As the reader may or may not know, the present author has thrown his hat — and other, sexier pieces of his outfit — into the metaphorical ring known as the Pitchers & Poets Reading Club (hosted, if one can believe it, by the gentlemen of Pitchers & Poets).

The first book is Chad Harbach’s very new novel, The Art of Fielding, and the protagonist of said novel is named Henry Skrimshander. Though he makes his way to an elite liberal arts college on the lake coast of Wisconsin, Skrimshander’s only real literary experience is with a book by legendary (and also fictional) shortstop Aparicio Rodriguez called The Art of Fielding.

Rodriguez is essentially the Platonic shortstop, but certain details — the fact that he played for the Cardinals, mostly, and is only recently retired — suggest that the character is based, at least in part, on Ozzie Smith.

Because his peak ended before I was really aware of him, I never got a chance to see Smith with any frequency. But his reputation is obviously excellent and, if one were so inclined to make a top-10 list of defensive players by the numbers — by adding together their defensive runs, that is, to their positional adjustments — then one would find something similar to this:

Read the rest of this entry »

It has been said that Dick Allen, patron Mahatma of these pages, has a head that contains multitudes. Besides his brain, skull and mind, Dick Allen’s head is rumored to contain a working ordnance factory, a family of ocelots, the spectral presence of Lionel Barrymore, and a dimly lit scriptorium where monastic scribes are busy copying the seminal documents of Western history. As you can imagine, all of this requires of Mr. Allen a rather sprawling melon. Thanks to The Painted Baseball, we may lay reverent eyes upon the real thing. Gentlepersons, your Daguerreotype of the Evening …

Dick Allen’s head — both large and important, neither small nor unimportant.

It’s been a strange few days. A strange few weeks, actually. I’ve been, for most of September, sleeping with the enemy. Last week, after spending most of the season – the past few years, actually – talking shit about the Baltimore Orioles, I found myself rooting for them. And they did good, so good, taking three out of four from the Boston Red Sox. At Fenway Park. Baltimore! I still almost don’t believe it.

Over the weekend, along with the rest of the universe, I was cheering on the Tampa Bay Rays. Over my own Toronto Blue Jays. Disgusting, I know, unconscionable, but I was thinking bigger picture: The collapse of the Red Sox. Which meant, over the weekend, that I was also rooting for the New York Yankees. I hadn’t wished victory upon the Yankees that much since the 2004 ALCS. I wanted New York to pound the Red Sox, to crush their collective soul, and that of the Massholes’ as well. Over the span of a week and a half, I found myself cheering for every team in the American League East save for Boston. I hate Boston. All the cool kids do.

You see, above all else, all I wanted from September was a race. I knew the Blue Jays weren’t going to give me anything, except for their continued, and now boring, dance with .500, and I wanted some drama. Any drama. And, as unlikely as it seemed at the beginning of the month, how September has delivered. Tampa Bay was 8.5 games back of Boston on September 1. Today, they’re tied. The Rays have closed the gap. Actually, Boston, with their shittacular play, has closed the gap for the Rays. And that’s what’s made the race so bloody beautiful. I don’t know why, but I absolutely love to see Boston squirm. Actually, I do know why: It’s Boston’s sense of entitlement, and, most recently, ESPN Magazine’s Boston-inspired issue, “Welcome to Boston, Loozah!” Ugh.

Read the rest of this entry »

Everyone should have a leitmotif. Like healthcare, food, clothes, and shelter, this should be considered a basic human right. Unfortunately, though, the vast majority of us are not lucky enough to have our presence announced musically (lest we take the task upon ourselves and risk looking mentally unstable by humming the same tune every time we enter a room).

A list of people who are among the privileged few to have leitmotifs:

1. Characters in films, television shows, and plays.

2. Professional athletes.*

*It should be noted that I consider professional wrestlers both of these things.

Indeed, there is perhaps no athlete to whom the leitmotif is more important than the closer in baseball. It has been scientifically proven that the last three outs of a baseball game are the hardest ones to get and it has also been scientifically proven that having a bitchin’ theme song is more valuable to a pitcher than any 100 MPH fastball when attempting to record these outs.*

*It should be noted that science has proven neither of these things.

Eric Freeman of the AV Club recent wrote a nice piece entitled “Prelude to a save: A closer’s guide to choosing the right entrance song,” which I missed when it was originally posted the week before last but was alerted to yesterday by this short post from the fantastic Grant Brisbee. Freeman provides the following rubric to assist closers in choosing the perfect entrance song:

-Pump up the crowd.

-Establish a brand.

-Leave the metal womb.

-Sound isn’t the whole story.

-Don’t pander.

-Know your source.

Naturally, this article got me thinking about heretofore unused songs that would make good leitmotifs. Below I have listed five such songs along with skillfully embedded youtube clips and the current closer for whom I believe the song represents the best fit.

Read the rest of this entry »

The astute and championship gentleman has at his disposal a broad menu of hairstyles appropriate for the merchant and bodice-ripper of distinction and breeding. Among these are the Tousled Authority, the Hesitating Delacroix, the Dead Christian, and, natch, the Hair-Fellow-Well-Met.

One will note, however, that Mr. Jayson Werth’s latest coif does not appear within our Manifest of Acceptables. Bear solemn witness …

Pictured abovely is a look known derisively throughout history as the “Señor Buttcheeks,” and it is to our national shame and injury that Mr. Werth has dragged it howling from the vaults. This, Mr. Werth, is why Oleg Cassini doesn’t come around much anymore.

(Giggly hair-pull: Nats Enquirer)

Deion Sanders, trying to bring fashion to bloggers at the Van Heusen Institute of Style #BWB4 Kickoff Party also presented by Captain Morgan & Guinness Black Lager.

What is a blog? What is a blogger?

At BlogsWithBalls 4.0, hosted this past weekend by Bloomberg Sports in their fabulous digs, those questions seemed prevalent. Though never specifically addressed, the struggle to define the blog and its writer simmered below the surface. Questions of access, funding, and innovation were all debated openly in the mostly excellent panels and yet it often felt like an element was missing.

Read the rest of this entry »

Because Oriole Jim Johnson plays for the Orioles, there’s a strong chance that no one — perhaps besides his teammates and Buck Showalter and Buck Showalter’s grizzled and nameless manservant — knows who he is.

In fact, there appears to be at least one reason to know who Jim Johnson is — and it’s embedded above these electronic words.

The footage you see here is taken from the ninth inning of Baltimore’s victory over Boston last (Monday) night. With a 1-0 count against Adrian Gonzalez, Johnson threw this 97 mph offering with 6.2 inches of armside run and 5.8 inches of “rise” (relative to a spinless ball, that is).

While the pitch was classified by Pitch F/x as a four-seamer, the dramatic movement — combined with the fact that a number of Johnson’s pitches are classified as two-seamers, too — suggests Johnson’s pitch might be either.

Of the 14 fastballs he threw Monday night, Johnson got whiffs on four of them (28.6%) — about four or five times the league average for swing-and-misses on fastballs.

In a potentially related story, every woman in the Baltimore area woke up pregnant.

Brooks Baseball. Brooks Baseball. Brooks Baseball.

This past weekend, my good friend Will Smith joined me in a private public screening (as in, we paid to watch the movie behind closed doors, but the theater was filled with strangers) of Moneyball, starring Brad Pitt.

However, I must say the film’s pace surprised me — the book Moneyball actually felt much faster-paced in its 301-page glory — and though I rather liked the film (see Rob Neyer’s review for an opinion much like mine), it never hurts to spice up a Hollywood movie with extra love and action scenes — and maybe a Michael Bay credit.

Suggested Change #1: Replace Jonah Hill with Danny Glover.

We all know Hill played a nerdier version of Paul DePosta, but why couldn’t Danny Glover have brought a little grit to the role?

Glover, instead of working with the Cleveland Indians front office, could have been a wise janitor for the Tribe who doesn’t take crap from the players and lives in a broom closet under the press box until Beane has a protracted, dramatic conversation with Glover in a rain-drenched Progressive Field. The conversation would go like this:

“You don’t need big names to win,” Glover’s character would say.

“What do you mean?” Beane would ask over the roaring rain.

“I can build you a team, using numbers, spreadsheets, and mother’s basements. But what do I know? I’m just an old, beat-up janitor.”

“If I gave the keys to my kingdom, what would be your first move?”

“An efficient manager,” Glover says, snatching his mop and turning away, “never gives out his secrets.”

“Well then you might as well tell me,” Beane says, tugging a fedora over his brow, “because I just hired you to be the Assistant GM of the Oakland Athletics.”
Read the rest of this entry »

The conclave of beauty and discernment that is the NotGraphs readership will no doubt recall Brian Cashman’s fondness for the invoking and toking of something called “The Objective Pipe.”

Yes, the Objective Pipe — it is a thing and we are a people of things. And so in celebration of Mr. Cashman’s loosed Id and in commemoration of this thing which has become such a cultural touchstone that it is worthy of measured consideration on the part of all living artists, I present to you a painting of the Objective Pipe.

My preferred medium, as beholders of restaurant-quality artstuffs are no doubt aware, is my kid’s coloring-book app on the iPad. And as is the case with all my work, the tableau that follows is one-half impressionism, one-half abstraction and a bonus one-half of stupefaction.

Now, please and thank you, gaze upon my toil like Cameron Frye agape before a sprawling Seurat. And by all means, click to absorb as the artist intended …

Lo: Brian Cashman’s Objective Pipe being smoked in its natural habitat.

You no doubt noticed that this work of art contained multitudes. So indubitably does it contain multitudes that there is now a NotGraphs category called “Things That Contain Multitudes,” a phylum to which this post now belongs.

And now I shall finsh this carafe of absinthe and then make palliative love to Anaïs Nin.

While in the minors, Mike Moustakas and Eric Hosmer had heard rumors of the exploits of the last great Royals prospect, Alex Gordon. They figured they needed to find a way to honor him. With the help of Edna Mode, they finally reveled their inspired costumes to Gordon. He was without words.

Or the outfits could have had an entirely different meaning.