Andres Galarraga is definitely inside this box.

Inside of this box has recently been placed a flask of poison, a bit of radioactive material, a Geiger counter, and — largely against his will, it should be said — former Colorado and Montreal first baseman Andres Galarraga (known commonly during his career as The Big Cat). The equipment has been arranged such that, should the Geiger counter detect the decay of even one atom over the next hour, it will release a hammer and shatter the flask of poison, thus killing Andres Galarraga. The likelihood of such a contingency is about 50%.

Questions:

1. An hour from now, when the box is opened, will Andres Galarraga be alive or dead?

2. If Andres Galarraga is alive, how angry will he probably be?

There’s so much pressure around the Holidays, so many extra responsibilities for which we’re not terribly well prepared, such as having to tolerate our families without getting too drunk on good bourbon and falling asleep on the sofa on Christmas Eve, thereby scarring our children. Or perhaps you need to stay extra vigilant so that the kids aren’t left alone with racist Uncle Walt, who has been known to explain that the reason he keeps an assault rifle in a locked, glass cabinet in his home office is he wants to “be ready when they come over the wall” if he isn’t being engaged in conversation about the local football 11. Or maybe you have to be ready to open, unbind, and put batteries in every damn toy your kid receives before he erupts and smashes the egg nog punch bowl on the floor in a fit of rage. Or you might need to sell your plasma to pay for said presents.

Whatever else you wind up having to do this holiday season, the last thing you need is to have to figure out extra presents to buy at the last moment for the little baseball fans in your life. You’re stressed out enough without having to worry about whether the bat you buy is likely to murder the opposing pitcher with a comebacker, or Big League Chew is vegan, or Upper Deck baseball cards give paper cuts, or if vintage Starting Lineup figures are choking hazards. That’s why I’m here, providing you with access to the weird world of YouTube online toy reviews to help make your decision-making process easier, just like I did before.

We’ll start with something simple. A plush baseball is always appreciated:

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We unrolled the preliminary batch of this year’s Golden GIFs nominees on Thursday, but there’s more business to take care of: namely, paying tribute to 2013’s finest moments in bat flippage. Below are the nominees, in two separate categories, for Bat Flip GIF of the Year. As always, additional nominations are welcome via comment.

BEST BAT FLIP – MUSICAL OR COMEDY

Yasiel Puig’s Single

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This image certainly isn’t more absurd than what you’re about to do.

The author, who will remain nameless, has created a morbid and dumb and impossible and morbid baseball-related Sporcle quiz — to which comment the reader is maybe thinking, “Pssh, I bet I can totally answer it.” And to which hypothetical thought, the nameless author is now replying: “No. No, you can’t.” And also replying: “Even if you could, what’s the point, really?”

The New York Times, with an expose about beards last week:

You can have facial hair in almost any industry these days, said Allan D. Peterkin, co-author of “The Bearded Gentleman: The Style Guide to Shaving Face,” and also a psychiatrist in Toronto. But there are a few exceptions, he said, and one of them is finance…. [B]ankers and traders are a conspicuously clean-shaven lot. In fact, I was unable to find a bearded banker to talk to me for this article.

So… one of these men is a banker. The other is not. Any guesses?

Okay, I guess neither one is a banker.

Beverl,y MA—Multiple  witrneses reportt seeing local facial hair having basebll blogge aZach Reynolds aTTEMTPINT TO craft a baseball-related blog pos “at the top of his inteeligence” while wearing cumbersom gloves. The normaly crisps andf reliable typist wAS reduced to tuyping an emaRRASIKNG meta-post rifve with asccidntall caps-lcokl presses and unfortuante spelling gaffes.

Reports scoming in mid-afternoon MOnday indciate that the bloger’s apartement is the primary culprit for his imprecide finger bhavior. The residential domicile is allregfly kept at a frigid 62 degrees, and the desk Reynolds normally sits at to craft blog posts is locatef ina zoone that is anohte5r 3-5 dgrees colder5 due to the thermostat being lvoated in a warmner room. Iirrefutabel scientific analYSES show that the glvoes severly hinder the blooger’s abilitry to typre accurately due to increADd ginfer surfqace area, lack of tactile feedback when excetuing keystrokes, and diminshed fine-motorcontrol as a result of his fingers still actually being cold despiute having the glvoesd on. Some analkysts believe the cold might be affecting the already laxy man’s will to edit, as werll as think of baseball-related content in a time of year wehn nearly nothign non-JAMES LONEYT RELATED is happening in the sport.

Excluvsive photographic content captured late Monday AFTENON REveals the layabout weating ragged hobo mittens over knitted touchpoiint glovs. “This kind of thign could absolutley hiunder one;’s ability to type quickly and accurately.,” says al local law efnorcxment offfifer. “It might ebven make him not wreie a real post abot baseball. Or even, I don’;t know, attempt a fake news article about how his hands are cold. Tgat wold be dumb, though, so hipefully he doesn’;t do that..”

When contactef about why he doiesn’t simply turn up the heat in hus apartment, the shivering malcontent answered, “Hey I’m not paying to heat the whole neighborhood herw!” and “yo don;’t know what it’s lke living LIJKE I fo.:” confirming suspicions tatt the young man is weary and bitter at heart.

Attmpets by resuce organiztions to AIRLIFT BTHE BLOGGER A PARI OFHEATED GLVOES RESLUTSED IN CATSTROIPHE WHEN, distracvtred by the internt and it’s infinite fepths, Reynolfs failed to proippeply read ht eintrsutions pringted ont he packoacung of the heqated glvoes, casuing a massive fire ton erpout iun bhis writing nook, evfnutally spreading andf bringinn down the entieytel of BEvely, mAssachusetts.l As of pres time, heatreadings in thesmnoldeing wtreckage show two distinct bleue dots assunmed to be Reynolds’mn forver-frozerd hands.

To click the image is equally to embiggen it.

There are a number of strong arguments for watching 2012 feature-length documentary Pelotero which might reasonably be made by way either of spoken or written discourse. Like that it’s a revealing portrait of Dominican baseball, for example. Or that it’s an arresting portrait of baseball in the Dominican Republic, for other example.

Among the arguments one might make visually, however, there are few likely stronger than the one presented above of (what the author believes to be) Miguel Sano’s younger brother Ernestico both in diapers and on a miniature police motorcycle. Is Ernestico prepared to protect and serve the citizenry of San Pedro de Macoris? “Yes,” one is forced to conclude. Is he entirely comfortable yet with making toilet? “Less so, probably,” is the answer to that second question.

Probably no one saw my newsworthy tweet on Saturday:

Who was the big winner at the MLB Winter Meanings? Why it was Bubba Sparxxx, who was officially certified as an agent.

— Robert J Baumann (@RobertJBaumann) December 15, 2013

It’s official (in the magical NotReality of NotGraphs, at least): Sparxxx has followed in Jay-Z’s footsteps as rap-star-turned-sports-agent. Sparxxx stated in a recent email to NotGraphs:

With the recent mega-contract for Robinson Cano orchestrated in part by Jay-Z and his Roc Nation Sports, along with current “rap style” hits by Major League Baseball players such as [Cleveland Indians right-hander] Trevor Bauer (“Gutter to the Grail”), one would think that the crossover between rap/hip-hop and professional sports is a new one. But if you are a true music and sports historian, you would recall that this interdisciplinary movement actual began in 1995 when, as a high school senior, I was a burgeoning rapper while also being an All-Region tight end and linebacker in LaGrange [Georgia]. The video for the first single on my debut album Dark Days, Bright Nights featured me and some pals in the mud with the ol’ pigskin, racing tractors, and performing at night on a baseball field illuminated by bug lights. If that’s not the epitome of the rap-sports connection, then nothing is. Furthermore, I have always been a player, now I just represent them, too.

The new face (and thumb) of player representation.

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• It does not look like it will be a homecoming for Tony Lazzeri, who is not being considered for the Yankees’ second base opening. Representatives for Lazzeri were unable to be reached, although Ken Rosenthal reported seeing them in the hotel lobby, having coffee with Dayton Moore and the ping-pong-headed mascot of the Jack In The Box chain of fast-food restaurants.
• Ike Davis will be going to Japan. On vacation. He will reportedly be touring the Tsukiji Fish Market and eating at least three bowls of shio ramen.
• In the Rule LXVIII draft of unprotected broadcasters, the Padres ended up with Fran Healy, who will now be doing the play-by-play on alternate Sunday afternoon games on SiriusXM radio.
• The Red Sox agreed to terms with Billy, a new batboy, on a two-year deal, pending a physical by the team pediatrician.
• The Washington Senators met with Scott Boras regarding Stephen Drew, but they don’t exist anymore, so there didn’t seem to be the makings of a deal. The two sides will continue the conversation next week over brunch.
• The Rangers are expected to name Arnold Culliford as chief usher. Culliford’s son Chip sells hot dogs in the upper deck, and is reportedly seeking a three-year deal.
• Johan Santana is drawing interest from six teams, fourteen orthopedic surgeons, and eight financial advisors. All will be watching him pitch, bend his knees, and check his balance at a local ATM.
• Umpires are close to reaching a four-year deal on a new contract with the Florida State League. Anyone who can name any umpires in the Florida State League will automatically be eligible for the league pension, under the terms of the deal.
• Was that former commissioner Happy Chandler enjoying the steak fajitas at a nearby Mexican restaurant? Probably not.
• Bobby Valentine was said to be disappointed not to be considered for any of the zero remaining managerial openings, although he was seen in the lobby discussing the recent New York City mayoral election with Tim Bogar, Ruben Sierra, and an MLB Network associate producer.

Yesterday, as I was waiting for my daughter to start crying again, I read a few pages from a little gem of a book. Its title: The Great American Baseball Card Flipping, Trading and Bubble Gum Book, published in 1973. After an autobiographical introduction, the text is a proto-NotGraphs series of vignettes about various players, stars and nobodies, accompanied by full-color copies of their 1950s Topps cards. It provides a little flavor to all those names that appear in spreadsheets from time to time.

Carlton Willey is one such man. A highly-touted prospect, he emerged from Truman’s War to lead the NL in shutouts in his rookie season. That was the extent of his black ink.

Carlton Willey was born in Cherryfield, Maine, the self-described Blueberry Capital of the World. One of the authors of the book, describing his annual trips through the town on vacation to Canada, describes it as “inhabited exclusively by lobster fishermen and grizzly bears.” But the image that sticks out is of a banner strung across the only street in town, written in faded red ink on white muslin. The words: “WELCOME TO CHERRYFIELD, MAINE, HOME OF MAJOR LEAGUE PITCHER CARLTON WILLEY.”

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