Recently, I finished reading The Art of War, the famous work of Chinese general Sun Tzu. Although the goal of Sun Tzu’s writings is to educate the generals of his state of Wu in the art of defeating large armies of people, potentially with deadly force — something not too similar to baseball, given the non-contact nature of the sport — some of Sun Tzu’s thoughts on the competitive and strategic aspects of war actually apply quite well to this fine sport. Here are a few selected items which people in various positions in baseball could find useful.

For the manager assessing his team:

He first of all considers the power of his army in the bulk; afterwards he takes individual talent into account, and uses each men according to his capabilities. He does not demand perfection from the untalented.

It is key both for managers to understand the strength of their teams relative to the league as well as the bits and pieces individual players bring to the table. This passage seems particularly applicable to platoons — the strong manager does not demand each hitter hits lefties and righties equally well, and instead uses two players to the best of their abilities when possible.

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So the Astros hired this fella, Sig Mejdal, to be the club’s “Director of Decision Sciences.” I hear what you’re probably saying to yourself. “Isn’t that a made-up title?” In a way, yes it is. That may or may not have you asking, “So what other titles were considered?”

Well you’re in luck. I’ve procured a copy of the different titles the Astros were prepared to hand out had this not worked out. Take a gander.

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From Tom Verducci’s column on his Hall-of-Fame ballot comes this little (Chicken Mc) nugget:

It was not preventing me from voting for Bagwell in 2010, but a development gave me pause just as I was filling out my ballot in his first year of eligibility: a perplexing interview in which Bagwell condoned steroid use and attributed his bulk to “eating 30 pounds of meat every single day and . . . working out,” making no mention of the andro, the beta-hydroxy-beta-methylbutyrate, the zinc tabs, creatine and whatever else.

Once more with the relevant portion in the town-crier’s all caps for maximum emphasis:

“EATING 30 POUNDS OF MEAT EVERY SINGLE DAY”

Like you, I don’t know whether to believe that Jeff Bagwell indeed made a habit of eating the equivalent of four human newborns every day, but I think I shall believe it anyway. Jeff Bagwell ate 30 pounds of meat every day. Thank him for the memories, but pity the hellscape of his colon.

(Nom nom: BTF)

Caravaggio’s The Incredulity of Saint Thomas.

Here are three dreams I’ve had about baseball:

1. I’m at a familiar cafe in Madison, WI. One moment, the barista is there, behind the counter like normal; the next, he’s gone, replaced by Dick Allen. No one seems to notice, except for… no, it couldn’t be… yes, it is… Haley Joel Osment.

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If there’s one thing we take very seriously  at NotGraphs, it’s bringing to your attention baked delights that are baseball-related. So, look at it. Look at that frigging baseball glove made of cupcakes. Isn’t it amazing? At first, I wasn’t even sure what to say about it. Upon feasting — pun intended — my eyes on it, I was rendered speechless. I may or may not have reached out with my right hand and touched the screen of my laptop; touched the baseball glove made of cupcakes.

(I did.)

But, really, what is there to say? It’s beautiful. It’s freedom. And surely delicious. I may or may not have dreamed of eating it last night.

(I did. And Kevin Mench. Not eating Kevin Mench, you sick bastard. I dreamed about eating the cake, and then, later on, I ran into Kevin Mench. I made sure that he knew I’ll never forgive him for breaking Roy Halladay’s leg in 2005. Strange dream, I know. Very strange. But I guess it’s about that time of year — Januarys in Canada make you question your life choices — when I begin to dream of mediocre baseball players.)

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times, and I’ll say it again: I’m hungry. They’ve thought of everything.

Cupcake glove tap to this Tumblr account.

As the Internet teaches us, it’s Hall-of-Fame voting season, which means a bounty of carefully nursed grudges and logic tortured to the brink of demise. The actual, bricks-and-mortar Hall of Fame is a lovely place that is worth your time and U.S. currency. Those charged with populating the Hall of Fame, however, are in not small part bloated, slappy harlequins with no sense of proper mission or context. Thus, Dick Allen’s — Mister Dick Allen’s — criminal absence from Cooperstown.

The good news, however, is that Mr. Dick Allen, despite the chronic neglect, is as healthy and confident as something unimaginably confident and healthy. And that leads us to this enduring truth …

Mr. Dick Allen — he’s just fine, thanks.

The Josh Reddick of my mind has been very busy. First, he was all optimistic. Then he was all pessimistic. And he’s still in there knocking around.

What he’s done to cope is this: change up his styling. Each look represents how he’s feeling at the moment. Each look plays with line, texture and depth. Each look is a snowflake. Each look has a motto.

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Arthur Rhodes has pitched for 20 seasons and nine different major-league teams. In addition to his mastery of left-handed batters, Rhodes has also mastered his passions via the practice of Zen Buddhism.

Central to the practice of Zen is koan study. Wikipedia informs us that a koan

consists of a story, dialogue, question, or statement, the meaning of which cannot be understood by rational thinking but may be accessible through intuition or lateral thinking. One widely known koan is “Two hands clap and there is a sound; what is the sound of one hand?”

Recently, NotGraphs has found a collection of koans that encapsulate Rhodes’ compiled wisdom, generally involving dialogues he’s had with younger teammates. NotGraphs will share these periodically for the spiritual benefit of the readership.

Rhodes on the meaning of baseball:

Mitch Moreland asked Arthur Rhodes, “What is Baseball?” Rhodes said, “Three pounds of flax.”

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What follows is an image of Alex Rodriguez, invader of boudoirs, at something called a “Professional Hollywood Basketball Game”:

You might notice that Mr. Rodriguez, in this daguerreotype, is both becocked and bespectacled. It is the latter quality that is somewhat surprising. What is also surprising is that Mr. Rodriguez is visibly agape. Is it something he sees? Or has Cindy Crawford, in tones hushed but not hushed enough, prescribed something crude and immodest for him — something that assumes him to be both cad and masher? Careless whispers indeed.

The glasses suggest craft pale ales shall be sipped. The countenance suggest standards of decency shall be reconsidered.

(Love and the making thereof: HBT)

As seen below, Fred McGriff is about to embark on a long career of smiling.

“Look, mom: I’m rated.”

Here, the smile that would warm so many hearts, find it’s way to so many cities and onto so many teams, into so many livingrooms, the livingrooms of our dreams, our strangest, sweatiest dreams, is yet but a smirk on a young McGriff’s superstar lips. Read the rest of this entry »