You were no doubt roused from fat sleep this morning by an urgent thought: “Who, prithee, has the greatest full name in baseball history?”

Because I am a man who knows things but not people, I have an answer — quite possibly the correct one:

The first thing you’ll notice is that Mr. Partenheimer’s head shot is actually an Instagram of Craig Biggio, which is fine. The second thing you’ll notice is his full name: Stanwood Wendell Partenheimer. Rogue scientist? Deep-cover assassin? Outrigger canoeist with a sex addiction? Yes. He is these and all things.

And he is nicknamed “Party” not because of phonetic similarities to his surname; rather, it’s because Stanwood Wendell Partenheimer uses the word “party” as a verb, as do all base-jumping surgeons.

No, we’re not eating reclaimed bacon here, that would be gross. We’re reclaiming bacon for Oakland. Like Josh Reddick, bacon is now the property of this city. If you’d like to eat any, pay us our copyright fees and we’ll be fine. We’re working on fried chicken, and also all of Reddick’s different facial hair looks. Better watch out, especially if you call Reddick a fourth outfielder again.

Back in the early days of the Internet (2002), I was a law student with a weblog. I remember looking many times a day at my SiteMeter statistics page, hoping someone would have discovered my blog, linked to it, and sent dozens of new readers my way. A book I just read last week insists that the Internet is not a meritocracy, and there are far too many manipulative marketers at work in the background for actually-worthwhile content to rise to the top. (I don’t think this argument is entirely true, but most of the book was pretty compelling, and worth checking out if you’re interested in why some things go viral and how you can manipulate the system to give your content a better shot.)

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The Houston Astros are not particularly good at baseball. Their record stands at 36-74; if they won half their games the remainder of the season, they would still lose a hundred games. Whatever it is you call losing in baseball, whether it be tragedy or drudgery, has clung to the walls and seats of Minute Maid Park. It is buried deep beneath that little hill thing they have out there.

As a form of penitence for some unknown or as yet uncommitted crime, I decided to watch the Astros perform their Astroness last night, and was rewarded grandly by the Baseballing Gods. By now, I’m sure, the series of lights and colors that eminated from the top of the 11th inning have taken their permanent place in the back of your retinas; if not, go ahead and watch the highlight four or five more times.

Rather than focus on the play itself, I’d like to look at the carnage from another angle, show some pictures that speak to the heart of Houston baseball. Think of it as a human interest story. Specifically: I want to talk about Pleased Guy.

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A photo of the author, his loins barely covered.

The Beginning Part, In Which the Author Loses His Hat
The first leg of the author’s present Journey Eastward necessitated that that same author, along with his wife, make a trip via bus from Madison, WI, to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. This is no problem in itself: provided one has enough in the way of internet podcasts downloaded to his informationPhone, the ride is mostly-to-entirely bearable.

This particular trip skewed decidedly harrowing, however, owing to how the author, in his haste to account for the most essential elements of the Journey — baggage, tickets, wife — while alighting from the aforementioned omnibus, accidentally left behind his well-worn Milwaukee Brewers cap.

A Note on the Cap in Question
You can ask anyone: the Brewers cap in question was the very picture of Excellence in Men’s Headwear. It first called to the author from a vendor’s shelf at Miller Park, not unlike how the sex-nymph Calypso called to Odysseus from the sex-island of Ogygia — except that, instead of detaining him for several years from wife and child by dint of unabated lovemaking, the author’s hat merely sat atop his head and didn’t bother anyone.

In most ways that matter the hat in question was not unlike American wordsmith Walt Whitman, in that it both (a) represented the very best of what is possible in this life and (b) wasn’t allowed in nice restaurants, owing to some combination of its appearance and smell.

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There’s the mainstream media, once again underestimating the New York Yankees. Mark Hale of The New York Post wrote a piece this weekend: “Nine current Yankees have shot at Hall of Fame.”

The Yankees could see nine players on this year’s squad be enshrined in Cooperstown — which would match the most by any team — coincidentally, with the 1931, 1932 and 1933 Yankees, who also had nine players make it.

Nine? What in the world is Mark Hale talking about? The Yankees have at least twenty-seven players on their 40-man roster likely to make the Hall of Fame and possibly as many as forty-three. Sure, the nine mentioned in the article (Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, Alex Rodriguez, Ichiro Suzuki, Robinson Cano, Mark Teixeira, CC Sabathia, Andy Pettitte and Andruw Jones) are all obvious slam-dunks, especially Teixeira, but how in the world could Hale ignore the achievements of the other eighteen HOF slam-dunks on the Yankees roster?

Jayson Nix: Batting .357 since the All-Star Break. That’s Tony Gwynn territory there.

Joba Chamberlain: An amazing comeback from breaking his leg into sixteen pieces after eating a trampoline. He’s struck out more than a batter an inning for his career. He hasn’t hit a batter since 2011. Amazing.

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Even Cleveland Indians fans laughed.

Here’s the good news: only 13,843 souls, or how many were left of the smallest crowd in Minute Maid Park history, saw that. (On an aside: why the hell were there so many Nationals fans in Houston? I’m very confused.)

It’s been a tough season for me, personally, as a Blue Jays supporter. Everyone is injured. No, really, everyone. So, of late, I’ve done what everyone should do now and then, to know what life is like for those less fortunate: I’ve watched Astros games. In their entirety. And, believe me, I now truly realize how blessed I am. You almost have to believe in God to be an Astros fan.

If you’re out there, and you know Brad Mills, please hug him. For me. For all of us.

Frank Mathers
Frank’s nickname is “Slim” because he’s fatter than his brother Marshall, not because he’s shady or anything.

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You may not know it, but Aaron Cook, who takes the hill tonight for the Boston Red Sox, is in the midst of a[n] historic season.

The 25 men listed in the table* below have the lowest seasonal K/9 among pitchers who have completed at least 40 innings in a season during the expansion era (1961-present).
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When one surveys the funereal countenance of base-balling great/fugitive from happiness Mr. Eddie Murray, one is likely to think, “Here is a man who conducts business even when he is not conducting business.”

Indeed, Mr. Murray’s famously solemn expression suggests not only a workmanlike seriousness and dedication to craft but also that he is about to become a signatory to documents awful in scope and implication — documents that he will soon entrust to a seasoned Latvian courier with whom he has a Business Relationship of longstanding. If Jeffrey Leonard has a “penitentiary” face, then Eddie Murray has a “tasked with making high-level executive decisions regarding the solvency and revenue streams of the penitentiary that houses Jeffrey Leonard” face.

Mr. Eddie Murray, you see, is unceasingly about business, save for those moments in which he is not about business. Yet it is during those moments that he is most about business. As such, Mr. Eddie Murray has spawned and husbanded exactly 25 ways of doing business, and for each of these 25 ways of doing business he has a distinct visage. We present them here …

Mr. Matt Kemp may be Business Handsome, but it is Mr. Eddie Murray who is Business Business.