It won’t surprise you to learn that I’m an opinionated fellow. After all, I am on the Internet pretty much constantly, and roughly 95 percent of the Internet is powered by misguided righteous indignation. And I’m proud to say that few, if any, are more misguided than I am.

But for all of my many misguided opinions, perhaps none of them were so misguided as my belief that dynasties were typically measured in years and accomplishments. I mean, sure, we can measure them in those things. But if we do, then the winner invariably ends up being the 4th Egyptian Dynasty because “ooh, look at me, I built some pyramids.” Or the Japanese Emperors because their line dates back to at least 500 AD. How boring. We need new criteria!

But what to choose? We could measure a dynasty in seasons on television, or duck calls sold, or albums sold, or games won, or descendents who wind up ruling nation-states.

Fortunately, Internet philosopher Jose Canseco is an expert on a great many things, only some of which are related to hitting round objects with other round objects. One of those other things on which Canseco can wax poetically is the founding and maintenence of a dynasty. For Canseco was there from 1988-1990, when the Oakland A’s had an unbroken reign over the American League. He saw what it took to carve out that top spot and to hold it. And that is:

A dynasty is not measured by rings but by the amount of fear your opponent has for you and he knows you know

— Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 22, 2013

See friends? You don’t measure a dynasty in years or in accomplishments. You measure it in fear. Fear and knowing that your opponent knows you know the fear he has…or something. But mostly in fear. You don’t rule and then force your children upon your subjects because you’re inherently better than anyone else, but because the thought of the hammer you (and your spawn) might bring down on any who challenge you is debilitating.

And thus is it that I nominate Dayn Perry, drunk and naked after nine adult beverages, as the greatest dynasty there has ever been, or ever will be, as that’s the scariest thing I can think of. It’s either him or the offensive prowess of Jim Rice.

Friends, it’s a well-accepted fact that old people who are not my grandmothers or Vin Scully are gross. While my grandmothers and Vin Scully are cute and spry, and full of wisdom that you can’t get from all your book-learnin’, it’s an unequivocal truth that old people who are not the aforementioned grandmothers of me or Vin Scully have ears that are larger than is socially acceptable, chew horribly, accidentally spit when they talk, and often prattle on and on about hunting down the Kaisar back in dickety-two (All old people are Abe Simpson, is what I’m saying). Worse, they feel neglected if you don’t pay attention to said prattling and probably cut you out of the will.

Moreover, we know from our own experience with being young that young people are terrible. Just the worst. They are impatient and shallow. They are snide and disrespectful. They refuse, in spite of all of our screaming, threatening, and brandishing of soon to be regulated weapons, they steadfastly refuse to vacate the general area of our lawns. Kids refuse to respect their elders, even the good ones like Vin Scully and my grandmas. If only there was some way to make them tolerable!

Well folks, I’m pleased tell you that you can solve both problems with relative ease. Using my patented system, you can make grandpa shut up about how nobody wants to hear him talk and you can today’s youth put down their GameBoys and Girls, sit still for five minutes, and actually talk to someone who is older than they are without balking. And you can do them both at the same time. And, best of all, surprisingly, we have the Mets to thank for it. Read the rest of this entry »

Once upon a time, there was a man. That man was me, although I had a stupid pseudonym back then. And there was another man, woman, child, or self-aware robot defense system reading this, and that was you. You probably didn’t have a pseudonym, and were better for it. And for almost a full year, we were kept apart. But now, thanks to the questionable judgment of your reluctant hipster overlord Carson Cistulli, we’re back together again, bonded forever by our shared love of me, Vin Scully’s magic powers, Wally Moon’s unibrow, and Don Zimmer’s average face. And so shall it ever be.

If I was the same man I was a year ago, I would be over the moon to be back with you all, so sure of the bright future that awaits us all, like a whispily mustachioed Terry Felton back in Spring Training of 1982.

Oh the puppy-dog like earnestness in Felton’s face! The optimism! The certainty that his mustache will kick in and fill out before too long, like his talent.

Alas, it was not to be. Felton spent the entire season in Minnesota and went 0-13 to finish his career 0-16 with a 5.53 career ERA. No one else in baseball history has ever started their career with 16 straight losses. No one else has finished their career worse than 0-12. He was never again to throw a pitch in anger, joy, fear, or lust for a Major League team.

Why do I tell you this? Why do I bum you out even further on a day where we’ll surely find out that no one has been elected to the Hall of Fame? Because despite what early 1982 Terry Felton might think, life is full of disappointment. His mustache will forever be inadequate, as will his fastball. Your Hall of Fame will be short one Bagwell, Biggio, Piazza, Raines, and Trammell for at least another year. People you are counting on will fall short of your expectations, just as you fall short of theirs. Get used to it. Don’t get your hopes up. Set your sights low.

There. Now with our meager expectations, the only way we can go is up. Together. Like Sylvester Stallone and plucky band of survivors in Daylight. Some of us will make it, but a bunch of you are going to die along the way. Sorry. Excelsior.

Dear friends,

I’m sorry.  Today, I wanted to write an article about that sport we all love.  No, not professional jai alai.  That’s much purer at the amateur level, where gamblers have only managed to corrupt and fix half of the matches.  I’m speaking, of course, about baseball.  It was going to be a great NotGraphs post, full of obscure references to 18th century British architecture, 19th century German philosophy, great 20th century mustaches, and of course, Dick Allen.

Alas, my go-to (okay, lets face it, my one and only) source for research, Wikipedia, was blanked out all day yesterday when I wanted to be preparing for this post.  It was a total bummer.  There was something about Congress taking away my ability to ever use the Internet again….Meh, it was probably nothing.

Anyway, since I have no way of confirming the following information, here are some important facts that might be true that I can’t verify:
Read the rest of this entry »

Over the past several weeks, we’ve received a half-dozen or so unsolicited requests from Shannon Barnett, creator of careersincriminaljustice.net (which I’m not going to link to, as I value the security of your computers almost as much as you do), which “serves as a great resource for new students looking to find all the info they need on getting an online Criminal Justice Degree.”  She would very much be interested in doing a guestpost on FanGraphs.

Obviously, she would be a great fit.  That goes without saying.  But Sharon didn’t provide much direction.  She would “be happy to write an article about any topic that you would like.  It will only be used on your website….I would certainly appreciate any opportunity to write an article. Feel free to suggest an idea, or if you prefer I can just come up with one.”

We wouldn’t want Shannon to have to put any additional thought into her piece, so it’s with great enthusiasm that I suggest the following topics for her.  Also, feel free to suggest your own in the comments.  Perhaps this can set up more democracy in the future, as we collectively decide what topic careers in criminal justice expert Shannon Barnett is best equipped to contribute on here at the *Graphs family.

Read the rest of this entry »

Update: The voting is closed.  Old Hoss Radbourn, quite properly had the most votes with 94.  We’ll use that as a baseline, assuming no one could be foolish enough to not vote for him.  75% of 94 is 70.5.  We’ll round down to 70.  Which means that our inaugural Ron Swanson Baseball Hall of Fame class is as follows:

Old Hoss Radbourn, 94 votes

Ty Cobb, 89 votes

Nolan Ryan, 80 votes

Jeff Bagwell, 70 votes

Lou Gehrig, 70 votes

Frankly, that seems reasonable.  You win this round, John Locke.

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When our country was born, our founding fathers mistakenly bestowed upon us a republic, in which the will of the people would determine the course of our nation, rather than an enlightened despotism based on the whims of Ron Swanson, as Thomas Hobbes had been advocating all along.

And so, since our Belovéd Swanson is barred from ruling by decree due to the Constitution and the fact that he is indeed fictional in nature, it falls to us, the multitude, to choose for him who belongs in his Baseball Hall of Fame.  I don’t like it any more than you do, but such is the will of John Locke, who fricking ruins everything.

Yesterday, you recall, we proposed several candidates.  Today, we will choose the introductory class for the Ron Swanson Baseball Hall of Fame.  Everyone on the original list I proposed, as well as those players and managers both nominated and seconded in the comments section are available for your vote, and you can vote for multiple candidates.  As with the regular Hall of Fame, a candidate requires 75% of the vote to make it in, unless no one achieves that threshold, at which point, we’ll just give it to the top three vote-getters or something.  It should be chaos…glorious chaos…which will demonstrate once and for all how stupid John Locke was.

Read the rest of this entry »

Whether you know it or not just yet, you are a devotee of the greatest of men.  No, I’m not talking Wally Moon.  I’m not talking about Dick Allen.  I’m not even talking about Vin Scully.  I am talking, dear friends, of Ron Swanson.

Swanson, the heavily-mustachioed dynamo whose presence elevates NBC’s Parks and Recreation from sublime to divine comedy, is equally skilled in woodworking, meat preparation, hoarding gold, saxamaphone, avoiding his job, and dispensing warm and sincere advice.  His Pyramid of Greatness is not a mere suggestion.  It is an essential way of life, if we are ever to save ourselves from ourselves.

And so it was with great enthusiasm this afternoon that I waded into a Twitter discussion spurred by Wendy Thurm about whether Ron Swanson would elect Jack Morris to the Hall of Fame on the basis of his mustache.  My position, that Swanson would not respect Morris’ mustache given that it looked like an unkempt squirrel who came to rest and slowly aged on Black Jack’s upper lip, was not expressed.  But my firm belief, that if Ron Swanson told us to we should immediately elect Jack Morris, was.

Indeed, it’s my belief that, not only should Ron Swanson’s position on Jack Morris carry the day, but his position on all baseball players should be considered sacrosanct.  And it is in this spirit that I ask you to help me choose Ron Swanson’s Baseball Hall of Fame.  The following is a list of nominees.  Feel free to add your own in the comments.  We shall show New Hampshire how democracy is done tomorrow when we vote on the candidates.

Read the rest of this entry »

Klout is perhaps the stupidest thing to happen to social media, it in itself not exactly high art.  If you haven’t heard of Klout, it allows you to see how “influential” you are on Twitter and Facebook based on some kind of algorithm Klout probably makes up as it goes along.  I myself am a 53, whatever that means.

One of the other, mostly insane, things about Klout is that it allows you to give other Twitter users a +K…again, whatever that is…designating their mastery of some subject, presumably as a sign to other Klout users as to who they should go to to decide what movie to see, or what car to buy.  Thanks to my idiot co-blogger on The Platoon Advantage and heterosexual life partner, Bill, and his efforts, I am decidedly an expert on “Moms” (tread lightly, fellows, for the mom I’m an expert on could be your own).

And the best part is, it keeps track of you whether you sign up for it or not!

Anyway, here are the overall scores for your favorite baseball-related Twitter feeds (higher is better), and the other ridiculous topics on which your favorite people are also influential, according to Klout: Read the rest of this entry »

There was a fine tradition established in 2011 in which Dick Allen found himself inserted forcefully, but sensually, into various great works of literature spanning many eras and genres.  And thereby did we elevate those works to heights of literary genius previously unseen by man’s imperfect eyes.

It is with pride, then, that the Royal We happily carry this tradition on into what is sure to be a most historic new year of inserting Dick Allen’s name into various works representative of the Western Canon, thus adding to those various works the patina of blessedness.

Today, Dick Allen’s name goes to war, inserted into Ernest Hemingway’s In Our Time, and a mystery is solved:

Chapter VII

While the bombardment was knocking the trench to pieces at Fossalta, he lay very flat and sweated and prayed oh dick allen get me out of here.  Dear dick allen please get me out.  Allen please please please allen.  If you’ll only keep me from getting killed I’ll do anything you say.  I believe in you and I’ll tell every one in the world that you are the only one that matters.  Please please dear dick.  The shelling moved further up the line.  We went to work on the trench and in the morning the sun came up and the day was hot and muggy and cheerful and quiet.  The next night back at Mestre he did not tell the girl he went upstairs with at the Villa Rossa about Dick.  And he never told anybody.

And now we know why Dick Allen is not in the Hall of Fame.  Nobody ever gave him credit for anything.

I don’t mean to depress you.  I don’t want to bring you down.  I don’t want to ruin your holiday season.

But no matter what you do…  No matter what happens to you…  No matter what you receive under the tree or in your stocking…

You will never be as happy as Carson Cistulli was in 1989 to receive VCR Baseball.

This is not a failing on your part. It’s simply a fact. No one has ever been this truly, perfectly, unadulteratedly happy before. Read the rest of this entry »