This is a video still of third-base umpire Angel Hernandez, from the 8th inning of last night’s Indians-Royals game.
As someone who watched this game in its entirety, I can assure you that, almost immediately after this particular moment, Hernandez killed — in evermore grotesque and harrowing ways — all the players and coaches of both teams involved.
It never would have occurred to me that Jim Thome could’ve made a nifty Paul Bunyan, but that’s mostly because no one ever asked me, “Dayn, do you think Jim Thome could make a nifty Paul Bunyan?”
Had someone posed that question — and, really, I’m not sure why no one has — I would have said, “Yes, yes, now that I think about it, I do believe that Jim Thome could make a nifty Paul Bunyan.”
Turns out my instincts, as always, were spot-on …
It was only a matter of time before this happened, really:
Dynamite, indeed.
H/T: SportingNews.
For years now, the exact identity of former FanGraphs contributor (now of mortal enemy Baseball Prospectus) R.J. Anderson has been a subject of no little speculation.
Was he a 13-year-old boy, as some suspected? Was he a cyborg created by other FanGraphs writer Dave Allen? Was he both the father and son of Rays VP Andrew Friedman?
Thanks to DRaysBay and RotoGraphs contributor Erik Hahmann, however, the mystery of R.J. Anderson’s true self has been demystified. Hahmann recently attended a Rays game with Jonah Keri and some other stone-cold nerds — including Anderson himself.
Swing, miss, get hit in the butt.
Brian Wilson threw this pitch.
It started in the strike zone, going, oh, about 95 miles per hour, and ended up in the dirt behind Jamey Carroll. Strike three.
Is this fair?
Strange thing, though, even though Wilson has talked about adding the pitch, he’s not throwing it a ton. At least, not enough to show up on either pitch f/x classification system on this site. In fact, it doesn’t show up on most classification systems.
They can be forgiven – Wilson’s regular fastball does move a lot anyway. Take a look at Joe Lefkowitz’s Pitch f/x tool and it says that Wilson threw nine fastballs and five sliders that evening. But those fastballs weren’t all created equal. Check out the the fastballs that showed the most movement, those last two blue dots on the left. Those fastballs moved 11 inches horizontally. He threw three fastballs that also moved about 11 inches vertically. His average fastball has been moving about six inches horizontally and seven vertically, so we’re zooming in on that filthy, filthy pitch now. He might have thrown as much as three of them that evening.
One final picture to help bring this home. You see that blue box on the bottom right corner of this strike zone plot? That’s the pitch, at least where it crossed the plate.
To recap:
1) The pitch moved double digits vertically and horizontally.
2) The pitch left his hand at about 95 MPH.
3) The pitch started in the strike zone, belt-high, middle-ish.
4) The pitch crossed the plate at the very bottom, very inside corner of the strikezone.
5) The pitch ended up behind the batter, about knee-level.
That’s gotta go on some leaderboard as one of the filthiest pitches ever.
Look, Ma, no irony!
Yep: Without equivocation or post-modernist nuance or layered meaning, I admire Mr. Jackie Robinson for his historical import and his immense personal courage. I have no jokes to make.
So in honor of this, Jackie Robinson Day, here’s this:
Go, Jackie!
It seems that every day here on NotGraphs I see something that turns out to be The Greatest Thing That I’ve Ever Seen. Today is no exception. What follows is footage of a promotion put on by the minor-league Wilmington Blue Rocks. It is not, on second thought, The Greatest Thing I’ve Ever Seen. Lo, it is: THE GREATEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN. Put on your breeches of amazement and watch …
I’m fond of reminding NotGraphs readers that we will all die at some point. Today, though, I’m not so sure.
So this is Tim Lincecum as captured by something called the “Phantom Flex,” which I imagine is like a Polaroid with attitude:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y2PBLcp9tWM&feature=player_embedded
That was quite pleasing to the rods and cones. Also, I know that biology textbooks — even the ones in Texas — say that we all have the same number of muscles, but, no, there’s no way I have as many muscles as Tim Lincecum. Also, Tim Lincecum’s disembodied hips could beat me in a footrace. Also, his cap, his soothing narration, his physical toil — at once grotesque yet very beautiful to me — and the industrial efficiency of the soundtrack all suggest that Red Bull can make me a better man.
(A Red Bull toast: BBTF)
To hear the old guard tell it, our devotion to the numbers is slavish, stultifying, boundless and without bound, injurious to the Republic. You know whom I’m talking about. I’m talking about stout-hearts like blogger Murray Chass, who enjoys using his blog to blog about how bloggers are large and unrelenting meanies and are also unlike him. And there’s Dan Shaughnessy, the valet to human misery who hates each thing in the world more than anyone else hates any one thing in the world. I speak of them and their ilk.
But I come not to condemn. No, it is with some regret that I must say this: I am here to validate their suspicions and antipathies. Yes, I am here to confirm that what follows, as they have long suspected, is precisely what plays out in the mind of a devoted stathead when he or she takes in a game of base and ball:
It is in the interest of peace — a Glasnost of the press box, if you will — that I disclose this dark secret. It is our affliction, and we must own it.
And, I should add, the scene you see above, contrary to appearances, does not take place on a proscenium stage …
No, in the gnarled penumbras of our minds, all things come together in primordial affray to form one large mother’s basement — a mother’s basement buttressed by argument and brag, forged and soldered by our magma-hot Cheetos breath.
It is there that this lederhosen’d numbers dance, which we think is baseball, unfurls before us.
Are we to be pitied? Forgiven? Banished?
I know, I know. I too am skeptical of 11-minute YouTube videos. Such a span falls inconveniently between the 30-second yuks that MTV and Judge Learned Hand have told us we crave and the more sprawling run times necessary to enjoy hot popped maize and a tumbler of Jameson. But I urge you — with the primal, red-faced desperation that I normally reserve for trying to get retailers to honor manufacturer and store coupons — to watch this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iIe9FkZv4Uw&feature=related
Much like a color television with wheels, this is a thing that is not new but is new to me. So if you’ve already seen it, then I look forward to your telling me so in the comments section.
I have some observations about what we have just fathomed. As much as I would like to, I’ll not ape Eno Sarris and number my thoughts. Rather, I shall use bullet points, which, according to a recent internal memorandum, are preferred by the gentleman with a bright future in sales. Also, I do not have 10 things to say. Forthwith …
I imagine this is not unlike the Dodger Stadium mound of the 1960s. This is also not unlike what happens when Jon Rauch faces Dustin Pedroia. Barry Bonds is occasionally very serious about making this happen. In this situation, I would opt for protective headgear — most probably the “Great Gazoo” helmet favored by Francisco Cervelli. Alternatively, I would not agree to do this. Respect to Trampo-Pitcher for ceding the platoon advantage in each plate appearance. And Bernie Williams and his awesome Cardinal Richelieu beard agree with me about the helmet. My inner coward, for which validation is nourishment, is validated. Perhaps the guy with the most discerning batting eye in the annals of time was not the best choice for this necessary experiment? From the darkened clubhouse tunnel, Vlad Guerrero watches on in envy, longing. That’s clearly a balk at the 7:41 mark. Fortunately for the moundsman, he is a stranger to baserunners. And could this end any other way? Ichiro is invoked, and said invocations lead to a righteous humbling of the big cheater and his jumping machine.
A lingering embrace — one that goes on an instant too long — for NotGraphs reader John Murn, who passed this along in exchange for nothing more than the currency of glory.