Oh, morning. Wait … is it morning? What time is it? Really? Damn.
Look, the first thing I’m going to need you to do is turn down that light. My head is killing me. And stop yelling. Well, it sounds like you’re yelling. Just … talk quieter.
Part II
Yesterday, I took you on a very boring journey through my opening of 1700 baseball cards. It’s true, you can look it up.
Today, I present the remainder of my findings. Enjoy, or whatever.
Part I
At the risk of losing a considerable amount of ‘Net cred, I feel as if I need to make a confession; I haven’t bought a baseball card in about 20 years. There are lots of reasons for this, the main reason being that my friends stopped doing it first. As an adolescent who strove to be accepted, I had no interest in doing anything which my group of friends had no interest. I considered this to be, at the time, a form of self-betterment. I wanted nothing more than to hang on to the small group of friends I had, and therefor the “childish” activity of opening, sorting, and saving baseball cards was done away with.
I am now older and wiser. I understand that having hobbies and interests that are my own within my group of peers is acceptable and healthy. I embrace it. I also am on a different kick of self-improvement, related directly to baseball. As a young baseball fan, I was really only interested in the best players. I did not pay heed to the men I deemed unworthy of my attention. Superstars were it for me. This has led to a considerable knowledge gap when it comes to players of the late ’80s and early ’90s. Too many players have slipped through the cracks – players that weren’t very good or perhaps were good, but I failed to recognize their contributions since I had yet to fully understand player value.
It appears as if Rolling Stone’s list of 50 Funniest People features a baseball icon, fair NotGraphs readers (click to embiggen):
It is come to my attention that the Nationals will be adding a fifth mascot to their Race of Presidents*. While the Nationals fans may assume that the Naltionals will feature a former U.S. President, allow me to offer up the idea of using an international president, in an effort to not only bolster international relations, but also because they pretty much used up all the good options already. Observe:
This is an essay about Stan Musial, sort of.
This is not an essay about team fandom. I certainly have thoughts on the matter, and though they apply here somewhat, they aren’t the crux the discussion. Pledging allegiance to a team is an act separate from what I’m discussing, though I may dig into that later in time.
This is not an essay about death. Stan Musial lived to be 92, and while the passing of anyone of note can be seen a tragic or sad, I find little mourning in my heart for a famous person who lived so long. I am more interested in celebrating his life, but again, that is not what this is about.
As most of you may heard, MLB is planning on doing away with the fake-to-third-throw-to-first move, or at least calling it a balk.
Max Scherzer, the owner of such a move, can no longer legally use it on the baseball field. This does not mean however, that he can give it up. Nay, he must use it to express himself in some venue, where it is allowed. He has discovered that it is not only tolerated, but in fact celebrated in various da clubs. Observe:
As a white male, I am no stranger to the world of people who have been given stupid nicknames. The majority of these encounters occurred while in college, where I knew people with nicknames such as Detox, Hot Rachael, Ogre, Boob, Gay Dan, Hot Lindsey, Fathead, Pubehead, and Fahqueef. (Full disclosure: those girls were hot, and Boob was a guy.)
Much like my baseline blood-alcohol content, my interactions with people who had dumb nicknames subsided after I left college. This may be a game of percentages, however, since my interaction with any people took a drastic dive after college, once I realized that people were, in general, vile and terrifying creatures. My wife is involved in roller derby — a sport that requires participants to take on nicknames of sorts — so I do know people who are addressed by odd monikers, but as these names are forced and often self-appointed, it doesn’t really count for me. So as I stand, I really have no acquaintances with nicknames, save for the people at work who I call names behind their backs. As a grown man, I have not noticed this to be abnormal.
