For reasons sufficient unto myself, I’ve been ambling through some early 20th-century newspaper archives. The best part of all this has been disinterring the sports prose of one W.J. Slattery of the long-dead San Francisco Call.

Suffice it to say, if a man like Mr. Slattery still brandished his quill (which, I imagine, he did in much the same way that decorated cocksman Aaron Rowand brandishes his bat) then the print dailies of the world would not be in such a state of crisis.

Why do I say this? Please dig his lede from April 8, 1907, in which he mourns a San Francisco Seals loss to the Portland Beavers:

The Seals had enough of the left-over victorious spirit to put it on the Beavers when the teams made their bow to the Oakland fans yesterday morning, but the afternoon mixup before a house that was overflowing was a delusion, a snare, an imposition and a joke to the admirers of the native talent who were rooting for San Franciso. Never was the score a tie.

This “snare” was particularly surprising if you’d seen the mighty Seals go through their warm-up liturgies:

The Seals rushed on to the field with seemingly an overstock of real pepper when the bell rang. They whisked the ball around in practice like a flock of two-time pennant winners. There was confidence in the demeanor of each man; In fact, the entire team made the play so strong that the majority of the spectators conceded them the game before the first ball had been pitched.

And of the villain of this story, the poised Portland hurler by the name of Mr. Groom who vanquished the Seals despite the triumphalist vigor of their infield practice, Slattery writes:

It was his curves that kept the Seals off the bases in virtually every Inning, though the willing fans did the best they could to ruffle the youngster by saying things that only a baseball rooter can say when he feels like talking.

Indeed, the things a baseball rooter will say when he feels like talking.

Yours truly is a baseball rooter, and he happens to feel like talking: Mr. Slattery, we need your like and ilk among us today.

Confused.

I’m no pro at baby-rearing: I’ve just been babysitting my four-month-old nephew for a week-plus. But, that week coincided with opening weekend, and so an interesting parallel was born. The teams that were supposed to contend – they are not unlike crying babies. There are only four basic approaches to mellowing out a crying baby, this semi-expert says.

Feed the Baby
In this case, feed the baby with information about why the team will right ship. Talk about sample sizes and fluke in-game occurrences. Empty the bottle of its contents: reason based on precedent. Point out that we’re only about 2.5% of the way into the season, and what that might look like in another sport – half-way through the first game in an NFL season, for example. Keep feeding until the baby is sated, and then burp them so they don’t get indigestion.

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Mustache Watch continues today thanks to the suddenly helpful Jeff Sullivan of Lookout Landing (and also, it should be noted, of SBN’s Hot Corner, where yours truly has submitted some of what I’ll call trademark wisdom).

In this edition of the Watch we encounter a still of Henry Blanco from yesterday’s Diamondbacks-Cubs game. Blanco’s case is a curious one: as the attentive reader will note, his (i.e. Blanco’s) facial hair has forced his mouth into a perpetual scowl. I’ve never seen this personally, but a friend of mine had an uncle with a similar condition.

It goes without saying: the only known remedy is grotesque, inhumane.

Typographical error, or strangely incisive commentary? You decide!

Merci beaucoup, Jonah Keri.

On June 10th of last season, in the fifth inning of a Braves-Diamondbacks game, Martin Prado hit an infield single to third base. Teammate Melky Cabrera took third on the play. Famous umpire Joe West called time to allow then-Arizona coach A.J. Hinch to make a pitching change.

Then this happened:

Deep, prostrating bows to Peter Hjort of Capitol Avenue Club for drawing our attention to this almost forgotten event and Jeff Sullivan of Lookout Landing for his unparalleled .gif-ing skills.

It’ll be obvious enough to anyone who’s given more than a passing glance at these pages, but I’ll say it anyway in the interest of full disclosure: Team NotGraphs is not now — nor has it ever been — composed of what any kind of sober person would describe as “trained” “journalists.”

If our frequent homages to Umpire Joe West aren’t sufficient evidence of this, then the fact that we employ Dayn Perry ought to be.

Still, owing to the journalistic equivalent of that unassailable economic theory known as the “trickle-down effect,” certain conventions of newswriting reveal themselves: something called an inverted pyramid, something called a headline, something called a lede.

It’s the last of those devices that man-on-the-scene King Kaufman has invited us all to find in what follows, a game recap of George Washington University’s recent baseballing contest against No. 1 ranked Virginia (click image to embiggen).

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So Kathy Lyford, my gifted and patient editor over at FOXSports.com (much like Yahoo!’s exclamation mark, the caps-locked FOX is a marketing flourish without which the business model could not survive) has undertaken the yeoman’s toil (yeowoman’s toil?) of putting together galleries of every mascot, ballpark and signature concession in MLB.

And now we shall crowdsource … What’s the best mascot? What’s your favorite ballpark? Delectable?

As for moi, you can probably guess from the photo above that I’m quite fond of the Oriole Bird. While Fredbird will always have my greater, more profound loyalties, Oriole Bird gets this nod. This is because I’ve always admired birds who walk upright, have no wings, and wear caps, stirrups and clown-cleats. He was also outstanding in season five of “The Wire.”

Ballyard? PNC without question. Concession? Wholesome, nutritious alcohol.

And what of you, handsome readers?

It gives me great pleasure to announce that, yes, friends, memes — Adventures of Joe West and Mustache Watch — have collided. And we have FanGraphs reader SYH to thank. You may remember SYH from such Adventures of Joe West as “Joe West … In Peril?”

Joe West is old school. Joe West is clean cut. Joe West has no time for Barry Zito’s whiskers. They’re gone, stage left.

The Great Ejector, like God, is everywhere.

Immense gratitude to SYH. A Joe West .gif! My life is that much further to being complete.

In order to properly keep myself up to date on all things Joe West, I did what all rational human beings under the ever watchful gaze of SkyNet Google would do in the same situation: I set up a Google Alert for Joe West. Unfortunately, it did not prove fruitful, as these were the first five results harvested from the alert:

(Click to embiggen)

Medicinal marijuana, a random company, something about somebody who’s silent, an Auto Clinic, and finally, something about baseball. One-for-five isn’t good enough, and definitely not for ol’ Country Joe. That’s right, Google Alert…

(Once again, click to embiggen)

YOU’RE OUTTA HERE!

Today’s exercise in unconscionable blasphemy asks you to believe the not-very-but-still-sorta believable.

Life: It’s very possible that even intelligent fans are unaware that only six position players ever have out-WARed Tris Speaker, they (i.e. the six) being Babe Ruth, Barry Bonds, Ty Cobb, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, and Honus Wagner. Over 22 years, Speaker slashed .345/.428/.500 (for a 158 wRC+, the 11th-best career figure ever, and one shared by Mark McGwire and Stan Musial) while playing an above-average center field for the larger part of his career.

Spiritual Exercise: Speaker was the first player to steal 50 bases and hit 50 doubles in a season — and the only player besides Craig Biggio to ever do that thing. Ask yourself: what’s something you have done that only one person in the next hundred years is likely to duplicate? Ask yourself, also: was that certain thing entirely legal?

A Prayer for Tris Speaker

Tris Speaker!
Like a female
Russian tennis player,
I’m just vaguely
aware that you exist
but pleasantly surprised
by your talents.

Unlike with those
same Russians, however,
I’ve never once
found myself
secretly grateful
to whomever designed
your outfit.