You know what I love? The New York Times. On Saturday, the resilient newspaper published a piece by Bill Pennington called “Kei Igawa: The Lost Yankee,” and it is a perfect example of what I consider to be brilliant baseball writing; the type of baseball writing I enjoy reading most. I urge you to take the time to read the piece; it’s well worth it.

Much like, well, everyone, I’d forgotten all about Kei Igawa. I had no idea he was still in North America, grinding in the minors while making Major League money. I figured he went back to Japan. Years ago. But he didn’t. Hasn’t. Won’t.

As Pennington points out, Igawa wakes every morning in his Midtown East Manhattan apartment, and is then chauffeured either the 90-minute drive to Trenton, New Jersey, or two hours and ten minutes to Scranton, Pennsylvania. And back. Currently on the roster of the Trenton Thunder, Igawa figured his stay in the minors would be temporary when he was sent down, hence the ride. Turns out, it was the opposite: Igawa will never again pitch for the New York Yankees. General Manager Brian Cashman, quoted in the article, didn’t hold back: “Yeah, he’s passed me on the drive down to Trenton. He drives faster than his fastball.” Burn.

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Part I of an infinity part series dedicated to dissecting the bad ideas of SABR-bashers.

We’ve all reached that point in the discussion. The point when, say, you are debating the merits of a given player and you have just cited xFIP, or wOBA, or WAR.

“What!??” your opponent replies incredulously. “What the hell is xFIP/wOBA/WAR?”

“Well, it’s an advanced metric that measures such and such,” you explain.

Your opponent scoffs. “I don’t have time for these made-up stats. They take all the fun out of the game for me.”

It is at this moment that the discussion has usually reached the point of no return. It’s like one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books; you can either escalate things by snarking the living shit out of your opponent or you can extricate yourself from the discussion and risk looking weak. Either way, there can be no “winner”.

Not too long ago, the release of the book The Beauty of Short Hops: How Chance and Circumstance Confound the Moneyball Approach to Baseball by Alan and Sheldon Hirsch touched off a minor controversy in the world of baseball commentary. Among other things, their book takes up the “sabermetrics takes all the fun out of the game” position:

[T]he saber-obsession with numbers occludes a major aspect of baseball’s beauty – its narrative richness and relentless capacity to surprise. Baseball, thank goodness, transcends and often defies quantitative analysis. Games are decided by bad hops and bad calls, broken bats, sun and wind, pigeons in the outfield, and fans who obstruct players, among other unforeseeable contingencies. That may seem obvious (apart from the pigeons), but not to the folks who increasingly run the show. Rather than celebrating baseball’s delightfully spontaneous quality, sabermetricians deny it or rebel against it.

Let us leave aside for a moment that this sentiment is commonly expressed by people who are unable or unwilling to grapple with new statistics with which they are unfamiliar. Of course these people too use statistics to make sense of what happens on the baseball field, just less insightful statistics. In fact, a large portion of the Hirsches’ book is devoted to a feeble attempt at debunking specific advanced stats. Others have already done a fine job of critiquing the Hirsch brothers’ book and I do not wish to retread too much old ground. Rather, here I want to engage on its own terms the all too common argument that advanced statistics obscure the game’s beauty.

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You happen across American Bad Seed Pete Rose in a Cooperstown diner. You follow him to his car and ask him for an autograph. He declines. What you do next will, in some ways, define you and how you handle the daisy chain of adversities found in this, our miserable existence.

Do you merely acknowledge that celebrities have no obligation to indulge our bizarre whims and return to your chili-cheese fries? Or you do heave the unsigned ball across the road — at traffic level — and into the woods where James Fenimore Cooper once played army, heel-turn, stomp off into the distance, and squeeze out a few shitty-baby tears? If you’re the guy captured below on live-action video, then it’s an easy choice …

At this late hour, I thought all of us knew that Mr. Rose would walk through hell in a gasoline suit before he’d sign something for free.

(Autograph request: Off the Bench)

Depending on the punctuation, this title could set us in all sorts of directions. Google, Baseball, Shenanigans might be the story of an impromptu stickball game in the Google dining hall. Meh. Google Baseball: Shenanigans sounds more like some hot foot on the Google softball team. A little better. Google! Baseball! Shenanigans! is either a more exciting version of all of the above, or some sort of strange tribute to Tora! Tora! Tora!.

Thankfully perhaps, we’re leaving the punctuation open. But if cornered, we’d pick Google: Baseball Shenanigans, because that most correctly represents the research that went into this piece. Maybe you scoff at the methods, but the results took us on a strange trip through the meanings of the words themselves.

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Hey, Ron Gardenhire, your team is losing by 15 runs, a position player is on the mound, and your center fielder and shortstop just let a harmless fly ball drop between them. Is that Twins baseball?

Hey, Ron Gardenhire: Evans contends that Lacan’s earliest versions of the mirror stage, while flawed, can be regarded as a pioneering concept in the field of ethology and a precursor of both cognitive psychology and evolutionary psychology. Do you find any validity in this argument?

Huh. Okay. Well, anyway, I might be visiting Minneapolis this fall. Any chance you and I could get some drinks?

It hasn’t been the best of days around here at NotGraphs World HQ, but maybe things are looking up? How’s that? Well, perhaps you’ll recall my affection and longing for the rare confluence of absurdities that is the inside-the-park grand slam (note: you will not recall this, but still). Turns out such a miracle recently came to pass, thanks to Jeremy Moore of the Salt Lake Bees, three of his teammates and the burning fire-god in the sky.

By all means, please dig!

A thing related to my occupation for which I have yearned has come to pass! Let us now praise professional fulfillment in all its forms!

Video essays are the best  kind of essays. And the excellent one you’ll find below is by Sportsnet’s Stephen Brunt, in my opinion the finest sports journalist the great nation of Canada can lay claim to. Enjoy.

It doesn’t happen often: A player for the ages turning up on your favorite team. In a perfect world, Roberto Alomar would have stayed a Blue Jay longer. In a perfect world, there would have been more championships to go with that magical pair. But what a great thing to have had him here, at his best. And now, to have him bring the Blue Jays to Cooperstown.

Brunt’s more than a journalist; he’s a poet. That, my friends, is how you wrap up a video essay, with those words, and Roberto Alomar’s Hall of Fame smile.

Continuing our examination of fashion sense for the intellectually demanding fan, we move on to Atlanta, home of the Braves since 1966.  Of course, when we think of Atlanta Braves baseball, most of us immediately think of the playoff streak, and the triumvirate of Maddux, Glavine and Smoltz.  Older fans will remember Aaron’s charge at 716.  Between these eras, there was Dale Murphy and not much else.  It’s strange that the modern Braves, after these peaks and valleys, have been so nondescript in comparison.

Still, there’s plenty of irony to be had in the baseball jerseys of the Atlanta Braves.

1966 Eddie Mathews: I am not a Braves fan, but I find Mathews fascinating.  Overshadowed by Aaron most of his career, Mathews feels like a afterthought Hall of Famer, the kind of guy people forget when they play Sporcle.  And yet you’ve got teams who don’t have a Hall of Famer at all, much less a dominant one.  Mathews played one year in Atlanta near the end of his career, and played well, making this a good jersey choice for the ironic and the unironic at the same time.

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That clamor you hear is the people’s collective demand to be introduced to the 1976 AL starting All-Stars. As is the case with anything having anything to do with baseball and or matters of the heart, I’m here to satisfy.

Witness George Brett in “young man somewhat agape at the possibilities before him” mode! See Thurman Munson exchange pleasantries with a Red Sock of Boston! There’s an understandably self-serious Ron LeFlore! Toby Harrah has a puzzling coif! Rusty Staub is somewhat gigantic! And most and best of all: Gaze upon the still photograph of a certain starting pitcher and tell me all is not well …

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oeT4AyXUu2Q&playnext=1&list=PL1DD909EC17590A1F

Also: Kick its ass, Dave Cameron.

If for some reason you haven’t heard, I regret to be the one informing you that FanGraphs’ First and Only Full-Time Employee Dave Cameron has leukemia.

This news makes me, Carson Cistulli, upset. Despite the fact that he looks strange and hasn’t seen a movie since 1987, Dave Cameron is a truly thoughtful man and, if I may say, a dear friend. I believe I speak for everyone on the NotGraphs masthead, when I say that we look forward to Cameron recovering fully.

Joe West has a different approach, though. When he learned this morning about Cameron’s condition, he did the only thing that Joe West really knows how to do: he frigging tossed leukemia.

Though most of us have likely questioned West’s decision-making at one point or another, I think it’s clear that West’s instincts are entirely flawless in this matter.

All of which leads me to this entirely giant and heartfelt message: