This is the second in a series of short excerpts from MLB Network’s entirely imaginary new fall sitcoms. More details here.

Today’s show: SEINFULD

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The spats-wearing reader will recall the writer’s affections for a certain base-and-ball-ist and member of the landed gentry by the name of Malcolm Clapsaddle. His name, you will agree, is wondrous, a cornucopia within which are numberless sets of Russian nesting dolls, and within each of those: multitudes.

And so, still, yet, alas, thus, and alack this is Malcolm Clapsaddle surrounded by the things that one would suspect: Malcolm McDowell, a devastating gonorrhea culture and a saddle. It is thus because thus it is:

This has been Malcolm Clapsaddle surrounded by Malcolm McDowell, the clap and a saddle.

Steve Edlefsen technically had 14.2 Major League innings before last night. None of them probably prepared him for this.

What Vin Scully said:
“He was picked by the Red Sox as an infielder.”
“Looks like he should be a sidearmer.”
“Comebacker to the mound… took his glove right off!”
“Nice try by Edlefsen.”

What assorted people in my living room said:
“Did he throw his glove at that? Little league.”
“Who is this jerk.”
“Stupid Mota and his stupid steroids.”
“Way to screw that up three different ways, meat.”

Went to the Brewers-Reds game last night at Miller Park. Decent amount of Reds fans there in a modest crowd (27,000-ish).

Often, I make a point of taking noticing the most popular jerseys worn by the visiting team’s fans. Joey Votto was pretty popular, of course. Saw a few Johnny Bench’s. Strangely, I don’t recall seeing any Brandon Phillips jerseys.

But I did see this:

I sought him out to shake his hand.

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So today I realized/learned that Detroit Tigers manager Jim Leyland is 67 years old. Seriously? Just 67? Look at this guy:

Stunned by my discovery, I did what any sane person would do: I expressed my shock and dismay to the approximately two dozen sad, lonely souls and spambots who follow me on Twitter.

Wait, Jim Leyland is only 67 years old?

— Matt Klaassen (@devil_fingers) May 8, 2012

America’s response tells us something about something, I tell you what.

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Off an arm, off one very unlucky sonofabitch’s, uh, you know what, and into a poor woman’s unsuspecting face. I mean, seriously, what are the odds? Helluva journey for that baseball. I hope some kid ended up with it. I believe in happy endings.

The woman, when reached for comment by the NotGraphs Investigative Reporting Investigation Team this morning, had only this to say, by email:

“No glove, no love.”

Indeed.

Addendum: It’s come to my attention that this was actually a Brandon Inge home run. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Except that the title was wrong, so I’ve changed it.

H/T: Reddit user jeanpaulfartre.

On Sunday, Albert Pujols broke his season-long homer drought. Which means only one thing. Albert Pujols is back. All season, we’ve been telling you it’s been bad luck, small sample size, just a quirk of the data. And that one at-bat, that one home run, proves that we were right. Sure, his batting average is still under .200, his OBP under .250, his SLG under .300, but it’s only a matter of time. If you extrapolate from that one at-bat where Pujols hit the home run, you can estimate that he will hit over 500 more home runs this season, and get his batting average up to about .800, where it belongs. And, sure, the critics might argue that it’s only one home run, it’s only a 1-for-4 day, it’s nothing to get too excited about… but not everyone can hit a home run and go 1-for-4. Not everyone in the major leagues is capable of hitting one home run. Look at Ben Revere. Over 500 major league plate appearances, and no home runs. Ryan Dempster has had 655 plate appearances without a home run, leading active players. Sure, he’s a pitcher, but still, his at-bats count too. And with his one swing of the bat, Pujols proved without a doubt that he is a better hitter than Ben Revere and Ryan Dempster. What more can the critics want? What does he have to do to get people to stop their complaining and appreciate that they are in the presence of greatness? Does he need to go 2-for-4? Hit a second home run? Go on a two-game hitting streak? People are never satisfied. He’s back, I tell you. Back.

I was surprised, at the completion our offseason crowdsourcing project, to find that FanGraphs readers had ranked Houston Astros broadcasters Bill Brown and Jim Deshaies fourth overall among the league’s 31 television broadcast teams.

Of course, I could also be excused: there has been little reason for anyone to go out of his or her way to watch the Astros over the last couple-few years.

With a new, data-driven front office in place, however, and a team that’s currently ranked 10th in FanGraphs’ totally infallible SI.com power rankings, there are reasons to watch the Astros at the moment.

What I didn’t expect before turning on Sunday’s game between Houston and St. Louis was the degree to which Brown and, in particular, Deshaies could augment a fan’s viewing experience. The duo are both genuinely entertaining (not just “entertaining for baseball broadcasters”) and responsible with the numbers.

By way of illustration, here are five brief sound clips of Deshaies — literally all of them from the first three innings of that Sunday game against the Cardinals.

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Until now, nobody knew this about me: on Mondays, I like to play a little game called “What Was Kent Hrbek Thinking/Smoking/Digesting?”

Won’t you play with me?

Materials for this game are readily available as, for some reason, Kent Hrbek’s life during and after baseball is well documented with candid photos, many of which appeared on baseball cards. Kent was just a photogenic guy. A single Google search might produce hours of fun, but I normally limit myself to one or two rounds of “What Was Kent Hrbek Thinking/Smoking/Digesting?” per Monday. You would be wise to do the same.

Here’s how to play:

Find an image of Kent Hrbek that you haven’t considered previously, open it in a separate browsing window, and enlarge the photo until it covers your entire screen as nearly as possible. Stare deeply. Try to achieve a state of mind wherein only you and Kent/picture of Kent exist. Ask yourself, out loud, “What was Kent Hrbek thinking, smoking, and/or digesting during the moment this photo was taken?”

Allow me to share a few of my own results with you:

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There are hundreds of baseball movies. There are hundreds of baseball movie trailers. Entirely too many of them can be viewed on the Internet. However, after intensive study, these six clearly separated themselves from the field. Each stands in its own way as a piece of art unto itself; each so masterfully distills the essence of its film as to make the film all but irrelevant. Enjoy.

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