ACT I

(The curtain rises to reveal TOM MILONE, left-handed pitcher for the Oakland A’s.)

TOM MILONE: My name is Tom Milone, of the Oakland baseball club. My ambition is to become a character in a great play!

ACT II

(The office of a GREAT PLAYWRIGHT. TOM MILONE enters.)

TOM MILONE: Sir, my name is Tom Milone, of the Oakland baseball club. My ambition is to become a character in a great play!

GREAT PLAYWRIGHT: A great play? I’m not aware that such a thing exists anymore.

TOM MILONE: But I thought you were a great playwright?

GREAT PLAYWRIGHT: I’m a fictional character!

ACT III

(CARSON CISTULLI’s dream from last night. TOM MILONE appears suddenly.)

TOM MILONE: Carson Cistulli? Hello. I’m Tom Milone, of the Oakland baseball club.

CARSON CISTULLI: Of course.

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It’s apparently Beverage Week at NotGraphs, and, so, I present:

Between 1997 and 2003, there was no better Martini. Best Martini in baseball.

In all seriousness, or as serious as NotGraphs can get, have a few drinks, and then look at Pedro Martinez’s 1999 and 2000 season statistics. Then drink some more. It’s really quite enjoyable, I’ve found. Cheers.

A longing gaze across the bar to Shawn Siegel. Check out his website: martinipop.com.

Felix Cortez Reyes Sarris was born yesterday afternoon. Now all eight-pounds-plus of him is barreling towards a career squaring the barrel or barreling the best.

Or not, of course. Whichever sport he plays or doesn’t play is going to be fine by me. A name like Felix puts him on a list with many notable baseball players, but it’ll also give him something in common with a revered economist.

But you know the trite-and-true saying:

“Give a man three baseball names and and a baseball in his left hand, and he’s probably headed towards being a LOOGY at worst.”

By a process known as embedding — which oughtn’t be confused with a different process for which the author has become famous around the home and office — I submit for the reader’s consideration video from last week of Chicago White Sox right-hander Jake Peavy discussing with equal parts enthusiasm and modesty a recent minor-league outing he made, which video reveals to anyone who cares to watch that Jake Peavy is remarkably pleasant.

“Apropos of what, precisely, are you doing this?” the reader might be asking. To which hypothetical question, I reply: “No pretense is necessary. Good behavior is always relevant.”

Perhaps it is because I’ll turn 40 this week. Perhaps it is because Carson and I recently discussed Rob Wilfong. Perhaps it is because it is the offseason, and one does what one must in order to abide it. Or perhaps it is because I live close enough to Wisconsin that occasionally the Dairy State’s aesthetic courses through me unannounced and untrammeled. Whatever the reasons, the author chose to costume himself in an actual, real-live mustache for a period of roughly 24 hours. If not for his wife’s plenary powers over such affairs, he might still have it. Still and yet, for a time — for a fugitive, halcyon time — we were kings, you and I …

This is the offseason, and I grew a mustache.

I’ll not bore you with the sequence of banalities that led me to do a Google Image search for “Don Russ,” but please know that I have done precisely this. In its origins it is, of course, an homage of sorts to the Donruss family of cardboard sports products. Google and its lidless eye sensed this straightaway:

No, I did not. I want Don. And then I want Russ. Herein fail not!

Thank you.

What follows are the two most compelling images that turned up, with the stipulation that the eligible photos must contain a guy named Don and a guy named Russ. First, we have this:

The caption tells me that the three men pictured above are, from left to right, Don, Russ and Higgy. It is 1957. Higgy appears to be a young Danny Thomas. Higgy. 1957.

Next:

Above you see Mark, Don and Russ. Russ is in favor of peace, while Don just wants a cold one and some barbecue chips. Ol’ Don. I like that guy.

This is the offseason, and I have been searching on the Internet for Don and Russ.

Apropos of mostly nothing, here are three things that Hall of Famer Bert Blyleven has worn on his head before:

Cake Hat:

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Yes, I realize his name is probably pronounced “luh-zor” and is probably just a shortening of “Lazorako” or “Lazorachak,” but should that ruin our fun? The illustrious 19th and early 20th century Staten Island immigration workers say no — we should too!

First of all, the real facts: Johnny Lazor was a backup outfielder for the Boston Red Sox, and because of a little skirmish in Europe in the 1930s to 1940s, Lazor snatched a good chunk of playing time while Ted Williams and Dom DiMaggio served their country. Lazor played well in their absence, but was probably just a fourth outfielder succeeding in a league depleted by war.

But the real question we need to ask ourselves is this: What would a Saturday morning cartoon featuring said Johnny Lazor be about?
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When I was a young child — no older than five or six — I owned a plastic Phillies helmet. It was basically a bigger version of those helmets they serve ice cream in at the ballpark, or a cheaper version of the helmets that catchers wear.

I loved this helmet. Indeed, it was one of my most prized possessions. So prized, in fact, that I wore it everywhere. I think I saw it as my connection to the surprising 1993 team that ultimately made the World Series and introduced me to baseball fandom.

One beautiful summer day, my grandparents took me and my two-and-a-half-year-old brother for an outing to the Philadelphia Zoo. (Please allow me to use this space to thank my grandparents for the many enjoyable outings they took me and my brother on when we were little. Allow me to also use this space to say damn my grandparents for letting me wear a friggin’ baseball helmet to the zoo.)

This particular day at the zoo began like any other. Ooooh, lions. Ooooh, snakes. Ooooh, polar bears. Animals are great — especially when viewed from a safe distance and/or behind three inches of glass.

It wasn’t until we reached my favorite part of the zoo — the primates — that the trip took a disastrous turn.

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Puffery, via ESPN, The Life:

The Life: We’re told you’re a pretty serious Atlanta Braves fan. Can you prove it? Do you know Chipper Jones‘ real name?

Harris: Larry. I thought I was being tested. This is a test?

The Life: You passed. You really are a baseball fan.

Apparel for a real fan of a real baseball fan.

Knowing Chipper Jones’s real first name makes one a real baseball fan.

For those of you who did not know that, you are not real fans, and you are really banished from FanGraphs.com and all its subsidiaries, henceforth. Because FanGraphs is for real baseball fans only.

If you were not on this fishing trip with Chipper, consider yourself not a real baseball fan.

But, so banished, if you happen to be a real fan of graphs, you can type the name of the man who invented graphs in the comment section, whereupon you will be dubbed a SuperNerd and not only be welcomed back to the FanGraphs community with open arms, but also have Filet-o-Fish sandwiches and Peanut M&Ms dangled into your mouth while being fanned with palm fronds by the HotNotGrapher of your choice. (The choice, of course, is a formality; anyone would pick a Gym-Shorted Carson Cistulli.)