This correspondence comes from the 43rd annual SABR convention in Philadelphia, PA. Earlier this morning, I watched a panel presentation titled “Imagining Baseball” which featured Eric Rolfe Greenberg, Steve Wulf, and Dr. Mark W. Cooper who are, at least in terms of baseball, famous for writing a baseball novel, being one of the original members of the Rotisserie League, and owning an expansive collection of baseball board games, respectively. The whole shebang was moderated by Baseball’s Grandpa, John Thorn. It was engaging to hear people discuss how baseball is played in their head, especially considering that so much of baseball is played in our heads. If we listen, we are creating the space. If we read a recap of some kind, even more so. Even watching a game, we may be predicting or wishing the next play, or perhaps recounting what could have happened. It’s just as much mental as it is visual or audible, perhaps even more so.

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I, along with NotGraphs’ Mike Bates and SB Nation’s Bill Parker, am attending this year’s SABR convention in Philadelphia, PA. Before the official festivities kicked off, we spent a day in Baltimore, MD to catch an Astros/Orioles game. While walking around the fine city of Baltimore, we noticed that the town had a certain penchant for Subway restaurants. In short, downtown Baltimore has a shit-ton of them. We were unable to eat at any, so I can not give you a review. However, I can assume the meals would have been fresh, fit, or perhaps both.

Later that night, the Astros’ Brett Oberholtzer pitched a bit of a gem en route to a 11-0 routing of the Orioles — 7 IP, 3 H, 6 K, 0 R (1.22 FIP). This was particularly notable considering this was his first appearance in the major leagues as a starter.

This lead me to wonder — due mostly to a couple Natty Ohs Bohs and a considerable lack of sleep — what Oberholtzer’s strike zone plot would look like superimposed over a map of Baltimore’s Subway restaurants. The following is the (embiggenable) product:

I take slight umbrage with the Google Map, as I saw way more Subway restaurants walking around downtown. Nevertheless, it does seem as if Oberholtzer’s strike zone plot does have some slight correlation to Subway locations, mainly the Lombardi St., Market Pl., Pratt St., and N Wolfe St. locations. I am unsure what the r² of this would be, as I would have no idea how to calculate that, and this is a stupid premise to begin with.

This common phrase, which has been GIF-ustrated, comes via Astros rookie shortstop Jonathan Villar, who has now stolen six bases in his first eight games.

(Deep, personal fact: This may have caused me to shout certain expletives while watching my beloved Astros on TV)

Long ago, but not so long ago, you were a man. The Man.

You owned jewels and gold and belts made of both. You were champion of two realms. You cultivated victories with leveraged buyouts, but also with your bare God-damned hands. You would use either in any situation. You personified the largest amount of money our stupid brains could imagine.

Look at your right hand. You slapped Hulk Hogan with that hand once. You balled it up and shoved it into Jimmy Snuka’s solar plexus. You put the Macho Man to sleep with it. Look at that hand. Find the biggest callus. It’s the one you earned by gripping countless folding chairs. Your hand is Wisconsin. That callus is Appleton. That’s where you are. You may find yourself in another part of the world.

What was once 5th Avenue and Wall Street is now Lake Winnebago and the Fox River Mall. Old Navy is probably having a sale, but not on sport coats with dollar signs. Maybe try Men’s Wearhouse? Virgil and limousines are now airport shuttles and some guy named Dan. This road smells like cows. Dan smells like Old Golds. These people are salt of the earth people. This is America’s heartland. Heartland is an old Gaelic word meaning “armpit.”

But all is not lost, for you are about to observe baseball. It may be Single-A baseball for a team with a terrible farm system, but, you know. The grass is still green, the balls are still white. The fans are also quite white, but never mind. You’re still a big deal in Appleton, so you’ll be treated like royalty. Like a king. The King of Appleton. Wisconsin. So enjoy your Large Domestic Beer and Build-Your-Own-Sandwich. This is how kings feast amongst the field corn.

(photo)

The casual observer might ascertain that Will Venable used his legs and his arms to make the catch below. However, when paired with the proper song, it becomes apparent that the ball actually came to Venable, after hearing his sultry, come-hither pleas to Come Get to This.

Watch:

Listen:
Marvin Gaye – Come Get To This

Ted Williams didn’t play during the Heat Map Era. He also didn’t play during the Internet, Grunge, Civil Rights, Designated Hitter, or David Bowie Era. But Mr. Williams still understood the idea behind heat maps. The above (embiggenable) image is of a display at the Hall of Fame museum, in which Williams estimates his batting average based on pitch location.

I have yet to visit the Hall of Fame, but when I do, I will certainly seek this display out. I’ve tried to come up with something humorous or insightful to say about this, but everything I come up with pales in comparison to just how cool this thing is. Just imagining Ted Williams dictating a batting average for 77 different balls — splitting some vertically, some horizontally, because that inch and half matters — delights me. We don’t have Pitch F/X data with which to compare this, and I honestly don’t care. Comparing it to facts would ruin it somehow. This isn’t so much a factual chart as it is a peek inside the head of one of the smartest hitters the game has ever seen.

It’s a glorious thing, and it will be my misshapen computer wallpaper for a while.

(image via the digital mind meld known as Reddit)

The SEO Wizard strikes again.

As discerning baseball fans, many of us tend to get a little snarky during the All-Star break. Part of it could stem from the fact that real baseball takes some time off, but a lot of it seems to come from a general conception of silliness. The Home Run Derby is silly. The fact that the All-Star Game counts for something is silly. Every team getting a representative is silly. While these all ring true in varying degrees in me, I still like the All-Star Game. I try, real hard at times, to not be cynical about baseball. Life is full of frustration and bleakness and disappointment and confusion. We shouldn’t seek that out in baseball, at least not too much. Baseball isn’t an escape from life, it’s an alternative. It’s where we would live were we somehow able to live inside a concept. This is why I try to watch baseball through the rosiest of glasses.

I also watch baseball for people like Steve Delabar. Until very recently, I didn’t know much about him. I know that he had blown out his elbow and was doing well after being an old rookie, but it ended there. Then, I stumbled upon the below video. Much focus was given last night to Mariano Rivera, and, of course, for very good reason. A swan song is almost always a touching moment. But save for a few remarks from Joe Buck, Delabar wasn’t talked about all that much. While Rivera’s story of poverty and success is a classic trope in baseball, I find myself drawn more to stories like Delabar’s. Because he fought the odds as an adult. He’d seen the other side, knew what it was like to be a failure, and persevered. He put the dour inevitability of normal on pause not once, but twice. Kids want to be Mariano Rivera. Adults want to be Steve Delabar. Delabar gives us hope that something — probably not baseball, but something — is still attainable. Delabar allows us, as grownups, to have children’s dreams. That, and he throws 97, which is cool no matter what age you are.

Any young lads enamored by the game of base and ball would serve themselves well to learn the game the way The Great Cobb plays it, and for a small fee they can. Does your young one possess an effeminate gait while playing stick ball in the street? Does your son patrol the outfield like a Catholic? Is he about to start working the mines without ever having heard the satisfying sound made when bat meets skull?

Enroll him now in the Ty Cobb School of Baseball. He will learn all the necessary skills:

• Playing while drunk
• Playing with a hangover
• Headbutting umpires
• Proper mother-related insults to hurl at pitchers
• How to hide small weapons in a uniform
• Hitting skills (time permitting)

With a small investment in time and monies, the Ty Cobb School of Baseball can help your son play the game the way it was meant to be played — full of vitriol, booze, and hatred for all other competitors.

Send $25 and a full family history to:
Ty Cobb School of Baseball
P.O. Box 2
Atlanta, GA

(picture via the panic dream known as Reddit.)