It’s a fact, of course, that into every life a little rain must fall. Author Carson Cistulli is prepared to accept that fact. What Author Carson Cistulli is not prepared to accept, however, is the news — courtesy Hardball Talk’s Matthew Pouliot and the internet, generally — that beautiful stranger Charlie Blackmon has fractured his left foot playing the only game he ever loved.

“How’d he do it?” maybe you’re asking. And, “Is it really the only game he ever loved?” maybe you’re asking after that. These are questions with answers, reader, but answers are of no concern to the grieving — even those grieving a faux grief for one (in this case, Charlie Blackmon) who is neither friend nor family nor even passing acquaintance.

I know, the photo’s from last week, but I just found it, so it’s new to me.

Anyway, we’ve got two options, as we go deep inside the mind of ace Justin Verlander, as he chokes teammate Magglio Ordonez:

1. Why the hell did I draft you in my pool?!1

2. This is what I’d like to maybe do to Joe West.

Image credit: The Associated Press. Thanks, AP.

Today I have something in common with the idle rich. I am manifestly not rich, but I am now quite, quite idle. That’s because yesterday, after nine years of service — service that gave off every appearance of being loyal — FOXSports.com let me go. It was a budgetary decision, which allows me to fall on the less displeasing end of the somewhat blurry laid off/fired continuum. So that’s something. Right?

Anyhow, I’m not going to sit here and meow on and on about my grim circumstances. Plenty of people are much worse off, and I have cabinets full of canned goods, SSRIs and mind-altering spirits. I’ll be fine. Rather, I’d like to reflect upon some positives that have arisen from my new, blighted condition. To be sure, I have some regrets right now — no longer working with some terrific editors over at FOX is chief among them — but some things sustain me …

Above all, I carry with me no hard feelings, and I still, in my own estimation, number among the lucky bastards of this world. And as with all things in life, an Internet meme provides guiding wisdom …

Thank you for listening.

The nominations are in, and now it’s time to see to the dirty, foul-smelling business of grassroots democracy. Please and thank you: Vote in the poll below to determine which active player should be nicknamed “Bad Miracle.”

Curious as to the operational criteria or how the nominations unfolded on the convention floor? Then please revisit yesterday’s initial foray into all that is “Bad Miracle.” Now don’t forget to vote as your neighborhood ward heeler has instructed you!

Saunter over to the NL WAR leaderboards, and you’ll find that the Corsairs’ Andrew McCutchen has been the second-most valuable position player in the senior circuit this season. Despite such impressive bestowals, McCutchen was left off the NL All-Star roster. The All-Star Game, of course, will go down in Chase Field in Phoenix. And here is what the angry, hovering godhead in charge of baseball and nature has wrought at the location in question …

Lo, it is a sandstorm! But could this possibly have something to do with the snubbing of Andrew McCutchen? Here’s a better question: Why would you ask something like that?

Sand-covered embrace: Big League Stew

Sadaharu Oh’s autobiography is an enjoyable read, remarkable for its eloquence and candor.  He details his struggles with racism, having a Taiwanese father in post-war Japan, as well as his conflict with that very same father over his love of baseball.  In Chapter 4, he also establishes himself as a free-market capitalist who isn’t interested in money, and touches on the age-old dilemma: is parity the same as fairness, or is the amateur draft, as Buzzie Bavasi once called it, “a form of socialism”?  Oh (with David Falkner) writes:

In those days there was no draft system.  Thank God.  If there had been such a system, I never would have fulfilled my dreams.  I can look back on it no and feel this sense of tremendous blessing – one that includes the sense that I am somehow a person from another age – but I feel anger for what was ultimately surrendered.

The draft system, this peculiar lottery of talent that is supposed to give all teams an equal opportunity to stock their rosters, is one of the most unfortunate changes to affect modern professional baseball in Japan.

Imagine a young amateur player, as I once was, looking forward to playing professionally.  In the heart of that young person, if he has passionately followed baseball from his boyhood, is loyalty and longing. … What does it mean when that youngster , if he is good enough to be a professional, has no say whatsoever in what team he plays for?  What does it mean when the fans of a team see their management unable to choose players whose loyalties have led them to the team in the first place?  The answer in both cases is a tremendous loss in the charm of baseball itself. Read the rest of this entry »

According to sanctioned tradition, the player comes first and then the nickname. That is, when concocting a nom de baseball, we typically ponder the player in question and then assign him a nickname that reflects some native trait of interest or — if we’re feeling galactically uninspired — knock a syllable or three off his actual name and reward ourselves with refreshing liquor. Given the unremarkable catalog of present baseball nicknames, perhaps it’s time to reconsider the process.

And so begins our grand experiment. First, we shall ponder the denotations, connotations, implications, intimations, and incriminations of a given nickname. Then, while balancing these concerns like sexy Lady Justice, we shall consider the prototypes of yore. What baseball-ists from the game’s gauzy past best embody the various denotations, connotations, implications, intimations, and incriminations of the nickname that we are examining like a tireless appraiser of gemstones? And finally, based on the indomitable will of the people, we shall assign the nickname to a current player. Let us begin …

The first nickname held up for scrutiny, ridicule and or clammy embrace is “Bad Miracle.”

Denotations, Connotations, Implications, Intimations, and Incriminations: “Bad” suggests something bad. Or “bad” can also mean “good,” as the kids who need to pull up their pants are wont to say. “Miracle” means something good. Or it can also mean something bad. For instance, the “Miracle on Ice,” was good for the Americans, bad for the Soviets and value-neutral to the Glasnost.

Prototypes from Baseball’s Gauzy Past: Someone like Lenny Dykstra was bad in the sense that he’s a sociopath. He’s a miracle in the sense that he was good at baseball. Our patron saint Dick Allen was “bad” like the kids say, in that he smoked in the dugout and once punched a teammate in the chompers. He was a miracle in the sense that he was good at baseball. Mark Prior was bad in the sense that the outputs of his vast potential are best likened to a murdered body. He was a miracle in the sense that he had that previously mentioned vast potential in the first place. Or it could be someone like Tagg Bozied, who, as a lantern-jawed Son of the Republic with large body muscles that suggest the frequent lifting of heavy objects over his breast, chest, breastbone, neck, and head, looked like someone who would be good at baseball. So: Miracle. Yet he was not, at least by the standards of major leaguers who earn nicknames. So: Bad.

Guiding, Determinative Query: What current major-league player should be nicknamed “Bad Miracle”?

Please, sinewy, glistening readers, take it away …

Oftentimes, I get distracted while I write things. This may not surprise some people. Recently one of my distractions has been Klout, a social networking service that basically tells you how awesome you are on the internet. It bases your internet clout (or “Klout,” as they call it) on mentions, retweets, and things like that from your Twitter (or Facebook) accounts. Mine is 57, whatever that means. They also tell you things you influence and give you a “type” of internet personality. For example, I’m a “specialist” who influences, “baseball,” “milwaukee brewers” and “boston red sox” (what?).

Luckily for us, Nyjer Morgan has a Twitter account. And therefore, he also has a Klout page. And it is fantastic.

Click to embiggen.

Without further ado, the seven awesome things about this page, as numbered:

1. Nyjer Morgan acknowledges hisalter ego, Tony Plush

2. Nyjer throws up the T

3.

4. Nyjer Morgan is an influencer on the topic of “hunting.” Huh?

5. Nyjer Morgan is an influence on the topic of “rome.” What the H?

6. When Nyjer Morgan speaks, people listen. Damn right. I wonder if Stephen Colbert knows T-Plush is also a pundit.

7. Mo Vaughn Rick Ross is on Nyjer Morgan’s “Klout board.”

Streetwise NotGraphs reader Paul brought the above to our attention, and, well, we’re all better for it.

Is that Mo Vaughn on the left? And Rick Ross on the right? That’s for you to decide. Personally, I think Mo Vaughn is Rick Ross, while David Ortiz might be related to one or both of them.

Paul left us with one additional gem, from Rick Ross and Mo Vaughn’s hit, Luxury Tax, featuring, among others, Lil Wayne:

They say I couldn’t play baseball at all.
And now everyday of my life,
I ball.

Poetry, yo. It’s a beautiful thing.

Head nod out to Paul. A dap greeting, too, perhaps.

Congratulations Mr. Bryce Harper!

You have just been fast-tracked to Double-A and now only one step separates you from Major League glory. I know you have plans to rule MLB with a ruthlessness unseen since the days of Genghis Khan, but before you can do that, you must first conquer Harrisburg.

Yes, Harrisburg. Over the years, this deceptively small Gomorrah that lies between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia has claimed many a promising young soul. You must resist the pull of the Harrisburg fast life. The nightclubs. The beautiful women. The drugs. The celebrity culture.

Avoid it all, lest you end up like Jacobo Sequea. Remember Jacobo Sequea? Of course you don’t. The Harrisburg spotlight proved too much for him. As the story goes: after being thrown out of Harrisburg’s last bar when it closed at 9 pm, the depressed Jacobo made the 20 minute drive on 322 to nearby Hershey, PA where he embarked on a “Leaving Las Vegas” style chocolate binge that saw him consume a commercial shipment of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. He was declared missing by his teammates after failing to report for two games in a row and was found in a roadside Econolodge face-down in a pool of melted Kisses. Luckily, paramedics arrived just in time to revive Sequea, but he entered rehab for chocolate addiction shortly afterward and has not pitched since.

Don’t be like Jacobo Sequea, Mr. Bryce Harper.

Always keep in mind that on a media stage as big as Harrisburg, your every move will be carefully scrutinized. The best advice I can give you is to never go outside unless you absolutely have to. The notorious Harrisburg paparazzi are just waiting for you to slip up. And in a city with as much temptation as Harrisburg, you are bound to slip up if you go outside. Learning to live as a recluse is a valuable skill that will pay dividends when every baseball writer in America hates you for failing to feed their egos by giving them the quotes they want.

Finally, stay focused on the future. Realizing your potential as the biggest douche in the Major Leagues in two years is far more important (and lucrative, of course) than becoming the biggest douche in Harrisburg tomorrow.

The good news is that after Harrisburg, it will only get easier.

I wish you the best of luck and will continue to follow your career closely.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Pennsylvanian