Look, Ma, no irony!

Yep: Without equivocation or post-modernist nuance or layered meaning, I admire Mr. Jackie Robinson for his historical import and his immense personal courage. I have no jokes to make.

So in honor of this, Jackie Robinson Day, here’s this:

Go, Jackie!

There are certain situations into which we’re thrust in this life that cause us to take stock of things, reassess our understanding of the world, and ask the big questions.

For example, the high-school senior, upon getting accepted to multiple universities, must wonder, “Do I follow my sweetheart to X, or forge my own way at Y?” Alternatively, while on a cross-country flight, one is sometimes forced to ask — at least once in his life — “Is it objectively worse to end my own life, or the life of this spoilt child?”

Without taking too many liberties, I believe we can safely conclude that reader Michael is currently experiencing one of these existential episodes.

For it’s in a recent email to Team NotGraphs’ Hot Hotline that Michael wrote the following, under the subject “Mustache for Your Consideration”:

Not sure if you’ve covered this one yet, but one MLB mustache that’s been bothering me is the one sported by new Seattle manager Eric Wedge. I’m a Cleveland fan, so know Wedge from his (mustache-free) days there, so it’s kind of compelling that he’s launched his career in Seattle with this rakish Stacy Keach-style number.

For reference, I’ve included below pictures of both the Cleveland-era Wedge and Stacy Keach. Good luck telling them apart!

As if you or I needed another reason to love Canadian women.

It’s the glitter, the extra effort, that really makes the signs, and the proposal. (Click on the image to embiggen.) Make no mistake about it: Those ladies are gritty. Forget that get down on one knee, emotional stuff. Stand up and yell. Loud and proud.

And I’ve got to give it up to the gal on the left. On her feet, Mike’s Hard Lemonade in her left hand, sign in her right. She knows, like I do, that there’s never a good time to put down your drink. As for wanting to be Jose Bautista’s HR Queen, get in line.

Well done, ladies.

And if you — denizens of NotGraphs — need me, I’ll be out back singing O Canada, eh.

That would be a Getty Image, via the always reliable folks at daylife.

It seems that every day here on NotGraphs I see something that turns out to be The Greatest Thing That I’ve Ever Seen. Today is no exception. What follows is footage of a promotion put on by the minor-league Wilmington Blue Rocks. It is not, on second thought, The Greatest Thing I’ve Ever Seen. Lo, it is: THE GREATEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN. Put on your breeches of amazement and watch …

I’m fond of reminding NotGraphs readers that we will all die at some point. Today, though, I’m not so sure.

My shirt has an answer for you.

The further we get into this fantasy baseball thing, the more we’d like other people to know about it, right? And what better way to celebrate our nerd-dom than by wearing it proudly across our chest?

Thanks to FanSports, you can, indeed, emblazon your chest with a slogan relating to your love of the fantasy game. “Sleeper Alert” could refer to your own status within your league, or your pickup of Brent Morel in your 20-team dynasty league. Playing baseball “By the Numbers” is what we do.

If there’s anything that FanSports needs, it’s more products. To help them along, I’ve got some ideas of my own below.

“Tragic BABIP” – With a ball bouncing just beyond the reach of an outstretched glove.
“Sell High, Buy Low” – With a picture of Jeff Francoeur, smiling.
“Stars and Scrubs” – With a picture of Albert Pujols and Ryan Theriot
“Position Scarcity?” – With a picture of an infield missing a shortstop

Now, your turn. And! The best idea in the comments gets a free shirt from FanSports, just for fun.

Strikeouts are more than just a number.

One day I especially enjoyed from the last week of baseball was Sunday, when Jered Weaver and Josh Beckett put aside their mutual differences, joined forces, and collectively struck out 25 Blue Jays/Yankees on my behalf. That made me feel awesome.

If you didn’t catch the highlights or want to re-watch them, here’s Weaver’s clip, and here’s Beckett’s.

It wasn’t just how many guys they struck out, it was HOW they struck them out. These guys weren’t burying split-fingers in the dirt or running sliders off the plate. Each had multiple pitches they were getting swings-and-misses on even when thrown in the zone. It was strikeout dominance of the very highest class.

While I love seeing Jeremy Hellickson embarrass people with goofy slow stuff or Roy Halladay masterfully pitching to contact, the style of game Weaver and Beckett pitched on Sunday is like baseball steak dinner for me. They had everything: velocity, speed changes, location, movement, unpredictable sequencing.

Weaver’s going tonight against the White Sox. Beckett pitches Saturday against the Jays. I’d love to see them both do it again.

Presented without comment. Well, other than: Coco Crisp’s new hairdo is better than yours.

That’s how it’s done, folks. An afro, and earmuffs.

Here’s another one:

That thing’s glorious.

There isn’t much else to say but: Thank you, Coco Crisp. I’m nothing short of inspired.

More thank yous: To The Associated Press and Yahoo! Sports for the images, and to my brother from another mother @25th_Hour for sending the afro my way.

The conspicuous difficulty with political propaganda is that it’s designed expressly to appeal to the emotions — to condense all of (generally) a political candidate’s thoughts and views into a single image or catchphrase, and, in so doing, to convince its audience to abandon the very important faculty of reason.

This is unfortunate at some level. For while the effects of propaganda are generally hostile to a sober democracy, there’s also no denying that the feelings upon which propaganda preys — i.e. the desire to be a part of something larger, the desire to marvel at something excellent — are not objectively bad.

Thus it is that internet denizen The Common Man (of the SweetSpot Network’s Platoon Advantage) has maybe provided a small gift to the baseball-loving public with the image you see embedded here — a pastiche of Shepard Fairey’s Hope poster. Except instead of asking us to abandon reason in matters political, TCM’s work allows us to enjoy the pleasures of propaganda without any of the usual side effects.

It’s not just any baseball glove chair, either. “Joe,” according to Chicago’s Museum of Contemporary Art store, is:

… a full-scale leather chair inspired by the baseball glove of New York Yankees legend Joe DiMaggio.

You know, I’m not sure I ever really thought about it until this very moment, but Joe DiMaggio is a fantastic name. Joe DiMaggio. Perhaps the perfect baseball name. And now, while I’m thinking about DiMaggio, I can’t help but picture Jerry Seinfeld sitting at the coffee shop, saying, slowly, in awe, “The Yankee Clipper.” Helluva nickname, too. DiMaggio had it all.

But, the chair. The beautiful chair. More from the MCA Store:

Leather and foam, with the designers’ signatures etched into the heel of the baseball glove. 5.5″ tall x 10.5″ wide x 6″ deep. Made in Poland and packaged in a wooden Vitra Design Museum box.

For some reason, I’m intrigued by the fact that it’s made in Poland. I’m also a touch intrigued by the “Vitra Design Museum box” it comes in.

At $415, which is about $300 Canadian these days, thanks to the high-flying loonie (or is it the beleaguered greenback?), I find myself seriously consider purchasing “Joe.” Because baseball may never meet contemporary Italian design again.

Daps, as the kids say, to MightyFlynn, whose Tumblr blog brings wonderful things like “Joe” into my life.

So this is Tim Lincecum as captured by something called the “Phantom Flex,” which I imagine is like a Polaroid with attitude:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y2PBLcp9tWM&feature=player_embedded

That was quite pleasing to the rods and cones. Also, I know that biology textbooks — even the ones in Texas — say that we all have the same number of muscles, but, no, there’s no way I have as many muscles as Tim Lincecum. Also, Tim Lincecum’s disembodied hips could beat me in a footrace. Also, his cap, his soothing narration, his physical toil — at once grotesque yet very beautiful to me — and the industrial efficiency of the soundtrack all suggest that Red Bull can make me a better man.

(A Red Bull toast: BBTF)