09 Apr 2012, by Patrick
Every once in a while, Rob Neyer used to write an article in the spring in which he would tear open a pack of the newest series of Topps baseball cards and spend a paragraph writing about each player. I thought it would be fun to try my hand at this year’s edition. Here are the twelve cards I came away with:
#1 Ryan Braun
#73 Brandon McCarthy
#83 Bobby Parnell
#87 Craig Kimbrel
#161 Dee Gordon
#224 NL RBI Leaders
(Kemp, Fielder, Howard)
#230 Justin Morneau
#232 AL Active ERA Leaders
(Rivera, Santana, Hernandez)
#262 Shaun Marcum
#303 Danny Valencia
Classic Walk-offs #3: Johnny Bench
1987 Topps Mini #50: Curtis Granderson
All in all, not a bad pack of cards. Of course, I don’t know how much they’re worth; there are no baseball cards shops with store copies of Beckett around, and all eBay tells me is that none of the individual cards are worth the cost of shipping. But there’s a good collection of young upstarts and star players; I’m not displeased.
As I examined my collection, however, I found myself thinking more about the baseball cards themselves rather than the players on them. I have no strong feelings, much less insights, about Danny Valencia, who I’m sure is a fine human being and has probably donated more money to charity than I make in a decade. Nor does the world need my opinions about Ryan Braun. Instead, I was thoughtful of the experience of opening the pack, the familiar three-step process of peeling back the foil, just as I had when I was a kid.
The 2012 Topps card, itself, is a strange combination of old and new. It’s easy to complain about the price: the $2.99 for a pack of twelve cards is nearly ten times the cost of a pack way back in 1986. This is partially because the 1986 edition was ugly as sin: grainy photographs written on cheap cardboard with monochromatic backs. Few of the cards even attempted action photography; most featured awkward, unsmiling head shots. Even the font that year was offensive.
But despite the glossy finish and foil lettering, the 2012 Topps card feels strangely conservative; the company has been employing the same white background for a decade, with a few exceptions, and the front border design is cheerfully minimalistic. The back looks the same as any Topps edition of the past twenty years. Their last amendment was the laudable decision to add OPS to their stat line, but this happened nearly ten years ago. The photographs are crisp and clean, the benefit of twenty-five years of photographic technology; and yet the pitchers all seem to be in the same pose, their arms drawn back in preparation to throw, while the batters are all swinging through, striding toward first. The players and the cards both seem to be frozen in time.
The insert cards feel particularly pointless; the “mini” 1987 Topps card, with its familiar woodgrain border and bright colors, is attractive, though it reminds me of Fleer's failed attempts to market a similar miniature set during that same era. The Bench card, meanwhile, is nothing special; the front contains three cuts of the exact same photograph, and the back provides a contextually vacant two-sentence blurb about a game thirty-nine years in the past. The biggest appeal of the card is Bench himself; and yet you can get any number of Bench’s later cards online for a dollar. Why do we need another?
And that was the unhinging question; once I asked it, everything began to unravel. If we don’t need another Johnny Bench baseball card, why do we need another Justin Morneau? Or Danny Valencia? Why do we still need baseball cards at all?
The photography, slick as it is, can be fairly easily replicated through a quick tour of Google Images. The numbers on the back can be dug up in sixty seconds through FanGraphs. The flavor text, though better than the filler that populated the cards in my era, could be easily found on Wikipedia or a Rick Reilly article.
In one sense, baseball cards still survive based on an economic bubble that burst nearly twenty years ago. People buy baseball cards because they think they’re worth something. The insert sets that killed the hobby still exist, and while some of them are interesting on their own merits (autographed cards and snippets of game-worn jersey), cards like my Johnny Bench are supposed to have value simply because Topps tells me they’re rare. It’s up to me to assume that supply in this case doesn’t meet demand, but though the company meticulously lists the odds of every single insert in the set, it can’t quantify the number of people who might want to buy that card. Few people, I think, can seriously look at baseball cards as an investment; even the few remaining store owners survive because of collectible card games like Magic: The Gathering.
So why baseball cards in the online era? One could see a similar argument to the book-owners holding out against the e-readers: the legitimacy of the tactile experience. This would make more sense if most collectors wrapped their cards in plastic and boxed them away for safekeeping. (I’ve already dinged a corner of my Bench card while writing this, eliminating what little value it had.) One could also argue that baseball cards are essentially toys for kids, but this is hurt by the fact that a factory set is nearly the same price as The Show for PlayStation 3. It’s hard to imagine kids wanting to play around with motionless pictures of baseball players when they can take control of the players themselves on the screen.
A baseball card conveys ownership over the game itself, a foothold in a single moment in time.That gets us to the heart of the matter. Though they serve a different meaning to each person, to me, a baseball card conveys ownership over the game itself, a foothold in a single moment of time. The game is as cyclical as the tide; each season washes over the last and pulls some of it away. The baseball card fixes a certain point, gives us a young Jamie Moyer and a middle-aged Jamie Moyer and every single Moyer in between. But cards are no longer the only form of ownership over the game. The proliferation of out-of-market television games and interleague play have brought the faces of formerly unknown players into familiarity. And beginning with RBI Baseball and continuing on with the excellent current renditions like The Show and Out of the Park, computer baseball games have allowed fans to create their own attachment to players.
But in terms of creating a literal sense of ownership over baseball players, nothing has done more to push baseball cards to the periphery than the growing popularity of fantasy baseball. This is why Topps’ multiple online ventures into e-cards have never succeeded: they remain a passive and static property. They’re still an object to be looked at and read, not manipulated and played with. Fantasy baseball recreates the economics of the baseball card, the trading and the collecting, but assigns a value to that activity, either through the cash of a payout or the reward of a well-managed team. It’s difficult for baseball cards to create that sense of artisanship.
In the meantime, baseball cards will remain much the same, hanging next to the Yu-Gi-Oh cards at your local Wal-Mart. Every year or two, I’ll buy a pack, less to relive baseball than to relive the feeling of opening a pack of baseball cards. I find myself struggling to explain the disconnect, my reverence for the cards of the past and disinterest in the modern. Topps has certainly made valiant attempts to bridge that gap, with Heritage cards and reprints and commemorations. None of them seem to work. Maybe this is all self-delusion, and I'm only driven by the pull-tab mentality that has ruined the hobby. Maybe my new cards will someday build up the nostalgia of the worthless Fleer and Donruss cards languishing in the corner of my garage. More likely, they’ll be just an echo, an increasingly fleeting connection to youth.
05 Apr 2012, by admin
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You thought we'd let the trend of the moment pass us by without offering up our own misguided attempts at humor and/or strangeness? You thought wrong!
Here are the P&P team's predictions for the now-underway 2012 Major League Baseball Season:
- Injuries force the Rockies to give up their personal vendetta against Eric Young Jr. and allow him to start 140 games; he puts up a line exactly like his father's twenty years ago (.270/.355/.355 with 40 stolen bases). - Patrick
- As a part of their youth movement, the Astros organization fires every ballpark usher over the age of 75. - Ted
- Roy Oswalt will sign with the Reds in May. In June, Roy Oswalt and the Reds will agree to a 9-year, $273 million extension. -Eric
- Felipe Paulino uses a new grip on his 95 mph fastball that induces half an inch of movement. He ends up leading the team with a sub-4.00 ERA. - Patrick
- This will finally be the year America learns to love Bud Selig. -Eric
- Brandon McCarthy, in an endless pursuit to better himself, rediscovers the gyroball. - Patrick
- Someone on twitter will leak internal discussions by MLB to run the bases clockwise for one game. -Patrick
- During a random inning in mid-August, Jamie Moyer throws exactly one 97-m.p.h. fastball, only to immediately resume his normal velocity a pitch later. - Ted
- Between Colby Rasmus, Kelly Johnson, Adam Lind, Edwin Encarnacion, and J.P. Arencibia, the Blue Jays become the first team to hit less than .230 and slug more than .430. - Patrick
- Hanley Ramirez and Jose Reyes become so tight that they agree to play shortstop together. - Ted
- Billy Beane is fired at midseason and replaced by Bill Bavasi. The A's turn around, finish .500, and trade all their prospects for Joe Blanton and Brian Duensing. - Patrick
- Albert Pujols hits a home run so high that it hits an angel on the ass. That angel is Ty Cobb's third cousin Millicent. - Ted
- Todd Helton's back acts up and he gets cut on June 1. He signs on, plays a dozen painful games, and retires with the Arizona Diamondbacks. - Patrick
- Bud Selig approves a deal in which all 30 MLB teams agree to share bullpens. - Ted
- Justin Morneau and Brian Roberts collide during a double play in early May. Both of their heads explode like in the movie Scanners. - Patrick
- Frank McCourt works his way back up the Dodgers ladder to the front office after starting the year in the basement mailroom. Wearing a fake mustache and going by the alias John-Jack Lasorda. - Ted
- A fan leaps onto the field and tries to light a Miami Marlins jersey on fire. Rick Monday is at the game, but doesn't move an inch. - Patrick
- Chris Iannetta is, at some point, sad. - Patrick
- Ryan Braun finally beats Reggie Miller in a game of ping pong. - Patrick
- Skip Schumaker accidentally bats out of order three times, but because everyone is so used to Tony La Russa, no one notices. - Patrick
- John Axford, ironically, trips over a teammate's novelty mustache.
- Umpires get together and decide to call the slidestep a balk for a single day. Chaos ensues. - Patrick
- Someone on Twitter will leak internal discussions by MLB to run the bases clockwise for one game. -Patrick
- Johan Santana will start 32 games. Over the next four years. -Patrick
- Josh Beckett will go on the DL with his old blister problems, meaning that the Red Sox will be paying more for injured starters than the Royals will pay for their entire lineup. -Patrick
- Hipsters everywhere rejoice as the neckbeard overtakes the handlebar mustache as baseball's ironic facial hair of choice. -Patrick
- Erik Bedard will look at himself in the mirror and realize that no one will ever call him "a poor man's Steve Carlton". -Patrick
- The new Marlins Park home run feature will eat no more than two center fielders. - Ted
29 Mar 2012, by Patrick
Nine days ago, I wrote the following passage:
From the airport window, I can see the gray buildings block the horizon where the pavement touches the pavement-colored sky. The sports pages are riddled with so many copies of Peyton Manning’s face that they look like advertisements. There’s the usual static interference of the NCAA tournament, where the same four teams (in my mind) advance loudly to the Final Four each year. Up until yesterday I’d spent the last six months student teaching, arriving at work under the cover of darkness and leaving under similar conditions. Yesterday morning I woke up to snow on the ground.
I’m dimly aware of the fact that, somewhere, baseball is happening. There have been people complaining about Chipper Jones, and making fun of the New York Mets, and I’ve missed out on all of it. I missed an entire Hong Chih-Kuo era, perhaps the last. Coming back, I’ve been going through the baseball equivalent of culture shock. Fragments of news flit through my consciousness: Ryan Braun is a villain who is unjustly accused, or a hero who escaped his horrible crimes through a technicality. Albert Pujols is an Angel. Leo Nunez is Juan Oviedo. Fausto Carmona is Roberto Hernandez. Roberto Hernandez is still retired. It’s all too much.
Nine days haven't changed much. Yesterday morning, I set the alarm clock on my cellular phone and laid it on top of the dresser, out of arm’s reach, next to my battery-powered radio. I woke up angry, in one of those thoughtless bestial rages that have no real purpose or target, not even Bud Selig. In the dense, periwinkle moments that followed, I had maneuvered to the dresser, studied the radio on all six faces for several minutes in search of its on switch, and crawled back into bed. But ultimately baseball could not penetrate the multiple layers of quilt, and when I woke again I found myself mysteriously several hours older, and untroubled by the sounds of the radio which, somehow, I must have shut off in my sleep. Fortunately, Eric was there to provide the insights I was incapable of forming.
I’m not ready for baseball. After the rigorous, life-halting activity known as student teaching ended a week and a half ago, I spent the following week in Atlanta visiting my in-laws. There I witnessed, as the whole of its sports culture, a single Atlanta Hawks billboard making a pun about the visiting New Jersey Nets. From there I travelled inward/coastward to Savannah, its downtown so surrealistically divorced from the world of sports (among other worlds) that my encounters with it there totaled an Alex Smith 49ers jersey selling for forty dollars in a comic book store, and a stoned Braves fan staring intently into an antique telephone receiver in a museum.
Since I’ve been back, my life has been fixing coat racks and checking off task lists. The trees haven’t even begun to bud. The world and my mind have been in tandem rejecting the concept of spring. My own team faces the possibility of another 100-loss season. My fantasy team relies on a closing tandem of Javy Guerra, Jim Johnson and Grant Balfour. I haven’t been able to let go of this winter, the stress and the worry and the cold. I haven’t allowed myself to sit down for three hours, even to enjoy a game of baseball. At some point, I have to.
What better time to start than two in the morning?
At least, that’s what I thought until 1:30, when the hours caught up to me and the rationalization began. It shouldn’t have to be this hard, I thought to myself, before nodding off for the third time. This wasn't Thomas Boswell; this wasn't Opening Day. Bud Selig and I are both trying too hard. So instead I awoke at seven and scanned the box score. The Mariners got three-hit, Balfour earned a cheap one-inning save, and little green buds have appeared on the cherry tree outside. Things are going to be fine.
28 Mar 2012, by Eric
I woke up at 2 a.m. and trekked to my friend Kenneth's house to watch the Mariner's and A's kick off the season in Tokyo. Here are some things I noticed and wrote down.
The Tokyo Dome gives the impression that you are playing in the 1970s. The deep, blueish green of the astroturf, and its general expansiveness (no dirt infield) create a quaint throwbacky feel.
Dave Sims and Mike Blowers calling the game from back in Bellevue. I imagine that without a ballpark to stimulate their interest, these two will put one another to sleep by the fourth inning.
This astroturf is SO astroturfy.
It still feels like a spring training game. I think part of that is the relatively subdued atmosphere in the stadium and the general lack of pomp and circumstance surrounding the game. In other words, the only bunting is the kind that Bob Melvin demands from his players for no reason.
Yeonis Cespedes is amazing. His body language is fearsome. He is the best even though he might not actually be the best. At every moment, he looks ready to tackle a mountain lion and then possibly eat it raw. He is going to hit some gorgeous home runs.
Michael Saunders singles in his first at-bat! My favorite spring training moment is a radio interview I heard with Saunders where he talked about zen and his approach to the plate in an extremely Canadian accent. I really hope he puts it all together.
Mariners promo/highlight video showing Alex Rios getting thrown out at second trying to steal. Baseball.
Sideline reporter Jenn Muller on concessions at the Tokyo Dome. They have Bento Boxes. Stacks of them.
Josh Reddick's angular face and high/tight mullet make me wonder what his deal is. I feel like he probably listens to P.O.D. Between Reddick, Yeonis, Coco Crisp, Eric Sogard's 12-year-old nerd deal, the A's might be the most stylistically diverse team in baseball.
Exchange rate graphic!
Miguel Olive is a grandpa? Kenneth informs me. He is surprisingly bald.
It’s 4:18 a.m. I just opened a box of cracker jacks.
Is that a baby on that wall-ad in the RF corner? Yes. Yes it is. There is also a nearby advertisement with a box with a diagonal exclamation point in it.
Dustin Ackley hits like a left fielder. He stands tall and he's so relaxed at the plate. Him and Ichiro are a great stylistic contrast. Him and Figgins are a great productivity contrast.
More ad discussion: There is a massive yellow poster with Ichiro’s face above the seats in left field. He is holding something up and there is lots of clutter around him. I wonder what the product is? He hasn't played in Japan in a dozen years. It's easy to forget how famous he still is there.
Further ad discussion: Bunny rabbit with stars next to it. Possibly playing baseball possibly throwing a star in the air.
Kenneth where’s Mark Ellis? Eric: He’s the Dodgers starting second baseman and number two hitter. Magic Johnson can’t fix everything.
Mariners commercials are the best. Even when they don't work, they work because they are Mariners commercials.
Wikipedia excerpt on the Tokyo Dome: "Tokyo Dome's original nickname was "The Big Egg", with some calling it the "Tokyo Big Egg". Its dome-shaped roof is an air-supported structure, a flexible membrane held up by slightly pressurizing the inside of the stadium."
Product alert: Pocari Sweat. Google tells me that this is a sugary Japanese sports drink meant for Ion-replacement. It has a mild grapefruit aftertaste.
Yeonis Cespedes is awesome . It's refreshing to again see a physically dominating player on the A's.
Useful information courtesy of Root Sports broadcast: Largest cities in the world.
Bob Melvin has Brandon Allen bunt. Brandon Allen pops up.
Eric Sogard is Chris Sabo’s puny little brother.
Instead of wearing Mariners or Athletics uniforms, the ballboy and ballgirl are wearing what appear to be corporate uniforms that include white batting helmets. They are sort of creepy, sitting side by side near the dugout with the white helmets. In a Clockwork Orange sort of way.
Kenneth, at 5:19 a.m., emphatically, “I KNOW WHAT KEVIN MILLWOOD LOOKS LIKE”
How come this game has been going on for less than 3 hours but it already feels like a lifetime?
Can I reiterate how 1970s this whole thing feels?
Brandon League.
08 Mar 2012, by Eric
I once got Jose Canseco's autograph on a baseball at Tropicana Field. He was playing catch with Bubba Trammell when I called out 'Mr. Canseco, Mr. Canseco' and he turned and grinned. The year was 1999. Although his role that season was technically 'designated hitter,' Jose Canseco caught the baseball I threw to him. He walked toward me. He signed the baseball with so much force that his signature became engraved in the sweet spot. I said thank you. The felt tip of my sharpie was pushed inward and rendered useless. Jose Canseco hit seven home runs that night -- he would go on to hit 34 that season. The next day, Wade Boggs crushed my baseball with his teeth and washed it down with Budweiser.