The FanGraphs-reading baseball nerd doesn’t just beat you, the two-time defending champion, in fantasy baseball. No, he beats you, and more; he goes that extra mile. Today, at NotGraphs, we celebrate the commitment, and considerable street and lyrical talents, of one Mike Cook.
Mr. Cook, thank you. It’s no coincidence your initials are, of course, M.C. The floor is yours …
You see it all the time: professional baseball player A, batting, takes professional baseball player B, pitching, deep to left field, over the fence, a home run. He runs the bases: first, second, third, some love from both coaches at the corners along the way, and, finally, home. But before he steps on the plate, or just as he does, he tilts his head skywards, and points towards the heavens.
Think of Albert Pujols; he does it all the time. David Ortiz, too, after his leisurely stroll around the diamond. But by no means is the salute exclusive to the home run. I remember seeing Nick Swisher do it after he’d walked, once he’d arrived at first base. And, knowing Swisher, it was probably a four-pitch walk, the pitcher’s control long gone, never to return. Hell, maybe it was an intentional walk, but someone up above deserved some thanks, some acknowledgement.
So I’ve been wondering: it’s God these guys are giving props to, right? Some guys are surely saluting a departed family member, maybe a lost friend, but in most cases, I think the answer is, yes, God. Pujols, deeply religious, is definitely praising the man above.
I have so many questions. Well, two, actually:
1. Is God a baseball fan? If he or she is smart enough to have worked their way to the top (no pun intended), to the title of “God,” I’ll assume he or she is very smart, and, yes, therefore a baseball fan. And a sabermetrician.
2. Is God a St. Louis Cardinals fan? I’m sure Albert Pujols certainly believes so. And, the more I ponder it, perhaps Pujols knows something we don’t. Think about it: St. Louis is about to play in their third World Series in eight years. They won the 2006 World Series after winning only 83 games during the regular season. Eighty-fucking-three. The Toronto Blue Jays won 87 games in 2006, and didn’t make the playoffs. (I will never not be bitter about this.) And, finally, think about what’s gone down over the past couple of months in Cardinals-ville: the collapse of the Atlanta Braves; the brilliance displayed by Tony La Russa; someone actually saying, “We couldn’t have done it without Dotel.” I mean, come on, that’s insane. I can’t in good conscience rule out divine intervention in favor of the Cardinals.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3V9kJw-kWQ8
I don’t technically need a reason to post the video above. It stands alone, and the test of time, as you certainly know by now. That’s the beauty of NotGraphs; under Chairman Cistulli, we roam free. But I actually have one. A reason, I mean: The New York Times wrote about the Milwaukee Brewers’ famed sausage race:
And just past first base, it was the chorizo, the one in the sombrero, who broke the orange tape as the victor.
How’s that for a sentence about a sausage race? The Times makes it so easy to visualize the race, to picture the sausages running for glory. In my mind’s eye, I can see the chorizo crossing the finish line, arms raised in triumph, ending with whatever the hell it is a victorious Usain Bolt does at the end of one of his races.
Obviously, no article about Milwaukee’s sausage race is complete without the details of what occurred at Miller Park on July 9, 2003. With one swing of the bat, history was altered. Pittsburgh Pirates then-first baseman Randall Simon’s life would never be the same. Nor would Mandy Block’s. Not after Simon struck poor Block, only 19-years-old at the time of her assualt, an innocent Italian Sausage running her first and last sausage race, with a bat to her head.
Our lives, too, were changed. We — society — knew that we would never, ever see or hear three people talking as seriously about a sausage race again.
The police report of the incident, which ESPN’s Page 2 were the first to get their hands on, was damning:
This one comes to us via the Answer Man himself, Yahoo! Sports’ Big League Stew’s Dave Brown. And, holy shit, the resemblance is, as they say, uncanny.
So you can imagine my disappointment reading Lookout Landing late last night, where Jeff Sullivan — who always brings it, one of my favorite writers — declared likeness comparisons to be so yesterday:
I’ve done it myself – I’ve done it a bunch – but I’m trying to stop, because everybody does it all the time, and it’s annoying. Rarely are the comparisons thought through, so they usually fail. Yet because people make bad comparisons so often, the occasional good ones suffer, because nobody wants to hear them anymore. It’s like a bunch of years ago when I was at school and Chappelle was still on. Drunk assholes would walk around loudly reciting the same lines over and over, and it killed the better Chappelle references for the rest of us. Just let us pretend to be funny by repeating somebody else’s funny!
Damn, Jeff. I feel you on Chappelle, but the beauty of the likeness comparison, at least to me, is that it requires little thought, both in it being put together, and in it being enjoyed. One of my life’s mottos is: “Enjoy the silly shit.” I try to. Every single day.
But Jeff understands. He knows that sometimes, even against better judgement, likeness comparisons must be done. Must be told. Must be shared. Which is why he compared Zack Greinke to Ron Roenicke last night. This, above, Yukon Cornelius and Jason Motte, frigging twins, is also one of those times.
Cornelius and Motte more than just look like one another, though. They also share the same line of work: they’re both prospectors. Yukon’s looking for gold and silver, and Motte’s looking for hitters to put away, and for saves. Almighty saves.
See, Jeff, a likeness comparison and some thinking through. It’s beautiful when it all comes together.
Thank you both, Dave and Jeff. May the two of you write about baseball forever.
Even the kids, i.e., seven-year-old Victor Jose Martinez, who’s got it down pat, what with the bubbly, the peace sign, and the goggles. Hell, he’s already even built like a baseball player.
Our Investigative Reporting Investigation Team was in the Bronx late last night, obviously, and inside the visitors’ clubhouse when the Tigers got down to the business of celebrating their game five victory. NotGraphs spoke to Victor Jose during the festivities. He wasn’t drunk, but he was, in his words, “loving life.”
NotG: Give me your car keys.
Victor Jose Martinez: Naw, naw, I’m good, man! Here, have some champagne! Woo!
*At this point, young Victor Jose gave us the old champagne shower.
NotG: Keys. Now.
VJM: Oh, for fuck’s sake, man. Here.
*Victor Jose fished out his keys from his back pocket, and handed them over. Then gave us champagne shower number two.
NotG: Tell me how you feel right now, young man.
VJM: Best day of my life. So far. I’m just so proud of these guys, each and every one of them. We played hard. We did it for Jimmy, man. Where is that bastard? I want a cigar! Woo!
*Champage shower number three.
NotG: Isn’t it past your bedtime?
VJM: You know, the Yankees, man, they played hard. They deserve a lot of credit. They were a formidable opponent. Much respect to New York.
NotG: No, seriously, what time do you go to bed on school nights?
*Victor Jose grabbed Victor Martinez, his dad, as he was walking by.
VJM: I love this guy! Pop Dukes!
*Victor Jose hugged his dad, and they shared a champagne shower, as only a father and son can do after they beat the New York Yankees in the postseason. It was bloody beautiful to watch.
NotG: Remember this in the morning, young fella: Gatorade, and two Tylenols, preferably extra strength.
VJM: Thanks, man! See you after the next round! Woo!
Image courtesy Reuters, via Daylife.
Walt Williams, man. What can you say? It’s one thing to have played Major League Baseball. It’s another to have played Major League Baseball without a frigging neck.
Respect, Walt Williams.
Chest bump: Old Time Family Baseball. They did incredible work this past season. I urge you to check them out, because I’ve no doubt they’re going to bring the blogging pain during the playoffs.
Chalk up the video below as another reason why the Internet is awesome:
Dan Shaughnessy — unfortunately for him, in this case — will live forever.
H/Ts: Learned scholar Kevin A., and the fine folks at Awful Announcing.
It’s been a strange few days. A strange few weeks, actually. I’ve been, for most of September, sleeping with the enemy. Last week, after spending most of the season – the past few years, actually – talking shit about the Baltimore Orioles, I found myself rooting for them. And they did good, so good, taking three out of four from the Boston Red Sox. At Fenway Park. Baltimore! I still almost don’t believe it.
Over the weekend, along with the rest of the universe, I was cheering on the Tampa Bay Rays. Over my own Toronto Blue Jays. Disgusting, I know, unconscionable, but I was thinking bigger picture: The collapse of the Red Sox. Which meant, over the weekend, that I was also rooting for the New York Yankees. I hadn’t wished victory upon the Yankees that much since the 2004 ALCS. I wanted New York to pound the Red Sox, to crush their collective soul, and that of the Massholes’ as well. Over the span of a week and a half, I found myself cheering for every team in the American League East save for Boston. I hate Boston. All the cool kids do.
You see, above all else, all I wanted from September was a race. I knew the Blue Jays weren’t going to give me anything, except for their continued, and now boring, dance with .500, and I wanted some drama. Any drama. And, as unlikely as it seemed at the beginning of the month, how September has delivered. Tampa Bay was 8.5 games back of Boston on September 1. Today, they’re tied. The Rays have closed the gap. Actually, Boston, with their shittacular play, has closed the gap for the Rays. And that’s what’s made the race so bloody beautiful. I don’t know why, but I absolutely love to see Boston squirm. Actually, I do know why: It’s Boston’s sense of entitlement, and, most recently, ESPN Magazine’s Boston-inspired issue, “Welcome to Boston, Loozah!” Ugh.
Prior to Saturday’s game between the Atlanta Braves and Washington Nationals at Nationals Park, our Investigative Reporting Investigation Team, in the U.S. capital to collect another one of our many awards, caught up with the always personable Thomas Jefferson. The principal author of the Declaration of Independence and third President of the great United States, Jefferson is now well retired, save for a few part-time hours with the Nationals.
“I like to think of it as consulting work,” said the Man of the People.
Jefferson chatted with NotGraphs about the Nationals’ season, their second-best since moving south from Montreal, the return of Stephen Strasburg, and — most colorfully about — Jayson Werth’s disappointing campaign.
“Werth? I hate to go all David Ortiz on you, and it’s not very Presidential-like of me, but, well, f*ck. Werth’s awful,” Jefferson said. “I knew this was how this story was going to end. The contract was a mistake. Even Keith Law agrees. And he’s arguably the most brilliant baseball mind at our collective disposal.”
Unfortunately for Jefferson, his comments were leaked to Werth, who, in the moments before the game began, confronted the President in the Nationals locker room. Werth was very animated, a season’s worth of frustration boiling over, and had to be restrained, after yelling: “I’m sick of [Jefferson]! Lincoln and Washington, too! I’ll take them all on! Except Teddy. Teddy’s my boy.”
Cooler heads prevailed. Until Saturday afternoon’s President’s Race, when Jayson Werth, with the help of some of his teammates, made through on his promise. Witness:
No word yet on the severity of the injuries suffered by Presidents Jefferson, Lincoln and Washington. Teddy Roosevelt has a mild concussion. He’s resting comfortably at home.
Image courtesy The Associated Press, via Daylife.
You’re familiar with the drill: In which the Royal We insert Dick Allen’s name into various works representative of the Western Canon, thus adding to those various works the patina of blessedness.
In today’s episode, Stanley Cup champion and Hockey Hall of Fame goaltender Ken Dryden, in his seminal work on hockey, The Game, rightfully called “The greatest hockey book ever written,” waxes poetic about Dick Allen, the best hockey player you never knew about.
It’s not easy for a hockey player to dominate a game. A goalie, any goalie, can make a bad team win or a good team lose, he can dominate a result, but that is not the same thing. He cannot dominate a game, because, separate from the action of a game, he is not quite part of it.
In basketball, one man can dominate: usually a big man—Bill Russell, Wilt Chamberlain, Willis Reed, Bill Walton, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar—able to play most of the game’s forty-eight minutes, and, as with any goalie, it might be any big man. It comes with the position. But in hockey, seventeen players are rotated more or less equally five at a time, and rarely does anyone play much more than half a game. A forward or defenseman, a special forward or defenseman, might with unusual frequency find the right moment in a game and make a play that will swing a result. But for too long periods of time, the game goes on without him, and his impact can rarely be sustained. In the 1970s, only two players could dominate a game. One was Dick Allen, the other Bobby Clarke. Clarke, a fierce, driven man, did it by the unrelenting mood he gave to a game, a mood so strong it penetrated his team and stayed on the ice even when he did not. Dick Allen did it another way.