t matter, as long as he sheds his desire to lead and replaces it with an insatiable hunger to win.

With 3,650 days and a bajillion (don’t fact check that) dollars left on his contract, I have all the faith in the world that he’ll find this happy medium. Then he might suck again for a while. Then he might hit like 6 home runs in 4 games. Then he’ll get too excited and buy, like, an expansion dodgeball franchise and start striking out a bunch. Then all the sudden he’ll have 3,000 career hits. Who knows.

And hey, that’s okay. Because we need something to talk about.

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