I know, I know. I too am skeptical of 11-minute YouTube videos. Such a span falls inconveniently between the 30-second yuks that MTV and Judge Learned Hand have told us we crave and the more sprawling run times necessary to enjoy hot popped maize and a tumbler of Jameson. But I urge you — with the primal, red-faced desperation that I normally reserve for trying to get retailers to honor manufacturer and store coupons — to watch this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iIe9FkZv4Uw&feature=related

Much like a color television with wheels, this is a thing that is not new but is new to me. So if you’ve already seen it, then I look forward to your telling me so in the comments section.

I have some observations about what we have just fathomed. As much as I would like to, I’ll not ape Eno Sarris and number my thoughts. Rather, I shall use bullet points, which, according to a recent internal memorandum, are preferred by the gentleman with a bright future in sales. Also, I do not have 10 things to say. Forthwith …

I imagine this is not unlike the Dodger Stadium mound of the 1960s. This is also not unlike what happens when Jon Rauch faces Dustin Pedroia.

Barry Bonds is occasionally very serious about making this happen.

In this situation, I would opt for protective headgear — most probably the “Great Gazoo” helmet favored by Francisco Cervelli. Alternatively, I would not agree to do this.

Respect to Trampo-Pitcher for ceding the platoon advantage in each plate appearance.

And Bernie Williams and his awesome Cardinal Richelieu beard agree with me about the helmet. My inner coward, for which validation is nourishment, is validated.

Perhaps the guy with the most discerning batting eye in the annals of time was not the best choice for this necessary experiment? From the darkened clubhouse tunnel, Vlad Guerrero watches on in envy, longing.

That’s clearly a balk at the 7:41 mark. Fortunately for the moundsman, he is a stranger to baserunners.

And could this end any other way? Ichiro is invoked, and said invocations lead to a righteous humbling of the big cheater and his jumping machine.

A lingering embrace — one that goes on an instant too long — for NotGraphs reader John Murn, who passed this along in exchange for nothing more than the currency of glory.

You know what? I’m rooting for Henneman.

Before watching this video, know some things:

1) Justin Kaufmann is, indeed, a real-life news reporter for WBEZ, the NPR affiliate in Chicago.

2) His beat seems to be all things Chicago, with an emphasis on snark.

3) There is no way to confirm if this Henneman figure is real, and whether or not she actually consumed enough adult sodas to put down an adult horse before the making of this video.

4) We are left hanging as to the eventual conclusion of the interaction. My guess is that an eternal life of domestic bliss ensues.

5) Harry Caray is up there, yeah.

6) It may be strange that Carson Cistulli calls his sister attractive, but once you factor genetic factors in, he’s actually calling himself attractive. Vanity!

7) Lists are fun! Maybe if we make it to ten we can post this on Bleacher Report as “Top Ten Pieces of Mindless Drivel That Occurred to Me While Watching a Crazy Youtube Video.”

8) Was that mean? Maybe it was. I take it back.

9) Watch the video now. It’s pretty funny. The language is SFW, but the content may not be depending on your work environment. Mine (pajamas on the couch) didn’t seem to mind.

10) Made it!

H/T: Bryan Melmed (pixelvisions)

Pete Rose killed a lot of things: Betting on baseball, Cincinnati pride and dinosaurs, to name three. But not everything he touched went extinct. Until today, I thought this special subset – things Rose didn’t kill – was limited to hot Asian women liking old white men with money. But no, OH NO, there’s one more entry for that category… THE PLAYER-MANAGER.

And who else to pick up where Rose left off than baseball’s other most-controversial once-superstar: Jose Canseco.

The Yuma Scorpions, an independent team with a big-league idea for a gimmick, named Canseco both manager and all-around bad ass. Their reasoning? Easy: “He’s very ready at this point in his career to smoothly transition to managing.” Yes. at THIS point.

But Canseco aside, it brings up a very important question, one that should be thought of somewhere between how to solve the national debt and how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop (it’s not three, don’t proffer up that malarkey)…That is, who would you (more importantly me, as I’m writing this) like to see as the next player managers?

So, without further ado (and a pay-per-word agreement) I’ll cut to the chase.

Top Five:

5. Kirk Gibson. If the man could hit a home run half gimp in 1988, the 53-year-old second year manager of the D-backs surely could make a contribution.

4. Texas General Manager Jon Daniels. At 33, he’s really only a few years past his prime. And with his body type, his skill set should be deteriorating slowly… right, Jon?

3. Charlie Manuel. Father Time could probably teach these whipper snappers a thing or two… Unless that thing has anything to do with using statistics in managing a team?

2. Ozzie Guillen. Rumor has it he’s three parts man and one part honey badger. If you know anything about the honey badger you know it’s not their size or their age that matters, they’ve got a fight in them measured only by the kiloton.

1. Obviously, Don Mattingly. This by no means is a criticism of James Loney. It’s not that I don’t like the guy – in fact, I think he’s a great person on tops of a being a darn good ball player. But you have to ask yourself this one question: Was he ever on the Simpsons? Has he jacked six grand slams in one year? Is his last name “Baseball”? No. Donnie Baseball is the clear choice.

Who would you like to see bring back the player manager?

Alec Baldwin and John Krasinski have at least two things in common that I can think of at the moment. One, they both star in pretty excellent examples of that most modern of art forms, the situation comedy. Two, while both are excellent comic actors, neither’s particularly funny on his own. (Note: this isn’t an indictment at all, just an observation.)

Apparently, a third thing binds Messrs. Baldwin and Krasinki — namely, the willingness to trade their likenesses and comic talents for American currency. Which, an example of that is what you see in this video here, a commercial in which the pair have starred for New Era.

The ad company of record is Brooklyn Brothers, who actually have some pretty entertaining work available at their site.

H/T: My intelligent and attractive sister.

This one comes courtesy of NotGraphs reader — and quite possibly New York Mets relief pitcher extraordinaire — Francisco Rodriguez.

When there’s an ejection in baseball, I like to think Joe West knows about it. It’s innate. The Great Ejector closes his eyes and, boom, he’s there, tossing whoever needs to be tossed.

Sunday afternoon on the South Side of Chicago, when Joe Maddon ejected the entire umpiring crew, Joe West was there, figuratively speaking.

Because an ejecting party without Joe West is hardly an ejecting party at all.

Thank you kindly, Francisco Rodriguez. Keep up the great work in New York, if you actually are K-Rod.

At a site called Nic Cage As Everyone, which I found by using Altavista and Prodigy, we have this:

And there you are.

In case you were under a rock last October and missed the San Francisco Giants’ infuriating magical run to become World Series champions, the Giants reminded everybody who the World Champions are and will be until at least next October. These gold-lettered jerseys (and gold-logo bearing caps) are pure swagger, the kind of swagger only a champion could pull off.

As cool as these jerseys are (And seriously, every champion team in every sport should do something like this. Screw patches. You won the World F*cking Championship. Go crazy, show it off.), they have nothing on the pure testicular fortitude shown by three teams from the initial third of the 20th century. The 1906 New York Giants, 1921 Cleveland Indians, and 1927 St. Louis Cardinals all wore uniforms with some form of “World Champions” emblazoned across the chest in lieu of the names of their cities or teams. And they didn’t just do it for one day like the 2011 Giants. They did it for the whole season. Just imagine the balls it would take to wear this jersey on a daily basis, and at every road park too.

Now that’s swagger.

If this image looks familiar it’s either because (a) my colleague Eno Sarris submitted it for the readership’s consideration this morning or (b) you’ve recently time-traveled here from that epoch in our history known as “The Good Times.” In either case, please keep reading: this document is important to your life.

I’m informing the reader of nothing new when I suggest that internet culture is dedicated to speed. However, there are some texts — a term (i.e. text) that I use in its broadest sense — there are some texts that are worthy of further consideration.

I’ll suggest right here that this Phillies team photo is one such text.

To that end, I’ve done some research — with no little help from our in-house Investigative Reporting Investgation Team — and managed to isolate the precise thoughts that some of this photograph’s subjects were thinking on that spring day in 1978, the accounts and descriptions of which you can find below.

The numbers you see below correspond with numbers inserted into the image above. The thoughts are rendered as authentically as possible.

Regard, truth/beauty:

1. Do I drink Jack Daniels? F*ck you, kid. I am Jack Daniels.

Read the rest of this entry »

As a lifelong Blue Jays supporter living on the east coast, in Toronto, I’ve always had an affinity for the western road trip. The western swing: games in Oakland, Anaheim and Seattle. And as I inch closer and closer to 30 — Dirty Thirty — there isn’t much I enjoy more than a Blue Jays game that begins shortly after 10:00 pm eastern time on a weeknight, when all the duties of the day have been completed.

Tonight, the Blue Jays kick off their first western swing of the young season in Anaheim, against the Los Angeles Angels. Ervin Santana is scheduled to throw the first pitch at 10:05 pm. And tonight, along with Monday and Tuesday nights next week when the Blue Jays are in Seattle, I’ll be kicking it old school, like I used to do so many years ago — I’ll be listening on the radio.

Back in the day, in the late 1980s and early 1990s, I don’t remember if every single Blue Jays game was televised, like they are today. I don’t think they were, but it hardly mattered, back then. I was young; I’m talking between seven and 12 years old. I had to be in bed. But I remember those late games. I remember catching an inning or two on the telly, if the game was on, and then retiring to my quarters, where my Walkman and headphones awaited. I remember falling asleep to the “Voice of the Blue Jays,” Tom Cheek, and his partner, Jerry Howarth. Tom and Jerry, yo. The voice of my fleeting youth. The best.

Read the rest of this entry »

In honor of NotGraphs prose hero W.J. Slattery and as sorta-kinda suggested by Notgraphs reader and thinking-man’s pugilist Reillocity, I’m giving the Slattery-style treatment to yesterday’s Red Sox-Indians tilt. Long may you run, W.J. Slattery. Long may you run.

CLEVE’S-LAND OF THE OHIO – The Blood-Colored Leggings of Boston Town entered this docket in the Land o’ Cleve with expectations as heavy as President Taft, that flatulent Yalie, but, lo, they have buckled and sunk under Job’s burdens like the U.S.S. Maine.

It shouldn’t have been such a tight scratch, but the Injuns charged at them, hammer and tongs, and dropped the anointed champeens to zero and five plus another, which be this one.

Mr. Carmona, the fizzing Cleve’s-Land tosser, betokened the approaching misery by setting down a trinity of swingers in the first frame. Among the Red bats-men, only Mr. Scutaro brought his barking-iron and his dash-fire to this row. He smote the ball favorably and recorded a deuce of safeties on the day, but his messmates left him stranded each and every times both.

Across the way, Mr. Lester tossed with the honest flint of a Christian and a Virginian (tho’ he is not the lattermost, and recent fates make this scribe doubt he’s the formermost), but, thanks to the Boston bats soft as kidney pie, his efforts in the end were but ragamuffin’s gullyfluff in an urchin’s trouser pocket.

The real konk on the smeller came in the eighth turn, when Mr. Cabrera, of the A. not the O., plopped down an Irish hoist, plated Mr. Everett — that discommoding rusty-guts — and made the tally nothings to the ones. It stood. It stood because as warm and rightwise a patriot as Andrew Jackson could not have tamed these Indians on this day.

Wiseacres without wit, money or manners will observe that the season is not yet weaning age, but that’s merely the tune the old cow died of. Be it what it would, the Leggings have a buckskin’s toil in front of and aweather them. God’s blessing, they’ll return to the hearth on the morrow. There, they can fill the bellows with New English air, have some hochmagundy with the wives, enjoy a plate of butchered beef’s haslet, pull up their sit-upons, shut their mewling bone boxes, and get to business.

As for the Royal Rooters, their cogitations are too abundant to chronicle. If the catarrh or the Pock doesn’t get them, then the home-town nine surely will.