Once again, we were so flooded with nominations that the Executive Royal Council of Elder Governors Men was forced to make some difficult decisions.
Now, Whigs and Bull Mooses, it is time to vote. Which player should be nicknamed “Liván Hernández”? Make with the democracy below …
Flourishing almost a hundred years before the birth of Pharrell Williams, Fleet Walker was the original black nerd. Not only did Walker run his own newspaper and manage an opera house, but, as a graduate of Oberlin College, he likely could fashion a pipe out of any number of household items.
It was for this — and also probably how he was the first African-American in the majors* — that the Toledo Mud Hens presented the first thousand fans at this past Monday’s game with a Moses Fleetwood Walker bobblehead.
*Evidence suggests that William Edward White appeared in one game with the Providence Grays in 1879, but was hardly a fixture in the team like Walker.
The attentive reader will note that Walker’s excellent mustache was not neglected in the creation of this True Collector’s Item. The attentive reader is also invited to cast his eyes below, where (upon clicking) an alarmingly sized image of said bobblehead is available for consumption-via-eyes.
From the inimitable Royals Review comes this transcript, a quote from Dayton Moore at a blogger get-together Wednesday night in Kansas City.
We’re never gonna out-talent anybody here. I understand it goes with the territory, but there was a lot of criticism deflected about why we would sign a guy like Jeff Francoeur. But the truth of the matter is we’re not going to out-talent anybody here in Kansas City. It’s impossible to do.
We’ve got one of the smallest markets in all of sports, period. Our owner is a terrific owner, but he’s not going to go out and spend a $100 million payroll and a $100 million payroll when we can only sustain a $55 million or $60 million payroll in this market.
So we’ve gotta, our team has to be better than anybody else. We have to have synergy. We have to have togetherness, very similar to what the Colorado Rockies had three years ago. They had some young, talented players. But they played together, they loved each other, their families got along, and they went out and played hard every single night.
Of course, this quote describes a fault line between sabermetrically-inclined and old school baseball analysts. But let us pretend for a while that we all agree that synergy is very important to baseball success. Since Mr. Moore has suggested that the Rockies had this essence three years ago but don’t any longer, it is something that a very similar group of players can have and lose. So, it follows that synergy is something that is almost independent of the players themselves. And, therefore, it can be manipulated.
So! A list of activities for your synergy-less team that needs to find togetherness! All to completed with family in tow, of course.
1) Viagra Ice Cream Socials
2) Red Rover
3) Simulated Broom Hockey
4) “Never Have I Ever”
5) Extreme Egg Toss
6) Sack Race
7) Three-Legged Relay Race
8) Reggae Hum That Tune
9) Human Taco
10) Surprise Trust Falls
Much like Big Bank Hank, Mike Axisa (of River Ave. Blues and RotoGraphs) is both (a) 6-foot-1 and also (b) tons of fun. (It’s also very possible that, like the aforementioned Hank, he owns a color TV.)
I live-blogged Wednesday night’s thrashing of the Chicago White Sox by the New York Yankees for Canadian sports broadcasting titan The Score. It was good times: I discovered, and documented, Eric Chavez’s Comeback ‘Stache, and was reminded what an absolute bloody nightmare it is to watch Alex Rios play baseball.
In the third inning, the White Sox already down 10-1, Mark Teixeira sent a line-drive into center field. Rios, in oblivious, Rios-like, head case fashion, charged the ball. It went right by him, of course. (This is after Rios misplayed a Curtis Granderson fly ball in the first inning, too, letting it drop in front of him.) The photograph above is of Rios racing all the way to the wall to retrieve the baseball he so badly misplayed. Not in a dead sprint, with his head down, oh no, but leisurely, Rios even looking back to see if Teixeira was trying to gallop all the way home for an inside the park job.
Teixeira didn’t, and ended up at third base. Somehow, Rios wasn’t charged with an error on the play. The box score’s play-by-play reads:
M. Teixeira tripled to shallow center, B. Gardner and D. Jeter scored.
Yeah, no. That was an error if I’d ever seen one. Even in a 10-1 game. Nobody “triples” to shallow center field. Frankly, I was surprised that Ozzie Guillen didn’t a) immediately pull Rios from the game, and b) drag Rios by the ear from center field to first base, and beat him with Adam Dunn. Ozzie needed a drink last night. In the worst way. Poor Ozzie.
Things Alex Rios is Thinking
Anyway: Rios. One of the South Side’s favorite suns. Our intrepid NotGraphs Investigative Reporting Investigation Team has confirmed, through telepathy I assume, the thoughts that were racing through Rios’ head, a lot faster than he was physically racing, as he “ran” down Teixeira’s “triple.”
1. Do I have to? I have to, don’t I?
2. Who gives a fuck?! (Editor’s note: He was actually singing this.)
3. At least I’m hitting .200.
4. On the other hand, if Teixeira hits an inside the park home run, I’ll probably make the highlights.
5. They think Dunn hates baseball.
If you’re looking for more Rios bashing, the Chicago Tribune’s Steve Rosenbloom has you covered, with his aptly titled piece, “Bring me the head of Alex Rios.”
Image credit: Reuters, via daylife.
Our ongoing quest, in the manner of the noble knight-errant, is to assign players to cool nicknames rather than indulge in the tired, shopworn paradigm of assigning nicknames to cool players.
First, though, a brief jaunt through our Nickname Seeks Player Vaulted Halls of Honor:
“Bad Miracle” – Wily Mo Peña
“Captain Black Tobacco” – John Danks
“$45 Couch” – Yuniesky Betancourt
Moving on … The nickname up for grabs in this episode? It’s “Liván Hernández”!
Yes, that’s right: Liván Hernández. We don’t mean Liván Hernández the given legal name, although Liván Hernández the person is certainly eligible for Liván Hernández the nickname. Rather, we pay homage to Liván Hernández the person and his strong yet ultimately failed showings in previous rounds of balloting. As well, we wonder whether someone out there in baseball embodies what it means to be Liván Hernández better than Liván Hernández himself. So this week’s nickname is Liván Hernández.
Denotations, Connotations, Implications, Intimations, and Incriminations:
You might a be large, frumpy pitcher with enough guile, tenacity and Eric Gregg to stick around in the majors until the mountains crumble into the sea. You might be the knuckleballer who never throws a knuckleball. You might be the durable embodiment of average-ness, regardless of role and deployment. You might be a player who, despite that frumpy appearance, for some reason strikes you as a man who makes love like a godhead.
More generally, you might be a ballplayer who readily brings to mind and lips this observation: “This guy seems like Liván Hernández more than Liván Hernández does.” Yes, you might be what we talk about when we talk about Liván Hernández.
Prototypes from Baseball’s Gauzy Past:
Rick Reuschel? Gary Gaetti, who in some ways seems like the position player’s analog of Liván Hernández? Mike LaValliere? Jeff Juden on his best day ever?
Guiding, Determinative Query:
What current major-league player should be nicknamed “Liván Hernández?
The floor, lovesexies, is open for nominations …
Yes, I’m positive that’s not Don Mattingly. And, no, I couldn’t find a better picture of Eric Chavez’s new mustache.
But it’s there. Look closely, and you can see it. And it’s not just any mustache, either. It’s what I like to call a Comeback ‘Stache.
The mustachioed Chavez hit his first home run as a member of the New York Yankees Wednesday night; his first home run since May 11, 2010. He finished 3-for-6, and drove four runs across home plate. It was his most productive game in years. Literally: years. Coincidence? Probably not.
Image credit: The Associated Press, via Yahoo! Sports.
Because Stubby Clapp’s name is Stubby Clapp, anything having anything to do with Stubby Clapp is at least somewhat noteworthy. This time, however, Mr. Clapp makes these pages not because of his perfect name, but rather because he recently got himself ejected like a super champion. He’s presently skipper of the minor-league Tri-City ValleyCats, and, unlike the ninja, he does not flip and kill people. Stubby Clapp does, however, flip out …
Somewhere in America, Earl Weaver’s vast evening toddy tastes a bit better to him tonight.
(Hosannas: Todd and his Twitter)
As I noted in these pages recently, one of the great pleasures of baseball is the amount of data it produces. Some of that is the sort of data that produces metrics like WAR; other of it, though, might be more appropriately apprehended by the softer sciences.
By way of explanation, allow me to introduce the reader to a work of art known as the Terry Francona Press Conference. While perhaps only an average baseballing tactician, Francona has distinguished himself as a sort of savant of personality management. Winning a lot, certainly, has helped subdue any would-be discontent among his ranks, but Francona has a way of making any issue seem manageable and human-sized — and nowhere is this more clearly on display than in his post-game press conferences.
Let’s watch the above-ly embedded one (from July 26th’s victory over the Royals) together and see what we see.
Somewhere, David Eckstein was doing something: eating a sandwich, perhaps, or polishing the wood surfaces of his home with lemon-scented chemicals. It’s impossible to say exactly. What we do know, or can at least safely assume, is that he paused for a moment, a gust of cool air sweeping over him from an unknown source, a shudder of momentary weakness in the arms and stiffness in the fingers. Something felt off. He scanned his surroundings, trying to make out the difference, to sort out the nature of this new universe. And then the truth of it all revealed itself unto him: some of his grit had been expropriated.
Marvel at the precision of the ground ball, hit smartly enough for the ball to speed into the hole but gently enough for that hole to close in on it. Watch how the hit pulls the throw up the line, giving Brendan Ryan the opportunity to coast into first with his head up. Notice how the Oakland infielders scatter in the face of this strident display of pluck and determination, leading each of them to individually pause and reflect on how they have wasted their superior athletic skills. As they spit and curse the earth that bore them, Ryan is already nearly at second. Then Ryan slides superfluously not once, but twice, dirtying each leg in the process. Finally, he pops up to his feet immediately, already prepared to roundhouse kick any would-be ninjas in the vicinity. What you’re seeing is textbook fundamentals.
Justin Smoak is so joyful he uncurls both halves of his lips as far as they can muster. Third base coach Jeff Datz, ordinarily focusedon the myriad of instructions he is bound by his occupation to convey, can only wander over and pat Ryan on the back. Not pictured in the clip is the moment when Eric Sogard’s fabulous eyeglasses are cast forcibly from his face by the heart and spirit of Ryan’s second slide, delaying the game by several minutes as he hunts for them in the outfield grass. Nor is the rare honorary walk delivered by a stunned and reverent home umpire Mike Winters.
A true, unquestionable double-hustle play. I tried to mark the event in my calendar, dear readers, but I found my hands, like Eckstein’s, trembling.