I must say, I enjoyed the following jaunty jaunt …
I’m not saying the Twins should hire this guy to save the franchise on the diamond and in the broadcast booth, but that happens to be precisely what I’m saying. I think we can all agree that the vocal intonations native to the Upper Midwest are the smoothest of smooth jazz.
While neither grainy nor sepia-toned, the image you see skillfully embedded here (from the fourth inning of Sunday’s game between Philadelphia and Seattle) possesses one quality which merits publication in these electronic pages — namely, the number of people in it who’re wearing eye patches.
Granted, that number of people is only one, but per NotGraphs Editorial Policy, one is actually a totally sufficient number of eye patch-wearing Mariner fans for image-embedding and musing upon.
Lest the sensitive reader propose that the intent of the author is to mock the fan in question, allow me to state sans pause, “Woah, woah, woah” and also “Hold on a minute there, buddy.”
Allow me also to add promptly that, far from mocking the fan in question, it’s actually my intention to celebrate the eye patch and what it symbolizes. For, if we agree that the key to Pleasant Living is the capacity for turning one’s weaknesses into strengths (and I hope we’re all agreed on this point), then the eye patch is the signo under which we’ll have our collective vinces — for it turns a pretty significant weakness (that is, eyelessness) into an equally significant strength (that is, a perpetual reminder to the world that ye, wearer of said patch, have lived — and, on occasion, lived dangerously).
We have, as you may be aware, reached the latter weeks of June. It’s a time when a young man’s fancy lightly turns back away from love. Youths of all ages escape from their brick-lined educational prisons, and celebrate their freedom by devoting themselves to console video games and working at fast food restaurants. Finally, it’s that magical time of year when hitting coaches are lined up at the guillotine, sacrificed in the name of organizational change and statistical deviation.
Three men have already been led into the abattoir this season. John Mallee lost his post with the Florida Marlins, replaced by a man in Eduardo Perez who has no coaching experience on any level. Former corporate mouthpiece Edwin Rodriguez described him thusly: “…he doesn’t have much experience at teaching, as a coach, but he played in the big leagues for 13 years, so I think that’s good enough.” Logan Morrison was so enraged by the move that he devoted more than 140 characters to his wrath. Fortunately, as we can all agree, the move solved all of the Marlins’ problems instantly.
Last night, yours truly attended this Yanks-Cubs ritualized beating at Wrigley Field. While the game was somewhat forgettable, a couple of lasting daguerreotypes snapped by yours truly offer more to the curators of this, our stupid civilization.
First we have a pregnant woman smoking just outside the ballpark!
The pregnant woman smoking: She’s in the background, roughly in the middle in a white top. You perhaps can’t tell from the grainy, sepia-toned image provided, but, yes, that’s a cigarette in her hand and the next generation — quite possibly the Pepsi Generation — in her leathery womb. Trust me. Am I judging her? Of course not. In the service of a reduced and, by extension, less painful birth weight, one must do what one must.
Next we have another awful photo. This one is of a kid in a Milton Bradley jersey!
You perhaps can’t tell from the grainy, sepia-toned image provided, but, yes, that’s a Milton Bradley jersey. Trust me. Why is the photo so terrible? Blame the Boost Mobile product line. Or blame the fact that I was trying to be somewhat discreet. Or blame the wholesome, nutritious alcohol coursing through my organ systems. Still, the fact remains: there’s a Cub fan — a Cub fan who is presumably too young for irony — who still wears a Milton Bradley jersey!
Crappy pictures spoken here!
In case you were separated from the series of metaphorical tubes we call “the internet” last week, you may have missed what I consider my magnum opus as a baseball writer: “Pictures of Ray King.” Unfortunately — and it pains me to admit this — I’ve made a great error of omission, leaving out perhaps one of the most important pictures of the pitcher, Ray King.
Unlike the other pictures, however, this is less a picture of Ray King as much as it is a picture about Ray King. Without further ado, the omitted Picture of Ray King, which can be embiggened with a simple click.
It should be noted, first and foremost, that it was my initial instinct to title this post “Kenley Jansen’s Windswept Cutter,” because, if Kenley Jansen’s cutter looks like anything, it looks like a regular fastball being intercepted by a strong Northerly crosswind. Unfortunately, “intercepted by a strong wind” isn’t what windswept means — nor, so far as I can tell, is there any word that means such a thing. I think you’ll agree with me, bespectacled reader, that this reflects poorly on our Dear Language.
So, that’s Issue No. 1.
Issue No. 2 is that Kenley Jansen’s cut fastball — what with all this as-if-being-blown-by-the-wind movement — is emasculating. The specific one you see here is from Saturday night’s game between the Dodgers and Astros. The batter is Chris Johnson. The count? 1-0. His (i.e. Chris Johnson’s) emotion after swinging? Instant regret.
Per the Pitch F/x data from Brooks Baseball, this pitch from Jansen was thrown at 90 mph with 1.8 inches of glove-side run and 8.0 inches of “rise.” In fact, the pitch directly preceding this one — another cutter — was thrown both faster and with more movement. That it looked less impressive on camera is a testament both to (a) the importance of camera angle to how we perceive a pitch and (b) how a batter’s reaction (in this case, the instant regret of Chris Johnson) can also color our perception of a pitch’s quality.
Whatever the variables, they all conspired here to create something that — much like every Merchant Ivory Production — a baritoned narrator would likely describe as “breathtaking.”
The Marlins manager, Edwin Rodriguez, announced his sudden, surprising-yet-not-all-that-surprising resignation on Sunday. the Marlins are presently 1 for the month of June, and now 0-1 without Rodriguez.
We now see, however, the departure was inevitable:
Meanwhile, the interim manager, bench coach Brandon Hyde, appears likely to have a fistful of trouble himself. Observe the tense, self-aware expression on Mr. Hyde’s face and the ever-looming Ejector standing by:
While it’s unclear what sort of dark forces would compel every media source to misreport same, one thing that is clear is the totally unadulterated image you see above here. As plain as the disgust on Joe West’s face is Joe West himself, ejecting a couple that’s now become famous for briefly visiting Make Out City during the recent Vancouver riots.
I think it’s time we stop asking “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” and start asking “Quis custodiet ipsum Joe West?”
Graduation-style posed handshake for Mr. J. Durbin.
Last night, I read a very silly article on Salon.com. The second paragraph from said article:
This fetishization of the individual has intensified since the 1980s. We see it in political activists’ focus on presidential elections to the exclusion of almost all other political arenas. We see it in young people who have traded in idealistic “save the world” goals for dreams of celebrity. We see it in the revival of Ayn Rand’s Objectivism as a powerful political ideology in Congress. We see it in both the left and the right mindlessly and unquestioningly parroting whichever cable-news deity they revere. Now, we see it even in America’s ultimate team sport.
Let’s forget the political ramblings and focus on that sentence in bold.
Were this not a depository for high-quality musings on the sport of baseball, I’m sure many would be left wondering exactly which sport the author were referring to. If it weren’t for the “America” qualification, my first guess would have been Austrailian Rules Football or maybe hockey. Soccer relies on the intricate interactions of 11 players on each side all at once, as does our football. Basketball requires a well-organized offense with picks and passing and cutting. Even NASCAR, unwatchable as I find it, has pit crews, one of the most impressive team displays in sports.
But no, the author is referring to baseball. The game where, for 90% of the live action, it is merely pitcher versus batter. Even defense, the most team-oriented aspect of sports, is effectively devoid of teamwork outside of the double play and relay throws. Baseball is the sport where “greater than the sum of its parts” is less a thing that actually happens and more a handhold for baffled pundits when a team performs better than expected.
Apropos of absolutely nothing, these two eerily similar utterances come to us courtesy that long ago carnival ride known as “the 1990s”:
Albert Belle, Retired Ruckus-Raiser:
I’m not going to change my personality because someone wants me to change.
You think I’m gonna change up my style just to fit in?
Note: Chloe Sevigny really is in this video — at the 2:15 mark. This was actually before her first film role, in 1995’s Kids, when she was an intern at Sassy magazine.
