Tim Brown, of Yahoo! Sports, tries ably to defend young punk Yasiel Puig today. But, as Pedro Gomez laid out yesterday, Puig’s a young man going down a dark road, full of not respecting his elders and trying to get women to pay attention to him. It’s that very same path that led a young Dorian Gray to a lifetime of debauchery, disgrace, and murder most foul.

But Gomez doesn’t even report the half of what Puig has done since debuting on June 3. Indeed, his list of crimes against human decency are myriad and shocking. They include, but are not limited to:

Devastating the confidence of pitchers – Pitchers are fragile creatures, and any time they are being abused as Puig has been abusing them (.397/.429/.630) they are prone to suffer greatly from a crisis of confidence. Who knows on what deep spirals of shame they might descend, or what may become of them? Clayton Richard is hiding on the DL right now, afraid to come out of his room and talking about shaving down his shoulder, all to avoid facing Puig again. Adam Ottavino won’t stop crying.  Remember poor Sybil Vane, who swallowed prussic acid after disappointing her Dorian, and fear for what might be.

Still doesn’t speak English – Puig has been in the United States for a full year now, and still needs an interpreter because he’s not fluent in the language he had no cause to learn or speak until one year earlier. If I can still remember how to ask where the bathroom is in Spanish (Donde aste la biblioteca?) surely he can learn enough English to speak to reporters who are desperate for him to say something wrong.

Contributed to the generation of fisticuffsmanship with his face – If Puig had been a better ducker, maybe the Diamondbacks and Dodgers wouldn’t have brawled, and there wouldn’t be so much bad blood between them today.

Bat flippery – Read the rest of this entry »

Water finds its level, or so they say. And as human beings are roughly 70 percent water, simple logic dictates that 70 percent of humans will, eventually wind up exactly where they belong. The other 30 percent comprise the House Republicans in Congress, who built a shitty dam out of gerrymandering, prejudice, and bitterness and have managed to stay well above their level, and Nikola Tesla, who stayed well below (curse you, Edison!). But, for now, let’s concern ourselves with those of us who manage to wind up right where we belong. Like Jose Valverde, pitching at AAA in a hot dog jersey.

A match made in Heaven, preordained by God Itself.

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Brian Kenny doesn’t care much for no-hitters.

Yes, I’m saying it: No-hitters, hitting streaks – antiquated notions. From a time where we are baseball values were misguided.

— Brian Kenny (@MrBrianKenny) July 3, 2013

I blame the mainstream media: Headlines of “12-0!” “No-hitter!” So stuck in the past. Think for yourselves! Stop being sheep!

— Brian Kenny (@MrBrianKenny) July 3, 2013

How brave, taking some innocuous thing that people find joy in and calling them “sheep.” On this 4^th of July Eve, clearly Brian Kenny has become our greatest hero, and let us resolve to celebrate the 4^th as Brian Kenny would have us celebrate it, devoid of more “antiquated” fun. To whit: Read the rest of this entry »

Today, Bob Klapisch reported that the Yankees have no idea what’s going on with A-rod, calling his comments (in which he tweeted out an update on how his rehab is going without clearing it with the Yankees’ front office first) “bizarre” and saying “they’re also stumped the slugger’s recent behavior.”  Well, everyone knows Alex is a complicated guy, and it’s likely that nobody actually understands him.

That must be pretty lonely for a fella, so I want to help you get him better. I snuck into his fortified compound (like Catherine Zeta-Jones in Entrapment, but with tighter pants) and stole what looked like an explanation for what he was trying to accomplish. Here now, for the first time, is A-Rod’s master plan:

Click to embiggen. Duh.

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In celebration of today’s landmark decisions on the right of all adult Americans to marry the people they love, regardless of race, creed, or gender, here is a list of baseball people I would marry, if I wasn’t already hitched to a woman who would skin me alive for even mentioning the possibility of ending our blissful union and taking up with someone else: Read the rest of this entry »

There are many things that Lou Gehrig has done in his life that you will never do. You will never win an American League MVP award. You will never hit 49 homers in a season or 493 overall. You will never win a batting title. And lord knows you will not spend even one consecutive game in a major league lineup, let alone 2,130. You will never be as beloved as Lou Gehrig. You will never be as nice as Lou Gehrig. And indeed, you probably aren’t even as good a child to your parents as Lou Gehrig, who lived with his parents until he was 30, despite having gainful employment, so that they could pay the bills. You live with your parents until you’re 30 so that they can pay yours. Shame on you.

If I had my druthers, Lou Gehrig would be alive today in your place. But I don’t. I don’t have any druthers of my own. So you get to stay. Read the rest of this entry »

One reason I love writing for NotGraphs is that, while I’m pretty filled with rage on a daily basis, this allows me to revel in the joy that baseball creates in my heart and my soul during those brief moments when I’m not up my own ass with self-important, self-righteous ranting. I love loving baseball, and I love that NotGraphs not only celebrates the stuff enhances my love of baseball, but pays me in real American dollars to write things about the things that enhance my love of baseball. Go NotGraphs, basically, is what I’m saying.

So it’s with some slight trepidation that I want to introduce young Trey Masek, the fifth round selection of the Chicago Bearcubs in baseball’s Rule 4 Draft. Why am I hesitant to introduce him? Because this could easily be taken as a post intended to shame a 21 year old kid. And I, in absolutely no way, want this to be a post like that. I mean, if I were able to talk to my 21 year old self, he and I would have a huge discussion about what a fucking idiot he’s being in any number of arenas, and that maybe he should tone it down with the being an immature little goblin of a man. And by all means, take an economics class like your grandfather wanted you to.

But I’ve digressed. Back to Trey Masek, a young man with a hopefully bright future, and a Twitter account. A Twitter account whose bio, until yesterday, read as follows:

Read the rest of this entry »

Some people around here consider themselves to be poets of some kind or another, or at least that’s what they tell their family as “professional medical test subject” is considered less of a noble calling in this day and age. Really, the last non-Maya Angelou to really make it as a poet was one Theodore Geisel, who turned his verse into children’s books that are belovéd and turned into shitty movies, as a way to support his filthy rhyming habit. His was an exhausting writing process where he went through several drafts of his work before finally settling on the right combination of whimsy, life lessoning, and made up words that are probably actually anagrams for swears. Here is one such draft, originally titled Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are You’re Not Butts Wagner? that was rejected for being too damn depressing:

“When you think things are bad,
when you feel sour and blue,
when you start to get mad…
you should do what I do!
Just tell yourself, Duckie [Medwick],
you’re really quite lucky!
Some people are much more…
oh, ever so much more…
oh, muchly much-much more
unlucky than you!”

You’re your parents’ sole baby; you had their attention.
So whenever they’d meet someone new they would mention
All the things you were up to, and what you had done.
It would take them two hours, they’d talk a whole ton.

Every small thing you did filled them with pride,
and you felt their love with every fiber inside.

But you could have been poor, poor, poor, poor Albert Wagner,
whose parents made him sleep every night in a bagner.
A bagner is far less warm than sleeping bags,
on account of it’s made out of old moldy rags.
But his folks saved the space on the big double bed,
for his younger brother, who got it instead.
“Trust us,” they said. “Your brother Honus
Will some day be rich enough that he could own us.
You don’t have his potential.
You’re just not that good.
We’ll feed you and clothe you
like society demands legally we should.
But that’s all you’ll get, Al,” they said with two shrugs,
“now get in your bagner and what watch out for bugs.”

Worse, while desperately trying to fight his removal
from the bed and their hearts, desp’rate for their approval,
Albert barely noticed when some dumb old klutz,
decided to nickname the sad young man Butts.
And despite his misgivings, he never said boo,
like you might have done if in his place were you.

You might have screamed and you might have yelled
Albert poured himself into a game at which he excelled
“Baseball!” he cried, “now that’s the ticket!”
“I’m quite good at this bastardized version of cricket.”
But so too was Honus and before too much time,
His brother surpassed him and left him behind.

Honus became one of baseball’s bright shining stars,
bought houses, woo-bangles, snazzers, and cars.
He moved his parents to a brand new palatial estate,
with a long winding driveway and impassable gate,
while poor old Butts Wagner, died sad and alone.
in the only home that he had ever known.

So when you feel yourself getting down, and feeling sad,
remember some lives are less easily had.
At least people love you and you’re not a putz,
with a brother like Honus and a nickname like Butts.

Editor’s Note: the author of this post originally misspelled Puig’s first name as Yasail as part of his unceasing campaign against his own and also the site’s credibility.

I can’t believe you keep spelling my name wrong, man.

It’s true, Yasiel Puig is nowhere to be found on my All Star ballot. I’m trying as much not to be miffed about that as I am trying to follow Internet Superstar and world champion non-blinker Dave Cameron’s advice to include Yasiel Puig’s name in the title, and preferably the body of any post on the ___Graphs family of premium websites, even though the article in question may (and in this case does, in fact) have nothing to do with Yasiel Puig. Integrity be damned. I’ll play it the company way. Wherever the company puts me, there I’ll stay.

Anyway, I went to the Phillies-Brewers tilt last Saturday with three Phillies phans, because I apparently have a death wish of some sort. I met them before the game at a bar in Milwaukee at 3:00 in the afternoon. They had been there since 11:00. Two of the Phillies phaithful in question were greatly enjoying their brews, but in a greatly responsible manner. The third was already the kind of drunk that confuses “loud” with “charming.” The omens were good for the evening’s merriment.

Later, at the game itself, he proceeded to make a harmless nuisance of himself to the various Brewers fans in attendance in a way that was simultaneously hilarious to me and deeply embarrassing. I can’t say I didn’t encourage him once or twice. I can’t say I didn’t howl with laughter at others. And I can’t say that I didn’t take extra trips to the men’s room and concession stands to escape him on occasion.

When they passed out the All Star ballots, I took the opportunity to distract him, handing him mine and a pencil and encouraging him to phill out the ballot in my name. This, friends, is that ballot, filled out by one of the more harmlessly intoxicated fans I have ever come across. The only ballot I will be submitting for the 2013 All Stars, because democracy is often dumb and I won’t participate in this pharce: Read the rest of this entry »

On Wednesday, I promised to explain to you little muffins my love of Malachi Kittridge, the turn-of-the-20^th-century catcher, refugee from Children of the Corn, and briefly turned manager of the Washington Senators. He was a terrible player, and I love him for that too, but we’ll focus on the managing here.

Tom Loftus had been the Senators’ second skipper, guiding the club to sixth and eighth place finishes in 1902 and 1903 respectively. Nevertheless, he was expected to manage the club in 1904 up until April 12, when he abruptly quit. I haven’t been able to find any documentation about why he quit, but it’s a good bet it had something to do with his boss, “Business Manager” Dwyer (I can’t find his first name anywhere), who the Senators’ minority owners were trying to have removed. Kittridge was appointed the interim manager with the team “in a chaotic state.”

The season started two days later, and Kittridge’s Senators were blown out by Connie Mack’s Philadelphia Athletics. By the end of April, Washington still hadn’t won a game (they had tied in their second game of the year). It would have been payday on May 1, as the Senators left for New York City to start their series against the Highlanders. Dwyer paid third baseman Bill Coughlin his entire salary, around $200, entirely in one dollar bills

“that had swelled like a damp sponge. The bundle was so large and thick Bill couldn’t bend it. He carried his slary under one arm like a loaf of Dutch bread. While transferring from the ferryboat to an L train in New York Coughlin hid the musty wealth beneath his coat. Even then he expected the thugs to bounce a piece of cheese or similar blunt instrument on his head.”

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