Category: Human Interest

Being There

There is something about just “being there.” So, when my buddy Darin texted me an invitation to Friday night’s NLDS Dodgers vs. Braves game, I quickly texted back an emphatic “yes.”

He then sent me a picture of where we would be sitting – very far from homeplate – and I just as quickly texted back that being there is what matters most.

I was so eager to respond and lock down a free ticket to a playoff game, that I didn’t even realize that I had said “yes” to Clayton Kershaw. In an incredibly unusual move – a move that had not happened since Kershaw’s 21-year old season in 2009 – the Dodgers started the post-season with a pitcher who did not wear #22 on his back. The team decided it was best to give Kersh an extra day’s rest, which allowed him to be ready for Game 5 if necessary, and started Hyun-Jin Ryu in Game 1. It worked out perfectly, as Ryu threw seven innings of four-hit ball, allowing no runs in a dominant appearance.

Kershaw, as always, was diplomatic about the team’s decision. When asked if he agreed with the rotation choice, he offered a lengthy pause, and then said: “They had their reasons and I accepted them.” When asked if it was a gut punch not to be on the mound for Game 1, the fiery Texan said: “I don’t really think of it like that. I think: I get to pitch in another playoff series for the sixth year in a row. I’m looking forward to it.” This guy is a pro, and has done this long enough to know what to say and when. He must have decided, in that moment, to let his arm do the talking.

At 6:37pm on Friday night, Clayton Edward Kershaw walked out of the dugout, across the grass to, in the words of Vin Scully, “the mound at Dodger Stadium…the loneliest place in the world.” History was both Kershaw’s friend and enemy, the playoffs – not the Braves – his greatest nemesis.

Kershaw’s first pitch of the beautiful and cool Los Angeles evening was a 92-MPH fastball that Ronald Acuña Jr. promptly smacked to the wall in left center for a leadoff double. You could feel the tension in the air. Would this, could this, be another playoff disaster for the Hall of Fame-bound lefty? In a word, no; no it would not.

After giving up that leadoff double, Kershaw was masterful. He retired the next 14 batters before an infield single broke the streak. Being a baseball nerd, I watched and calculated his pitch count each inning: 29 through three and 39 after four; 55 through five and 60 after eighteen outs; 73 heading to the stretch, and just 85 when eight innings were in the books. When the Dodgers came to bat in the bottom of the 8th, I felt certain that we were about to see a playoff version of a “Maddux”: a complete game shutout with less than 100 pitches. To paraphrase the great Tim Kurkjian, that is something I have never seen before.

There were 54,452 of us sitting on the edge of our seats when Kershaw climbed the stairs of the Dodger dugout and jogged out to pitch the ninth. We were about to witness history.

Alas, it was not meant to be. Kershaw took the mound to warm up as a diversion, a ploy, a chess move in the mental game between managers. If the Braves allowed left-hand hitting Lucas Duda to lead off the ninth, Kershaw would have pitched to him. If Braves manager Brian Snitker, seeing the gangly lefty on the hill, announced a right-hand hitting pinch hitter (in this case, Tyler Flowers), Roberts would pull Kershaw in favor of Kenley Jansen.

Of course, sitting in the upper reaches of the ballpark, we had no idea what was going on. We were just wholly disappointed (a) to watch Kershaw abdicate his thrown and (b) to see him to do so for the gas can that is the current incarnation of the Dodgers’ closer. True to form, Jansen gave up a hard hit to the second batter he faced. After a pop out, Jansen ran the count to 3-2 to the dangerous Freddie Freeman. A fastball off the corner would have brought the tying run to the plate, and potentially put Kershaw’s gem in peril. But Kershaw – and by extension, Jansen – was not to be denied. Freeman swung through a 93-MPH cutter, and the Dodgers had a 2-0 series lead.

I have been to a lot of baseball games, and I have seen a lot of gamesmanship. But I have never seen a manager send the face of the franchise, throwing one of the games of his life, to warm up on the mound just to compel the other team to make a move. Love or hate Dave Roberts, and many people do, this was pure genius. As we learned later, he got Kershaw’s blessing before executing the plan – the manager and the player were on the same page.

Kershaw could have pulled rank – he could have gone all Matt Harvey and essentially refused to give up the ball; he could have said to Roberts: “One day there will be a statue of me outside this stadium and a bust of me in upstate New York, I have been dominant for eight innings and have thrown only 85 pitches; I went along with your cockamamie idea and allowed Ryu to start Game 1, but if you want this baseball, you have to pry it out of my meaty left hand.” And you know what, he would have been totally justified in saying so. But he didn’t. He put team ahead of self; he put winning ahead of personal accomplishments; he was, quite simply, a pure pro.

Kershaw left the mound to a standing ovation and an anxious crowd. Jansen didn’t let him down, he didn’t let any of us down.

Walking out of the park last night I remained sad that we didn’t get to see Kershaw pitch a Maddux on a massive stage. But that is what separates fans from superstars. Michael Jordan passed up the shot, twice, giving the ball to Jim Paxson and Steve Kerr, because he knew it was about winning championships, not accolades. Kershaw didn’t care that I couldn’t boast about what I had seen; he cared that his team gets to the next round, and then the ultimate round, again.

But you know what, upon further reflection, I’m not sad. Greatness is greatness, whether it goes eight innings or nine. And when people talk about one of Kershaw’s all-timers, I will be able to say “I was there.”

PLAY BALL!!

163

I missed Opening Day. I was traveling with my family, on an island far from where any game was being played, and did not have the opportunity to partake in any of the pomp or pageantry.

Because of that, there was no way I was going to miss “Closing Day.” I made sure I was in the park – Anaheim Stadium, as it turns out – to watch the sun set on the regular season. And what a way to end it: the pre/early/mid/late season phenomenon named Shohei Ohtani led off the bottom of the ninth with a rocket single to center. He then flew around the bases to score from first on a double to left, making it a one-run game. And then, when a Mike Scioscia-led team would normally have made the rookie shortstop bunt the tying run to third, we come to find out that Scioscia relinquished his managerial duties for the final game in his 19-year run. So whoever was calling the shots in the Angels dugout threw caution to the wind, tossed out that two decade-old playbook, and let the kid hit. And hit he did. Taylor Ward is no Freddie Patek or Tim Foli or even David Eckstein. So it wasn’t a massive surprise when Ward hit a game-winning, season-ending, walk-off two-run homerun and was met at home plate by a mob of teammates and two buckets of Gatorade.

The Angels’ celebration was a much needed final image in what was yet another disappointing (some might say wasted Mike Trout) season. What a joy to watch two rookies being interviewed on the field in two different languages, while one of the last old-school managers was being interviewed for the final time. The cycle of baseball life.

But for me, I was thwarted. It turns out that I wasn’t at “Closing Day.” While the Angels were rallying to beat the A’s, the Dodgers (15-0) and the Cubs (10-5) were beating their hated rivals; and the Rockies (12-0) and Brewers (11-0) were destroying the Scherzer-less Nationals and the hapless Tigers, respectively. Put another way, all the teams that had to win on Sunday did so, by a collective score of 48-5. The lack of excitement on Sunday meant we would get a ton of excitement on Monday with not one, but two Games 163. To paraphrase the great Jayson Stark: Do you know how many times that has happened before? You would be correct…none!

Now I had to make new plans; I had to get to a Game 163. Lucky for me, there was a one being played down the street. So I sat in the 90-degree sun and watched yet another rookie, pitching sensation and potential heir apparent Walker Buehler throw 6-2/3 innings of one-hit ball; and watched the 28-year old breakout success Max Muncy launch his 35th homerun; watched Kenley Jansen hold a lead he simply could not lose; and watched as the Dodgers celebrated their sixth straight NL West title. As you know, the Brewers knocked off the Cubs earlier in the day, so when Gerardo Parra struck out on a high cutter, Games 163 were in the books, and so too was the 2018 regular season.

To be perfectly candid, there was something anticlimactic about the Dodgers’ win. Sure, winning six division titles in a row makes it seem almost rote. But I think it was the fact that both teams were going to the playoffs, regardless. The game had stakes – the winner got two days off and a guaranteed five-game series while the loser had to hop a flight to Chicago for a one-game playoff. But it seemed inevitable that the Dodgers, with their payroll and their stars and their lineage and their home field advantage, would get the W. And, in Hollywood, things tend to follow the script. We watched the players celebrate on the field, but they had already celebrated when they were assured a playoff spot; and they had already celebrated when they were assured a chance to win the division. How many bottles of champagne does it take just to get to October?

Now the real fun begins. Two do-or-die games for the right to play the Brewers and the Red Sox, respectively. An A’s team that no one saw coming. The Braves at least one year ahead of schedule. The Astros trying to defend their title. The Indians hoping to erase 70 years of futility. So hang onto your hats, as per usual, October should be a wild ride.

So how do we follow two 163s? Well, we have two single elimination games; four potential Games 5; and three potential Games 7, including a finale on Hallows’ Eve! A boy can hope…

PLAY BALL!!

Role Models

Charles Barkley famously once told the world: “I am not a role model.”

In that iconic Nike ad, Sir Charles went on to say that just because he dunks a basketball, he shouldn’t raise our kids. Fair enough, but there has been enough blowback about that commercial and his misguided sentiment in the 25 years since it first aired, that there is no need to go any deeper into the inanity of the assertion here. Suffice it to say, athletes, whether they like it or not (and some, apparently do), are role models.

The term “role model” is a funny one; and we, as a society, unwittingly and unnecessarily and unconsciously, consistently attach the word “positive” before utilizing it. However, Merriam-Webster defines the term as “a person whose behavior in a particular role is imitated by others.” Putting aside that Merriam-Webster used a word in the definition of a word it sought to define, nowhere in that definition to you see the word “positive.” We just imply it.

I do agree with Mr. Barkley on the following concept: we are responsible for raising our children – that responsibility most certainly should not be left to professional athletes. But it would be wholly naïve to believe that our children are not influenced by what they see, they read, they hear. Watch a Little League baseball game, or a Pop Warner football game, or an AAU basketball game, and tell me you don’t witness many of the same actions you see on your nightly edition of SportsCenter. Hell, I know I mimicked my favorite athletes growing up, and for part of that time, I only had George Michael’s Sports Machine as a reference point.

As a parent, I always look for teaching moments. Allow the kids to screw up, sit them down, and teach them the way forward. Show them the error of their – or someone else’s – way, and how to avoid that outcome in the future. And for that, athletes often prove to be an amazingly fertile resource. For that, athletes, and people around athletes, are incredible role models. Not a week can go by without us opening the newspaper (an antiquated concept, I confess) and read about an athlete giving us a perfect example of what not to do. And because their flameouts are often public and ignominious, these role models present us parents with wonderful teaching moments.

Over the past few weeks we have seen this happen time and again. In the first few instances, it was regarding social media.

In the span of just a few days around the All-Star break, three Major League baseball players learned the potential pratfalls of social media. First there was Josh Hader. A second-year pitcher having an incredible season. So much so that he was actually on the mound at the All-Star game in Washington, D.C. when his racist, homophobic, and generally despicable tweets from many years ago were first reported. Instead of a post-game celebration reveling in his achievement, he was forced to answer for his actions, and apologize to his friends, family, organization, teammates, and community. That is probably not how he wanted to remember his first All-Star game.

Then, a few days later, Sean Newcomb was throwing the best game of his life: one strike away from no-hitting the Los Angeles Dodgers in front of the home crowd in Atlanta. It was just about then that his racist, homophobic, and generally despicable tweets from many years ago were first reported. Again, the joy of the moment was lost in a haze of apologies and “stupid kid” justifications.

That same day, at roughly the same time, Trea Turner, the fantastic young shortstop for the Washington Nationals had his racist, homophobic, and generally despicable tweets from many years ago reported. Trea hadn’t done anything special on the day his idiotic past came to light, so at least no celebration was interrupted when he was forced to issue the following statement:

“There are no excuses for my insensitive and offensive language on Twitter. I am sincerely sorry for those tweets and apologize wholeheartedly. I believe people who know me understand those regrettable actions do not reflect my values or who I am. But I understand the hurtful nature of such language and am sorry to have brought any negative light to the Nationals organization, myself or the game I love.”

But if we thought the teaching moments were done, hang on to your hat. Unless you follow baseball closely, and/or you live in the greater Toronto area, you are fortunately unaware that a 23-year old flame-throwing closer named Roberto Osuna was suspended 75 games back in May under Major League Baseball’s Joint Domestic Violence, Sexual Assault and Child Abuse policy. This is the second longest suspension under this policy ever issued. Osuna is set to return to action this week; and it is highly likely that you, the casual baseball observer, would never have heard of Osuna and his checkered past had the Blue Jays not traded him before the July 31st trade deadline. The Houston Astros acquired Osuna, for, in the words of Jeff Sullivan, “a prospect or two, and much of what remained of their organizational integrity.”

Osuna was due in court last week, but only his attorney appeared. In an effort to make certain that fanbases in two countries equally despised his client, the attorney issued the following statement after the hearing:

“My client is not remorseful of being guilty of any criminal activity…he’s obviously remorseful of the circumstances.”

Sure, this is lawyer-speak, but sometimes lawyers (present company included) shouldn’t speak.

Upon receiving a massive amount of criticism over their acquisition of the batterer (I could say “alleged,” as he not yet been proven guilty of any crime, but he did accept MLB’s suspension without appeal, so there is something to the charges), the world champion Astros issued the following anodyne statement:

“We are excited to welcome Roberto Osuna to our team. The due diligence by our front office was unprecedented. We are confident that Osuna is remorseful, has willfully complied with all consequences related to his past behavior, has proactively engaged in counseling, and will fully comply with our zero tolerance policy related to abuse of any kind. Roberto has some great examples of character in our existing clubhouse that we believe will help him as he and his family establish a fresh start and as he continues with the Houston Astros. We look forward to Osuna’s contributions as we head into the back half of the season.”

In short, “We, the Houston Astros, value winning above all else, and we will not hesitate to field players of questionable moral character if the end result is another World Series title.” Reasonable minds can differ (can they?) on this approach to #winning, but the Astros left little doubt as to which side of that divide they land.

So what does all of this have to do with Charles Barkley? All of these examples, four athletes and a sports team, are, in fact, role models. They have given us great examples of what not to do.

We can tell our children to be careful on social media, knowing that what you tap on that little screen can come back to bite you nearly a decade later. And then we can point to Hader, Newcomb, and Turner and say: “See what I mean.”

We can teach our children that hitting women is wrong – always. And that doing so can cost you your job (at least temporarily), and your income (nearly $2.5M in Osuna’s case), and your standing in the community. And then we can point to how the baseball world has reacted to Osuna and say: “See what I mean.”

We can explain to our children that winning isn’t the only thing (despite what Red Sanders may believe). That seeking an advantage at the cost of your integrity can have long and lasting implications. That society won’t look favorably upon people who put success above everything else. And then we can show our kids Jeff Luhnow juking and jiving to put a positive spin on his steaming pile of shit that was this deal and say: “See what I mean.”

It seems that we wake up each morning and find ourselves living in a world with few consequences for outrageous behavior. It is enough to make us all borderline nihilists. But then a few dumb athletes and at least one ruthless deal-maker bring us back to Earth. Through their conduct we learn that there are, in fact, costs to bad deeds. And because these bad acts and bad actors are in the news and in our feeds, they present perfect teaching moments.

And just like we were able to teach our kids about the treachery of drinking and driving when Sir Charles was arrested for DUI; and just like we were able to teach our kids about the risks of gambling when Barkley admitted to losing at least $30M in Las Vegas over the years; so too can we teach our kids these life lessons. They are brought to us by athletes (and executives) who are, in fact, role models.

PLAY BALL!

Fathers (Day) and Sons

Last week I spoke as part of a lecture group on the topic of fatherhood. When it was over, the speakers and audience members gathered in the lobby to discuss the show, to recount how we all related to the stories, and to share the impact they had on everyone in the theater.

When I made my way to my father, he had tears in his eyes. Insofar as I spoke first, nearly ninety minutes earlier, I knew it wasn’t my story that had welled his emotions. Rather, he told me, it was all of the anecdotes combined that made him wistful, that caused him to think about his father. Feelings don’t dissipate in your eighth decade – sometimes they are heightened.

My father’s reaction to the readings made me think about my Grandpa Max, who would have been a cool 108 years old this year – one year for each stitch on a baseball. Grandpa Max (and Grandma Betty, to be fair) was one of my biggest fans, and was cheering me on when I hit my first career homerun. While that moment still brings a smile to my face, it occurred many years after Grandpa Max made his first contribution to my ultimate love of baseball: he taught my dad to love baseball. With that as the foundation, I, in-turn, taught my son to love baseball. I am unable to go back any further on the genealogical depth chart, but I know we have at least four generations covered.

My grandfather grew up in Boston a Red Sox fan; and my father grew up in Boston, a Red Sox fan. Grandpa Max was born about nine years before the cursed Red Sox World Series championship (1918) and died about nine years before the curse was broken (2004). I find some kind of weird symmetry in that.

My father moved from the east coast to Los Angeles in 1958. That is the same year, coincidentally (or not), that the Dodgers also headed west. I am not sure, but I think there is something to that as well.

Max, Saul, Dan, Jake. For well over a hundred years, we have been, and continue to be, a baseball family.

In the summer of 2009 we took a three-generation trip to Boston, and were brought onto the field at Fenway Park. My son led the way, followed by me, and then my dad. I said to our guide: “I don’t know who is more excited, Jake, me, or my dad.” My dad quickly shouted: “Me! Because I am excited for Jake, you, and myself.” Chris Rock says dad gets the biggest piece of chicken; I guess granddad gets the biggest thrill in the moment. Seems perfectly fair to me.

Baseball is a game of fathers and sons (and grandsons). With apologies to Jim Nantz, it is a tradition unlike any other.

The Major Leagues have seen five father-son-grandson families – with the most notable being the Boones (Ray, Bob, Aaron/Bret) and the Bells (Gus, Buddy, David). And there have been countless father-son combos (at some point this summer there will be another, when Vladimir Guerrero, Jr. makes the leap from Double-A to third base in Toronto).

Hell, there is even a three-generation umpiring family (Ed, Paul, and Brian Runge).

For these families, baseball is literally in their blood.

But for the rest of us, baseball resides in the heart. Our fathers teach us the game; they sit with us on the couch and point out the sport’s intricacies; they play catch in the backyard and explain the difference between a four-seam and a two-seam grip; they take us to the stadium and protect us from foul balls. Fathers show us how to keep score and where to stand to get an autograph. They demonstrate how to properly dress a hot dog, and what true fandom looks like. And fathers do it as much for themselves as they do for their sons. It is truly a labor of love.

I would remiss if I didn’t mention that there are a great many moms out there who do all of the above, and do it out of devotion to the game, and love for their boys. I have no doubt that Helen Callaghan taught her son baseball – and probably more and better than any of us have. She played in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League (made famous in a little movie called A League of Their Own), and guided her son to the Major Leagues (check out Casey Candaele in those sweet Expos blues, to the right). I am certain there are countless moms out there who have cried in baseball while imbuing their sons with the splendor of a suicide squeeze, or the sublime brilliance of a perfectly executed hit-and-run. I am sure that there exists a mom named Mary whose appreciation of an immaculate inning cannot be matched.

But Ms. Callaghan and the other baseball-loving females in our lives aside, the job of baseball parent customarily falls to the dad. And boy are we lucky for that.

I was recently in New York with my son, and after touring CitiField, we went to the Bergino Baseball Clubhouse. If you ever find yourself in the East Village, I highly recommend it. The proprietor, Jay Goldberg (who couldn’t be a nicer guy), told us about a project he is working on: Remember Your First Game. What a brilliant idea. My son and I stood in that store trying to recall, and we think we know, but we cannot be certain (a high-class problem to have been to so many games that you cannot pinpoint the first). I think mine may have been a Double-A game in Bristol, Connecticut in 1976. We are pretty sure Jake’s was – fittingly – the Red Sox vs. Dodgers at the L.A. Coliseum in 2008. But the teams and locations are unimportant…what matters is that the father took the son. They shared that moment, which begat another moment, which begat thousands more moments, all built around baseball.

My son’s mother passed away about six weeks before his first coach-pitch season. By that time, he already had the “bug.” But I often wonder if he would love baseball as much if the other parent had died. Sure, it is a dark – and probably unnecessary – line of thought, but it fits with my narrative about balls and strikes, about baseball and love, about fathers and sons.

Each year we comb the racks at the local department store, we search online, we ask for guidance, looking for the perfect Father’s Day gift. And after much deliberation, we usually land on a tie, a pair of socks, or a book.

This year, try something different. This year, give your dad the gift of thanks. Thank him for introducing you to baseball, for educating you about the game, for showing you how to love it unconditionally; thank him for explaining the infield-fly rule and teaching you the phrase “there is always next year.” And thank him for instilling in you an adoration for a sport that transcends time, a sport that, by its very nature, requires patience, persistence, and perseverance; a sport that, like a cherished watch, must be passed down from generation to generation. Wrap up and put a nice little bow on a very simple, “Thanks, Dad!”

And if your father is no longer with us, tell your son about a time you went to the ballpark with your dad. If you believe – as I do – that your father is listening, he will be grateful for the reminiscence, and your son will appreciate the memory.

As they say in Hebrew, l’dor vador.

Happy Father’s Day.

PLAY BALL!!

Bryce Harper is NOT a Superstar

I am not trying to be provocative; this is not a “hot take”; I am not in the business of taking unnecessary shots.

Bryce Harper is good, very good. Harper may, in fact, be great. But Bryce Harper is not a superstar. Now, past performance is no guarantee of future results. As such, Mr. Harper may become a superstar. He may start his ascent this season, keep getting better into his mid and late twenties, and retire as one of the best to ever play the game. Who knows? But with all of this talk of $300M, $400M, $500M contracts in the ether as Bryce heads into free agency, I think it is important to step back and look at the facts. And by facts, I mean numbers.

About eighteen months ago I wrote an article comparing Harper to Mike Trout (who IS a superstar; and who, barring injury, will be (if he isn’t already) one of the best to ever play the game). Nothing has fundamentally changed since that analysis was completed after the 2016 season.

What has changed is that Harper had another good, but not great, season; and Trout had another brilliant (if injury-shortened) one.

When people speak of Harper, they do so in hushed tones. They hearken back to the teenage phenom on the cover of Sports Illustrated and the reported 570-foot homerun in Las Vegas at age 15. And then, inevitably, the conversation turns to Harper’s 2015 season in which he led the league in homeruns, runs, slugging, OBP, OPS, and WAR. With those numbers, he was the league’s Most Valuable Player.

Every season Harper is a perennial MVP candidate. And every season – save for 2015 – something happens to dash those hopes. In 2013 it was a knee injury; in 2014 it was a thumb injury; in 2016 it was a slew of walks by the Cubs in May that through him off the scent; in 2017 it was another knee injury. And this season – which started with a lot of promise with eight homeruns and a 1.265 OPS in his first 17 games – it seems like impending free agency is causing him to press, expand the strike zone, thus leaving him hitting .232 (albeit with a tie for the league-lead in homeruns with 13 and a .931 OPS*).

But if we break down Harper’s first six years, we see the following:

fWAR OPS RUNS
2012 4.4 0.817 98
2013 4.1 0.854 71
2014 1.6 0.767 41
2015 9.3 1.109 118
2016 3 0.814 84
2017 4.9 1.008 95

 

These numbers are fine, but they are not half a billion dollars’ worth of fine.

And let’s take a look at that illustrious 2015 campaign – the one that is always referenced to reflect Harper’s potential, the reason people believe he is a superstar.

Harper had an 1.109 OPS that season, which ranks 79th all time. Here are the names of a few players who have recorded higher single-season OPS numbers:

  • Jeff Bagwell
  • Larry Walker (three times)
  • Todd Helton (twice)
  • Albert Belle
  • Carlos Delgado
  • Luis Gonzalez
  • Kevin Mitchell

Now, these are great players. And yes, some did this in the steroid era. But, numbers are numbers.

How about that 9.3 fWAR, which is Harper’s best season by nearly 200%? In the last 20 years, there have been 31 individual seasons of 9.3 fWAR or better. In fairness, that list is filled with Hall of Famers, future Hall of Famers, and should-be Hall of Famers (save for PEDs). But Jacoby Ellsbury is also on that list (a 9.4 season); and Kevin Brown recorded a 10-win season. Those numbers make a 9.3-win season, if not pedestrian, at least less stratospheric.

In any given year (again, save for 2015), Harper’s conventional stats are lumped in with the likes of:

  • Mark Reynolds and JJ Hardy (HRs in 2012)
  • Adam Lind (OPS in 2013)
  • Trevor Plouffe (Slugging in 2014)
  • Dexter Fowler and Jayson Werth (Runs in 2016)
  • Didi Gregorius and Kyle Seager (RBI in 2017)

If it seems like I cherry-picked those specific stats for those specific seasons, I did not. You could go year-by-year (excluding only 2015) and find Harper bunched with other good ballplayers in each column of his baseball-reference page. Last season Harper once again showed his potential, finishing in the top six of slugging, on-base, and OPS – but only if you set the parameters at 100 games. Harper played in only 111 games in 2017 due to the aforementioned knee injury. While stepping on a slick bag may not have been his fault, maybe running into a wall at full speed is; and diving head-first into a base definitely is. Regardless, we live in a no-fault world – and if you are paying a ballplayer $30M, or $40M, or (gasp) $50M per year, he needs to be on the field putting up those numbers over 150+ games. Harper has played that many games only once in his first six seasons.

Quiz time. Below is the average output of two different players through their first six years^ in the Big Leagues. Which would you choose?

  GAMES RUNS HR RBI OBP SLUG OPS fWAR
Player A 135.5 86.2 13 60.2 0.344 0.429 0.773 4.1
Player B 128 84.5 25 76.7 0.383 0.512 0.895 4.55

 

They are pretty close, and if you squint, I think you would prefer Player B. Player A – also known as the aforementioned Jacoby Ellsbury – got a 7/$153M deal when he entered free agency at age 30, and that deal has been derided in the Bronx since the ink dried.

Does Player B – also known as Bryce Harper – look like he is worth two-times Ellsbury (based solely on performance to date)? Three-times?

Does your answer change if I told you that Harper would sign this deal at age 26 (rather than age 30)? Do those four years of production make him $150-$250M more valuable? One could argue that, at $11M per each single WAR, those four years (assuming Ellsbury is a zero-win player during the same period) make Harper worth about $50M more than Ellsbury. But $50M is a far cry from $150M, let alone $250M or $350M. Add $50 million to Ellsbury’s deal, round it up so the AAV looks good, and Harper could (should?) get 7/$210M. That seems reasonable.

Numbers are numbers, and facts are facts. Bryce Harper is not (yet) a superstar. Can we please dispense with that talk; and can we please dispense with the idea that Harper should get anywhere between one-third and one-half of a billion dollars when he signs next off-season?

Now, if we start talking about Manny Machado? Well, that would be an interesting conversation…

PLAY BALL!!

*All stats current as of May 17

^Ellsbury’s 2010 season was omitted as he played only 18 games that year.

2018 Season Preview: Oakland Athletics

It’s a beautiful Saturday night in April, and you can think of ten different places you would rather be. But propriety and parental obligation find you walking into your kid’s school spring fundraiser.

You do a quick assessment of the bar to the left (they gave you two whole drink tickets for your $65 admission fee), the lukewarm buffet to the right, and an array of tables directly in front of you. As far as the eye can see are scores of “gifts” that the fundraising committee was able to procure for this special night.

If you like movies, there is a DVD set, Orville Redenbacher, and two pairs of 3-D glasses. If you are into trinkets, there is a jade necklace and matching ring from the family-owned jeweler down the street. You want a little “me time,” there’s a gift certificate to the local spa, including a mani/pedi and some relaxing bath salts. On and on it goes.

And when you are just about at your wits’ end, with the picnic basket/wine bottle/cheese plate/corkscrew combo, you find the section set up for dads. A tastefully framed photograph of the local team’s basketball star; an over-sized sneaker signed by a basketball legend; jerseys from the ’90s. And there, at the end of the table, a pair of tickets (with parking pass) to a baseball game in your hometown ballpark.

The parent who made the latter donation looked up and down the schedule, determined the least exciting game he could imagine, and offered up the tickets as a show of goodwill for his kid’s school. Some schmuck will overbid to sit in seats not otherwise available to the general public, for a game he either couldn’t, or didn’t want to, attend. In one fell swoop, he has one less set of tickets to worry about, and one nice write-off.

You, the schmuck, check your calendar and realize that (a) you are free that Tuesday night in July (as of now), (b) they really are good seats, (c) you planned on going to a few games this summer anyway, and now you can buy tickets, reduce your taxes, and help the school. You quickly jot down your name and your bid. For the next forty-five minutes you circle the table, checking back to see what other parent had the same idea, but was willing to be $25 more generous. As time winds down, as the PTA president announces the final moments of the silent auction, you find yourself hovering. Before you were interested in the tickets; now you need them. One last bid seals the deal, and you find yourself the proud owner of two tickets to the … A’s game. Really, the A’s!? They finished 26 games out of first place last year, and won barely a third of their games on the road. Is it too late to cross out your name/bid?

Yes; yes it is. But fear not; all is not lost. The group of players donning Kelly Green, Wedding Gown White, and Fort Knox Gold (those are the official colors) are a lot more fun and a heck of lot more interesting than you might imagine. Granted, in 2018 they will be little more than a 4-A squad, but the donation has already been made, the tickets are yours to keep.

Let’s get this out of the way: Depending on what the Rangers do between now and Opening Day and/or the trade deadline, the Athletics are and will be either the fourth or fifth best team in the AL West. There are no post-season aspirations for 2018. But no matter. You can dig in to Billy Beane’s thinking and hop on the bandwagon early. The players you see on that Tuesday night in July may very well be playing in October in the not so distant future. And with this handy guide and your in-person account, you will have the ability to say: “I knew them when…”

SCHOLAR ATHLETES: Since you bought the tickets at a school event, there is no better place to start than with these big-brained ballplayers:

If you are lucky to see a start by Kendall Graveman (#49, nickname “Digger”), know that he studied Mechanical Engineering at Mississippi St., is an avid supporter of STEM education, and regularly assists the team with “Science of the Game” demonstrations and clinics. He came to the A’s from the Blue Jays in the Josh Donaldson trade, and went 6-4 with a 4.19 ERA last season. He throws a 93 MPH fastball approximately two-thirds of the time, and strikes out roughly two batters for every one he walks. He should keep the game close.

If Graveman isn’t pitching, maybe Andrew Triggs (#60, “Triggonometry”) will be. Triggs earned a degree in Political Science from USC before he finished his baseball eligibility, so he enrolled in the school’s MBA program. In 2012, young Andrew was the Pac-12 Baseball Spring Scholar Athlete of the Year. Had he not signed with the Royals, who knows what company or country he would be running today. As it stands, last season he won six games with a 4.29 ERA, and had better than a three-to-one strikeout-to-walk ratio. Triggs literally throws nothing but hard stuff (99.5% of his pitches last year were fastballs, sliders, or cutters), so bring a glove to the game and be on the lookout for foul balls hit the other way.

One thing is certain: Absent an injury, Stephen Piscotty (#25, “Momo”), who has a degree in Atmosphere and Energy Engineering from Stanford, will be patrolling right field. More about him below.

HOMETOWN HEROES: The tickets you hold in your hot little hand were the product of you giving back to your community. For that reason, let’s take a look at some local kids doing good:

 Marcus Semien (#10, “Mahkus”) should be the A’s everyday shortstop. Marcus attended St. Mary’s High School in Berkeley, then went to Cal. He originally signed with the White Sox, but came back to the East Bay in 2014. He may not be sure-handed (an MLB-leading/Oakland-record-setting 35 errors in 2015; an additional 21 in 2016), but he can hit – 27 dingers in 2016 and ten more in just 85 games last season. And if you bring your kid to the game, be sure to have her keep a watchful eye on Marcus. In 2016, he won the team’s Heart & Hustle Award, which honors the player who demonstrates a passion for, and best embodies the values, spirit, and traditions of, the game. He is a true role model.

Back-up outfielder Mark Canha (#20, no known nickname), grew up in San Jose and also attended Cal. He was drafted by the Marlins, but escaped to the Rockies, and found his way back home in 2014. Mark missed most of last season with a hip injury, but the A’s have high hopes for the guy who led all rookies in RBI in 2015. And, for kicks, you can follow Mark’s Instagram (@bigleaguefoodie) to get a taste of what and where this big league foodie likes to eat.

The aforementioned Stephen Piscotty learned to walk, run, hit, and throw in Pleasanton (29 miles southeast of Oakland), and as noted above, graduated from Stanford. Piscotty had been a rising star in the Cardinals’ organization since 2015, and played 153 for the Red Birds in 2016. Stephen had an off year last season, as he dealt with his mother being diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, otherwise known as ALS or Lou Gehrig’s Disease. The Cardinals, cementing their “class act” bona fides, agreed to trade Piscotty to the A’s so he could be closer to home, and allow his mom to watch him play all summer. A special green and gold hat tip to Bill DeWitt and John Mozeliak for their humanity and kindness.

The Athletics have another hometown hero that you cannot root for on the field, but in the front office. The A’s scouting coordinator is a 24-year old out the University of Virginia. And she may one day become baseball’s first female general manager. Haley Alvarez was Virginia’s team manager for four years, has worked for the Red Sox, the Reds, and the MLB central offices; and now she finds herself back home in Northern California (she grew up in San Francisco, a Giants fan), helping one of the most progressive teams in the sport to use scouting and analytics to build a team of and for the future. Make sure to tell your kids about her while watching the action on the field.

GOOD CITIZENS: We often view athletes only through the prism of their on-field accomplishments. However, this group of Athletics are more than just athletes. They each utilize their unique place in society to make the world a better place. Whether or not their activities make them philanthropists is open to debate, but each should be judged by more than OPS, DRS, and WAR:

There are many categories into which Jed Lowrie (#8, “Low”) would fit (for instance, he played at Stanford), but for our purposes, let’s take a look at the good deeds of one of the roster’s elder statesmen. This season will be Low’s fifth with the A’s, which comes after stints with the Astros (both NL and AL), as well as his first four seasons in Boston. Jed played 153 games last year, batted .277 with 14 homeruns and was second in the AL with 49 doubles, so the man can hit. But it is off the field where Lowrie makes his greatest contribution. In 2015, he traveled to Colombia as a sports envoy in the MLB’s “Diamond Diplomacy Program” in conjunction with the State Department. He and his wife, Milessa, founded the A’s “Jedi Warriors” program, which provides tickets, batting practice visits, and some pocket cash to spend in the park for families of wounded veterans. Jed and Milessa first founded the Jedi Warriors when Lowrie was playing in Houston, and they brought the program to the bay. In 2014, Jed was the A’s nominee for the prestigious Roberto Clemente Award, given to the player who “best exemplifies the game of baseball, sportsmanship, community involvement and the individual’s contribution to his team.”

On March 9th, the A’s added a stabilizing force to their lineup and their pitching staff when they acquired free-agent Jonathan Lucroy (#21, “Luc”). Luc has had an interesting career: an offense-first catcher when first called up to the Brewers who turned himself into the best defensive catcher in the game (worth 20 runs saved in 2014), to one of the worst defensive catchers in the league last season (costing his teams nearly 20 runs). This will be Lucroy’s fourth team in the last three seasons, as he was traded from Milwaukee to Texas in 2016 (after exercising his no-trade clause and scuttling a deal to Cleveland that would have given him a chance to play in the World Series), and traded from Texas to Colorado at the trade deadline last year.

But regardless of his output on the field, Lucroy may more value off the field. In each of the last two Novembers, Luc has participated in the Stars and Stripes Honor Flight, which allows veterans of World War II and the Korean War, as well as terminally-ill veterans, to go to Washington, D.C. to visit their respective memorials. In 2014, Jonathan contributed to the Open Arms Home, whose mission is to provide a loving residential environment that serves the emotional, physical, and developmental needs of orphaned, abandoned, and disadvantaged children in the Eastern Cape of South Africa. He also supports Fisher House Wisconsin, a facility for military veterans and their families receiving treatment at the Milwaukee Veterans Affairs Hospital. In seasons past, Lucroy provided military families with tickets to Brewers games. And in keeping with that theme, from 2011-13, Luc provided various $5,000 scholarships to military families. If that wasn’t enough, Jonathan is active with the Make-A-Wish Foundation and has served as a spokesperson for the Muscular Dystrophy Association Team Muscle Walk. And lastly, Jonathan is a supporter of the Miracle League, which allows all children to play organized baseball regardless of their ability.

So whether or not Lucroy returns to his hitting and catching dominance, he is worthy of your cheering and your praise when you see him behind the plate.

If Lucroy isn’t catching, you may see back-up catcher Josh Phlegley (#19, “PTBNL”) behind the plate. In 2006 Josh was named Indiana’s “Mr. Baseball,” which seems like a backhanded compliment until you see some of the previous winners. Josh was drafted by the White Sox in 2009, but played only 48 games in 2010 due to a rare autoimmune disorder called Idiopathic Thrombocytopenic Purpura (ITP), which lowers a person’s platelet count. The diagnosis resulted in Josh having his spleen removed. I don’t recommend heckling him about his missing body part, as he now works with the Platelet Disorder Support Association to help kids with the condition and to raise awareness about the disease. Phlegley has a cannon, and threw out 37.8% of the runners who tried to steal on him in 2015 (third best in the AL). A knee injury in 2016 limited him to 26 games; and a concussion, a new baby, and an oblique injury limited him to 57 games last season. Purely from a humanitarian perspective, let’s hope Josh can remain healthy in 2018.

Australian pitcher Liam Hendriks (#31, “Slydah”) is an animal lover and a man of the world who does well by doing good. Slydah was the A’s 2017 nominee for the Roberto Clemente Award, after his work with Athletes Brandand Food for the Hungry in an effort to end poverty in the Dominican Republic. And he can pitch, too. He was 4-2, with a 4.22 ERA, and a 3-1 strikeout-to-walk ratio in 70 games last season.

INTERESTING VETERANS: A team like the 2018 Oakland Athletics is going to be filled with youngsters making their way to “the show” and aging players on the downside of their careers. In the latter group, check out these guys:

This will be the eighth Big League season for Chris Hatcher(#44, “Hatch”). In 2006, the Marlins drafted Hatcher out of UNC Wilmington as a catcher (that’s right, Hatcher the Catcher). In 2009, the Jacksonville Jumbo Shrimp put Hatcher on the mound, and he retired the only batter he faced. Building on that success, the next season the Jumbo Shrimp put him on the hill for a full inning, which he finished in 13 pitches (including his first professional strikeout). Three months later Hatcher found himself in the Big Leagues…as a catcher. He went 0-for-6 with 5 Ks. In 2011, he made his first MLB pitching appearance, becoming the first player in 75 years to debut as a catcher and come back the next season as a pitcher (Art Doll of the Boston Braves was the other, in case you were wondering). Look for Hatch to come out of the pen throwing heat – he has a 3-1 strikeout-to-walk ratio, with 236 Ks in 216 career innings.

2018 will mark Yusmeiro Petit’s (#36, “Yus”) eleventh MLB season. His career has been somewhat of a rollercoaster, but he has had a few memorable moments: In 2013, Yus came within one out of throwing baseball’s 24th perfect game. Eric Chavez – the former Athletic – broke it up with a single to right. In 2014, Petit became just the third Giant pitcher to throw a nine-inning complete game with less than 90 pitches – he did it with 84. Petit is such a control freak that he once went 70 consecutive batters – over nearly a month – without going to a three-ball count. After starting his career in Miami, spending three seasons in Phoenix, and then four in San Francisco, Yusmeiro will now be on his fourth team in four years. The A’s locked him up with a 2 year/$10 million contract, hoping he will continue to throw strikes out of the ’pen.

Matt Joyce (#23, “DJ SS”) will be moving around the outfield and getting some ABs at DH. Joyce is one of only 107 players in the past 105 years to walk five times in a nine-inning game. DJ SS grew up in Tampa, and made his MLB debut with the Rays in July, 2010 (a Floridian hometown hero). In his first month in the Bigs, he hit two grand slams and a 3-run homer, all with two outs, and all game winners. He really had nowhere to go from there. In 2016, while playing with the Pirates, Joyce set a Major League record with 21 pinch walks (not a stat you see often). The A’s signed Joyce to a 2 year/$11 million deal last season, and he promptly hit 25 dingers for the club.

Any preview of the Oakland Athletics would be remiss if it failed to discuss Bruce Maxwell (#12, “Baby Prince”). Maxwell made news last season as the only Major Leaguer to kneel during the national anthem (Hometown Hero Mark Canha stood next to him with his hand on his shoulder). In some circles, this act made Bruce a pariah; and in others, a hero. Bruce was born in Germany; his father was stationed at the U.S. Army base in Wiesbaden at the time. Maxwell, an African American, stated that his decision to kneel represented concern for racial injustice as well as freedom of speech and the exercise of peaceful protest. The Oakland organization – true to its activist roots – supported his decision.

That story would be relatively interesting if it ended there. It does not. During this past off-season, Maxwell had two incidents that portray him in a much different light. First, Maxwell is alleged to have made up a story of racial profiling in a restaurant in Huntsville, Alabama. He claimed this incident was in retaliation for his decision to kneel; however, the accused waiter claims he had no idea who Maxwell was, and didn’t do anything wrong. As of this writing, the issue remains unresolved. Next, in November, Bruce was indicted on charges of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon for pointing a gun in the face of a female food delivery person. Maxwell has denied the allegations, but a grand jury disagreed.

By the time you see Maxwell play in July, all of this may have blown over, and Maxwell could be playing stellar defense and shepherding the pitching staff. Or, young Bruce might be serving 5-15 years in an Arizona prison, flushing his baseball career and a good chunk of his life down the drain because a waiter looked at him sideways and because his meat lovers pizza was ten minutes late.

One last point: Prior to Spring Training, Maxwell declared that he will no longer kneel for the anthem – so there is no need to get to the park early to witness his quiet protest.

THE FUTURE IS BRIGHT: To be compelled to buy a first-class seat on the bandwagon, you have to have hope in the future. These ballplayers lead you to think that Billy Beane has built something that will be blossoming just when Jose Altuve and Mike Trout become free agents, potentially opening the door for post-season baseball in the East Bay. And, let’s face it, you come to the ballpark to see great players, not just witness interesting stories. With that in mind, buy low on these guys:

First baseman Matt Olson (#28, “Oly”) hit 24 home runs in 189 at-bats last year. If he didn’t hit one the night before, there is a good chance he will circle the bases when you see him play – he homers once every 7.9 at-bats. But even when the ball doesn’t leave the park, it leaves a mark. Last season, only seven of 387 players who put at least 100 balls in play hit the ball harder. Oly averaged an exit velocity of 95 MPH. This guy should be fun to watch.

In 2016, Matt Chapman (#26, “Chappy”) led the Oakland farm system in homeruns, RBI, runs, extra base hits, and total bases; and he was ranked the A’s number three prospect by Baseball America. Those stats earned Chappy an invitation to the Big Leagues in 2017, where he hit fourteen homeruns in 84 games, with a .785 OPS. But it is Chapman’s defense that is really off the charts. In those 84 games, he turned 34 double plays and had 19 Defensive Runs Saved. The only third baseman with better defensive stats was Chapman’s high school teammate, Nolan Arenado. With Manny Machado moving back to his original position of shortstop this season, #26 is the early-season pick to win the AL Gold Glove at the hot corner.

The often-previously-mentioned Stephen Piscotty is one of baseball’s young great sluggers. In 2016, when Piscotty played 153 games, he hit 22 home runs and knocked in 85 with an .800 OPS. He looks to be an exciting player in right field for Oakland for years to come.

There are two Major League players with the last name “Davis” and the first name “Chris.” One plays in Baltimore, is overpaid and underperforms, and he spells his name “Chris.” The other will DH and play left field for the A’s, and he spells his name “Khris.” Khris Davis(#2, “Khrush”) hit 22 homers in 144 games in 2014; 27 homers in 121 games, including 21 dingers after the All-Star break, in 2015; Khris was tied for third in the AL with 42 home runs in 2016; and last season he hit another 43. He has also struck out 605 times over the last four seasons. So rest-assured, when you see Khrush, he will be swinging for the fences.

Late in the game, check the bullpen for Blake Treinen (#39, “B-Lockay”). Originally drafted by the A’s in 2011, he was traded to the Nationals in 2013, and then came back home in 2017. In 2016, Treinen established himself as one of baseball’s top relievers, appearing in 73 games, and was in the Top-15 in: ground ball percentage (3rd with 66.5%), ERA (8th, at 2.28), holds (12th with 22), and games (12th with 73). In those 73 appearances, he allowed only 51 hits. B-Lockay recorded a 2.13 ERA with the A’s last season in the 35 games he pitched after coming over from the Nats. If the A’s have the lead in the 9th, expect to see #39 take the mound.

Emilio Pagan (#15) pitched in 34 games for the Mariners last season, and was acquired by the A’s shortly after the World Series. Last season he struck out seven batters to every one he walked, and had a 0.93 WHIP. Look for Pagan to come into the game in high leverage situations and put out the fire. If you are rooting for your hometown team, you may not want to see Pagan jogging in the from the ‘pen with the game on the line.

Franklin Barreto (#1, “Kaki”) made his MLB debut last season, and in 2016 was ranked the A’s top prospect by Baseball America. Oakland is currently trying to figure out if he should play second, short, or in Nashville. He will need to hit – and not strikeout – to remain on the Big League roster, but expect him to be somewhere in Oakland’s middle infield when the A’s start to contend for an AL West title.

And lastly, an off-shoot of the interesting vet is the interesting rookie, whose future is bright. Herschel Mack Powell, IV (#3) is known as “Boog,” but he is no relation to the former Oriole. As a kid he was called “Little Mack,” but then his family starting referring to him as “Boog,” and it stuck. Boog signed with the A’s in 2012, but was traded to the Rays in 2015. He was came back to the Pacific Northwest at the end of 2015, when he was traded to the Mariners. If Boog was smart, he never would have unpacked his suitcase. The following is a list of his travelogue for 2017: MLB debut for the Mariners in Cleveland on April 29th; sent down to Tacoma May 5th (he actually flew to Las Vegas); recalled to play in Oakland on May 16th; sent down to Tacoma on June 11th; recalled to the big club in Anaheim on July 2nd; sent down to Tacoma on July 18th (he flew to Albuquerque); traded to the A’s on August 6th and was sent to Nashville (one can only hope he was able to fly from Kansas City, rather than routing through Oakland); called up to Oakland on August 11th where he finished the season. Powell will share time in centerfield this season, and looks to have a great future – if he ever gets to unpack his bags.

So there it is – a comprehensive list of reasons to be thrilled you scored those tickets to the A’s game in July. As is Billy Beane’s want, a handful of these players – and others not mentioned – could be traded at the July 31st deadline. But you should be able to see the squad before players start being sent hither and yon.

There is nothing like a night at the ballpark – be it Little League, Minor League, or the Majors. The lights have a certain way of belying the actual time of day; the grass, without the sun’s reflection, is the perfect shade of green; the beer, not needing to fight the daytime heat, goes down with just the right bite; and the hot dogs, serving as dinner rather than lunch, feel all the more decadent and taste all the more delicious. And a late game ice cream, at a time when you normally would be putting your kids to bed, is totally self-indulgent. Sure, traffic is insane, and you get home late and wake up tired, but no matter. Life’s short, enjoy yourself; and embrace the 4-A Oakland A’s – they should make for an entertaining night at the yard.

Cut out this handy chart, fold it up, and keep it in your wallet for that wonderful night in July when you get to see, in person, one of the most interesting teams in baseball:

PLAYER UNI # NICKNAME FUN FACT
Franklin Barreto 1 Kaki Smooth in the middle infield; will hopefully be in the Big Leagues by July
Khris Davis 2 Khrush Will either homer or strikeout
Boog Powell 3 Boog Traveling man should be in centerfield for years to come
Jed Lowrie 8 Low Seasoned vet who helps the Vets, and usually ends up at/on second base
Marcus Semien 10 Mahkus Local boy who may boot one (or three) at short; but will always be hustling
Bruce Maxwell 13 Baby Prince No longer kneels; may be in jail
Emilio Pagan 15 N/A 7-1 K/BB ratio
Josh Phlegley 19 PTBNL Mr. Indiana can hit even without a spleen
Mark Canha 20 N/A Local boy who loves to eat (@bigleaguefoodie)
Matt Joyce 23 DJ SS Will walk or homer
Stephen Piscotty 25 Momo Local boy comes home to rake in front of mom
Matt Chapman 26 Chappy Dazzling on defense and can hit bombs
Matt Olson 28 Oly 1 homerun every 8 at bats
Liam Hendriks 31 Slydah What’s Australian for strikeout?
Yusmeiro Petit 36 Yus Throws nothing but strikes
Blake Treinen 39 B-Lockay Ace closer
Chris Hatcher 44 Hatch Catcher-cum-pitcher
Kendall Graveman 49 Digger Engineer who puts on a clinic every 5th day
Andrew Triggs 60 Triggonometry Scholar who is calculating on the mound

 

PLAY BALL!!

Hall Worthy: You Decide

 

My father has his own blog. In it, he writes his thoughts, feelings, and opinions, and concludes with “that is my take – you decide.” I have always thought this a clever writing tool, as you make the reader an active participant. So, as with apples and trees, I want to let you decide.

In 2012, said father, my son, and I were lucky enough to be invited on the field at Fenway Park for batting practice. Alas, it was the visiting team’s BP, but a blast nonetheless. As we stood behind the ropes and my son begged for balls, and my father reveled in his surroundings, taking a trip down memory lane to when he was younger than my son, sitting in the cheap seats at “America’s Most Beloved Ballpark,” I found myself mesmerized by the goings-on at shortstop.

If you have ever been at the yard early enough to catch batting practice, you are treated to a coordinated symphony of activity. Hitters, obviously, are hitting. But for a few moments every afternoon, they are Little Leaguers, subject to the clarion call of: “balls up.” Some pitchers dot the outfield and shag flyballs in the merriment of times gone by; while other pitchers use the dwindling light to get in sprints along the warning track. Fringe players and stars alike take a moment to check in with reporters, front office personnel, and the occasional fan. And stationed on either side of the batting cage is a coach hitting fungoes to players at second base and shortstop, respectively. Yes, even the big leaguers have to take infield practice.

On this late afternoon in July, Toronto was in town. This Blue Jays team was somewhat non-descript, hovering around .500 at that point, eventually finishing the season in fourth place, twenty-two games behind the Yankees. Yunel Escobar started 145 games at shortstop for the Jays that year, hitting .253 with a swarthy .644 OPS. But it was not Escobar who caught and held my eye. No, it was – at that time – the 45-year old backup shortstop, with nearly 3,000 games under his belt.

Watching Omar Vizquel during batting practice was, in a word, sublime. I gladly would have forfeited the game, and paid for my ticket just to watch Vizquel field grounders for three hours. He grabbed balls between his legs, he took throws behind his back, he made catches over his shoulder, he stood at short facing left field and still made plays. On a few occasions – and this is not hyperbole – he threw his glove in the air, knocking down line drives headed for the outfield. Try that some time. It was a wonder to watch, so watch I did. When my son wanted to fetch an autograph, I let him roam free. When my father wanted to look around, I did not join him. This was a once-in-a-lifetime (it turns out Omar participated in BP approximately 2,968 times in his career) opportunity to watch genius in action. Sure, it was batting practice and not a live game, but no matter. Sure, there were no stakes so he could be free to try any stunt he wanted, but who cares. It is why, in 2015, the Golden State Warriors opened the arena hours early so fans could watch Stephen Curry get ready to play. The pregame is often more enjoyable than the real thing.

For me, an unapologetic baseball fan, who loves Web Gems more than “chicks dig the long ball,” this was watching Picasso paint, Brando emote, MLK preach, Jordan dunk. This was more than worth the price of admission.

In a few days the 2018 Baseball Hall of Fame class will be unveiled. This is Vizquel’s first year of eligibility. Spoiler alert: he will not be enshrined this year. But the larger question is whether he ever will be? The interwebs are filled with articles citing the pros and cons of his qualifications, and I am truly on the fence. If there was a Hall of Fame for pregame mastery, Omar is a first-ballot inductee. Unfortunately, the BBWAA limits its vote to in-game results.

Unlike my father, I have not proffered an opinion, just an appreciation of the player. You decide!

PLAY BALL!!

Happy Wife: Free Agency is a Family Matter

 

I have always been intrigued by the athlete’s wife. Before anyone paints me a misogynist, as of this morning, there are no women playing any of the four major sports, and also as of this morning, there are no openly gay players on any of those teams (we can be certain there are some closeted gay players, but I digress), so this discourse is reserved for the wives.

You always hear about players, in the off-season, going to a celebrity golf tournament in Lake Tahoe, or a “boys trip” to Las Vegas, or a booze cruise off South Beach. And every time I wonder: “What do their wives think?” If my job required that I be gone – corporeally and/or mentally – for six months of the year, and then no sooner than I got home I told my wife I was leaving for the weekend with my teammates or buddies, I am pretty sure she would have an abreaction. Suffice it to say, it wouldn’t go over so well.

But such, I guess, is the life of the athlete’s wife. Which leads me to latest curiosity: where are we going to live; where are the kids going to school; where are we spending our spring?

As of this writing, there are at least nine high-priced free agents still awaiting new contracts. I won’t get into the lower-tier players, as for some/most of them, they do not have a Chinese menu of team options. But for the likes of Jake Arrieta, Eric Hosmer, J.D. Martinez, and Yu Darvish, there are options aplenty. And, as some point, they will need to make a decision.

Many of these players, like Jake Arrieta, have wives and kids. The Arrietas have made Chicago their home since 2013. Jake rejected the Cubs’ qualifying offer, so, ostensibly, they will be moving. But where?

The rumor is that Arrieta is looking for a long-term deal valued at somewhere in the neighborhood of $200 million.  The conventional wisdom holds that the deal will be somewhere around $150-$175 million. At some level, the difference between $175 and $200 million may be less important to Jake than a happy wife and a stable life. For reference, Jake has made nearly $32 million in his career, and he will make an additional nine figures whenever and wherever he signs. And while it is easy for me to be blasé about $25 or so million, it is really easy for him to be as well. Any way you shake it, he will make generational, legacy, eff you money. The same is true for J.D. Martinez, Yu Darvish, and the others.

So the question then becomes where do Jake and his family want to spend that money? Where do they want to make a home? Which city has the best schools, the best golf courses, the best night life? Where do their friends live? Their extended families? In a life centered around the husband – his career, his training, his travel, his schedule – it seems to me (again, maybe it is just me) that the “where” question is one the wife gets to answer (or at least have a vociferous voice in deciding).

If Brittany Arietta were my wife, I am pretty sure she would be asking me, on a daily basis, what the hell is happening. Which means I, in turn, would be asking Scott Boras, on a daily basis, what the hell is happening. And I am pretty certain my wife would want more than five weeks’ notice to know if we are heading east or west for the spring, and east or west for the summer and the next five, six, or seven years.

But, again, this draws me back to my fascination with the athlete’s wife. This topic is ripe for – due for – a book, one that I am not qualified to write. My short analysis is that this is what they signed up for. With the trappings come the shortcomings; travel (and moving on short notice) is just part of the package. But what I would give to be a fly on the wall in the Arrieta’s kitchen – I want to know how his other half lives.

78 days until we hear:

PLAY BALL!!

 

Roy Halladay: 1997-2017

I have suffered a great deal of loss in my years. I have attended more funerals, and delivered more eulogies, than most people do in a lifetime. And when someone dies, we, as a society, have an immediate reflex to turn the deceased into a saint, a hero, a flawless soul who graced this mortal coil for too short a period. In those moments of despair, we often overlook the faults, imperfections, peccadilloes, that made the person whole, made them human, made them them.

I have never subscribed to this theory of post-mortem hagiography. Maybe I am just a “warts and all” type of guy. Maybe I am just an unrepentant pessimist. Or maybe I am just honest. With all of that said, feel free to deify me upon my interment.

I have given this idea a great deal of thought while reading so many glowing obituaries and memorials and tributes to Roy Halladay, who died tragically in a plane accident on November 7th. To read the words written by those who knew him well, by those who him a little, by those who rooted for him, and those who just watched him from afar, you get the sense that this man was really as great as he seemed.

Halladay’s statistics speak for themselves, and even absent an untimely death, it is safe to say that they are clearing a spot for his plaque in Cooperstown some time after 2019. Doc’s intensity was well-known to baseball fans in two countries – his refusal to speak to teammates on pitch days; his glaring at batters to get back in the box; his 5am Spring Training arrivals. It wasn’t just teammates, rivals loved watching him pitch.

“I can’t believe it. So many times we competed against each other and even while competing, I wanted to see you! My condolences to his family” — via Twitter, @45PedroMartinez

But there are so many other attributes that are either overlooked or unknown. There was the mentorship that happened in the clubhouse, but was not publicized. There was the quiet donations, including a police dog to the very sheriff’s office that led Halladay’s recovery effort. There was (and will continue to be) the Halladay Family Foundation that aides children’s charities, hunger relief, and animal causes. There was the Little League coaching that spread to both dugouts, as Roy was loathe to horde his knowledge and deny other children the experience and expertise he had gained over a lifetime on the diamond. There was the love of flying that endeared him to his new “team” in the aviation community. There was his being a role model for scores of pitchers, including the man who saved the final game of the World Series just over a week ago. And there was the multiple nominations for the Roberto Clemente Award, given to an MLB player for sportsmanship and community involvement, an award named for a man who died, ironically/coincidentally/cosmically, too young in a plane accident.

Roy Halladay, coming off a season with a 10.64 ERA, was a dark horse to become his generation’s best pitcher. He was the rare bird who lived up to the words written about him by professional scriveners. He was a hard-working Phillie and a free-flying Blue Jay, an inspiration to all.

R.I.P. Doc, the world of baseball, and the world in general, was a better place for having you.

PLAY BALL!!

Game 5: A Long Day’s Journey Into Morning

At about 11pm Eastern time on Saturday night, as the Dodgers wrapped up Game 4, my wife asked me the following question: “Do you want to go to the game tomorrow night?”

I dismissed the idea out of hand; but she was already fingers-deep into Travelocity, attempting to change flights out of Florida and into Texas. Before I could even ponder the imponderable, she had a plane ticket and a hotel room on hold. Her next question was the big one: “Can you get a ticket?” I explained to her that in today’s world, you can always get a ticket. As the old adage goes, “it’s just a question of price.”

After querying friends and family, I elected to sleep on the time-consuming and expensive decision. I woke up Sunday morning wholly ambivalent; I cannot recall the last time I was so torn. Mark Twain once opined: “Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do.” Twain sat on my shoulder and whispered in my ear. The idea that I might miss something magical (I was thinking a Kershaw no-hitter), and regret it forever, was too much to bear. So, as Mr. Clemens implored, I threw off the bowlines and sailed away from the safe harbor of Palm Beach airport.

When I arrived in Charlotte to switch planes, I learned my 4:50pm flight to Houston (which would have gotten me there in time for the national anthem) was delayed until 7pm.

Crestfallen. That is the only word I can use. Despondent, crushed, hopeless? Those work as well. I was trapped in North Carolina with a stupidly-priced ticket burning a hole in my pocket, and no way to get deep in the heart of Texas. 7pm became 7:15pm, which became 7:25pm, which became an 8pm take-off. Doing the math – which I had been doing for three hours – I knew I would arrive at the park, at best, in the 6th inning, but if Kershaw and Keuchel duplicated Game 1, I would get there in time to help clean the stands.

I considered bagging the whole plan and grabbing the next flight to L.A., but I had come this far (and didn’t want to spend more money changing another flight). Like it or not, this was my journey; destiny my guide.

The 2 hour and 37 minute flight to Houston came in 11 minutes early – minor miracle. Channeling my inner Ezekial Elliott, I charged to the front and was the first to deplane at 9:29pm. Channeling my inner Jerry Maguire, I sprinted through George Bush Intercontinental Airport, literally threw my suitcase into a cab and told the cabby – in a cliché – “there is something extra if you get me downtown in twenty minutes.” I was standing in the Crawford Boxes at 10:04pm – it was the top of the sixth.

I had missed the first five innings. I had missed the Dodgers blow 4-0 and 7-4 leads. I had missed Bellinger’s three-run homer and Altuve’s counter-punch. I had missed Kershaw and Keuchel. I was not about to miss another pitch.

Before the bottom of the sixth, I walked down the third baseline and found a family leaving Section 116 (mind you, it was nearly 10:30pm on a school night). They gave me a seat in Row 20, and I did not move for more than two hours. No bathroom breaks; no beer runs; no seventh-inning-stretch ice cream. Hell, I barely sat down. The Astros fans in Row 19 decided this was a “stand all game” situation, so I followed suit.

What I witnessed, endured, and withstood for next five innings was unlike anything I have ever experienced. If you are like me, you have obligations outside of sports. You have wives/husbands, kids, a job. You cannot devote your life to a sporting event. How many times have you wished a game would just end because you have a meeting early the next morning? Or the anticipation of post-game traffic fills you with so much dread that it interferes with your enjoyment of the game? But on this night, 1,500 miles from home, with no wife and no kids to attend to, a hotel room across the street, my only concern being a flight more than ten hours away, I was all-in. When Chris Taylor came to bat with two outs in the top of the 10th and the tying run on second, I wanted the base hit because I was rooting for the Dodgers; I wanted the base hit because a three-run ninth to tie the game would be epic; but mostly, I wanted the base hit because I simply didn’t want this game to end. I. Could. Not. Get. Enough!

Many writers, all more skilled than I, have written about this game. You all watched it. You know the highs and lows, the ins and outs, the excitement and disappointment, and all the moments in between. But being there was something else. It was an emotional roller coaster with no end in sight. One of the beauties of baseball is the lack of a clock, so there are no constraints on the potential end point. This game could still be going, with Bob Knepper pitching against Tom Niedenfuer. In the stadium, we weren’t privy to the statistical oddity we were witnessing, we just had to intuit it. We didn’t have the replays and the commentary available to those watching at home, so we relied on one another to talk ourselves through what just happened. Did that actually happen? It was a communal experience, and I wasn’t even a real member of the community.

As good as the coverage and analysis has been, there are certain things you cannot appreciate watching the game on television. An in-person observer’s account:

  • Angela Matthews, a 10-year veteran of the Texas Air National Guard sang “God Bless America” as part of the 7th inning stretch. She was joined by 43,000 back-up vocalists, who made this rendition one of the coolest I have ever heard. Houstonians and Angelenos joined together as Americans for three minutes of beautiful harmony in the midst of a gut-wrenching battle of wills.
  • From my angle, George Springer’s homerun on the first pitch of the bottom of the 7th was still rising as it left the yard. It was gone instantaneously, and landed – as many have pointed out – with an explosion on the train tracks above the left field seats. It seems implausible you could hit a ball harder.
  • I have never seen a ball hit higher than Carlos Correa’s homerun three batters later. Off the bat, I was excited to finally see a ball hit the roof. It went so high, and hung in the air so long, that I had time to track the ball, then track Kiké Hernández tracking the ball, then track the ball again, then watch Kiké drift back to a few feet in front of the left field wall, and then watch the ball drop into the second row of the Crawford Boxes as if discarded by a wayward seagull. StatCast tells us that the ball went 169 feet in the air and stayed there for 6.8 seconds. It was unreal.

  • At one point, an overzealous fan in American flag boxers (and not much else) sprinted onto the field. He juked and jived, pissed off Houston’s finest, and ultimately found himself hogtied with multiple knees in his back. Bummer he missed the rest of this game to win a sophomoric bet.
  • With two out in the bottom of the 9th, Asia’s public enemy number one hit a long drive to left center. Off the bat, I was certain this was a walk-off homerun. This was Gibby, Kirby Puckett, David Freese, and a handful (13) of others who ended a World Series game with a dinger. As sure as I was that Cody Bellinger had ended Game 2, there was no doubt that the guy who should have been suspended just ended Game 5. The ball hung in the air for what seemed like forever, only to touch down in the one place – the only place – in the entire ballpark where it was not a round-tripper. While that ball traveled nearly 400 feet, 43,000 people held their collective breath. It was an odd sensation. Somehow the ball hit just below and just to the left of that all-determining yellow line. Karma? Gurriel was left in scoring position and we had free baseball.
  • When little-known Derek Fisher slid home with the game-winning run following Alex Bregman’s 10th inning single, the roar in Minute Maid Park was extraordinary. Equal parts exultation and exhalation, the Houston Hopeful were going home Monday morning one win away from a World Series title. I am told you could get a feel for the crowd noise on television; I cannot imagine that is even half true. It was thunderous, raucous, cacophonous; and it stayed that way for a long time.

This game had ties in the 4th, 5th, and shockingly, the 9th inning. Three 3-run leads were blown. There were 11 runs scored from the 7th inning on. The Dodgers scored three runs (to tie the game) in the top of the 9th, each time with two strikes. So many crazy, insane, incomprehensible things happened in this game that we can hardly remember the merely extraordinary. In time, we will remember, and we will look back with awe.

My Sunday started in Florida, and ended on Monday morning in Texas. In between I experienced more emotions than I can recount. Upon leaving the park well after 1am local time, I called my wife – the instigator of this odyssey – and she asked me: “Was it worth it?”

If you love baseball as much as I do, and if you have read this far I am assuming you do. And if so, then such a question needs no response!

PLAY BALL!!

Addendum: The foregoing was written in the haze of Game 5. In that time, Game 6 was played. Dave Roberts did all sorts of weird things, and they all seemed to work. Joc Pederson continued to only get extra-base hits. And the Dodgers beat Justin Verlander. By 2017 standards, this game was somewhat quotidian. As such, Game 7 stands to be one for the ages. As I write these words, I feel tonight much like I did early Monday morning: unsure how I will be able to fall asleep! An incredible season has but one game left, winner take all.