FanGraphs: the Game is real. I have proof.

First, how else can you explain my Giants first baseman? He’s ‘hitting’ .235/.314/.350… and Giants’ first basemen are hitting .207/.312/.336. My dude has a better ISO, the Aubrey Huff / Brett Pill / Brandon Belt monstrosity has a better walk rate. Both are right around replacement. Somehow I have my pick of the entire league, and the Giants have their pick of those three dudes, and we ended up in the same place.

On the other side of the coin, cwhitman is doing a heckuva job. His Nationals starter is performing like… a Nationals starter. His starter has an 8.76 K/9, 2.87 BB/9, and 0.83 HR/9 — the staff in our nation’s capital has an 8.48 K/9, 3.04 BB/9, 0.71 HR/9. Again, they had no choice beyond what was on their roster or in their system, cwhitman had plenty of choice, and they ended up in the same place.

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Carl Sagan was awesome. He “simultaneously emphasiz[ed] the value and worthiness of the human race, and the relative insignificance of the Earth in comparison to the universe.” This complexity aligns him with the aesthetics of NotGraphs, where we both celebrate the wondrous oddities of a human-made game (see any number of Carson Cistulli’s posts), and yet are all too aware of our insignificance as individuals and as a race of beings (see any number of Dayn Perry’s posts).

Baseballs and planets: of the same stuff.
All-Stars literary made of star stuff.

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Craig McMurtry, thief of hearts!

He’s a good egg, McMurtry. If he drives a white, windowless van, then it’s for purposes of infiltrating the ranks of other drivers of white, windowless vans and then taking back the streets from same. The stylish zippered warm-up conceals a mighty heart.

The mustache forms a “C.” The lenses of his eyewear form two “O”s. “Coo” is the call of a pigeon. “COO” stands for “country of origin” and “Chief Operating Officer.” CoO is the chemical symbol for Cobalt Oxide. It is also the code for a West African airport, the safety record of which would likely horrify coddled first-worlders with hearts less mighty than the muscled organ that beats within Craig McMurtry’s chest and locked, bony cage.

Motel to airships, chemical compound poisonous to weaklings, executive with muted passions, the place you are from, a street bird’s despairing bray — Craig McMurty is all of these things. Without glasses and mustache, Craig McMurtry would be none of these things. Without Craig McMurtry, the glasses and mustache would be none of these things. QED.

The formula is a formula because it is etched upon the walls of a cave beneath a riverbed that is no more. No one fishes that river because the river has dried up.

Craig McMurtry doesn’t watch them not fish that river that dried up.

Actual initial thought upon seeing the headline below:
“Wow, I wonder what Ryan Zimmerman’s wife did.”

Sad commentary on how much attention I pay to non-baseball news. I also hear Brandon Allen won a primary in Virginia?

Nothing screams summer like playing a nice game of simulated baseball with a the “Official Jackmster Baseball Knife”.

Who needs to carry around a complete Strat-o-matic game when the game can be stored in that cool little watch pocket on your jeans. It can played outside and inside (until mom finds out). Best of all, the winner can take home one of the loser’s favorite “Home Run” razor blades.

CINCINNATI — Doctors at the Centers for Disease Control announced Tuesday that left-handed Tigers starter Drew Smyly has “just a little” Ebola.

“After extensive testing by a team of leading experts in the field of infectious disease,” Dr. Prajit Kapoor said in a prepared statement, “we’ve determined that Mr. Smyly definitely has Ebola — or, at the very least, an Ebola-like virus — but that, strangely, it is confined to the tip of his left middle-finger [pictured right] and is unlikely to spread further.”

Smyly began to notice the Ebola while pitching against the Cincinnati Reds on Sunday, eventually leaving the game. “It started hurting and affecting my pitches,” Smyly said on Tuesday. “Honestly, I just thought it was a blister. I mean, I knew it looked bad, but you never think it’s a left-threatening disease responsible for thousands of horrifying deaths.”

When asked if the delay in reaching a conclusive diagnosis on Smyly’s condition was due to the rarity of it, Dr. Kapoor answered in the negative. “Actually, it was less that and more how gross it is. I, personally, vomited four times.”

In this video, Kenyan kids re-enact the end of Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. The kid in the long orange tank top is playing Buckner. This just couldn’t be any more heartwarming or baseball-affirming unless you’re Mr. Buckner himself, in which case it might as well be a pitcher of salt poured over an open wound. If you are not Bill Buckner, watch and prepare yourself for a minute and 48 seconds of pure happiness in youtube form:

Personally I recommend bookmarking this video in a special folder to be applied liberally when you’re having one of those “this is not my beautiful life” / “why is the internet so terrible and mean?” / “what if baseball is dying?” / “ahhhhhsfghskfghfghjfg” kind of days.

H/T to Amazin’ Avenue

I didn’t really buy this, as it was an all-fan giveaway at Miller Park on Sunday for the Brewers-Padres game. Actually, I didn’t even get to go to the game because I had to work ten hours. But one of my bosses, who did not have to work ten hours, got to go to the game with one of my employing organization’s board members, who didn’t want his bobblehead, so said boss gave me the bobblehead, which was very nice of him.

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The reader — knowing something about the old rerum natura, as it were — understands immediately from this image that Southpaw, the official mascot of the Chicago White Sox, will use the horse also pictured here towards the end of satisfying his appetite.

What we can’t know — can only speculate upon — is if that appetite is gastronomic or sexual in nature.

I’m telling you, Simmons, those days!
Those days when we finally began turning away …

Your tresses plunged like the
Bellwether economic indicators of the day.
Like the necklines of those
Who tottered for your notice.

We shan’t survive these times, said wartime leaders!
We shan’t survive Ted Simmons
and his unmade-bed hair!
Sacco him before he Vanzetties us!

You, you catcher and framer, hitter and blocker!
Michigan man! Prince of quick wrists!
Needler of Herzogs! Merchant of dinnertime perils!
Tilter at windmills!
Tilter of pinball machines!
Holy bewitcher!

We were something, you and I! But mostly you …
We’d have made your hair the president if we could’ve.
But if elected it will not serve.
Which is the thing about things
Sourced from the womb of a Cumulonimbus.

That hair flows like beaded doorways granting wide berth to tall men!
It flows like riverine sperm heaven-bent on impregnating the 1950s!

As reliably as liquor drunkens,
So too do you!

O, feral wilding!
O, Simba!