A wise Jedi Master once said:

When you fall, apprentice, catch you I will.

I’m rooting for Josh Spence. You should be, too.

Nerd up: NotGraphs reader Buddy O. Indebted, we are.

He won’t be needing his old desktop computer anymore. Especially not that damn monitor.

Original image credit: Daily Dose of Imagery.

What follows represents an instance of the genre known as Armchair Sociology. “Neither science, nor literature: it’s Armchair Sociology!”

For a number of reasons — perhaps because of my stylish Latin Teacher glasses or my laissez-faire attitude towards “showering” “regularly” or my constant preference for style to the exclusion, almost entirely, of substance — friend and boss Dave Cameron has made a habit of referring to yours truly as a “hipster.” Nor does it appear as though this practice is isolated to Mr. Cameron. Some cursory googling of the search terms “Cistulli” and “hipster” reveals multiple returns (generally good-natured) within the baseball nerd community.

It’s a problematic word, hipster, insofar as there’s no one who voluntarily identifies as one*. This makes any earnest use of the word suspicious. If some adjectives are flatly descriptive (tall, clear), while others represent judgments of value (generous, jerk-faced), hipster belongs firmly in the latter category, and the connotations are almost all negative.

*Indeed, if such a person exists, he or she should know that a hipster would never call himself a hipster. Catch-22 and all that, innit?

It’s problematic, secondly, when applied to yours truly. For, while the hipster regards himself — in Mark Greif’s words from a pleasantly rigorous piece in the New York Times — as “a natural aristocrat of taste,” it’s the case that I, Carson Cistulli, am just an actual, real-live aristocrat.

I recognize that many Americans have never seen an aristocrat up close, let alone talked with and/or made a study of one. As such, it’s forgivable that people would make such a mistake. It’s only when playing tennis against (and witnessing the fluid topspin groundstrokes of) the aristocrat or gazing through his library — full of Loeb Classics and P.G. Wodehouse novels — that his true nature is revealed.

Perhaps somewhat surprisingly, Greif provides another definition of hipsters that is relevant to most of the readers who’ve found their way to this site, describing them (i.e. hipsters) as those who “play at being the inventors or first adopters of novelties: pride comes from knowing, and deciding, what’s cool in advance of the rest of the world.”

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I break no news, only hearts, when I remind readers that it’s been an eventful 24 hours for defrocked Nats skipper Jim Riggleman. First he witnessed a walk-off victory that was as taut as the tautest of things. Then, to the shock of all humankind, he resigned. Then he drank some wholesome, nutritious spirits and allowed the ladies of Maryland to ogle him.

In some ways, Riggleman’s fretful Thursday, which was a Thor’s Day full of fret, embodied the best and worst of this, the reeking human pageant. And so we are left to remember Riggleman and his veiny, chiseled pipes as we should: a tuxedo splayed across his chest and loins, a boutonnière the color of spilled blood on his lapel, and the contemplation of murder in his eyes …

Jobu’s power-ade.

Eliezer Alfonzo was 32 and had 545 major league plate appearances stretched across six seasons. So far he’d been the perennial third catcher for the Giants, Padres and Mariners. Then last year he put up a ‘solid’ 1.166 OPS in 71 Triple-A games and everything was going right for once. He might just have had a performance-enhacing liquid to thank for his most recent call-up.

Snake juice.

All those years in all those parks, and Alfonzo has developed quite the pre-game ritual. Once he settles down just a little from his usual loud and jovial self, Alfonzo begins his preparation for action. Pull on the uniform, one step at a time. Pull on the cleats. Check the catching gear. Once the sliding shorts are up to the armpits, there’s one last thing before he heads out of the locker room.

That’s when Alfonso pulls out his glass bottle with semi-clear liquid. Floating near the bottom is a large dead snake. Not a garter snake. Not a worm. An impressively large, very dead snake.

“Snake Juice time!” he declares to the room whether or not they care. This time, a staffer nearly vomits. Justin Smoak spits “that’s f*ing gross” into his glove. No-one moves closer. No-one wants a taste. A few people hold their noses, literally.

But Eliezer Alfonso is not fazed, and his smile does not fade. A few strong swigs of the potion and one more proclamation — “Ahhhh, Snake Juice gives me power!” Then the journeyman heads out the door.

Ready to be ready to catch.

Thanks to Ryan Divish for providing the insight and clubhouse access for this report.

If you are at all like me, you haven’t really been following the Dodgers’ messy ownership situation over the last few years. Because if there is anything less interesting than when the rich and famous get married, it’s when they get divorced. So mainly for my own edification (and for that of those in a similar position) I have attempted to construct a basic summary of this whole fercockt mess.

It seems to me like this is just your typical case of boy (who has the same name as a famous dead author) meets girl; boy falls in love with girl; boy and girl get married; boy and girl become middle-aged man and woman; like so many marriages, theirs begins to grow stale as it enters its third decade; man and women attempt to revitalize their marriage by adopting a Major League Baseball team from Los Angeles (that they might not have even been able to afford to support in the first place); man hires the nerdy guy who is played by Jonah Hill in that new movie that’s coming out to be GM; man fires the nerdy guy who is played by Jonah Hill in that new movie after just two seasons; man and woman soon learn that adopting a Major League Baseball team could not do very much to repair the fact that man and woman just kinda don’t like each other anymore; a day before the start of their team’s second straight NLCS appearance, man and woman announce their separation; a day after their team loses its second straight NLCS, man fires woman from her position as CEO of their team; woman (as any self-respecting woman would) files for divorce; man says nasty things about woman and changes the locks on her office; man attempts to obtain sole custody of the team; woman challenges man’s claim to sole custody; time passes; man and woman begin to work towards a settlement; strapped for cash, man takes out loan and promises to repay it with money that he might never have; man and woman are investigated by the IRS for allegedly skimming millions of dollars from the team without paying taxes; Child Protective Services steps in and takes custody of the team; the younger brother of that old guy from Face the Nation is appointed as the team’s foster parent; Child Protective Services rejects the deal man and woman have in place to settle their custody battle; and we all wait for what happens next.

That’s all there is to it, really.

As they say: it’s always the children who are hurt the most in divorces.

Ask anyone who’s anyone or no one who’s no one, and they’ll tell you that Frank Robinson is a good, tough egg. In doing so, they’ll likely use a sampling of the Lord’s nouns like “toughness,” “class,” and “dignity.” But what if Mr. Robinson were forced to wear red pants paired with a red top? Would he still be tough, classy and dignified? Or would he, by mere virtue of the sartorial affronts inflicted upon him by, say, the Indians of Cleve’s Land, become something less? That is, do clothes make the man, or do they unmake him?

And what hope is there for the rest of us?

Josh Hamilton breaks the news:

When it comes to hitting, it’s been night and day for Texas Rangers outfielder Josh Hamilton this season — and the reigning American League MVP has a theory as to why.

He has blue eyes.

Under the sun, Hamilton’s numbers are dim. He is batting .122 (6-or-49) with no home runs, four RBIs and eight walks. He also has 17 strikeouts and a .429 OPS.

At night, it’s a different story. Hamilton is hitting .374 (41-for-109) with six home runs, 28 RBIs, seven walks and a 1.076 OPS. And he only has 14 strikeouts while playing under the lights.

“I ask guys all the time,” Hamilton told ESPN 103.3 FM’s Bryan Dolgin when asked if he had any theories to his drastic splits. “Guys with blue eyes, brown eyes, whatever … and guys with blue eyes have a tough time.”

This “blue eyes can’t hit during the day” idea actually confirms part of a theory of mine that I’ve had for a long time: eye color is the new market inefficiency. Pretty soon, I think we can be sure that managers will be implementing as many platoons based on eye color as they do on handedness. Blue-eyed players will sit during day games, and maybe brown-eyed players will sit on days beginning with the letter “T,” and maybe green-eyed players will be benched when the wind is blowing faster than 15 miles per hour. It’s science, after all.

Towards the end of this most recent weekend, concerned (and likely bespectacled) reader Matt Defalco noted some strange traffic patterns occurring at our parent site — which patterns he captured and rendered into a highly compatible image format.

To wit:

As you can see there, via both your eyes and large portions of your cerebral cortex, Red Sox-er Josh Beckett’s player page was visited almost 27,000 times on Sunday — or, approximately 26,500 more times than the next most-viewed page.

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In celebration of last night’s record-setting performance in Arlington, I thought it appropriate to post something appropriate. What’s appropriate in this instance? Players of ball, obviously. And eyewear, natch. And, of course, bewhiskered upper lips. Come with me, won’t you?

Craig Kusick of the Twins …

“Ya see, here at the plumber’s local, we wear Foster Grants. If I was you, I might consider doing the same.”

Dennis Lamp of the Cubs …

“Do cats have grandparents?”

Jeff McKnight of the Orioles …

“Baseball. Pontiac Firebird. Uriah Heep.”