So... yeah. I haven't updated this blog in few weeks. (Thanks for reminding me, Katy)
Anyway, being bored and lazy this summer, I've decided to compile a pair of lists, in which I try to determine both the best World Series winner of the decade and the worst team of my lifetime. Why the discrepancy in time frames? Well, I chose this decade for World Series winners because the double-aughts have provided a nice variety of teams that should make for some compelling research. Also, it keeps me from having to choose the 1998 Yankees by default.
Likewise, every year features some bad teams, but truly, truly awful teams (the 1996 and 2003 Tigers, the 1988 Orioles, and, potentially, the 2009 Nationals) are a wonder to behold. Unlike World Series winners, they don't happen every year. Granted, I haven't been watching baseball my whole life, but going with my lifetime gives me a fairly arbitrary cutoff date that still lets me frame it in some context relevant to me. And really, given that this is my blog and my readership is about 4, that's all that matters.
So, get ready in the upcoming week for some long dissertations on greatness and futility.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Fall of a giant
Everyone who follows sports possesses a handful memories that they particularly cherish. Perhaps they are shared by millions of fellow fans, but you still cling to them like a glorious, vis-a-vis meeting with a hero. I have my own. At the very top of the list is David Ortiz's performance in the 2004 ALCS. Even after almost five years of hindsight, his performance amazes. There were many astonishing performances by Red Sox in the 2004 ALCS, but it was Big Papi who won game 4 and gave us a taste of survival. It was Papi who breathed life back into game 5 after the Yankees rallied to take the lead, and it was Papi again who ended that marathon with a simple two-out, bloop single. And in Game 7, he delivered the first blow, with a first inning shot that gave the Red Sox an early lead they would not relinquish.
Now watch him, a crumbling, sad figure on the field. He cannot seem to catch up to a fastball for the life of him. As of this writing, he's hitting .203. His slugging percentage is a mind-boggling .293, 254 points below his career average. Of course, the potential explanations fly about like sand in the Santa Ana winds (SoCal reference, sorry). Is it psychological? An injury? Has he hit a thirty-something wall? Is it (God forbid) a post PED crash?
Right now, I honestly don't care. Others can speculate until they are content. I, however, continue to rue the sad reality that Big Papi is Big Papi no more, or certainly not how we remember. Other players have rebounded from disastrous seasons to productivity before. Hell, I was pretty sure that Andruw Jones was done after posting a terrifyingly tiny 34 OPS+ last season. This year he has posted a .447 OBP... granted, in just 83 PA, but still, it's miles more than Papi has shown this season.
Regardless, I guess this entire post can be summed up as a sad ramble about my favorite former power hitter. Watching him strike out twice and ground out feebly tonight, my memories of his great feats of the past seem paradoxically more distant and yet visible.
Now watch him, a crumbling, sad figure on the field. He cannot seem to catch up to a fastball for the life of him. As of this writing, he's hitting .203. His slugging percentage is a mind-boggling .293, 254 points below his career average. Of course, the potential explanations fly about like sand in the Santa Ana winds (SoCal reference, sorry). Is it psychological? An injury? Has he hit a thirty-something wall? Is it (God forbid) a post PED crash?
Right now, I honestly don't care. Others can speculate until they are content. I, however, continue to rue the sad reality that Big Papi is Big Papi no more, or certainly not how we remember. Other players have rebounded from disastrous seasons to productivity before. Hell, I was pretty sure that Andruw Jones was done after posting a terrifyingly tiny 34 OPS+ last season. This year he has posted a .447 OBP... granted, in just 83 PA, but still, it's miles more than Papi has shown this season.
Regardless, I guess this entire post can be summed up as a sad ramble about my favorite former power hitter. Watching him strike out twice and ground out feebly tonight, my memories of his great feats of the past seem paradoxically more distant and yet visible.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Get well soon, Jerry.
While I started this blog with the intention of avoiding short blurbs, I want to wish Jerry Remy a swift recovery from his lung cancer surgery. He underwent surgery last year and has taken indefinite leave to fully recover.
http://www.boston.com/sports/baseball/redsox/extras/extra_bases/2009/05/remy_taking_ind.html
http://www.boston.com/sports/baseball/redsox/extras/extra_bases/2009/05/remy_taking_ind.html
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Lazy+sick+other responsibilities= copout post
I need to finish an article I'm writing for the Torch. I'm battling a cold. I haven't updated in a week. Here's something I wrote after the Sox' game 5 comeback in last year's ALCS that I posted on a whim of Facebook. Hopefully, you haven't read it yet:
It's Saturday and I'm putting off a weekend of homework. Time for some thoughts about baseball, before tonight's big Game 6.
I'm a talkative person. Scratch that. I'm a regular motormouth. I work on it, I swear I do. I'm much more interested in conversation than I am in hearing myself speak. But I am what I am. My mind moves a mile a minute. I often have blamed my awful handwriting on the notion that my mind is moving faster than my limbs. Math has often given me the same problem: I can understand the concepts without issue, but when actually doing the problems I'm prone to skipping too far ahead and missing minute details. Other interests of mine reflect this tendency. I read more poetry and short stories than novels. When I sing, it's all I can do to keep three years of training and technique in mind once I step on stage.
I'm thinking about all this for a simple reason: I'm a crazed baseball fanatic. I've lived and breathed baseball for the better part of the last 13 years. Even after witnessing the Red Sox win two World Series, I still take baseball as seriously as I did from day one. How on earth does a game that is so deliberate have such a grip on me?
Baseball is often dismissed as a boring game. I defy anyone who watched the Red Sox come back to beat the Rays from 7-0 down on Thursday night/Friday morning to say such a thing. Baseball is pastoral, yes, but like a Flannery O'Connor story it can turn brutal, exciting, and frightening in moments. No other game builds drama so effectively. It's the polar opposite of instant gratification. The wait between each pitch, which can seem interminable to some, becomes Michael Myers slowly walking towards you in "Halloween". The walk to load the bases in the ninth in a tie game gives me the same feeling I got at the first sighting of the Misfit's car in "A Good Man is Hard to Find": looming dread, and the feeling that doom is inevitable, even if the story isn't over. The walkoff hit, or the game ending strikeout, are pure exhilaration after unbearable buildup... and I can't even think of a simile. Any literature reference would have to be compared to baseball in that regard. Baseball demands attention and pays great rewards to those who can wait.
Many writers before me have spoken of the poetic nature of the game, almost in Wordsworthian terms. Please. I've never been a sepia-toned baseball fan. Memories are great and vital, but I'm more for the moment and the tension. Baseball is poetry, but it's more "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" than "Tintern Abbey".
What line better sums up game 5's comeback better than "Though wise men at their end know dark is right/ because their words had forked no lightning they/ do not go gentle into that good night"? And in moments of heartbreak, such as the 2003 ALCS, few poetic lines better describe my feelings than "And you my father, there on the sad height/ curse, bless me now with your fierce tears I pray." My dad had been through the devastation of '86, my grandfather had '46, and now I had had my moment.
I got the same feeling watching Pedro Martinez in his prime pitch that I do when I read the ending of "The Dead", or listen to "The Tracks of My Tears". None of these things are related in tone or content. What binds them? Listen to Smokey Robinson launch into his falsetto, or watch a clip of Pedro tossing an inhuman changeup. The way the snow in Joyce's story falls through the universe, covering all the living and the dead, such feelings towards different mediums bind them.
Anyway, I'd long promised never to write a George Will-style dissertation on the glories of baseball as something more than a game. In the end, baseball is just a game. It happens to be one that appeals to me on levels that go beyond a need for distraction.
-note: I'm not speaking ill of Wordsworth. He's easily one of my favorite poets.
It's Saturday and I'm putting off a weekend of homework. Time for some thoughts about baseball, before tonight's big Game 6.
I'm a talkative person. Scratch that. I'm a regular motormouth. I work on it, I swear I do. I'm much more interested in conversation than I am in hearing myself speak. But I am what I am. My mind moves a mile a minute. I often have blamed my awful handwriting on the notion that my mind is moving faster than my limbs. Math has often given me the same problem: I can understand the concepts without issue, but when actually doing the problems I'm prone to skipping too far ahead and missing minute details. Other interests of mine reflect this tendency. I read more poetry and short stories than novels. When I sing, it's all I can do to keep three years of training and technique in mind once I step on stage.
I'm thinking about all this for a simple reason: I'm a crazed baseball fanatic. I've lived and breathed baseball for the better part of the last 13 years. Even after witnessing the Red Sox win two World Series, I still take baseball as seriously as I did from day one. How on earth does a game that is so deliberate have such a grip on me?
Baseball is often dismissed as a boring game. I defy anyone who watched the Red Sox come back to beat the Rays from 7-0 down on Thursday night/Friday morning to say such a thing. Baseball is pastoral, yes, but like a Flannery O'Connor story it can turn brutal, exciting, and frightening in moments. No other game builds drama so effectively. It's the polar opposite of instant gratification. The wait between each pitch, which can seem interminable to some, becomes Michael Myers slowly walking towards you in "Halloween". The walk to load the bases in the ninth in a tie game gives me the same feeling I got at the first sighting of the Misfit's car in "A Good Man is Hard to Find": looming dread, and the feeling that doom is inevitable, even if the story isn't over. The walkoff hit, or the game ending strikeout, are pure exhilaration after unbearable buildup... and I can't even think of a simile. Any literature reference would have to be compared to baseball in that regard. Baseball demands attention and pays great rewards to those who can wait.
Many writers before me have spoken of the poetic nature of the game, almost in Wordsworthian terms. Please. I've never been a sepia-toned baseball fan. Memories are great and vital, but I'm more for the moment and the tension. Baseball is poetry, but it's more "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" than "Tintern Abbey".
What line better sums up game 5's comeback better than "Though wise men at their end know dark is right/ because their words had forked no lightning they/ do not go gentle into that good night"? And in moments of heartbreak, such as the 2003 ALCS, few poetic lines better describe my feelings than "And you my father, there on the sad height/ curse, bless me now with your fierce tears I pray." My dad had been through the devastation of '86, my grandfather had '46, and now I had had my moment.
I got the same feeling watching Pedro Martinez in his prime pitch that I do when I read the ending of "The Dead", or listen to "The Tracks of My Tears". None of these things are related in tone or content. What binds them? Listen to Smokey Robinson launch into his falsetto, or watch a clip of Pedro tossing an inhuman changeup. The way the snow in Joyce's story falls through the universe, covering all the living and the dead, such feelings towards different mediums bind them.
Anyway, I'd long promised never to write a George Will-style dissertation on the glories of baseball as something more than a game. In the end, baseball is just a game. It happens to be one that appeals to me on levels that go beyond a need for distraction.
-note: I'm not speaking ill of Wordsworth. He's easily one of my favorite poets.
Friday, April 24, 2009
What's in a name?
The first true "baseball name" I recall loving was "Ken Caminiti". True, it helped that he was the NL MVP for the Padres the year I became a baseball fan. But damn... that name. Ken Caminiti. The last name "Caminiti" makes any first name sound cool. The alliteration only helps matters. As an awe-struck 8-year old Padre fan (I'll need to explain this later, won't I?), nothing sounded cooler.
The 1996 Padres were a great team for names, come to think of it. Tony Gwynn. Andy Ashby. Wally Joyner. Trevor Hoffman. My favorite apart from Caminiti, of course, was the versatile utility man, Archi Cianfrocco (Archi is pronounced with a "k" sound). Just look at that for a moment. It's a thing of beauty. No need for a nickname with a moniker like that.
I'm not sure what goes into a great baseball name, what separates them from the rest. Baseball names are just not the same as normal great names. The best ones roll off the tongue, bouncing or twisting along the way. They usually demand some slight facial exaggeration to fully appreciate their sound. Either that, or they just sound undenably cool.
The 1996 Padres were a great team for names, come to think of it. Tony Gwynn. Andy Ashby. Wally Joyner. Trevor Hoffman. My favorite apart from Caminiti, of course, was the versatile utility man, Archi Cianfrocco (Archi is pronounced with a "k" sound). Just look at that for a moment. It's a thing of beauty. No need for a nickname with a moniker like that.
I'm not sure what goes into a great baseball name, what separates them from the rest. Baseball names are just not the same as normal great names. The best ones roll off the tongue, bouncing or twisting along the way. They usually demand some slight facial exaggeration to fully appreciate their sound. Either that, or they just sound undenably cool.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Carry on
Yeah... I'm not gonna get around to the rest of the AL predictions. So please be happy with my East Coast, AL bias and I'll soon continue on with non-prediction related posts.
Float on
Beware: another sentimental piece about the Sox' longest (currently) tenured veteran. I missed Tim Wakefield's complete game victory tonight, in which he stopped a 3-game skid by the struggling Sox and flirted with a no-hitter in the process. I feel like I at least owe him an article in return.
Wakey. He and Jason Varitek are the only two players remaining from the 1999 squad that, at age 11, turned me into a rabid Red Sox fan. I knew him that year as the team's ad-hoc closer. To be honest, most of my memories of the '99 year are of Pedro Martinez's astonishing dominance, and of Nomar Garciaparra's continued brilliance at the plate. Wakey didn't really stand out in my adolescent mind. His knuckleball, I suppose, wasn't quirky enough by itself to capture the imagination of an 11-year old.
My appreciation for Wakey has grown immensely over time. Year in, year out, he gives the Sox more or less the same thing: league average ERA and 150-200 innings. The stats he puts up aren't scintillating, but the fact that he still can go out and get the job done as he has for so long, using his one, utterly strange pitch is somewhat remarkable.
My dad has often pondered aloud, "why would someone throw a knuckleball?" He asks, not out of doubt in its effectiveness, but out of genuine curiosity. Why would someone throw so strange a pitch, one that can be completely unpredictable and requires a much different set of skills than normal pitching? I digress.
It's not just Wakefield's maddening ability to consistently be pretty good that endears him to me and, I think, so many other Sox fans. Consider this quote from the AP recap of yesterday's game:
"When Tim Wakefield stopped by Terry Francona's office Wednesday morning, he already realized the Boston Red Sox were staggering. They had lost six of seven while struggling to hit, and their bullpen was gassed after pitching 11 innings Tuesday night.
'I understand the circumstances of today,' Wakefield recalled telling his manager. 'No matter what, don't take me out.'"
I try not to sentimentality get the best of me, but seriously, how can any Red Sox fan read that and not be somewhat moved.
What if he'd gotten shelled? The quote wouldn't have even made the press; Francona wouldn't have let it be known. That doesn't matter to me. Tim Wakefield took the ball and did his job, as he has done for the Red Sox for 15 seasons now. And yesterday, he went a bit beyond his usual job description, and gave the team a big win, and the bullpen more rest. Will this matter much in October? Maybe, in a butterfly effect sort of way. Most likely, no. That's all the more reason to appreciate Wakey, and the year's of reliable work he's given the team, doing his job. Occasionally he frustrates us, but every now and then, he can still spin some magic.
Wakey. He and Jason Varitek are the only two players remaining from the 1999 squad that, at age 11, turned me into a rabid Red Sox fan. I knew him that year as the team's ad-hoc closer. To be honest, most of my memories of the '99 year are of Pedro Martinez's astonishing dominance, and of Nomar Garciaparra's continued brilliance at the plate. Wakey didn't really stand out in my adolescent mind. His knuckleball, I suppose, wasn't quirky enough by itself to capture the imagination of an 11-year old.
My appreciation for Wakey has grown immensely over time. Year in, year out, he gives the Sox more or less the same thing: league average ERA and 150-200 innings. The stats he puts up aren't scintillating, but the fact that he still can go out and get the job done as he has for so long, using his one, utterly strange pitch is somewhat remarkable.
My dad has often pondered aloud, "why would someone throw a knuckleball?" He asks, not out of doubt in its effectiveness, but out of genuine curiosity. Why would someone throw so strange a pitch, one that can be completely unpredictable and requires a much different set of skills than normal pitching? I digress.
It's not just Wakefield's maddening ability to consistently be pretty good that endears him to me and, I think, so many other Sox fans. Consider this quote from the AP recap of yesterday's game:
"When Tim Wakefield stopped by Terry Francona's office Wednesday morning, he already realized the Boston Red Sox were staggering. They had lost six of seven while struggling to hit, and their bullpen was gassed after pitching 11 innings Tuesday night.
'I understand the circumstances of today,' Wakefield recalled telling his manager. 'No matter what, don't take me out.'"
I try not to sentimentality get the best of me, but seriously, how can any Red Sox fan read that and not be somewhat moved.
What if he'd gotten shelled? The quote wouldn't have even made the press; Francona wouldn't have let it be known. That doesn't matter to me. Tim Wakefield took the ball and did his job, as he has done for the Red Sox for 15 seasons now. And yesterday, he went a bit beyond his usual job description, and gave the team a big win, and the bullpen more rest. Will this matter much in October? Maybe, in a butterfly effect sort of way. Most likely, no. That's all the more reason to appreciate Wakey, and the year's of reliable work he's given the team, doing his job. Occasionally he frustrates us, but every now and then, he can still spin some magic.
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