(Or: Great Moments in Reclining)

The game of baseball has taken unwarranted criticism over the centuries for being somewhat lethargic. To the untrained eye, the many pauses and activities that occur during said pauses, such as scratching, spitting, and the sewing of loose buttons, gives the viewer the impression that nothing is happening during these intervals. Hardly helping matters is the fact the authors of many of the great baseball confessionals, such as The Long Season, Ball Four, and The Bullpen Gospels, spend most of their books planted on their backsides. This, coupled with the endomorphism of Bob Hamelin, give the layman the false impression that baseball players are lazy, indolent creatures stuffed with sunflower oil, tryptophan and NyQuil.

Now stare at the visage of Dave Chalk. Here we see a man who is in all ways at rest, but it is a far different form of rest than the slanderers claim. His hat lies askew, hair cascades tremulously southward, his hand dangles lifelessly. But not his eyes. Dave Chalk is resting, but he is not relaxing. Knowing that the action of baseball is in the instant, the swing of the bat and the flash of the glove, Dave Chalk stores every iota of his energy, conserves the maximum of his talent and grace and purpose for that one moment. His eyes are the key: they take in everything, but they do not register worry or fatigue. Dave Chalk is simply waiting to be Dave Chalk, and he is content to be nothing in the meantime.

Read the rest of this entry »

As the World Baseball Classic qualifiers continue, I wonder about a few countries outside the field of 28 teams. Sure, everyone knows that Australia, Japan, or Cuba can field excellent teams, but what about places like Belize or Bhutan?

Some Internet investigation has led me to Afghanistan and Denmark, two countries that have each produced just one major league ballplayer. Jeff Bronkey, who pitched for the Rangers and Brewers in the mid-90s, is, according to Baseball-Reference, the only player born in Afghanistan. Olaf Henriksen, who played for the Red Sox from 1911-1917, is the only player born in Denmark.

Henriksen did not have any plate appearances against Bronkey, but if he had, looking at their stats, I think he very well might have earned a walk.

Victor Cole may have played in only eight games in the 1992 season, but he maintains the distinction of being one of Russia’s         natives to play in the MLB. And though many people                     love the USSR,                                                           he was not the only former Soviet to play the game.                                                                                                           

The 1992 season marked                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                terrible year                                                                                                                                                                                                    For Russia,                                                                                                                                                                               still great for Cole.

                                                                                                                                                                                          certainly not                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              , a former KGB agent. Just                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    a solid win                                                                                                                                                                               for communism                                                                                                                                                                           

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      platitudes?

The Brewers of Hot Hard Milwaukee recently held a contest that allowed the Internetter to design a uniform for said Brewers of Milwaukee. The winner — to the extent that anything is won in the this life — would have his or her uniform brandished for a spring training game.

Therein you’ll find any number of fetching entries — notably one that prominently features Bernie Brewer, that disowned Vuckovich brother …

Most excellent! Most excellent if you cow before the threat of Real Talk, that is …

You see, I have no doubt that the Brewers will find a winner that best represents their preference for varnished municipal lore. However, being as I am nightwatchman at the Museum of Truths, I’ll abet no such myth-making.

Milwaukee, as the name of their hometown nine suggests, is a town for Drinking Men and The Things They Drink. One does not go to Milwaukee unless Men Are About to Drink. Business? Conduct it in Dallas. Cultural tourism? New York and Chicago are there for you. Restorative escape? The Bay Area will see you now. Cocaine in a hot tub? The San Fernando Valley serves no other purpose. But Milwaukee exists for the drinking of drinks. “Let us drink these drinks,” people in Milwaukee say, “and then try to throw this clock radio all the way to Michigan.”

In light of those authenticities, this is my entry, Brewers of Milwaukee.

On the front we have a Milwaukee Journal celebration of the Wisky electorate’s decision, in the late 1920s, to embrace wholesome, nutritious alcohol in defiance of both federal meddlers and awful Protestants. The shoulder patch is the regeneration liturgy known well to the Hands That Built America. On the back we have bon vivant, man of letters and drink and secret native of Fond du Lac Kingsley Amis astride a familiar and always near-at-hand cock-and-tail. The cap? The front boasts a rendering of the hepatic rot that will be the death of all of us at the bar — that bar in Milwaukee. And on the back is the shitty omelet you make after a night in Milwaukee, U.S. the fuck of A.

Take me not for a knave, Brewers of Hot Hard Milwaukee. I know the score, and, yes, I’ll have another.

Brazil beat Colombia in World Baseball Classic qualifying on Saturday (box) — giving the Brazilians (a) two total wins in the Qualifier 3 bracket and (b) two more wins than a reasonable person would have expected them to get in the Qualifier 3 bracket.

Notable from their Saturday victory was the relief performance of 24-year-old right-hander Gabriel Asakura, who struck out five of the 10 Colombian batters he faced — including longtime major-leaguer Edgar Renteria. Asakura himself is less of a longtime major leaguer and more of a recent senior at Division II school Cal State L.A.

Here’s Asakura getting a swinging strike on what appears to be his changeup (or maybe a splitter) against Cleveland prospect Giovanny Urshela:

Read the rest of this entry »

First, Colombia was inhabited by indigenous peoples like the Muisca, Quimbaya, and Tairona. Then, in the 16th century, it was conquered by the Spanish. Then, in 1986, Steve Brown was born in Barranquilla.

The type-written sentiment to follow, which was found taped above Doug DeCinces’s locker during the 1979 World Series, is as 1970s as catching the clap during an urban riot …

There are things the modern gentleman can still say, such as “Please” and “Thank you” and “When in Tangiers, one does what one must.” One cannot, however, utter — in such a precise sequence — the words taped above Doug DeCinces’s locker during the 1979 World Series. But forgive the year 1979 and its discontents; for the music was too loud, the coke and ass too beguiling.

But let us not leave on such a note. Along comes a gentleman — quite possibly Al Bumbry — to redeem team, clubhouse and year of our Lord …

A rogue chooses hat and outwear the color of gold bullion. A gentleman chooses hat and outerwear the color of gold bullion frightened by the possibilities.

I hope you’ve learned something, Inexpedient Decisions of 1979.

(Source material: The YouTube)

If Mike Trout Had Won the AL MVP last night, I would have woken up this morning about 11 minutes later than usual. I would have tried to take a quicker-than-normal shower, and failed. I would have put on a pair of brown, almost houndstooth pants with hints of navy blue. My shirt would have been navy as well, with red and white checks. My socks, shoes, and belt would also have been brown. I would have put a dab of gel in my hair, the kind specifically for curly-haired gentleman.

I would have kissed my dogs and wife goodbye (in that order), put on my pea coat, grabbed my small satchel, and headed out the door for my bus stop. About a half a block shy of my stop, I would have seen the 7 bus drive away. I would have sighed, faced east, and strolled to the stop for the 19 bus, which drops off farther away from my office. I would have arrived at work exactly at 7 a.m.

Read the rest of this entry »

The other morning, either by accident or out of a need to distract myself from the numerous laments of my daily life, I chanced upon Carson’s Wednesday edition of the Daily Notes.

Sipping my generic instant coffee, I allowed myself to be regaled by pastel-colored tales of hope and vigor, of prospects whose stories have not yet played out, and will all end well. I had achieved a healthy sense of emotional detachment, an almost zenlike prospecting trance, when my eyes fell upon a single name in the final leaderboard.

I am not accusing M. Cistulli of fabricating these statistics, although it’s of course impossible for them to be true. For this is a list of people who have theoretically done something well, and yet it includes Horacio Ramirez. Based on these premises and the deductive reasoning that renders logic possible, Socrates must be immortal.

Perhaps you smile at my vehemence, dear reader, but my heart is steadfast. Horacio Ramirez is not a man; he is a malediction. He is a negation of goodness. He may not be the only specter who haunts me, but it is his eyes that glow brightest when the lights go dark.

Read the rest of this entry »

Mitch, some notes on your recent paper for WR 122:

• Your enthusiasm for your subject is apparent throughout. Successful writing requires, first and foremost, the engagement of the author. If he or she isn’t engaged, then the reader definitely won’t be.

• Be careful about rhetorical fallacies. For example, you imply early in your piece that supporters of Mike Trout’s MVP candidacy — and particularly those supporters who offer quantitative analysis as evidence — never watch games. The danger with absolutes (never, all, always, etc.) is that even a single exception to your characterization can dismantle the rest of your argument.

• Your essay includes a number of ad hominem attacks. Abusing a person or group is, at best, irrelevant; at worst, it undermines the nature of your argument by suggesting that you, as an author, are forced to resort to name-calling owing to a lack of actual, substantive material.

• Not entirely separate from the above, but also worthy of note here, is the question of tone. An effective argument relies upon the author establishing a trustworthy tone or voice, the voice of one who would give credit to the “opposition” (itself even perhaps an extreme characterization) when it’s due. The tone of your piece (see: “I mean, did you do the math? I didn’t. I like to actually see the sun once in a while.”) skews shrill with some frequency, which hurts your credibility.

• Regarding your conclusion: your instinct to “mirror” or “echo” your introduction is a good one. It certainly signals to the reader that the piece is nearing its end, and also gives the impression of a meaningful structure. However, it’s also important to avoid the trite. Merely returning to the paper’s opening line (“The eyes have it”) is facile and perhaps even insulting to the reader.

Grade: C+

Note: if you’re interested, I’d be more than willing to discuss your paper at greater length during my office hours. How are Tuesdays for you?