The Buckner ball is up for sale, and apparently current owner Seth Swirsky’s asking price is in the neighborhood of $1 million (he bought it in 2000 for $63,500 from Charlie Sheen, who paid $93,500 in 1992).  It’s easy to get why it’s valuable, but I don’t know how easy it is to justify it.

There’s a great moment during the second season of Mad Men when Bert Cooper explains to Harry Crane why he purchased a Rothko painting (in the clip it’s around the 2:45 mark).  “People buy things to realize their aspirations, it’s the foundation of our business.”  He pauses.  “But between you and me and the lamppost that thing should double in value by next Christmas.” 

It’s kind of a funny moment because of how true it is – in the art world, that’s basically how things work.  People buy paintings either because they like the aesthetic or because they think it could double by next Christmas.  But a baseball?  It’s become pretty commonplace to bash on nostalgia (a recent, pretty-great book by Simon Reynolds called Retromania talks about it fairly well), but that argument seems like it might make sense here.  No one would buy a Picasso because of it’s ties to the past, but someone might buy a signed Mickey Mantle baseball for just that reason.

This particular baseball has some obviously strange vibes surrounding it. It is steeped in significance and meaning, but it’s a little different for everyone.  Semiotically, when I say ‘tree’ we all see in our mind’s eye some similar version of what a tree is, but when I say ‘Buckner baseball’, a Red Sox fan is going to feel differently then my 87 year-old grandmother, who probably has no idea who Bill Buckner is.  What I don’t get is why anyone would feel good owning this?  It’s cool, sure, in the way that having something that no one else has is cool, but it doesn’t really say anything more than ‘I like things that are expensive and identifiable.’  It’s connotations, if anything, are mostly negative. 

Comic book artist Todd McFarlane famously bought Mark McGwire’s 70th home run ball for $3 million in 1999.  I understand that a little more, but it’s still a lot of money for a baseball.  Someone’s going to buy this ball, maybe around the million dollar asking price, and they’re going to be happy they bought it, and they’re going to take it home and tell all their friends, but I wonder where, in three or four or twenty years, that ball will be.  On the mantle?  A safety deposit box?  In a dresser drawer?

According to ESPN, the Mets are set to announce “substantial” changes to Citi Field to make it friendlier to hitters. The article says that there will be a new (shorter) left field wall, and the fence in right-center field will be moved 250 feet closer to home plate. Oh, sorry, 25 feet. I misread that.

Other changes not mentioned in the piece:

• A sinkhole near the visiting team’s on-deck circle. You mean you didn’t see it? And now Albert Pujols is missing? Oops. Read the rest of this entry »

Last night, the Appreciator of Things no doubt appreciated the valor and excellence of Mr. Derek Holland, thief of hearts. We learned that beneath the wispy curlicue of a Camaro owner’s mustache beats a mighty heart and will. We also learned that excellence is possible despite a subversive rendition of the Pitcher’s Glare. Bear handsome witness:

While Bob Gibson’s glare made you want to quake and Andy Pettitte’s made you feel as though you needed a safe word, Holland’s says to the recipient, “I dunno, man. Maybe after ‘Adult Swim’ is over.” Or, alternatively, “Ah, f*ck it.” Or, more alternatively still, “Hey, dude. Watch this sh*t.”

To you, Holland may be a country

between Belgium and Germany.

Wooden shoes and Amsterdam benders

with booze, hashish, and prostitutes.

To me, Holland is a lefty;

fastball between 93 and 96.

Baby faced, with a pubescent ‘stache

sitting atop his lip like a caterpillar.

Is it just his hipster-ironic statement

on how “uncool” he thinks mustaches are?

Or does he drink chocolate milk in the dugout?

(Is Hamilton allowed to have chocolate?)

Oh, Mr. Holland, Sunday was your magnum opus.

But all I want to know is

why I expect Chris Hansen to emerge from the ‘pen

whenever I watch you pitch?

Perhaps you just rebel, earnestly,

against the restraints placed on you by nature.

Break free from your genetic shackles.

The razor is merely a social construct!

Which is only to say:

when life gives you lemons,

egg yolks, and butter,

make Hollandaise.

In the course of research for my “World Series Games According To Video Games” series, which died thanks to the existence of something called “the weekend,” I discovered this image:

That is the logo for the “Mario Sunshines,” the team captained by Mario which you face in the one-player story mode of Mario Superstar Baseball for the Nintendo Gamecube, released in 2005. Compare and contrast:

Obviously, the person who designed the new Marlins’ logo either never played Mario Superstar Baseball or played the crap out of it. Either way, when viewed through this light, I have to say, I’m much more supportive of the Marlins’ new choice of logos. Go Fighting Super Marios!

Not suitable for work — or so says “society.”

I’ll begin this piece by directing the reader’s attention — if he hasn’t directed it there yet himself — to Ryan Campbell’s two-part interview with Oakland right-hander and 2011 AL FIP leader Brandon McCarthy from Friday. While there are a number of things to enjoy about the McCarthy-Campbell piece, the most notable for our purposes is McCarthy’s sense of self-awareness and his capacity both for understanding and articulating what it is that makes him successful (and, conversely, what has caused him to fail in the past).

While McCarthy’s voice is an entirely welcome one in these pages, he — and the interview in which he participates — are exceptional specifically because this sort of self-awareness and -understanding appear to be rare in baseball.

Read the rest of this entry »

Based on the comments from Thursday’s Kulturkampf, I’d be remiss not to address Scott Feldman’s “positively rabbinic red beard.”

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It is a fact that I am too old and stupid to play Little League, but, lo, how I want to play Little League for Coach Ballgame! Why do I want to play Little League for Coach Ballgame? Because he contains multitudes. Because he is beautiful …

Yes, Coach Ballgame, I have seen “Red Shoe Diaries.” How else may I win your favor?

The Yankees may not have won the World Series, but, as ‘Da Post hastens to remind us, fans of same will kill your face if you happen to be a bloodthirsty, coconuts Pan-Arab despot …

And, as democratic upheavals shake the Middle East down to the bones, it’s worth remembering that Alex Rodriguez remains a big, fat jerk who poops his pants.

This has been your Daguerreotype of the Evening.

Ever since seeing him inducted into the Hall of Fame in 2009, it’s been a dream of mine to meet Rickey Henderson and invite him over for tea and pie. Last week, my dream was finally realized. As you can see, Rickey had a really awesome time at my house!

Rickey don’t buy into that Bill James nonesense.

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