“And therefore Joe West sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken.” – Genesis 3:23

Joe Blanton is both (a) a pretty good, probably underrated, major-league pitcher (averaging 2.9 WAR per season over his six-year career) and (b) not as talented as his Phillie rotation mates. It’s the latter of these points that makes for the slightly awkward SI cover pictured here.

Perhaps it’s my imagination, but there appears to be a second distinction between Blanton and his teammates — namely, the ability (or lack thereof) to express a cohesive message visually.

Using the part of the human brain designed to read facial expressions, one gets a pretty clear sense of what four of the pictured pitchers is trying to say here, as follows:

Roy Halladay: [In a German accent, if possible] Weakness repulses me.

Cliff Lee: I’m staring into the sunshine of my talent.

Roy Oswalt: Were circumstance to dictate that I hunt for my own food, this wouldn’t be any sort of a problem.

Cole Hamels: Not until you’ve holstered your gun, sir.

Joe Blanton, though? It’s not clear. If one sees his expression, it’s only through a glass, darkly. What, Joe, is going on in those eyes of yours? What language is it that your goatee speaks?

Like the better films of Woody Allen and/or a gun that shoots knives, today’s feast day is aimed simultaneously at the heart and the head.

Life: Along with Bo Jackson and Deion Sanders, Brian Jordan was a notable two-sport athlete of the late 20th century. Unlike Jackson and Sanders, however, Jordan’s major league career was both long and successful. Over 15 years, he slashed .282/.333/.455 (105 wRC+), with his best years coming in St. Louis and Atlanta. More notable, though, are Jordan’s fielding exploits: per TotalZone, Jordan ranks 26th all time with 148.0 runs saved above average. All told, Jordan accumulated a 33.3 WAR for his career — or about four wins for every 650 plate appearances.

Spiritual Exercise: Do with your soul what Brian Jordan is doing with his entire body in the image below. Repeat until excellent.

Brian Jordan!

In your cameo appearance on daytime drama The Young and the Restless you played a sensitive urban police chief who, looking out over a city full of ceaseless toil and pain, weeps a lone, plaintive tear.

During your slightly longer appearance in the right fields of baseball’s National League, you saved more runs than almost any player ever — never once crying, so far as anyone knows.

Now, you’ve been given the role of a lifetime — as the subject of a feast in a canon of fake saints! The distinction, you’ll admit, is impressive. A piece of advice, though: don’t just rest on your laurels. Being merely a wreath fashioned from a shrub of the same name, they’d be crushed under the weight of someone your size.

At the end of January, my colleague and actual townsman Jackie Moore invited the wide readership directly into the eye of his brainstorm so’s to contemplate, hand-in-virtual-hand, the best and brightest of fantasy-team naming.

With two months having passed since that post, and with baseball on the proverbial doorstep, it makes almost too much sense to revisit Jackie’s original effort and to see what late March has to offer us in the way of excellent appellating*.

*Of course it’s a word. Shut up.

Master of the Genre Rob Morse has offered a couple of examples via Twitter (pictured above).

Here, you can see the team names for the FanGraphs ottoneu League, too:

Mr. Chris Cwik has tickled me near, if not directly on, the funny bone with Wookie of the Year. Paul Swydan’s Compu-Global-Hyper-Mega-Net is a nod to a post-apocalyptic future sure to occur right after the apocalypse. Team Dark Overlord speaks for itself — unlike David Appelman, whose servants generally speak for him, lest he tires.

So, what say you, commentariat? Have we advanced in this important area of human development? Or are we descending into a dark, dark age?

After a brief furlough for rest and relaxation, the feast-day celebrations return today with some combination of pomp and circumstance.

Life: While even the most casual of baseball fans will be familiar with Denton True “Cy” Young by virtue of the eponymous award given annually to each of the league’s (the American and National League’s, that is) best pitchers, it might come as a surprise to many that Young, himself, was not particularly dominant, only ever leading the league in ERA+ twice (1892 and 1901) over the span of a 22-year career. Rather, what distinguises Young from other pitchers is his control (leading the league in BB/9 for 13 seasons) and his unparalleled durability, a trait that enabled him to set records — in games started (814), complete games (749), innings pitched (7356.0), wins (511), and losses (316) — that still exist today. Born and raised on a farm in Gilmore, Ohio, Young returned to Ohio in 1912 (after retiring), where he lived and worked on his farm until his death in 1955.

Spiritual Exercise: Read the poem “Monday” by Primo Levi. Conjure in your mind a man for whom, instead of sadness, mindless repetition brings comfort and joy. Does the man resemble Cy Young? (If not, you’re likely doing this wrong.)

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Is this the best possible use for Google Alerts? If not, I’m thinking it’s close, at least.

H/T: Unfettered Joy

Mere hours ago, I attended a Boston Red Sox-Florida Marlins game with my 90-year-old grandfather, Philip (né Filippo) Cistulli. Below is a brief account of same.

Before I begin in earnest, some brief information about my grandfather: he’s originally from Bristol, Connecticut, son of immigrants. After his father died (when my grandfather was quite young), he resolved more or less to become The World’s Greatest Pater Familias. By most accounts, he succeeded. He’s now a widower who splits his time between Florida and the Boston area.

Another note: despite the fact that my grandfather’s story could very well be rendered beautifully and heartbreakingly by someone so inclined to do such a thing, Carson Cistulli is decidedly not that writer. Most of our interactions consist of him offering career advice and me pretending I know better. It would be disingenuous to represent them otherwise.

Now, here:

Five Brief Conversations We Had
ONE
Me: Grandpa, you mind if I write about our trip to the game this afternoon?

Grandfather: I’d be honored — so long as you don’t write anything stupid.

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Reader and writer Bryz directs us to this image of Eric Sogard (from the latter’s MLB.com page), whose omission from Team Joy Squad may or may not represent an error on the part of this author.

In our ongoing attempt to discover precisely how many words a picture of words is worth, I offer you the following, bespectacled reader: a tweet, courtesy of the Washington Post’s Adam Kilgore, concerning Miguel Batista’s fastball velocity (or lack thereof).

Regard:

Inspired choice by Mr. Desmond, I think, to go with Iowa there. Everyone knows that Miss California generally brings the gas.

H/T: Answer Dave

GQ (née Gentleman’s Quarterly) has continued that Great American Journalistic Tradition of telling us what we already know.

In this case, there is neither harm nor foul, however, as the Thing We Already Know is that supporters of the Philadelphia Phillies are vile miscreants, as said fans have been named Worst by the aformentioned publication.

Tell me more, Adam Winer!

Over the years, Philadelphia fans have booed Santa Claus, their own star players, and most absurdly, the recipient of America’s very first hand transplant, whose crime was dribbling in a ceremonial first pitch—thrown with his freshly transplanted hand. Boooo! Admittedly, there are some things fans have cheered. Like Michael Irvin’s career-ending neck injury and a fan being tased on the outfield grass. Things reached their nadir last season, when Citizens Bank Park played host to arguably the most heinous incident in the history of sports: A drunken fan intentionally vomited on an 11-year-old girl.

Some nominal research suggests that, so far as nadirs go, intentionally vomiting on a child is one of the nadir-est.

H/T: Mets Blog