Generation X is so often pilloried — rightly at times — for being too self-absorbed, too indolent, too prone to calculated ennui, off-brand cigarettes, liberal-arts degrees, and bouts of longing for Winona Ryder. I will argue with none of this.

But sometimes we’re capable of greatness. For evidence — evidence that not even Hollywood attorneys could assail — please take time to watch the video below. It’s the iconic 10th inning of Game 6 of the 1986 World Series re-imagined through the constraints of RBI Baseball. I just checked, and I’ve never used the phrase “profoundly beautiful” in my life. But I’m using it now to describe this. Highlights? See pixelated Marty Barrett win the Miller Lite Player of the Game, and then look on in mounting horror as the John McNamara of the NES keypad toggles desperately between foredoomed relievers. The dulcet tones on Vin Scully are but a welcome flourish.

Come with me, won’t you?

What you see in this image here (which you should right click and open in a new window for intimate viewing) is a selection from Baseball-Reference’s draft database thing. Specifically, it’s a selection from the second round of the 1971 amateur draft — a round in which generational baseball talents George Brett (91.6 fWAR) and Mike Schmidt (110.6 fWAR) were drafted one after the other.

FanGraphs Contributor and Ace of Database Jeff Zimmerman sent this to me and asked the question, “Are there any other HOFers drafted back to back?” To which question I replied both “I don’t know” and “I have zero of the skills required to find out such a thing.”

Luckily, NotGraphs isn’t about “knowing” “facts.” It’s about embedding photos and then decorating them with spirited prose.

Read the rest of this entry »

At least we have clothes on.

Read the pages of NotGraphs and you’ll know I’m a fan of silliness – specifically, getting dressed in funky gear. Over the years, I’ve used my follicular advantage to be outstanding versions of Bob Ross, Kenny G and Disco Stu. Maybe it’s some vain desire to go a little crazy with the afro that draws me to dressing differently.

My re-adopted hometown San Francisco has a tradition called Bay to Breakers. The website says “no alcohol or floats,” but the city is known for civil disobedience in such matters, and really the point is to look kooky and, maybe, run some. Well, for some, the tradition involves no clothes, but to each his own.

The link here is tenuous for sure, but this sort of thing – dressing strangely while performing a relatively normal task – seems like it could be brought to baseball. I know we are discussing ways to change or destroy baseball recently, and it did occur to me that baseball could have more one-off uniforms. Just look at basketball, which has Spanish-language uniforms for one day a season – we’re not talking patches here. The easiest entry point would be some sort of special uniform for Independence Day, but that’s pretty conventional and we’ve already got hats and patches for the Fourth. Though the military-inspired uniforms in San Diego are interesting, and on the right path, there should be more.

There aren’t too many summer holidays to take advantage of, but looking to other cultures might work. The Welsh harvest holiday called Gathering Day happens in early August and has all sorts of corn- and hay-based costumes. Some of the rites seem like fun. In particular, there’s one known as the caseg fedi or harvest mare, in which three men attempt to bring down the last corn sheaf of the harvest from afar. Then it gets good:

However, his task did not end with the cutting down of the sheaf; he was also expected to carry it into the house without getting it wet, past a team of women who would do all they could to throw water upon it. Often the reaper would hide the ‘mare’ under his clothes in order to get into the house past the women, and this could involve the men being disrobed as they tried to enter. If the man was successful, he would receive all the beer he could drink, or a shilling.

We’ve lost our train of thought. The point is – dressing up differently. And it doesn’t have to be by the players themselves (although that would be interesting). It can be about the fans, as we’ve shown with McCann’s Cans. Soccer fans have obviously figured this out already, but you might be surprised that the picture to the left is from a Caribbean baseball game. What if we were to spur some crazy fan fashion in this country by observing Halloween during the season some time? Award the best costumes with a t-shirt, commemorative picture, or, at the very least, some time on the JumboTron?

Going to baseball games is not hum-drum. That doesn’t mean it couldn’t be spiced up with a little sartorial zaniness.

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.

I need your help. I’ve pondered the pros and cons of both, and even allowed time for the darkened penumbras of my subconscious to have their say. Yet I still can’t decide which is more awesome — the t-shirt once worn by freshly minted Hall of Famer Bert Blyleven …

Or that the otherwise banal Fathead product line blessedly allows you to festoon your living room with the Milwaukee sausage-race contestants …

I simply can’t decide. Blyleven in a fart shirt or an addition to the home that adds more equity than a stylish backsplash and the full complement of Energy Star appliances? I don’t want to minimize the gravity of Sophie’s Choice, but this is far more difficult than choosing which spawn to save.

That, near and dear, is Ed Wade viewed from behind — or what he’ll look like to his doomed Houston Marathon competitors!

Yes, the Astros’ front-office lever-puller is in training to run that aforementioned Houston Marathon, and earnest props to him. Running that far without stopping is impressive enough, but doing so at Wade’s age of 54? Nifty indeed. I’m substantially younger than Ed Wade, and last night all I did was drink a sherpa’s load of Two-Buck Chuck and then set up an email alert to remind me to clip my toenails.

Really, though, I exercise regularly and have a treadmill that does not presently double as extra closet space, yet if I tried to run 26.2 miles my hips and groin would fly off after about mile 10 or so and annihilate everyone within the blast field. So congrats to Ed Wade for defying age and doing something not many of us have the will to achieve. And congrats to the Astros for having an AARP-eligble GM who’s in better shape than their left fielder.

Although his max-effort delivery would make me hesitant to hand out a multi-year contract, there’s no doubting the raw stuff. Fathom:

'http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ulp6dsF4iVA&feature=player_embedded'>watch?v=Ulp6dsF4iVA&feature=player_embedded

I played a fair amount of Wiffle Ball games back in the day, and I can say that — were the young Sudden Sam you see above one of the neighborhood kids — after our initial amazement subsided we’d hold games in secret just so this guy wouldn’t show up and make a shameful hash of us all. He would probably have a way-cool bike, too. Like a Kuwahara or a custom-made Hutch or something. Big jerk.

(Curtsy: TedQuarters)

The Mariners’ David Aardsma is more than just a quality reliever and the guy whose aardvark-like surname bumped Hank Aaron from alphabetical pole position in The Baseball Encyclopedia. He’s also pretty good at the whole convalescence thing:

Still under orders to put no weight on his surgically repaired left hip, the Seattle Mariners closer is none-the-less taking on two rehab sessions a day, and will start throwing in another three weeks.

From his chair.

“I’ll focus on the arm motion, just throw without using my legs,” Aardsma said. “Then by the time I can throw standing up, my arm will have a little more strength, and will have stayed loose.”

Big hairy deal. One time I checked the mail while hung over.

Anyhow, the piece notes that Aardsma was on an exercise bike within an hour of waking up from surgery, so none of this should be especially surprising. Fittingly — untrue fact forthcoming! — this will be the chair from which he throws:

This mini Brewer helmet used to have delicious cheese fries in it. Now it’s got my breakfast cereal.

Boom, victory.