There are numerous reasons why I’ve chosen to post the video below:

1) Even though it’s from last season, the walk-off celebration you’re about to witness is most awesome. One Kendrys Morales, who’s been in my thoughts recently, would certainly approve of.

2) Charming NotGraphs commenter Bronnt brought said walk-off celebration to my attention, and I’d like him to know how much I appreciated him doing so.

3) As Chairman Cistulli pointed out in these very pages, MLB.com videos are now embed-able! It’s a brilliant day to be alive.

That’s Indians catcher Carlos Santana pictured above. At first blush, you might think that Mr. Santana is looking a little forlorn and world-weary. However, that’s highly unlikely. That’s because, as the unimpeachable Wikipedia tells us …

Carlos Santana (born April 8, 1986) is a Dominican Republic professional baseball player, who is currently a catcher and first baseman with the Cleveland Indians of Major League Baseball’s American League. His best friend is Hayden Clarence.

It’s good to have friends. It’s even better to have best friends. And even better than that is when your besty is the inestimable Hayden Clarence. But who is Hayden Clarence?

The NotGraphs Investigative Reporting Investigation Team answered the call and, as is their indolent wont, did just enough to meet the bare-minimum standards of contractually obligated duty before giving up and mumbling something about it being time for mid-morning tea and having problems with their magnifying glasses and not being able to stand the smell of computers. In other words, a Google Image search turned up nothing illuminating, and a review of the Wikipedia editing logs turned up nothing that made sense.

But the takeaway is that Carlos Santana and Hayden Clarence like to giggle at the same things, and isn’t that what it’s really all about?

Hosannas to NotGraphs reader Sean R., who took a break from his daily routine of sex/one-arm push-ups/physics problems/sex to pass along this bit of eureka.

Aspiring Mets minority owner David Einhorn once looked like this …

As the WSJ explains, Einhorn, as a doe-eyed tike, was an admirer of Dave Kingman, and once he took a marker one of his dad’s Beefy-T’s and transformed it — cadabra, but first abra — into a Kingman jersey. And a fine number 26 it was!

That’s a cute, humanizing story and all, but if I’m Lord New York Media, I’m asking Mr. Einhorn why he tacitly supports possibly exposing innocent sportswriters to the deadly and rodent-borne Hantavirus.

What you see above is Cliff Lee’s “Players Choice Signature Series T-Shirt,” designed with input from the man himself, and you too can own one for just $24.99. According to the MLB shop, the design was “inspired by Lee’s love of hunting.” In the humble opinion of this blogger, however, your money is better spent elsewhere, as this article of clothing is an abject failure on each of two important fronts for evaluating such matters: form and function.

Form:

I am aware that beauty is believed to be fundamentally subjective, but this shirt tests the limits of that understanding. It is as close to an objectively hideous shirt as can possibly be produced. This shirt is so ugly, it looks at Pete Rose’s ugly jacket and feels self-conscious. This shirt is so ugly, it wouldn’t even sell at a thrift store in Brooklyn. This shirt is so ugly, it will be shipped in bulk to an impoverished country (along with the “Texas Rangers 2010 WS Champs” merchandise)…and it will be returned to the sender along with a note reading “We tried. Sorry…” In an epoch of human history when our fashion choices represent a very basic facet of how we define ourselves as individuals, there is simply no rational person who would want to be defined by whatever it is this shirt says. Okay, I exaggerate. Let me just put it this way: Cliff Lee is a master of FIPpery and xFIPpery. Sartorial aesthetics? Not so much.

But all is not lost, you see. An ugly shirt is not necessarily a useless shirt. Indeed, Bartolo Colon is hardly George Clooney, but the Yankees have found a use for him. This brings us to…

Function:

By the most rudimentary definition of a “shirt” — an article of clothing that covers the upper body — this one performs its function adequately. Because it is camouflaged, though, it is clear that this shirt aspires to be more than just any shirt. Say, for instance, you were to wear this shirt into combat (one possible use for camouflage, not that I endorse combat of any kind) to blend in with your surroundings. You would almost certainly be killed. The large red Liberty Bell right on your chest would both expose your position to the enemy and would provide him with a nice big target at which to aim. Even if you assume that the enemy possesses just middling marksmanship skills (on the comprehensive Ankiel–Zaytsev continuum), you can rightly expect to go home with a few more holes in your chest than you set out with.

Form and Function:

And finally, there is the nexus of form and function. Consider: you are in the woods hunting deer or some other medium-sized game. Consider also: you are stranded in those woods, having not had a substantial meal in a week, and the lives of you and your family depend on a successful hunt. You don the above shirt to attempt to gain a competitive advantage over your prey. Well, my friend, you’ve just made a deadly mistake. The deer have spotted your shirt and fled in horror at its sheer ugliness. You and your family starve. It is a great tragedy. At your funeral your mother says “He was a great son, but he always did have questionable taste in T-shirts”.

Conclusion:

This shirt is ugly and it will likely get you killed.

As you may be aware, the Nationals, because of a searing antipathy for all things Bull-Moose, have conspired never to allow Teddy Roosevelt to win the Presidents’ Race. I can think of plenty of injustices in the world, but few measure up to this one.

Well, recently the enterprising Mr. Roosevelt, taking his cues from Great Men of History like Gob Bluth and Jim Bowden, showed the plucky boldness that has allowed this fine republic of his to vanquish anything, save for morbid obesity and a bunch of other stuff …

As you can see, the fix was in. As for Screech the Eagle, who is clearly an asshole, a few words of grave warning … First, I know the Great Ejector, and you, sir, are no Great Ejector. Second, are you aware what Prez Roos does to lower-evolved varmints who get between him and what’s his? Let us remind you:

Your move, cuckoo bird.

Patriot’s gratitude to Dave Brown and the barrel o’ monkeys that is his Twitter feed.

The MLB is trying to just pass this off as just another item of Philadelphia baseball merchandise, part of their Stars and Stripes collection. But, if we look closely — OK, really not that closely — we can see the message they’re truly trying to send:

Phil Lies. If you know somebody named Phil, they’re probably lying to you right now. He might say that he’s not. But that’s just one of those old-fashioned Phil lies.

Some cursory Google-ing reveals no specific announcement on the matter from MLB itself, but, as David Pinto discovered ca. 48 hours ago (and the media on the present electronic page illustrates) video embedding is now available through MLB.com.

Here’s what the page for the above video looks like, for example:

As Pinto suggests — and which even more cursory investigation reveals — there doesn’t appear to be an embed option for the most recent videos. While that makes the discovery less than 100% satisfying, this certainly marks a step in the best direction for MLB.

Wander over to the Boston Globe’s Columnists and Critics page, and you’ll notice that they have animated head shots of almost everyone who marches, swords brandished, under the banner “Boston Globe Columnist and or Critic.” I assume they do this in an effort to appeal to the younger generation and its pompadours and ghetto-blasters and unpressed blue-jean pants. I also assume this initiative has been successful beyond anyone’s hopes.

But that’s not my concern. No, my delight and privilege is to introduce you to what appears when you scroll down just a bit …

There’s hail-fellow-well-met Dan Shaughnessy. But whereas most of the Globe opinion-shapers could be troubled to mug a bit for the artist and his sketchbook, Shaughnessy, who hates everything more than you hate anything, could not. But is that a look of … diffidence? Resignation? Wearied apathy? A half-smile of the decomposed?

No, it’s the look that Shaughnessy has on his face at all times, from upon waking until the soft death of sleep takes him each night — a look that implies a vague desire, yet an equally vague inability, to vomit. The look is called, “A Quiet and Frosty Disgust.”

This video is presented without comment, except to say that:

(a) This video has been made available to the world courtesy OMGreds.

(b) It (i.e. the video) was brought to our attention by Loyal -Graphs reader Randy.

(c) In lieu of personal glory, Loyal -Graphs reader Randy asks that you maybe aid and abet in destroying MS.

I’d like to begin by sharing a little story, in light of Dayn’s earlier ruminations on the subject of jerseys. Once I found myself on the streets of Incheon, South Korea, ambling through the busy alleys and marveling at the pernicious weed that is capitalism. It was at this time that I came across a store stocked entirely with baseball jerseys. No knockoffs, these uniforms had stitched lettering and all the amenities one looks for in a piece of cotton. Among the three I chose was branded with the name “Kendall”.

When I returned home that night, I was shocked and dismayed to learn that the Pirates jersey was of the sleeveless variety. This was a risk I had not even thought to assess, and I swore to return to the shop and exchange it. But the store had vanished; it was as if the whole affair was some sort of monkey’s-paw cliché, and I would end up making eighteen wishes, each more damning than the last. After wandering the nameless streets we finally did find the store, decked out completely in basketball regalia. Would they exchange my armless jersey? I asked. No, they said. They did not sell baseball jerseys, they said. They sold basketball jerseys. I could not prove them wrong, and so to this day Jason Kendall’s name hangs in my closet.

I tell this tale not only in a desperate attempt to entertain, but also to raise a vital question: what, in 2011 terms, is my Pirates jersey worth? One must admit that it wields the benefit of insulating one’s shoulders and torso, if not the upper arms. The ethical question of sportswear is, I think, a tired one: we have had enough of people telling us whether it is acceptable for grown men and women to wear jerseys. The fan jersey now rests on the same cultural footing as Bud Light Lime, reality television, and the wave. Like it or not, it’s not going away.

Meanwhile, we live in a conflux where fashion will soon descend upon itself, consuming its own tail like an ouroboros. Everything will be both fashionable and unfashionable at the same time, and taste and irony will meet on the event horizon. We are not there yet. There are still some jerseys that fall between, and evoke neither the glory of success nor the wry wit of failure: the Chris Davis jersey, for example, or a Mets Brad Emaus uniform. But just as in life and The Room, if one sinks low enough (and patronizes thrift stores) one can find true brilliance. What better way to celebrate absurdity than a Mike Piazza Marlins jersey? Or an authentic Jeff Francoeur?

But what of Jason Kendall?  Was he good enough in his prime to merit recognition?  Was he awful enough in his thirties to be funny?  Should the jersey be permanently dirt-stained, to confer the appropriate level of grit and heart?  It’s a question each of you as Americans must decide.  And if you do think it’s worth wearing, I could probably find one to sell you.