Archive for Hopeless Joe

If you’re not reading the wonderful 10 Lessons… series this week over at The Hardball Times, well, perhaps like me, you’re too busy with your electroshock therapy treatments. In any case, I thought I would join in the “fun,” though I’m not sure I know what that even means anymore, not since the accident. Here are ten lessons I’ve learned, having written a whole bunch of NotGraphs posts, some of them still accessible in my long-term memory even after the treatments. (Gosh, who invented this electricity thing? It hurts!)

1. Predictions are enjoyable to make, even if your odds of being right are never any better than chance.

2. Readers never comment on the posts you think they will, and sometimes the ones on which they comment in droves are quite surprising.

3. If you feel particularly sad, and want validation from readers in the form of comments, just ask a question at the end of the post, no matter how pointless. They will comment, and you will again feel that slight connection to the rest of humanity that the remainder of your life does not provide.

4. Baseball provides endless inspiration for posts, related and unrelated to the game, except on the days when you have absolutely no ideas and need to troll Twitter hoping you can stumble on something worth posting.

5. There is no problem that a mustache and a bat flip can’t solve. (Except crippling depression.)

6. Kendrys Morales has it worse off than me. (And if anyone wants to offer me a 1-year, $11 million deal to write for them, I will take it, no questions asked.)

7. Really stuck for a post? Just make up a new statistic.

8. Putting Dustin Pedroia’s face on the body of lizards does not pay off in terms of time spent versus comments received.

9. Writing for NotGraphs does not, as previously assumed, entitle you to pitch for the Mets.

10. Don’t promise a list of ten items when you only have three or four good ideas.

I first felt a twinge in my elbow when I was scrubbing the blood off my front door. Don’t worry– it wasn’t human blood. I didn’t think much of the pain at first. Popped a couple of Advil. Or at least I thought they were Advil. I’d lost my contacts, so I was just groping at the medicine cabinet and guessing. Turns out I took two extra-strength laxatives. I don’t even know why they were in there. An old girlfriend left them, I think. If I had a nickel for every old girlfriend who left laxatives in my medicine cabinet… well, I’d have about as many nickels as I have now. So there went the rest of the day. And, over and over again, aggravating this new elbow injury. (I just couldn’t figure out how to do what I needed to do with the other hand. Also, now I’m out of toilet paper. Started using the backs of my fantasy baseball spreadsheets. Pretty much what they deserved anyway. Comeback year from B.J. Upton? Ricky Nolasco: Cy Young contender? Josh Reddick: MVP?)

By the next morning, I was emptied, spent, and my elbow was now throbbing. This was nothing like the time I was shot in the arm by a bandit. It was worse. I tried icing it, but I fell asleep, the ice melted all over my floor, and leaked into the apartment below. My downstairs neighbor knocked on my door holding a baseball bat and began to threaten to bash my head in… but then he saw the blood — turns out Dove Moisturizing Lotion doesn’t get blood out of doors — and got scared off. Some good luck, for once. Anyway, ice didn’t do anything, heat didn’t help (TIP: don’t put your elbow in the microwave!), and my actual Advil expired in 1996, so they didn’t do much good either.

I made an appointment with Dr. Andrews to get it checked out.

Got to the office early, because I thought maybe I’d see some ballplayers in the waiting room. But it was just a bunch of elderly men and their home health aides. “Hopeless Joe?” called the receptionist. I got up and headed back to exam room #1. The nurse told me to remove my pants. “But it’s my elbow!”

After the colonoscopy (ouch!), Dr. Andrews cleared up the confusion. Wrong Dr. Andrews. Of course. And the real one doesn’t take my insurance. Obamacare, ugh.

1. Casey Janssen. Placed on the DL yesterday, after recovering enough from his earlier injury to appear in back-to-back games and not be able to have his DL stint backdated. Janssen will be replaced as the Blue Jays closer by Sergio Santos, who will likely never give the job back, costing Janssen millions of dollars as he goes from “proven closer” riches to “fungible reliever” pennies.

2. J.P. Arencibia. At least as a backup he had a chance of small sample size lucking him into nice-looking stats that would make it seem like he still knows how to hit the baseball. As a starter, less likely.

3. Daisuke Matsuzaka. 25 Ks in 23.2 spring innings, and a ticket to AAA. At least it’s Las Vegas. Then again, last time I was in Vegas, someone stabbed me in my hotel bathtub and stole my kidney. (Joke’s on them– that wasn’t my kidney.)

4. Bobby Abreu. Too young for the Phillies. Oh well. Rumored to be offered a minor league deal by the Mets, which makes him particularly unlucky this week.

5. Mike Jirschele. 36 years in the minors and now he gets to be a coach… for the Royals. Maybe Hopeless Joe should be Hopeless Mike. (Serious note: if you haven’t read ESPN’s piece about Jirschele and his journey, do that now. Best piece I’ve read all month, at least.)

(Corrected from earlier draft, “Hopeless Joe’s Ten Old Prescriptions.” Apologies for misunderstanding the assignment.)

1. Dan Haren proves to be the Dodgers’ most valuable starter.

When the entire rotation is carved up by a serial killer and sold for parts on the black market.

2. Chris Davis strikes out over 200 times.

Combined results from his in-person attempts and interactions via his profile on Match.com. (Don’t tell his wife.)

3. A member of the Braves’ front office staff is forced to undergo ligament-removal surgery after the team runs out of ligaments to use in Tommy John surgery.

Probably an intern. As a former internship director of mine once said, “interns are only good for their body parts, including their orifices.” (That was one of my best jobs.)

4. The Pirates lead the majors in Twins; the Twins lead the majors in Pirates.

Ahoy, Sam Deduno. And welcome to Pittsburgh, Winklevoss brothers.

5. Alcides Escobar wins his lawsuit against Paul Simon, claiming to be the original writer of Simon’s hit song, “You Can Call Me Al.”

In a related development, Asdrubal Cabrera releases a hit single, “You Can Call Me As.”

6. Stephen Drew signs with the Houston Rockets.

3 years, $45 million. Goes on to lead the league in rebounds.

7. J.P. Arencibia wins the Triple Crown.

Because baseball doesn’t really seem to be working out for him anymore.

8. The world doesn’t end in 2014.

Look, I think that’s bold, given everything we’re doing to this planet. Have you been outside recently? (I haven’t.)

9. Ruben Tejada leads the Mets in runs.

Probably his diet.

10. Jim Leyland rises from the grave and re-takes the Tigers’ managerial position.

What? Jim Leyland is still alive?? That’s impossible. Well, I guess I’ll just save this prediction for next year.

FLORIDA — Here I am, at spring training with my favorite team, after an arduous journey that involved my car breaking down, no one wanting to help me as I tried to wave down passing motorists (I guess I shouldn’t have worn my old worn-out Michael Jackson “Smooth Criminal” t-shirt, where the first word is barely even visible after so many washings with the discount store-brand detergent), and then a brief case of norovirus I picked up in the gas station bathroom after I pushed my car along the highway’s shoulder — dislocating my own shoulder in the process.

Anyway, looks to me like everyone is in the worst shape of their lives. Unless I’m just projecting. Hey, I used to have decent metabolism. I could eat a whole pizza — but now I can only eat half a pizza, since that’s all I can afford, and still I balloon up like a Bartolo. Anyway, after a rough 2013, I can only imagine everyone’s in for a rougher 2014, or at least a rougher start to the year after I had all the starters sign a team ball and inadvertently gave them all my norovirus in the process. My bad.

And of course there’s the battle for the fifth starter slot, which probably won’t be won by anyone after I took the contenders out for lunch to a beachfront restaurant, for a group interview I thought would make an amazing piece I could sell somewhere and finally make some money from my freelance writing… and they all got washed away to sea and drowned. Don’t ask — I should have read the Yelp reviews more carefully. Who knew you needed a license to operate a restaurant on a boat, and that you also needed the boat to be airtight. A titanic mistake on my part, unfortunately.

So I talked to one of the top prospects too, and he was doing great until I reminded him that the stock market is volatile and his signing bonus may not actually be as safe as he imagined. He said that put a little pressure on him, that I really made it sink in that he has to do whatever it takes to end up with a major league career. So, that plus the random drug test a few hours later and it looks like he’ll be back in the second half of the season. Oh well.

The ace reliever has a new pitch. Well, he did until I accidentally bumped into him while I was doing the grounds crew a favor and trimming the hedges.

The third baseman didn’t really understand my practical joke about the hot corner and now he has third-degree burns over 90% of his body.

And the star outfielder is gone. Missing, I mean. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned my connection to the team when I was talking to my bookie. Joke’s on them, though — I can’t even come close to affording the ransom!

Looks to be another losing season. Why wouldn’t it be? I only root for the best.

Okay, first of all, no one gets instantly dismissed. Too many of these voters writing about their stupid ballots start by automatically eliminating folks like Mike Timlin or Jacque Jones. No, they don’t have the gaudy statistics of someone like Greg Maddux or Jeff Bagwell, but that doesn’t mean they’re less worthy of the Hall of Fame. People have robbed me of awards and distinctions all my life just because I don’t have the qualifications. That doesn’t make me less deserving. And it hurts my feelings. How do we know if Hideo Nomo is one rejection away from jumping off the Yokohama Landmark Tower? My ballot will not be what drives someone to his ultimate doom, I promise you.

Except maybe Jack Morris, because what the heck did he ever do to get so many people talking about him? He was a good pitcher, fine, but he looks really mean, with that crazy mustache, and people who look mean shouldn’t win accolades. Nice, friendly people should win accolades. Which is why Jack Morris is not on my ballot and Sean Casey is. Everyone loves Sean Casey. People like Sean Casey should be in the Hall of Fame.

You know, it’s fun to look at the ballot and realize how flawed most baseball players are as human beings. Armando Benitez was arresting for allegedly assaulting a former girlfriend. Paul Lo Duca had a gambling problem. Richie Sexson: DUI charges. Eric Gagne used HGH. Jeff Kent has had dozens of articles written about what a terrible personality he has, plus he was a contestant on “Survivor,” which means there’s something seriously messed up in his head. Rafael Palmeiro, Sammy Sosa, Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, all steroid-related issues there. Tim Raines, costly cocaine habit. Curt Schilling cost the state of Rhode Island millions of dollars. Jeff Bagwell seems to be involved in some crazy story about a hand surgeon, a divorce, and rehab.

How many does that leave? Two? Three?

Craig Biggio: driving while intoxicated.

Mike Piazza: played a gangster on stage in a Miami ballet, which definitely sounds all messed up.

Larry Walker: Canadian.

Kenny Rogers doctored baseballs.

Moises Alou urinated on his hands.

Luis Gonzalez, Ray Durham, Hideo Nomo, Richie Sexson, J.T. Snow, Jacque Jones, Todd Jones, and Mike Timlin all come close but ultimately I decided there is probably some Google evidence out there that would lead me to eliminate them, if only I searched the right keywords.

All of which leads me to my ballot:

Greg Maddux, Frank Thomas, Mike Mussina, Tom Glavine, Edgar Martinez, Alan Trammell, Fred McGriff, Lee Smith, Don Mattingly, and Sean Casey.

There are worse, aren’t there?

Hopeless Joe here, with a look at one of baseball’s top remaining free agents, someone I think has been getting a raw deal in the marketplace, with virtually no downside to signing him, a MVP award in his past, ability to play every infield position, or at least maybe, great character guy in the clubhouse, if you define character as someone who would make for a good antagonist in a movie, probably one of the ages he has claimed to be, or at least close to one of the ages he has claimed to be, possibly not still on drugs, maybe the owner of a Dominican Winter League team different from the one he was playing for, suspended in multiple countries.

I’m of course talking about Sam Fuld. Wait, no, Sam Fuld is a model citizen. Who I would pick in a fantasy draft, which is why I don’t play fantasy baseball. I mean Miguel Tejada. Who batted a .288 last season, and is obviously getting screwed, just like I got screwed when the plant I work for shut down. I mean died. Because I forgot to water it. Yes, I worked for a plant. His owner left him a ton of money in his will, and all I had to do was water him, and talk to him, and I couldn’t even do that, and he died and the executor of the will had me fired and now I don’t know what I’m doing and these FanGraphs pieces barely pay my rent, and I tried to pitch a piece to Psychology Today last week but they ended up sending someone to my apartment for an intervention, and, needless to say, they did not buy my article, even though I think the untold story of one of the widespread afflictions I suffer from, Fear of My Shadow, is a piece worth printing. But I digress.

Robinson Cano batted a .271 in 2008, which is 17 points lower than Tejada’s average last year. And Cano just got $240 million. So I don’t understand why no one is signing Tejada to a $260 million contract. It’s not like 39 is old. Please, don’t say 39 is old. Please.

Prediction: New York Mets, 1 year, $3 million.

Sorry for chiming in again so quickly after my last post. Usually I need at least a couple of weeks to recuperate after writing a few hundred words for Internet consumption, but this Jhonny Peralta signing really got to me. I have experience in the area of drug suspensions and attempting to find a new job afterwards. A few years ago I found myself terribly addicted to a complex cocktail of Ambien, Lexapro, and two pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream every night. My supervisor down at the content mill where I worked noticed that I was, well, a little zonked out most days, and getting a little too big to fit in my cubicle. He obviously couldn’t afford to move the wall out by a few inches — “you get two square feet, Joe, that’s just how it is in the real man’s workin’ world,” he would say, while counting his Bitcoins — so he put me on unpaid leave and told me to clean myself up. I stopped the Ambien and Lexapro cold turkey, switched from Ben & Jerry’s to some diet substitute, and spent the next two weeks awake, manic, and unable to leave the bathroom, because whatever was in that diet ice cream just made me go and go and go without end.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, so I came back to the office, and the content mill had gone out of business, replaced by a team of Tweeting robots trolling for page clicks, and my job was no more. And then — and here’s where the similarities to my situation and Peralta’s really become obvious — a man in a Cardinals hat said he wanted to take me as a prisoner for the next 4 years, and pay me in Cheerios.

Sudden withdrawal from Ambien may cause hallucinations. I think.

I did take steroids once. Cleared up a rash I got, from this one time I sort of volunteered at a homeless shelter. I didn’t realize it was a homeless shelter. And the volunteer coordinator didn’t realize I was homeless. The steroids gave me another rash, somewhere else, of course. I take steroids, I get a rash. Jhonny Peralta takes steroids, he gets $52 million dollars. They say money doesn’t buy happiness, but no one’s ever said they prefer a rash. So I think he wins.

I should check out that Cardinals fan’s Cheerios prison. It doesn’t sound that bad, sort of.

Shrug.

I’ve always gotten Fielder and Kinsler confused anyway. Seven letters in their last names. Both getting paid millions of dollars to play baseball. Okay, one of them can’t grow facial hair and the other one has a neck tattoo, but can anyone really keep the two of them straight? Physically, I mean. If you described each one to a police sketch artist, they’d end up looking like twins. Also, statistically. They both hit like thirty doubles a year. And that’s just the start of their similarities. (And the end.) Their Bill James Similarity Score must be like 950. (Or 50.)

So it’s just two more interchangeable parts being swapped for each other. The fans won’t even notice a difference on the field, and it doesn’t do anything to help fix up the Obamacare website. I don’t have time to worry about Ian Fielder and Prince Kinsler. I’ve been trying to buy health insurance for almost two months.

Ah, the MVP awards. Where we make virtually every player feel bad just so we can honor two guys for their luck-enhanced statistics. Haven’t we figured out by now that it’s all just statistical noise? Roll the dice and Jacoby Ellsbury can hit 32 home runs, or R.A. Dickey can be unhittable for six months, or Nick Punto can be above-replacement-level. One in a million seasons, I could probably get a hit or two, walk once or twice, and end up with a million-dollar contract instead of this minimum wage job shoveling coal into the boilers here at the local mental health facility. And yet we continue to award the random nature of results instead of what’s really important: the rational understanding that life is meaningless, sports are diversions to help us forget we’re all going to die, and the real most valuable player is the one who best distracts us from dwelling on the truth.

Which makes this year’s most valuable players Alex Rodriguez and Mariano Rivera, because I still have hundreds of articles to read about each of them, and that will prevent me from thinking too hard about the exceptions in the fine print of my life insurance policy.