He’s Chip Caray, and he approves this message.

Though the consequences of it aren’t entirely agreed upon, it’s obvious enough that at least some kind of bias exists in the classification of batted-ball types that informs stats like UZR and xFIP. This is natural enough: in any case where a human element is introduced, things are bound to suffer. (Just ask FanGraphs’ Dave Allen!) Given the altitude of a press box or the angle at which said press box is situated behind home plate, the trajectory of a batted-ball might be difficult to adjudge. Also, owing to some curious hiring practices, the people who classify these things are frequently drunk or blind or both.

As in other areas of baseball-related research, FanGraphs is keenly interested in reducing the error bars on this particular type of information. Accordingly, we’re taking steps to deal with the present biases in classification — namely, by devising more (and more narrowly defined) batted-ball types. Given the relative paucity of our current classifications (just ground ball, liner, fly ball), there exist large swaths of grey area. Our hope is to reduce — if not entirely eradicate — this grey area.

Below is a working list of 10 classifications we’d like to introduce sooner than later.

• Can of Corn — A very catchable fly ball.

• Can of Organic Corn — A very catchable fly ball at San Francisco’s AT&T Park.

• Duck Snort — A batted-ball type that only occurs in Hawk Harrelson’s mind.

• Fist — Like a flare, but way more disgusting.

• Flare — A ball hit just past the infield, but neither a line drive nor a fly nor a fliner nor a flounder (i.e. what would happend if a fly and grounder had a baby).

• Frozen Rope — A very well-hit line drive.

• Klickitat — A sort of ground ball hit to the back part of the infield and which you might call a line drive if you were in a different mood. (This is in honor the Klickitat tribe — a Native American group of the Pacific Northwest who had, by some accounts, upwards of 28 different classifications for batted-balls.)

• Nubber — A weakly hit ground ball. Also, a good name for a dog.

• Partially Thawed Rope — Like a frozen rope, except less glorious.

• Squib — I think you know.

So loyal NotGraphs commenter Card Archives (more on that name in a moment), who is also a broad-shouldered captain of industry, has done a thing and that thing is amazing.

I can’t begin to fathom the Mennonite’s toil that went into cataloguing every Topps baseball card ever, but I stand agape. And then I fall down, still agape.

So lose yourselves within his pages, stick-and-ball enthusiasts, and know that here at NotGraphs a hero walks among us.

Last week, I gave you those baseball players that make up the latter half of my top 10 most favorite baseball players in the whole wide world. If you missed it, and would like to read my most scientific of scientific reasoning, here’s the post. However, since then, I’ve had to make one change to those very rankings. Here they are, in short order:

10. Melky Cabrera and Coco Crisp. It’s a tie. Actually, to be more specific, Melky Cabrera and Coco Crisp’s afro.
9. Kirk Rueter
8. Paul O’Neill
7. Tony Fernandez
6. Mark McGwire

Without further ado, I present my top five:

5. J.T. Snow

The more I thought about this most fruitful exercise, the more I thought about J.T. Snow. And I’ve come to the realization that, deep down, I’ve always had an affinity for slick-fielding first basemen. And that love affair began with J.T. Snow. The scoop at first, it’s an art. And Snow was an artist. He wasn’t the greatest hitter, and, even though he spent the majority of his career in the National League, I always kept a watchful eye on Jack Thomas’ career. And, hey, on top of winning six straight Gold Gloves, Snow saved young Darren Baker’s life. That counts. (On an aside, I’ll never forget Dusty Baker’s reaction in the dugout after the incident. Baker knew, as we all did, that when he got home that night, he was a dead man.) In the end, two years after his retirement, Snow’s career ended the way so many players’ don’t: He signed a one-day contract with San Francisco, and left the game once and for all a Giant.

4. Ken Griffey Jr.

“The Kid.” That swing. Along with John Olerud’s, the sweetest swing I’ve ever seen. It’s rare for a player so highly touted — a first overall draft pick — to not only meet, but exceed lofty expectations. Ken Griffey Jr. did, and more. He played with his father, he played with swagger, and he played center field the way I did in my dreams. Junior was the reason I wished I didn’t bat right-handed. Junior was the reason I tried, at the very least, to switch hit.

Last summer, I was in Seattle to watch the Mariners only a few of days after Junior announced his sudden retirement. I spoke to a man outside Safeco Field, who left a written message on a photo of Griffey Jr. that adorned the ballpark’s wall. (I did, too.) The man, this baseball stranger who I’d never met before and will never meet again, was super emotional as we spoke, after I asked him to describe what Griffey Jr. meant to him. “[Ken Griffey Jr.] built this ballpark, man” he said, fighting back tears. “He saved baseball in Seattle.” It was raw emotion. “I wanted one more chance to see him,” he said. We all did.

Junior did it all, from playing with his father, to playing at home in Cincinnati, to returning to Seattle, where it all began. Full circle. If healthy, there’s no doubt he goes down as one of the best ever. Growing up, it didn’t matter where you were from or who you rooted for. You wanted to be like “The Kid.”

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While it was Prometheus who gave blind hope to all humankind, it’s MLB.com’s Brian McTaggart who has most recently re-gifted it (i.e. blind hope) — this time, in the form of an article which suggests the Astros aren’t terrible.

That’s not to criticize McTaggart himself, of course. He’s the beat reporter for the Astros and is doing his job when he quotes GM Ed Wade saying something like, “I think we’re going to be OK in a lot of different areas” and “I still think we’ve got the components to be a really solid ballclub” and “No, I’m not naked. I’m just wearing a suit of clothes that’re invisible to those unfit for their positions, stupid, or incompetent.”

The conspicuous difficulty with political propaganda is that it’s designed expressly to appeal to the emotions — to condense all of (generally) a political candidate’s thoughts and views into a single image or catchphrase, and, in so doing, to convince its audience to abandon the very important faculty of reason.

This is unfortunate at some level. For while the effects of propaganda are generally hostile to a sober democracy, there’s also no denying that the feelings upon which propaganda preys — i.e. the desire to be a part of something larger, the desire to marvel at something excellent — are not objectively bad.

Thus it is that internet denizen The Common Man (of the SweetSpot Network’s Platoon Advantage) has maybe provided a small gift to the baseball-loving public with the image you see embedded here — a pastiche of Shepard Fairey’s Hope poster. Except instead of asking us to abandon reason in matters political, TCM’s work allows us to enjoy the pleasures of propaganda without any of the usual side effects.

If you’re the Rays marketing department — and, let’s be honest, there is a certain resemblance — then what are you to do about the approaching (and awkward and ill-timed) hoofbeats of Manny Ramirez Bobblehead Night? Like anyone else with nowhere left to turn, you send up the Fuld Signal:

That, brothers and sisters in arms, is a Super Sam Fuld Cape, and it will be presented to the first 10,000 fans age 14 and under who negotiate the turnstiles on May 29 to cheer on the Sons of Greg Vaughn.

There’s nothing particularly wrong with a Manny Ramirez Bobblehead, banal and outmoded though it may be. But it’s certainly no Super Sam Fuld Cape. I mean, a cape! Heroes wear capes! And so do oversexed barons! Capes!

And so the Legend of Sam Fuld grows and walks among us. My hope is that all of this soon leads the Franklin Mint to give us two things the people want and need: The Sam Fuld Numbered Commemorative Plate and The Sam Fuld Boer War Chess Set.

We love you, Sam Fuld. We love you so much.

You’re in for another treat, as the day of lists and bullet points at NotGraphs continues. You’re welcome I’m so sorry.

Last week, “in these very electronic pages,” as the ever eloquent Chairman Cistulli likes to say, I mentioned that upon watching Melky Cabrera high-five Joe West, and then pick something off his bat and eat it, I had to make some changes to My Most Favorite Baseball Players in the Whole Wide World list. Well, what kind of writer basement-dwelling blogger would I be if I didn’t share said list with you?

Now, please keep in mind, I grew up, and remain, an ardent supporter of Toronto’s Blue Jays. I was a freshly minted 10-years-old when the World Series trophy began its two-year northern vacation in 1992. In celebrating Toronto’s back-to-back championships, I was so hopped up on sugar I might as well have lined up and snorted the stuff.

Part I, players 10 through six on the list, is below, and not as Blue Jays centric as Part II will inevitably be. Shall we? We shall.

10. Melky Cabrera

He high-fived Joe West. He picked something off his bat and ate it. You’re damned right that was enough, at this moment in time in the universe, to crack my top 10 list.

9. Kirk Rueter

I was enthralled by Rueter’s 1993 debut with the Montreal Expos, Toronto’s baseball cousins, whom I always kept a close eye on. Rueter didn’t allow an earned run in his first two career starts, and finished his dream rookie season 8-0. Back then, pitcher wins weren’t everything. They were the only thing. Though he spent the majority of his career in San Francisco, Rueter, the furthest from a power pitcher, was the reason I rocked, for a short period of time, a blue Expos hat.

8. Paul O’Neill

It’s funny, for as long as I can remember, I’ve always despised the New York Yankees. It’s in my contract as a fan of another team in the AL East. But I could never find it in me to hate Paul O’Neill. He played the game — wait for it — the right way. At least that’s what it always looked like. In the late 90s, O’Neill was the consummate Yankee; America at its finest. And watching him play game four of the 1999 World Series hours after his father died was about as emotional as baseball has ever been for me. There’s a reason no Yankee wears #21. And, let’s be honest, the brilliant Seinfeld cameo helped. O’Neill hit two home runs for little Bobby!

7. Tony Fernandez

It was always the way Tony Fernandez threw the ball, from short to first, the side-armed flick, that endeared him to me, and so many others. He could field like nobody else. So smooth. Even the way he held his bat was different. An influential part of the up-and-coming Blue Jays of the late 80s, even in departure, traded to San Diego with Fred McGriff for Roberto Alomar and Joe Carter, Fernandez left his mark; the trade was the most crucial the Blue Jays have ever made. And Fernandez, for his part, always thought of himself as a Blue Jay. You could tell. It’s what made his return to Toronto in 1993 so special, as the Jays set out to repeat. In 48 games with the New York Mets to begin the season, Fernandez’s wOBA was a disappointing .293. After being reacquired by the Blue Jays, Fernandez, home again, hit .306 the rest of the way, with a .354 wOBA. Home, as they say, is where the heart is, yo. After winning the 1993 World Series, Tony was off on his way again, with stops in Cincinnati, New York, and Cleveland. Until he came home, to Toronto, again, for the 1998 and 1999 seasons. As much as Fernandez couldn’t get enough of Toronto, we couldn’t get enough of him. I’ll never forget June 1999, when, three months into the season, Fernandez flirted with .400. After a season in Japan, and a quick tour of Milwaukee in early 2001, Fernandez came back to Toronto again, a third time. It was only fitting. Fernandez had to retire a Blue Jay. Thanks for the memories, Tony.

6. Mark McGwire

The first non-Blue Jays jersey I ever purchased was a red, St. Louis Cardinals Mark McGwire one. It was the summer of 1998, when McGwire and Sammy Sosa were Chasing Maris. Like so many people, the home run brought me back to baseball, too. I ain’t mad at you, Mark.

This exercise, and the agonizing decisions that came with it, was a lot more difficult than I originally imagined. Who makes up the latter half of your top 10? Tell me in the comments below. Please? (I have to, I’m Canadian.)

And stay tuned for Part II, dropping in the coming days. And, one more thing: Follow me on Twitter. Why, you ask? I say: Why not?

Image courtesy LIFE, via — who else? — Google.

Pete Rose killed a lot of things: Betting on baseball, Cincinnati pride and dinosaurs, to name three. But not everything he touched went extinct. Until today, I thought this special subset – things Rose didn’t kill – was limited to hot Asian women liking old white men with money. But no, OH NO, there’s one more entry for that category… THE PLAYER-MANAGER.

And who else to pick up where Rose left off than baseball’s other most-controversial once-superstar: Jose Canseco.

The Yuma Scorpions, an independent team with a big-league idea for a gimmick, named Canseco both manager and all-around bad ass. Their reasoning? Easy: “He’s very ready at this point in his career to smoothly transition to managing.” Yes. at THIS point.

But Canseco aside, it brings up a very important question, one that should be thought of somewhere between how to solve the national debt and how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop (it’s not three, don’t proffer up that malarkey)…That is, who would you (more importantly me, as I’m writing this) like to see as the next player managers?

So, without further ado (and a pay-per-word agreement) I’ll cut to the chase.

Top Five:

5. Kirk Gibson. If the man could hit a home run half gimp in 1988, the 53-year-old second year manager of the D-backs surely could make a contribution.

4. Texas General Manager Jon Daniels. At 33, he’s really only a few years past his prime. And with his body type, his skill set should be deteriorating slowly… right, Jon?

3. Charlie Manuel. Father Time could probably teach these whipper snappers a thing or two… Unless that thing has anything to do with using statistics in managing a team?

2. Ozzie Guillen. Rumor has it he’s three parts man and one part honey badger. If you know anything about the honey badger you know it’s not their size or their age that matters, they’ve got a fight in them measured only by the kiloton.

1. Obviously, Don Mattingly. This by no means is a criticism of James Loney. It’s not that I don’t like the guy – in fact, I think he’s a great person on tops of a being a darn good ball player. But you have to ask yourself this one question: Was he ever on the Simpsons? Has he jacked six grand slams in one year? Is his last name “Baseball”? No. Donnie Baseball is the clear choice.

Who would you like to see bring back the player manager?

Over at the Atlantic, which is a Serious Journal by and for Serious People and which, as the name suggests, is housed deep within the intrepid waters of the ocean to your right if you’re facing north, Conor Friedersdorf has some ideas about how to make sports more palatable to those among us who prefer that their cultural pursuits not last long and be shitty. Here’s Mr. Friedersdorf’s baseball thought experiment:

Presumably I’ll never persuade purists to eliminate a whole inning. So I’ll offer my next best suggestion: allow managers one opportunity per game to borrow an out or two from a later inning. So it’s the bottom of the third. There are two outs, with men on first and third. Your batter strikes out. And you can decide to borrow an out or two in order to try and drive in those runs… but it’s going to cost you, because once the current inning ends the opposing manager gets to decide at his leisure when to charge you that out or two.

Like most proposals for radical change, this has not a whit of a scintilla of a chance of happening, but it’s decidedly less half-baked than most of its species. Usually, we get indeterminate bleats like, “MAKE THINGS GO QUICKER NOW!” or things like, “PAY CUTS FOR ANY PLAYER WHO IS RUDE TO A DAILY NEWS COLUMNIST!” or, “MAKE PITCHER PITCH BAT, MAKE HITTER HIT WITH BALL!” or “ARGH!” Mr. Friedersdorf’s, at least, sounds like something worth trying in rec-league softball, which means Charlie Finley could’ve come up with it during a Dewar’s bender. (Lest it seem otherwise, that’s totally a compliment.)

As for how to improve our fair game, the NotGraphs Highly Reputable and Totally Real Think Tank needs your help. To get you started, here’s one heavily focus-grouped suggestion: pre-game flyovers by Falcon Heavy.

Yesterday, I gave the people what they have long demanded: the opportunity to receive a nickname befitting the 19th-Century Baltimore Orioles. The problem, though, is that too many of you received duplicate nicknames. Too many of you received my nickname — “The Salty Bronco.” Clearly the fix was in, and I’ll not abide such sullying of my honest toil.

So what to do? As ever, the impulses of Nyjer Morgan provide the blueprint for success in life and in business. If Morgan can call himself “Tony Plush,” which is the greatest presently extant baseball nickname, then why can’t you, page viewer, roll yer own? You can.

Below, after the jump, I’ll list the complete menu of nickname choices — many of them buried by the name-generator interface in the service of its sordid intentions …

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