In honor of the 58th birthday of Keith Hernandez — board-certified Magnificent Bastard — I’m re-posting Rob Perri’s objectively perfect short film titled “I’m Keith Hernandez.” I might just make a yearly thing of this, at least until I die gruesomely in the year 2016. Please enjoy!

I’m Keith Hernandez from water&power on Vimeo.

Keith Hernandez is almost certainly not one of the five people you meet in heaven, but that’s only because he’s a real threat to make love to the other four.

Those who watched Game One of the World Series will be aware — and those who didn’t watch will learn right now — that FOX experimented with a thermal-imaging camera during their telecast Wednesday night. The cameras, supplied by Australian Warren Brennan, are designed to detect heat — including the friction-type of heat generated by a ball hitting a bat, for example.

Using our vast resources, NotGraphs has purchased its own thermal-imaging camera and used it towards, if not nefarious, then at least generally irreverent, ends.

For example, here we find the image of Mike Napoli included in Robert J. Baumann’s debut post at NotGraphs:

Using thermal-imaging technology, however, we are able to locate the various “hot spots” in the image.

While the heat emanating from head of the swimmer to the left — and from Napoli’s (ahem) lower body — is self-explanatory, the reader might be confused about the warm area below Napoli’s chin and neck. Amazingly, this is due to the friction caused by the considerable rate at which Napoli’s chest hair grows.

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In which the author assumes the essence of the Interweb, posting photos and making fun of them.

Game 2 is all about hair and facial hair. De-HAIR-o-types, amirite?

Quick! Which St. Louis Cardinal is this?!

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Well, you can’t, because your spreadsheet’s not big enough.

If hot success eludes you, then baseball sort-of great Chuck Knoblauch is here to help. How exactly? This is how, exactly:

I have no idea whether the purchase of the above bit of Textile-Based Merchandise entitles the doer of business to a Twitter follow from Mr. Knoblauch, but that’s hardly the point. The point, friends and lovers, is that everyone you meet will be under the impression that baseball sort-of great Chuck Knoblauch follows you on his Twitter computer. As Martin Heidegger once queried, “Who gives a damn shit if what you purport to be true is actually true, baby!” The question is rhetorical, which is why there’s no question mark.

As we’ve told you before, NotGraphs is nothing if not an appointment with the secrets of triumph — lion-hearted triumph at the office, in the gym and in the bedroom. I scarcely need say this, but the same goes for a t-shirt that claims Chuck Knoblauch follows you on Twitter.

2020 Super Baseball is a very weird game.

Basically, take Baseball Stars (it has the same teams, like the Ninja Black Sox, and the same mechanics), add in some wacky rules (only a tiny portion of the field is foul territory and it’s only a home run if it goes in the “Home Run Area” in center field), and fast forward to a society in the far off year of 2020, and there you have Super Baseball 2020.

I decided to play as the “Battle Heroes,” because, why not, and the computer randomly picked the “Aussie Battlers”. Since the Heroes wear red and the Battlers wear blue (and, Australia is basically the Texas of continents), I guess I’m playing as the Cardinals this time. As much as that hurts me deep inside.

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You see it all the time: professional baseball player A, batting, takes professional baseball player B, pitching, deep to left field, over the fence, a home run. He runs the bases: first, second, third, some love from both coaches at the corners along the way, and, finally, home. But before he steps on the plate, or just as he does, he tilts his head skywards, and points towards the heavens.

Think of Albert Pujols; he does it all the time. David Ortiz, too, after his leisurely stroll around the diamond. But by no means is the salute exclusive to the home run. I remember seeing Nick Swisher do it after he’d walked, once he’d arrived at first base. And, knowing Swisher, it was probably a four-pitch walk, the pitcher’s control long gone, never to return. Hell, maybe it was an intentional walk, but someone up above deserved some thanks, some acknowledgement.

So I’ve been wondering: it’s God these guys are giving props to, right? Some guys are surely saluting a departed family member, maybe a lost friend, but in most cases, I think the answer is, yes, God. Pujols, deeply religious, is definitely praising the man above.

I have so many questions. Well, two, actually:

1. Is God a baseball fan? If he or she is smart enough to have worked their way to the top (no pun intended), to the title of “God,” I’ll assume he or she is very smart, and, yes, therefore a baseball fan. And a sabermetrician.

2. Is God a St. Louis Cardinals fan? I’m sure Albert Pujols certainly believes so. And, the more I ponder it, perhaps Pujols knows something we don’t. Think about it: St. Louis is about to play in their third World Series in eight years. They won the 2006 World Series after winning only 83 games during the regular season. Eighty-fucking-three. The Toronto Blue Jays won 87 games in 2006, and didn’t make the playoffs. (I will never not be bitter about this.) And, finally, think about what’s gone down over the past couple of months in Cardinals-ville: the collapse of the Atlanta Braves; the brilliance displayed by Tony La Russa; someone actually saying, “We couldn’t have done it without Dotel.” I mean, come on, that’s insane. I can’t in good conscience rule out divine intervention in favor of the Cardinals.

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The current issue of Baseball America — the one with Jeremy Hellickson on the cover — just arrived at my house this afternoon. Here’s a pie chart of where I’ll be reading it.

As an Astros fan, this is the most depressing world series scenario imaginable for me. On one hand, the St. Louis Cardinals: our greatest division rivals, who have already won the second-most World Series titles in history. Everyone hates a winner, right? On the other hand, the Texas Rangers: potentially the first Texas team to win the World Series, a title the Astros obviously covet, and by no objective but by every personal measure deserve. Not to mention that I live in Austin, where the bandwagon is overcrowded with Rangers caps where there once were just ironic mullets and burnt orange.

I’ve come to the inevitable conclusion: instead of watching the World Series, I will commit seppuku.

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You may have noticed that, some time around yesterday, America was roused from its torpor by news of an exciting sports contest. We the people have been charged with adopting the pose, bearing, manner, general milieu, and overarching blessedness of the great Mr. Dick Allen. Suffice it to say, this I could not resist.

First, the inspiration …

And now, the imitation …

I have spoken through photographic art. If you wish not to see that giant novelty check in my clutches, then I suggest you get to work.