Among the things you’ve bought in the past week, reader, one of them is decidedly not the giant, behatted frog with bloodshot eyes and purple, fire-emblazoned tank top that you see pictured in this internet post.

You’ve bought a lot of things, sure — sensual oils with which you will make love to America; the complete set of The Wire DVDs; diet juice — but not, unfortunately, this huge, irksome frog made of synthetic materials and sadness.

Don’t get me wrong, reader: you’ve pulled your weight so far as both the local and national economies are concerned. Like with your purchase of that toothpaste that’s exactly like Tom’s of Maine but, like, half as expensive, for example. And that copy of pre-Victorian British erotic novel The Lustful Turk. And a six-pack of an amber ale described as “sweet but not cloyingly so” by a shitty bartender whose face you hate. Among that list, regrettably, is not “haunting and/or haunted frog mascot.”

Let me not mince words here: you, the person reading this, have exchanged American currency for goods and services. By what other means would you have had a delicious brunch the other day while reading the Sunday edition of the New York Times? Or watched all those out-of-market NFL games on DirecTV? Or renewed your subscription to The Economist, which you’ll totally read more often, you swear. “None,” is the answer. Unfortunately, of all the transactions in which you’ve been involved, exactly zero of them have been the acquisition of this menacing and drunk-looking and likely dangerous fake frog.

Every word on the internet to the contrary, the footage you see here seems to suggest that John Lackey — who has recently not only divorced his cancer-addled wife but also called her repeatedly to ask if her refrigerator is running — is not an unfeeling monster.

In fact, Lackey was roused enough by Boston prospect Ryan Lavarnway’s first major-league home run to offer a combination high-five/Top Gun-style hug to the young catcher.

When asked about the sequence after the game, Lackey said nothing, instead taking NotGraphs into his masculine embrace.

As you may have noticed, Arizona’s license plates read, “Arizona: Home to Sadness.” This is objectively true, of course, but last night Arizona’s Major League Baseball Franchise, which is represented by poisonous snakes, provided the state’s beleaguered denizens with a board-certified base-and-ball miracle.

Prior to last night, a Law of the Universe, theretofore believed to be immutable, was that if the home team surrenders five runs in top of the 10th, then a loss is a fait accompli. Those plucky Snakes, however, declared that if coming back from five down in extra innings is a crime — much like loving you — then lock them up and place the key somewhere safely out of the prisoner’s reach. Yes, thanks mostly to a Ryan Roberts amble-off grand slam, Arizona, metaphorically, murdered the Dodgers with a sharpened cargo hook.

And that brings us to the most stirring image of any such game: the WPA chart. Behold:

In certain circles, such a rarely spotted WPA chart is known as “The Leftward-Facing Raygun,” but the learned discerner may also note a stirring resemblance to the Objective Pipe. Regardless of how this Rorschach strikes you, though, you should know that the Arizona Diamondbacks are here for those with nowhere left to turn.

(A hearty please and thank you to Hannah’s Tweet repository)

On the repository of human knowledge known as “Urban Dictionary,” the third definition of “thunder thighs” is “a pair of big ass thighs.”

Observe, Brett Wallace:

Judging purely by the definition above (i.e, “a pair of big ass thighs”), Brett Wallace has thunder thighs. But, as you will most keenly observe, MLB.com’s GameDay most certainly sells said thunder thighs short:

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), Gameday simply doesn’t have the ability to project total realism. I guess all technologies have their limitations. In Gameday’s case, it’s thunder thighs.

As the reader may or may not know, the present author has thrown his hat — and other, sexier pieces of his outfit — into the metaphorical ring known as the Pitchers & Poets Reading Club (hosted, if one can believe it, by the gentlemen of Pitchers & Poets).

The first book is Chad Harbach’s very new novel, The Art of Fielding, and the protagonist of said novel is named Henry Skrimshander. Though he makes his way to an elite liberal arts college on the lake coast of Wisconsin, Skrimshander’s only real literary experience is with a book by legendary (and also fictional) shortstop Aparicio Rodriguez called The Art of Fielding.

Rodriguez is essentially the Platonic shortstop, but certain details — the fact that he played for the Cardinals, mostly, and is only recently retired — suggest that the character is based, at least in part, on Ozzie Smith.

Because his peak ended before I was really aware of him, I never got a chance to see Smith with any frequency. But his reputation is obviously excellent and, if one were so inclined to make a top-10 list of defensive players by the numbers — by adding together their defensive runs, that is, to their positional adjustments — then one would find something similar to this:

Read the rest of this entry »

It has been said that Dick Allen, patron Mahatma of these pages, has a head that contains multitudes. Besides his brain, skull and mind, Dick Allen’s head is rumored to contain a working ordnance factory, a family of ocelots, the spectral presence of Lionel Barrymore, and a dimly lit scriptorium where monastic scribes are busy copying the seminal documents of Western history. As you can imagine, all of this requires of Mr. Allen a rather sprawling melon. Thanks to The Painted Baseball, we may lay reverent eyes upon the real thing. Gentlepersons, your Daguerreotype of the Evening …

Dick Allen’s head — both large and important, neither small nor unimportant.

It’s been a strange few days. A strange few weeks, actually. I’ve been, for most of September, sleeping with the enemy. Last week, after spending most of the season – the past few years, actually – talking shit about the Baltimore Orioles, I found myself rooting for them. And they did good, so good, taking three out of four from the Boston Red Sox. At Fenway Park. Baltimore! I still almost don’t believe it.

Over the weekend, along with the rest of the universe, I was cheering on the Tampa Bay Rays. Over my own Toronto Blue Jays. Disgusting, I know, unconscionable, but I was thinking bigger picture: The collapse of the Red Sox. Which meant, over the weekend, that I was also rooting for the New York Yankees. I hadn’t wished victory upon the Yankees that much since the 2004 ALCS. I wanted New York to pound the Red Sox, to crush their collective soul, and that of the Massholes’ as well. Over the span of a week and a half, I found myself cheering for every team in the American League East save for Boston. I hate Boston. All the cool kids do.

You see, above all else, all I wanted from September was a race. I knew the Blue Jays weren’t going to give me anything, except for their continued, and now boring, dance with .500, and I wanted some drama. Any drama. And, as unlikely as it seemed at the beginning of the month, how September has delivered. Tampa Bay was 8.5 games back of Boston on September 1. Today, they’re tied. The Rays have closed the gap. Actually, Boston, with their shittacular play, has closed the gap for the Rays. And that’s what’s made the race so bloody beautiful. I don’t know why, but I absolutely love to see Boston squirm. Actually, I do know why: It’s Boston’s sense of entitlement, and, most recently, ESPN Magazine’s Boston-inspired issue, “Welcome to Boston, Loozah!” Ugh.

Read the rest of this entry »

Everyone should have a leitmotif. Like healthcare, food, clothes, and shelter, this should be considered a basic human right. Unfortunately, though, the vast majority of us are not lucky enough to have our presence announced musically (lest we take the task upon ourselves and risk looking mentally unstable by humming the same tune every time we enter a room).

A list of people who are among the privileged few to have leitmotifs:

1. Characters in films, television shows, and plays.

2. Professional athletes.*

*It should be noted that I consider professional wrestlers both of these things.

Indeed, there is perhaps no athlete to whom the leitmotif is more important than the closer in baseball. It has been scientifically proven that the last three outs of a baseball game are the hardest ones to get and it has also been scientifically proven that having a bitchin’ theme song is more valuable to a pitcher than any 100 MPH fastball when attempting to record these outs.*

*It should be noted that science has proven neither of these things.

Eric Freeman of the AV Club recent wrote a nice piece entitled “Prelude to a save: A closer’s guide to choosing the right entrance song,” which I missed when it was originally posted the week before last but was alerted to yesterday by this short post from the fantastic Grant Brisbee. Freeman provides the following rubric to assist closers in choosing the perfect entrance song:

-Pump up the crowd.

-Establish a brand.

-Leave the metal womb.

-Sound isn’t the whole story.

-Don’t pander.

-Know your source.

Naturally, this article got me thinking about heretofore unused songs that would make good leitmotifs. Below I have listed five such songs along with skillfully embedded youtube clips and the current closer for whom I believe the song represents the best fit.

Read the rest of this entry »

The astute and championship gentleman has at his disposal a broad menu of hairstyles appropriate for the merchant and bodice-ripper of distinction and breeding. Among these are the Tousled Authority, the Hesitating Delacroix, the Dead Christian, and, natch, the Hair-Fellow-Well-Met.

One will note, however, that Mr. Jayson Werth’s latest coif does not appear within our Manifest of Acceptables. Bear solemn witness …

Pictured abovely is a look known derisively throughout history as the “Señor Buttcheeks,” and it is to our national shame and injury that Mr. Werth has dragged it howling from the vaults. This, Mr. Werth, is why Oleg Cassini doesn’t come around much anymore.

(Giggly hair-pull: Nats Enquirer)

Deion Sanders, trying to bring fashion to bloggers at the Van Heusen Institute of Style #BWB4 Kickoff Party also presented by Captain Morgan & Guinness Black Lager.

What is a blog? What is a blogger?

At BlogsWithBalls 4.0, hosted this past weekend by Bloomberg Sports in their fabulous digs, those questions seemed prevalent. Though never specifically addressed, the struggle to define the blog and its writer simmered below the surface. Questions of access, funding, and innovation were all debated openly in the mostly excellent panels and yet it often felt like an element was missing.

Read the rest of this entry »