Because Stubby Clapp’s name is Stubby Clapp, anything having anything to do with Stubby Clapp is at least somewhat noteworthy. This time, however, Mr. Clapp makes these pages not because of his perfect name, but rather because he recently got himself ejected like a super champion. He’s presently skipper of the minor-league Tri-City ValleyCats, and, unlike the ninja, he does not flip and kill people. Stubby Clapp does, however, flip out …
Somewhere in America, Earl Weaver’s vast evening toddy tastes a bit better to him tonight.
(Hosannas: Todd and his Twitter)
As I noted in these pages recently, one of the great pleasures of baseball is the amount of data it produces. Some of that is the sort of data that produces metrics like WAR; other of it, though, might be more appropriately apprehended by the softer sciences.
By way of explanation, allow me to introduce the reader to a work of art known as the Terry Francona Press Conference. While perhaps only an average baseballing tactician, Francona has distinguished himself as a sort of savant of personality management. Winning a lot, certainly, has helped subdue any would-be discontent among his ranks, but Francona has a way of making any issue seem manageable and human-sized — and nowhere is this more clearly on display than in his post-game press conferences.
Let’s watch the above-ly embedded one (from July 26th’s victory over the Royals) together and see what we see.
Somewhere, David Eckstein was doing something: eating a sandwich, perhaps, or polishing the wood surfaces of his home with lemon-scented chemicals. It’s impossible to say exactly. What we do know, or can at least safely assume, is that he paused for a moment, a gust of cool air sweeping over him from an unknown source, a shudder of momentary weakness in the arms and stiffness in the fingers. Something felt off. He scanned his surroundings, trying to make out the difference, to sort out the nature of this new universe. And then the truth of it all revealed itself unto him: some of his grit had been expropriated.
Marvel at the precision of the ground ball, hit smartly enough for the ball to speed into the hole but gently enough for that hole to close in on it. Watch how the hit pulls the throw up the line, giving Brendan Ryan the opportunity to coast into first with his head up. Notice how the Oakland infielders scatter in the face of this strident display of pluck and determination, leading each of them to individually pause and reflect on how they have wasted their superior athletic skills. As they spit and curse the earth that bore them, Ryan is already nearly at second. Then Ryan slides superfluously not once, but twice, dirtying each leg in the process. Finally, he pops up to his feet immediately, already prepared to roundhouse kick any would-be ninjas in the vicinity. What you’re seeing is textbook fundamentals.
Justin Smoak is so joyful he uncurls both halves of his lips as far as they can muster. Third base coach Jeff Datz, ordinarily focusedon the myriad of instructions he is bound by his occupation to convey, can only wander over and pat Ryan on the back. Not pictured in the clip is the moment when Eric Sogard’s fabulous eyeglasses are cast forcibly from his face by the heart and spirit of Ryan’s second slide, delaying the game by several minutes as he hunts for them in the outfield grass. Nor is the rare honorary walk delivered by a stunned and reverent home umpire Mike Winters.
A true, unquestionable double-hustle play. I tried to mark the event in my calendar, dear readers, but I found my hands, like Eckstein’s, trembling.
Survey this man’s bewitching countenance, and you’ll find it inevitable that his name is … Adrian Devine.
There are names so heavy-handed in their suitability that they seem plucked from some Hawthorne novel that the professorial and elbow-patched among us say you must read. So what do you name a man whose aspect suggests a Picaresque life of invading boudoirs and ripping bodices? You name him Adrian Devine. Or Caspian Sexworth. But probably Adrian Devine.
Because I had no real opinion on Fuld’s contretemps with Alcides Escobar, I elected instead to leave the question of Fuld’s guilt/innocence to the readership via a slightly irreverant poll. While the results of the poll aren’t particularly important (although I’ll note that close to 50% of respondents believe that polls are a cheap way to drive traffic), what does deserve remarking, I think, is how it (i.e. the poll) garnered answers from 16 different countries — including, for example, Slovakia.*
This, if you’ll permit me a rare (and, I think, warranted) foray into the explicit, warms my fucking heart.
I wrote a book that some people — people not even related to me — think is pretty good. That book [deep breath], Reggie Jackson: The Life and Thunderous Career of Baseball’s Mr. October, is now available in trade paperback at championship retailers everywhere. Just look at it!
If you’ve previously purchased and enjoyed the the boundless charms of the hardcover edition, please know that this one is much more ergonomic and comfortable. But that’s not all! Here’s an interview with me about said book, which, I may have mentioned, is available for purchase.
In the timeless words of the Video Professor, “Please try my product.” In fact, if you purchase this book, then I’ll come to your house, place of business or favorite darkened boulevard and sign it for you!*
*I will almost certainly not do this. But I do love all of you.
I can neither confirm nor deny the claim that it takes a village to raise a child. I can, however, state with some certainty that it requires an electronic village to properly document all the frigging whimsy going otherwise undocumented at America’s ballparks.
In this particular instance, the electronic villager is Will, and he’s alerted us to what is clearly one of William Wallace’s allies from the Battle of Stirling Bridge, who, having traveled to the future, is posing as a Cardinal fan to avoid drawing attention to himself.
Either that, or it’s Jason Isringhausen in disguise. One or the other.
Pete Rambo
Ol’ Rambo pitched in one game, just 3 and 2/3 innings, with the Phillies in 1926. There’s not much more known about Warren Dawson Rambo (somehow “Pete” for short). He pitched for the Cumberland Colts minor league team for a pair of seemingly strong seasons in 1926 and 1927, but never made a significant imprint on the majors.
Here is an artistic rendering of what Pete Rambo may have look liked:
…and in February of 2020, delegates to the provisional government of the SABRland Autonomous Region voted unanimously to establish an independent nation. By opening day, a full constitution had been drafted to delineate new borders, institute a permanent system of government, and lay out clearly the foundational principles of the fledgling country. The most notable principle was of course the 3-to-1 Law, which required every citizen to spend a total of one week every month doing whatever work was deemed necessary by local labor councils and the remaining three weeks watching, thinking about, discussing, and writing about baseball (and doing whatever else made them happy, within reason).
In the new capital city of Jamestown — named for the revered sabermetric forefather, Bill James — the constitution was ratified as the season’s first pitch was thrown. And thus the Republic of SABRland was born without so much as a drop of blood being spilled.
Before I get going, I know what you want me to address, and I agree: FanGraphs’ analysis of all the deadline’s happenings was top notch. I’ll be honest: I’m no longer surprised by the quality of the staff’s work. I’ve met those guys, I know what they’re about. (They’re about baseball.) Together, they are a baseball-writing machine. A factory, even. And it’s all free. All the time. For you, and for me. Life is good.
But the deadline. Let’s talk about the deadline. Ubaldo Jimenez, Carlos Beltran, Orlando Cabrera, Derrek Lee, Michael Bourn, Edwin Jackson, Kosuke Fukudome, Erik Bedard, Koji Uehara, Hunter Pence, and Colby Rasmus, just to name a few, all have new summer homes. Action!
From a Twitterer’s perspective, it was fantastic to watch. Analsyis from the heavy hitters who use Twitter and use it well — the Olneys, Morosis, Laws, etc. — followed by instant fan reaction.
