This video is presented without comment, except to say that:
(a) This video has been made available to the world courtesy OMGreds.
(b) It (i.e. the video) was brought to our attention by Loyal -Graphs reader Randy.
(c) In lieu of personal glory, Loyal -Graphs reader Randy asks that you maybe aid and abet in destroying MS.
I’d like to begin by sharing a little story, in light of Dayn’s earlier ruminations on the subject of jerseys. Once I found myself on the streets of Incheon, South Korea, ambling through the busy alleys and marveling at the pernicious weed that is capitalism. It was at this time that I came across a store stocked entirely with baseball jerseys. No knockoffs, these uniforms had stitched lettering and all the amenities one looks for in a piece of cotton. Among the three I chose was branded with the name “Kendall”.
When I returned home that night, I was shocked and dismayed to learn that the Pirates jersey was of the sleeveless variety. This was a risk I had not even thought to assess, and I swore to return to the shop and exchange it. But the store had vanished; it was as if the whole affair was some sort of monkey’s-paw cliché, and I would end up making eighteen wishes, each more damning than the last. After wandering the nameless streets we finally did find the store, decked out completely in basketball regalia. Would they exchange my armless jersey? I asked. No, they said. They did not sell baseball jerseys, they said. They sold basketball jerseys. I could not prove them wrong, and so to this day Jason Kendall’s name hangs in my closet.
I tell this tale not only in a desperate attempt to entertain, but also to raise a vital question: what, in 2011 terms, is my Pirates jersey worth? One must admit that it wields the benefit of insulating one’s shoulders and torso, if not the upper arms. The ethical question of sportswear is, I think, a tired one: we have had enough of people telling us whether it is acceptable for grown men and women to wear jerseys. The fan jersey now rests on the same cultural footing as Bud Light Lime, reality television, and the wave. Like it or not, it’s not going away.
Meanwhile, we live in a conflux where fashion will soon descend upon itself, consuming its own tail like an ouroboros. Everything will be both fashionable and unfashionable at the same time, and taste and irony will meet on the event horizon. We are not there yet. There are still some jerseys that fall between, and evoke neither the glory of success nor the wry wit of failure: the Chris Davis jersey, for example, or a Mets Brad Emaus uniform. But just as in life and The Room, if one sinks low enough (and patronizes thrift stores) one can find true brilliance. What better way to celebrate absurdity than a Mike Piazza Marlins jersey? Or an authentic Jeff Francoeur?
But what of Jason Kendall? Was he good enough in his prime to merit recognition? Was he awful enough in his thirties to be funny? Should the jersey be permanently dirt-stained, to confer the appropriate level of grit and heart? It’s a question each of you as Americans must decide. And if you do think it’s worth wearing, I could probably find one to sell you.
During yesterday’s fantastic Greinke vs. Reineke Brewers-Reds matchup yesterday (with Roenicke managing, no less), somebody without a weird amount of Ns, Ks and Es in their name stood out. That was Edgar Renteria, Reds veteran and occasional shortstop, who is caught on film here emitting pure veteran presence:
That was a weak ground ball off the bat of Brewers “shortstop” Yuniesky Betancourt, who actually managed to hustle his way into second and then score on an ensuing Nyjer Morgan single. The picture really doesn’t do justice to this play — check out the video, too.
The righteous blog-folk over at i09.com have assembled a scientifically rigorous ranking of “10 scenes from the most ridiculous sports comic ever published,” and it should surprise no one that our fair game comes out on top! Congrats, cowhide and maple, and roll tape …
Indeed, why did Satan challenge a World Series team to a game of baseball? Considering his obvious mechanical flaws, could this possibly be wise? Given his stride length toward the plate, he’s surely overloading his shoulder muscles. Is it a cloven-hoof thing? Does having creepy beast feet lead to an unnatural landing point when airing out the four-seamer? In any event, I worry about our archfiend.
Still and yet, mechanical concerns will not stop me from giving the Angel of Darkness a doughty heckling!
Huzzah, black-hearted belly itcher, huzzah!
Yogi Berra is looking at, or near, your soul.
In our most recent and third-ever NotGraphs Chat, reader and commenter TheGrandSlamwich asked which, among Yogi Berra’s various and sundry bon mots, was our (Dayn’s and my) favorite. This, like picking one’s favorite child, is simple. For me, it’s this, regarding a restaurant: “Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.” For Dayn, I forget. His opinions, being not mine, are of secondary importance to my life experience.
In a suspiciously timed — but no less authentic — turn of events, our Investigative Reporting Investigation Team has just today discovered five previously unpublished Yogiisms. As to whether they’re Authentic Berra — who himself quothed “I really didn’t say everything I said” — it’s hard to say. Either way, you’re sure to amuse your friends and numerous lovers with what follows.
Regard:
On His Health
I’m fine: the doctor looked in my head and didn’t find anything.
On Being Second-Guessed
No one can second-guess me. I guessed more times than that already.
On Golf
I played 18 holes, I just didn’t use’em all.
On Half-Way Crooks, Existence Of
There ain’t no such things as half-way crooks.*
On Growing Up Poor
I never lived on the street, but I could see it from my window.
*There’s reason to believe that Mobb Deep took this from Berra.
The image you see here is either (a) from the top of the third inning of Tuesday’s FS Southwest broadcast of the Rangers and Rays or (b) a recent painting by photorealist Chuck Close.
In either case, it’s definitely titled Two Cool Dudes.
Per order of the Internet Council, every baseball-related blog is forced to post this.
Hot GIF action courtesy Bill Baer by way of — I ess you en — Drew Fairservice, Marc Normandin, and then Mike Axisa, who just told me about it in the elevator at FanGraphs Headquarters.
I feel for T.C. Bear. I really do. He’s lived a charmed life since he came into this world, back in the spring of 2000, when he became the mascot of the Minnesota Twins. Six division titles in 11 seasons. Sure, they’re American League Central titles, but T.C. Bear is young, and innocent; he doesn’t know any better. And, quite frankly, he needn’t be involved in baseball’s divisional politics. He’s just a bear, goddamnit.
T.C. Bear was a baby, a mere cub, the last time the Twins called the AL Central’s basement home. He’s too young to remember the tough times. And now, faced with adversity, the burden of two cities on his shoulders, T.C. Bear wants to throw in the towel. And who can blame him? The Twins are 17-35. They’ve allowed 90 more runs than they’ve scored. Jose Bautista is worth more WAR — 2.2 WAR, to be exact — than the entire Minnesota “offense.” Joe Mauer is weeks away from returning.
T.C. Bear was found this morning literally digging his own grave. Because he never imagined a world where the Twins, a third of the season complete, would be five and a half games behind the Kansas City Royals.
T.C. Bear needs us. He needs our help. More than ever before. Thankfully, the soul that operates the Minnesota Twins Twitter account found him this morning, before it was too late. I’ve spoken to NotGraphs’ intrepid Investigative Reporting Investigation Team, and they confirmed the details of what turned out to be a most harrowing morning.
After talking T.C. Bear out of the hole he was digging, Twins operatives were unable to get him to drop the shovel. Agitated, T.C. Bear began to swing said shovel around, threatening those around him, and then himself, while repeatedly yelling, “Pitch to contact, Francisco! Pitch to contact!” Finally, T.C. Bear asked to speak with Joe Mauer, and Joe Mauer only. Saint that he is, Mauer drove directly to the scene. They had a heart-to-heart, T.C. Bear and Mauer, and then took a walk together. When they returned, Mauer was holding the shovel, and T.C. Bear Mauer’s hand.
“Well played, Mauer,” indeed.
When asked by our Investigative Reporting Investigation Team reporter who was going to fill his grave, T.C. Bear paused, then said, “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” He’s just so damn cute sometimes.
It is with much pleasure that I’m able to report that T.C. Bear is currently resting comfortably at Target Field. He’s going to get through this. One T.C. Bear lost is one T.C. Bear too many.
H/T: My man, @mighty_flynn. Do visit his Tumblr blog: It’s a long season.
It’s a well-known adage of our time that NotGraphs contributors “are always hired in pairs.” Yesterday, we introduced the readership to Mr. Patrick Dubuque. Today, we present the debut of Mr. Eric Augenbraun. Readers of SB Nation’s The Good Phight will know Mr. Augenbraun as a contributor to that site under the handle FuquaManuel. Additionally, provided the UPenn website isn’t totally lying, it appears as though Mr. Augenbraun has done some serious reading and writing on race and labor in the US. He has not yet been — but will probably someday be — called “The Thinking Man’s Thinking Man.” Welcome, Mr. Eric Augenbraun.
Greetings NotGraphs readers! I’m Eric, the new guy. I’m happy to join the team.
Upon signing on as a contributor to this fine web establishment, I immediately dug up my old baseball card collection, as I know my new NotGraphs colleagues have a special passion for old baseball cards. Sifting through the shoebox full of them, there were mustaches and spectacles aplenty, but nothing that truly grabbed me.
Until I encountered this:
I did a double-take. So many questions: I’ve had Malcolm X’s baseball card all this time and I didn’t even know it? Why did they make a Malcolm X baseball card? Why is there a picture of Delino DeShields on my Malcolm X baseball card? The reverse tells the tale:
Were he to see this photograph.
Would he look away, in frustration? Would he be upset? Would he laugh — which is all he can do, one would think — at his own incredible misfortune? Would he think of his struggle as being in vain?
I’m quite certain Morales didn’t leap as high as Jose Reyes, and definitely not as high as Angel Pagan, both captured above, that fateful night one year ago, May 29, 2010. As we all now know, Morales won’t be back until 2012. At the earliest. Maybe. (At least Morales went out after hitting a walk-off home run. A grand slam, no less. That’s what I keep reminding myself. Does that make it any easier, for Kendrys? Probably not. But, well, still.)
About that photo: when did the leaping celebration after winning a baseball game come in vogue? Who was the first to make it happen? It’s spread, now, all throughout baseball. Imagine Reyes had come down awkwardly on his leg, and suffered a serious injury. Imagine he’d been Moralesed. Goodbye, “Carl Crawford money.” Hello, again, Fred Wilpon, and you, too, Jeffrey Toobin.
I’ve watched Jose Bautista do it, too, air surfing in celebration with his fellow outfielders, Corey Patterson and Rajai Davis, on a regular basis. I can’t help but think of poor Kendrys Morales. Every time. His intentions were good. And I can’t help but be a tiny bit afraid. History only repeats itself.
Image credit: The Associated Press, via daylife.
