05 Aug 2009, by Eric
Last night I got the chance to sit front row behind the home dugout at Citi Field. Needless to say the game between the Mets and Cardinals was stunning. I saw Johan being Johan, Albert being Albert, and K-Rod being Joe Borowski.
But mostly I saw Gary Sheffield.
I’ve been fascinated by Gary Sheffield since his tumultuous stint with my Dodgers. He was awful off the field in LA. He bitched about his teammates in the media, he fought with management, and he whined and whined and whined. But goodness gracious did he hit.
No matter where he’s gone Gary Sheffield has always been that guy. He’s never been your favorite player, but he’s often been your favorite team’s best player. He’s never been enough of a problem off the field, or enough of a superstar on the field to elicit romantic baseball love or fanatic baseball hatred from fans. Gary Sheffield is meant to confuse, meant to muddle, and meant to be pondered. In my mind he is a first ballot Hall-of-Famer.
The thing about Gary Sheffield is that he’s very serious. I saw it yesterday. He emerged from the dugout for the National Anthem with a distant look on his face. As other players sang, blew bubbles, and grinned their way through the song, Sheffield stood focused. He was solemn and somber. I wondered for a moment if I had discounted him. Perhaps the brooding Sheffield was more complex than I had ever given him credit for. Perhaps he was a humble patriot doing his American thing for these few quiet moments before the game.
But his expression stayed that way. Over the nine innings, Sheffield’s face remained distant, sullen. It was as if he carried some burden, understood some troubling reality that we in the stands could never appreciate. Indeed, it was not the Anthem, it was just Gary. It was just Gary playing baseball. And when Gary plays baseball he is more than just immune to his surroundings – he appears oblivious to them. It’s as if he doesn’t even see his own teammates on the bench.
The game, it seems, happens around Gary. He simply is. The Sheff abides. He doesn't put on a uniform, but rather the uniforms seem to put themselves on him. He doesn't come to the stadium either. The stadiums he plays in grow organically from the ground beneath where he happens to be standing, so as to leave him at ease in left field, the batters' box, or the on-deck circle. These things happen by sheer momentum. They are just the way of the universe.
In a sense, there’s a Ricky Henderson-ness to Sheffield. Ricky played baseball like gravity. He was everywhere, and he was the same everywhere. Sheffield is like that too. He is serious and wise and silent and ubiquitous and eerily consistent. He’s only played for eight teams in his career, but it seems like so many more. He hasn’t hit 30 home runs in a season since 2005, but his violent pendulum of a batting stance still induces the fear of nature into opponents.
Sheffield went 2-4 yesterday, with a double and a pair of runs batted in. He jogged and took a couple awful, lazy angles in left field. On an exciting evening, a back and forth, high scoring, star-driven evening, Gary Sheffield was muddled, inhibited, himself.
04 Aug 2009, by Eric
Tonight I saw one of the best baseball games I have ever seen. It was Mets and Cardinals and Albert Pujols and Johan Santana and everything that game should have been. Mostly it was Albert Pujols. I'll write about the game, I think, tomorrow. But for now, a poem by Robert Pinsky, The Night Game. I just discovered it a few moments ago, and am smitten. Especially with the little haiku about Whitey Ford you'll find halfway down. "A mere success," Pinsky calls Ford. How many people would give up years, limbs, loves for the chance to be a "mere success?" Ask the poet, ask the pitcher (not Ford) Pinsky refers to at the end of this poem:
Some of us believe
We would have conceived romantic
Love out of our own passions
With no precedents,
Without songs and poetry--
Or have invented poetry and music
As a comb of cells for the honey.
Shaped by ignorance,
A succession of new worlds,
Congruities improvised by
Immigrants or children.
I once thought most people were Italian,
Jewish or Colored.
To be white and called
Something like Ed Ford
Seemed aristocratic,
A rare distinction.
Possibly I believed only gentiles
And blonds could be left-handed.
Already famous
After one year in the majors,
Whitey Ford was drafted by the Army
To play ball in the flannels
Of the Signal Corps, stationed
In Long Branch, New Jersey.
A night game, the silver potion
Of the lights, his pink skin
Shining like a burn.
Never a player
I liked or hated: a Yankee,
A mere success.
But white the chalked-off lines
In the grass, white and green
The immaculate uniform,
And white the unpigmented
Halo of his hair
When he shifted his cap:
So ordinary and distinct,
So close up, that I felt
As if I could have made him up,
Imagined him as I imagined
The ball, a scintilla
High in the black backdrop
Of the sky. Tight red stitches.
Rawlings. The bleached
Horsehide white: the color
Of nothing. Color of the past
And of the future, of the movie screen
At rest and of blank paper.
"I could have." The mind. The black
Backdrop, the white
Fly picked out by the towering
Lights. A few years later
On a blanket in the grass
By the same river
A girl and I came into
Being together
To the faint muttering
Of unthinkable
Troubadours and radios.
The emerald
Theater, the night.
Another time,
I devised a left-hander
Even more gifted
Than Whitey Ford: A Dodger.
People were amazed by him.
Once, when he was young,
He refused to pitch on Yom Kippur.
31 Jul 2009, by Eric
For reasons unbeknown to even myself, the Weekend Reading feature disappeared from this blog a couple months ago. Today Weekend Reading returns, with good baseball-ish reading from around the web. I would also like to make a quick programming note: The blog maybe a little bit barren over the next couple of weeks because Ted and I are both in the process of moving. We appreciate your patience, and if you feel like filling the void with a Situational Essay, please drop a line.
- Jonah Keri has a really nice essay on Canadian-ness, Haverford College (Alma Mater of PnP ally Ben), and how Joe Carter is responsible for his happy marriage.
EXT. KAUFFMAN STADIUM -- NIGHT
THE MANAGER, LEO, TROTS OUT TO THE MOUND TO TALK TO BELEAGURED PITCHER, DANNY (THERE’S ALWAYS A DANNY). THE BASES ARE LOADED. THE CROWD IS GOING NUTS. IT’S GAME SEVEN OF THE WORLD SERIES.
LEO
You can’t get a good lobster in this town.
DANNY
Last I checked we were in Kansas City.
LEO
4.6 billion pork ribs sold every year and 18.9 tons of beef consumed annually since 1997 –
DANNY
They like their beef, what can I tell ya?
LEO
But you’d think just for variety’s sake.
DANNY
I can still throw my curve.
- East Windup Chronicle has a hilarious look at the often ridiculous names foreign players used to be given in the Chinese Professional Baseball League:
Some standout examples: Pitcher Jose Nunez was originally going to be named “Man-Han (滿漢) ” after a President brand of instant noodles, but the team thought twice after a poor spring training. Jose Cano–Yankee Robinson’s Dad–was named “A-Q (阿Q)”, also after a brand of instant noodles. Former Sinon Bull Timothy Fortugno’s name “Feng Qing” translates to “Amourous Feelings (風情)”, while probably the best name belonged to pitcher Chinatrust pitcher Derek Hasselhoff, who was named “Li-Mai-Ke (李麥克)”, the Chinese name for Michael Knight from Knight Rider. Sinon Pitcher Gustavo Lopez was named “Feng-Kang” (楓康) after a brand of plastic and aluminum kitchen products, one of several Sinon players named after household items.
*In a semi-related story, my friend Brett went to school in Nanjing and said the English names that Chinese kids gave themselves were often hilarious along the same lines. His roommate (I think it was his roommate) named himself Legolas, for example, after the Lord of the Rings character.
- Jose Rijo and Raul Mondesi are running against one another for the position of mayor of San Cristobal, in the Dominican Republic. I'd like to take this moment to announce the first ever Pitchers & Poets political endorsement. We will be supporting Sr. Mondesi in his candidacy.
30 Jul 2009, by Eric
17 people (including Ted and I) responded to the first-ever PnP Midseason Quiz. Although very proud of this, we are also slightly concerned that the most popular post in the history of this blog is not a well written essay or fun piece of commentary but set of hypothetical questions. Anyway, the questions ilicited some serious brilliance from you guys. So thanks so much for the insight and for the participation. It has been a pleasure reading these. I picked three of my favorite answers for each question to share below:
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="307" caption="One reader suggests that ex-Commish Bowie Kuhn is baseball's least deserving Hall of Famer"]
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1. Excluding Rollie Fingers, who has the greatest facial hair in the history of the game?
Alex: Keith Herenandez obviously. That mustache is glorious, plus it makes great fodder for those sexist Just for Men commercials.
Paul Catalano: Oscar Gamble. Great afro and a awesome huge moustache
Walter: Ken Caminiti had some real aggressive facial hair. He looked like a tweaked out biker who just spent the past three years lifting weights in San Quentin or Pelican Bay.
*Worth noting: Al Hrabosky and Mike Piazza led all recipients with two votes each
2. Least enviable inferior big league brother. Example: Wilton Guerrero.
Bob Ferguson: Paul Rueschel. He had under 400 career innings and was the larger of the two Rueschel brothers which is really saying something. The great majority of his career came with the Chicago Cubs. He came up three years after his younger brother and pitched in his shadow for his best 3 ½ season in the majors, which still weren’t very good. In 1977, Tops printed a brother’s card with Paul and Rick both on it, the only problem was they switched up the names. Tops knew about the error but cared so little they never changed it.
Akshay: I am going with the sisterly version of this question. I always felt bad for Kit Keller. Dottie Henson was just too much of a superstar for the Rockford Peaches. (I certainly hope I do not have to explain the reference!)
BBL: Ozzie Canseco is the obvious choice but I’m going with Paul Dean due to the unfortunate barnyard incident he and Dizzy both valiantly tried to stop as children
3. Dave Stieb or David Cone?
Cone wins by a score of 9-4. Ember Nickel gives my favorite explanation:
Ember Nickel: Cone, because poetic types should be able to talk about pitchers who’ve actually pitched perfect games and not just nearly-perfect ones that represent the subjectivity and meaninglessness of the modern world or whatever.
4. The game is on the line. You have to send a pitcher – any pitcher – to the plate. Who is it?
Pat Allen: A smart aleck answer would be Babe Ruth. A better answer is that it would depend on the situation. For example, for a bunt, it would be Greg Maddux. I don’t know about singles. While an obvious answer for home runs is Carlos Zambrano, he can be pitched to fairly easily in close situations late in the game. Carlos swings too hard (i.e., he doesn’t “stay within himself”), so a smart pitcher can get him. He is only about 1 for 10 while pinchhitting.
Brian Wolff: Other than the obvious early Babe Ruth. I’d say that Micah Owings would probably pinch hit for power better than most bench players out there. He could pull off the next “Rich Ankiel” move if his pitching doesn’t improve soon.
Exiled in NJ: Don Newcombe wasn’t bad, Mike Hampton or Kenny Brett
5. Favorite Casey Stengel managed ball club?
Paul Catalano: 1962 Mets
BBL: 1963 Mets – improved by 11 games over ’62 Mets!
Matthew: I don’t want to go with a Yankees team but the rest of his teams are only memorable for being awful, so I guess I’ll have to pick the 1951 Yankees with the changeover from DiMaggio to Mantle, plus Johnny Mize.
6. Bull Durham or Field of Dreams?
BBL: Bull Durham mainly because I went to Bulls games and the Bull never assaulted my cousin; sadly I cannot say the same of the Winston-Salem Warthog
Ted: Field of Dreams. I could watch James Earl Jones brush the imaginary flies of memory away from his face on a loop for hours.
Marc R: Bull Durham-even though it had way too much sex and not enough baseball
7. Best local broadcast crew, excluding your hometown/favorite team?
Pat Allen: Who cares.
Dave: Gary Thorne for the Baltimore Orioles. He brings a hockey-like intensity to the lovely game of baseball. “SAKIC SCORES!” or “BASEHIT UP THE MIDDLE!”, its all money with Gary.
Bob Ferguson: I have many problems with this question, especially the excluding the only people you really ever listen to part. Also, I don’t really like the crews part either, I generally hate one of the two guys. This really doesn’t answer the question but the best announcer in the game is Steve Stone and the worst is Hawk Harrelson. I gave you one crew at least.
8. Least deserving Hall of Famer?
BBL: Without question Bowie Kuhn (amongst his many crimes: my father once asked him if he slept in the nude and Bowie refused to answer)
Paul Catalano: Bill Mazeroski No offense Bill. But a .260 BA, 138 HRs and a .299 OBP dopn’t really cut it.
Brian Wolff: Roger Bresnahan definitely doesn’t have anywhere close to H.O.F. stats although he did popularize modern catching equipment his 26, YES!, 26 career homers/530rbi/.279avg over 17 seasons while being a great and versatile fielder just does not add up to enough to mention only 1 post season and a losing record as a manager
9. If you could resurrect one dislocated or disbanded franchise, which?
Reeves: The Kansas City Royals. Remember them? George Brett, 1985, fountains in the outfield. Did they become the Diamondbacks or Marlins?
Ember Nickel: Brooklyn is a good choice, though my initial instinct was the Cleveland Spiders. I’d also support returning the Braves to Boston if and only if their mascot would make slightly more historical sense and cause slightly less protesting.
Walter: Les Expos.
10. Most memorable instance of creative technique employed by manager in confrontation with umpire.
Exiled In NJ: Who carried an umbrella to the plate to point out it was raining? Bobby Bragan had a few techniques, including laying down on his back I believe.
Matthew: The Braves minor-league manager could have won if he cut his act by just a little bit. It wound up being overdone even though the grenade act was probably the most original single action I’ve ever seen. Otherwise, it’s the previously mentioned Bobby Valentine facial hair.
Multiple: Lloyd McClendon’s last stolen base.
29 Jul 2009, by Ted
A simple request: I am starting in a random spot, but I will, I promise, bring it back around to pitchers. Consider the first few graphs the poet portion of the program.
A few weeks ago I watched "We Are Wizards" on Hulu. The featured slate of eccentric enthusiasts for J.K. Rowling's work was, yes, at times a little unsettling. But tucked between the eccentrics was a band that I've become mildly obsessed with in the ensuing weeks: Harry and the Potters. If you're already gearing up to make fun of me for listening to a band whose content is founded on and limited to the plotlines and emotional content of children's literature, and plays libraries to hordes of eleven-year-olds, I assure you that my wife has already beat you to it. Social acceptance aside, though, you might find as I did with a listen that the spare punchy rock of Harry and the Potters is uncommonly sincere and raw. The hooks hook. You could play it at a party, and if you didn't tell your guests that it was Wizard Rock, they'd like it.
- Harry and the Potters, image from racketmag.com
I am, in my defense, as surprised about my new favorite band as you are. I'm not a massive Harry Potter enthusiast, though I like the movies. I've read one and a half of the books. I didn't fire up the Hulu flick to find a new band. I expected, at best, to see a few goofballs in wizard costumes (mission accomplished). But watching Harry and the Potters--two brothers who wear striped Hogwarts ties and V-neck sweaters--I was taken by their energy, their enthusiasm. It's rare I think to find a band with so little production and even musicianship that nonetheless just brings it, wailing and ripping for two and a half minutes. There's even a subversive element to a punk band with such deeply uncool songs in the era of skinny jeans and hipsters and architectural hair and the ever aloof uber-cool. Paul and Joe DeGeorge are not cool. They both look like Harry Potter.
The question I asked myself while I was walking my dog yesterday was, why? Why do I like this band so much? Am I mentally unstable, hoping for an eternal childhood that can never be? Am I just another Peter Panish Michael Jackson, and should I cancel the portrait that I've custom-ordered, portraying myself playing volleyball with Professor Snape? Then it hit me. Harry and the Potters sound like and tremble with the same vibe of the mesmerizing folk-rock antihero, Daniel Johnston. I learned about Daniel Johnston via another documentary, The Devil and Daniel Johnston. He's got some mental health issues, and he began making music in his parents' basement with a chord organ. In his early recordings, his warbling, at times tender and at times desperate, dances over the pumping air of the organ. If you're hung up on juvenile lyrics, I'll ask you to consider Johnston's plaintive "Casper the Friendly Ghost."
Johnston is rough around the edges, but his music is rooted in an undeniable earnestness, that shimmering relic of childhood. Pretense is a membrane of complication laid over the bare facts of life, the pursuit of happiness. Music without pretense recalls the dry, cool ground. Daniel Johnston plays the guitar not like a practiced virtuoso, but like a kid who just found a dusty guitar in the basement. Same goes for Harry and the Potters.
- Daniel Johnston
This is a roundabout exploration of why certain things appeal to me, however unlikely, and why anything appeals to anybody. Harry and the Potters are unlikely. Daniel Johnston is unlikely. But I listen to them both and feel the ground's heart beat.
I am now going to do something about as annoying as recounting Harry Potter plot points: I will bring up David Eckstein. No baseball player in the last five years has been as equally anointed as he has been reviled, and I'll assume that most of you PnP readers are up-to-scratch on that whole Fire Joe Morgan line. But I would like, for a moment, to request a momentary reprieve from that long debate, and ask that you think back to a time when a slight smile warmed your features when you first heard his story; before you learned to despise him, and if not him, then his unbidden acolytes.
Isn't there, in the story of this walk-on, this undersized guy with a terrible arm, that echoes the improbability of Harry and the Potters and of Daniel Johnston? Eckstein's style was built from necessity in the same way that Johnston developed his raggedy chord organ romping, engaging because it is as far as he can go, but he gets there. Doesn't David's very presence at the major league level remark on life's unpredictability, on the grace of altered expectations? I think it does, but maybe that puts me in league with those who would value the story over the statistics, and those who claim that there is more value in a stirring tale than there is in the subject of that tale's slugging percentage. Maybe I'm just that romantic, and should be slapped across the face with the latest Baseball Prospectus.
[caption id="attachment_743" align="aligncenter" width="219" caption="David Eckstein waves his magic wand"]
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But being a fan is about being a romantic, after all. Winning--that most prized attribute, more important than any bard's tale--is a romantic notion; it's a hope for the future's euphoria--the climactic soaring chords of a great song--when the last out goes into the books and the dark cloud of loss is lifted; winning is hero-making. A child reads a Harry Potter book straight through in a day with that same sort of hope, that same clammy grip on the binding with which the baseball fan holds the bar top or the nosebleed arm rest. So tread lightly, is all I'm saying, when counting and discounting. We all want to be cool, and some of us are (subscribing to Pitchers and Poets via RSS grants you an automatic five badass points, BTW). In my humble experience, the coolest breezes blow from the most improbable ducts.
- Harry and the Potters on MySpace
- Rolling Stone's Rock & Roll Daily Pick of the Day, September 28, 2006: Save Ginny Weasley by Harry and the Potters
- Daniel Johnston on MySpace
- For more raw tunes, Eric suggests The Black Lips and Titus Andronicus.