Archive for the 'Thinking' Category

The Way You Look Tonight

I’ve made the switch from Times New Roman to Garamond for my every day typing. There was something about Times New Roman that made the words seem intimidating as they appeared on the screen. As if each serif, each dark line was saying something about my soul. It got to a point where I almost didn’t want to write because I didn’t want to see any more Times New Roman on the screen before me. Now I feel reenergized. It’s hard to explain.

This has led aesthetics to dominate my recent thinking. I’m starting to realize how easily affected I am by the way things look. It’s as simple as the difference between a sunny day and a cloudy one. For many years I considered myself impervious to the effects of weather. Then I realized that my music tastes were totally affected by it. Now the same thing is happening with fonts, I guess. And it goes beyond my own writing. Aesthetics have a huge impact on how we consume sports.

Take a look at uniforms. Few subjects are less relevant from a tangible perspective. But few things affect the fan experience more. UniWatchBlog gets insanely high traffic (we know that because RBI once got a very brief mention that sent over approximately 17million visitors). In baseball, not even steroids get as much flack from fans as misplaced black trim on traditional jerseys.

Even Paul Lo Duca hates black trim.

But let’s take this even more inward. The readers of this blog are either well-meaning friends of Ted and I or people who consume multiple sports blogs on a regular basis. And your opinion of PnP is greatly affected by its design. For example, the giant picture of Fernando Valenzuela’s face on our header causes people to think this is a Dodger-focused blog. Regular readers know this not to be the case, but the image probably has the same skill for discouraging Giants fans from reading that Times New Roman does for discouraging me from writing stuff. The Rogue’s Baseball Index, looks old-timey — an aesthetic that carries its own baggage.

What do we look for with sports blog design? Should the visual feel of the site somehow match the tone of the content? Josh Wilker’s Cardboard Gods does this perfectly. It’s a slightly literary design with a classic-baseball feel. The content is the focus, framed in white amidst a background of dark grays and blues. Joe Posnanksi, meanwhile, opts for pure utilitarianism. His long, long posts are presented on a plain white screen, with plenty of space for his ample reader-polls on the side bar and his weird personal projects on the header.

But those are singular and powerful voices. Their draw is their exceptional content – bells and whistles be damned. What of sites whose appeal lies in humor or news or pictures? What of Deadspin? Deadspin leaves it in the hands of the reader. Here are 6,000 stories. Pick your favorite. Me? I think it looks cluttered. But then again, I like to pick and choose my stories. God knows I don’t want to end up looking at one of their regular slide-shows of nude male athlete self-portraits.

Mustaches were a crucial part of 19th century baseball's aesthetic.

I suppose the goal of a blog design depends on the goals of the proprietors. Do you want to nurture your reader a-la Wilker into a bookish dream-state? Do you want to build traffic through various clicks and links and options? Is your most recent post key? Or is it about the big picture? This is just the first layer of questions. We can peel them back to reveal even more. Does the number of columns on the blog matter much? Do certain colors have certain impacts on the reader? What about the width of the text? Do you like to read a narrow column or a wider one? How does subject matter affect these things?

This all may seem vague and irrelevant. But I don’t think it is. All of our beliefs as baseball fans are colored by colors and indelible images and uncanny associations.  Consider the way uniforms touch the way we remember eras: the classic 1950s and 60s, the colorful 70s, the unfortunate 80s, the surprisingly teal 90s. It goes into the design of our stadiums as well. They evoke the eras in which they are built and the teams they house. The difference between Cardboard Gods and Deadspin isn’t all that different from the difference between Fenway Park and New Yankee Stadium.

I’m curious as to what your thoughts are. Please share them in the comments. For what it’s worth, two of my favorite blogs, aesthetics-wise, are Beerleaguer and Mike Scioscia’s Tragic Illness. What are yours?

Crowd the Hall

About two decades before the birth of Jesus Christ, construction began on what some historians have called the first Hall of Fame. It was conceived of by the Roman Emperor Augustus as a way to honor his gods, his ancestors, and himself. Hardly discerning when it came to his statuary, Augustus loaded his personal Hall of Fame with 108 busts, some hauled back to Rome from far-off lands, others commissioned by Augustus himself, others yet commemorating military triumphs.

Earlier this month, the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown elected its 293rd member in Andre Dawson. He will have to make due with a bronze plaque instead of a full-on marble statue. At initial glance, 293 seems like a lot of members. After all, the history of baseball in America pales in comparison with that of conquests in Rome, and Cooperstown is in many ways more notable for the players it leaves out than the ones it admits.

This year, Bert Blyleven and Roberto Alomar found themselves on the cusp of entry, scraping in vain at the impregnable golden fences of Cooperstown. Next year, they should be admitted. But what makes the Hall of Fame dynamic – as an institution more than as an actual building – is the list of men left on the outside. The Hall of Fame is defined by that invisible line that separates the worthy from the unworthy. It is the line over which celebrated men like Marvin Miller and Buck O’Neill, Gil Hodges and Ron Santo can never cross.

The location of this line, this threshold, is hard to place. Once upon a time, it sat squarely between numbers. It sat between 499 and 500, between 299 and 300, between 2,999 and 3,000. Only certain circumstances – misdeeds, injuries, intangibles – could compromise the landmarks of greatness. But these are different times. Belief systems, like home run records, have been crushed beneath a type of deceit. Traditional statistics, once considered infallible measurements of performance, have been proven inadequate.

There are 539 Hall of Fame voting members of the Baseball Writers Association of America. Aside from the broad and broadly-covered schism between old-school skeptics and sabermetric believers, that means 539 unique definitions of what merits Hall of Fame induction. Induction requires 75% approval, or 405 votes. Once eligible, players can remain on the ballot for up to fifteen years. This means time for voters to consider the legacy of a candidate as his career fades further into the rear-view mirror. For guys like Blyleven, who seems to be gaining momentum at the pace of a baseball rolling across a flat surface, it means annual near-misses, an extended human drama that feels destined to play out like the final scenes of an ancient tragedy.

This is why there needs to be some level of Hall of Fame voting reform. Not just for poor Blyleven, for whom induction would mean so much at this point, but for all of us. The Hall of Fame is supposed to be a celebration. It’s supposed to be nostalgic and it’s supposed to make us happy. We want to see our heroes in tears on that podium for their final moments of glory. We want to remember what it felt like to watch them play and win and lose.

I don’t know what I’d prescribe to fix the Hall of Fame voting process, but I know this. I would let more people in. I would ease the restrictions. I would welcome more players and more managers and more executives and more ambassadors. Not a lot more, but a few more; some of those legacies stranded right outside the gates would be granted admission.

As it stands now, the voting process is entirely subjective. There are no statistical requirements for entry, no thresholds that need to be reached. There are just those 539 writers and the meager check and balance of the Veterans Committee (an essay for another time). If it were otherwise, if this were a Hall of Greatness or Hall of Merit, then Bert Blyleven would have already been admitted, and the whole conversation would be moot.

But it’s a Hall of Fame. And that’s a different thing. With a Hall of Fame, the stakes are basically non-existent. Is Mickey Mantle’s presence in Cooperstown really soiled by Bill Mazeroski’s? There need be no statistical formula for inclusion. We have our hearts and our imaginations and the whole point of the institution is to please us, the baseball fans who trek to upstate New York, and pass hours arguing about it. So why not ease the standards, ease the frigid self-righteous shrieking over whether an excellent player (anybody whose even part of the conversation is an excellent player) is or isn’t quite deserving enough?

How could this be accomplished without creating a Hall of Mediocrity, or a Hall of Cora Brothers? There are a few possibilities that immediately come to mind. One option is to simply lower the 75% threshold used by the BBWAA, perhaps even to a more sane 70%. Another would be to introduce an element of controlled fan voting. I realize that some fans hate All Star voting because they believe average folks aren’t smart enough to know who the best second baseman in the NL in a given year is, but the fans are what powers baseball. As a single component of a larger formula, fan voting could bring a new dynamism to the process. A third option would be to introduce appeals processes, so certain candidacies could be resurrected.

I don’t know how much thought Augustus put into the statues in his forum. It is very possible that he argued for hours with advisors over whether to include a 109th statue, or whether a certain ancestor or general was being unjustly excluded. But honor and glory are not finite substances of which we could run out. Even with a slightly-expanded Hall of Fame, there will be emotional induction ceremonies and heated arguments over who deserves admission. It’s just that if we open the gates to Cooperstown just an inch or two wider, there will be more joy, and isn’t that the whole point?

The Noble Hearts Ache

Today is the first day since the World Series ended that I have felt a compulsion to write about baseball. It’s a good feeling, this impulse, and I was beginning to worry it would never return. But really I should have known that it was only on hiatus and that a super-awesome-mega-trade would bring it back. After all, nothing brings out the amateur baseball philosopher in me like a big-ass trade.

Readers of this blog probably know that I came of age cheering for the Los Angeles Dodgers of the 1990s. This means that the two most significant transactions of my youthful baseball fandom were Pedro Martinez for Delino Deshields, and Mike Piazza for the Florida Marlins. These were massive and tragic mistakes. Therefore I do not believe I would be remiss to assign a certain post-traumatic significance to my current fascination with trades.

In my last post on trades, I discussed the inherent weirdness of bartering with humans. That weird dynamism is part of what makes trades so interesting and activities like fantasy sports so addictive. But aside from the risks and rewards of dealing in commodities as fragile as humans – even great athletes – tend to be, there is a broader meaning to be read in trades: the impact they have on franchises and the communities surrounding them.

There is a psycho-transactional chasm between the trades and free agency. When a star player leaves on his own free will, he is letting down a team. When a team decides to dump its star player, it is letting down its fans. It all comes down to what different parties are owed in the ecosystem of fandom.

In this ecosystem, which works like an unwritten social contract, we all have roles. Here’s a simplified version: Fans like you and I are called upon to spend our money, to clap at certain times, and to hold players and owners accountable. It calls for players to play the best they can, sign the occasional autograph, and generally not make us hate them. And mostly, it calls for front offices to assemble teams with a chance at winning, therefore making fans us want to come spend too much money on beer and merchandise at the ballpark.

Sometimes, in order to fulfill this contract, in order for the ecosystem to thrive, difficult decisions must be made. For Cincinnati Bengals fans, that might mean conducting elaborate protests and practical jokes to gain the attention of a negligent owner in the manner of Who Dey Revolution[1]. For the Toronto Blue Jays, that meant trading Roy Halladay today.

The trading of a superstar is not to be taken lightly. Superstars act as ballasts for franchises. Uniform designs, stadium naming rights, and supporting casts can rotate, but superstars are supposed to be permanent. The term franchise player is no accident. It refers to the centerpiece, the foundation, the keystone that keeps a structure from collapsing in on itself. The meaning of these players to their respective cities, to their fans, and to their teammates, is hard to overstate.

When the Edmonton Oilers traded Wayne Gretzky to Los Angeles in 1988, members of the Canadian Parliament tried to block the deal. An effigy of Oilers owner Peter Pocklington was burned by fans. And within months of the deal, a Gretzky statue was erected in front of Edmonton’s arena. There was a documentary on ESPN earlier this year about the trade called “King’s Ransom.” Had Gretzky left via free agency instead of trade, there would have been no parliamentary shenanigans, no burning effigy of Pocklington, no bronze statue, and no documentary. But he was traded and a nation mourned.

I don’t think Canada will shed as many tears for Roy Halladay, who was born in Colorado, and whose departure has been long-awaited, as it did for The Great One. Partly, this is because unlike the Gretzky trade (or more recently, the Piazza trade), the intentions behind the Halladay deal appear at first glance to be noble. But noble acts can still be painful, and it is worth considering the torturous implications that this trade will have.

As bummed Jays fan Drew Fairservice eloquently pointed out today, the Blue Jays have entered an era in which their ace is Ricky Romero. This could be the first step toward a bright future, a time as bright as the early 1990s for Toronto. After all, it remains to be seen whether the northbound prospects will amount to fair value for Halladay. But regardless of what happens, there will not be another Roy Halladay. There is no fair value for a franchise player. There is no replacement, only a franchise redefined.


[1] Awesome blog/collective “dedicated to demanding that the Cincinnati Bengals front office act aggressively and rationally in their pursuit of a Super Bowl.” R

Five Things

I.

I had the chance to wander around outside of Yankee Stadium for an hour or so before Game Six. I’ll use clichés to describe the atmosphere: you could cut the tension with a knife, the air was electric (the crowd was buzzing), hearts were aflutter, and a lot of people were drunk.

II.

Here’s what pisses my friend Steve off: “For the past ten years, people have been saying that the Yankees have proven how money can’t buy a World Series. Today they say that the Yankees’ winning just proves you can buy a World Series.”

III.

There were a lot of solitary men around River Ave. looking for individual tickets to last night’s game. They had signs, mostly, and stood apart from the usual scalper crowd. From the desperation in their middle-aged eyes, you might have guessed that the Yankees had never ever won a World Series before.

IV.

Here’s what Ted thinks about the Yankees’ winning: “In the end, the Yankees’ winning again signals a sort of return to normalcy, for better or worse. It’s like John Wayne regaining control of the ranch away from the raggedy outsiders.” Or a white, Protestant, male regaining the White House. Zing.

V.

Not enough people have taken the time to mock the whole “Win one for the Boss” theme. They were even selling officially licensed tee shirts outside the stadium with said motto. Has George Steinbrenner really had it so bad? Did he recently become – somehow – a sympathetic figure? Will this 27th ring be the one that finally allows the old codger to take a deep, satisfied puff on his cigar, tell himself “my life’s work is now complete” and then go gently into the Tampa night?

Obvious and Mysterious: An Intuitive Taxonomy of Pitching Watching

The first two World Series games have featured some fantastic starting pitching. Perplexing pitching, in which in one notable case the Great Baseball Equation–on one side the input of the pitcher and on the other the output of the hitter–doesn’t seem to the naked eye to balance out. In other words, what the pitcher is doing with the ball doesn’t seem to suggest the results, or lack thereof, produced by the hitters.

Cliff Lee’s start a couple of days ago was particularly impressive. As I watched him throw, though, I was struck with the strangeness of his dominance. Something about it didn’t register. What he was sending plateward didn’t seem to jive with the results. Hitters were puzzled by slowish fastballs up in the zone. Swing after swing missed the ball by what seemed like yards. Lee wasn’t throwing 98, and he didn’t feature a prime-Zito curve or a prime-Clemens splitter or a prime-Lidge slider.

That got me thinking about the sort of fine pitching performances that you see, and what it is that you’re seeing. I came up with two basic categories of pitching greatness: the obvious and the mysterious.

Moby Dick

Obviously Great Pitching

Billy Wagner threw the ball a hunnerd miles an hour. I once saw Vinny Castilla jack a high fastball into the seats, but few hitters he faced could get the bat around quick enough to touch one. The heavy fastball is the most obvious of all difficulties: less time to react, etc.

Lots of pitchers build off of a great fastball with a second and third pitch the effectiveness of which is pretty clear. Smoltz and his killer slider; Clemens and a trap door split-finger; Pedro Martinez and his big curveball. There are many examples. The pitchers beat hitters with high cheese above the zone, and with bottoming-out breaking stuff that hooks back into the zone.

Obviously Great Pitching is the viewer’s innate sense that the pitcher has outgunned the hitter, that talent and mastery from the mound has out-dueled talent and mastery at the plate.

Note: it’s clearly an inexact science, this exercise. What I’m going on more than anything is the fan’s mental register of what s/he’s watching, in an attempt to label a phenomenon that is fleeting and imprecise.

Which brings us to the converse, which I believe was on display while Cliff Lee made Alex Rodriguez and company flail like Little Leaguers through the course of twenty seven outs:

orient expressMysteriously Great Pitching

Pitching is at its core an exercise in deception. “He was fooled on that pitch,” is a key phrase in describing the contest between pitcher and hitter. The best pitchers use the exact same arm slot and body action for each of their various pitches, such that a hitter is unable to use the few milliseconds given him to determine what the baseball will do on its way to the plate.

This may sound like an obvious statement, but clearly there are situations in which a lower degree of deception can be compensated for with a higher degree of pure stuff, as in the case of Billy Wagner and his fastball. You know it’s coming, but it’s still so hard to hit that the deception factor is mitigated.

Mysteriously Great Pitchers, on the other hand, are masters of a far more elusive art, which is to say capitalizing on pitches that taken on their own are relatively benign, until they are deployed in varying sequences and rhythms and speeds and locations. You could call it Highly Contextual Pitching. All pitching is contextual, of course, but these mystery pitchers seem to grasp the sense of the whole, of each batter as a code to break, rather than a bat to miss.

Jamie Moyer has survived for years moving between 69- and 82-mph, as perhaps the finest example of the beguilingly contextual master (2009 excepted, perhaps). Greg Maddux, throwing hula hoops and slinkies and UFOs, simply embarrassed the best by exploiting their most vulnerable traits, manipulating tendencies and insecurities like Hannibal Lector. Tom Glavine used to do the same, inching his way from the plate with change-ups until batters and umpires each lost a sense of where the strike zone should have been.

Success, for these pitchers, is not a matter of winning each pitch as much as it is a matter of shaving away each hitter’s confidence with each pitch, until the line between what just happened and what will soon happen is blurred and pitching like a small boat on a big ocean. The mystery comes from the fact that you can’t see any of this. It’s all on the inside. Only the outcome shows.

Repeatedly during Cliff Lee’s Game One, I simply couldn’t understand how his pitches were succeeding so profoundly. 87-mph cutters letter-high were getting big dramatic swing-throughs from elite hitters. 84-mph something-or-others garnered the same. In a wrap-up on MLB.com Jim Duquette referred to Lee “controlling bat speed.” And just so: instead of the pitch that he wanted to throw, Lee seemed to be throwing the pitch that the bats wanted to miss.

“You gotta be unpredictable,” Lee told a microphone afterwards. “You’ve gotta show ‘em stuff they haven’t seen before. Don’t get in patterns.”

nostradums

As you’ll never get a dot matrix-printed readout of a hitter’s thought processes, his conscious and subconscious mental calculations, or his fast-twitch tendencies, it’s impossible to know why he’s missed a pitch that appears otherwise eminently hittable. But in a great pitching performance, the pitcher himself seems to have some deep knowledge of all of these factors. You want “this,” thinks the pitcher. Therefore I will make you think that “this” is what you’re getting, but instead it will be “that.”

2.5 hours later, those hitters will grudgingly praise the pitcher’s mix of pitches, his command, his stuff. But no simple terminology can capture what has happened, the depth of the accomplishment. Describe a sunset or a break-up in 10-second bullet points and you’ll find as much success.

Postscript

If an at-bat was a piece of writing, a literary endeavor, then the Obviously Great Pitcher is Jack Kerouac, bellowing his intentions proudly and shamelessly (Kerouac’s “Greatness” is perhaps open to debate, but you get the idea). The Mysteriously Great Pitcher, then, is Vladimir Nabokov, trading on the reader/hitter’s sense of expectation, undermining that preconceived notion of what “should” happen by presenting something that seems plausible but that proves in the end to be a mirage, a narrator whose credibility begins to fray at the edges, or a change-up that fades tragically from the strike zone.

On the Road cover

nabokov

Frickin’ A-Rod or: How I Learned to Stop Wallowing and Grudingly Support the Yankees

Rooting for the bad guy always sounds so good in theory; there is a sexy excitement to the whole thing, a contrarian pride, and a Clint Eastwood danger. But in practice, it never works. At the movies, you find yourself unable to shake the momentum of the action, somehow hinged to the values of the hero, reasonably off put by the villainous secrecy, shady Russian accents, and grandiose threats of the bad guys. Somehow, you always come home to the good guy.

But this is baseball. And the lines aren’t so clear. And the winners aren’t scripted. So when I tell you that in this World Series I am rooting for the Yankees, I don’t expect that to change. No doubt the Yankees are the bad guys: George Steinbrenner as a grumpier Auric Goldfinger and Ryan Howard as James Bond. The Yankees represent everything evil about baseball – the monolithic corporate model, the financial gluttony, the designated hitter rule – and yet I find myself, thrust by the violent and unexpected winds of time into their corner.

Maybe thrust is the wrong word. This has been a slow process. My hatred for the Yankees has certainly faded in recent years. It’s a well documented fact; it confounds my friends and absolutely infuriates my girlfriend. But how did a cooling of hatreds morph into an unabashed rooting interest? What chain of cosmic calamities could have made a Yankees fan of me?

1. Childhood fascination with old Yankee legends

I spent a great deal of my childhood reading baseball books, especially biographies. Many of these books documented Yankee stars: Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, and especially Mantle were pillars of my childhood. And as much as I hated the 90s Yankees of that childhood (and names like O’Neill, Boggs, and Brosius still send a shiver down my spine) there was always a disconnect between those Yankees and the Yankees. I did not realize this until quite recently, but because of the books, because of the history, my loathing for the Yankees never went beyond those specific teams and the culture surrounding them. It never extended to the franchise in its entirety.

2. Living in New York City

Before I moved to Brooklyn, I had this image of Yankee fans as self-righteous, greedy, and pompous. But even at the Yankee game I went to, I didn’t see this. Sure, Yankee fans are brash. But people in New York City are brash. That’s just the way it is. I had also always associated the Yankees with a more upper crust fan base. Intrinsically, I figured the Yankees to be the wealthy man’s team and the Mets to be the working-class team. This may be true to a point, but I don’t know that. I didn’t see it. Small sample size example: the dudes on my softball team, who were mostly tow truck drivers, were split down the middle: half Yankees and half Mets.

3. The rise of the Red Sox and awful Boston sports fans.

Along those same lines, Boston fans have really emerged has the epitome of the self-satisfied, bragging, obnoxious sports fans. Part of this has to do with winning a lot, and you can’t really begrudge them that. But it’s still annoying. The Red Sox, in many ways, have come to represent the same thing as those 90s Yankees teams. Bill Simmons and co. have made me, at the very least, more sympathetic to the Yankee cause.

4. My weird Alex Rodriguez fascination.

In the early months of this blog, I wrote a three-piece series wondering if Alex Rodriguez was a tragic hero in the Shakespearian sense. It was a bloated, meandering, and borderline pretentious essay. But the sentiment from whence it came remains valid. Excerpt:

I’ve lived in New York for two months. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about this city it’s that people here absolutely despise Alex Rodriguez. It’s more than steroids hatred, or sucking in the postseason hatred, or trying to usurp heartthrob Jeter’s iconic place status. No, this is a kind of weird personal fetishistic hatred. I’m not sure if it starts in the media and spreads to the man on the street or vice versa, but listening for A-Rod banter in the Subway and reading the tabloid headlines off newsstands has become a hobby of mine. The A-Rod chatter has sunk to the point where people are merely disagreeing over how much and why they dislike the guy.

The act of writing those posts got me invested in A-Rod. I wanted to see him succeed just for the sake of tracking his image, his legacy. The hatred from New Yorkers just didn’t seem just. So I began to root for him, not in the interest of redemption, but in the interest of a break. The guy just needed a little space, a little room to breathe, little time to just be.

So yeah, I like A-Rod. I want him to do well.

5. The Dodgers lose to the Phillies consecutive years in the NLCS.

Okay fine. This post could have been three sentences long. It may be petty, but at this point I wish to inflict all human misery on Shane Victorino, Jayson Werth, Chase Utley, Ryan Madson, and pretty much every resident of Philadelphia. Never underestimate the power of bitter frustration.

Ted and I have talked a lot lately about what a free-floating fan is supposed to do during the playoffs. These are strange times for the non-Yankee non-Philly fans among us.  While we haven’t reached any profound conclusions as to how to behave in these end days, we can at least consider what makes us tick, what factors dig us in, get us invested. For me it is a combination of geography, childhood experience, and player intrigue (which really amounts to cheering for the narrative). But above all that, it is a savage desire to see the team who wounded me feel a similar, burning pain.  And maybe that’s the real allure of the bad guy. Honor be damned. Maybe deep down in all of us there’s an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

What do you guys think? Everybody’s gotta root for somebody. So what biases played into your decision. Is it friends? Is it revenge?

[awesome Greenpoint photo via flickr user svar]

The Losers Dividend

“The best that people hope for now is that a baseball game be played….And so we find ourselves at the major league equivalent of Little League, where it’s a celebration when someone doesn’t fall on his head and it’s considered poor form to rain criticism or curb hope. Call it the Losers Dividend.” – Jon Weisman, Dodger Thoughts

Many teams are out of the race by now–those both real and fantastical–the twilight of the regular season falls quietly for most of us. The focus shifts from the local and the regional to the national. Those left behind read the away scoreboard more closely, checking the lineups of contenders for holes, for short-format weaknesses, even as they lament the home team’s long-format shortcomings. The micro expands out to the macro; baseball’s google map zooms out, up from the roof of your house and the creepy neighbor’s Grand Am, up to bird’s eye view and the wide swaths of geography between landmarks, exposing the relationships that are too broad and abstract for day-to-day contemplation. In the broad view, you might learn that Colorado isn’t as far north as you thought it was, and that the Mets were far worse than you’d even considered possible.

bruno's sculpture park

image: http://www.flickr.com/photos/andersondotcom/

But even as our gaze widens, most of us still head out to these inconsequential late-season games, or watch them on TV. Like a trip to the beach in September, the expectation at these games shifts, from watching a winning team to enjoying what you’ve got ’til it’s gone. There might be a chill in the air, but it’s nothing compared with the dead gray days of winter swinging three bats in the on deck circle.

As related in the Weisman quotation above, game time for the out-of-contention is in a sense baseball in its purer form: for it’s own sake. The pleasures are sensorial, immediate, and free associative. The mind, freed from concern for the score, flits about, jumping from memory and biography, to history, to novelty and around again.

For example, I watched an inconsequential game on TV the other day, between the Mariners and the Athletics. Both of these teams are solidly out of it. I was struck, first off, at how puny the A’s lineup was, having traded away Matt Holliday to the dominant Cardinals. This led my friend to note the power that the A’s once harnessed: the Bash Bros. in particular, who’ve since been sent to the back pasture. Instead of Canseco and Mcgwire, it’s Rajai Davis, Travis Buck, Ryan Sweeney and whoever else: a slap-hitting reminder that despite the Moneyball phenomenon, the A’s have got no scratch, and no scratch means no players.

My thoughts rambled on–I didn’t even know the score or the inning. Mark Mulder, I thought? Eric Chavez? Bobby Crosby? Was Jason Giambi here this year? And Nomar?. Perhaps it’s true of any team if considered too closely, but the A’s, in this diminished form, painted a melancholy picture of the arc of a man’s baseball life: the dark side of late-season, out-of-contention baseball; evidence that winning and competition distracts us from the sorry truth.

image: http://www.flickr.com/photos/sludgeulper/

image: http://www.flickr.com/photos/sludgeulper/

Ken Griffey, Jr., did plenty to rattle me out of the doldrums. Somewhere around the middle of the game, he lassoed a home run to right field. The swing was the same, the same as it was when he first came up. He knew it would leave when he connected, the only player you could never get on for hot-rodding in the batter’s box. He smacked it and paused, akimbo, for a tick. It could’ve been his 50th of the year for all it mattered, instead of his 17th. “It’s always majestic,” Don Wakamatsu said. “It doesn’t show age, that swing.”

That moment, watching Griffey hit a home run, is the epitome of the inconsequential game experience. Not because the homer had no value. In fact it was pivotal in the momentum of the game. But in a lost season, with the scope broadened, the swing looked like the whole of Griffey’s career, this home run just one more satellite circling the central gravitational pull of Griffey the figure, all of his cultural cachet, every ad and smile and backwards cap and home run and flying catch, jumped off the bat and rounded the bases. It was both a culmination and a condemnation of the game, the season, time: time exists and it doesn’t exist, matters and doesn’t matter. Winning matters and doesn’t matter: the Losers Dividend.

Ichiro rapped a single (a double?) to drive in a run. Felix Hernandez pitched 7 2/3 and tipped his cap to a standing ovation. Griffey struck out badly on three pitches. The game ended. It was drizzling outside.

“When do the playoffs start?” my friend asked. I didn’t know.

America and Baseball in Afghanistan

Matt Yglesias recently compared Afghanistan to an ESPN Zone:

A better analogy might be that it’s the ESPN Zone of empires, someplace where from time to time a lot of people feel tempted to go, but when you get there it turns out to be not so great. But it’s surprisingly expensive to stay! Having gone out of your way to get there in the first place, you’re perhaps initially reluctant to just admit that it’s not worthwhile. But you can’t stay forever.

But doesn’t the war effort also remind you of any number of struggling baseball franchises that dump millions and millions into free agents, but are really just piling misguided resources onto a fundamentally flawed foundation that will surely collapse at any moment, leaving the whole venture futile? Kevin Malone? Bill Bavasi? Obama? Biden? Anyone?

One of the very first posts I wrote here prescribed a healthy mid-market approach to managing the economic collapse. Basically I said we can learn a lot from Mark Shapiro and the Cleveland Indians. This was back in March before the season really got going, and before the blog had really found its voice. This time, I don’t have answers.

I don’t have a prescription for our problems in Afghanistan. It sounds trite to even say we can’t just Moneyball our way out of a major foreign policy debacle. So instead of using baseball as a way to make a political point or explain an inexplicable war, I’ll use the war and baseball to do some thinking on American identity and policy. This stuff’s been on my mind lately.

A friend of mine is an Arabic linguist in the Army National Guard. He spent a year in Afghanistan (where the first language is not Arabic but Pashto), and brought up an interesting point about the conflict: the very presence of American troops on the ground there polarizes the country in altogether new ways. Afghans that live near bases tend to Americanize; eight year old kids who were born after the invasion are fluent in English. Afghans that don’t live near bases tend to have grown less and less appreciative of our current foreign policy

Mostly, Afghans want to be left alone. Those who live outside the red white and blue halo of our military outposts know America by its machine gun fire and bomb flashes and the destruction left in the wake of slow-moving, bulky metallic vehicles. Justifiably, these Afghans don’t like this America and they don’t like this America trampling on their culture, trying to instill its own values where they aren’t particularly wanted.

This creates a divide among the people of Afghanistan. An even stronger American presence over there will invariably lead to a rapid Westernization for parts of the country. This is simply what happens when ideas and people rub against each other for long periods of time. As some parts of Afghanistan Westernize and other parts push back against this process, and against American occupation, the country’s fractured sense of national unity will only find itself in even greater peril. The fault lines will be tested and the strains will be exacerbated.

There is a very real possibility that we stay in Afghanistan for ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred more years. As the Obama Administration’s Afghan surge begins to materialize, it’s looking less and less likely that we go the George F. Will route and just cut our losses (Billy Beane! Fire Sale!). America, it seems, will try with all its might to halt the gravitational momentum of history and create a unified and democratic Afghanistan. In this context, I think it’s fair to start talking about baseball over there.

It was inevitable that Afghan children would play baseball. The game is too symbolic, too ripe for media affection, too damn American to not share. In 2002, the Christian Science Monitor wrote what is, to this day, the definitive Afghanistan Baseball Puff Piece:

“Baseball is here to show them the American way, to show them that we’re not here for any other reason than to help out,” says Sgt. Jay Smith, of the US special forces. “We’re not against [Afghans], we’re not against Islam. We can be here together, Afghans and Americans.”

In what is perhaps a historical first, certainly since the fall of the anti-American Taliban regime, children are playing organized baseball in Afghanistan, to the tune of “Take me Out to the Ballgame,” which blares from speakers on a beige psychological-operations Humvee.

In the seven years since that story was published, Afghan Baseball has not quite taken off. But what if we’re talking another seven or fourteen years? Children are products of their surroundings. If their surroundings are US military bases, then Afghan children will grow up comfortable with not just the English language and the presence of heavy artillery, but the best and worst of American culture. This means McDonald’s and Angelina Jolie and it also means baseball.

There is a precedent: Little League has been played by the children of expats in Saudi Arabia since 1954. As more troops and private contractors pour into Afghanistan, the creation of a real official Little League is more than possible. Their parents would not understand, but Afghan kids growing up in the shadows of military bases would know Hanley Ramirez, Joe Mauer, and Tim Lincecum. They would know double plays and the infield fly rule. Afghanistan would face off against Little Rock in Williamsport on ABC. Is it really that far-fetched?

The better question is whether or not this is a good thing. Baseball is not just any other sport in the American identity. Its merits as a game are secondary in importance to its status as cultural touchstone. We as Americans take great pride in the fact that baseball has taken off in East Asia and Latin America. We don’t care who wins the World Baseball Classic, because its very existence is strokes our ego. We tend to think that those who embrace our national pastime are embracing the nation itself – its values, its history, its citizenry.

Baseball in Afghanistan would be more than just a foreign country starting to play a new sport, but how so? It would probably be seen as a victory. Pundits would hail the dawn of baseball as the dawn of a new era in Afghanistan – the proof of a successful foreign policy, the justification of our actions post 9/11. But let’s not be foolish. Even in the confines of this thought exercise, it would be silly to claim that every country who has embraced baseball has embraced American democracy. Japan was baseball-crazed long before it attacked Pearl Harbor. Cuba is still quite baseball crazed.

Baseball in Afghanistan could be looked at as bizarre manifestation of everything that has happened between our two countries since September 11, 2001. It would encapsulate all the rights and all the wrongs of an extended war. It would be the export of something truly American, as American as things get. But it would be the fossil of a failure. It would be completely, entirely inconsequential.

Can’t you hear Glenn Beck now? “Those Afghans couldn’t handle democracy. But at least we gave ‘em baseball didn’t we?”

When Life Throws You Curveballs, You Take Them The Other Way

In a literary sense, I sort of like clichés. Before they become hackneyed and mundane, they are tight exceptional metaphors and similes. The first time somebody compared his lover’s eyes to a glowing moon, or her beauty to a red rose it was brilliant. The meaning of those words has worn over time, but not the initial spark of genius from which they were born. Like any writer, I avoid clichés as much as I can, but their initial spark remains bright in my mind.

The same can be true for most conventional wisdom: at one point, it was not conventional. It was just an idea that explained something fairly well, or a strategy that was effective most of the time. The sacrifice bunt, for example, is a conventional strategy in baseball. It’s often employed without second thought, lauded if effective, criticized if ineffective (or used too frequently). But the first time some manager trotted a weak-hitter out to move a runner over with a bunt, it probably blew minds.

In the tendency to assign grand meaning to Sports, I see both the cliché and the conventional wisdom. I see the initial reasoning for doing so and dig the value of this pretense, but I also see the worn out catchphrases and the strained logic and wonder why it happens. There are so many sayings about Sports – and I mean to refer to Sports as a proper noun here – that it gets hard to remember which ones came from Vince Lombardi and which ones originated with some orthopedic surgeon coaching his son’s Little League Team.

Football is War. Baseball is a microcosm for life. Casey Stengel and John Wooden and so on and so forth and I think I’ll grab myself a drink. The task of a coach is to mold young men, men who prove their mettle, prove their value as humans on the field of play. By this world view, people don’t dive in front of slap shots, or lean into inside fastballs, or take a hard charges in the lane merely because they want to win the game, but because winning the game has everything to do with winning at life. And damn it to hell if life is not about winning.

The point to all this crotchety, self-righteous, rambling is pretty much to bemoan the overwrought (ironic that I’m calling somebody that) way we think about sports. I’m thinking we should back up a smidge. Instead of seeking wisdom in the broad existence of Competition and Running and Playing and Winning and Losing maybe we can find wisdom elsewhere. Maybe the real wisdom can be found in the tiny situations, the intricacies of each game, the times that a particular sporting event lines up with a particular moment in our lives. Baseball is the National Pastime, not the National University or the National Church. Things are better this way.

The game serves a wonderful purpose: not as a metaphor, but as an entity that merits discussion on its own terms. There is insight to be had and wisdom to be found in baseball. The sport has its own language and its own issues and its own ongoing dialogue. Sometimes baseball mirrors greater society and sometimes it exists on a completely separate plane. Baseball and Sports in general, contribute to language and culture and dialogue the way anything else do. There are things a man’s curveball can tell us, but there also things his marriage or his job performance or his fashion sense can tell us.

I love the way Free Darko can extrapolate on-court behavior and performance into stunningly accurate and refreshing takes on an athlete’s broader position in our society, his own personal struggles, and the general mythology of sport. But I also appreciate that while Greg Maddux’s repertoire and approach and legend seem an accurate reflection of his entire existence, he probably wouldn’t put it that way. Sports is just another activity in our lives which means sometimes it’s an effective way to make the nuanced, the deeply personal, the incomprehensible events and emotions that we deal with every day a little easier to understand. But sometimes those events and emotions are better explained in the context of a road trip, or a meal, or a six pack of beer.

The Free Darko guys understand this. They like basketball and have a keen sense for what basketball can tell us about both itself and the broader world, but they realize that the game is not a perfect representation of society. Unlike the speeches of Vince Lombardi, or the pained reminiscing of nostalgia-crazed “those were the days” baseball fans, there is no dogma to be found here. There is only the transitory wisdom and pleasure of a pastime.

We must realize that while Sports can tell us unique and vibrant and refreshing things, it cannot tell us everything. A life is a life, a war is a war, and baseball, to end with a surprisingly fitting cliché, is only a game.

That Time of Year: The Baseball Season and its Stories Thus Far

memorial[Quick non-sequitorial question: am I the only one who leaves Fire Joe Morgan in my RSS reader, even though nothing new ever pops in, as a kind of memorial?]

Yesterday, a friend of mine claimed she could smell Fall on the air. I acted like I didn’t know what she was talking about, but it’s hard to deny that the sad and joyful truths of this baseball season now feel set in stone for most of fans of most teams. The halcyon days of summer can no longer mask the gray pallor of failure for the lion’s share of the league, and the long middle days are giving way to the short, action-packed ones.

For the teams with a chance at postseason access, the season is heating to a glow. The Texas Rangers, of all teams, are challenging the Red Sox and the Rays going into the final turn. I have general awareness of three or four of the Rangers pitchers, but as far as I can tell they are a band of unknowns doing an above average job as led by old Millwood, holding the line while the artillery–Kinsler and Cruz and Young and Blalock–pepper the enemy from three trenches back. At a glance, though, no Ranger hitter is having a world-class season, a Pujols-type year, but rather a bunch of them are hitting well enough at once. After wowing the baseball world last year, Josh Hamilton has been cooled by injury and ineffectiveness. One of the go-to storylines of this past offseason, Michael Young’s move to third to make way for Elvis Andrus, seems to have worked out just fine, if only to keep Young still-potent bat readily available. It’s a team that has milled a winning product from a tenuous blend of well-balanced averageness. Hardly a dynasty-making proposal, but at this time of year it’s not dynasties that matter, but flashes in the pan.

Flash_in_the_pan_

That simple exercise above is another symptom of this time of the year, when the glamour of spring has worn away to the grind of late summer, which is to say the parsing of all of the stories. Every season has its Texas Rangers, and literally hundreds more when you take into account the breakout years and the remarkable runs of fortune. One can hardly follow all of these stories without devolving into a post-modern zombie state, so we, I think, take a moment here and there to investigate them from afar, to put ourselves in the shoes of, for example, the typical Rangers fan. He or she is no doubt halfway to the moon right now with a kind of desperate hope, that this team will drive forward on the wings of optimism and make a real run at it. My brief synopsis does little to capture the crescendos of passion that come with a season like this Ranger one, but sometimes it’s the best that we can do to live vicariously for a few minutes.

Other notable (and pleasant) surprises: the Giants looking to recapture the Bonds era success, the Rockies looking to repeat 2007, the Marlins who are a surprise every year, the young and powerful Dodgers, the unsurprising surprising Yankees…. The sour apples of the bunch: the Unmazing Mets, the fire-saling Indians….

So what’s the flip side? Joe Posnanski has chronicled the putrid Royals franchise with the zeal of an Egyptian royal scribe, so there’s nothing more I can add to that unadulterated pity party. My Astros team might be a less extreme example of the anti-Rangers (or Phillies or Rays of last year) storylines. The Astros have had a remarkable run in the last decade or so, with late season triumphs and under-the-radar buzzes of the tower. But this year, mediocrity has come home to roost, with healthy winning streaks undercut by an overall malaise, despite some legitimate star power. Unlike the Rangers, the Astros have been unable to balance their faults with their strengths, so it’s been a long year that around this time seems ultimately futile.

royal tenenbaums futility

I don’t introduce the Astros just to insert my home team for no reason. Rather, their 2009 tale embodies the plight of most teams, those trending towards the middle of the pack, with seasons that rise and fall but ultimately end up smack dab in the middle, which is, in the baseball universe, nowhere. Optimism and pessimism for fans is leveled out into a broad plain of normalcy. The list of teams that aren’t out of it but aren’t in it is filled with last year’s surprises and next year’s surprises, with solid clubs and clubs over-performing even to reach average–the Cubs, the Braves, the White Sox, the Twins. Some twists of fate could put them in the running easy, but for now they’re mellowing out in the middle.

If I’ve rendered the regular season too complete, then I’ve gone too far. Whatever doldrums this time of the year contains, there are just that many or more plot deviations standing at the ready to confound the predictive nature of the past. A four-game series can change the fortunes of the last three months in a half a week; a minor slump mixed with a minor run of luck is an intoxicating cocktail. So let’s not close out our tabs too early. Except for you, Posnanksi, you’re the designated driver.




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