So this is an actual thing …

Hey, I thought it was a cool moment. Both guys handled themselves exceptionally well, and Galarraga in particular showed that a sense of equanimity is possible even in the throes of a screw-job, which is something of which I am wholly incapable. With that said, is this all it takes to sustain a narrative these days? I get that there are moments in time that, as book editors are wont to pretend, CHANGED EVERYTHING, but this happened roughly eight months ago. Have we really had time for sober reflection on anything beyond the epidermal layer of consequences? That is, how do we know that Joyce’s blown call CHANGED EVERYTHING?

And wouldn’t this make a better, I dunno, “Vanity Fair” article or something? How are you going to wring 250 pages out of this story? Sure, we’ll get the back-story on Galarraga and a portrait of the umpire as a young man, but what then? Pictures? Blank pages for note-taking? Clip-out flashcards so you can memorize details of their lives? Mazes? A choose-your-own-adventure chapter or three? A carved out space in which you can hide weed? If nothing else, they should change the title from Nobody’s Perfect: Two Men, One Call, and a Game for Baseball History to I Kicked the Sh*t Out of It: Two Men, One Call, and a Game for Baseball History. I’m surprised I even need to say this.

On the celluloid front, remember the story of the two Indian pitchers who signed with the Pirates after winning a reality show? The least shocking news ever is that their story is going to be a movie. Also unsurprising: The shlock merchants at Disney will be at the switch.

Normally, I don’t trust any Disney outputs that don’t come to me from the loving arms of Pixar. Partly, this is because I’ve never forgiven them for the sadistic lacerations I suffered from watching Old Yeller. (Seriously, you’ve never heard of rabies vaccinations, you rubes?) Mostly, though, it’s because you and I both know that Disney will one day kill us all. Combine Disney’s dubious sense of aesthetics with the central ingredients of bad cinema already present in this story, and the potential for groan-inducement is both boundless and without bound.

The one consolation is that Tom McCarthy will be writing the script, and McCarthy knows a little something about making good movies. Let’s just hope that the suits let McCarthy use the light, aware touch he showed in The Visitor, so we don’t end up with something like the provably awful “Outsourced” set on a baseball diamond.

Also: Actual. Baseball. Now. Please.

For those who are unaware, residents of Chicago’s Wrigleyville neighborhood awoke this morning to find that a statue of broadcasting legend and famous drunk person Harry Caray had been tagged under cover of darkest night.

First off, let it be noted that this may or may not represent a case of real-live irony (I’m not very good at telling), as much of Caray’s commentary was of a similar level of coherence as the message his statue now bears.

Second of all, let it be stated immediately that the author has no intention of taking the high road with regard to this situation. I have no idea as to the whereabout of this high road and can find no evidence that Metro Transit of Madison, Wisconsin, offers access to said road. Which is to say: I am not outraged that someone has chosen to besmirch Caray or the Cubs or anything like that.

Rather, the real crime here is not the act of vandalism itself, but rather the manner in which said vandalism has been borne out. It’s obvious from the visual evidence that our pranksters have acted quickly and largely without a plan. While the Cubs have been tasked with physical damages and must clean the statue now, the greatest damage is to White Sox fans as a whole, who must wear a collective yoke of shame for this middling attempt at public mockery.

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When it comes to child-rearing I (a) have no first-hand experience whatsoever but (b) possess an inordinate number of opinions on how strangers could be doing it better. Yes, I’m aware that this is an unattractive combination — one quite hostile to people who’re tasked with the responsibility of raising the leaders of tomorrow. And, yes, I’m definitely about to elaborate on this most indefensible of positions.

Particularly, I’d like to address the pang of hurt that manifests itself in my soul when I read press releases with headlines like this one (courtesy of the Seattle Mariners)

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Who doesn’t love a good death threat? While this bit of sociopathy isn’t quite as beautiful as the recent lawsuit filed against P-Diddy, it’s still pretty crackin’ good.

Obviously, the best part is when threatener assures the threatened that the address on the envelope is indeed fake — just in case Mr. Smoky Joe Wood was pondering putting the fuzz on the scent or seizing the initiative and showing up for pistols at dawn.

Curiously, Mr. Wood wound up curiously dying at the curious age of 95. Suffice it to say, the Investigative Reporting Investigation Team is on it like something that adheres quite strongly to something else.

(Curtsy: Deadspin)

If there’s one thing that gets Carson Cistulli excited, it’s probably, like, fried cheese curds or unwatched episodes of Community or, of course, the ladies. But if there are, say, ten things that get Carson Cistulli excited, one of them is certainly the application of quantitative analysis to matters aesthetic.

Dave Dancis has submitted for the public’s consideration what likely represents an important step forward for this niche scientific field in his recent post on performance enhancing beards at Fantasy Baseball 101.

Below are the fruits of what one imagines were probably the entensivest of labors. However, in the spirit of serious peer review, I’ll also suggest that Dancis’s research might suffer from some sample-size issues.

Regard:

H/T: Sons of Steve Garvey

If you squint and tilt your head and stay very quiet and have a heart as pure as driven snow, you can sorta kinda see Opening Day headed for us. That’s a blessed thing, of course, and, in keeping with the spirit of the season, the royal we here at NotGraphs would love for you to oblige us with your declarations of loyalties and disloyalties. Since you asked, I’ll start …

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Earlier today, my colleague Dayn Perry submitted for the readership’s consideration a plan to improve baseball. Though I can’t necessarily speak to the virtues of his proposal — one which, it needs to be said, involves praising, if only implicitly, the works and days of the American South — I certainly commend Mr. Perry for his efforts.

It seems only natural, given Mr. Perry’s submission, that we might turn our gaze in the other direction — that is, towards those rule changes which might destroy baseball immediately. One might note — and not incorrectly so, I think — that Major League Baseball itself has frequently been on the front lines of this effort, whether by instituting bizarrely significant rewards for winning the All-Star Game or proving notoriously stingy with their online media. Still, there are some means to the end of baseball’s destruction left unplumbed by even their tireless efforts.

Here are ten ways that the sport of baseball could be destroyed posthaste:

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Yes, this is going to be one of those meditations that attempts to find things wrong with Jesus’s favorite sport. If I were a newspaper columnist out of ideas and averse to reason, I’d call for a salary cap. If I were on a message board and had a poor grasp of tenability, I’d call for soccer-style relegation of the Pirates. I, however, am neither. So I propose this:

No, I’m not calling for more Chad Paronto (although that would be fine). Rather, I’m calling for the use of championship belts in MLB. On this point, I am as unyielding as a large, resolute, unyielding thing. You see, despite my occasional use of hifalutin prose and my New Yorker subscription, I am at heart something of a rube. And this rube — as a native of the fair state of Mississippi — was raised on professional wrestling.

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There’s a not insubstantial bloc of folks who long for the days when men wouldn’t leave the house without a necktie and stylish fedora. What follows might cause that not insubstantial bloc of folks to ponder taking a hostage …

As you can see, the Forever Lazy makes your standard-issue, ketchup-stained sweatpants look like the finest your finest haberdasher has to offer. It’s basically a hoodie bodysuit, and — since advertisers have always been and will always be yoked to the truth — it’s clearly great for crapping! It’s also clearly great for watching sports, whether in person or in a darkened living room just after receiving divorce papers!

So if you’ve ever been at the ballpark and thought, “Instead of this sensible knit polo, I wish I were wearing something that made me look like a guy named ‘Cookie’ who pans for gold and or cooks gruel for a wagon train,” then you’ll want one of these posthaste. If this thing catches on — and, honestly, how could it not? — then the Forever Lazy, much like its Snuggie progenitor, will soon be festooned with your favorite team’s logo. At that point, we all win.

History teaches us that Patrick Henry, armed with nothing but a tuning fork and a sense of mission, killed Stalin in Las Vegas. I like to think that Mr. Henry did so in the hopes that one day we as a people would soar beyond the dimensions of the possible and invent something like the Forever Lazy (although archival documents suggest he wanted it to be called “The Smock of Dignity”).

Know this, patriot: Your dreams have been realized.

Everyone who’s anyone knows that a giggle factory is a factory that produces giggles en masse. And a giggle factory is what this guy became yesternight when he (i.e. I, Carson Cistulli) read Grant-of-McCovey-Chronicles’ post on some notable ballark promotions scheduled to occur this year at San Francisco’s AT&T Park.

Mr. Grant goes through a couple ideas, examining what sort of fun could be had with each, and then gives us this white-hot paragraph:

There are others that might appeal to you — pins, socks, belt buckles, shirts, Snuggie-type wearable blankets. It should be noted that my suggested promotion — “Stand Next to Buster Posey For a Few Minutes and Ask Him Some Questions, Shake His Hand, Stare At Him Uncomfortably, and Smell What Kind of Shampoo He Uses, You Know, Just Take It In” Day — was not included, and there doesn’t seem to be any evidence that it was even considered, despite countless letters and e-mails. There’s always next season. And the whole experience did give me an idea for a new site tagline: “McCovey Chronicles: Giants fandom from a court-ordered 500 feet away.”

While I don’t want to toot my own horn — or, at least not in public, where everyone can see me doing it (embarrassing!) — I think of myself as something of the proverbial Idea Man. With that in mind, I’ve concocted promotional ideas for five major league clubs.

Totally free of charge, here they are, MLB:

Organization: Atlanta Braves
Promotion: “Uggla Tree” Giveaway
Description: In celebration of Arbor Day and also the team’s new starting second baseman, the Braves give away saplings to the first 10,000 fans.

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