Throwing like a girl

I came across this fun article by James Fallows about throwing like a girl, from the archives of the Atlantic, at Baseball Primer today.

He opens the article by contrasting Hillary Clinton’s and Bill Clinton’s Opening Day pitches in 1994. Hillary’s was thrown at Wrigley Field at this game, which Jim and I remember not for Hillary’s toss, but for Tuffy Rhodes’s three homers.

Fallows addresses all the elements of a successful throw, one of which is the hip/torso turn. I have no problem with that; throwing is as natural to me anything. But–in what I think is a sign of how much more time I spent throwing than hitting as a kid–I never picked up the proper hip turn for hitting. I still hit with my arms rather than my whole body unless I really, really focus. Which means I’m not a very good hitter.

Baseball writing you shouldn’t miss

Back around the All-Star break, I learned that Twins relief pitcher Pat Neshek has a blog, in which he reveals that, well, he’s a baseball nerd. As he put it in his pitch to fans to vote him into the last spot on the All-Star squad, if he weren’t playing baseball, he’d be watching and reading and writing about it, like all of us. On top of that, he’s obsessed with baseball cards.

Speaking of baseball cards, I know I’ve pointed out Josh Wilker’s Cardboard Gods blog before, but it’s been particularly good lately and seemed worth noting again. It’s less about baseball per se than about how the way that baseball provides landmarks and highlights that help us to remember, preserve, and even sometimes to understand our lives–and it’s really good.

Finally, a link at Baseball Primer today introduced me to Dirk Hayhurst, a minor-league pitcher who writes the Diary of a Non-Prospect for Baseball America. The column that drew my attention was a thoughtful, well-written piece about signing autographs, but his columns on early-morning bus rides and manning the ball bucket are also well worth your time. Hayhurst has a good eye and a surprisingly nuanced perspective on his profession, and while he’s just a beginning writer, he clearly understands how to tell a story.

I wrote to him to tell him how much I enjoyed his column, and I got the following response:

Levi,

I had no Idea my little story was out there in so many places. Its very
flattering to see because I honestly don’t consider myself a very
talented writer. I have never done it before- no previous experience
etc… I just wanted to capture as many sides of the life of a real
person playing a surreal job. I didn’t loose my humanity when I put this
uniform on, in fact, I’d say it became more real to me. What I used to
think about baseball before I signed is not the same as what I think
about it now. I guess I used to think this job, this high profile title
of pro-athlete would answer all my questions about life. IT just gave me
more. Why are so many of us pro anythings so distant? Why are we so
beloved for such a trivial job? Why do kids want my autograph when their parents make 8 times as much as I do!? Why am I more revered then a Doctor? I don’t know, but I’ll do my best to make the most of, because whether it makes sense of not, I have the opportunity to help- I’m going to take it.

Thanks for reading, and feel free to post this on any site you wish.

The indexing at Baseball America is poor, but if you search on Hayhurst’s name, you’ll find quite a few columns. Here’s wishing him luck in pitching and writing.

Also in attendance

At tonight’s Cubs game, though I didn’t notice it, both Stacey and our friend Becky assured me that the message board between innings at one point read:

The Chicago Cubs welcome Smellosaurus Rex

I don’t think he

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was in our section.

The greatest of all time

Oh, this is good. Not only has Rickey Henderson been hired as the new Mets hitting coach, but the guy at 100% Injury Rate has compiled his twenty-five favorite Rickey stories. #13 almost

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made me pass out. How long until all the Mets have .400 on-base percentages? Since we’re talking about Rickey, I figure it’s worth listing his career numbers; because of all the goofiness surrounding him, I think it’s easy to forget just how good he was. .279/.401/.419

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in 3081 games. 2190 walks. 1406 stolen bases. 2295 runs. As Bill James use to say, you could cut Rickey in half and you’d have two hall of famers. Oh, and one last thing for your Saturday: George Brett has discovered–and is raving about–baseball-reference.com. Congratulations to Sean Forman, the site’s founder and proprietor.

For reading while listening to ballgames on the radio

I’ve been a bit remiss lately about passing along good online baseball reading, so today I’ll catch up a bit.

First, if you’re not reading Cardboard Gods regularly, you really should add it to your google reader. You’ll thank me. It’s ostensibly a blog about the author’s baseball collection, taken one card at a time–and I know: few things sound more boring than that. But the cards are really only a jumping-off point for author Josh Wilker’s stories of . . . well, everything. This post is particularly good, drawing on an oral history of a little-known–because imaginary–punk band.

Another good one to add to your reader is Joe Posnanski’s Soul of Baseball blog. Posnanski is a sportswriter for the Kansas City Star, and somehow he hasn’t allowed covering the Royals to beat him down. He’s taken to blogging far better than most professional writers. He brings to his blog all the enthusiasm and interest in the sport that the best amateur sites have–and that a lot of professional sportswriters seem to have lost along the way.

King Kaufman
, who regular readers know is one of my favorite sportswriters, today has some notes he made while listening to Ernie Harwell sit in on a Tigers

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broadcast the other day. It’s all worth reading, but my favorite factoid is this:

The first night game in Detroit didn’t start until about 9:30 p.m. “They thought in those days they had to wait until it got dark,” Harwell said. “So everybody was waiting around.”

It sounds crazy, but you can imagine the thought process that would lead you to wait until dark if you’d never tried this crazy night baseball stuff before.

Finally, a story that I can’t believe Jim didn’t pick up: baseball teams visiting Tampa don’t like to stay in the Vinoy Hotel . . . because it’s haunted:

Frank Velasquez, the strength coordinator for the Pittsburgh Pirates, says he’ll never forget his experience early one June morning in 2003 after the team checked in following an evening flight from Toronto.

“It was pretty realistic,” he began when I asked about it last week. “It was one of those 4 a.m. arrivals. I was so tired I didn’t even call for my bags. I went to sleep. And I remember just waking up for no particular reason, and I see a man standing at the end of my bed near the desk.

“I remember vividly. He had on khakis and a white long-sleeve shirt, but his attire wasn’t Calvin Klein. It was from another era. And his look, the way his hair was combed, was an older look, but he was a young man. It was maybe 7 in the morning because there was light behind him. He was just standing there looking at me. I didn’t feel threatened by him. I kind of looked at him and I closed my eyes. I look back and he’s still there. I was so tired I just went back to bed.”

The next day, Velasquez shared his encounter with one of the players during lunch. The player told Velasquez his story sounded like an experience pitcher Scott Williamson had a few days earlier when the Cincinnati Reds stayed at the Vinoy.

It’s probably good that something is scaring the Devil Rays’ opponents.

Numbers

1) While the universe remains a strange and complicated place, one tiny corner of it settled down a bit last weekend, as Mets relief pitcher Lino Urdaneta retired the first batter he faced in his first appearance of the year–thus instantly lowering his ERA from infinity to 162.00. To that point, Urdaneta’s career had consisted of one appearance in 2004, for the Tigers, during which he’d faced six batters and allowed them all to reach base. After five hits and a walk, which resulted in six earned runs, Urdaneta was pulled from the game. His ERA remained mind-bending for the next two seasons as he battled elbow injuries and visa problems, but by the

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end of Sunday’s game, it had plummeted to a mere 81.00. Now it’s all the way to 63.00 and falling. 2) Baseball is best when played with between 16 and 20 players. But as any kid can tell you, it’s frequently difficult to find that many players. When Matt and I were kids, we played a version of baseball with Kenny and Jeff Busch that was modified for four players. It was a different game, with much more playing the outfield and much less baserunning, but it still resembled baseball. My nephew and I usually just play catch when we get together in good weather. But recently, wanting to give hitting a try, we decided to employ the services of my parents’ dog, Josie, as a roving fielder. It worked reasonably well, but we hadn’t played long before one of the reasons dogs aren’t part of major league baseball was brought home to me–and my shoes: Josie is very nice, but Snoopy she ain’t.

The Wave, Redeemed?, or An Indian Invasion!

When MLB announced that they were going to reschedule the Angels’ snowed-out games at Cleveland this week to Miller Park in Milwaukee, my first thought was, “Oh, if I weren’t going on a trip in a couple of days, I’d love to go to that first game.” Then I thought, WWJD? What, after all, would Jim do?

So, in the spirit of Baseball Related Program Activities, Stacey and I called Bob, hopped in the car, and trekked up to Milwaukee after work. Following are some notes.

1. Apparently, wherever the Indians travel, Eastern Time folllows? The game started, not at 7:05 central time, as a weeknight game in the Central Time Zone would ordinarily do, but at 6:05. Now, granted, we wouldn’t have been able to get out of work in time to make a 6:05 start regardless, but had I paid more attention when I first read about the game, we wouldn’t have been surprised to see that the game was in the fifth inning when we arrived.

2. We had anticipated getting to sit a few rows from the field, near home plate, which is what Luke and I were able to do at the Marlins/Expos tilt that was relocated to Comiskey Park a few years ago. It drew 4,000.

Apparently, more than 19,000 other people had the same thought. The entire lower deck sold out, even the bleachers, which the Brewers had intended to keep closed. Concession lines were very, very long. I’ve been to Brewers games there in April against the Cardinals where the actual attendance was under 2,000, from what I could tell, with 60% of that Cardinals fans. This attendance, on 24 hours notice, was an impressive testament to the power of $10 tickets. As my coworker Mary said, “If there’s one thing Wisconsinites love, it’s cheap stuff.”

3. That attendance of 19,000+ was more than the paid attendance in Florida, Baltimore, Atlanta, Oakland, and Pittsburgh, let alone the actual attendance at about six other parks.

4. The majority of fans seemed to be rooting for Cleveland, though the only team they were unanimously against was the Cubs.

5. Though we didn’t get to see it, the Indians’ mascot, a hideous purple thing that is only excusable because a Chief Wahoo mascot would be an abomination, slid down the slide following a couple of Indians home runs. He didn’t, of course, slide into a vat of beer, because the Brewers, in order to demonstrate that they hate fun, didn’t move Bernie’s stein to the new ballpark. I guess he only drinks the hard stuff now.

6. Late in the game, the wave started. Though I’m no purist, I’m sure you realize that I hate the wave. There is, after all, a baseball game going on, and people standing up at random moments is not as much fun as watching a ballgame. But last night, after a few trips around the stadium, the wave suddenly slowed to a crawl, then slowed down even further until it was just creeping along. Eventually, as I laughed until my sides hurt, the wave looked like slow-motion video, with people quietly and ever-so-gently lifting out of their seats and bringing their arms up. After one trip around like that, getting slower all the time, the wave snapped into an instant double-time for a few rounds before petering out. It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. I’ve learned from a couple of sources today that the slo-mo wave is common at UW-Madison games.

7. When the Indians closer came in, the PA guy played “Wild Thing,” a nice reference to the last time the Indians played as the home team in Milwaukee, when the movie Major League was being shot at old County Stadium.

Wrigley Field

As I’m about to head out into the cold and show to enjoy yet another Opening Day at

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Wrigley Field, I thought it would be appropriate to point out Michael Barrett’s thoughts about the future of the ballpark. The Tribune asked him, and some other Cubs, about the ballpark because of the uncertainty created by impending new ownership. Barrett, it turns out, thinks the ballpark should stay exactly the same. The same, that is, except for one little improvement:

“Ideally, especially for this time of year, you’d like to see a dome put on the outside of it,” Barrett said. “Don’t change anything about Wrigley Field. Just reinforce it and have a dome covering it.”

Well, that should be easy enough.

Play ball!

I became a baseball fan the summer I turned eleven. My mother was taking classes towards a degree in social work at a college about an hour’s drive from Carmi, and my brother and I would ride along with her a couple of nights a week to the campus. On the drive, we would tune in to the Cardinals, carried at that point on the clear-channel powerhouse of KMOX. The Cardinals were very good that summer, holding off a tough Mets team to win the division and then the pennant before a disappointing World Series performance. Jack Buck and Mike Shannon described it all, and made us fans.

Sometime in the next few years, as my baseball fandom turned into the sort of obsession that only preteen boys, it seems, are capable of, I discovered on an out-of-the-way bookshelf in our house a musty, digest-sized baseball magazine previewing the 1974 season. Opening it, I discovered on the first page a nearly inscrutable scrawl, one bearing no little resemblance to my own:

June 1974–Play Ball, Boy! Love, Col.

It was a gift, given at my birth and no doubt tucked away at the time and forgotten, from my great-grandfather, Grandpa Colonel, about whom I’ve written before. Living his whole life in rural Kansas, he spent a lifetime enjoying baseball–and the Cardinals–the same way I grew up enjoying them: on the radio, far from the ballpark. Jack Buck may be gone–as is Grandpa Colonel–but the radio is still my favorite way to experience the game if I can’t be there, and sound of baseball on the radio is still, for me, the heart of summer.

I never was much of a ballplayer, but I find myself thinking of Grandpa Colonel’s admonition every spring. Last Sunday, I spent the morning playing catch with my nephew at Montrose Beach, throwing until our arms ached. Tonight, Stacey and I open the house to friends–several of whom haven’t visited since October–for chili, brats, cornbread, and beer, all in honor of the return of spring. One of these days, we’ll have to get Jim here for the opener.

It’s the Cardinals and Mets. The last time we saw these two teams, they played one of the most exciting, stressful, and rewarding games I’ve ever seen. Tonight, like every spring, it starts all over again.

Play ball.

It Happens Every Spring

Every year, about this time of the pseudo-spring, I read a baseball book. I try to limit myself to one–aside, that is, from the annual Baseball Prospectus (and, now, for the first time, The Hardball Times Season Preview)–because I spend plenty of non-reading time thinking about baseball; my reading time should, I figure, be mostly baseball-free.

This year, after reading a great interview with the author at my favorite Cardinals blog, I chose Wall Street Journal sportswriter Sam Walker’s Fantasyland: A Sportswriter’s Obsessive Bid to Win the World’s Most Ruthless Fantasy Baseball League (2006). I had skipped it when it was in hardcover because, despite years of being a statistically literate baseball fan, I’d always avoided fantasy baseball. But the same day that I read the interview–which made clear that the book would be of interest to any somewhat nerdy baseball fan, despite fantasy-avoidance–my friend Eric, ruthlessly drawing on all the power of a decade-long long-distance friendship, talked me into running a fantasy team in his league. So how could I not read Sam Walker’s book?

It’s good–Walker is very good at sketching out characters, building drama, and getting the reader deeply involved in the utterly inconsequential. The book deserves, and will, if I stay organized, receive, a full post (cross-posted, like this one, at my book blog). For now, though, I’ll just reproduce the passage that made me get up and find the laptop. Walker has just finished–in his eyes fairly successfully–his first fantasy draft in the nation’s premier fantasy league. Drunkish on Guinness from the post-draft party at a bar in Queens, he wanders back to his Greenwich Village apartment. And he experiences a moment that seems to encapsulate my love of baseball, cities, and, in particular, New York:

By the time my shoes meet the pavement in Manhattan, it’s well past midnight. As I’m staggering home down Bethune Street, something on the sidewalk catches my eye. It’s scuffed and cracked and frayed at the seams, and probably not even made of leather, but nonetheless it’s a baseball. On a damp and chilly night at the end of March, I step into the middle of the cobblestone street and, after checking for cabs, wheelchairs, dogs, bicyclists, and beat cops, I fix the ball in my fingers with a two-seam grip and take the sign.

Then I set, kick, and deliver.

The ball bounces under the glow of streetlights, skitters on a manhole cover, and ricochets off the front tire of a Toyota. The real major league season doesn’t start for a few days, but mine begins right now. One of the advantages of owning a Rotisseries team is the inalienable right to throw out your own first pitch.

Players are working out, in Florida and that other place, Anthony Reyes of the world champion St. Louis Cardinals reportedly has command of his two-seamer, and even Rick Ankiel has a chance at making the major-league roster–as a hitter. We’re almost at the best time of year since October; you could do far worse than usher it in with Sam Walker.