Back by something bizarrely similar to popular demand, it’s Mustache Watch!

In this second (and seriously, guys, maybe last) edition of Mustache Watch, we follow multiple leads all directing us to the same notable stache — that is, the one on the upper lip of Blue Jay Travis Snider.

There are multiple names for what we’re seeing here with Mr. Snider, and you’re surely thinking them right now in your head. For my part, I can say this: Mr. Snider’s mustache prompted me immediately to call my little sister, make sure she was okay, not tied up and captive in a stranger’s basement lair — that kind of thing.

In other news, remember: Mustache Watch (which, come on, may never appear again) is a collaborative effort, depending on hot leads and hot tips and hot everything-else-there-is. Don’t hesitate to alert us to sweet face hair at: not+tips [at] fangraphs [dot] com.

Are you a male between the ages of 16 and Dead from Old Age? If so, you might be interested in this thing that’ll probably never appear in these pages again: the NotGraphs Mustache Watch.

In this inaugural (and maybe only ever) edition of Mustache Watch, we present Chris Iannetta, sporting a handlebar situation. Iannetta, as you’re well aware, is competing with new Texas Ranger Mike Napoli for the title of Most Excellent Catcher-Eligible Italian.

More on this situation as it develops. (Or, seriously, not.)

FanGraphs’ own, the very kind Erik Hahmann, is tweeting from the Tampa Bay Rays’ season opener this Friday night at Tropicana Field, and has submitted the above for our consideration, documenting with expert brevity the life choices of an opinionated Rays fan.

As a Northern-born gentleman, I’m not qualified to comment with any sort of objectivity on the “culture” of this sunwashed state. So I concede the right of value judgments to our bespectacled readership.

If the above image is slightly blurry, it’s because light is at a premium in my Upper Midwestern home at the moment: what my weatherman is calling “freezing rain” but what I’d describe more accurately as “liquid sadness” is falling all over the place as as I type these electronic words.

The good news is, thanks to the misguided kindness of Maple Street Press owner James Walsh, I now own all these frigging book things. In somewhat related news, it appears as though Walsh will appear next week on FanGraphs Audio. Join us for this landmark event.

One early and superficial observation about these assorted annuals: there’s a chance the Cardinal one will make people cry.

Regard:

Our feast-day series continues today with:

Life: Reggie Smith is one of the better players the modern fan maybe hasn’t heard of. While possessing no standout tool, Smith hit enough and walked enough and fielded enough over the course of his 17-year career to accumulate a 71.8 WAR — i.e. more than Duke Snider, Yogi Berra, Craig Biggio, and a number of other famous and good players. Unfortunately, owing perhaps to the lack of one or two exceptional seasons, Smith received less fanfare than his body of work perhaps deserved, never finishing better than fourth in the MVP chase and surviving just one year of the BBWAA’s Hall of Fame voting. It’s possible that the presence of the considerably more famous Reggie Jackson, whose career spanned almost the same exact timeframe as Smith’s, had some influence over Smith’s relative obscurity.

Spiritual Exercise: It’s likely that Smith received little attention in awards-voting because he failed to reach notable, albeit largely meaningless, milestones with any sort of frequency, scoring 100 runs just twice in his career (109 in 1970 and 104 in 1977) and recording 100 RBIs only once (with exactly 100 in 1974). Nevertheless, he was quite productive — probably more productive than certain players who achieved these aforementioned milestones.

Ask yourself: is it better to be excellent in relative obscurity, or mediocre but considered great? (Note: while there’s no wrong answer, per se, believing the latter will make you an insufferable bridge partner.)

A Prayer for Reggie Smith

Reggie Smith!
With your given name,
it was predetermined:
you would either be
a talented athlete
or personal gentleman’s
gentleman. Congrats
on totally fulfilling
your destiny!

It would be a crime both (a) against humanity and (b) in at least one Mississippi county to bid adieu to The Feast of Pete Incaviglia without making public the above image.

The absence of a (an?) hilarious caption is no accident: it’s possible there are words for what you see here; they just aren’t English words.

If NotGraphs exists for one reason, it’s to propagate the spread of Joe West-related art throughout the country, world, and universe. But if NotGraphs exists for two reasons, the second of those is to celebrate what is Good about baseball and the internets.

Thank you, Grant Brisbee, for doing the thing you do.

NotGraphs continues to spread the good news, via its critically acclaimed feast-day series.

Life: Baseball fans will remember Incaviglia as a hirsute, impossibly sweaty, and — as he entered his 30s — replacement-level power hitter. Fans of college baseball, however, likely know him as The Greatest Hitter Ever. In three seasons at Oklahoma State, he amassed a (still) record 100 home runs*, hitting an (also still) record 48 in his junior year alone. Entering the draft, Incaviglia demanded to forego the minor leagues entirely and eventually landed with the Texas Rangers, for whom he hit 30 homers and slashed .250/.320/.463 (108 wRC+) in his rookie (age-22) season. Unfortunately, his approach at the plate failed to develop any further and, though he ended his career with 206 home runs, finished with just a 12.2 WAR over parts of 12 seasons. In 1999, Baseball America named Incaviglia the College Player of the Century.

*Making this record more significant is the fact that, while four-year players are eligible, Incaviglia left OSU after his third year there.

Spiritual Exercise: While Incaviglia, as a 22-year-old, was certainly capable of not failing in the majors, we can also probably take for granted that he would have benefited, at some level, from a certain amount of minor-league service time. Was it his responsibility to recognize this, or his organization’s? When, generally, is it best to recognize — or alternatively, ignore — one’s limits?

A Prayer for Pete Incaviglia

“Get your meathooks off of her,”
is something I’d yell at you
only after a great deal
of nervous introspection
and probably liquor.

Lest you think, even for a second, that George Radbourn (no relation to Old Hoss) was not a man of his century, please inspect the image above (salient points noted) and then think again.

Image taken from the very useful BR Bullpen.

Today’s feast day requires no money down and even less commitment.

Life: While never expressly a superstar, Daniel Joseph “Rusty” Staub was a consistently above-average player for the better part of his 23 seasons in the majors, slashing .279/.362/.431 (122 wRC+) for his career and posting a 56.6 WAR. Staub had the distinction of spending his early years with not one, but two, expansion teams — joining the Houston Colt .45’s, as a 19-year-old, in their second year of existence, and then the Montreal Expos in their inaugural season. Though generally liked wherever he went, it was by Expo fans that he was truly embraced. Dubbed “Le Grand Orange,” Staub made no little effort to learn the French language with some depth. His number 10 was retired by the Montreal Expos in 1993.

Spiritual Exercise: As you watch baseball games this season, mentally note all of the instances in which a broadcaster says of an ex-player “there’s not a nicer guy in baseball” or “he’s the nicest guy.” Ask yourself: “Is that guy talking about Rusty Staub?” If no, then he (i.e. that broadcaster guy) is very possibly lying.

A Prayer for Rusty Staub

French, the Rusty Way
is the easiet way to learn
what has been called by dignitaries
and assorted neighbor children,
“the hardest language to speak
while drinking milk.”

Visiting Paris
and need to talk filthy
about Edith Piaf?

French, the Rusty Way!

Someone gazing lustily
at your brand new
croque-monsieur?

French, the Rusty Way!

Just woke up in North Africa
entirely sans pants?!?

French, the Rusty Way!

French, the Rusty Way
is conceptually perfect
and bigger than all of us.
It’s effective as hell
but makes some guys
ambidextrous on accident.

Buy French, the Rusty Way
this instant and raise
your confidence by fifty!

Buy French, the Rusty Way
and divide all your sorrows
by zero!