In the service of tabling more pressing obligations, I present to you a smattering of nicknames that would be applied to the following NotGraphs contributors, were their skills and essences — such as they are — applied to the playing of this, our baseball, rather than to the befouling of it.

Please regard:

– Michael Bates: “Vicious Delicious”
– Eno Sarris: “Pol Pot the Pederast”
– Bradley Woodrum: “Hound Pastor”
– David G. Temple: “Bible Made of Lasers”
– Carson Cistulli: “Heart Cancer”
– Robert J. Baumann: “If Wizards Were a Gender Unto Themselves”
– Mississippi Matt Smith: “Poo That Smells Like Boogers; Boogers That Smell Like Poo”
– Zach Reynolds: “Fred Brown”
– Patrick Dubuque: “Glum, Confounded Chicken”
– Navin Vaswani: “Sack”

I encourage the readers — both of you — to nominate your own nicknames for the Moron of the High Plains who authored this dumb post.

There are very few baseball players with Luther in their name.

Anyway, Tinkers, Evers, and Chance think they’re more worthy of a holiday than this quartet. No matter how much we try to explain it to them.

Mostly for the reason that it’s nearly part of his job description, is why the present author has spent much of the past two hours idly surveying game recaps from century-old newspapers.

Below are three excerpts from that search — all courtesy the July 1, 1897, edition of the New York Evening World and all concerning a game from the previous day between the Boston Beaneaters and New York Giants which took place at the Polo Grounds.

Each selection features examples of written English that, when uttered aloud, force the reader to affect the voice and manner of the late George Plimpton. One finds, for example, that, in the first inning, Ducky Holmes was compelled to get “solid with his burghers on the clutch” whilst tracking down a fly ball hit by Boston’s Chick Stahl.

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Please click, please embiggen.

The Louisville Colonels won in exhilarating, come-from-behind fashion against St. Louis, one learns from the July 31st edition of the Louisville Times embedded here. More fortunate, it would appear, those Colonels than Augusta Maitland — which Omaha-area laundress, readers of the Times also learn, seems to have been shot thricely by jealous lover Peter Volgreen.

Horrible News Beside Historical Box Scores, is what this has been.

This is Dave Brain

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At the time of his now-legendary demise, nineteenth-century pitcher Jim Creighton was already one of the superstars of the fledgling sport of baseball. Creighton’s exploits on the diamond (which included hurling the first shutout in history, and being put out only four times in an entire season) were remarkable enough to begin with, but — as with Shelley, or Hendrix, or Princess Diana — his shockingly premature death catapulted him from star to mythic hero. Later generations looked back with awe, unable to fathom how he had attained such dominance on the mound.

Until now.

Using a cutting-edge tool known as Image Enlargement (IE), a team of researchers has now uncovered conclusive evidence that Creighton used not a baseball, but rather fresh produce, to stymie contemporary batters. That the onion seems to have been his vegetable of choice certainly helps account for a few mysteries surrounding Creighton’s pitching — including reports of unusually irregular movement on his pitches, allegations that balls sometimes “flew apart” before reaching the plate, and anecdotes involving the peculiar stench that often accompanied the young hurler.

“Rules about equipment were notoriously lax during that period,” says Nerdley Wentwhistle of the Society for American Baseball Research. “Creighton could have gotten away with using just about any roughly globular object. His genius was in picking just about the last thing anyone would have expected. The element of surprise is a powerful thing.”

Writing about baseball, especially writing about baseball in an attempt to be humorous/whimsical can be difficult when buried in the doldrums of the offseason. A large contract extension — not unlike the very large, quite-recent extension signed by Dodgers southpaw Clayton Kershaw — would seem like just the kind of news that would spark a modicum of creativity upon which hilarious and thoughtful Professional Writers like myself could build. I’m not so sure that is the case. And if it is, it hasn’t happened yet. What has happened, it seems, is that I’ve taken the sum of Kershaw’s deal — $215 million — and envisioned it as a physical thing. Specifically, as a very large pathway made of $1 bills.

If Clayton Kershaw saved all $215 million, and had that sum converted into $1 bills, that would equal 215 million bills. A dollar bill, according to Wikipedia, is .0043 inches thick. If one were to take 215 million crisp $1 bills and glue them back-to-back, the result would span just over 14.5 miles. That is the distance between Kershaw’s home ballpark of Dodger Stadium to Inglewood, CA via the 110 and Manchester Ave.

This is would be a silly thing to do. Not the gluing of all the currency — I speak of course of not taking Alvarado to Venice to La Brea to get to Inglewood. Everyone knows traffic on the 110 is a nightmare.

These are dark times. Like, actually, measurably dark because the northern hemisphere is tilted away from the sun. These are also dark times for the baseball-loving soul. You don’t need to be reminded of this; it consumes us. January is horrible.

In these times it is important to find ways to demonstrate to the darkness that you’ve still got it. It being aplomb, braggadocio, spunk, and measurable levels of responsibly supplemented Vitamin D3. You’ve also got to demonstrate to yourself, kind reader, that you’ve got it, otherwise the mire of life sans base-and-ball sports will overcome you from the inside. One way to do this is to remember better times, and if possible, remember better times that involve both baseball and accidental allusions to celebratory sodomy.
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From ESPN Media Zone (courtesy of Baseball Think Factory):

ESPN’s historic 25th season of Sunday Night Baseball presented by Taco Bell – Major League Baseball’s exclusive, national game of the week – will showcase baseball’s most exciting teams, best rivalries and brightest stars throughout 2014. The season will begin with an exclusive presentation of MLB’s Opening Night on ESPN presented by Scotts – Los Angeles Dodgers at San Diego Padres – on March 30 at 8 p.m. ET. Baseball Tonight will precede the telecast with a special 90-minute pre-game show at 6:30 p.m. hosted by Karl Ravech.

(emphasis added)

Announcing the unprecedented first season of NotGraphs Sunday Night Baseball presented by Purina, Imodium, and Stamps.com, the Internet’s exclusive, inclusive, and occlusive (it will gum up your Internet) game of the week, showcasing baseball-related products from Rawlings, Dick’s Sporting Goods, and Blue Cross Blue Shield, and, oh, maybe some baseball players too, as they hit and pitch and devour new edible delights from Sonic throughout the 2014 season. The season will begin with a once-in-a-lifetime intramural softball game between the folks at Skippy Peanut Butter and Smucker’s Jam (will be rebroadcast three more times, so don’t worry if you miss this once-in-a-lifetime chance), presented by our friends at Bread: Makers of Bread, the exclusive bread bakers for NotGraphs and all of our affiliates, including the National Mustache Society. Preceding the webcast will be a special 4-hour Salute to Actual Tweets, presented by Banco Unpopular, Frito-Lay, the National Wildlife Foundation, and Progesterone, the official hormone of our Sunday Night Baseball presentations.

“Did you make sure to include all of our sponsors in the press release?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Great. Don’t forget Swiffer.”

“Oh, okay.”

ACT I
(ARTHUR VANCE and ASSORTED OTHERS loiter in a baseball dugout in Nebraska, ca. 1909. ARTHUR VANCE clears his throat.)

ARTHUR VANCE
Hey, everyone. I have an announcement to make. From now on, I’d like to be called Dazzy. Not Arthur, anymore. Just Dazzy. Dazzy Vance.

ASSORTED OTHERS
How about we call you Gay-Face Jones, instead? Because only someone with a gay face would ask a group of other male athletes in rural Nebraska — at the beginning of the 20th century, no less — to be called Dazzy.

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