What follows is not especially new, but neither am I.

You’ve often heard loose talk of the “Drums of War,” no? What follows features the less famous though equally rousing and deadly, “Guitar and Lead Singer’s Voice of War.”

If the voice strikes you as “Wagnerian” — and it surely does — then that’s because it’s actually Wagner singing.

I don’t have unassailable proof that Alexander’s muscled, glistening, loiny troops listened to this heart-pumping anthem before vanquishing Darius III, but, after allowing this song to course through me over and over on my Sony Walkman with auto reverse, I’m willing to test that theory in the streets. With my war-fists.

(Hot, knowing glance: BBTF)

Loyal NotGraphs reader SkinsNinerFan brought this dandy to our attention. Upon first viewing, it appears as a clip of Jim Thome’s 596th homer and continued march into the annals of baseball history.

Further inspection proves illuminating, as we discover Twins outfielder Delmon Young is in fact a fiend of history:

Suddenly, I realized Delmon’s face seemed familiar, like the last vestiges of an old dream. I began flipping through old copies of my dream journals to no avail. Then, suddenly, during a 7-hour history channel binge last night, I saw it!

Delmon Young had indeed been both present and exceedingly excited at the signing of the Declaration of Independence! His classic and soul-penetrating face of pure exuberance no doubt led artist John Trumbull to immortalize the emotional outbreak in his classic painting. Odd thing is: This is not even a painting of the signing, but merely a submission of the committee’s proposal draft.

Thus, I began searching the NotGraphs database for “time travel” and “oh face.” Sure enough — and just as I had anticipated — Delmon Young was at the Battle of Marathon, where the Athenians fought off the invading forces of Darius the First:

Odd thing is: The Battle of Marathon is most remembered for what happened after it — the marathon run or march, depending on the source, for which the battle remains so famous.

We can clearly establish two facts: Delmon Young has a time-travel device, and Delmon Young has a penchant for the exciting, historical moments that come before the exciting, more historical moments.

Who among us has not struggled with a gadget in the manner of a baboon straining to crack open a coconut? Who among us, I say!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=Kh-tOUSWKK8

While I fear and loathe robots as much as the next man, it may, I fear, be the digital camera that is the first contraption to go “Skynet” and kill us all. As Gouverneur Morris admonished us, “When the computers take over U.S. Cellular Field, then you’ll know war — a final, determinative war — is afoot.”

(Robot hug: Blame It on the Voices)

The extemporaneous nature of broadcasting makes for many a hazard. After all, there can be only so much stagecraft involved when the events that drive the broadcasting aren’t preordained. Chip Caray turns a hit into an out, Ernie Anastos gives the weatherman a rather curious directive (NSFW!), and so on.

Now what happens when you introduce crowd shots into this volatile melange? Chaos. What happens when those crowd shots are of 20-somethings disinclined to resist their beery urges? I’ll tell you: silence — beautiful, beautiful silence, awkward in the extreme — followed by a noble yet failed effort to smother the silly-giggles …

History teaches us that Daniel Webster won the debate over protectionist tariffs only after he stuffed his paw down the bodice of an onlooking chaste maiden and thus reduced Senator Hayne, his loyal opponent, to guffaws, spit-takes and high-fives. I have no doubt that the current debt-ceiling loggerheads will be resolved only when one of the combatants makes with the groping.

Thankful boob grab: With Leather

Think of the great miseries of humankind — war, famine, disease, Delta Airlines, Kid Rock — and how we as a people coped with them. Yep: witticisms on shirts. Even our hairy, slope-headed forgoers transferred their ironic cave etchings to the wrinkled pelts of the gomphotheres. They said things like, “My Milkshake Brings All the Homo Neanderthalensises to the Yard,” and “I Caught Crabs at the Patagonian Ice Cap During a Brief Respite in the Sub-Continental Permafrost.”

Fast forward to the current day and time, and you’ll find that Dodger fans, crippled by the misdeeds of America’s Worst Businessman^TM, are turning to the shirt to help them through the various stages of grief and spittle-flecked rage. First came this, and now comes a more direct assault on the author of their miseries …

My only hope is that in 25 years, these will be the Dodgers’ throwback jerseys.

(Shirt tip: Biz of Baseball)

I’ve long maintained that “Baby Leopard” should be someone’s nickname. And now that the following daguerreotype has been loaded down onto and into my Internet computer keyboard and attached reflective screen, I am even more steadfast in that belief …

You can often identify a Great Man of History by the pearl-handled revolver he keeps tucked in his spats or the unfailing fact that, when posting for photographic images, he places the fingers of his dominant hand, which are sturdy but conclusively not hot-doggish, just within the lapels of his camelhair topcoat, between the fourth and fifth gold lamé buttons. In the absence of such evidence, you can identify a Great Man of History by the heirloom chalice in his grasp, the baby leopard on his arm and the brassy paid whore in his memory. That right-wise John McGraw, he was a Great Man of History!

The lesson, lads? One does not simply walk into Mordor. Unless one is John McGraw.

H/T: The lot of you, really.

Thursday night in Detroit, Miguel Olivo struck out four times, and took home the dishonourable Golden Sombrero. While batting cleanup! I know, and, unfortunately, no, I can’t tell you why Olivo was batting fourth. But about last night: Verlander and Valverde, yo. They’ll do that to a brother.

Upon learning of Olivo’s fate, I wondered: Why a Golden Sombrero? What in the hell does that have to do with striking out four times in a baseball game? I got my Google on. And the answer, as is usually the case, was pretty simple, and, well, makes sense. Witness:

The term derives from hat trick and since four is bigger than three (Editor’s note: Mathematics are a beautiful thing.) the rationale was that a four-strikeout performance should be referred to by a bigger hat, such as a sombrero. The “Olympic Rings” or platinum sombrero applies to a player striking out five times in a game, while a horn (after Sam Horn of the Baltimore Orioles, who accomplished the feat in an extra-inning game in 1991) or titanium sombrero is bestowed upon a player who strikes out six times in a single game.

Your source: Wikipedia. In all its reverence, of course.

Like I said, makes sense. And, now, what I want to actually, physically see, and perhaps even try on, is a Titanium Sombrero. I imagine it’s as funky as it sounds.

As for the Golden Sombrero, there’s a website devoted to its cause. Aptly titled, too: The Golden Sombrero. By their count, Miguel Olivo is the 38th player to be crowned in 2011.

Yet the most important questions remain: Why, and since when, and why, is Miguel Olivo batting cleanup?

Image credit: The Internet

Steamy. Pause.

The parallels are not obvious. Roberto Clemente was Puerto Rican, Elvis was Mississippian. Clemente played baseball, Elvis played rock and roll. Clemente had 3,000 hits on the nose, Elvis more like 26 of the #1 variety. The baseball player was known for his all-around solid game and humanitarian missions to his home land. The rock star was known for his brilliant voice, terrible movies and rampant drug abuse. No, they don’t seem very similar.

But take a look at this picture, and there’s some of the same heat that you get from a young Elvis. Look at the screaming women. Look at the slightly parted lips. Look at the (feigned?) indifference. Feel the confidence exuding from Clemente’s look. Feel the fire.

Then watch this video. Is there nothing these two icons have in common other than dying young within five years of each other? Consider this diptych homage a humble argument that there is, at least superficially, something in common between the young King and the young Sweetness. Even if it is only the adoration of women everywhere.

H/T to Plumb in the Uprights

Spencer Hall of the ever-fantastic Every Day Should Be Saturday (recommended even for non-college football fans) and SBNation today presented a fantastic piece on 1887 sports cards. Never one to be left out, baseball represented two of the (in the author’s humblest opinion) finer entries. Below is Dell Darling, “champion base ball catcher.”

We’ll let Hall take it from here:

Darling set what was then a record by surviving 14 assaults by batters, who, if they did not flinch upon contact with a pitched ball, were then allowed to swing freely at the “catcher” until their arms grew tired and the wood of the bat itself grew soft. The 1887 matchup between Champion Base Ball Batter James O’Neil and Dell Darling was described by the Providence, Rhode Island police department as “sportive, thoroughly entertaining, and most certainly manslaughter of the first degree.” Be not confused! Dell Darling in this picture is not pleading for his life, but is most certainly taunting the batter with his trademark phrase, “A butter’s whore is bread’s mistress, and your mother is the entire sand-wich!” Being a catcher was stupid in 1887, and still is.

The rest of the piece is highly recommended as well.

“Go Mets!” – Jerry Seinfeld on Saturday Night Live in 1999.

This picture was not discovered by the superlative tumblr awesome people hanging out together, but the post, on Brendan Bilko’s tumblr (eloquently named ‘stuff‘), was inspired by it. And, really, I’m not sure it counts as hanging out. David Bowie and Jerry Seinfeld were appearing on Saturday Night Live together and ostensibly were promoting some venture or another. This was no brunch in the West Village sans entourages. That might blow some minds, given the two dudes involved.

Here are some snippets of that completely fictional meeting. David Bowie had an egg white omelet with Gruyere and sage while Seinfeld opted for the French Toast with extra syrup. Both had Bellinis. Because they are ballers.

“Man, do you believe this Wilpon guy? The Mets are snake-bitten? Really? I mean, sure, but since when were owners supposed to tell the truth about their teams? What’s with this guy?”
“Jerry, what are these ‘Mets’ you keep talking about?”
“You do know what baseball is, right?”

“Do you ever feel like there’s just no hope? Like we’ll never get anywhere?”
“Yeah, any time I go to Citi Field.”
“I was talking about the human race, Jerry.”
“Me too.”

H/T James Kannengeiser