July 2021

Laying Down With a Dog

I have always loved the Theo Epstein story. Local Boston kid leaves home, cuts his teeth, comes back and orchestrates the roster that ended an 86-year curse. When management wanted to go in another direction, he moved to the Midwest and orchestrated the roster that ended a 108-year curse. And then he became best buds with Eddie Vedder, the lead singer of his all-time favorite band. All the while he married a Harvard girl and had two adorable kids. What is not to love?

Well, there is this. It is a small detail that has always stuck in my craw. It is this one transaction that has sullied my appreciation for what Theo built in Chicago and my excitement over their finally turning “Next Year” into “This Year.” Right before the 2016 trade deadline, the Cubs sent pitcher Adam Warren and prospects Rashad Crawford, Billy McKinney (lately of the Dodgers), and Gleyber Torres (currently playing Derek Jeter-level defense in the Bronx) to the Yankees in return for All-Star closer Aroldis Chapman. The Cubs were looking for something to put them over the top, and Chapman had the highest K/9 in MLB and was rocking a 105 mph fastball. At the time of the acquisition, Chapman was 20 for 21 in save opportunities on the year. It seemed like a great deal, except…

Chapman started the 2016 season serving a 30-day suspension under the MLB Joint Domestic Violence Policy (“JDVP”) after an incident with his girlfriend wherein he allegedly choked her, pushed her against a wall, and then fired eight rounds in his garage in his ensuing fit of pique. Epstein and General Manager Jed Hoyer spoke with Chapman before closing the deal and felt sufficiently confident that he had learned his lesson, paid his debt to baseball (if not society), and was ready to help the Cubs win the World Series. Flags fly forever, but you have to ask yourself, at what cost?

As much as I – a fan of baseball – reveled in the Cubs victory in 2016, it pleased me to no end that Chapman melted down in Game 7 against Cleveland and wasn’t on the hill when the last out was recorded. He didn’t deserve that front page photo, that SI cover, that memory seared into the minds of every Cub fan within earshot of 670 The Score. The Chapman signing has always left a bitter taste in my mouth, and will always be a blight on Theo Epstein’s legacy.

If there is a Theo Epstein 2.0, it would be former Rays GM, and current Dodgers President of Baseball Operations, Andrew Friedman. A wunderkind from the world of finance, he cut his teeth with a microscopic budget in the backwaters of Tampa Bay, and then moved to the glitz, glamour, and gargantuan pocketbooks of Los Angeles. One can question some of the moves Friedman has made since joining the Bums in 2014, but none more so than signing Trevor Bauer last February to the richest deal on per-year basis (first season only) in baseball history.

Bauer’s exploits and “look-at-me” personality has rubbed enough people the wrong way, and enough writers have addressed his personality – shall we say – “issues,” that I feel no need to recount them here. But all of those incidents look quaint when compared to what we learned on June 29, 2021. On that day it was reported that the Pasadena Police were investigating a potential sexual assault by Bauer with an unnamed woman from San Diego. The more details that were released, the worse the story got.

We all knew Bauer wasn’t a good guy. He may not be Aroldis Chapman (or Milton Bradley), but he certainly isn’t anybody’s Nelson Cruz. It is hard to imagine any Dodger player learning that Bauer was joining their club and thinking, “alright, a great new addition to the team.” At best they were thinking, “hopefully he pitches well every fifth day, and shuts the hell up the other four.” Alas, it wasn’t Bauer’s mouth that got him into trouble.

Bad behavior from Bauer – in some form – was expected. What we should not have expected (and on this your mileage may vary) is the Dodgers woeful reaction and response to that behavior. When the news broke, the Dodgers publicly stated that Bauer would make the team’s road trip to Washington and would be on the mound the following Sunday. That was followed by Dave Roberts’ incredibly tone deaf – most charitably, ignorant – comment that the matter was “out of our hands.” It seems that Roberts believed he could sidestep the issue by relying on the JDVP, which defers punishment to the league, not the team.

But last I checked, Rob Manfred does not fill out the lineup card (insert, “no, the Dodgers front office does” joke here). The Dodgers could have come up with a valid reason – the emotional toll of being charged with a serious crime being a pretty easy one – for skipping Bauer’s next start. Hell, they could have come up with a magical hamstring strain – the same one that has caused the slumping Cody Bellinger to miss a few games last week. And while the Collective Bargaining Agreement prohibits teams from retaliating against players by benching them, the worst case scenario is that Bauer would have filed a grievance. And the Dodgers lost. And they were forced to pay a fine. As of last year, the team was worth $3.4 billion. You would think with that kind of scratch they could afford a small penalty from an arbitrator (assuming they lost the grievance) to retain the moral high ground, to send a message to the team that this conduct will not be tolerated, and to let their fans – many (50%?) of whom are women – know that despite signing Bauer in the first place, they are a class organization. Yeah, they chose not to do any of that.

Per the terms of the JDVP, MLB has the right to put a player on administrative leave for up to seven days while it investigates an incident. They have right to extend that with the consent of the MLBPA. Both of those things have occurred with Bauer. While on administrative leave, the player continues to get paid, continues to accrue service time, and has the right to continue working out at the team’s spring training facilities. And as much as I dislike Bauer, the first part of that makes me very happy.

If MLB ultimately determines that Bauer violated the terms of the JDVP, they can and will suspend him without pay. Since 2016, the shortest such suspension has been 15 games (twice), with five suspensions of 75 games or more. Sam Dyson incurred the harshest punishment: the entirety of the 2021 season.

As I am sure you are aware, Bauer has vowed to fight the charges, and there is a real chance that MLB elects not to take any action unless/until the criminal matter is resolved, whenever that occurs. But Bauer could force everyone’s hand and not consent to any additional administrative leave (he agreed this week to extend it through August 6^th). If he were to do that, he would make the Dodgers put up or shut up, as they would no longer have the ability to punt their decision about what to do with their problematic pitcher.

Bauer’s contract is not public. We don’t know if the Dodgers would or will have a valid justification to terminate it. But, if such an off-ramp does exist in the legal boilerplate, it is unlikely that it would be possible to enforce that provision until the criminal matter is adjudicated. And that seems unlikely before September (when Bauer’s last 2021 paycheck will be due). And that makes me happy.

Sure, I don’t like seeing Bauer getting rich and not playing and trying to plead the fifth. But I find the idea of the Dodgers getting out their financial bind considerably more odious. The Dodgers bought their ticket; they bought a ticking time bomb; they knew the risks; they injected a virus into their World Series-winning clubhouse on a wing and a prayer that it would not turn into a cancer. Well, guess what?!? According to the Los Angeles Times’ Bill Plaschke, the majority of Dodger players do not want Bauer back under any circumstances.

Even if Bauer is ultimately exonerated in the criminal matter, he still may be suspended by MLB without pay (each tribunal has different standards). That would benefit the Dodgers in the event Bauer exercises his $32M option for next year. But even if Bauer were suspended without pay for the entirety of the 2022 season (see Dyson, Sam), he still could theoretically exercise his 2023 option and make the Dodgers pay him $32M to either pitch as a pariah or play somewhere else. Oh, and if Bauer threw the Dodgers a bone and opted out of the 2023 obligation, the Dodgers would still owe him a $15M buy-out.

So, absent a criminal indictment or conviction that allows the Dodgers to terminate Bauer’s contract, the Dodgers WILL PAY. It may not be the entire $102M, but they will cough up a huge chunk of it. And as loathsome as I find Bauer, the Dodgers being forced to spend nearly nine figures to rid themselves of this mess makes me happy.

The Boys in Blue can remove all the Bauer merchandise they want; they can cancel all the bobblehead nights they had planned; they can try to retcon their response to this episode however they choose. But we all know that they made a cold and calculated decision when they signed Bauer, who, as Plaschke rightly pointed out, “had a history of harassing and bullying women online, mocking transgender people, and spreading conspiracy theories.” Andrew Friedman, like Theo Epstein before him, put FIP and WPA and a recent Cy Young award ahead of character and rectitude and principle. The Dodgers laid down with a dog. And now they have to pay for the fleas.

PLAY BALL!!

A Game of Inches

I think I was about 14 years old when we had a bang-bang play on the baseball field. Some wise-beyond-his-years kid in the dugout said – to no one in particular – “Baseball is a game inches.” One of our wise-due-to-his-years coaches quickly retorted, “Baseball isn’t a game of inches. Sex is a game of inches.” This statement went over our heads, but we all laughed because our coach said “sex” and we were teenage boys. If life has taught me anything, it is that both the player and the coach were correct. And we saw the player’s view unfold last night at Dodger Stadium.

If the Dodgers ultimately find themselves in the one-game wild card round facing Yu Darvish, they will look back to July 22^nd and they will be thinking about a game of inches.

If you didn’t watch or see highlights of the slow motion dumpster fire that was fourth game of the most recent Giants-Dodger series, allow me to set the stage.

On Monday night, the Giants thumped the Boys in Blue 7-2.

On Tuesday night, it looked to be more of the same. But the Dodgers scored three in the sixth, and then walked it off on a Will Smith three-run homer in the bottom of the ninth to complete a comeback from being down 6-1.

Wednesday night had the Dodgers poised to draw even in the standings with the Giants, leading 2-1 going to the top of the ninth. And then Kenley Jansen brought his gas can to the mound. Single, homer, K, double, walk, walk, Jansen replaced, K, walk, ground out. Giants 4, Dodgers 2. Gut punch.

But the Dodgers bounced back in the finale, going for the split and a one-game deficit. They led 3-1 going to the top of the ninth. Despite throwing 27 pitches (and blowing the save the night before) Dave Roberts sent Jansen back out there to try yet again. There are myriad reasons why a manager might want to get his closer back on the horse and wash the previous two save opportunities off. Roberts may believe that the Dodgers have no chance in October without a healthy Kenley (both physically and mentally), so now is the time to get him right. Maybe, as some opine, the front office dictated that the ninth inning belongs to Jansen. Maybe he demanded the ball, and Doc was too intimidated to say no. We will never know the truth. What we do know is that Kenley came out of the pen throwing darts. The announcers observed that it may have been a combination of adrenaline and embarrassment that got him to 96 MPH on the gun.

Whatever the impetus, Jansen used it to strike out Mike Yastrzemski on three pitches. He then gave up a single to Wilmer Flores (the ninth inning home run hero from the night before); followed by a strike out of Alex Dickerson on said 96 MPH heater. He started Donovan Solano with another 96 MPH cutter for a swinging strike. But MLB players can hit speed without movement, and Solano crushed the next offering (94 MPH) off the wall in dead center for a double. Tying runs in scoring position, two outs. Jansen got Jason Vosler, a rookie with all of 66 big league plate appearances, to 1-2. After a foul ball, we were introduced to our first game of inches. Jansen threw a nasty slider just inches low. The rookie spit on it; the umpire called it correctly. The next two pitches weren’t even close – bases loaded.

Next up, Thairo Estrada (yeah, me either). He hit a routine (although slow) grounder to short. Chris Taylor fielded it cleanly and tossed it to Sheldon Neuse who was standing on second base. Neuse caught the ball as if it were three hours before first pitch and he was having a catch with someone from the local Kiwanis Club. Neuse was drafted out of the University of Oklahoma by the Nationals in 2016. In college, Sheldon played exactly 1 game at second base. In the minors from 2016-2018, Sheldon played exactly 1 game at second base. Starting in 2019, both the A’s (to whom he was traded in 2017) and the Dodgers (to whom he was traded in 2021), started giving Neuse reps at 2B. He played 16 minor league games there before playing 20 for the A’s in 2019. He played there 21 times at Triple-A this season before being called up, and has now played there in 11 games with the Dodgers. So Neuse is no newbie at second base, but he certainly isn’t seasoned. Would a seasoned second baseman – or at least one more accustomed to the position, say Chris Taylor, or even Max Muncy who has played more than a thousand innings at second – have known to stretch for Taylor’s throw? I know Kiké Hernández would have (but he plays for the Red Sox). Gavin Lux would have (but he is out with a hamstring injury). Hell, Albert Pujols (he of 3.1 career innings at second base) would have. But that is not who was there with two outs in the ninth on Thursday night. That would be Sheldon Neuse, who didn’t heed the “game of inches” trope. So, despite an initial out call to end the game, upon further review, the runner was safe, the run scored, the bases remained loaded, and the game went on.

Still leading 3-2, the Dodgers just needed to retire Darin Ruf to go home happy. After working a 3-2 count, Ruf checked his swing on a cutter up in the zone, which, upon further review, was clearly a swing. But the first base umpire didn’t believe so. In the umpire’s “game of inches,” Ruf held up and took ball four, forcing in the tying run. Dave Roberts, likely frustrated with himself (why Kenley; why Neuse; why is this happening again?!), frustrated with his players (see, Jansen and Neuse), and angry at an umpire who blew the (would be) game-ending call, lost it. Out of the dugout he stormed, hat in one direction, arms in two other directions, and curse words and spittle in the direction of the offending (offensive?) umpire. Roberts got tossed, the next batter singled home two, at which point the game was all but done for.

The Dodgers were mere inches from splitting the series and being 8-5 on the season versus the Giants. They were mere inches away from being one game back of their NorCal rival. They were mere inches away from restoring some level of confidence in their $80M closer. Baseball, as the Dodgers learned the hard way Thursday night, truly is a game of inches. And, once again, the Dodgers fell short.

PLAY BALL!!

From “Let’s Go” to Letting Go

My son was three years old when I handed him a small glove and said, “Let’s go.” We were headed to Dodger Stadium and his first baseball game. But his early life experiences would not be limited to Chavez Ravine. No, as my father did before me, and as his father did before him, I elected to foist my ardor for baseball onto my son, to teach him the game and to teach him to love the game.

By the time he was six years old, he had already visited a handful of stadiums and walked on the field at Fenway Park. By age ten, he had seen a Home Run Derby and an All-Star Game, and met legends like Goose Gossage. Hell, before he could drive, he had visited the Baseball Hall of Fame and attended two World Series games. Sure, my dad and I were each raised on baseball, but neither of us had it nearly as good as my son, who was (and is) living the life of Riley when it comes to the game.

My son took to baseball like a fish to water, and began playing t-ball like the other kids. And soon he was working the Little League scoreboard on Saturday afternoons. Which led to him asking me to teach him how to keep score. He would walk around with an umpire’s indicator in his hand to keep track of the action. He learned the history of the game, watched present-day highlights, and kept an eye out for future stars (including one he played with). A running joke between us — but only because it is partially true — is that the only non-required reading he has done in the last five years is Dustin Pedroia’s biography.

My son has an affinity for baseball, and for baseballs. He has a knack for knowing just what level of annoyance is necessary to get a player to toss him one, and he knows where to stand at the end of an inning. Not even blue is safe, as my son positions himself by the umpire’s tunnel at the end of a game knowing that perfectly good pearls are in the home-plate umpire’s ball bag just waiting to be liberated and added to his collection.

But more than anything, my son loves the ballpark. Once he got his driver’s license, he would leave for games hours before me, parking outside the stadium and trekking in to be the first one through the gates. And he never wants to leave before the game is over. And by “over,” I mean that we need to step over brooms sweeping the stands.

Earlier this summer, our family spent some time in Chicago. So, of course, my son found his way to Wrigley Field hours before first pitch, leaving the rest of us to meet him there at a more reasonable time. And since we were going to be in the Midwest, and to continue my personal quest to get to every park in the majors, I booked us a trip through Ohio.

First stop: Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati. This time I went early with my son, but as soon as we had cleared the metal detector, he was off to chase a batting practice ball or a ballplayer interaction. Cincinnati was a revelation — a great park with an even better vibe. After walking past the statues of Reds greats on Joe Nuxhall Way, we were ready for our next stop: Huntington Park in Columbus.

Truth be told, this Triple-A sojourn was my son’s idea. He looked at the map and the calendar, and realized that Columbus was on our way, and the team was in town. So, to the Clippers game we went. There we were treated to a grand tour of the minor league (in affiliation only) park for a team with a rich history. We sat along the first-base line and were close enough to hear the coach yell “Back!” when a pick-off attempt was made. Circling around the outfield, we could hear the center fielder call off his compadre on a fly ball in the gap. The food was great, the lines were short, and the parking was cheap. And the team store had a better selection than a major league team that I will not name to avoid offending any readers.

After a night in Columbus, we headed north to my son’s namesake yard: “The Jake.” Now known as Progressive Field, it lived up to the hype. Sure, I would have loved to have been at Municipal Stadium when the Red Sox won Game 5 of the 2007 ALCS, with Josh Beckett besting CC Sabathia. But from what I have heard about the “Mistake by the Lake,” I didn’t miss much from a ballpark standpoint. The Jake, er, Progressive Field, is fantastic. The sightlines are clean, the concourses are broad, the sausages are flavorful, and the beer is plentiful. The park holds 35,000, and it feels both larger and more intimate.

At one point late in the game, a collection of Indians faithful decided to taunt Miguel Cabrera. Even with a packed crowd, Miggy could hear them loud and clear. Their exchange was hilarious, and when the future Hall of Famer motioned for the group to stop drinking, the place erupted with laughter. The Indians scored 13 runs, Cabrera hit his 493rd career dinger, and the fans went home happy. This was one of those nights that you don’t want to end.

We took a long walk out of the ballpark — well after the grounds crew had descended onto the field. And then an even longer walk back to our hotel. Our journey was coming to an end. In that half mile stroll, I began to feel a great deal of nostalgia. Not only was this trip over, but so too was this phase of my relationship with my son.

Soon he will be a heady college student, with all that that entails. Soon he will be living nearly 2,000 miles and two time zones away. Soon he will be one of those rowdy guys drinking too many Great Lakes Lagers and shouting at opposing players. And, before too long, he will be taking his son (one can hope!) to ballgames and ballparks across this great land. East 9th Street in Cleveland, Ohio felt a little like a Rubicon, from which there was no going back.

But, like baseball, hope springs eternal. Once we were back in L.A., we had one more bite at the apple. With the Red Sox in town, we headed down to Anaheim Stadium to catch a glimpse of Shohei Ohtani (and to get his giveaway birthday pillow). Jake had a conversation with, and got a ball from, Jason Varitek, because, why wouldn’t he? And he caught a ball between innings. And the Red Sox won a nail biter. And we headed home. We drove a long way in silence. Him, with thoughts of baseball and the future. And me, with thoughts of baseball and the past.

PLAY BALL!!

What Are We Doing?

One of my best friend’s favorite thing to say is “What are we doing?” I have thought about that expression often the last couple of weeks with respect to MLB umpires turned TSA agents ferreting out illegal substances. By now we have all witnessed the Max Scherzer interrogations as well as the Sergio Romo striptease, and, of course, the Shohei Ohtani giggle-fest with the boys in blue. We know that the Mariners Héctor Santiago became the first victim of this new “sticky stuff” enforcement regime. But, really, what are we doing?

Santiago has already appealed his suspension, claiming his glove contained only sweat and rosin. And truth be told, what schmuck would load up with anything illegal the first week of spot checks? Scherzer, after Joe Girardi specifically asked the umpires to check him, said it best: “I would be a super fool to use something [that day].” This all begs the questions: Since when did umpires become scientists? Since when do they have the requisite knowledge and training to determine rosin + sweat is different than rosin + Bull Frog? Sure, a lump of pine tar on Michael Pineda’s neck is an easy call. Stevie Wonder could find a piece of sandpaper in Kevin Gross’s glove. It didn’t take the Hubble Telescope to spot the emery board flying out of Joe Niekro’s back pocket. And maybe Spider Tack is easy to discover – that shit makes Gorilla Glue look like Elmer’s. But we are now living in the gray area where pitchers may or may not be cheating, and – by rule – we have appointed the umpires judge and jury.

After his ejection last week, Santiago’s glove was confiscated and deposited into a plastic evidence bag for the guys at CSI Park Avenue to analyze. But why? As Jesse Rogers of ESPN reported: “Per source, the league didn’t need to inspect Santiago’s glove any further. The ejection and discipline are based on the umpires’ report of having detected a foreign substance.” So, why don lab gloves and radioactive tongs and make a show of taking the mitt out of play? Once they determined there was “sticky stuff,” they could have tossed Santiago – setting up his eventual 10-game suspension – and let him go to the clubhouse with at least his glove, if not his dignity. The rest of the performance was simple frippery.

Santiago, like Scherzer and Romo before him, denied any wrongdoing. And for the reasons articulated above, I tend to believe them all (but check back in a month or two when the inspections have become more lax). But what I find comical about this entire drill is that it is always the same: pitcher leaves the mound, umpire checks his hat, his glove, and his belt, and off he goes (well, not Santiago). Are those the only three places a pitcher might hide an illegal substance?

Buster Olney reported in the lead up to this new investigation routine that umpires were going to use scouting reports on different pitchers to check them for their specific tendencies. That is what Girardi was getting at with Scherzer – claiming that on all other nights Scherzer never touched his hair, but on this night he touched his hair, so obviously he was hiding something on his follicularly-challenged head. But outside of that one inspection, the umpires largely have stuck to the big three locations.

I was at a game in Cincinnati last weekend, and a Braves pitcher went behind the mound and bounced the rosin bag on his hand. He then adjusted his pants right above the ankles. The whole thing may have been totally innocuous. Or, he may have had some unlawful compound on his leg. We will never know. As this was happening I said to my son, “Let’s see if the umpires check his pants at the end of the inning.” Sure enough, the third out was recorded, and the umpires checked his hat, his glove, and his belt. The pants – which he touched immediately after loading up with rosin – were left uninspected. Which led me to ask: “What are we doing?”

It is my sincere hope that the June 15^th memo, and the June 21^st commencement of inspections, was a “scared straight” plan of attack. MLB is hoping that players, knowing that the Rule 6.02 (c-d) is now being enforced and suspensions are forthcoming, will stop the practice. If that was the wish, it seems to have been fulfilled. In the period between the day that word leaked that the hammer was about to fall and the day that umpires actually pulled out their science kits, spin rates dropped 22rpm for four-seam fastballs, 42rpm for sliders, and 47rpm for curveballs; strike out rates dropped a full percentage point; and batting average rose about six points (which seems small, but is actually a huge jump league-wide in a few short weeks). And since enforcement began, those rpm numbers have dropped even further and batting average has gone up another two points.

But since there have been countless inspections and only one (alleged) culprit, the current system of checks and re-checks is nothing more than Kabuki theater. If they really want to catch some culprits and end this endemic violation of the rules, the umpires should begin spot-checking different pitchers during random innings and in varied uniform and equipment locations. The pitchers can and should know that the “sticky stuff” highway is heavily patrolled, but they shouldn’t know behind which bush Smokey is hiding, and they certainly shouldn’t know what part of their person or equipment will be searched. Do that, and pitchers will have something to fear and a reason to not use the banned substances; do that, and teams will be disinclined to continue their never-ending quest to gain a competitive advantage (rules be damned); do that, and we will finally have some true law enforcement.

Otherwise, what are we doing?

PLAY BALL!!

p.s. For more about this topic, and much, much more, tune in to the IBWAA Podcast.