Archive for Real Talk

I tend not to worry about the fate of the United States of America. Through two bungled wars in the Middle East, Hurricane Katrina, a mortgage and financial crisis, the debt ceiling fiasco, the most partisan of partisan politics, and today’s threats of another recession, I’ve never doubted the American spirit. When faced with adversity, America endures. I’ve always believed that.

Until yesterday, when I watched video of two grown men tussle for a foul ball that landed in a trash bin at Tropicana Field in St. Petersburg. There was nothing exceptional about those two Americans, and their despicable actions forced me to ask a most difficult question: Where did America go wrong?

After much deep introspection, I know that America hasn’t gone wrong. It might be on the brink, but I still have hope for you, our southern neighbors. Because those two clowns at The Trop don’t represent America. Not the one I know, and have experienced. I still believe in America.

The foul ball episode in Florida reminded me of one I had at the ballpark about a week and a half ago. I was at the Rogers Centre SkyDome with two of my mates, the Texas Rangers in town, on a brilliant summer evening. We were seated in section 116, first base side, row 37, only three rows from the section’s entrance. The game began, and immediately we knew: We were in foul ball territory. A couple of screamers landed to our right, and our left, and I told the boys to stay alert. I had a feeling we’d get a turn, that there’d be action.

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the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we’re all winning
we’re alive

— Frank O’Hara, “Steps”

One of the challenges of life is finding new ways to remind ourselves that it (i.e. life) is amazing. Louis CK laments our ability to do this consistently in a popular appearance on Conan O’Brien. But Louis CK has, by no means, cornered the market on attempting to reveal for the benefit of an audience that we’re all, always, winning.

In a sense, the work of poet Frank O’Hara — who, if you’re not familiar with him, was kind of a big deal in the the tiny, tiny world of poems — represents a constant attempt to provoke the reader into re-seeing the world.

In fact, if O’Hara’s work has a flaw, it’s that it suffers from an excess of enthusiasm. In baseball, we learn, only so many opportunities present themselves for the walkoff home run (or walkoff other-type-of-thing) and its attendant joys. Just as the constraints of a baseball game only conspire to create so many revelatory moments, so do the constraints of life. Pretending otherwise is disingenuous; writing poems that pretend otherwise makes those poems feel strained.

But O’Hara’s work is successful enough of the time to be important. And the reader, using discretion, can shape his approach to O’Hara’s work to maximize its benefits. The comparisons to how we might approach life are too obvious to be explicated. The difficulty, of course, is in the actual doing. When we speak of life being difficult, I assume this is what we’re talking about.

The attentive reader will recall how, recently in these electronic pages, I submitted a post regarding the very serious issue of Sam Fuld’s moral fiber.

Because I had no real opinion on Fuld’s contretemps with Alcides Escobar, I elected instead to leave the question of Fuld’s guilt/innocence to the readership via a slightly irreverant poll. While the results of the poll aren’t particularly important (although I’ll note that close to 50% of respondents believe that polls are a cheap way to drive traffic), what does deserve remarking, I think, is how it (i.e. the poll) garnered answers from 16 different countries — including, for example, Slovakia.*

This, if you’ll permit me a rare (and, I think, warranted) foray into the explicit, warms my fucking heart.

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In real-time, on Twitter. Fun, wasn’t it?

Before I get going, I know what you want me to address, and I agree: FanGraphs’ analysis of all the deadline’s happenings was top notch. I’ll be honest: I’m no longer surprised by the quality of the staff’s work. I’ve met those guys, I know what they’re about. (They’re about baseball.) Together, they are a baseball-writing machine. A factory, even. And it’s all free. All the time. For you, and for me. Life is good.

But the deadline. Let’s talk about the deadline. Ubaldo Jimenez, Carlos Beltran, Orlando Cabrera, Derrek Lee, Michael Bourn, Edwin Jackson, Kosuke Fukudome, Erik Bedard, Koji Uehara, Hunter Pence, and Colby Rasmus, just to name a few, all have new summer homes. Action!

From a Twitterer’s perspective, it was fantastic to watch. Analsyis from the heavy hitters who use Twitter and use it well — the Olneys, Morosis, Laws, etc. — followed by instant fan reaction.

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Show Off

If there’s one thing Carson Cistulli is all about it’s feeling good and looking better. If there are two things Carson Cistulli is all about, the second one is making mountains out of molehills wherein matters of baseballing etiquette are concerned.

It’s the latter of these pastimes that I’d like to address presently.

This afternoon, while enjoying an entirely drinkable rosé, I found myself watching the Cleveland-Los Angeles Americans game via MLB.TV. Did I happen to notice that beardless youths Peter Bourjos and Mike Trout were not only playing beside each other in the Angel outfield, but also batting back-to-back in the Angel lineup? No, not at all. That’s ridiculous.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

Fine. Yes. Totally.

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You know what I love? The New York Times. On Saturday, the resilient newspaper published a piece by Bill Pennington called “Kei Igawa: The Lost Yankee,” and it is a perfect example of what I consider to be brilliant baseball writing; the type of baseball writing I enjoy reading most. I urge you to take the time to read the piece; it’s well worth it.

Much like, well, everyone, I’d forgotten all about Kei Igawa. I had no idea he was still in North America, grinding in the minors while making Major League money. I figured he went back to Japan. Years ago. But he didn’t. Hasn’t. Won’t.

As Pennington points out, Igawa wakes every morning in his Midtown East Manhattan apartment, and is then chauffeured either the 90-minute drive to Trenton, New Jersey, or two hours and ten minutes to Scranton, Pennsylvania. And back. Currently on the roster of the Trenton Thunder, Igawa figured his stay in the minors would be temporary when he was sent down, hence the ride. Turns out, it was the opposite: Igawa will never again pitch for the New York Yankees. General Manager Brian Cashman, quoted in the article, didn’t hold back: “Yeah, he’s passed me on the drive down to Trenton. He drives faster than his fastball.” Burn.

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Video essays are the best  kind of essays. And the excellent one you’ll find below is by Sportsnet’s Stephen Brunt, in my opinion the finest sports journalist the great nation of Canada can lay claim to. Enjoy.

It doesn’t happen often: A player for the ages turning up on your favorite team. In a perfect world, Roberto Alomar would have stayed a Blue Jay longer. In a perfect world, there would have been more championships to go with that magical pair. But what a great thing to have had him here, at his best. And now, to have him bring the Blue Jays to Cooperstown.

Brunt’s more than a journalist; he’s a poet. That, my friends, is how you wrap up a video essay, with those words, and Roberto Alomar’s Hall of Fame smile.

Last night, I read a very silly article on Salon.com. The second paragraph from said article:

This fetishization of the individual has intensified since the 1980s. We see it in political activists’ focus on presidential elections to the exclusion of almost all other political arenas. We see it in young people who have traded in idealistic “save the world” goals for dreams of celebrity. We see it in the revival of Ayn Rand’s Objectivism as a powerful political ideology in Congress. We see it in both the left and the right mindlessly and unquestioningly parroting whichever cable-news deity they revere. Now, we see it even in America’s ultimate team sport.

Let’s forget the political ramblings and focus on that sentence in bold.

Were this not a depository for high-quality musings on the sport of baseball, I’m sure many would be left wondering exactly which sport the author were referring to. If it weren’t for the “America” qualification, my first guess would have been Austrailian Rules Football or maybe hockey. Soccer relies on the intricate interactions of 11 players on each side all at once, as does our football. Basketball requires a well-organized offense with picks and passing and cutting. Even NASCAR, unwatchable as I find it, has pit crews, one of the most impressive team displays in sports.

But no, the author is referring to baseball. The game where, for 90% of the live action, it is merely pitcher versus batter. Even defense, the most team-oriented aspect of sports, is effectively devoid of teamwork outside of the double play and relay throws. Baseball is the sport where “greater than the sum of its parts” is less a thing that actually happens and more a handhold for baffled pundits when a team performs better than expected.

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I idolized Lenny Dykstra. My first memories as a Phillies fan are from following their surprising, heavily mulleted, flash-in-a-pan 1993 season and the subsequent run to the World Series. As an impressionable six-year-old, I was drawn to Dykstra’s gritty (yes, I said it), seemingly fearless style of play. All of the things that induce snarkgasms from us statistically inclined fans when they are said or written by “old school” baseball commentators are the things I most admired in Dykstra — his leadership, his hustle, his heart, his “intangibles”. And, of course, it didn’t hurt that he was also the best player on the team. My naive six-year-old mind could not yet comprehend things like sociopathy, degeneracy, and performance enhancing drugs (apparently even fully functional adult minds couldn’t yet comprehend this).

So as a little leaguer in my very first coaches pitch YMCA league, I wore Dykstra’s number four. I begged to be put in centerfield. I dove for flyballs with reckless abandon. I slid hard into home. I chewed large wads of Bazooka and spit profusely. All because Lenny did it, and if Lenny did it, then it must have been right.

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Were he to see this photograph.

Would he look away, in frustration? Would he be upset? Would he laugh — which is all he can do, one would think — at his own incredible misfortune? Would he think of his struggle as being in vain?

I’m quite certain Morales didn’t leap as high as Jose Reyes, and definitely not as high as Angel Pagan, both captured above, that fateful night one year ago, May 29, 2010. As we all now know, Morales won’t be back until 2012. At the earliest. Maybe. (At least Morales went out after hitting a walk-off home run. A grand slam, no less. That’s what I keep reminding myself. Does that make it any easier, for Kendrys? Probably not. But, well, still.)

About that photo: when did the leaping celebration after winning a baseball game come in vogue? Who was the first to make it happen? It’s spread, now, all throughout baseball. Imagine Reyes had come down awkwardly on his leg, and suffered a serious injury. Imagine he’d been Moralesed. Goodbye, “Carl Crawford money.” Hello, again, Fred Wilpon, and you, too, Jeffrey Toobin.

I’ve watched Jose Bautista do it, too, air surfing in celebration with his fellow outfielders, Corey Patterson and Rajai Davis, on a regular basis. I can’t help but think of poor Kendrys Morales. Every time. His intentions were good. And I can’t help but be a tiny bit afraid. History only repeats itself.

Image credit: The Associated Press, via daylife.