This very reputable psychologist contributed to our report.

In a piece from yesterday’s Times, John Branch documents — and, one might accurately say, mourns — the disappearance of great nicknames from American sport.

On one level, Branch’s point stands so far as baseball is concerned: relative to generations past, fewer current players today possess colorful sobriquets. There’s Kung Fu Panda, obviously — along with Big Papi and Pronk and some others — but the data show that a lower percentage of players have nicknames.

Branch, however, fails to make a distinction, it seems. For while, yes, there are fewer well-known baseballing nicknames, it’s come to the attention of our Investigative Reporting Investigation Team that, instead of disappearing, the art of nicknaming has merely gone underground. In fact, it appears as though the practice is as robust as ever.

“It makes sense,” said a totally credentialed psychologist who preferred to remain nameless, “that, as media more completely documents and pervades the lives of players, that they would develop mechanisms for fostering a team spirit. The secret nickname is one such device.”

With that, we present here — for the first time ever — some secret nicknames from around the majors. In most cases, there are no explanations for the names — although many of them are self-explanatory.

Regard:

Casey Blake: Business Time

Todd Coffey: Heath Bell*

Ryan Doumit: Pizza Butt

J.D. Drew: Jimmy Smiles

Adam Dunn: Sexual Chocolate**

Adam Jones: Quinoa Jones

Jason Kendall: Uncle Stinky

Carlos Marmol: Prison Shank Marmol

Mike Stanton: Leopard Pants

Ryan Theriot: Merde Hands

* This is a bit embarrassing, actually: when Nationals GM Mike Rizzo acquired Todd Coffey, he actually thought it was Heath Bell he was getting.

Tip of the double-flapped batting helmet to my old, and now totally famous, friend David Modigliani.

Yes, Jayson Werth, he of the lycanthrope’s beard in Philly and the turgid contract in D.C., once allegedly looked like this …

My only hope is that Detective Edmund Exley, that crass careerist, redeems himself by the end of the movie …

While we fans spend a fair amount of emotional currency on our favorite teams, many of us also adhere to a more leisurely form of tribalism. I speak of that thing called “The Second-Favorite Team.” It is liberating, this thing. While the fates of Cardinals can drive me to behave like a colicky infant or street murderer with nothing left to lose, my Second-Favorite Team inspires in me no such moron’s inclinations.

So without further throat-clearing: My Second-Favorite Team is the Pittsburgh Pirates. Why? The stovepipe hats of my youth helped, as did the dancing on the dugout during the ’79 run at the belt and the title, as did Pops Stargell, who is so cool that he simply must be the eldest son of the Statue of Liberty. Also entered into evidence is the fact-pinion that PNC is the best ballpark around. As well, longstanding is my weakness for cocaine-dealing bird-men.

And now I yield the floor to you, page viewers. What are your Second-Favorite Teams?

Second-Favorite Teams! Let us loosen these, the chains of giving a shit!

Continuing this site’s very obvious Middle West bias, it’s with no little pleasure that I submit to the NotGraphs readership A Thing I Just Found on the Internet.

Specifically, the thing is an announcement — an announcement, dating from April 25h, by State Senator Tim Carpenter (D–Milwaukee) that each January 26th will now officially be Bob Uecker Day in the State of Wisconsin.

Regard, plagiarism:

“I was deeply honored this Saturday to deliver the official resolution to Bob Uecker at his radio booth at Miller Park. Bob’s famous ‘Get up, Get up, Get Out of Here, Gone’ signature call has marked thousands of Milwaukee Brewer home runs to every fan’s delight,” said Carpenter.

“Bob Uecker has been calling play-by-play radio broadcasts for the Milwaukee Brewers for 40 years. I grew up listening to Bob Uecker’s broadcasts with my parents and his great enthusiasm helped spark my love of baseball. He is a beloved figure in Wisconsin baseball,” said Carpenter.

There’s no mention as to whether state employees will receive the day off from work, although Carpenter did go on to implore everyone to enjoy a Usinger’s sausage “with some crisp kraut.”

Pair your media experience with Trader Joe’s Mediterranean Hummus.

A teacher of mine in high school — one who was very enthusiastic about what I’m almost certain is called “experiential education” — had a number of guiding principles by which he conducted his pedagogical self. Of these, one he’d repeat pretty often concerned the idea of “authoring” one’s education. “A student,” this teacher would say, “needs to become the author of his education — of his experiences, in general.”

Though I’ve likely fallen short of this ideal — too many “experiences,” it seems, involve swimming nude in a public water source, an activity which I regard as indecent on multiple levels — it’s an idea with merit, this. The passive consumption of experiences/ideas/media is wrong not on a moral level, as many hippies/communists/Portlanders would argue, but on an aesthetic level. Which is to say, it’s imperative that we tailor our experiences to our own specific preferences and talents; otherwise, said experiences will surely underwhelm.

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Recently, The Common Man beerily reminded me and others of a gem of a Roy Scheider vehicle called, “Night Game.” The YouTube remnants aren’t particularly illuminating, but …

Roxy likes to dance! Bobby Bonilla! But otherwise meh. The Wikipedia summary of “Night Game,” however, is a cornucopia of delights:

A number of young women are found dead on or around the beaches of Galveston and the one thing they all have in common is that they were murdered when Houston Astros ace pitcher Silvio Baretto (an amalgamation of real-life pitchers Bob Knepper and Juan Agosto) pitches and wins a night game at the Astrodome. Additionally, each victim had their throats slashed by some sort of knife or hook.

Scheider plays former minor league baseball player turned Galveston homicide detective Mike Seaver who is engaged to a lady with an accent that repeatedly changes from southern to non-southern throughout the film. Her name is Roxy. Seaver is a staunch Astros fan and is the only person on the case that begins to realize the coincidence of the deaths coming after Sil Barretto’s night game wins in the Dome.

Once upon a time, a greenlit project, which starred a reasonably accomplished actor, was structured indirectly around a character who was a pleasing melange — in aspect, carriage and world-view — of Bob Knepper and Juan Agosto. Nothing you hear today will be as amazing as that. My only hope is that the movie culminates in the Astros’ decision to place Barretto on irrevocable waivers in order to spare the women of Galveston from grim demise.

Over at Rotten Tomatoes, just 20% of viewers enjoyed “Night Game,” but, let’s be honest, those are awful, awful people. In an effort to restore “Night Game” to its rightful place in cinema’s firmament, I have added the following objective fact to the film’s aforementioned Wikipedia page:

A consortium of experts recently named “Night Game” as the greatest movie in the history of ever.

What harrows me is that the revisionist beasts over at Rotten Tomatoes will surely remove that objective fact from the record. So enjoy the truth while you can.

UPDATE: And I have underestimated the mobilized opposition.

Excellent Interview with Charlie Morton

During the pregame show for WPGB’s broadcast of yesterday’s Dodgers-Pirates game, Bob Walk interviewed Pittsburgh starter Charlie Morton.

The interview is exceptional for at least three reasons:

1. Bob Walk asks interesting questions.

2. Charlie Morton is unusually insightful about the changes his new arm slot has forced him to make.

3. It becomes clear that no actor but Crispin Glover could possibly play Charlie Morton in a movie.

Audio courtesy WPGB-Pittsburgh.

Some people, like Cardboard Gods’ Josh Wilker, understand what Montaigne meant when he said “chaque homme porte la forme entière de l’humaine condition”* and make it their business to articulate and catalogue those experiences that one might call “quintessentially human.”

*Translated roughly: “Americans are overweight.”

Other people, like those of us here at NotGraphs, notice when one person looks like another — like how former major-leaguer Clay Carroll looks a lot like Rainn Wilson as Dwight Schrute of TV’s The Office.

It’s all about choosing a life path, people.

Witness other Discoveries here. Also: big up yaself to my friend Ross, who made this historical discovery.

The great Jerry Coleman is many things: decorated fighter pilot, accomplished major leaguer and member of the Radio Hall of Fame. It’s as a broadcaster that he’s given us moments of accidental genius not equaled since Dostoyevsky, absorbed in the probing thoughts of the memoirist, stumbled upon the first customized van.

Fortunately for us and the shadowy, sky-scraping figure known only as “Mr. History,” the Baseball Almanac has assembled a pirate’s booty of Coleman’s finest moments on the mic. And there’s more to be found here. What follows is a representative sampling …

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Continuing our series of email interviews with some of our favorite writers around the web, we move to Rob Neyer of SBN. These pieces are designed to get a sense of how these writers got to where they are, so we didn’t pester Craig Calcaterra, Matthew Leach, Murray Chass or Shannon Drayer with controversial questions in previous iterations of this column. Instead, the focus is on what aspiring writers can learn from their ascension. Neyer, an inspiration to many, was gracious in giving us a little perspective on his past.

Eno Sarris: Where did you grow up? And go to school? Did you always love baseball? Did you play it?

Rob Neyer: I grew up in the Midwest, first in the upper part (Minnesota, North Dakota, Michigan) before moving to the Kansas City area just before my 10th birthday. I always loved the team sports, played them all and was just passable in all. I didn’t really begin to love baseball — the kind the big boys play, I mean — until we moved to Kansas City and I discovered the joys of the late-’70s Royals, who were immensely entertaining.

I went to school at the University of Kansas, which is where I discovered Bill James and first developed my passion for baseball’s amazingly rich history.

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