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)

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.

The above is evidence of Joe West’s sheer awesomeness. I didn’t even have to open Photoshop.

The bat boy, fearful, as you can clearly see, declined The Great Ejector’s challenge. Obviously.

Thank you, Derek T., for capturing this most brilliant of Joe West adventures. I am forever indebted to you.

I went through a boatload of photographs last night from Opening Day. The above, courtesy of the fine folks at The Associated Press, is definitely my favorite. Is there anything better than a walk-off home run on Opening Day, in front of your home crowd? No, there isn’t. I dare you to argue otherwise.

Look at the Reds’ faces. Go, look. The picture is a reminder of why I love baseball. And a reminder of how much I missed baseball over the winter. Nothing brings out the inner child in a Major League Baseball player, or a fan at the game, more than a walk-off home run, and the customary wait at home plate for the man’s man who saved the day.

I draw your attention above to #43, Miguel Cairo. The ageless Miguel Cairo, now in his sixteenth Major League season, with his tenth team. He’s not even looking at Ramon Hernandez. He’s got his eyes on the prize, home plate, for when Hernandez leaps on it. And he’s also making sure Jonny Gomes doesn’t get too close. You see, that’s why Miguel Cairo’s lasted so long in this beautiful game of baseball. He gets it. And, years under his belt, having surely gone through the drill before, the look on Cairo’s face suggests he’s enjoying the walk-off experience for only the first time.

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Happy Opening Day, dear NotGraphers.

Let us now have this thing called baseball.

It’s been three weeks since the FanGraphs staff — some of the coolest mother you-know-whats on the planet — descended on Phoenix, Arizona, to revel in the sights and sounds of Spring Training. And I can’t get her out of my mind.

Salt River Fields at Talking Stick. Now that, friends, is a name for a baseball stadium. Nay, a baseball complex. Say it: Salt River Fields at Talking Stick. Say it twice. Not only does the name roll off the tongue, but the brand-spanking new facility — home to both the Arizona Diamondbacks and Colorado Rockies — is a stunning example of why Florida’s Grapefruit League just might be on baseball’s list of endangered species.

The jaunt down to Phoenix was my first ever to watch Spring Training’s fake games. And Salt River Fields at Talking Stick, which opened its doors for the first time on February 11, 2011, and hosted its first game two weeks later on February 26, was everything I imagined Spring Training to be.

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While tenured academics tell us we’re no longer in a recession, it remains, to a man, hard out there for a pimp. So it is uplifting to learn of a man like D-backs bullpen catcher Jeff Motuzas, whose enterprising spirit would’ve allowed him to thrive in the gravest of economic conditions. Remember when, as history teaches, a dust bowl descended upon Germany not long after the Treaty of Versailles kicked in and Okie Deutschlanders were reduced to paying for things with coal, serpent plasma and palpable regret? Jeff Motuzas would’ve been fine, thank you. Why is that? Because eating the reputedly inedible and letting Livan Hernandez konk you in the pills for cash makes for a downturn-proof income:

A recitation of Motuzas’s money-making exploits should come with a disclaimer: Kids, don’t try this at home. He has snorted wasabi and eaten horseradish by the bowlful. He has devoured a dozen donuts and guzzled 13 bottles of water. And this is the PG-rated version. “Tooz will eat anything except poop, urine and vomit,” Diamondbacks reliever Sam Demel said. “No, wait—I’m sorry. He will eat vomit.”

Demel cited the memorable day when a former teammate regurgitated some yogurt and slathered it on a potato chip for Motuzas. Demel also said he once saw Motuzas ingest a concoction of chewing tobacco dip spit and 3-day-old chili.

Pitcher Livan Hernandez became something of a sadistic benefactor when he arrived in Arizona in 2006. Motuzas said Hernandez once paid him $3,000 to drink a gallon of milk in 12 minutes. The two also hammered out a deal that permitted Hernandez to punch Motuzas in the groin for $50 a pop whenever he felt the urge. Motuzas would receive a $300 bonus after every 10th punch.

Motuzas, 39, freely volunteers his feats. How about the day he dry-shaved his armpits and left a thick coating of medicinal hot balm on them for an entire game? (“It burned so bad.”) Or ate 11 bananas in four minutes? (“That’s easy stuff.”) Or the time he let pitcher Dan Haren fire at him from close-range with a BB gun? (“He’d shoot me right in the earlobe.”)

Checking account reaching unimagined depths? Jeff Damn Motuzas would say you’re just not trying. Which you clearly aren’t.

While the Texas Rangers have developed into an enviable and successful organization, one problem remains: the hellscape that is Arlington in August. This is also a problem in other baseball locales, but, for instance, the Diamondbacks parry the crippling heat with a magic roof, and in Miami no one goes to games. So that leaves Texas with their suffering, heat-stroked masses.

On this front, the innovations underway in Qatar can be instructive. Qatar, of course, will host the 2022 World Cup, and Qataris have concerns of their own when it comes to hot-ass weather. Their solution? I’m surprised I even need to say this, but their solution is awesome, awesome, awesome robot clouds.

The linked article depressingly refers to these wondrous things as “blimps,” but — let’s be serious here — these are clearly wizard robot clouds that, in keeping with their magical nature, will not only blot out the sun but also protect us from the winged silverback gorillas that secretly roam our skies with the most sinister of intentions.

So your move, Nolan Ryan and company. Do you want your fans to continue boiling alive by the thousands in your dutch oven of a ballpark? Then do nothing. Do you not want your fans to continue boiling alive by the thousands in your dutch oven of a ballpark? Then make with the robot clouds.

No doubt, you’ve thumbed through Da Vinci’s notebooks and seen crude sketches of this:

That’s the Bottom’s Up beer dispenser, and, much like felt renderings of poker-playing dogs and season one of “Temptation Island,” it’s another of Da Vinci’s dreams for civilization that has been triumphantly realized. This innovation, obviously, will help beer vendors move product, and, much more importantly, it will also bring domestic swill to parched American lips that much faster. So it comes with little surprise that the Red Sox are early adopters of Jesus’s favorite thing ever.

As any good binge drinker knows, it’s the destination, not the journey, and the Bottom’s Up will help get you there faster than something that’s extraordinarily fast plus a tailwind. Until next summer’s release of the Bud Light Lime IV Bag, this will have to do.

That’s musician Glenn Donnellan of the National Symphony Orchestra. Sometimes, he wears black, three-button suits paired with a patterned tie. More relevant to this space, he also sometimes plays a violin made out of a baseball bat.

This is an enchanting video of his playing Eddie Van Halen’s “Eruption” on said violin made out of a baseball bat. It is very beautiful to me. If the National Symphony Orchestra did stuff like that on a regular basis, then I might consider supporting the arts rather than using an acetylene torch to incinerate any cash that comes my way.

So does this post not have a strong enough baseball connection for you? Fine. Consider that if you swapped out the “Glenn” in “Glenn Donnellan” for something like “Magnus” or “Declan,” then it would sound like someone who played alongside John McGraw and once killed a railcar porter while drunk on Dr. Tichenor’s.