Last night, I read a very silly article on Salon.com. The second paragraph from said article:

This fetishization of the individual has intensified since the 1980s. We see it in political activists’ focus on presidential elections to the exclusion of almost all other political arenas. We see it in young people who have traded in idealistic “save the world” goals for dreams of celebrity. We see it in the revival of Ayn Rand’s Objectivism as a powerful political ideology in Congress. We see it in both the left and the right mindlessly and unquestioningly parroting whichever cable-news deity they revere. Now, we see it even in America’s ultimate team sport.

Let’s forget the political ramblings and focus on that sentence in bold.

Were this not a depository for high-quality musings on the sport of baseball, I’m sure many would be left wondering exactly which sport the author were referring to. If it weren’t for the “America” qualification, my first guess would have been Austrailian Rules Football or maybe hockey. Soccer relies on the intricate interactions of 11 players on each side all at once, as does our football. Basketball requires a well-organized offense with picks and passing and cutting. Even NASCAR, unwatchable as I find it, has pit crews, one of the most impressive team displays in sports.

But no, the author is referring to baseball. The game where, for 90% of the live action, it is merely pitcher versus batter. Even defense, the most team-oriented aspect of sports, is effectively devoid of teamwork outside of the double play and relay throws. Baseball is the sport where “greater than the sum of its parts” is less a thing that actually happens and more a handhold for baffled pundits when a team performs better than expected.

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Apropos of absolutely nothing, these two eerily similar utterances come to us courtesy that long ago carnival ride known as “the 1990s”:

Albert Belle, Retired Ruckus-Raiser:

I’m not going to change my personality because someone wants me to change.

Ad-Rock, Pioneering B-Boy:

You think I’m gonna change up my style just to fit in?

Note: Chloe Sevigny really is in this video — at the 2:15 mark. This was actually before her first film role, in 1995’s Kids, when she was an intern at Sassy magazine.

Where I imagine The Great Ejector practices his form, in uniform, every morning.

Image credit, and my inspiration: Daily Dose of Imagery.

What follows is the work of a YouTube auteur that’s titled, “Dancing Baseball With Mustache.” In this, the age of half-truths, the age in which deception has become hardwired instinct, it warms the heart cockles to learn that, yes, this is indeed a video of a dancing baseball with mustache. In fact, this baseball does what he does — i.e., dances while wearing a mustache on his fake face and a mangled farmer’s tan on his adorable grafted arms — for almost five full minutes. Some might call that boring. In turn, some might call that high treason.

When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to watch almost five full minutes of a Dancing Baseball With Mustache, then that is what we do …

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3O2LMBcp9ss

Every tournament must begin with its blowouts. It’s the way of the number one seed in the first round. So don’t cry a tear for Mike Flanagan, he’s already gone. The goofy happiness of the 1981 Fleer Bruce Sutter was just too much for him to overcome. Honestly, how do you say anything negative in the face of such unbridled optimism and joy? Not happening.

And now we have our final blowout in the making. Once again, we find ourselves with a couple relievers touting full facial hair. Unfortunately for one, the other owns a legendary nickname. It may be a fait accompli, but let’s play this one out, shall we? Because then we can get on to the closer matchups and root for some underdogs.

#8. 1989 Topps Steve Bedrosian
Guys? Guys? Are we sure about this? I mean, he’s crazy. The Mad Hungarian they call him. I don’t really want to get in the ring with him. I mean, sure, I like my full beard. And I am a closer – pretty good one, had 28 saves last year. But come on, dude has enough screws loose to put up a house. I don’t know, I don’t feel good about this. Guys? Guys?

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In case you missed it, please be advised, reader, that the Mets continued their important research in the field of Ways to Lose last night, falling 9-8 to the Braves in 10 innings after not only conceding a two-run lead in the bottom of the ninth, but then, in a truly inspired flight, losing the game on a walkoff balk.

Reliever D.J. Carrasco delivered the coup de grâce, but it would be unforgivable not to recognize the contributions of Francisco Rodriguez, who allowed the ninth-inning, game-tying home run to Brooks Conrad, and also to Lucas Duda for mishandling a Jordan Schafer grounder to extend the inning and put runners on first and third for Jason Heyward.

The balk itself, you’ll notice, isn’t particularly grievous — but a balk nonetheless. Truly, though, the star of this particular show is Heyward, whose excited gesture back to home-plate umpire James Hoye and subsequent fist pump are stirring in the best possible way.

Letters of Note, which traffics in noteworthy letters, has unearthed a baseball-ing document from way back yonder in 1898, when men were men and diseases were just, just great. The subject of the missive in question? Sporting gentleman John T. Brush wanted to rid our fair game of the maledictions and impieties common to those who were not raised right-wise.

By all means, click, embiggen and quaff deeply:

What is most pleasing about this letter is that Mr. Brush takes pains to quote the salty (yet, to these ears, soaringly beautiful) phrasings of the time. Because of Mr. Brush’s meticulous cataloging, fans of the era would know that when a baseball-ist quipped, say, “I f****d your mother, you sister, your wife,” he was indulging in ruffian’s talk and was quite likely a cad and a masher. Lest there be any confusion about that.

So it turns out that not all about the Gilded Age was gilded. You big asshole.

There are seminars on race, gender, and sexuality at universities all over this American nation, and yet none of them, to my knowledge, has ever produced a compelling taxonomy of the Phillie Phanatic.

As regards the human portrayer of the Phanatic, both video evidence and the internet suggest that it’s likely a heterosexual man.

Internet denizen Pat Andriola has brought to the world’s attention this actually official document, which reveals that R.A. Dickey was, in fact, the recipient of no less than one vote for New York’s most recent gubernatorial election.

While members of our crack Investigative Reporting Investigation Team have been unable to learn the identity of Dickey’s supporter, they (i.e. said Team) have discovered that it was, indeed, American filmmaker Woody Allen who voted for The Void.

BleacherReport.com is much maligned in certain quarters of the sports fan internets. In my opinion, the ridicule heaped upon this humble web endeavor has reached truly absurd proportions. If not necessarily a source for quality sports analysis and discussion, BR is absolutely a source for quality art.

With only minimal effort (and alterations), I have uncovered some of the more beautiful sports-related poetry you will ever read.

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