The history of mankind is defined by conflict. All conflict is, in its distilled form, RBI Baseball.

Long before it became recognized on the fuzzy television screens of the late 1980s, RBI Baseball burned within the heart of every man and woman. It is the struggle to progress, to succeed, to vanquish. When Homer described the bronze armor of the Trojan heroes clattering in the dust, he was (without his knowledge) echoing the shrill whistle of the umpire calling the out, following the death rattle of the lazy fly ball. When Pushkin stood back-to-back with death on the frozen, miserable tundra, he too felt it. We all feel it.

How blessed are we, then, to have the actual RBI Baseball with which to express our will, rather than straining to conceive it through unbidden words and the swirling cloud of troubled dreams.

Of course, the power to wage total war upon the pride and identity of another soul is not to be taken lightly. As Clauswitz opined on the deadliness of the bayonet and Walzer with napalm, our generation has struggled to establish jus in bello – the law of war – the principles by which our struggle remains humane and honorable even in these desperate times.

The realists, of course, scoff at such niceties. When victory is at stake, they claim, any restraint is a show of weakness. But to descend down this path of logic is the way to madness: a world of mustard gas and atomic weaponry and slapping at the glove of the fielder during tag plays. No matter what our aims, no matter how desirable our goals, our restraint is what separates us from the beasts. So, too, should it be with RBI Baseball. Especially with RBI Baseball.

Though the world and various national governments have remained silent on this issue, the People have crafted their own set of rules regarding the honorable play of RBI Baseball. However, regional customs still exist; if you have any questions, the best practice would be to consult your local chamber of commerce.

RBI Baseball Code of Conduct

Article I: The NES Itself

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Some men smoke a cigarette after making love. Other, more virile men — like Luis Tiant, Sr., for example — smoke a cigarette while making love. It’s a practice borne out of necessity, of course: Luis Tiant, Sr., is always smoking and he is always also making love.

Late American artist Robert Rauschenberg (1925-2008) was known, during his lifetime, as a prominent voice on the nature of what’s possible in the visual arts. Yet, no one could have anticipated the prophetic nature of the work embedded here — which, for convenience sake, Rauschenberg referred to as one of his “White Paintings,” but which is very clearly a depiction of all the Marlins fans in existence protesting the trade of Josh Johnson, Jose Reyes, etc., to the Toronto Blue Jays.

“Startling,” one is compelled to say. “Transcendent,” says another.

On this day in 1963, ballplayer Harold “Muddy” Ruel passed away, aged 67.

Muddy played in the Majors for twenty years with the Browns, Yankees, Red Sox, Senators, Tigers, and White Sox. He logged nearly 5300 Plate Appearances; he won World Series titles both as a player and a coach. After retiring as a player, he remained in pro baseball many more years as a coach, manager, and executive. He had a fucking law degree from Washington University in Saint Louis, and he was actually certified to practice.

The guy led a full life, one might say.

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It’s that time of year again. Well, it’s a time of year again. That is, if you subscribe to the idea that time is a constant. This has started poorly. I’m choosing to move on.

Look, the Hot Stove is upon us, and shit’s about to get real. We are about to enter a whirlwind of rumors, financial specifics, rumors refuting rumors, and general discord amongst fan bases. You cannot stop Hot Stove, you can only hope to contain it.

But we here at NotGraphs are on your side, for once. We have provided some helpful tips for navigating and conceptualizing all that is Hot Stove.

1. When a reporter says a team is “interested” in a player, this does not mean the team has aspirations of entering a romantic relationship with said player.  This has more to do with a team having interest in the player’s baseballing services. Once a player has signed, however, if another team still shows “interest,” then they are most likely going to bone.

2. When considering the financials of a player’s new contract, keep in mind that money will be useless when society finally rises up against its oppressors. It is also doubtful that there will be baseball during the Revolution. If there is, it certainly will not be televised.

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For reasons that needn’t be explored now or ever, the author of this post found himself watching in bed this morning, via informationPhone, the video embedded here of retired footballer Zinedine Zidane’s performance in the quarterfinal of the 2006 World Cup against Brazil.

As the panoply of Zidane compilation videos on the internet suggests, Zidane was both (a) very talented and (b) widely hailed. What one can’t help from observing — from this video specifically, and his career generally — is how Zidane, whenever he touched the ball, almost always improved his team’s fortunes. In baseball, we can derive from a player’s line the number of runs he’s created relative to a replacement player. Were such a thing possible in soccer, Zidane would likely have been among his respective league’s leaders every season — despite never scoring many goals himself.

A large part of Zidane’s excellence, of course, owes to the rare combination and volume of skills in his possession: a deft touch, physical strength, and seemingly preternatural understanding of the pitch and location of all the players on it. What’s also notable, however — at least for the purposes of this very brief post — is what I’ll call Zidane’s capacity for wit.

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The moment I climbed off the school bus, I knew. The field of dry dusty green that usually stretched out before us was stained with a rainbow of colors, clumped together messily like blotches of oil paint. There were boys: fidgeting boys, boys chasing each other, playing tag among the admonitions of their mothers, boys punching each other in the shoulders, boys flashing yellow caps or maroon stirrups. The field looked as though it had been occupied by gypsies. It was that lowest point in any season: picture day. Picture day. A day to commemorate the playing of baseball by canceling our baseball practice and forcing us to care if the bills of our mesh-backed caps were curved correctly.

I picked my way through the chaos to my own team, the navy hue of the Normandy Park Royals, and collected my crisp new uniform. A second baseman by trade, I was pleased to discover a nine adorning my jersey, the same as worn by the soon-to-be great Gregg Jefferies. I hoped that some of his magic could be carried through that number to my own performance, if only a little.

After that came the waiting, as the photographers sent secret signals to the coaches around us. To stave off boredom, we tried a game of pickle with two extra mitts as bases; this worked well until an errant throw clocked a grade-schooler in the back of the neck. After that, and a few angry words, we were forced to sit and pick at the grass in silence.

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Doubtless, you have heard about Ambrosial Danny Heep Nachos, the delicious, piping-hot bowl of tri-cornered chips and fresh flesh named after former Astros, Mets, Dodgers, Red Sox and Braves outfielder Danny Heep? Surely you have heard tell and caught whiff.

Scrumptious is what they are. Yet they are not scrumptious because they were lovingly prepared by retired outfielder Danny Heep. Lo and no, they are scrumptious because when one consumes an inviting heap (Laughing Out Loud) of Ambrosial Danny Heep Nachos, one necessarily eats many tiny Danny Heeps. Bear whetted witness …

Do the living morsels of Danny Heep tartare wish to die gruesomely in the service of your maw-stuffing pleasure? No, they do not. They must console themselves with the promise of contributing to your mounting angina pains. Being as they are quite tiny, though, they have little say in the matter. So consume without ceasing. We can always breed more tiny Danny Heeps.

Please do enjoy your Ambrosial Danny Heep Nachos in commemorative Franklin Mint Rock and or Roll serving crock.

Perhaps to the excruciation of NotGraphs readers, I’ve been slowly building a provisional cast for MLB: The Movie, a comprehensive movie about Major League Baseball that will cost at least $300billion to make and will never get made. Ten to twenty years after never, the film will be re-released with tacked-on yet comprehensive 3D effects (AKA Baseballscheiße und 3D, working title, Germany).

Since this will be infinitely in the future, we can assume that all manner of technologies will be available to us. Thus, the “3D experience” will really be much more than 3D — it will be a complete sensory immersion.

Here are some things that you can expect to appear/happen in the 3D MLB: The Movie experience:

*An infinitely spinning Joe West, who will be implanted in the corner of your mind for all time by nano-bots that enter your body via your dong or lady dong.

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…. Puppies are being shot.

— Henry Schulman (@hankschulman) November 12, 2012

Henry Schulman, who covers the baseball Giants for the San Francisco Chronicle, is either finishing an idea here from a previous status update or has the saddest possible offseason newsbeat imaginable.