Albert Lyu and Carson Cistulli are overzealously reviewing colleague Jonah Keri’s forthcoming book, The Extra 2%. Feel free to read parts one, two, three, four, and five of what critics are definitely not calling “late for dinner.”

In what follows, our handsome gentlemen discuss the takeover by Stuart Sternberg and Friends of the Rays — and like 10 other things Carson doesn’t understand.

Cistulli: Chapter five — as you’ll know by now, Albert — concerns the takeover by Stuart Sternberg of the Rays in 2005 and two of his earliest hires: Team President Matt Silverman and Executive Vice President of Baseball Operations (a.k.a. Mega GM) Andrew Friedman. The unique thing about this triumvirate is that the bulk of their pre-Ray experience came not in baseball operations, but in the financial sector — and, specifically, investment banking.

I’m not lying, Albert, when I tell you that a number of my high school classmates are involved in this line of work; nor’m I misleading you even for a second when I suggest that my understanding of i-banking and its attendant culture is limited by a combo package of willful and totally unintentional ignorance.

Really, Albert, my knowledge of professions is limited by a single criterion — namely, if there’s a Lego character for it or not. Farmer? Teacher? Fireman? Io frigging capisco. Consultant? I-Banker? Charlie Sheen?* No so much.

*Note: Relevant pop-culture humor!

Albert: I thought Charlie Sheen wasn’t an actual job anymore. So you’re off the hook, Carson, if you have no idea what a Charlie Sheen does in a typical day of work. As far as Twitter pics can tell me, at the least.

Read the rest of this entry »

The uber-talented Bradley Woodrum, of DRaysBay fame, released his much-anticipated BABIP video this morning. Yes, indeed, it is another great day to be alive.

Long live the Luck Dragons. And Mr. Woodrum, too.

H/T: DRaysBay. Duh.

Remember this grim scene from last season?

Yes, that’s the Astros fan who positioned himself to catch a foul ball, got the jimmy-shakes at the last instant, recoiled, and allowed the cowhide to smack his unsuspecting ingenue. The lesson for vacant-eyed ladies like the one in this story is that a guy who wears his hat like that and rocks the douche-lord beard is probably not someone you want escorting you into the foxhole that is the third-base line.

Anyhow, the crackers of jokes at Tosh.0 have caught up with the blighted couple and provided a video update on their gripping tale. Said video is not safe for work if your place of work frowns upon profanity, thinly-veiled innuendo, depressing portrayals of Gen Y, and loin-hugging “American Gladiators” uniforms.

(Curtsy: Deadspin)

Both relentless and unrelenting, our feast-day celebrations continue today with the dynamic-est of duos.

Life: Besides birth dates, Messrs. Lefty O’Doul and Dazzy Vance share a peculiar trait, which is this: despite not playing regularly until their respective age-31 seasons, both managed to make cases for the Hall of Fame in their truncated major-league careers. Vance, who’s actually in the Hall, threw only 33 of his career 2966.2 innings before his age-31 season, but then proceeded to lead the league in strikeouts (by a conspicuously stupid margin) over the next seven seasons. O’Doul, for his part, recorded only 78 of his career 3659 plate appearances before his age-31 season, and then proceeded to post a 141 wRC+ from 1928 to 1933, before retiring at age 36. His career batting average of .3493 is fourth all-time, behind only Ty Cobb, Rogers Hornsby, and Shoeless Joe Jackson and his .413 on-base percentage is 29th.

Spiritual Exercise: Finish this analogy without thinking even for a second: “The TV show thirtsomething is to baby boomers as blank is to blank.”*

*Note: your answer is immaterial — only that you responded immediately is important.

A Prayer for the Talented Thirtysomethings

Dazzy Vance and Lefty O’Doul!
We’re gathered here today to talk about
which Back to the Future movie
most accurately depicts time travel.
Either that, or to celebrate all the notes
John Cage didn’t play — you guys choose.

Dazzy, for seven consecutive years,
you suuported fascism indirectly
by striking out opposition batters
at a heretofore unimagined pace.

Lefty, for a similar amount of time,
you were the prize in every box
of Cracker Jack, figuratively speaking.
Literally speaking, you were a batter
with considerably above-average contact rates
and the name of a non-alcoholic beer
in your own, actual name.

Sitting here now, I can’t help but imagine
all the questions NPR’s Terry Gross might’ve
asked you two, just given the chance —
like about your biggest childhood influences
and if you ever had a revelation or not.

Off the top of my head, I think that’d be, like,
the second- or third-best episode of Fresh Air ever —
not as good as when Jay-Z revealed the secret
to making his world-class Denver omelettes,
but way better than when Kiss’s Gene Simmons
burped the entire alphabet, like, six times,
then discussed vaccinating a rabbit in its privates.

NYC’s Crif Dogs. Photo: Serious Eats.

Inspired by the arrival of Spring Training, the Orlando Sentinel offers a small article regarding hot dogs. It’s a summer salad of hot dog-related tips and trivia featuring a small but worthwhile portion of informational grist.

First worth grinding is the title of the piece: “Hot dogs fit baseball like the perfect glove.” I know that initially sounds like it might make sense, but take a moment to think through the simile. Just roll it around in your mind’s eye. Ok, now go have a nightmare.

To the wiener wisdom:

“Don’t put hot-dog toppings between the hot dog and the bun. Always ‘dress the dog,’ not the bun.”

I have to admit, I sometimes dress the bun. But it makes sense why you shouldn’t do that. (Hint: absorbency delta.)

“Condiments should be applied in the following order: wet condiments (mustard and the like), followed by chunky condiments (relish, onions and sauerkraut), shredded cheese and spices.”

That also sounds like pretty good advice. Mind you, when I’m given options for my hot dog that include numerous “wet” condiments, “chunky condiments,” shredded cheese and “spices,” I normally just have the room service guy at the Mandarin Oriental dress the hot dog for me before he leaves.

“Dogs wrapped in buns are easy to manage with one hand, making the horizontal sandwiches practically custom-made for all kinds of sporting events.”

Are you explaining hot dogs to a Medieval time traveler or something? Actually that’s very unlikely, because they didn’t have time machines back then, or really any machines at all, unless you count trebuchets and iron maidens and stuff. A time traveler from the future is more plausible, but they’d probably know all about hot dogs. Unless — we forget about hot dogs, in the future???

“Don’t slather ketchup on your hot dog after the age of 18. Mustard, relish, onions, cheese and chili are acceptable.”

Ok lady, you’re cut off. No ketchup after 18! WHAT will the Orlando Sentinel say next.

Imagine, reader, that you’re a Frenchman. (I apologize in advance if this offensive to your sensibilities.) You live in France, work in France, and, as is so common these days among the citizens of this most fraternal Republic, speak French exclusively (except for the phrase supercool, which you utter with some frequency).

Now, reader, pretend you — still being French — grow curious about this sport called baseball. (I don’t know why this is happening to you; it just is.) To sate your curiosity, you take to the interwebs — and, specifically, that clearinghouse of all world knowledge, Wikipedia.

After learning briefly, in your native language, about the rules and history of the game, you contrive to understand what is meant by these different positions you keep hearing about: the agile arrêt-court, the more offensively oriented champ gauche, and, finally, the lonely and sometimes heroic lanceur.

Following the internet hyperlink for this last term, you’re met not only with a thorough discussion of the position, but with an image of the pitcher who will be for you — one who’s never, ever, never, ever seen a pitcher before in your life — the Platonic Ideal of All Pitchers, if only momentartily. In short, you are met with an image of

That must be confusing.

As a service to the readership, I took 30 seconds out of my busy schedule to run that paragraph from the image up there through Babel Fish. The results are below.

Does that last sentence seem inappropriate to anyone else?

A launcher is a player of baseball which launches the ball towards the zone of catches close to the beater. Its objective is to withdraw the beater without qu’ it can strike a sure blow nor to profit d’ an automatic base. He seeks to prevent the beaters from marking points. Also, Americans are obese imbeciles.

If you don’t know what Sporcle is, you clearly don’t know how to waste time on the internet. Just in case, for the uninitiated (read: those who use their time effectively), Sporcle is a website with a vast array of quizzes, ranging from “U.S. Presidents” to “Can you name the things Meat Loaf won’t do for love“.

So, for those of you who need to pass some time this afternoon (seriously, like you’re going to do any work), I challenge you to take me on in a Sporcle. I found this one thanks to The Common Man over at ESPN. The quiz presents 20 player graphs with various different statistics, and you have to guess the player from the graph. I managed to correctly guess 18 of 20. Can you beat me? Click here to try.

No, you don’t get anything for beating me. Also, just to be courteous, try not to spoil it in the comments!

Fretful that zombie ants and their killer fungus overlords will soon make a delicious hash of us all? Distract yourselves with the latest in computer news! Here is said news in miniature …

Indeed, Prodigy users, Crash Bandicoot enthusiasts and other computer people will be pleased to know that the flinty innovators at Interpretation By Design, who have always been there for those with nowhere left to turn, have concocted a flow chart that tells you which MLB squad most deserves your rooting interests.

I answered the questions with so much integrity and uprightness that I feel like I should go out and buy a magistrate’s wig. My reward? I’m told I should be a Padres fan. There’s nothing wrong with the Padres, of course, but I am, by righteous birth and earned-in-the-streets inclination, a Cardinals partisan. At this point, I must assume that someone — that hellhound Dave Cameron, perhaps — has altered my factory settings.

And what of you, page viewers? What does the flowchart tell you? And if it differs from your innermost baseball longings, what will you tell the zombie ants when they order you to declare final loyalties before disemboweling you and feasting on your still-steaming viscera?

(Curtsy: NotGraphs reader Paul, who, reputation has it, is as good at push-ups as he is algebra and romance.)

There have been many attempts in the past to understand the method behind Dayton Moore’s madness* – including undercover ninja raids of the Royals front office, and speculations that he was engaged in a duel to the death with Omar Minaya  – but to this day no one has yet succeeded. His so called “Process” remains as mysterious today as the first day he told fans to trust in it, making it the great unsolved mystery of our time. Amelia Earhart’s got nothing on Moore.

And yet….we’ve finally found it. Unearthed by the NotGraphs Investigative Reporting Investigation Team, we’ve discovered the Holy Grail:

A Jump to Conclusions mat – of course! I can just imagine Moore now, standing in the middle of his office and asking aloud, “Should I trade Grienke or not?” He closes his eyes, says a quick prayer for good luck, and jumps into the unknown. “Got an offer? Take it.” As Moore moves to the phone to call the Brewers back, he inadvertently steps on the mat one more time. With the receiver in his hand, he looks down at his feet only to see the words, “Why Not Yuni?”

*Is it just me, or does it feel passé to make fun of Moore these days? It was all the rage last year, but the level of snark has lessened recently and I feel behind the times in writing this post. But if we can’t make fun of Moore, what General Manager can we make fun of? Now that Minaya is gone, is there anyone else out there near his level of craziness?

Our experiment in feast-day celebrations for great baseballers continues today, unabated by law or conscience.

*Note: Edited from “Ward, the Multi-Talented,” per order of Whimsy.

Life: John Montgomery Ward has at least half-a-dozen claims to baseballing fame. With the exception of Babe Ruth, he’s probably the most successful two-way player ever, posting a 119 ERA+ as a pitcher in ca. 2500 innings and then, after an injury to his arm, accumulating 39.1 WAR as a field player (mostly at shortstop). Concurrent to his playing career, Ward attended Columbia Law, and graduated from same in 1885 (at age 25). Immediately thereafter, he began to establish himself as the first great voice of labor in baseball, leading the formation of the first professional sports players union (The Brotherhood of Professional Baseball Players) and a new baseball league, the Players League. Also, after his playing career, he became one of the country’s best golfers — you know, just for fun.

Spiritual Exercise: First, think of Monte Ward. Now, think of the Owen Wilson character from the movie Meet the Parents. Those guys are jerks, right?*

*Warning: Might not be an actual spiritual exercise. But, seriously, those guys are both jerks.

A Prayer for Monte Ward

I haven’t watched the YouTube video of you
stealing from the rich and giving to the poor
because I’ve been too busy watching the one of
Charlie Sheen accepting the Oscar for Gauntest Face
and this other one that’s a stop-motion video
of a beautiful flower first sprouting from the ground
and then bursting into bloom and then turning into
Charlie Sheen accepting the Oscar for Gauntest Face.

Still, people whose taste I trust have described your
performance with superlative adjectives —
a fact of which you’re likely unware, owing to
your death and subsequent internment at
Greenfield Cemetery in Uniondale, New York.

In your living years, though, you appear to’ve been
both well-bred and a champion of workers’ rights —
a combination that would win you respect in our time
and the right to date almost every female graduate
of both Vassar and Wesleyan Colleges.