Never Too Much Baseball

Naming Wrongs

2010-03-09T04:54:00.000-08:00

Shortly after I started working at the Hall of Fame library, I discovered a wonderful book published in the 1990s by Peter Filichia, titled Professional Baseball Franchises. It lists every minor-league team from the 1880s forward, including nicknames, league affiliations, classifications, renamings, and years of existence. It is indispensable for locating where people played, which we are often asked to do in the library.

It’s also a very entertaining book because of those nicknames, many of which are dandies. Today a big issue is “naming rights,” the policy of major-league franchises selling out to corporations who put their names on ballparks whose identities used to be linked with important people. For instance, Mets fans, instead of taking their kids to a stadium named for the man (William Shea) who brought the majors back to the National League, they can all go to a stadium named after a company that took $200 million in federal bailout money and used a good chunk of it to put a sign on a building.

I’m here to talk about something else, which I call “naming wrongs”. I have scoured Filichia’s book and some more recent sources to find the most ridiculous nicknames for minor-league teams. Most raise the question “what the hell were they thinking?” Ideally, a team’s nickname presents an image of stalwart, formidable competitors, or at least trumpets some aspect of the city’s civic pride. The name should be positive, strong, and somehow resonant with the players’ (presumed) desire to take on any opposition and fight for victory with all their energy.

However, Filichia’s book is replete with examples of teams that couldn’t conceive of the notion of trying to intimidate the opposition, and cities whose civic identity involved the self-absorbed myopia of modest aspirations. What am I saying? Their nicknames sucked. Many of them existed in the period from 1890-1920, when lots of leagues and teams came and went and were seemingly named by their owner’s whim, but there are plenty of recent examples. Sometimes a whole league was apparently populated by teams trying to outdo each other in strangeness. A recent example is the 1997 South Atlantic League and its odd menagerie of teams, including the Shorebirds, Sand Gnats, Boll Weevils, Alley Cats, Bats, Crocs, River Dogs, and Crawdads. Going way back, how would like to go on a road trip in the 1902 Missouri Valley League and face these teams: the Nevada Lunatics, the Jefferson City Convicts, and the Iola Gasbags?

In making my list of favorite nicknames, I chose only unique names. If more than one team used a nickname, it was disqualified, which eliminated a team that used to exist not far from Cooperstown, the Johnstown-Amsterdam-Gloversville Hyphens. Other dandies that had to be discarded included the Goobers, Gassers, Infants, Smoke Eaters, and Cannibals. I’ve divided my finds into groups, presented here in no particular order. As you read them, ask yourself “If this team came to my town, would I be scared of them or laugh at them?”

WEIRD MENAGERIE
Lafayette Brahman Bulls
Pocomoke City Salamanders
Poughkeepsie Honey Bugs
Denison Katydids
Winston-Salem Warthogs
Batavia Muckdogs
Portland Sea Dogs
Piedmont Dry Bugs
Omaha Omahogs
Erie Sea Wolves

BAD HABITS
Sterling Rag Chewers
Akron Rubbernecks
Green Bay Duck Wallopers
Fort Dodge Gypsumeaters
Corsicana Gumbo Busters
Regina Bonepilers
St. Joseph Clay Eaters

DON’T INVITE THEM TO DINNER
LaCross Outcasts
Bridgeport Misfits
Jacksonville Lunatics
Iola Gasbags
Paterson Intruders
Rockford Indignants
Waycross Blowhards
York Yahoos

INTIMIDATORS—NOT!
Troy Washerwomen
Bloomington Suckers
Bluffton Dregs
Hopewell Powder Puffs
Centralia Zeros
McAlester Sighs
Oakland Monday Models
Norwich Bonbons
Muncie Fruit Jars

AGAINST THE LAW
Omaha Kidnappers
North Wilkesboro Flashers
Salina Insurgents
Asheville Moonshiners
Adrian Yeggs
Graham Hijackers

POLITICALLY INCORRECT
Canton Chinks
Tarboro Tarbabies
Lawton Medicine Men
Canon City Swastikas

GET A BETTER JOB!
Americus Pallbearers
Beatrice Milkskimmers
Nazareth Cement Dusters
Vancouver Horse Doctors
Kirksville Osteopaths

NOT-SO-GREAT BUFFET
Kalamazoo Celery Eaters
Lebanon Pretzel Eaters
Bay City Rice Eaters
Sanford Celeryfeds

JUST PLAIN STRANGE (how did they even think of these as baseball teams?)
Hartford Wooden Nutmegs
Memphis Fever Germs
Lowell Bingling Pans
Waterloo Microbes
Albuquerque Isotopes
Freeport Comeons
Saginaw Wa-Was
Ottumwa Standpatters
Sacramento Gilt Edges
Worcester Riddles

I’ve saved my Top 10 favorites for last. Some of these names have specific stories behind them, like the 1891 outbreak of violence at a Pittsburgh steel mill owned by Andrew Carnegie (#3). Some are backed up by logic; you say “sure” but still wonder why someone tagged a ballclub with them (#7). Some just make you scratch your head (#4). Put yourself in the players’ places. Did they write home to their families and declare “I’m so proud to be a _______”? Here they are, counting down from #10 to my all-time favorite:

#10: Rancho Cucamonga Quakes (located on California’s earthquake fault-line, they do play in the park with the coolest name, the Epicenter)
#9: Lansing Lugnuts (oooh, scary!)
#8: Bonham Boogers (would you even want to tag them out?)
#7: Zanesville Flood Sufferers (an odd source of civic pride)
#6: Schenectady Frog Alley Bunch (enter at your own risk)
#5: Hoquiam Perfect Gentlemen (except for all that tobacco spit)
#4: Taylorville Taylored Commies (played in 1910, before The Revolution)
#3: Shenandoah Hungarian Rioters (some claim to fame!)
#2: Lincoln Missing Links (the opposition made monkeys out of them)
#1: Minot Why-Nots (why not indeed? North Dakota’s finest)

The Game That Brought Me Home

2010-03-02T03:37:00.001-08:00

Last night, I watched the first inning of the greatest baseball game I never saw. That's all, just the first inning. The rest of the game can wait, because it was the baseball equivalent of the proverbial 40-pound bag of Oreos. You wouldn't want to devour it as soon as you open it, and you couldn't handle the whole thing all at once anyway. It's on the TiVo, recorded from the MLB Network, and I'll savor it a little bit at a time over the next week. I've waited more than 30 years to see it, not even knowing the video still existed, and I'm going to take my time with it.

Two weeks into 1979, I escaped snow-covered Pennsylvania and headed for Europe, where I'd spent a semester in college eight years earlier. This time I planned to take as long as I could to explore it. I began with five weeks in Rome (on $10 a day, just like the book said), then spent more than two months criss-crossing the continent on a Eurailpass (about $300 for unlimited first-class train travel). I saw everything and gathered a lifetime's worth of memories. In mid-April, I landed in London, where I planned to stay as far into the summer as I could. I was in no hurry to leave; when I got back, I'd be helping my parents run their store in a little resort town in the Poconos that hadn't offered me much in the last half of 1978. There was no lure for me there when I could linger in London and bask in Culture.

When the baseball season began, I found the daily scores in the International Herald Tribune, though not much more. The Tribune carried the line scores, listing pitchers and home runs, plus a short paragraph on each game. It was just enough to keep me contented that I wasn't neglecting my game, that I was keeping up with the essential events despite spending my afternoons in Hyde Park rather than a ballpark.

I knew my Reds were off to a slow start and that my favorite player, Pete Rose, was getting his share of hits--making his share of the newsy snippets of the Tribune--with his new team, the Phillies. In early May, while I was still filling in my schedule with plays to be named at a later date, Rose had a succession of multi-hit games which enabled me to follow his daily progress the way I had during his sixteen seasons with the Reds. I started thinking that maybe I should start thinking about perhaps getting my ass back to the Poconos where I could watch and listen to Rose and the first-place Phillies continuing their early-season run.

It was tempting, but I put the thought on hold as a couple of friends from Colorado joined me for a week of theater-filled fun. By the time they left, it was mid-May and I'd been in London for a month. I thought maybe another month or two would satisfy my wanderlust, unless I decided to change plans and indulge that daydream of spending the whole summer in Scandinavia with its cooler climate and hot blondes.

Then I picked up the Tribune on May 18 and saw the line score of The Game. The Phillies played at Wrigley Field the day before, and clearly the wind had been blowing out. I couldn't believe what I saw: the score was 7-6 after one inning, 15-6 Phillies by the third, 21-9 halfway through the game--and it went extra innings! I gawked at the score, 23-22, counted up the eleven home runs, and tried to imagine what the game looked like, found myself wishing I could at least have listened to it unfold. Not just wishing. Soon it grew into regret. What was I missing? Everything! The baseball season was unfolding in my absence, and I couldn't bear to miss any more of it. Well, that was the end of Europe for me. I was on a plane home three days later.

About a dozen years down the road, I bought a radio broadcast of the game, on three cassettes. I was living in Las Vegas by then, and the four-hour broadcast was exactly the same length as the drive between Vegas and Los Angeles. I listened to it enough to know all the hits and runs by heart. It was the Phillies broadcast, featuring future Hall of Famer Richie Ashburn, who was absolutely beside himself as the onslaught went on and on and on. In the first inning, he predicted a 19-13 final score and probably thought he was being outlandish, though he underestimate the final carnage by 40%. His reactions were hilarious.

Many things about the game were amazing, most of all the Phillies' inability to hold a 12-run lead. It evaporated quickly after they went ahead 21-9 in the top of the fifth inning. Tug McGraw came in and gave up seven runs in the blink of an eye. Somehow the Phillies offense faltered, scoring only one run in four innings, while the Cubs kept pounding away and tied the game 22-22 with a three-run eighth. Leading the way were Bill Buckner, who drove in seven runs, and Dave Kingman, who blasted three mammoth home runs, each one longer than the previous one. I think the third one came on the first pitch, and Ashburn was still gushing about the previous two when this one was launched. "Ooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" was all Ashburn could gasp after Kingman made contact, like a little kid at the circus witnessing some unimaginable aerial feat.

In the first inning, Kingman batted with the Cubs trailing 7-1 and two men on base. The MBL Network video is from the Cubs broadcast, with Jack Brickhouse at the microphone. He went nuts when Kingman took a waist-high fastball over the outside corner and yanked it way over the left field fence and across the street, where it bounced off the building which has since become the home of makeshift bleachers on the roof. That day, there were two men standing there, and the astonished Brickhouse reported that "that guy was ready to catch it!" I can't wait to hear what he says for Kingman's other two blasts, which needed no help from the 17mph wind to sail onto Waveland Avenue.

Yes, it's going to be fun listening the Brickhouse, one of the most unabashed "homers" in broadcasting history, as the Cubs fight back from that 12-run defecit. "The game is four days old and the Cubs haven't even batted yet," he moaned as the Phillies went ahead 7-0 in the top of the first. The mayhem had begun already. After three-run homers by Mike Schmidt and Bob Boone, Phillies started Randy Lerch hit a line drive to left-center that just cleared the wall. "Oh come on!" Brickhouse yelped, like a little kid whose older brother keeps pounding the Wiffle ball and not letting him get his turn to hit. Lerch didn't make it through the bottom of the first (the two starters--Dennis Lamp took his lumps for the Cubs--combined to record two outs while surrendering eleven runs), which was punctuated by reliever Donnie Moore's triple which made the score 7-6.

That's the kind of game it was. The eleven combined home runs still shares a piece of the National League record. The teams smashed 50 hits, only two shy of the record for an extra-inning game, and the 45 runs was the most in a game since the Cubs edged the Phillies 26-23 in 1922. I'm really sorry I missed out on that one!

Eleven pitchers marched to the mound that day at Wrigley Field (oh, and by the way, the folks at the MLB Network began the telecast with a graphic stating that the ballpark was originally built for the Chicago Whales of the Federal League, but managed to bungle the name, calling it "Weegham" instead of "Weeghman"), no doubt feeling like Christians being led to the lions. Two of them survived without giving up a run. Ironically, it was the only Hall of Fame pitcher in the game, Bruce Sutter, who gave up the game-winning hit, a 10th-inning home run by the game's other Hall of Famer, Mike Schmidt.

I think the first-place Phillies must have been worn out--or perhaps spoiled--by all that scoring, since they lost 16 of their next 21 games en route to a fourth-place finish. Then there was home plate umpire Dick Cavenaugh. The 1979 season began with the umpires on strike, and local sandlot umps were recruited for the first six weeks of the season. This game was the next-to-last of Cavenaugh's major league "career," and his third behind the plate. Watching the first inning, I noticed that he squeezed the plate on several pitches that looked like clear strikes. That no doubt contributed to the mayhem. In his previous game behind the plate, also at Wrigley Field, the score was 14-13 (the Cubs won that one). So he had a front-row seat for a parade of 72 runs across the plate in two games. One more game after this one, and off to the rocking chair for him.

It might be the rocking chair for me, too, as I settle down this evening with my sack of Oreos. I know I'll get through at least the top of the third inning, in which the Phillies will score eight runs off Donnie Moore and Willie Hernandez to go ahead 15-6. I wonder whether Brickhouse will plummet into despair or whether he'll sense that his Cubbies still have marvelous circus feats of their own to perform. Like him, I know I'll be amazed to see what happens next, even though I've been seeing it in my mind ever since I saw that line score in the Tribune nearly 31 years ago.

Another Great Story Bites The Dust

2010-02-18T03:24:00.000-08:00

At the 2008 SABR convention, baseball historian Norman Macht gave a fascinating one-hour presentation on the pitfalls of accepting great stories as true simply because they sound great. He discussed several classics, including one involving Lefty Grove that was attested to by several eyewitnesses, all of whom happened to be mistaken because the events detailed could not have happened when they were said to have happened. It was a cautionary presentation, reminding the aspiring historians in the audience that we shouldn't take anybody's word for anything, especially if they're telling the tale years after it (supposedly) occurred. The historian's task--his or her obligation--is to determine first of all whether a particular story could be true as told by its participants or witnesses, and if it isn't, to piece together the evidence that might be the source of the story.

As I know all too well, my own memories of ballgames and events from decades ago are imprecise, often pieced together from bits and pieces of several games and congealed into a single sequence in my mind. That's how the human mind works. It happens to all of us. So it is with the story I'll detail here, a wonderful tale told by Doug Harvey to reporters in 1992 at the end of his 31-year umpiring career. I'm not debunking this story to embarrass Harvey or to suggest that he invented the story out of thin air. I think the world of Doug Harvey. During his career, I thought he was the best umpire I'd ever seen, and I still feel that way. His election to the Hall of Fame this year was long overdue. I'm writing this because, if historians have the means to determine whether events did or did not occur as claimed, we are obligated to set the record straight.

Harvey's file at the Hall of Fame library contains two versions of the tale, one in an article written by Jerome Holtzman in July of 1992, the other by Wayne Coffey that October. I'll quote the Holtzman version here in full:

He was a rookie, his first time in St. Louis, working his third plate game, Dodgers against the Cardinals. Ninth inning, two outs, score tied, full count, Don Drysdale pitching and Stan Musial coiled, ready to swing. Drysdale delivered. Doug Harvey, seeing the ball in midflight, raised his right arm, signaling strike three. It was 30 years ago, in 1962, but Harvey has not forgotten. The pitch broke to the outside and missed the plate by six inches.
"And there I am standing with egg on my face, the crowd booing," Harvey recalled. "Musial never looked at me. He told the bat boy to bring him his glove. Then, without turning, he said, 'Young fellow, I don't know what league you came from, but we use the same plate. It's 17 inches wide.'"
Immediately, Harvey learned two lessons: "That's when I realized why they called him 'Stan the Man.' And I learned not to anticipate the call."

It's a beautiful story, told to illustrate how Harvey learned what he called "timing," that is the importance of that little "one-Mississippi" in an umpire's head before he makes the call. The problem is that it didn't happen. There are a lot of "facts" in there, details that pinpoint precisely when Harvey--in 1992, three decades later--felt it did happen. It turns out that almost none of those details are correct. Thanks to the whizzes at http://www.retrosheet.org/, who have posted the box scores for every game Harvey (and other umpires of the past fifty years) umpired in the major leagues, it is easy to verify--or refute--those details.

Let's start at the start. Was Harvey's third game behind the plate in St. Louis? No, it was in Houston, where Roman Mejias (a right-handed batter, as opposed to the lefty Musial) struck out swinging to end the game. Harvey's fourth game behind the plate was in St. Louis on April 27. However, the visiting team was Cincinnati, the Cardinals won the game 14-3, and Musial didn't strike out. He grounded out twice, lined out, and singled.

The Coffey version of the story includes this statement from Harvey: "I'd never seen Drysdale pitch. I didn't know what he could do with the ball." As a matter of fact, Harvey did see Drysdale pitch--in his second game behind the plate, in San Francisco on April 17. Drysdale started but got drilled by the Giants, surrendering seven runs before exiting in the seventh inning. Drysdale struck out four Giants, one of them on a called third strike: Felipe Alou, leading off the fourth inning. There isn't much there that could contribute to Harvey's tale, and it tells us that he did see Drysdale pitch before ever umpiring a Cardinals game.

On May 11, 1962, Harvey umpired his seventh game behind the plate and his second one in St. Louis. The Dodgers were in town, but Drysdale didn't pitch that day. Stan Williams was their starter, and Musial did strike out looking against him--leading off the second inning. A second-inning strikeout with a 1-0 score hardly seems like the stuff of vivid memories, but that's as close as we get to a helpful fact from this game. Apart from that strikeout, Musial walked once and put the ball into play his other two trips to the plate. He did not bat in the bottom of the ninth as the Dodgers recorded an 8-5 victory.

Once I got that far in checking Harvey's experiences behind the plate in 1962, his tale was clearly on thin ice. Since it centers around Musial's reaction to Harvey's call, I looked closely at
all games where he was in Harvey's vicinity at the plate. The next one wasn't until July 25, Harvey's 25th game behind the plate, also in St. Louis. This time Drysdale did pitch, at least until the eighth inning. But Musial didn't strike out. Facing Double-D three times, he popped out twice and, in his last trip, belted a two-run home run. Nothing there to contribute to Harvey's memories.

He didn't call another Cardinals game until August 23, in Milwaukee. Musial didn't start, but he did pinch-hit in the ninth inning with his team trailing 3-2--and singled. Again, no help in figuring out where the details of the tale came from. Three days later, Harvey was behind the plate again in St. Louis, and Musial did play against the visiting Pirates. He had a big day with a single, a double, and a walk in four trips. In that fourth trip, Harvey called him out on strikes. But it was leading off the sixth inning against reliever Diomedes Olivo, a 43-year-old left-hander. It's hard to imagine Harvey confusing Olivo with Don Drysdale. Musial didn't bat in the ninth inning as the Cardinals lost 7-6.

Harvey worked the plate in two more Musial starts in 1962. Stan the Man went a combined 3-for-8 in those games, including a home run, but he neither struck out nor batted in the ninth inning. So where does that leave us? Nowhere, really. We have a second-inning strikeout in May against Stan Williams, and no strikeouts against Drysdale. What about spring training? Maybe that's what Harvey remembered. I went through the March box scores in "The Sporting News" and found no Cardinals game where Harvey called balls and strikes.

Next I looked at the other clues. There had to be some events that his memory patched together. It had to be an extra-inning game, with someone else's strikeout ending the ninth inning and the bat boy handing him his glove for the top of the tenth. Well, Harvey worked the plate in exactly three extra-inning games in 1962. The first was on May 16 at the Polo Grounds, where the Mets beat the Cubs 6-5 in eleven innings. But the final outs for the Mets in the ninth and tenth innings were not strikeouts. Next up was May 26 in San Francisco, when there were no strikeouts in the ninth inning as the Giants won 7-6 in ten. Finally, on June 29 he worked another extra-inning game at Candlestick Park. Again, there were no strikeouts in the ninth inning, though Tony Taylor of the visiting Phillies was called out on strikes to end the top of the twelfth inning before Ed Bailey's leadoff home run won the game for the Giants.

So I came up empty on that potential evidence, too. Maybe it happened in 1963, Musial's final season in the majors, though it would be a stretch to think that Harvey was one year off on the timing of his "timing" epiphany. I found four games in 1963 where Harvey was behind the plate and Musial played. On April 14, Musial, pinch-hitting, did make the final out of the game as the Cardinals lost, but it was on a foul pop-up to the catcher. On June 1 and June 24, Musial started and went a combined 4-for-7, but didn't strike out in either game, nor did he appear in the ninth inning. Finally, on July 18, we have a close call. Musial (pinch-hitting) was called out on strikes by Harvey in the ninth inning. That's as close as we can get. Of course, it was in Cincinnati, not St. Louis; the pitcher was Jim Owens, not Drysdale; the Cardinals were losing, not tied; and it was Harvey's 65th game behind the plate, not his third.

Other clues I examined were even less promising. Harvey did call two other games started by Drysdale in 1962. Both were complete games, one in Los Angeles, the other in Cincinnati, neither involving the Cardinals. In both games, the last out was a strikeout--but both times it was a swinging strike, one by Lou Brock (of the Cubs), the other by Marty Keough of the Reds. Exactly one time in 1962, Harvey called a batter out on strikes to end the game. That was at Dodger Stadium on September 4; the pitcher was lefty Ron Perranoski, and the batter was Orlando Cepeda.

Finally, there was the game of June 29, 1963, also at Dodger Stadium. It was the bottom of the ninth, score tied, when Willie Davis struck out to send the game into extra innings. The pitcher was Bob Shaw of the Braves. The Los Angeles Times account of the game simply says that Shaw "whiffed" Davis, which suggests a swinging strike. That's the only time during the two seasons that Harvey and Musial were active together that a batter fanned to extend a game into extra innings with Harvey at the plate. Not much to go on.

So we're left with an excellent story, the point of which was that it persuaded Harvey--virtually at the start of his major-league career--to change his ways. "Introducing timing to umpiring" is his legacy, the pioneering technique he passed on to the succeeding generation of umpires (a technique overdone by some of them, including Tim McClelland and Joe Brinkman). The inspiration for it came from somewhere. Harvey umpired more than 4,700 games in the majors, and it's reasonable to think that he jumbled a few memories into one sequence. His encounter with Musial seems too vivid to have been totally without basis. It's just that, after looking at the games Harvey umpired in 1962-63, I can't find that basis.

Can you?

And Another Thing. . .

2010-02-09T04:01:00.000-08:00

I've gotten a lot of favorable response to the "re-invention" of baseball in my last blog. One other subject I wanted to cover but didn't manage to fit in was the fan experience at the ballpark. Living in Cooperstown, I don't get to many major league games any more, but I used to go to a lot, and have visited nearly 30 major league parks in my lifetime. I think I have a pretty good feel for the way it used to be and the way it is now, and I have a few suggestions on how to make a day at the ballpark more enjoyable.

First, stop pandering to the increasingly short attention span of the human species: cut out most or all of the between-innings crap. Is the game on the field so barren that spectators need marauding mascots or a shell game on the scoreboard to keep them interested? The time between innings used to be filled by talking with your neighbors (or companions), discussing the game, pondering the game, looking around and savoring the action and the fresh-air ambience. Now the game almost seems incidental to the mindless assault of frills between the innings, all blasted your way at volumes just below jackhammer level. My version of baseball would prohibit any stadium-generated noise at a decibel level more than one-half of the current norm. Fans shouldn't have to shout at each other to be heard unless it's because the action on the field has stirred them into a frenzy.

Second, give people a chance to get closer to the action by allowing them to move down into the good seats after the seventh inning. In a half-full ballpark, is there any reason for ushers to be hall monitors for the whole game? With even bleacher seats costing more than box seats did just twenty years ago, fans would be more likely to come to the park if they knew that they'd have a chance to get close to the action later. I can't emphasize this enough: there is nothing like sitting close to home plate for educating the fan about the difficulty of the game, the tremendous skill necessary to play it well, and the sheer excitement of sensing the tension on the field. You'll make better, more knowledgeable fans if you give them a little bit of that excitement. You just don't see what's happening well enough from the "cheap" seats. You can't see the break on a curve or the battle of nerves between a pitcher and a base-stealing threat. It might just be that some fans will be so enamored of getting close to the field that they'll spring for the more expensive tickets once in awhile. It might even be good for business in the long run.

This idea should be implemented in the major leagues today. It wouldn't work everywhere, of course. In parks that are usually full to near capacity, not many open seats will be available late in the game. You can't just have a stampede storming the box seats. Reasonable rules would have to be followed. For instance, you'd have to get to your seats before the start of an inning. It wouldn't be fair to the plutocrats who paid for the expensive seats to have a parade of peasants blocking their view of the game. Let them line up before the seventh inning ends--and this is much more feasible in the new ballparks which have excellent views from the concourses behind the stands. Alternate aisles, one for people exiting, the next one for people moving into empty seats, and so on. Get to your seat before the action resumes, or wait behind the stands as fans do now in the late innings.

The ushers will know what's available. Maybe the first five rows would be off-limits, though we've all seen people usurp those empty seats late in the game. My proposal would simply change the practice of generations of fans from a violation of policy to an invitation. Instead of people bribing the ushers to upgrade them, it would be a right, as long as the seats are available. Of course some people will stay where they are even if they're in the upper deck. If their area thins out, they'll have a better chance of getting a foul ball. If they're with children, they might not want to organize two expeditions--one to move downstairs and another to exit the park. They can still move down to the box seats in their section. To repeat, letting people learn that better seats are indeed better might persuade them to shell out the extra money next time.

In these tough economic times, major league teams are charging hefty prices to people visiting their venues. They should appreciate that people don't have to come to the park to follow their team or any other team. The focus should be on the game. Let them watch the game in peace, and let them sit--whenever it's feasible--where they can fully appreciate the difficulty and the beauty of the game. Once you've been within a hundred feet of a 95mph fastball or a fast-breaking 90mph slider, once the loudest sound you hear is the crack of the bat hitting the ball, once you get a close look at the clothesline trajectory of a catcher nailing a runner trying to steal second base, the game will never look the same on television either.

Selig, Owners Announce Re-Invention Of Sport

2010-01-26T04:39:00.000-08:00

In a surprise announcement following the winter meetings attended by owners and generals managers, "Commissioner" Bud Selig declared his intention of re-inventing the sport known as baseball. "Let's face it," Selig told the press. "We've screwed this game up so thoroughly that it has almost no meaning for anyone any more. Fans don't know what to think about statistics, about the character of players, about the validity of pennants, about records, about anything. It's time to stop pretending that the remedies we've come up with have straightened things out. So our only course is to start over from scratch."

With his tenure as the game's czar expected to end after the 2012 season, Selig stated that the new version of baseball will begin with the 2013 season, giving franchises and players time to prepare for the drastic changes ahead. "We're going to change the way the game is played on the field," Selig declared. "The rules will be different, and so will the way they are enforced. We can freeze everything that has happened in baseball history up to that time, and let people spend the rest of their lives sorting it out if they wish. Meanwhile, the rest of us--owners, players, and fans--can move on to the new version which will create its own history and records."

At the winter meetings, Selig and company hashed out sweeping changes in the game, starting with its organization. The current two-league, six-division system will be replaced by four eight-team leagues, arranged along geographical lines. The four league winners will participate in the playoffs; in the first round, the team with the best record will face the team with the worst record.

The new season will consist of 160 games. Each team will play 16 games against each league rival. The remaining 48 games games will be played against the eight teams from another league, with the pairings rotating from year to year. Doubleheaders will be scheduled for nine Sundays plus the three national holidays, cutting the regular season by two weeks. The first two weeks of the season will be played in the warm-climate cities, even if it means starting the season with some inter-league series.

"The new streamlined schedule, plus limiting the post-season to two best-of-seven series, should please the fans," Selig said. "Starting in warmer climates will mean fewer April postponements, and ending the World Series by mid-October should make it more likely that the most meaningful games of the season will be played in what we think of as baseball weather, not hockey weather."

The changes also addressed one of baseball's perennial problems, namely the owners' inability to avoid overspending. "There will be no salary cap," Selig announced, "but we will limit all contracts to two years. That's right. Teams will no longer be saddled with ridiculous long-term contracts for players who can't play any more. We are also doing away with the practice of one team paying the contract for a player who has been traded to another team. How that conflict of interest has existed for so long is a travesty. Players can be signed for one year or two years, that's it. If every season, or every other season, is a 'contract year,' players won't be able to loaf."
Marvin Miller, who runs the players' union, endorsed the new system on several counts. Yearly bidding wars will keep salaries relatively high, and players--especially younger players who are currently tied to their team for several years with no resource besides salary arbitration--will have more flexibility in playing where they want to play. In addition to new jobs being created by expansion, rosters will be increased to 26 players, another boost to the work force and a trade-off for the long-overdue elimination of the designated hitter.

All of these organizational changes, however, pale in comparison to the new look for the game on the field envisioned by Selig and the owners. "We're making major changes in the basic game of baseball," Selig beamed, "trying to maintain a reasonable balance between offense and defense while making sure nobody confuses this game with the old one. Some things won't change--nine men on a side, nine innings--but we're going to build even more on the game's sacred number: nine."

Indeed, "9" will impact the basic dimensions of the game. "Budball" will now feature a distance of 89 feet between bases and 59 feet from the pitcher's rubber to home plate. In addition, each team will get 29 outs in a nine-inning game. The "extra" two outs will be at the discretion of the manager of the team at bat. Do you use an extra batter in the early innings with the bases loaded, or do you wait until the late innings if the game is on the line? Those extra two outs aren't sacred. If the defensive team turns a double play with two outs, it can take away one of the extra outs. Losing an out will also be also a penalty for a manager getting ejected. More on that later.

"We'll be making a lot of changes, some of which favor the defense and some the offense. Obviously the key change is shortening the pitching distance," Selig conceded. "This is going to give the pitcher an advantage, especially with his fastball, though it will cut down a little on the room for a curveball to break. They'll need a faster pitch with a break, which means the spitball. Ford Frick tried to bring back the spitball fifty years ago, and we're going to do it. The truth is that pitchers have been throwing spitballs all along, and we've been allowing it, so it's time to rid ourselves of the charade that we're stopping it."

Selig pinpointed the current rule prohibiting pitchers from "going to their mouths" while standing on the pitching mound as the silliest farce in the game. "All it means is that they have to walk onto the infield grass to moisten their fingers. It's just a waste of time. Not only that, a pitcher can stand on the mound and wipe the sweat off his forehead or his neck to achieve the same effect without breaking the rule. So why pretend? Let 'em throw a wet ball. Of course, they'd better be able to control it."

That brought Selig to the next rule change: batters hit by a pitch get two bases. Hit a batter with a runner on second, and now you have runners on second and third. Hit him above the shoulders and it's three bases. Break a bone and it will bring a two-week suspension. However, a batter who leans into a pitch and "allows" himself to get hit by it will be out, and no padding on elbows and arms will be allowed except for a limited number of games when a player is returning from a specific injury.

Other new rules relating to pitchers are:

No more intentional walks. Pitchers must pitch to all batters.
Relief pitchers have to face at least two batters, unless they record two outs during the first batter's at-bat. This will reduce the parade of relievers which slows so many games down, and will encourage managers to encourage their pitchers to retire both right- and left-handed batters.
No more fake pickoffs. If a pitcher steps off the rubber, he has to throw to a base. This policy alone should speed up games by several minutes.
Only three warmup pitches between innings. This will move the game along faster and hel pitchers save their arms for pitches that count. Currently, a starting pitcher who throws 80 pitches in six innings has also thrown 48 warmup tosses. Cut out 30 warmups, and more starters will be able to pitch into the 7th and 8th innings.
Only the catcher will be able to visit the pitcher on the mound, and only once per inning.

Only a couple of things will be different regarding baserunners. Strategies for stealing bases should remain stable, with the shorter distance the runner has to cover compensated for by the reduced distances of the pitch to home and the catcher's throw to a base. "We'll see how that goes," Selig said. "If the balance shifts dramatically one way or the other, we'll do something. We can put limits on the number of pickoff attempts, or we can limit the size of a runner's lead. Stealing should remain an important part of this game."

The biggest change for runners will involve double-play attempts. "We have to close up the loopholes at second base," Selig declared, "if only because the shorter distance is going to mean that the runner from first will arrive there sooner." The "phantom play" will be eliminated, with the rule requiring the fielder to have his foot on the base when catching the ball strictly enforced. The runner trying to break up the double play, however, will have to slide with at least one foot crossing the bag. "In other words," Selig explained, "no more flinging yourself four feet wide of the base to take out the fielder while stretching a finger out to graze the bag. If you can get yourself to second base in time to take out the fielder with a good, hard slide across the bag, good for you. We don't want to discourage hustling. But if the fielder receives the throw in time to move away from the bag, he deserves to make that throw without a runner who's already out exposing him to injury. It's going to be tougher to turn two anyway. Give 'em a chance."

Some of the biggest changes in the game will involve officiating. Balls and strikes will be called automatically by Questec or whatever the state-of-the-art machine is at the time. This will eliminate the need for pitchers and batters to adjust every day to each umpire's version of the strike zone. A pitch in a certain spot will be called the same way in the first inning and the ninth inning. "Consistency and fairness are the goals," said Selig, adding that "relieving the umpire of the burden of making a split-second decision on whether a 96mph fastball is on the black or three inches outside will allow him to focus more on his other duties, like judging check swings and whether batters are trying to avoid getting hit by the pitch."

More importantly, all calls will be subject to instant replay. However, managers will not be allowed to argue. In fact, they won't be allowed to leave the dugout at all. To make a pitching change, a manager will simply call time and wave his pitcher off the mound. To challenge a call, he will call time before the next pitch and throw a red flag out of the dugout. "Most of the time," said Selig, "it will be obvious what the issue is. If not, the home plate umpire will go over and ask. There won't be any arguments. Players on the field won't have to argue. If they disagree with a call, they merely have to indicate it to the manager in the dugout, who will already have someone watching replays somewhere who will let him know whether he has a legitimate beef."

There will be no limit on the number of challenges a manager can make. However, if he loses two challenges, he is automatically ejected from the game, and his team loses one of its extra outs. If a coach is subsequently put in charge, he doesn't get a free ride. One lost challenge and he's gone too. "The idea is to get the calls right," Selig insisted. "If the umps make five mistakes that go against the same team, they shouldn't be penalized for having to make five challenges. But they can't abuse it or they're gone."

Another wrinkle in the instant replay rule will counter critics who insist that the process slows the game down, especially for fans at the ballpark who are forced to sit around while someone in a booth somewhere figures out what just happened. To make up for that, for each minute taken up in reviewing plays, the protesting team's entire roster must remain on the field after the game signing autographs for the same period of time.

"All in all," Selig beamed, "we think it will be a faster, more streamlined game if we can stop all the time-wasting and get more action on the field." He admitted that the key unknown is how the 59-foot pitching distance might affect the game's balance. "We think that the pitcher's advantage will be balanced first of all by the shorter distance for the batter to run to first base, and by the infielders being stationed closer to the plate, making it easier to hit the ball past them. But we'll see. The important thing is that we're trying."

Minaya Relents, Gives Beltran Permission To Scratch Himself

2010-01-19T04:44:00.000-08:00

After lengthy negotiations with Carlos Beltran and his agent, Mets GM Omar Minaya has reluctantly granted the outfielder official permission to scratch himself on the field during the 2010 season.

"The key thing was that we followed protocol and did not veer away from the established process for handling such matters," maintained Minaya, fearing a repeat of the recent awkwardness following Beltran's knee surgery. In that instance, Minaya became so distracted by his winter-meetings quest for a #2 starter, a #3 starter, a #4 starter, a #5 starter, and three set-up relievers that he allowed assistants and doctors to handle the matter, thereby achieving the near-impossible feat of making Beltran's agent, Scott Boras, look like the good guy.

"The thing is," Minaya explained, "that Mets team policy for at least 15-20 years has been to prohibit our players from scratching themselves while in view of the fans. It's okay for them to adjust their cups, but scratching has been off-limits. So we had to be careful in this case to look after the interests of the fans and of Beltran, without establishing a precedent that other people can take advantage of."

Speaking through his agent, Beltran--who suffers from a chronic case of tinea cruris--said, "The Mets have known about this since I came here in 2005. And it really hasn't been a problem because, frankly, with all the other crap going on around here, it isn't that big a deal. But after that little misunderstanding about my knee surgery, we all felt it would be best to go through the process carefully to get it right." That process involved examinations by the Mets team physician in New York as well as Beltran's personal dermatologist in Blue Ball, Pennsylvania, meetings with public relations personnel and marketing firms, and surveys of Mets fans, of whom 62.4% declared that if Beltran hits 25 home runs and drives in 100 runs they won't mind if he moons them as he circles the bases.

Under terms of the agreement, Minaya said that Beltran will be permitted to scratch himself in center field any time the ball is hit to the first baseman or third baseman, or while at bat any time there is a two-ball count.

*******************************
New baseball term, defined as "acting in the style of Mets management". The term: "minayacal."

McGwire Admits Using Weapons Of Mass Destruction

2010-01-12T03:57:00.000-08:00

Yes, Mark McGwire admitted yesterday that he used steroids. Sort of. His version of events was the equivalent of Saddam Hussein conceding that he had weapons of mass destruction--but used them only to excavate a swimming pool in the backyard. Or like O.J. Simpson saying that yeah, he did hide behind the bushes to ambush Nicole and Ron, but all he did was yell "booga-booga!" and watch them somehow impale themselves on a knife.

In his interview last night with Bob Costas, McGwire talked a lot about "God-given talent," but the only God-given ability he displayed was a gift for telling convenient half-truths. He said he experimented a little bit with them in 1989-1990, when they were readily available in the gym where he worked out. Skip ahead, he said, to 1993-1994, dark seasons during which a series of heel injuries limited him to 74 games and 18 home runs. In an effort to break the cycle of injury and semi-recovery, he turned to steroids for their recuperative power. He did recover and spent the next few seasons launching home runs at an unprecendented rate, until time caught up with his knees and forced him into retirement at age 38.

McGwire insisted that he used steroids purely for health and recovery purposes, not to enhance his performance. In fact, when asked more than once by Costas whether steroids could have contributed to his record-setting home run feats, he denied any connection between the two. "Could you have hit 70 home runs in 1998 without steroids?" Costas asked, and the answer was a firm yes. The home runs came from studying the science of hitting while he was sidelined, retooling his swing, and his "God-given" talent for eye-hand coordination and strength. It was that simple, he declared more than once. I wish Costas had asked him about home run #62, the one that broke Roger Maris' record. That line drive cleared the wall by about three feet. Would McGwire concede that steroids might have made the difference of an extra few feet?

Actually I'm sure he would have disagreed. He spent the whole interview laboring to convince us that there were two things going on in his life throughout the late 1990s that were totally unrelated: he was using steroids and he was hitting lots of tape-measure home runs. When Costas asked him about the ridiculous proliferation in home runs in all of major league baseball during this period, McGwire refused to speculate, citing only his own ability to hit a baseball long distances ever since childhood. It was as if he has never heard the phrase "performance-enhancing drug". He doesn't know why everyone else used the stuff. He only used it to recover from injuries.

But that scenario doesn't add up. In his earlier statement to the press, he admitted using steroids during the 70-homer season of 1998. Okay, let's say he did get into steroid use in 1993-1994 to overcome those injuries. By 1997, he was back to playing full-time--156 games in 1997, 155 games in 1998, and 153 games in 1999, three seasons during which he averaged 64 home runs a season. Three years during which he was not injured. So why was he using steroids during those seasons? He told Costas they made his body feel better coming off injuries. But he wasn't injured during his three big seasons. Why didn't Costas ask him why he continued to use the stuff even after he had recovered from his heel problems?

When asked which steroids he used, McGwire said he couldn't remember. In explaining his refusal to "talk about the past" in front of Congress five years ago, he insisted that his reluctance was the result of a failure to be granted immunity. That was an admission that the substances he used were illegal. Whatever they were called, using them could have put him in jail. However, during his career, they were not outlawed by the rules of major league baseball. He said he wished that drug testing had existed during his career. I wish Costas had asked him exactly what he meant by that. Did he mean that he would never have dared to use a substance that was banned by baseball in the first place? Or that he would have been caught, punished, and sufficiently sobered up to the reality of the situation to give them up in 1995 so he could proceed to break the Maris record using only his God-given talents?

In any case, he said he couldn't admit anything to Congress in 2005 because it might have resulted in prosecution, and his family and teammates would have been dragged into the situation to testify. Of course, his family couldn't have testified to anything, because last night McGwire declared that nobody in his family knew anything about his steroid use until he told them yesterday. His parents didn't know. His son didn't know. Tony LaRussa and his teammates didn't know. The Maris family didn't know. All the people he called yesterday didn't suspect a thing, and somehow, he told Costas, not one of them ever asked him point-blank if he did steroids. Does that sound plausible? All these people who were so close to him, who cared about him--not one of them cared enough to ask if he was doing something that could threaten his long-term health?

The gist of McGwire's pitch to Costas was that he profoundly regretted using steroids, but not because they made him hit more home runs. Because they didn't make him hit more home runs. They merely made him healthy enough to display that God-given talent. Yet he said that after talking to Roger Maris' widow, he understood why she was disappointed and why she (and others) will maintain that Maris was the true home run champion, not him (well, for three years). Let's add that up, from his point of view. He told us, in effect, "I hit 70 home runs because I'm naturally strong and have good eye-hand coordination, and because I was smart enough to study pitchers and figure out how to be a better hitter. It's a shame that I was also doing low doses steroids at the same time, because people are going to misunderstand the situation and deduce, incorrectly, that the steroids were the reason I hit the home runs. So I can see why Mrs. Maris is skeptical about my record. The coincidence of the steroid use is going to confuse people into forgetting that it was really my God-given talent."

If you watched the Costas interview, that's exactly how things played out in McGwire's mind. I have one question: if Barry Bonds had said the same things, would anybody believe him?

I moved to the Bay Area in time for the 1996 season, during which I saw Bonds and McGwire play about 20 games each in person. After McGwire headed to St. Louis in 1997, I continued to watch Bonds until I moved away in 2002. One thing I've been saying to people ever since is that "I don't care what you put in your body, you still have to hit the damn ball." That was part of McGwire's pitch last night, and I agree. I've also talked about ten or twelve separate factors that increased home run production in general since the mid-1990s. It was not as simple as juicing up and smacking home runs. I've always said that the proof that steroids alone do not produce home runs is that Ozzie Canseco, Jose's identical twin, was a mediocre hitter. Same genes, same physique, same access as Jose, but 462 fewer home runs in the majors. Bonds didn't become merely a long-ball maestro the way McGwire did. Bonds hit everything hard, winning two batting titles along the way. He figured out how to control the strike zone--something McGwire didn't do, striking out way more often during his most productive seasons than he had before--and how to make solid contact most of the time. It isn't that simple.

The popular consensus is that steroids are "performance-enhancing" not by making it easier to hit the ball, but by adding distance when a batter connects solidly. There is one McGwire statistic which reflects this phenomenon. Take his pre-injury seasons (1986-1992), and he hit 220 home runs compared to 128 doubles. Now look at his post-injury season (1995-2001), and you find 385 home runs compared to 115 doubles. One reason why a player hits fewer doubles later in his career is that he doesn't run as fast, and sometimes has to stop at first base instead of legging out a two-bagger. Does that apply to McGwire? I don't think so. He was never a fast runner, and never legged out a lot of doubles (or triples--only 6 in his career). All along, his doubles came on long hits which didn't make it over the fence. Starting in 1995, those long hits starting the clearing the fence for home runs instead of banging off them for doubles. After joining the Cardinals, his HR:2B ratio was nearly 4:1. That ball in St. Louis which became #62 should have been no more than a double, but for McGwire, his biceps flabby from steroid use, the ball sailed just over the fence. Not to worry--he hit eight more after that. Come to think of it, he should have called Barry Bonds and apologized to him as well; after all, if McGwire hadn't set the bar so high with those 70 home runs, Bonds wouldn't have been tempted to follow his steroid-laden path in his quest for the record.

Perhaps McGwire had another role model in mind--Andy Pettitte, who admitted taking steroids exactly twice, also in an attempt to rebound more quickly from an injury. Pettitte's neat little spin-control silenced the world, and nobody has heard a peep since then disparaging whatever Pettitte achieved through his God-given talent. Maybe that's why, when Costas asked him about HGH (human growth hormone), McGwire said he tried them, "once, maybe twice." Well, which was it? I'll confess right here that I used LSD once in my life, more than 30 years ago. I guarantee that if I used it twice, I'd remember it. I wouldn't be confused about whether I used it once or twice. But McGwire, giving a rough estimate of once or twice and insisting that his use of steroids was "occasional" and involved "low doses," wants us to think it was just incidental and for health purposes only. Tell a small truth, and the world won't clamor for the big truth. Shed some tears, apologize, act contrite, and it will go away. Put it in the past. I don't think it's that easy.

Just as self-serving was Commissioner Bud Selig's response. "I am pleased that Mark McGwire has confronted his use of performance-enhancing substances," Selig said in a statement before McGwire explained to Costas that they didn't actually enhance his performance. Selig added that usage of steroids and amphetamines "is virtually non-existent as our testing results have shown," citing the fact that out of 8,995 tests conducted on minor leaguers last year, "less than eight-tenths of one percent was positive." Let me do the math for you. That means that roughly 70 minor leaguers tested positive last year. I don't know how you interpret that, but to me it means that lots of minor leaguers still believe that steroids enhance performance enough to risk their major league careers even before they reach the majors. Don't forget that since the people who create steroids are at least one steps ahead of the people who create tests to detect steroids, there were far more than 70 minor leaguers using PEDs last year. To claim that such usage is "virtually non-existent" tells me that Selig's head is planted just as firmly in the sand as it has been for the past dozen years.

In a separate news conference held early this morning, God declared that "I sincerely apologize for giving Mark McGwire so much talent that it blinds him to the fact that he really needed a lot of help to hit all those home runs."

Hang In There, Bert

2010-01-07T03:40:00.000-08:00

Yesterday's announcement of the BBWAA's Hall of Fame election brought a few surprises in a field full of "borderline" candidates. There were probably eight or nine very fine players on this year's ballot who will eventually be enshrined in Cooperstown, but only one made it past the daunting 75% mark to win election.

One tricky thing about the BBWAA balloting is that some writers focus on negative stats, as if seeking reasons not to vote for a particular player. So the critics of Andre Dawson point to his not-so-special .279 career batting average and his mediocre on-base percentage as indications of how short he fell of immortality. In the long run, the positive stats won out, and Dawson won recognition as an all-around player. Look at it this way: Dawson had over 400 career home runs and over 300 stolen bases, something only Willie Mays and Barry Bonds also accomplished, and he won eight Gold Gloves. What more do you want from the guy? Put him in the Hall of Fame!

The voting was significant for the two players who just missed election. One was first-year candidate Roberto Alomar, whose stats place him in the top handful of second basemen in baseball history. However, just enough writers decided to punish him for one ugly incident--spitting in the face of umpire Mark Hirschbeck--to keep him from first-ballot election with just 73.7% of the votes. That must be a relief to Doug Harvey, elected to the Hall of Fame this year by the Veterans Committee. Harvey, the consummate umpire who demanded respect from everyone on the field, is going to share the podium at the July induction ceremony with Whitey Herzog, a manager who disliked him so much that he once requested the league office not to assign Harvey's crew to any more of his team's games. To be sandwiched between Herzog and the player who spat in an umpire's face would have been a severe test of Harvey's dignity. Alomar, who has long since made peace with Hirschbeck, will get elected, but Harvey will be able to witness his induction from a safer distance.

Then there is Bert Blyleven, who should have been elected years ago but fell agonizingly short this time with 74.2%, five votes shy of election. His comments yesterday were very gracious, and his time will also come. Nobody has received that high a percentage of votes without subsequently getting elected, and Blyleven has two more years on the BBWAA ballot. There has been growing support for Blyleven in recent years; as recently as 2007, he was named on fewer than half of the ballots, but he jumped from around 62% last year to near-election this year.

The skeptics still point to Blyleven's negative stats as reasons for keeping him out of the Hall of Fame, and perhaps the most telling of these is that he only made the All-Star team twice (Dawson was an eight-time All-Star). He received Cy Young Award votes in only four seasons, and was never higher than third (Dawson won the Rookie of the Year Award and later a Most Valuable Player Award). So how could a pitcher who was rarely recognized as one of the top pitchers in his own league be immortalized as one of the all-time greats? He lost 250 games, only 16 fewer than Randy Johnson and Pedro Martinez combined. How can that qualify you for the Hall of Fame?

Here's how. For one thing, Blyleven's positive stats are far more impressive than his negative stats are damning. He currently stands fifth on the all-time strikeout list. When he retired in 1992, he was third, trailing only Nolan Ryan and Steve Carlton. Since 1992, strikeouts have proliferated as more hitters swing for the fences and increasingly accept strikeouts as a reasonable price to pay for the occasional home run. Despite this, only Randy Johnson and Roger Clemens have passed Blyleven's 3,701 total. As starting pitchers continue to work fewer innings, it becomes more likely that Blyleven will remain in the top five.

Even more remarkable is Blyleven's 60 career shutouts, ninth all-time. He is one shutout behind Ryan and Tom Seaver and three behind Warren Spahn; the top five all pitched before 1930. That's very exclusive company, and he won't be losing his standing any time soon. Take the top four starting pitchers likely to be active in 2010--Pedro Martinez, John Smoltz, Roy Halladay, and Chris Carpenter--and their aggregate shutout total is 61. Twenty years from now, maybe even a hundred years from now, Blyleven will still be in the top ten in two marquee pitching categories--strikeouts and shutouts. Is there a player eligible for the Hall of Fame with that much going for him who hasn't been elected? Nope.

The positive stats don't stop there. Blyleven is 14th in career innings pitched--more than Seaver, Clemens, and Christy Mathewson, to name a few. He is 11th in games starter, and though his 242 complete games is only 91st all-time, it is still more than all but four of the post-1960 Hall of Fame pitchers (Gaylord Perry, Ferguson Jenkins, Steve Carlton, Phil Niekro). He was a workhorse who topped 275 innings in seven seasons while finishing in the top five in ERA seven times.

I did a study of the 20 winningest pitchers since 1960, and Blyleven had the most complete-game losses--72. What does this mean? It means his team could count on him to pitch well even if he didn't get a lot of support. In those 72 losses, his team was shut out 21 times and gave him only one run 19 times. He lost 1-0 nine times when going the distance, 2-1 nine times, and 3-2 fourteen times. Throw in non-complete games, and his teams scored one or no runs in 87 of his 250 losses. Blyleven's boosters often point to the fact that he pitched for a lot of mediocre teams, much like Ryan, whose career winning percentage is slightly lower than Blyleven's.

Another measure of weak support is the main reason why Blyleven wasn't elected years ago. There were 47 times when he was leading when he was removed from the game, only to see his bullpen blow the victory. If his relievers had saved even one-third of those blown wins, Blyleven would have over 300 wins instead of his actual 287, and the voters would not have denied him this long. Critics note that he won 20 games only once, 19 games once, and never more than 17 in any other season. But look at it this way. In 1984, when he went 19-7 for the Indians after a four-season mid-career lull, the bullpen blew two wins. One of those would've made a big difference in his career profile. In 1986, at age 35, he led the AL in innings and went 17-14 for the Twins, whose bullpen blew three leads that would've gotten to 20 wins again. Same thing in 1989, when the 38-year-old had his last great season, a 17-5 record for the Angels with a 2.73 ERA and a league-leading five shutouts, but lost three potential wins when his bullpen failed.

The 1974 season is a good illlustration of why Blyleven's career record isn't gaudy. He was second in the AL in strikeouts and fourth in ERA (with a career-low 2.66), completed more than half his starts, but put together a so-so 17-17 record for a Twins team that finished 82-80. The bullpen blew two potential wins; moreover, in both cases Blyleven left runners on base who subsequently scored, pinning the loss on him. Reverse those two outcomes and he'd go 19-15, much more respectable. Among his other losses were a pair of 1-0 games, three 2-1 ordeals, and three other complete-game losses. You get the idea. A mediocre 17-17 season should have been more like 21-13.

So it was for a number of Bert Blyleven's seasons. Sure he got lit up plenty of times and is also in the top dozen all-time in losses, earned runs, and home runs allowed. But he was a horse who threw hard and long and featured the most wicked curveball of his generation. I sat behind the plate in Anaheim when he pitched there late in his career (1987), and the curve was marvelous to behold at close range, starting out above the batter's head and plummeting below his knees. There was no doubt I was in the presence of greatness. He went the distance that day--and lost 2-1.

When he was on--remember, 60 shutouts!--nobody was tougher. It has taken the members of the BBWAA more than a dozen elections to bring him to the precipice of election. Soon he'll have his deserved place on the plaque-gallery wall about fifty yards from where I sit.

Hang in there, Bert! See you next year.

My Favorite Box Score Of The Month

2009-12-24T21:28:00.000-08:00

It has been a few weeks since I wrote a blog, and I hope you've enjoyed my absence. I've been doing research lately on pitching, my favorite subject, and doing the research in my favorite way, which is to look at box scores on Retrosheet. This site, http://www.retrosheet.org/, has every box score and (for 99% of the games) batter-by-batter results from the present to 1953 (with more seasons added every year) invites long visits. It's like a chocolate factory without the demented proprietor, since David Smith, who created the site, has the altruistic motive of making the result of every batter in baseball history available free of charge.

Is it possible to have too much of a good thing? In the case of Retrosheet, no. I've spent more hours than I can count perusing the box scores (and other copious material) there, and it never ceases to fascinate me. There's a pattern to game scores, line scores, and box scores [that is, the final score, the inning-by-inning scoring of runs (or not scoring), and the details of which batters were responsible for the scoring (and the non-scoring). Even though I'm focusing mostly on pitching, I also notice and marvel at the offensive feats, the big scores and big comebacks.

Last week I found a box score which seems to be Exhibit A in the case against modern managers for overusing their bullpens. One of the truisms of baseball is that substitutions are risky. Even though there may be a perfectly logical reason for making a substitution, it does not follow that every supportable substitution should be made. Unless the player being replaced has been injured or performed so horribly that his continued presence on the field could produce only disaster, the new player is an unknown quantity. The best historical example is the 1951 National League playoff, where the Giants were rallying in the bottom of the ninth inning of the decisive game. Dodgers manager Chuck Dressen called down to the bullpen to ask which of two pitchers looked better warming up. Just then, the bullpen coach saw Carl Erskine bounce a curve to the bullpen catcher. He advised Dressen to put in the other guy, Ralph Branca. In came Branca, and two pitches later out went the rocket off Bobby Thomson's bat which made both himself and Branca famous. Who knows if Erskine would have done better. Maybe Thomson would've hit his first pitch into immortality.

A few years ago, I did a presentation at the SABR convention on some changes in recent decades in how bullpens are used. Here's one important thing my research uncovered: from the 1950s all the way through the mid-1980s, if a reliever entered the game in the eighth inning and got out of the inning without allowing any runs to score, he came back to start the ninth inning more than 90% of the time. That's just how it was done, and it explains why Hall of Fame relievers Rollie Fingers, Bruce Sutter, and Goose Gossage got all those two-inning saves. The two-inning save is a rare event today, because managers choose to divide the duty, using one pitcher for the eighth inning and, no matter how great he pitches, bringing in another guy to pitch the ninth. This strategy has become so widespread that the roles have coined new terms: "set-up man" for the eighth-inning specialist and "closer" for the ninth-inning finisher.

Let me repeat that main point. As recently as 25 years ago, if you got through the eighth inning looking strong, you stayed out there for the ninth inning. Period. If you got in trouble then, someone else would come in. But the manager saw enough of your stuff in the eighth inning to like your chance in the ninth. Did this strategy work better than today's specialization? No, not better. But the same. The percentage of saves and blown saves has remained roughly the same. It doesn't matter whether you use one or two pitchers to hold a lead in those last two innings. So why take up a roster spot for a pitcher whose role is redundant and unnecessary?

To put it another way: if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

It's time to present Exhibit A, a game played on May 25, 2001. The Tigers took a 2-0 lead in the bottom of the first and expanded the lead to 4-0 after four innings. Their pitcher, a 29-year-old righty named Chris Holt, had a no-hitter going. He took the no-no to the top of the sixth, when he allowed a pair of runs on a triple, walk, single, and sacrifice fly. Through six innings, he had a two-hitter with seven strikeouts, and a 4-2 lead.

His manager, Phil Garner, took him out. Of course, since we weren't there, we don't know whether there were special circumstances which compelled Garner to remove him. Maybe he was developing a blister or had twisted his knee or had a touch of the flu. Perhaps Garner looked at Holt's track record, a decidedly losing record in four seasons with Houston before joining the Tigers in 2001, gaudy ERAs, and only two starting efforts longer than six innings so far this season. The interesting thing is that Holt was in exactly the same position a month earlier, on April 26. Also at home, he took a 4-0 lead to the sixth inning and promptly gave up two runs on a single, a triple, and a passed ball followed by a single. What did Garner do that time? He let Holt start the seventh inning. No runs. He pitched the eighth inning, too. Three up, three down. By this time, the lead was 8-2, and out he went for the ninth inning as well. A pair of one-out might have alarmed Garner, but he left Holt in and was rewarded with two outs to finish off the complete game, the last of Holt's four complete games in 112 career starts.

With that performance fresh in Garner's mind, there might well have been some extenuating circumstance which made him not even think twice before removing Holt on May 25. He brought in lefty Heath Murray to face lefty Jeff Liefer--and struck him out. Despite that auspicious beginning, Garner lifted Murray from the game. Does this mean that Murray had precisely enough stuff to retire a seldom-used outfielder with a forgettable career, but the strikeout didn't suggest that he had enough stuff to retire the next batter just because he was a decent platoon player who happened to bat righty?

In came Matt Anderson, a righty, who quickly fanned Herbert Perry and disposed of Sandy Alomar, Jr. on a ground out. That was impressive, getting those two hitters with little effort. You'd think that would qualify him to start the eighth inning--remember this is the American League, where a manager can use his pitchers exactly how he wishes because he doesn't face the dilemma National League managers when they might have to take out a hot pitcher for a pinch hitter. Can you think of any reason why Anderson didn't deserve to continue after getting a strikeout and a little ground ball? I can't.

Phil Garner could. Two of the next three White Sox due up were switch-hitters, but the middle batter was a lefty, and that was all the excuse Garner needed to bring in a fresh lefty, C. J. Nitkowski. Never mind seeing if Anderson could continue his good work. There's one lefty in the next three hitters, so let's bring in the lefty. Well, Garner's move worked, sort of. The first switch-hitter, Jose Valentin, batted right-handed and struck out. The lefty, Chris Singleton, worked Nitkowski for a walk, but he came back to whiff the other switch-hitter, Ray Durham. That brought up Magglio Ordonez, the cleanup hitter, a righty. Here we've got Nitkowski, a lefty who just struck out the two right-handed hitters he faced. And here we've got Phil Garner making another walk to the mound and wave to the bullpen.

He brought in a righty, Danny Patterson, to face Ordonez. I don't understand it. Nitkowski just fanned two righties--oh, but they weren't real righties, they were switch-hitters, while Ordonez was a real righty. That's much, much different. In came Patterson, and he got Ordonez to ground out.

Let's review the situation heading to the ninth inning, with the Tigers still ahead 4-2. In the past two innings, they have used four pitchers who collectively faced seven batters, striking out four, walking one, and getting two ground outs. Garner had to feel pretty proud of himself, navigating his staff through those two tricky innings which formed the bridge from his starter to his closer. Eight innings worked by five pitchers who allowed two hits. All had pitched well, and he had dodged those bullets of uncertainty, found four relievers who came right in and did the job without any fuss.

Now it was the ninth inning and time for his closer, Todd Jones, who had blown a save in the ninth inning two days earlier, but was now--to use a favorite announcers' phrase--being asked to get right back up on the horse. Sure enough, Jones started like his teammates had, striking out the first batter he faced, the toughest out in the lineup, Harold Baines. The next two hitters singled, but Jones got Perry to fly to center and get the White Sox down to their final out.

Jones never got that out. Carlos Lee pinch-hit for Alomar and singled in a run to make it 4-3. Valentin singled in the tying run, landing Garner in a true predicament. After squandering four relievers who showed that they had the stuff to get people out, now his presumably best reliever, his closer, was proving that he couldn't get anybody out. But there was nobody to replace him except the two pitchers at the bottom of the barrel. So Jones stayed in.

The next batter was safe on an error--by Jones. I wasn't there, but I'm sure it was a hideous miscue, one so inexplicable that it rocked Jones off what was left of his moorings. With the bases loaded, two outs, and the score still tied, Jones served up a fat pitch to Ray Durham, who drilled a double to score all three runners. What more did Garner need to see? Well, he needed to see one more double, by Ordonez, before he got Jones out of there in favor of Kevin Tolar, whose major league career consisted of 20 games and a 6.62 ERA. Tolar got Baines to foul out, and the nightmare inning was over. So were the Tigers' chances. They went meekly in the bottom of the ninth and lost 8-4.

There you have it. Phil Garner found five pitchers who pitched well, and found reasons to take them out before they got in trouble. He kept taking pitchers out until he found one who got in trouble, stayed in trouble, and made things worse. That's the guy he left in. His first four relievers faced seven batters and got six out. Jones faced nine batters and gave up six hits. But he was the "closer" so there he remained to take his drubbing. If it's any consolation, he kept giving up runs over the next few weeks until Garner saw the light and replaced him in the "closer" role--with Anderson, the pitcher who retired the only two batters he faced in this game before being sent to the sidelines to watch his good work undone.

That, in a nutshell, is what is wrong with the way managers use their bullpens today. They do not trust their own eyes when they see a reliever pitch effectively. They place their trust in the "splits" which show the statistical tendencies of hitters against certain types of pitchers. As long as they have a good statistical reason to use this guy instead of that guy, they feel justified. My point is that if Garner had gotten another inning out of Holt, or had used just two relievers on the bridge to his closer, he would have had the other two (effective-on-this-night) relievers available to bail out Jones when he got in trouble and save the game instead of throwing it away.

Review of COWBOYS FULL

2009-12-06T17:35:00.000-08:00

My review of the new James McManus book, Cowboys Full, was published this past week in the Washington Times. Here is the text of the review:

COWBOYS FULL: THE STORY OF POKER, By James McManus: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, $30, 528 pages, REVIEWED BY GABRIEL SCHECHTER

Poker is our national pastime. Baseball, football and racing have at various times been the dominant spectator sport, but more people have always played poker than any other form of competition, and their numbers are growing exponentially. The boom in televised poker this decade has elevated its status as a spectator sport, and Internet poker sites have enabled the game to spread globally, making it the international pastime as well.

How and why did this become so? In "Cowboys Full," a comprehensive account of humanity's fascination with games of chance, James McManus aims "to show how the story of poker helps to explain who we are." He succeeds by using a born storyteller's gifts to trace the qualities needed to win at poker from prehistoric origins through endless societal and psychological permutations.
Risk has always been part of life, a delicate balance of courage and caution, and the spoils go to those — Mr. McManus parades before us an array of generals, politicians, entrepreneurs and gamblers — who combine ambitious aggression with a cool-headed ability to read and outmaneuver the opposition.

Mr. McManus rose to poker prominence in 2000 as an amateur player who somehow finished fifth in the main event of the World Series of Poker, an improbable adventure detailed in the best-selling "Positively Fifth Street" (2003). That blow-by-blow treatment had the immediacy of confession and the roller-coaster urgency of the tournament's maelstrom of strategy buffeted by fortune. "Cowboys Full" is no less fascinating, though its impersonal tone and scholarly approach may make some readers yearn for the riveting suspense of his earlier classic.

"Nothing is more natural," Mr. McManus writes, "or more essential to human achievement, than gambling." Prehistoric man sought portents to optimize hunting prospects. Rolling bones gave way to dice, which were mentioned in "The Iliad." The first "cards" were produced in Korea and China roughly 1,500 years ago, and card games have evolved steadily since then. The ancestors of poker were "bluffing games" played in Europe in Renaissance times. Each country had its own variant, some using 20-card decks, others 36 or 52, with cards of assorted rank, number and likelihood. The common features were deception, bluffing, odds, judgment, and, above all, luck. Anybody could play, and anybody could win, as we've seen again in this year's World Series of Poker, when a raw 21-year-old became the youngest champion in the event's 40-year history, breaking the record set last year by another 21-year-old.

It seems inevitable that a specific place and time would allow these second-cousin games to congeal into one form that would capture everyone's devotion. That place was New Orleans after the Louisiana Purchase, when a polyglot swarm of immigrants brought their games with them. The new American amalgam — draw poker — moved up the Mississippi River on steamboats and into the American West. Mr. McManus excels in showing how the daring and resourcefulness that sent settlers westward into a wilderness fraught with danger and opportunity also brought an affinity for this new game.

A poker player could not only assert his manhood but also accumulate the wealth that would measure his social prominence. As the 19th century progressed, the game grew with the nation; like baseball, it got a big boost during the Civil War from the interchange of games between soldiers of both sides. New forms of poker evolved. Stud replaced draw as the game of choice, just as hold 'em has become the game of the past half-century.

Mr. McManus demonstrates how each chain in poker's evolution served the needs and penchants of the people who popularized them. His cast of characters is plentiful and engaging, and all get their due: Girolamo Cardano, the 16th-century Milanese pioneer of probabilities; Jonathan Harrington Green, the riverboat cardsharp; the legendary Wild Bill Hickok; Herbert O. Yardley, the cryptographer whose book "The Education of a Poker Player" remains a classic; and many more.

Diligently researched (enough for 40 pages of notes), this is the most entertaining collection of poker tales ever published, stories that illustrate Mr. McManus' main thesis, namely that poker principles are applied every day in vital areas of life, notably warfare and politics. There is a lengthy section on the Civil War, during which the Confederate general Nathan Bedford Forrest repeatedly bluffed and deceived his Union counterparts until the Union prevailed due to the superior skills of Ulysses S. Grant.

"Like any good poker player," Mr. McManus writes, "Grant had a knack for capitalizing on the overly passive or aggressive tendencies of rebel generals," many of whom he knew from West Point. "He could tell bluff and bluster from real courage." A more recent parallel was the Cuban missile crisis, where President Kennedy called Premier Khrushchev's world-risking bluff.
Kennedy was one of the few presidents who wasn't an avid poker player. Richard Nixon financed his first congressional campaign with poker winnings. Dwight Eisenhower was an even better player. Franklin Roosevelt hosted late-night low-stakes games at the White House to relieve the stress of guiding the nation through the Depression and war.

Many future presidents have used poker as a networking tool, self-perceived outsiders joining backroom games to gain acceptance as one of the boys. They include Theodore Roosevelt, Harry Truman, Lyndon Johnson and, yes, Barack Obama, who used the game to become a player in Illinois politics and in 2007 answered a campaign reporter's question about his hidden talents by admitting that "I'm a pretty good poker player."

Mr. McManus also emphasizes poker's long history as "the cheating game." Stacked decks and crooked schemes have always existed, and he details the current investigation of a former World Series of Poker champion whose Internet cheating netted him more than a million dollars. In that light, it is surprising that Mr. McManus doesn't discuss the role of professional dealers in making poker a legitimate, thriving industry in Las Vegas and elsewhere. He also betrays his player's bias by failing to mention dealer abuse in his discussion of objectionable poker behavior. Aside from that glaring omission, "Cowboys Full" should remain the definitive study of poker history long after the next 21-year-old wins the game's biggest prize.

A Poker Story Not For the Squeamish

2009-11-23T04:07:00.000-08:00

Now that one of the least satisfying baseball seasons in memory is over, I have vanished into The Void that will exist in my soul at least until the start of spring training. Even the hot stove provides only so much warmth here in the wilds of upstate New York. In my job at the Hall of Fame, I get to disappear all winter into baseball's past, and that's fine, but it isn't the same without the daily smorgasbord of games being played.

I've also had a chance to focus more on poker lately, my second-favorite game and a significant part of my pre-Cooperstown life. I landed a gig writing a newspaper book review which I'll post here as soon as it is published. The review was of the new book by James McManus, who wowed everyone five years ago with his best-selling Positively Fifth Street, his riveting blow-by-blow account of finishing fifth in the main event of the 2000 World Series of Poker. Now he has written a history of poker titled Cowboys Full, a book I highly recommend to anyone interested in the game.

One point McManus hammers home is that poker is the ultimate American game because it reflects the melting-pot growth and strength of the nation. In poker, anyone can play and anyone can win; you don't have to be the best player at the table to win the next pot, and you don't even have to have the best hand if you can out-maneuver your opponents. Poker is also the most international of games, as I discovered when I worked in a poker emporium in San Jose ten years ago. In that setting, Caucasians were very much a minority. A ten-handed game would usually include players from five or six countries; Vietnamese and Filipinos were the most plentiful, but there were natives of Japan, Cambodia, Korea, Thailand, and Mexico, along with assorted Arabs and African-Americans. You can't have more of a melting pot than that, or a more democratic game in which they could compete on an equal footing.

McManus discusses the importance of poker in politics, another realm in which bluffing, intimidation, and intuition are key virtues. Most presidents of the past hundred years were avid poker players, with Eisenhower and Nixon showing the most skill. Several future presidents used poker as a means to become part of the prevailing political power network. Their common link was a sense of being outsiders who needed a way to become "one of the boys" and found that getting invited to play the power-brokers' games worked very well. This strategy was used by Teddy Roosevelt, Harry Truman, and most recently Barack Obama. He used low-limit poker games to become a cog in the Illinois political machine, and the rest was history.

I experienced the same thing (without the political overtones) back in the mid-1970s when I got a job teaching at the University of Montana in Missoula. Montana still maintained a Wild West image, and I wondered how I might fit in, a little Jewish kid from New York in the wilds of cowboy country. Poker turned out to be the vehicle for my acceptance there. This was my first experience with legal poker, played in the back rooms of bars. I remember the first time a friend showed me one of the games, filled with rough-hewn faces and a vigilant dealer. My friend pointed to a cabinet behind the dealer. "Know what's in there?" he asked. Nope. "A gun. In case there's trouble." Thanks, Wild Bill. I sat down to play anyway.

The place to play in Missoula was the Oxford Cafe, a two-room cross-section of America if ever there was one. Open 24 hours a day, it had a counter where you could eat, a bar, a keno nook, a blackboard with sports action you could bet on, a pool table, and a poker room in the back. The clientele included cowboys and Indians, professors and lowlifes, Senator Mike Mansfield when he was in town, businessmen and drunks, and a colorful array of poker players. Some of the players were seasoned pros, some rank amateurs like the guy who would follow his weekly visit to his shrink by doing penance in the form of blowing off $500 or so at cards. There was an exile from North Carolina who called himself Shot, a guy who chain-smoked while hooked up to an oxygen tank, a guy known as Dick the Lawyer, and many more. The little Jewish kid fit it as well as anybody.

And then there was Art Wall. Art was in his mid-80s when I knew him, and in his youth had been part of a Hole-in-the-Wall gang. Talk about the Wild West! Art was still tough in his eighties. One night he was jumped by three youths behind the bus station, but subdued them and held them down until the police arrived. He was stooped but powerfully built, with huge gnarled hands. He would play poker for two or three days at a time, disdaining sleep but drinking steadily. Because he hadn't bothered to get his cataracts fixed, he had a hard time seeing his cards, and would take a long time to play. Though he could be ornery after a certain amount of drinking, he was a popular figure in the game, though that was maybe because he was a steady loser who never seemed to run out of money. Only one thing about him bothered anybody at all: he always had chewing tobacco in his mouth, and was always spitting into a big bucket stationed next to his chair, which would get pretty disgusting by the second or third day of one of his binges.

It was on one of those nights when four or five of us got involved in a pretty good pot. It was Art's turn, and it was $20 to call. He brought his hold cards up to his eyes for a closer reading, then peered at the cards on the table, then reached toward his tall stack of yellow $5 chips. He missed his aim and sent the whole stack flying off the table--and into his bucket, where the accumulated spit swallowed them up. We all flinched and tried to keep our chicken fried steaks from coming back up as Art put his cards down and plunged one of his big paws into the bucket.

"Jesus, Art!" we gulped while he focused all his attention on finding his chips amid the sludge. "Are you gonna call?" "Just tell us what you're gonna do, Art." "Come on, Art, let us know," we pleaded, but nobody could distract him from his rummaging. This went on for a couple of minutes, while our disgust multiplied. "Are you calling or folding, Art?" "For chrissake, Art, what are you gonna do?" Nothing we said seemed to penetrate his glazed-eyes semi-consciousness. Time stopped as he peered down at the bucket and swirled his hand around the slop.

Finally that big arm came up, and with it a large handful of chips--we couldn't see much of the yellow beneath the brown slime. He swung his arm around and slammed his hand on the middle of the table. "I raise!" he growled. Well, I've never seen a bunch of guys fold their cards faster. We couldn't get out of that pot fast enough. I know I couldn't get out of the room fast enough. I fled outside to the Montana night chill to calm down my innards.

I'd like to think that Art was bluffing. It would be a hell of a move, wouldn't it, knocking over the chips on purpose and making everyone wait for him to gross us right out of the pot. That was poker in the Wild West of the 1970s.

IBWAA Announces 2009 Awards

2009-11-12T03:51:00.000-08:00

This summer I signed up for the Internet Baseball Writers Association of America, a group formed by Howard Cole of baseballsavvy.com. As the community of internet columnists and bloggers continues to expand rapidly, it is clear that these dedicated writers are just as keen about observing and analyzing the baseball scene as the mainstream members of the Baseball Writers' Association of America. The main difference is that the BBWAA members get to vote on the annual awards and the annual Hall of Fame election. The IWBAA was created in part to allow its members to partake in the fun of voting, providing an alternate voice (maybe even a consensus) to the BBWAA voters.

The IWBAA vote was conducted in the same fashion as the BBWAA vote, concluding on the final day of the regular season. Our winners are being announced this week, as outlined in the press release put out yesterday by Howard Cole, excerpts of which are included below. Our choices look right on the money, and I say this not just because the four major award winners happen to be the four I picked (I did have different choices for the Rookies of the Year).

I urge you to contact your favorite internet writers and get them to check out the IBWAA (contact information is at the bottom of the page). Being part of this group can benefit all of us, linking disparate voices in the wilderness to confirm that we really are paying close attention to the game we love.

IBWAA ANNOUNCES 2009 CY YOUNG AND MVP AWARDS

IBWAA American League (AL) CY:

Winner: Zack Greinke (Kansas City Royals)
2nd Place: Felix Hernandez (Seattle Mariners)
3rd Place: CC Sabathia (New York Yankees)
4th Place: Justin Verlander (Detroit Tigers)
5th Place: Roy Halladay (Toronto Blue Jays)

IBWAA National League (NL) CY:

Winner: Chris Carpenter (St. Louis Cardinals)
2nd Place: Adam Wainwright (St. Louis Cardinals)
3rd Place: Tim Lincecum (San Francisco Giants)
4th Place: Josh Johnson (Florida Marlins)
5th Place: Javier Vazquez (Atlanta Braves)

IBWAA AL MVP:

Winner: Joe Mauer (Minnesota Twins)
2nd Place: Mark Teixeira (New York Yankees)
3rd Place: Derek Jeter (New York Yankees)
4th Place: Kendry Morales (Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim)
5th Place: Miguel Cabrera (Detroit Tigers)
6th Place: Zack Greinke (Kansas City Royals)
7th Place: Evan Longoria (Tampa Bay Rays)
8th Place: Ichiro Suzuki (Seattle Mariners)
9th Tie Carl Crawford (Tampa Bay Rays)
9th Tie: Kevin Youkilis (Boston Red Sox)

IBWAA NL MVP:

Winner: Albert Pujols (St. Louis Cardinals)
2nd Place: Ryan Howard (Philadelphia Phillies)
3rd Place: Hanley Ramirez (Florida Marlins)
4th Tie: Prince Fielder (Milwaukee Brewers)
4th Tie: Troy Tulowitzki (Colorado Rockies)
6th Place: Tim Lincecum (San Francisco Giants)
7th Place: Chase Utley (Philadelphia Phillies)
8th Place: Andre Ethier (Los Angeles Dodgers)
9th Place: Chris Carpenter (St. Louis Cardinals)
10th Pl: Ryan Braun (Milwaukee Brewers)

The association's Rookie of the Year (ROY), Manager of the Year (MOY), Comeback of the Year (COY) and Executive of the Year (EOY) awards were announced Monday, November 9, 2009 and Tuesday, November 10, 2009. Winners are as follows:

IBWAA AL ROY: Elvis Andrus (Texas Rangers)

IBWAA NL ROY: Tommy Hanson (Atlanta Braves)

IBWAA AL MOY: Ron Gardenhire (Minnesota Twins)

IBWAA NL MOY: Jim Tracy (Colorado Rockies)

IBWAA AL COY: Aaron Hill (Toronto Blue Jays)

IBWAA NL COY: Chris Carpenter (St. Louis Cardinals)

IBWAA AL EOY: Brian Cashman (New York Yankees)

IBWAA NL EOY: Dan O'Dowd (Colorado Rockies)

The IBWAA was created in July 4, 2009 by Howard Cole, editor of BaseballSavvy.com, to organize and promote the growing online baseball media, and to serve as an alternative voice to the Base Ball Writers Association of America (BBWAA).

Association memberships are open to any and all Internet baseball writers, with a yearly fee of $20. Discounts for groups and scholarships are available.

For more information on the IBWAA, please visit the temporary webpage here, http://www.baseballsavvy.com/internetbaseballwriters.html. In the coming months, the IBWAA can be found at www.InternetBaseballWriters.com.

Contact:
Howard Cole, Acting Director, IBWAAbaseballsavvy@aol.com

Yankees Announce Plans For New Stadiums

2009-11-05T03:15:00.000-08:00

In the wake of their first World Series title in a faith-shaking nine years, the Yankees announced plans to construct a succession of new ballparks which will allow them to play in a new stadium every year.

"It's clear to everyone," said team owner Hank Steinbrenner, "that all we needed to do to get off the schneid was move to a new park. It worked in 1923, and it worked again this year. Even Chris Berman made the connection. So the solution is simple."

Club officials unveiled plans to tear down the original Yankee Stadium next week, bulldoze the site, and begin construction on a new Stadium which will be ready for use in 2010. Meanwhile, sufficient room will be cleared in the same neighborhood for a third ballpark site, with a fresh facility on that site erected by the 2011 season. As that construction continues, the current Yankee Stadium will give way to wrecking crews so the new park there can open in 2012.

"It's going to take a lot of work to have the first one done by next April," said Steinbrenner. "However, once we get the hang of it, we expect to churn one out on each site every three years like clockwork."

The same design will be used for all the facilities, though some amenities will be sacrificed for the sake of the continuous turnover. For instance, most of the outfield seating between the foul poles will be on benches, not chairs. "Partial view, partial seat" will be the operative principle, but as Steinbrenner noted, "Once we can guarantee that every year's team will win the title, people will flock there no matter how uncomfortable it is."

Financing for the multiple venues will come from a variety of sources, but primarily from Mayor Michael Bloomberg. Despite winning election to his third term as major, gazillionaire Bloomberg was considerably sobered by his narrow margin of victory. "Thank God I had Mariano Rivera come on board the last couple of days to secure those final votes," said Bloomberg. "However, it's clear that my plummeting support from voters means that my political legacy will be totally down the drain by the next election. Therefore I'm turning to the Bronx for a more lasting legacy."

Bloomberg will put up $1 billion per year for the first three new ballparks, with financing for further construction coming from a complex formula whose details are being negotiated. "The essence of it," said Bloomberg, "is that the Yankees will pay me back a certain amount, perhaps $4-5 million, for each game they lose. I'll also get a certain percentage of ticket sales, and then of course there's the protection money. In addition, the city will levy a $5 surcharge per ticket for all fans traveling to Citifield to see those losers play. If that's how they want to waste their money, we may as well get a piece of it."

One special feature of the new Yankee Stadiums will be a private box for former mayor Rudy Giuliani to be located midway between the on-deck circle and home plate. "I'll have a better view of the opposing pitchers," said Giuliani, "and can tell the next Yankee hitter what to expect. Plus, my throat gets too sore from having to yell at the umpires all the way from the dugout."

In a related development, Steinbrenner revealed that he has filed papers to formally adopt Pedro Martinez and will pay his new son $1 million a year to pitch batting practice.

The Double-Edged Sword of Three Days' Rest

2009-11-03T03:42:00.000-08:00

I was prepared to write a post-World Series blog today, but Cliff Lee and Chase Utley changed my mind, sending the Series back to Yankee Stadium for a nifty Game 6 matchup between Pedro Martinez and Andy Pettitte. So I'll hold most of my thoughts on the Series and focus today on what is looming as the key factor in who winds up winning the title.

Columnists and bloggers have been going nuts the last few days over the different approaches taken by the two managers in deciding who will start which game this week. The consensus is that Charlie Manuel blundered in holding Cliff Lee back until Game 5, while Joe Girardi showed fortitude in bringing back C.C. Sabathia for Game 4. This may have been fueled in part by the perception that Sabathia is the kind of pitcher who'd go out there every day if he could, while Lee is a laid-back guy who could take today's start or leave it with equal enthusiasm.

Perhaps just as significant was the fact that Lee has never started a game on three days' rest, while Sabathia did so over and over again in 2008 and, at 290 pounds, is a "horse" in every sense of the word. Then there's the overall tendency of World Series managers to lose games in which they trot a starter out there on "short" rest. But as some writers have noted this week, starters working on three days' rest have pitched effectively most of the time even if they haven't actually won the game.

Like chess players determining when to deploy their most powerful pieces, Manuel and Joe Girardi faced different dilemmas after the Yankees took a 2-1 lead in games. The Phillies had a more urgent need to win Game 4, and Lee seemed to be the obvious choice. The defending AL Cy Young Award winner had allowed only two earned runs in 33 innings in this post-season and completely stifled the Yankees in winning Game 1. For purposes of logical decision-making, Manuel had to assume that Lee would win his game (if Lee couldn't beat the Yankees again, his team was toast). Winning Game 4 with Lee would not only square the Series, it would make him available to start Game 7 if it came to that, again on three days' rest but still wearing the cloak of invincibility. Holding him back for Game 5 would risk not only going behind 3-1 but also removing him from the rotation for Game 7.

It seemed like a no-brainer, and Manuel has indeed been accused of having no brain for deciding to give Lee that extra day of rest. Sure enough, Joe Blanton--who won Game 4 for him last year--was ineffective, and the Phillies did fall behind 3-1. Sure enough, Lee won his start last night, pitching strong ball for seven innings before weakening. Now we're told that he'll be available for relief work if there is a Game 7. Fine. It worked for Arizona in 2001 when Randy Johnson came back (with no day of rest) to close out the title game in relief. But Phillies fans can't help thinking that if Lee had won Game 4 instead of Game 5, there was a good chance for that momentum to carry that to a Game 5 victory and a lead going back to New York.

In chess terms, Manuel let his queen--his most powerful piece--get stuck in a defensive mode instead of using it aggressively. That's the opposite of what Girardi did with Sabathia, his big weapon. Sabathia wasn't great on three days' rest in Game 4, but he was good enough to win--until his bullpen blew the lead and forced the team to rally in the ninth inning against Brad Lidge. Not that that was so tough to do. Not only did Girardi gain a 3-1 lead in the Series, he could give Sabathia another three days of rest in case he needed to bring him back again for Game 7.

The trick is that starting Sabathia on short rest triggered a chain reaction in the rest of the Yankees rotation. Girardi also committed himself to using his other two starters on shorter rest. Last night, A.J. Burnett got drilled early and often, allowing six runs in two-plus innings. Whether that was because his stuff was missing due to the short rest or because the Phillies made smart adjustments at the plate doesn't matter. "We didn't pitch," said Girardi after the game, explaining the loss. In essence, the Series is where it probably would've been if Girardi had sent Chad Gaudin or some other sacrificial lamb out to pitch Game 4 against Lee and brought back Sabathia in Game 5. The games were split, and the Yankees secured the lead that gives them two chances to win the title at home.

But the chain reaction is still in effect for tomorrow night's game. The starters are both old in baseball years. Pedro Martinez turned 38 last week; Andy Pettitte turned 37 in June. One will be pitching Game 6 on five days of rest, the other on three. That sounds like a big advantage to me. That was Girardi's big gamble. He felt that winning Game 4 to take a 3-1 edge would not only put his team in a spot from which 26 of 31 World Series contenders have gone on to win the title, it would also demoralize the opposition.

Not so soon. Apparently the only person it demoralized was Cole Hamels, who said--after getting hammered in a Game 3 loss--"I can't wait for the season to be over." Hamels' teammates understandably got in his face about this self-centered, defeatist attitude, making it fascinating to see whether Manuel trusts him with a Game 7 start if it comes to that. Meanwhile, those teammates had no trouble with Burnett, and they're prepared to pick on another short-rest pitcher when the battle is rejoined at Yankee Stadium. Will Girardi regret committing himself to four straight games with a short-rest starter, or will Manuel regret limiting Lee to two starts? Either way, the writers will have plenty to say about it.

Bad Ideas Even If They Work

2009-10-20T04:39:00.000-07:00

There have been a lot of things to second-guess in the playoffs already this year, but I want to focus on two of them here. In the aftermath of Joe Girardi's disastrous decision last night to bring in a reliever--with two outs and nobody on base--who subsequently gave up two straight hits to lose the game, Girardi's defenders (starting with the manager himself in his post-game remarks) simply state that "it was the right move, but it just didn't work out." His critics note that the pitcher Girardi removed, David Robertson, had just retired two batters with ease and appeared to be throwing very well, so with no crisis looming there was no reason to think that he needed to be replaced by another right-hander.

I'd like to take the criticism one step further. I've done a ton of research on relief pitching, and one conclusion that keeps jumping out from the data is that it is pointless to remove a pitcher who is effective. One study I've done looks at relievers who enter in the 8th inning and don't give up any runs (either their own or inherited runners). In other words, they have worked successfully. Until the mid-1980s, such a pitcher was allowed to start the 9th inning more than 90% of the time. Today, that figure is down around 12%. Managers have developed a mind-set that certain pitchers are to be used in certain roles and situations regardless of what has come before. But my study shows that the success (i.e. save) rate was a little better for the pre-1990s relievers who pitched the 8th and 9th innings than it is for the bullpen committees so popular today.

The logic behind this is simple. Pitcher A demonstrates that he is throwing well by getting batters out--in last night's case, the first two batters Robertson faced. Pitcher B is an unknown quantity. He might or might not have his good stuff. If he does, he is likely to be as effective as the pitcher he replaced. If he doesn't, he is likely to blow the game, as Alfredo Aceves did last night, surrendering two sharp hits and the ballgame.

This is hardly the first time this month that a manager has jettisoned an effective pitcher and subsequently lost the game. In Game 2 between the Dodgers and Cardinals, the Cardinals led 2-1 heading to the bottom of the 9th inning. Adam Wainwright pitched a terrific game, allowing only one run on three hits in eight innings. In the 8th, he loaded the bases with two outs but Tony LaRussa left him in, and he responded by sawing off Matt Kemp and getting an easy out to end the threat. Somewhere between being sharp enough to retire Kemp and walking to the dugout, Wainwright evidently ran out of gas, because LaRussa replaced him to start the bottom of the 9th. Trever Miller retired one batter and hit the pines in favor of a slumping Ryan Franklin. Minutes later, the Dodgers scored two runs off Franklin to win the game, helping send the Cardinals home early and leaving Wainwright to think he could have done better if given the chance.

Watching last night's game, I marveled at how announcer Tim McCarver continues to live up to the worst expectations of baseball fans who soured on his over-analysis years ago. He made a big deal of Girardi's visit to the mound with two outs and two strikes, trying very hard to figure out what Girardi was telling Andy Pettitte. His conclusion, stated several times initially and repeated a couple of innings later when he revisited his point, was that Girardi was reminding Pettitte that he should "expand the strike zone" against the batter, Vlad Guerrero. This is the same Vlad Guerrero they made sure to show footage of when he hit a pitch on one hop. It's hard to think of a batter from the past 20 years who swings at more pitches outside the strike zone than Guerrero does, with quite a bit of success. Did McCarver really think that Pettitte (a borderline Hall of Fame candidate) needed to be reminded that it wasn't essential to throw the ball in the strike zone in order to get Guerrero to swing?

Andy Pettitte has been in this kind of situation more times than Girardi has. Whatever Girardi said to him, I can't believe he made a trip to the mound (with his pitcher one strike from being out of the inning) to point out Guerrero's habits. Whatever Girardi said, I think all the visit amounted to was a big distraction of Pettitte's concentration. He was focused on getting that last strike. Here came Girardi to complicate things. A moment later, Guerrero took a fastball just off (or just on) the inside corner and drilled it into the stands for a game-tying two-run home run.

On the other hand, when Girardi brought Aceves in to replace Robertson, both McCarver and Joe Buck criticized the move. As I did at home. It isn't second-guessing when you criticize the move before you see the result. McCarver echoed my logic above: why remove a pitcher who's working effectively? But I have a bigger problem with the move: even if it worked, it was pointless. This was the 11th inning of a game following a 13-inning battle. Girardi had only two pitchers left in the bullpen, Aceves and Chad Gaudin, primarily a starter this season. Because of an earlier maneuver, the Yankees had no designated hitter, meaning their pitchers would have to bat. He had already used one pinch-hitter to bat for Mariano Rivera.

My point is that even if Aceves had retired Howie Kendrick instead of giving up a single, Girardi would still have been in worse shape than if he had let Robertson pitch to him. He needed to conserve his pitchers in that spot. Giving himself one less pitcher gave him one less option as the game went on and put him that much closer to using his last pitcher and having no flexibility at all. It's one thing to match up pitchers (lefties against lefties, as in the Trever Miller move discussed above) in a crucial situation. But two outs and nobody on base is not a crucial situation, and neither reliever had a significant enough history against either of the Angels hitters due up to make a clear case for thinking Robertson was a liability. There was going to be a more dangerous spot further on, when Robertson was either tiring or due to face a batter who could win the game with a hit, when Aceves (or Gaudin) was an obvious upgrade on the mound. Or the innings would pass smoothly, Robertson would need to come out for a pinch-hitter, Aceves would push as far as he could, and then Gaudin could come in.

If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Last night's game in Anaheim was far from broke when Girardi decided to fix it. Then it broke into little pieces. But even if Girardi's fix had worked at the moment, it still would've left his team in a weaker position in the game.

Another kind of ill-advised decision occurred in Game 2 between the Yankees and Angels, and it probably cost the Angels the game. Situation: bottom of the 13th, tie game, one out, Yankees on first and second. Melky Cabrera hit a sharp grounder in the hole between first and second. Angels second baseman Maicer Izturis raced to his left and made a nice grab of the grounder, then pivoted quickly to throw to second for the force. The throw sailed wide, rolled away, and the runner scooted around from second with the winning run.

The throw stank, but not as much as the decision to make it. Suppose Izturis had gotten the force at second. What would've happened. With runners on first and third and two outs, the Angels would not have held Cabrera on first. His run didn't matter, and the defense would have let him take second base. It happens all the time. In other words, the Yankees would have had runners on second and third within a pitch or two--exactly what they would have had if Izturis had been sensible enough to throw to first.

There was absolutely no reason for Izturis to attempt the force play. That might be important in the early innings of a game, when you want to keep runners out of scoring position. That might also be more acceptable if there were no outs instead of one, because the force would keep open the possibility of a double play. But Izturis was moving toward first base when he fielded the grounder. It would have taken little effort to get the out at first. Instead, he made a pivoting (wild) throw to second--when there was nothing at all to be gained by a force play.

My inclination is to say that Izturis hadn't thought things out in advance and that it was a bad decision in the heat of a panicky moment. On the other hand, thinking things out in advance didn't do Girardi any good. Of course we don't know what would've happened if Izturis had gotten the out at first or if Robertson had stayed in the game. The outcomes might have been the same. But that won't change my view: the wisdom of a decision sometimes hangs on the issue of whether a successful short-term result actually gives you a better chance of winning.

A Slice Of Life

2009-10-12T10:25:00.000-07:00

Apart from my blogs on Woodstock, I haven't used this site to interject real life into my ongoing discussion of various games. Today I feel compelled to share a tale of two strangers. When I aspired to be a fiction writer, I had a great title for a collection of stories: Strangers I Have Known. It's still a great title, I just never wrote the stories. I certainly lived them, especially in Las Vegas where tourists were quickly sized up, swarmed, digested, and spit out.

This is a recent story, in fact from the past two weeks. It's about two men I met, one day and one universe apart.

The first was part of a "heart partner" program set up earlier this year at the local hospital. It's a good program in which an upcoming heart bypass patient is paired with a former bypass patient. Last week my wife celebrated the first anniversary of her bypass, and a day before that milestone we had lunch with her latest heart partner. In this meetings, the program pays for the two patients and their spouses to have lunch. We spend the hour answering questions and sharing our experiences. Ours was all positive: a terrific surgeon and hospital staff, rapid progress, less pain and incapacitation than expected, less assistance required, a sunny attitude and plenty of support, and a minimal recovery time. We convey the importance of trusting the ICU nurses who have seen it all and are anticipating everything that cd go wrong; the need for patience and satisfaction with small daily progress; the value of having a spouse give lots of physical and emotional support, and so on. We've done five of these lunches, and four of them have been fine. The couples have communicated well, both their fears and hopes, we've answered their questions and put them at ease, and everyone has felt positive about the surgery.

Then there was the couple I'll call Ed and Edna, both about 70 years ago. She's having the surgery, reluctantly but ready to get it over with. We got our food, sat down, and started by telling her that the surgery wouldn't be awful as she expected and telling him that he wouldn't have to help her as much as he thinks he will. "Oh, I ain't helping her!" he exclaimed with finality. "She wasn't there to help me when I needed it. I ain't helpin' her! I'll drive her to the hospital and drive her home, but that's it. I don't know how she's gonna eat."

That was for openers, and the next 45 minutes didn't get any more promising. My wife lost her appetite; I was speechless. "I got my own problems," he went on. He clearly had Parkinson's and showed us the patient bracelet that confirmed that he had surgery earlier in the week. He also had the surliest attitude I've ever seen a man display toward his wife. We gathered that they had been separated for awhile, while she tended her dying sister, their closest relative. The sister died a month earlier. "I couldn't see her on the street," he conceded, "Plus she owns half the house, so she's back." Isn't that precious? His sneering hostility made Archie Bunker seem like Gomer Pyle.

He got to the heart of his beef soon enough, telling us about the time in the not-too-distant past when she was so sick that a priest gave her absolution. "You'd think getting absolution would make you think you're getting a fresh start," he told us. "But not her. She just kept eating and drinking the things she's not supposed to." He turned to her. "You brought this on yourself. You want me to tell them more? They won't like it."

We already didn't like it. He pointed to a stain on her sweater and bragged about how she was eating something and wouldn't shut up, just kept yapping and yaddaing until he bopped her (or the food) lightly enough to send the food flying onto her clothing. Nice. We tried for awhile to give them something positive to take into the surgery. She was scared of the whole thing but knew she had to have it done and was ready. He was adamantly opposed to her and anything she wanted to do. He had his own problems. My wife and I gave each other WTF looks but decided to hold our tongues, first because it wouldn't change anything and second because we have better things to do with our energy. We left there shaking our heads, having met our match in that obstinate bastard.

Here's the kicker. It came midway through lunch, after he did the absolution riff and quizzed my wife on her attendance record at Mass. Ed turned to me and asked, "are you Jewish?" "Yes," I replied. He turned to Edna and nudged her shoulder. "I told ya!" he said.

Good luck, Edna.

The next day at work, I got a phone call while playing with some research. It was the Hall of Fame museum bookstore, located just outside the Giamatti Research Center entrance. The nice lady there calls me when someone buys one of my books, so I can inscribe it personally. I scooted downstairs quickly and entered the bookstore with a "who's the person with impeccable taste?" In this case it was a 70ish gentleman I'll Bob. He had a still shrink-wrapped copy of This BAD Day In Yankees History which I was happy to sign for him. "I'm actually a Yankees fan," said Bob, "though I got pretty disenchanted with Steinbrenner in the 90s and I've lived in Houston since 1980." I signed the book and we stood in the bookstore talking. He was a distant relative of Hall of Famer Mel Ott, so we talked about going to games at the Polo Grounds. Also talked about NY Giants history, and when I noted that I wrote a book about the 1911-1912 Giants, he got himself a signed copy of that one, too. I bring this up not because it proves how easily my books sell themselves, but for a reason that will become clear later.

Bob and I moved into the more spacious atrium in the library lobby to continue our conversation, about the old-time Yankees (he grew up watching them in the 1940s) and his favorite player, Joe DiMaggio. I took him out to a photo that's part of the museum's media exhibit, and told him a good DiMaggio story related to the photo. He laughed robustly and told me what a great time he was having in Cooperstown. He was on his way to Albany to pick up a brother or sister who'd be traveling with him. They were going to see a bunch of the sports Halls of Fame, starting with Canton before coming to Cooperstown, then heading east to Springfield and finally the tennis HOF in Newport. There was some leaf-peeping planned elsewhere in New England, all in all quite a trip. "Good for you," I said.

"Well," he smiled. "I have bone cancer and lung cancer, so I have to have my fun while I can." Indeed.

There you go. Who knows how long Bob has. He doesn't know. But get him someone to drive him around New England in October, give him a couple of books to read, and turn him loose. That's the kind of person I want to be around, people like Bob and my wife who extract everything they can out of each day. Let's not take that last phrase for granted. Did we manage to extract something positive from lunch with Ed and Edna? Sure. We learned that once in awhile there is a free lunch, even if you do pay for it in other ways.

The Last Hurrah

2009-10-01T04:14:00.000-07:00

About a year and a half ago, I wrote my first blog on this site. It was about the start of the new baseball--make that the new fantasy baseball season. Since then, I've managed to refrain from pretending that anybody else would care about my fantasy teams. But as my fling with fantasy baseball approaches its final weekend, I want to pause here to discuss some of the things that have made it so much fun and a few of the reasons why I'm giving it up.

The last few years I've been in several fantasy leagues, but the only one which really matters is the "big league," a 16-team Yahoo.com league whose managers are mostly current and former Hall of Fame comrades. It's highly competitive and would be even if money weren't involved. The fact that the winner can make a couple of hundred bucks just makes us try even harder. In three seasons, my Gabe Sox have finished second, first, and fourth (just out of the money--3rd place gets your money back), all of them by a point or half-point. The league is that close. As of yesterday, I'm in 3rd place, a half-point ahead of the 4th-place team. It would be satisfying to finish in the money one more time.

There are two great things about managing a fantasy team in a competitive league. One is that it keeps you in close touch with what is happening in the majors. You follow not only your players but all those prospective free agents and guys you might trade for. Is Adam LaRoche having his usual awful first two months? Maybe he can be acquired cheaply before he begins his usual second-half surge. Keep an eye on who's being used in which relief role. Holds, a worthless stat in reality, counts as much as home runs in our league. Find out who's being used when the team is ahead, and stay away from the relievers who aren't. Rookies coming up always draw a lot of attention, because fantasy managers know that it usually isn't the guys you draft who make the difference, but rather those mid-season call-ups who catch fire. Look at this year's fine crop of rookies in the National League; every one of them has made a difference, and none were drafted before the season started. So you're forced to pay close attention to all teams and players, more than you would if you weren't being paid to.

The other great thing is the education you get from running a team during the roller-coaster ride of a major league season. Choosing starting lineups, figuring out who might do the best against today's opponents, riding hot players, benching cold one, wheeling and dealing, contending with injuries and the disabled list, abandoning favorites who aren't producing, juggling the roster, and getting involved in the daily nitty-gritty of keeping your team at the top of the standings--it's all as close as we'll get to understanding how tough it is for the professionals.

This season, the Gabe Sox have had huge problems with injuries. Two of the first three hitters I drafted--Josh Hamilton and Carlos Delgado--spent the majority of the season sidelined. Delgado may never be heard from again, and I missed his run production. I picked up Todd Helton as a free-agent first baseman and he's had a pretty good season, though without the big run production Delgado would have provided. As it turned out, the infield has provided the bulk of my team's offense, led by Mark Reynolds, a big bargain as a 12th-round pick. In a league where strikeouts don't count against your team, Reynolds is a superstar, providing power and stolen bases. Up the middle, I've had two very solid performers, Dustin Pedroia (my 3rd-round draft choice) and Michael Young. Along with catcher Brandon Inge, they formed the nucleus of my offense, which has been one of the best in the league all year. Two outfielders also contributed a lot: Jayson Werth and Ichiro (though his runs scored and stolen bases haven't been what I expected).

My offense hasn't been a problem, but my pitching was horrible the first half of the season, especially my starters. Adam Wainwright has been a worthy ace all along, but Jon Lester and Ryan Dempster got lit up regularly until July. That trio was supposed to dominate the league, but midway through the season my team ERA was the fourth-worst in the league and I wasn't winning much either. So when Hamilton came off the DL, I traded him for Matt Cain. Though Cain stopped winning games and took a few poundings, overall he has pitched well for me, especially early on, and with Lester and Dempster pitching much better, my ERA and WHIP have climbed into the league's top half.

I never did find a satisfactory fifth starter this season. Drafted Randy Johnson but he was done after a few weeks. I tried a "starter du jour" rotation for awhile, isolating one free agent starter each day I thought most likely to pitch well and/or win, but they invariably got bombed. Later in the season I picked up Tommy Hunter of Texas, who gave me a few good starts before faltering and getting torched. Then he pitched a complete game as a free agent and I grabbed him again, just in time for him to get pounded for six runs by the Angels in his last start. Ouch!

The last two months have been the reverse of the season's first two months for the Gabe Sox. As my starting pitching came around and my team ERA dropped from 4.6 to 3.9, my offense disappeared. Inge banged up his knees and has been helpless at the plate. Reynolds hasn't recovered from a bout with the flu, and his production has tailed off. In July, I traded Werth for Joe Nathan, who arrived just in time (as part of a plan to get to the top of the league in saves) for my previous #2 closer, Chad Qualls, to bite the dust. So Nathan, who's been fine, has only kept my bullpen where it was with Qualls, in the middle of the pack. Michael Young's injury really hurt, as his production was steady in many categories. Even Ichiro missed a week down the stretch. I've had a few hitters--Jose Lopez, Felipe Lopez, and Cody Ross--fill in adequately but without doing anything special. So the offense has been a real struggle the last two months, fighting close battles in home runs, runs, and RBI, and eventually giving up on stolen bases.

Despite the injuries and the pitching woes, the Gabe Sox actually held first place for a few weeks midway through the season. In August things went sour, and with teams named Sonic Death Monkey and The Spider Monkeys taking over the top two spots in the standings, I felt the need for dramatic action. So I changed my team name to the Monkey Sox, reasoning that "you have to fight monkeys with monkeys." Within days, other managers had followed suit; the Haymakers and Frisco Discos became the Haymonkeys and the Frisco Monkeys, respectively. I've treaded water as the Monkey Sox, while the Haymonkeys are now just a half-point behind Sonic Death Monkey for 1st place. Yesterday, I changed back to the Gabe Sox. In my last hurrah, I'm going down fighting under my own name. You're done making a monkey out of me!

So there has been plenty of excitement mixed in with the frustration and the agonizing over personnel decisions (but at least you don't have to deal with agents). I've enjoyed being one of the few people to linger over the amazing accomplishment of Milwaukee reliever Mitch Stetter, who was picked up by the Gabe Sox the day before he launched a record-setting streak of 15 straight outs recorded by strikeouts. I've enjoyed following games on the computer in the evenings, visualizing how it will look in the box score if this or that Gabe Sox stalwart hits a home run next time up and occasionally having that very sequence of numbers appear on the screen when I check the box score again.

Then there are the negatives, including the perverse rooting interests it creates, so often conflicting with your real-baseball concerns. I'm a Reds fan and try to have at least a couple of them on my team (for the same reason that I refuse to have any Yankees or Dodgers on my teams). This season, the Gabe Sox backup catcher was Ramon Hernandez until he got hurt, and then I didn't have a Reds hitter on my team, only bullpen stud Arthur Rhodes. But a few weeks ago I picked up Johnny Gomes because he kept hitting home runs. He hit a couple for me, too, and then came the day in September when I benched him. The Reds played a day game, which I took in on my computer at work. In the 1st inning, Gomes came up with the bases loaded. Great! Well, not so great. Great for my team (the Reds), but I found myself rooting against Gomes. If he hit a grand slam, I'd be pissed at myself for benching him on the Gabe Sox. He popped up, and I felt elated. That elation bothered me. My natural rooting instinct was perverted by this artificial competition. Later in the game, Gomes hit a three-run home run. And I was pissed, doubly this time because of my guilt about rooting against him in the 1st inning.

The issue there is whether I really would've cared about Johnny Gomes if he hadn't been on the Gabe Sox at the time (I've since dropped him). Yes, I would've cared, perhaps not as strongly but certainly more purely. I realized that last night during the 9th inning of the Mets-Nationals game. In the fantasy league, I'm fighting for points in the saves category. In the final week, I'm one ahead of someone and two behind someone else, a potential 1 1/2-point swing. My big closer all season has been Francisco Rodriguez, who saved his first 20 attempts with the Mets but has struggled hugely ever since. The Mets haven't gotten him many chances for saves, and he's blown some in spectacular fashion. So last night he entered the bottom of the 9th with a 4-2 lead. I really needed that save. The first batter hit a sharp grounder to short which was bobbled, and the throw to first was late. Although Mets announcer Gary Cohen recorded an error in his scoreboard, it was officially ruled a hit. A very cheap single. Pretty soon, the bases were loaded on another hit and a walk. K-Rod got a couple of outs, then walked Adam Dunn to force in a run. I couldn't watch any more. I abandoned the television and went back to the computer. Sure enough, a couple of minutes later I saw the result on the small screen: a game-ending grand slam. Not only did the key save vanish, but because of that awful scoring decision on the first batter, all five runs were earned. If it had been properly scored an error on the shortstop, all the runs would've been unearned, and it wouldn't have put a couple of ERA points in jeopardy.

So that's what pissed me off--not that the closer for a team I root for blew one more game in a season that has long since been irrelevant, but that he got nailed for five earned runs at a time when my staff is struggling to hold onto a couple of vital points. I should've been able to laugh off K-Rod's latest explosion, but instead I took it personally. Instead of shaking my head at the shortstop for screwing up the play, I wound up pissed off at the official scorer for a home-town hit call that might deliver a fatal blow to my pitching staff.

I've lost count of the number of times I've added a pitcher to my roster when he was pitching against the two teams I root for the most in reality. Or I've had a pitcher starting for one of my teams against a pitcher from another one of my teams. The fantasy has gained priority over the reality, and while that might be appealing in some respects, ultimately it creates conflicts that aren't that much fun.

Next year, I'm going to try to regain a healthy perspective by discarding the fantasy leagues and once again becoming a productive member of society. This decision was made easier by a policy adopted in August by the place where I work. The filtering system they've installed in our computers to limit access to Dangerous Internet Sites has targeted the Yahoo page used for two of the three fantasy leagues I play in. Several of us have protested, arguing first that any site with baseball content should be okay at an institution supposedly devoted to baseball, and second that we are collectively more tuned into baseball history as it is being made because of our devotion to the league. Our arguments were made to no avail. We were told that there is no game-playing on work computers and that we will have to confine our league activities to home. God forbid we should have a little fun while keeping pace with current baseball events!

I think this is a short-sighted, Draconian [look it up!] policy. Two mornings a week, I get to my office at 6 AM, and you'd think it would be okay for me to spend a little pre-work time taking care of my fantasy teams. Or a few minutes during my lunch hour. But no. It's home or bust. The problem is that this policy has already cost my team. I know of four instances where Gabe Sox players who were in my starting lineup wound up not playing during afternoon games, and there was nothing I could do about it. Instead of substituting another starter, I was stuck with a non-playing performer. So far, this has cost me production in runs, runs batted in, and strikeouts. I might finish 4th, out of the money, because this policy prevented me from getting those three RBI which subsequently cost me the deciding point. Don't you think that would be frustrating? Wouldn't it be foolish to invest the kind the time and effort, study and rooting, that I've put into this season, only to have it crash and burn because someone thinks I might tarnish the sanctity and reputation of a hallowed American institution by checking fantasy-league standings in my office at 6 AM?

Here's to the Gabe Sox and a fast finish this weekend, enough to get back an investment I will not make again. Next season, instead of grinding out all those evening results, I'll read some good books, or maybe write one. When someone calls me at work to ask me about that hot new rookie, I'll just have to say that I never heard of him. And then I'll forward the caller to one of my colleagues who has.

Calling In Stuck

2009-09-29T03:39:00.000-07:00

Someone suggested to me the other day that I could write the equivalent of This Bad Day in Yankees History for the Mets, and I could fill the whole volume just with events from 2009, with the 1977 Tom Seaver exile thrown in (as the worst day in franchise history).

That's one way of describing how disastrous this season has been for the Mets. Their big stars and most exciting players have been on the shelf for large chunks of the season, with subpar substitutes filling the lineup most days. It's as if Jose Reyes, Carlos Delgado, and the others have been off playing in a parallel universe, stuck in some space-time continuum warp in which they must keep playing, but far from the eyes of the fans on their home planet.

It reminds me of a concept from my poker-industry years, something I believe is unique to poker: calling in stuck. I have to explain a couple of things about how Las Vegas poker rooms did business back in the 1980s. Because a poker room is the only place in the casino where gamblers are not trying to win house money, it fosters procedures and habits you won't find anywhere else in the casino. In poker, you might see eight players at a table but they're playing against each other, trying to win each other's money. The dealer is there only to regulate the game and take the "rake," the percentage of the pot taken by the casino (generally a few dollars per pot).

In most poker rooms in the 1980s, you would be hard-pressed to find a game in which no dealers were playing. Usually this meant off-duty dealers, or dealers from other poker rooms. The fact was that most poker dealers only had their jobs to feed their own playing addiction. Let them make enough dealing to buy into a game where they might win more money, and they were happy. I once worked in a room with 50+ dealers in which only a handful never had trouble paying the rent at the end of the month,. The rest might occasionally have the strength of will to deal five days in a row, but that would only give them a buy-in to a higher-limit game when their weekend arrived. Most dealers played every day--somewhere.

Almost every poker room (and there were 40 or so in the 1980s) allowed their dealers to play. Let me rephrase that. Almost every poker room encouraged their dealers to play, and some even required it. That's right. As part of your five-day work-week, you might be required to play one entire shift. One room where I worked briefly required dealers to play on their Wednesday. Let them deal two days, then make them play (and usually blow off what they made the first two days), then two more dealing days to pump them up for their weekend action.

There are all kinds of insidious implications of this policy (the equivalent of telling a bartender that he has to sit there one day a week and drink for eight hours, paying full prices), but the net effect was to feed the poker room's bottom line. As in show biz, the only good seats in a poker room are those with asses in them, and the casino execs don't care whose asses they are. If it's one of our dealers on a two-day around-the-clock binge, that's fine. Just keep people at the table, because every hand dealt keeps that inexorable flow of a few dollars per pot to the house flowing.

This is what makes poker the most predatory industry in America. It was even more so in the 1980s because of all the pressure on dealers to play. Which brings me back to the notion of calling in stuck. I learned about it at a place called the Bingo Palace (now the Palace Station), which had a dealing crew renowned around town for being the best dealers and the sickest gamblers. That's why only a few could pay the rent. They didn't care. They were in action, every day in every way.

So you'd get a dealer who managed to put in a full shift of work, making $100 or so. After his shift, he might grab a few drinks or smoke some pot, regroup, and find a poker game somewhere. In this case, the game would not be in the cardroom where he worked. He'd get stuck right away, losing half of his $100 buy-in in the first hour. Then it would get worse. Eventually he would go "on tilt," a beautiful phrase describing what happens when a gambler's self-discipline abandons him. Common sense hits the door, bad emotions take over, and no matter how much he loses, his only desire is to stay there stubbornly and try to get even.

After awhile the dealer is stuck a few hundred bucks, but the game is good, with enough live action to give him a mathematical chance to get even. Then he reaches the fail-safe point, at which he needs to get hot in a hurry if he wants to get even before it's time to go back to work. However, luck is not a light switch he can turn on and off, and he stays cold. Suddenly he's due at work in 30 minutes and he's still losing $350. But why would he want to go to work? If he dealt eight hours, he could make that $100 or so--or he could win that much in one or two pots where his ass is currently glued to a chair.

What would he do if he worked at a place like the Bingo Palace? He'd call the shift boss and say, "Listen, I'm over at the Nugget and I'm buried. I can't leave--I haven't slept and I can't work. Do you have somebody who can work for me?" Like most poker rooms, the Bingo Palace had an "extra board," a small corps of reserve dealers who didn't work regular shifts but were available to replace dealers on vacation or out sick. Or calling in stuck. If an extra board dealer could cover your shift, you were free and clear.

Think about that. By being truthful about your degenerate gambling, you had a legitimate excuse for not working. Why did the Bingo Palace--and other poker rooms--foster this system? For one thing, they knew that for every Bingo Palace dealer who got buried in someone else's game, there were several dealers from elsewhere who were stuck and pumping up the games in our room. Dealers playing abroad were good advertising. Our ambassador, by providing hours and hours of lively action and overtipping dealers, would encourage them to come to our place to overplay and overtip. Poker industry money went around and around and around, the same money won and lost and tipped back and forth--except for that three or four bucks per hand going to the house. The Bingo Palace poker proprietors knew that we'd get more than our share of that money. Our main hold'em game went continuously for several years! In the middle of the night, when action in some rooms ground to a halt, people knew there'd be a game going at the Bingo Palace. So having one of our stalwarts throw a party somewhere else once in awhile was no big deal. Just call in stuck, and get someone else to work for you.

That's what the Mets have done this year. The players who were supposed to do the bulk of the heavy lifting--Reyes, Delgado, Beltran, Santana, Maine, Perez--have been elsewhere most of the time, too buried to do anything but huddle against the dark forces where they are. Only a few have even managed to put in token late-season appearances in the Flushing Meadows. Instead, the extra board crew--Angel Pagan, Alex Cora, Anderson Hernandez, Wilson Valdez, Pat Misch, Nelson Figueroa, and way too many others--have been carrying the heavy work load. The results have been ugly. The fans have been stuck, too, watching the wrong players. Many of us have cashed out, reconciling ourselves to this lost season. It's too late to get even. All we can do is call in stuck ourselves, hit the sidelines, wait out the barren winter, and hope the A-team shows up to play next season. What else can we do?

New Priorities

2009-09-24T03:40:00.000-07:00

Those of us who work at the Hall of Fame are constantly being asked about the impact of steroids on baseball. People want to know how to evaluate the records that were set in the past 15 years, how to estimate the exact effect steroids had on this or that player's statistics, and how to judge the players who played under the influence. Should Rafael Palmeiro be elected to the Hall of Fame? How about Mark McGwire? How the hell should I know? Do we give extra credit to players we're pretty sure didn't use steroids?

How do you find a satisfying historical perspective for something you're living through at the moment? This is a difficult task in life, not to mention baseball, but the magnitude of the steroids mess is such that people want an answer. I don't think there is a satisfying answer. We will never know: A) the identity of every player who did steroids; B) when and for how long they used various substances which were or were not illegal/banned at the time; or C) the precise effect these substances had on performance, one at-bat at a time. We just won't know.

Some people want to obliterate the results of the last 15-20 years, simply because we can't know who cheated and how much it helped them. That is short-sighted and self-defeating, of course, unless these people simply eliminate baseball from their lives. If you're still watching the games, you have to accept the fact that whether it's steroids or sign-stealing or scuffing the baseball, cheating has always been part of baseball's history. If you want to take some number of home runs away from Barry Bonds because you think he wouldn't have hit so many if he hadn't taken steroids, go ahead and pick a number. 20? 50? 100? But while you're at it, you have to figure out how many times steroid-stuffed pitchers got him out because of that extra oomph on their fastballs. How many would that be? 100? 500? 1,000? Take away all the steroids, give Bonds all those at-bats back, and his home run totals would likely be pretty close to where they are now.

That's why it is a fallacy to point to steroids as the cause of the decade-long spurt in home runs that has leveled off the last couple of years. There are many reasons why home runs increased; I could list about a dozen factors that have contributed. But one important factor is usually overlooked in the discussion: batters hit a lot more home runs when they're trying to.

Fifty years ago, there was a stigma attached to batters who struck out too much. The mantra was "with two strikes, cut down on your swing and put the ball in play." That's what they taught us in Little League, and that's what the major leaguers did, even the sluggers. In 1959, Hank Aaron hit 39 home runs and Willie Mays hit 34. Their strikeout totals, respectively (in a total of 1,204 at-bats), were 54 and 58. When Roger Maris broke Babe Ruth's home run record in 1961 with 61 blasts, he struck out 67 times.

Striking out, after all, does nothing for your team's offense. Put the ball in play and it might find a spot where the fielders ain't, the fielder might kick it, a throw might get away, and runners can advance even on an out. Whatever you do, don't strike out! The mantra guided hitters for decades, but that mantra has largely vanished from today's game. Think about the implications for a moment.

Fifty years ago, batters changed their approach with two strikes. Of course sometimes they hit home runs, but they weren't consciously trying to. If they got a fat pitch they'd drive it, but they were just as happy to slap an outside pitch for an opposite-field single. The idea was to single; a home run was an occasional by-product of a solid swing.

Today it's just the opposite. Even with two strikes, powerful hitters are swinging all-out and trying to clear those fences. Screw shortening the swing. If the manager isn't going to bust his balls about over-swinging, if the fans don't care about anything besides those mammoth blasts, if only the homers are going to show up on the highlight shows, and--most importantly--if his salary negotiation is going to be based on his positive stats, there is absolutely no reason for a batter to shorten his swing. That's what we see now.

Exhibit A for this all-out approach is Mark Reynolds. The other day he surpassed his ridiculous strikeout record set last year, zooming past 204 whiffs with almost two weeks left in the season. If he maintains his pace--and is anyone out there prepared to bet that he won't?--he has a chance to strike out more times in 2009 than the two league-leaders from 1959 combined (Mickey Mantle fanned 126 times to lead the AL, and Wally Post topped the NL with 101).

And nobody cares! Certainly not Reynolds, who after breaking his own record said, "I don't care about the strikeouts. . .I know I do things to help this team win." Indeed, Reynolds is second in the majors with 43 home runs, has 100 RBI and will surpass 100 runs scored, and has stolen 24 bases. He also has about the same number of singles that Maris had in 1961, but the singles are incidental the way two-strike home runs used to be.

The fact is that Reynolds and hitters like him are taking their full cuts even with two strikes. The strikeout stigma is long gone. As long as the production is there, nobody cares. If you can keep hacking away with two strikes, trying for the long ball, you're going to launch more shots than the 1950s guy who choked up on the bat with two strikes and looked for a ball to nudge through the infield for a hit. Do the math. At most, you get two swings before reaching a two-strike count. With two strikes, you can foul off a lot of pitches before putting one in play. So if Player A is taking two full cuts and then choking up, and Player B is adding a few two-strike full cuts to those first two, it is automatic that he's going to hit more home runs. He's trying to! He can't help but hit more.

So we've grown a whole generation of sluggers whose agents know how to shine off the negative stats and trumpet the positives. We have Mark Reynolds, now completing his second full season in the majors, with 541 strikeouts in 1,450 at-bats, or one whiff every 2.7 AB. Yet his power and stolen bases will put him in the top 10 in the MVP balloting. The irony is that it is his futility at the plate which also gives him more chances to hit home runs. Opposing pitchers (and managers) are willing to throw more strikes to him because it's much more likely that he'll miss the ball than get a hit (in fact, nearly 50% more likely). Instead of pitching around him, they go after him. In Mark Reynolds' world, it's "Home Run Derby" all the time.

He's not alone, not by a long shot. Of the top 20 in career strikeouts, half played in this decade and six are still active. Mickey Mantle stands at #20, Willie Mays is #40, and Hank Aaron is #75. Jim Thome is #2 and has struck out four times as often as he hits a home run. He can't run, can't field, and doesn't hit for average, but people will want to put him in the Hall of Fame strictly on the basis of his 564 career homers. Nobody cares that he averaged 170 strikeouts a season over a five-year stretch.

But look at it this way. Reynolds strikes out roughly 1.4 times per game. This year, there might be one player in the whole majors who averages 2 home runs per week. It has become acceptable, even desirable, to sacrifice one or two at-bats every game in order to do something exceptional once or twice a week. I'm not saying that we should go back to the way baseball was played 100 years ago, when bunts, steals, hit-and-runs, and building a run at a time were the vogue. I'm just asking you to keep in mind that this one factor might account for more of the recent home-run madness than any other factor.

Here's a comment about Reynolds from Dodgers manager Joe Torre which puts the current mania in sharp focus. "He's dangerous," said Torre after Reynolds set a new standard for striking out. "You know he strikes out a lot, but don't miss your spot because he can do some damage. If you put up 40 home runs, strikeouts are the price you pay."

Joe Torre hit 252 home runs in his career. He peaked at 36 in 1966; that season he struck out 61 times. So he paid a bargain price for his power compared to Reynolds. Jeez, Joe, just because it is so doesn't mean it has to be so, or that it's okay to strike out four or five times as often as you go deep. Don't tell Albert Pujols that he should be willing to strike out more often if it means more home runs. From 2003-2006, he hit over 40 home runs each season without striking out more than 65 times. In 2006, he fanned only 50 times while blasting 49 home runs, almost adding his name to the short list of players who surpassed 40 home runs in a season but didn't strike out as often. Here's the list:

Name Season HR SO
Mel Ott 1929 42 38
Lou Gehrig 1934 49 31
Lou Gehrig 1936 49 46
Joe DiMaggio 1937 46 37
Johnny Mize 1947 51 42
Johnny Mize 1948 40 37
Ted Kluszewski 1953 40 34
Ted Kluszewski 1954 49 35
Ted Kluszewski 1955 47 40
Barry Bonds 2004 45 41

That's a nice group of hitters. Add up the strikeouts for those 10 seasons and you get 381, which is fewer than Mark Reynolds and Ryan Howard have combined for already this season, or 160 fewer than Reynolds has in less than three seasons in the majors. Is that really an acceptable price to pay--day after day, game after game--for something that might happen a couple of times a week? Just because it is condoned by fans, agents, managers, general managers, et al, it is not necessarily the way things should or have to be.

MLB Takes A Holiday

2009-09-08T04:14:00.000-07:00

I'm old enough to remember when major league baseball actually scheduled doubleheaders in advance. I don't go back to the beginning of this practice, which flourished in the 1930s when the Great Depression threatened to derail professional sports. With the notion of a capacity crowd only a daydream outside of New York, owners figured that giving customers two games for the price of one would lure more people to the parks.

They were right. If you could draw a paying crowd of 20,000 for a Sunday doubleheader, you'd be better off than you would be with a Sunday single-game crowd of 12,000 and a Monday afternoon sprinkling of a few thousand stalwarts. It's different today. Not only are doubleheaders absent from the schedule, if a rainout forces a doubleheader, more often than not it's a day-night affair with separate admissions. This happens when the home team plays to near-capacity crowds and there wouldn't be enough available seats to accommodate the rain-check leftovers. Make no mistake--if you go to a day game that ends at 4pm and have to vacate the building and kill a few hours before attending the second game scheduled that day, it isn't a doubleheader. It's a pair of single games, and a lot of people attend only one of them

There was no such problem in the good old days. You made up rainouts with doubleheaders, sometimes twi-nighters. I attended more than a few doubleheaders as a kid, some of them quite memorable. I was at the Polo Grounds the day that Lou Brock hit one of the handful of home runs into the center field bleachers. That was in the second game; the first game featured the famous incident where Marv Throneberry tripled into an out because he neglected to touch first and second base. Another twin-bill between the Mets and Reds featured Frank Robinson getting ejected from the opener in the top of the first inning for arguing a check-swing strike, and a nightcap where Pete Rose began the game with a home run into the second deck that held up as the game's only run.

Time was when there was a doubleheader every Sunday as well as the three summer holidays: Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, and Labor Day. I can understand why these have bitten the dust in the current era when owners want 81 separate home dates for hawking the newest logo on their souvenir caps and shirts. But MLB has gone way overboard in the last few seasons by not even playing a full slate of games on Memorial Day and Labor Day. This policy is so self-defeating and blighted that even Bud Selig should be able to figure it out. The schedule used to be made by human beings who understood what a holiday is. Today it's done by computers, which never take a day off and don't understand the concept.

Do I need to explain why this is stupid? Memorial Day and Labor Day are holidays, days of celebration. Kids have the day off from school; Labor Day is often their last day of freedom before the new school year. Many workers have the day off, especially on Labor Day. Offices and government services have the day off. There's nothing to do but get together with friends and family to celebrate. Hey, they could even go to a game! There's nothing stopping people from going to the ballpark for the big holiday. Even if you can't get to a game, everybody's free, and a ballgame on the radio was--and still could be--the perfect accompaniment to that family or neighborhood barbecue or party. Baseball has a massive audience on these extra free days, and in these marketing-laden times, you'd think MLB would seize this opportunity to wring every bit of attention it can get by providing day-long entertainment.

But no. Yesterday, on Labor Day, if you lived in Washington DC, Miami, Atlanta, Baltimore, Seattle, Detroit, and Oakland, your local team had the day off. The Mets also didn't play, leaving the New York market to the Yankees. That's eight teams out of thirty playing no baseball on a national holiday. Why? Because it was a Monday, and the computer program that generates the schedule flags Mondays and Thursdays as the two days of the week when some teams travel and/or rest. It's that simple. Holidays, schmolidays, it's Monday so some teams are off. Screw the fans of these teams who have the extra leisure time to enjoy a game.

Is there any rationale for the "national pastime" depriving more than 25% of its fans of home-town baseball on one of the two weekdays when few of them have to work?

It would have taken Bud Selig about two minutes to look at this year's schedule, see the flaw, and tell someone to fix it. It took me only a couple of minutes to figure out the simple changes in the schedule that would've put all thirty major-league teams on the field yesterday. The Mets and Marlins start a three-game series tonight. They play on Thursday. All you had to do was start the series yesterday and give them Thursday off. The Mets were at home Sunday and the Marlins played in Washington, so they didn't exactly need a travel day on Monday. Likewise, the Braves start a series in Houston tonight, and could've traveled easily from Atlanta to Houston to play yesterday. Instead, Houston hosted the Phillies in the finale of a four-game series that began on Friday. They could've opened that series last Thursday instead, moving the Phillies-Giants series to Monday-Wednesday to free up Thursday for the Phillies. The necessary changes in the American League wouldn't have been any more complicated than that.

All it would've taken was someone--say, the Commissioner, the man whose mandate is to act "for the good of the game"--to say "wait a second, we can't have teams idle on the holidays." Failing that, why didn't the owners of those idle teams protest? Is attendance in Washington DC so tremendous that they couldn't use the boost of having a home game on a national holiday? I suppose there's some greedily self-serving reason why the owners haven't agitated to fix this oversight, but it escapes me. Whatever their motives, the bottom line is that the fans of these teams get the short end of the straw.

It happens that all the major-league teams played on Memorial Day this season, but that hasn't been the case in recent years. In 2008, eight teams were scheduled off on Memorial Day and ten were omitted from the Labor Day schedule. In 2007, six teams got Memorial Day off and two were excused from laboring on Labor Day. And so on. It's one travesty that the person who programs the computer to create the schedule can't bother to make sure that all teams are scheduled on the national holidays. It's a bigger travesty that the people who actually run the game let this self-defeating oversight stand. Does this make any sense to anybody?

A few years ago, a romantic French restaurant opened in what passes for the heart of Cooperstown. They served gourmet food at tables adorned with roses. Late in January, a few weeks after they opened, my wife and I stopped in there to make reservations for Valentine's Day. "I'm sorry," we were told, "but we're not open on Tuesdays." That's true. It said right on the door that they were closed Monday and Tuesday. Do you think they would make an exception for Valentine's Day, which fell on a Tuesday that year? Gee, romantic restaurant, romantic holiday--do you think they would've done some business that night? We'll never know. They were out of business before Valentine's Day rolled around on Wednesday the following year.

Shocking.

Well, some teams get Monday off, which seems to be a law of nature so immutable that even the gazillionaires who run baseball can't do anything about it. It's an old adage that baseball is such a great game that it survives the people who run it. But does that have to be proven so insultingly and so often?

Minaya Reassures Mets Fans: "I'm Healthy!"

2009-08-25T03:30:00.001-07:00

Addressing reporters yesterday in the wake of a vote of confidence by Mets owner Fred Wilpon, GM Omar Minaya announced, "I'm feeling great--I'm healthy! In fact, I've never felt better." Amid swirling rumors about his job security in light of the team's dismal performance this season, Minaya reported that "Mr. Wilpon has expressed confidence in the direction we're taking here. Despite my insistence on signing Oliver Perez and a few other disasters, I've blown off only about $73 million of his money, or roughly 10% of what Bernie Madoff cost him. So in the big picture, we're doing just fine."

"Most importantly," Minaya smiled, "my doctor tells me my health is tip-top. No, I won't tell you who he is. I'll only say that he isn't employed by the Mets. No way am I going to consult any medical person who's had anything to do with the health of my players." He said it helps that he's done nothing for the last three months but sit in a chair and make phone calls. "It's hard to strain a hammy or a quad sitting on your ass all day," he reminded reporters.

Minaya also disclosed that he has learned the cause of the rash of injuries that has decimated the 2009 Mets. "It has seemed like we've been cursed this year, so we've investigated all the rumors and considered all the possibilities," he said. "Even before the season began, we got a report that our new stadium had been built on ancient Indian burial grounds. A local tribe, the Brookataws, contacted us with some vague warnings, but we found out that they said the same thing to the Yankees, and nothing has gone wrong for them this year. So we dismissed that.

"Then we started to wonder whether we were being haunted by ghosts from Shea Stadium because, you know, we built this $800 million park that gave no indication that the franchise had ever existed before. Or the ghosts of departed Dodgers fans who wondered why we didn't open this tribute to Ebbets Field 45 years ago when they would've been around to enjoy it. Or even the ghost of Jackie Robinson getting back at us because the biggest thing in his rotunda is the gift shop. But we flew in Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis to do some tests, and the only ectoplasm they found was something left over from Mickey Lolich. So that was out.

"The answer actually turned up two months ago, but I didn't believe it. Until another letter arrived over the weekend which convinced me. I hesitate to publicize this because it's a pretty sordid tale, but in the interest of letting our fans what has really been going on this season, here it is.

"As you know, we do a lot of scouting in Latin America and the Caribbean. Over the winter, we got word of an outstanding pitching prospect in Haiti. They don't play a lot of baseball in Haiti, but it's just a short drive from our winter headquarters in the Dominican Republic, so we sent scouts over there to have a look. I could hardly believe their reports. This kid threw a four-seam fastball that topped out at 106 mph, a 77-mph change-up that made one batter swing twice before it got to the plate, and a drop-off-the-table curve. The scouts really liked that fastball.

"Naturally we were interested in signing him, and naturally we discovered that his agent was Scott Boras. This was about the time that we got that wonderful notebook Boras made up explaining why Oliver Perez was the equal of Sandy Koufax. Or at least he almost was for a half-dozen starts in a row last summer. Really. You could look it up. He wanted $10 million a year for four years, which seemed like a lot of money after we landed the best reliever in baseball for $12 million a year. It was a tough decision. We could get Bobby Abreu for a lot less, a guy who could hit .300 with power and speed and score 100 runs, but we felt good about putting Daniel Murphy in left field and of course Ryan Church would anchor our outfield in right.

"We were thinking this over when this pitcher from Haiti came along, and damned if Boras didn't want $15 million a year for him even though he had no experience in Organized Baseball. I don't mind telling you that Boras' notebook on this guy made Oliver Perez look like a chump. I mean, think Dwight Gooden but faster. So we sent Tony Bernazard down to Haiti to talk to him, and unfortunately that didn't go well. The kid insisted on speaking French, which Tony couldn't understand, and then when Tony finally snapped and started cursing at him it turned out the kid knew English after all. But not Spanish. Not a word. We didn't like that.

"Still, we liked that fastball, so we kept talking to Boras about him. Meanwhile, the closer we got to the season without a fifth starter, the higher the pricetag on Perez got, and finally we signed him for $12 million a year. But we were smart about it. We insisted on adding a clause that if we signed the kid from Haiti, Oliver had to teach him Spanish. We thought that would help cinch a deal for the prospect we were ready to call "The Haitian Hurricane". But things bogged down, Boras wouldn't lower his price, and we weren't willing to go higher than $14.5 million. We didn't sign him, and nobody else did either. So we forgot about him.

"That is, until I got a letter from Haiti in the middle of June. I'll hand out copies when I'm done, but here's the text:

Dear Omar Minaya:

You will regret not signing me. You think I am just a backward boy from Haiti with no power in the world, but you will see my power. I put the voodoo on you. Your team is doomed. I will cripple them, starting with the Latino players you think are so special. I drill a hole in my Carlos Delgado bobblehead and see--his hip is ruined. Goodbye, Carlos. Next I get that Jose Reyes, stick a pin in this doll and tweak his hamstring a little. Or so he thinks. It does not take much voodoo to put Reyes on the bench. A little tug on his hamstring, then it almost goes away and he thinks he can play soon, so I stick another pin in the doll and voila! Out three more weeks. I string him along like this all season, tease him like you tease me with your contract offer. You don't know it, but he is through playing baseball this season. And last week I get your Carlos Beltran, too. I twist the knee of his bobblehead, I don't break it off, just let it hang there so you don't know if it will ever be all right again. See how far you get without these three players. This is your last warning from me. If you don't sign me, it will only get worse. I am keeping myself in shape by twisting off the arms on the dolls of your pitchers. John Maine, J.J. Putz, even Oliver Perez, and more in the future if you do not pay my price. I am serious, Monsieur Minaya. I have all the power. This power can help you if you sign me, or it can ruin you if you don't. You think you own the Caribbean, but you ignore Haiti, and you will pay the price, one way or another.

(Signed) Sydney Pinson

"That was in June," Minaya told the puzzled group of reporters. "Sure, we'd been hit by injuries, but we never suspected that our three best hitters would miss the rest of the year, or that it would get worse. We still had David Wright hitting almost .400, Johan Santana was unhittable, K-Rod hadn't blown a save yet, and our bench was coming through. So we ignored the threat, went about our business, and forgot about him. Well, you've seen how it's gone the last two months, worse and worse and worse. It's as if there's a Bermuda Triangle right in the middle of our clubhouse. Even our replacements have gotten whacked. Alex Cora is solid and busts up his thumbs. Jonathan Niese makes a few good starts and blows out his leg. We bring in Jeff Francoeur and he does a great job, and now he tears a ligament in his thumb. And finally Johan--and I thought why oh why, Lord, must you take Johan from us. It's terrible. It's beyond any rational explanation. So I really wasn't surprised when another letter from Haiti arrived on Saturday. Here it is:

Dear Monsieur Le Doomed Minaya:

You did not listen to me. I warned you that the voodoo would get worse. Do you still doubt my power? I break off the thumbs of the Cora doll. I take a hammer and whack the helmet of the Wright doll. I talk to the Rodriguez doll, tell him to throw nothing but curves, and his ERA goes over 3 and he loses so many games for you. Sheffield's hamstring. Francoeur's thumb. Niese. Martinez. Putz. Pagan. Maine. Perez. Nieve. It does not matter whether they can play good or not. If they put on the Mets uniform and I do not, they will suffer. Oh yes, Santana too. Nobody can be spared. The voodoo cannot be stopped. I will not stop it until you sign me. For next season. This season does not matter any more. I have ruined it for you. Monsieur Boras timed me at 109mph yesterday. I am getting stronger. The more your Mets suffer, the stronger I get. Do not fight the power of the voodoo. Sign me and let the power work for you. This is my final warning. I can still make it worse. The decision is yours.

(Signed) Sydney Pinson

"So that's where we stand," Minaya told the open-mouthed reporters. "I don't see where we have a choice. I talked to Scott Boras yesterday, and the price is up to $21 million a year. He says it will go up $500,000 every time another Met goes on the disabled list. I have no choice except to believe him. But now that Mr. Wilpon has promised that I'll be around next year, I feel ready to go ahead. He's okay with the money. I'm still so far ahead of Madoff it isn't funny. The only question is: do we let it go for awhile longer, sacrifice a few more arms and legs and see if we can get the kid up to about 115mph before we sign him? I mean, it'll just make that change-up more effective. Right?"

Right, Omar. Whatever you say--apparently.

Woodstock 2009: Forty Years After

2009-08-18T03:45:00.000-07:00

Let’s get right to the bottom line: the “Heroes of Woodstock” concert at Bethel Woods on August 15 was the best concert I’ve seen since. . .Woodstock in 1969. I’ve been to dozens over the past 40 years, but this one tops them all, for the quality as well as the quantity of music plus the celebratory atmosphere.

From the first sounds—15-year-old Conrad Oberg recreating (nearly) note-for-note Jimi Hendrix’s electrifying “Star Spangled Banner”—to the final song almost eight hours later, the event gave us everything we wanted, and then some. For many attendees, those who were there in 1969 but took the worst of it between the bad weather, the physical privations, and the brown acid, this concert was the smooth entertainment they wished had been provided the first time. I saw a few people overcome by the heat (it was the hottest day of the year, of course, with temperatures above 90), but there was no sign of rain, mud, or starvation. As far as I’m aware, the worst thing that happened was that they ran out of lettuce for the wraps late in the evening.

Linda and I benefited from the lessons I learned 40 years ago. This time I stopped in Monticello on purpose, parking at the racetrack and taking a shuttle bus which delivered us to the front of the museum where a line had already formed a half-hour before the gates opened. The first thing we saw was a group of two dozen people wearing matching tie-dyed shirts and posing for photos of a family reunion. The next thing we saw was hundreds of other people wearing tie-dyed clothing, more than I’ve seen in the past few decades combined. Since I can’t fit into my old tie-dyed shirt, I shelled out $25 for a new one, changed shirts in line, and felt much more in tune with the old times.

In line, and then sitting at a picnic table in the shade until the music began, we met a lot of people who had been there in 1969. Hundreds, if not thousands, of the roughly 17,000 people in attendance were returnees. One didn’t remember anything; he had a bad drug trip, passed out, and was carted away from the concert by friends, later becoming a drug counselor himself. Another knew he was there somewhere but couldn’t remember exactly where. A third admitted leaving after the Friday-night storm which turned the site into the “sea of mud” which greeted so many of us on Saturday. Then there was the guy who was in the Army in 1969 and became part of the convoy of Army vehicles bringing supplies to the concert site. He gave away the food he was carrying and was gladly stranded there for two days. The rule of the convoy was that you waited for the last truck, and then you went back. The last truck never made it through, so he was forced to stay and listen to the music.

We got a spot about halfway down the sloping lawn where tickets, fittingly, ran $19.69. Threw down a blanket and sat in the $5 rental lawn chairs, watching the crowd gradually fill the hillside. Other fans perched in the woods and on rocks behind the hill, but the music could be heard all the way back by the entrance, an invitation to explore the site’s well-tended grounds. A lot of people stayed in the shade until the sun went down. We endured the blistering sun, kept buying cold water (at $4 a bottle—the concessions made up for the cheap tickets), and savored a perfect evening for music, cool, still, a starry sky above, and sacred earth below that had been blessed by Native American Gary Duncan, the guitarist from Quicksilver Messenger Service, in his invocation.

From the start, the show channeled the spirits of Woodstock past. After Oberg’s scorching anthem, Sam Yasgur, the son of Max Yasgur, spoke to the gathering. He read the text of the wonderful speech his father delivered in 1969, blessing kids he really didn’t understand for achieving “three days of nothing but fun and music,” and added his own blessing for this celebration. He was followed by Country Joe McDonald, the only performer who did two shows in 1969 (a solo set on Saturday, and joined by The Fish as the first act Sunday night following the big storm), who acted as the MC this time. That was a great idea by the organizers. One of the toughest things in 1969 was waiting for the next act to come on. Most of the time it took 45 minutes to change and check equipment, which wasn’t good. This time it took about half that time, and Country Joe filled it with music of his own. He started by saying “Give me an ‘F’!” and we did. “Thank you,” he said, stopping there. Everyone laughed. He saved the “Fixin’ To Die Rag” and the full “FUCK!” cheer for his second segment, and during the course of the evening gave us Arlo Guthrie’s “Customs Man,” “Ring of Fire,” a haunting song about Janis Joplin, and many other treats. This time, the entertainment never ended.

I confess that I wasn’t expecting the music to be scintillating. Too many of the star performers would be missing. How great could Big Brother and the Holding Company be without Janis? How could the Jefferson Starship fly high without Grace Slick? And Canned Heat? Their two main performers died a long time ago (Alan Wilson in 1970 and Bob Hite in 1981). They couldn’t even be the same group without that duo. The survivors from the listed bands are in their 60s; would their music be lethargic, a listless echo of former brilliance? I wondered.

I can report that the music was scintillating from start to finish. The survivors rocked as only rockers can. It struck me that musicians are more like golfers than team sports athletes. A group of 60-year-olds cannot play baseball except in slow motion, but 60-year-old golfers can still compete. Classical musicians have often continued their careers into their 80s. The veteran performers at Bethel Woods (and on the rest of the summer-long “Heroes of Woodstock” tour) have gray hair and middle-aged paunches matching those of the people on the lawn who were dancing along with them, but their talents haven’t faded.

Each group had a core of its original lineup, and the young performers who filled the departed stars’ roles clearly performed in their spirit. It began with Big Brother, the leadoff group. A young Asian singer who calls herself “Superfly” launched the concert with “Down On Me” and “Piece of My Heart” before yielding to a veteran New York City performer, Sophia Ramos. She did five vintage Joplin songs (“Combination of the Two,” “Kozmic Blues,” “Summertime,” “Me & Bobby McGee,” and “Ball and Chain”) as if Janis herself were being channeled through a stronger voice. The virtuoso vocal tricks she threw into “Ball and Chain” wowed the audience and made us realize that nobody was going to be phoning in their performance. Ramos set the tone for a night of soulful re-workings, not pale imitations.

Canned Heat was next. Yesterday I read the band’s history on Wikipedia, and it was like reading the history of the 1960s Mets, there were so many continuous roster changes. Bass player Larry Taylor has been in and out of the group at least a half-dozen times, and the same is true of everyone except the indestructible Fito de la Parra, the drummer who kept the group going despite the tragic deaths and other calamities. I remember very well my disappointment in 1969 when they announced that their guitarist that night would be Harvey Mandel. It seems that only a week before, Henry Vestine, whose scorching guitar was (I felt) the most exciting thing about the band, had left the group after a beef with Taylor. Enter Mandel, who has also come and gone from the group many times since then (as did Vestine before his death in 1998). Both Mandel and Taylor were on hand last Saturday, and along with de la Parra, single/harpist Greg Kage (with the group a dozen years now) and guitarist Barry Levenson, they damn near made up for the absence of Wilson and Hite. Fito did the falsetto vocal for “Going Up the Country,” which got half the lawn crowd up and dancing. They did the vintage Canned Heat songs, starting with “Bullfrog Blues” and including “On the Road Again,” “Work Together,” “Time Was,” and a 16-minute version of “Refried Boogie” with its rotating solos. A great 70-minute set.

The biggest surprise of the night for me was the next group, Ten Years After. They were my favorites in 1969, and I saw them perform five or six times that summer. I saw them at Newport and Central Park, in a movie theater in Hackensack, New Jersey, and on a college campus in New York City where they played for almost three hours because the other scheduled group (Canned Heat) couldn’t make it. I was front and center for their Woodstock gig, capped by Alvin Lee carrying a watermelon off the stage after an exhausting performance of “I’m Going Home”. Ten Years After has always been about Alvin Lee, not the other three members of the group (even though bass player Leo Lyons is a long-time favorite). I saw Alvin in concert without the others 20 years after Woodstock, and he was as overwhelming as ever. Now, 40 years after, they were back.

Or were they? The band began with “Love Like a Man,” and it sounded like the real thing, but after a few minutes I trained my binoculars on the stage and saw what was clearly not Alvin Lee on vocals and lead guitar. Lee is a long-haired blond, slouching and haggard, and this was a much younger man with a dark crew-cut and a lean, hungry look. But he sounded and played like Alvin. It was a shock to me. The others were there: Lyons still bobbing his head on every note of his fast-paced bass lines, Chick Churchill on keyboards, and Ric Lee on drums. The songs were vintage TYA: “50,000 Miles Beneath My Brain,” “I’d Love To Change the World,” “Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl,” “I’m Going Home,” and a couple of others I can’t recall. The sound was the same, especially on “Schoolgirl,” the musical high point of my evening. That was always the big show-off song for Alvin and Leo, a lengthy dialogue that got faster and faster, boundless flurries of notes, and it was again at Bethel Woods. Eventually I learned the name of the young man channeling Alvin Lee (even his vocals were right on the money, totally garbled and unintelligible): Joe Gooch, who joined TYA six years ago at age 24. I don’t know what else he’s going to do with his life, but I’ll be happy to hear him perform Alvin Lee’s standards for the rest of my life. The only disappointment was that they played just less than an hour, skipping TYA treats like “Help Me” and “Woodchopper’s Ball.” Oh well, you can’t have everything.

Next up was the act billed at Jefferson Starship, which turned out to be a kitchen sink of musical classics. Original Airplane members Paul Kantner (still rocking at 68) and Marty Balin were there, and they were joined by Grateful Dead keyboard player Tom Constanten, Duncan and another Quicksilver musician, and people from the other groups as the set went on. Oh yeah, and Kathy Richardson on vocals. She was the night’s version of Grace Slick, and like the other channelers, she knocked the audience’s tie-dyed socks off. It wasn’t just that she tore through “White Rabbit” like fast-acting (purple) acid. The epiphany came midway through the set. She was singing a long, slow blues (I don’t know the title), and I was sitting there amidst the mellow crowd, thinking, “well, she’s just fine, but there are probably a thousand (or thousands) of others like her.” She was 30ish, a lovely blonde with a strong voice, rocking the night away singing Airplane songs in a Slick style, and now drifting through this blues. Then she launched into a deft harmonica solo, and the crowd gave her an ovation. They were thinking what I was thinking: pretty girl, nice voice, wait a second, she’s a musician! Typical of the whole concert, she gave us what we expected and hoped for, and then some more. The Starship set included many high points. The Quicksilver folks did a Dead medley that included “Saint Stephen” and “Love Light,” the ensemble did a great version of “Wooden Ships,” Sophia Ramos joined them in a rousing “Volunteers,” they threw in “Plastic Fantastic Lover,” and everyone they could round up joined them for the big finale, “With a Little Help From My Friends.” Indeed.

The crowd started to thin out a bit after this set, which ended at 10pm. Linda and I were sorry to witness the exit of a woman in her 70s, scrawny and wrinkled but wearing a stars-and-stripes fringe vest, who had danced up a storm to Canned Heat. Had to laugh at the guy who stood up and bellowed “goodbye, everybody, I’m leaving now!” We felt the evening chill now, but during the scorching afternoon Linda had promised not to complain if it got cold later. We went for a walk under the stars and wound up splitting a lettuce-less turkey-cranberry wrap (far better than the lukewarm hotdog that was my diet in 1969). Finding our spot again in the dark, stepping carefully around people stretched out on their blankets, inhaling the pungent aroma of pot, it all felt so right. Forty years later, there would’ve been no excuse for the concert promoters to fail to get it right. But the crowd got it right, too. Just let us sit there in peace, having our fun and music.

The music continued with Mountain, another big favorite of mine in 1969. Founder Felix Pappalardi was shot to death by his wife in the early 1980s, and the current version consisted of just three people: guitar/vocal giant Leslie West, original drummer Corky Laing, and a young bass player named Rev Jones who played up a storm, often spinning in circles and rotating his head to make his long ponytail whip around, as if trying to get dizzy to match the dizzying pace of the music. West was in fine form, outdoing the other guitarists in pounding out that rock, especially on the long “Nantucket Sleighride”. He sang “Theme For an Imaginary Western” as a tribute to Pappalardi (who wrote it and debuted it there in 1969), paid homage to Eric Clapton with a wicked “Crossroads,” did a clever riff on the theme from “Close Encounters,” and—oh yeah—took a brief time-out from the performance to get married. I thought that was especially fitting because it happened to be my parents’ anniversary. West looked rather bedraggled in the semi-tux he’d been performing in, but his bride looked radiant in a full wedding gown. Cheers rang out when the minister referred to the wedding being attested to “by this company,” and laughter during the vows when the minister recited the next statement to be repeated by the groom (“with all that I am and all that I have, I honor you”) and West turned to him and blurted “what?” A rock star moment. After the five-minute ceremony, the bride was whisked off-stage and West belted out “Mississippi Queen” to everyone’s delight. And that was that for Mountain.

That left only the headline group, the Levon Helm Band, a 12-piece ensemble including a five-man horn section, playing a mixture of songs by The Band, softer rock, and country. Thanks to the horns, the sound was much different from anything else in the show—funkier, mellower Helm, a survivor of throat cancer, was under doctor’s orders to rest his voice, so he stuck to the drums while everyone else took a turn at singing. A half-hour into their set, Linda started shivering and decided to head for the bus and wait for me there. I stuck it out another 45 minutes until the last number of the night (The Band’s “The Weight”), which ended a little after 1am. I packed up my pack, rolled up the blanket, and left the rental chairs behind along with a little trash in homage to 1969.

But leaving wasn’t the same this time. Instead of slogging through that vast landfill to get to a road that took forever to traverse, all I had to do was drift to the top of the hill and onto the bus for another carefree ride back to the Monticello track. By 4:30am, we were pulling into our driveway, three-quarters asleep and weary but still exhilarated. This was a great concert, pure and simple. I wonder how the guy who missed the music in 1969 because he took the brown acid enjoyed this one. What would have happened back then if if it hadn’t rained, if we hadn’t had Wavy Gravy promising “breakfast in bed for half a million people,” if we hadn’t simultaneously become the third-largest city in New York and a disaster area?

If everything had gone smoothly, hundreds of thousands of well-fed people would have enjoyed the hell out of the 32 groups who played, things would have ended on time, and everyone would have had smooth sailing getting back to their cars. It would have been a wonderful experience—but of course it would not have been the Woodstock we know and love. The point of Woodstock was not that it was an organized event which overcame some bad breaks. Rather, it was a spontaneous gathering of a huge number of people who wanted to be there, and who joined together and took care of each other. Everybody got wiped out—physically, materially, and logistically. We all had nothing, and we had nothing else to lose but our inhibitions. Deprived of property, sustenance, and assets, we lived through, in one weekend, the Great Depression many of our parents had survived. We did so without violence and contention, and with only two deaths out of a population that would keep a city’s funeral homes flourishing. We had no choice. During all that time between the music, we kept ourselves going.

I didn’t see any deprivation at Bethel Woods last Saturday, but I also didn’t see much sharing. People came to enjoy the music, and that’s what they did. For all the pot in our area, I didn’t anybody passing joints to the group or couple next to them. With our physical needs provided for, we were free to savor the entertainment. That’s what we deserve at a concert. It was a celebration—but it wasn’t the Woodstock festival.

I feel extremely lucky to have experienced it both ways. I can’t wait to see which one the 50th anniversary concert is like!

Woodstock: I Want My Tape Back!

2009-08-13T04:21:00.000-07:00

Two days from today, my wife Linda and I will be heading a couple of hours south of here to relive (in a second-hand way) one of the great experiences of my life. It is billed as "The Heroes of Woodstock," a 40th anniversary concert on the site (well, on the next hill over) where the original concert took place over the weekend of August 15-17, 1969. It doesn't matter that most of the performers this time around have earned their "hero" status merely by surviving for another 40 years, while we all know that the true heroes in 1969 were the half-million (give or take 100,000) attendees. Of whom I was one.

I skipped the Friday night lineup of mostly folk singers plus Ravi Shankar, and drove the 90 minutes from New Jersey on Saturday morning. This was the summer after I graduated from high school, only two weeks before I escaped into college life. I'd been attending concerts all summer, including the Newport Jazz Festival (which had finally begun adding rock groups to the lineup, in this case Ten Years After and Jethro Tull) and eight or nine great two-band concerts at the Wollman skating rink in Central Park. The Woodstock lineup looked irresistible, so I purchased tickets for the Saturday and Sunday concerts (at $7 apiece). I was ready!

Well, not so ready as it turned out. I didn't bring anything with me. I figured I'd sleep in the back seat of my mother's Plymouth, and I didn't bring any food. Not even a backpack full of goodies. I didn't own a backpack; I'd never gone anywhere except for Newport, where I did sleep in the car. Apparently my parents had even less idea of what to expect than I did. They let me go.

At 9:30 AM, I reached exit 104 of I-17, the exit for the Monticello race track. The exit was closed. That was the first broad hint of things to come. I wasn't turning back, and there were dozens of cars parked on the shoulders and the highway median. I drove around a bend, found a parking spot on the shoulder, and headed west, joining a growing parade of marchers seeking Woodstock.

I had no idea how far I was from the concert site. Nobody else did either. We didn't know that the Friday concert had ended early because of a thunderstorm. There were hints along the way on what turned into the most surreal part of the weekend. There were thousands of people walking west on Highway 11-B, patiently making our way up and down hills and around curve after curve. There were also thousands of people walking east, away from the concert, though not as many as the westbound tide. Many of them told us, "don't even bother, man. There's no concert. They called it off. It's just a sea of mud out there." I don't know what stories these defectors have told their grandchildren, but we didn't believe them. Sure, it was hard to ignore the evidence that they were leaving--why would anyone leave if more music was on the way? After awhile, our parade had a tinge of morbid curiosity. Okay, there's nothing there but a sea of mud--but have you ever seen a sea of mud? Hey, let's go look at the sea of mud! You say the Hindenberg already burned to the ground? Well, I've never seen a huge pile of ashes before, and I've come this far. . .we kept walking.

The natives didn't quite know what to make of us. Some of them yelled at us that we were crazy (or worse), while others gave us water and snacks. And directions. Not exactly. I lost count of the number of people who said, "it's just over the next hill" or "go around a couple of curves and you'll be there." We got this information from natives and defectors, and they were all wrong! It was never over the next hill. I'll cut to the chase on this one. I wound up walking 11 (eleven) miles from Exit 104 to the concert site. When I visited the new (and terrific) museum at the old Yasgur farm in Bethel last year, I clocked the drive: 10.6 miles. There were just as many hills as I remembered. It's still quite rural, with farms, scattered clusters of houses, and summer camps and resorts. If you ever have five hours to kill, try walking it.

So we kept walking. I think some people did turn back, taking the advice of the defectors that there was not much to see and nothing at all to hear. As it turned out, I reached the concert site about 15 minutes before the Saturday concert began. And the rest was history.

I won't pretend that my Woodstock experience was typical. For one thing, I didn't do any drugs. In fact, that was the first time I even saw drugs, but when someone passed me acid or a joint, I passed it right along. No doubt I got a "contact high" along the way, but more of that later. I didn't have sex either. I didn't hang out with any particular group, nor did I make any friends for life. In 44 hours, I never strayed from the hillside where the music was. I spent some time on Saturday checking out the crafts fair on top of the hill (I think they billed it as an "Aquarian" fair), and walked around and around the site to take in the various views. Pretty soon I decided that I wanted to be down near the front, as close to the music as I could get, because after all that was what I had come for. I didn't go there to be part of a political or generational movement or statement. Going to Woodstock, for me, didn't represent anything else but a chance to see a lot of great rock groups perform.

The high point for me was the nearly two-hour set by The Who, who went on around 3:30 AM. "Tommy" was still relatively new, and it was a thrill to hear them perform the whole thing, sandwiched by their greatest hits. The most memorable event occurred midway through The Who. The excellent museum which opened at the site last year has a label which says that this event was "alleged" to have happened, but I can assure you, it did. You just had to be standing in front of the stage with your eyes wide open at 4:45 AM to witness it. It happened because of Abbie Hoffman, the rabid radical whose main cause at the time was rallying support for John Sinclair, the White Panther Party leader who had been busted in Michigan and given a 30-year prison sentence for possession of two joints. Hoffman, whose targets for derision and protest included materialism, got pissed at The Who because they refused to perform until they got their fee (around $8,000) in cash. This presented a problem for the promoters, who were cash-poor over the bankless weekend, and was the reason the band didn't hit the stage until 3:30 AM. Hoffman decided to protest by racing onto the stage to interrupt their performance. They say timing is everything, and his timing was dramatic. He chose a moment when Pete Townshend's microphone was unoccupied--Pete was back by the tall banks of Marshall amps, doing his solo on "Pinball Wizard". Hoffman grabbed the microphone and screamed "How you can people be listening to this fucking music when John Sin--" That's as far as he got. Townshend took a running start and speared Hoffman in the back with the neck of his guitar, literally sending him flying off the stage and into the photographers' well, right in front of me. Townshend muttered into the mike, "if you do that again, I'll fookin' kill you!" and went back to finish his solo. There were no more yelps of protest from Hoffman, who got his payback with a long rant about The Who in his book "Woodstock Nation". "Alleged" my ass!

The low point was the big storm Sunday afternoon, just as Joe Cocker was finishing his leadoff performance. Everyone saw the menacing black clouds moving in, but there was noplace to go. When the rain began, I joined a lot of other people seeking shelter beneath the counter of an abandoned food stall. The stall was covered but it didn't matter. The wind whipped the rain in driving sheets which soaked us to the bone for almost an hour. When it let up, we heard an annoucement saying that there would be more music, they just didn't know when. That was enough for us. People built fires in garbage cans, and we took turns standing close enough to the flames to dry off. It took a long, long time. But we had nothing but time. The storm began around 4 PM, and the concert didn't resume until after 9, when Country Joe and The Fish went on. I was not one of the people you've seen in the movie, merrily sliding on their bellies through the mud in defiance of the storm. You really didn't have to go out of your way to enjoy the mud.

You've heard about the youngsters who were so maniacal about the music that they slogged through the boggy hillside to stand ankle-deep in mud in front of the stage while the musicians performed. I was one of them. For most of the last two days, I was right there, in the first few rows of people standing within 25-30 feet of the performers. In front of the stage was a shallow photographers' well, then a short fence, and then us. That was my spot for the following groups (I can still name every group I saw there, pretty much in order): Mountain, Canned Heat, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Janis Joplin, Sly and the Family Stone, and The Who on Saturday night, and Country Joe & The Fish, Ten Years After, Johnny Winter, and the Paul Butterfield Blues Band on Sunday night.

After that, it wasn't Sunday night any more. Butterfield left the stage around 6am Monday morning, at which point the crowd was thinning out considerably. I hadn't gotten much sleep since my arrival. I rested a lot, but I doubt that I slept more than 5-6 hours the whole weekend. There was time for cat-naps between groups, as the stage crews took a long time to switch the equipment from one group to the next, and I'd find a spot to lie down and listen to Chip Monck or whoever it was reading announcements from the stage ("stay away from the brown acid" and "meet your friend at the medical tent--you have his insulin" were popular refrains). Eventually the next group would start tuning up, and when they were introduced, almost every time my reaction would be "jeez, I'd better get down there so I can see them!"

Have you ever slept on a wobbly plank suspended between two garbage cans? That's what I did Monday morning after Butterfield's set. It was too far to slog through the mud again to the little hill on the side where I'd gotten occasional rest on one of the hay bales brought in after the Sunday afternoon storm. So I found this foot-wide plank, sat on it, dropped my head, and nodded off. Then came an odd sound: "Tough! Tough! Tough!" almost spat into microphones. That was how Sha-Na-Na tested the mikes. I'm not sure how many people there had heard of Sha-Na-Na. I know I hadn't, and they remain the most incongruous performers at the festival, a campy doo-wop group singing 50s hits while racing around the stage. Coming out of a semi-sleep after two long nights of rock 'n roll, I thought I was dreaming while they performed.

Another long break followed, another shallow snooze on the plank, and another guitarist warming up. But not just any guitarist. This was Jimi Hendrix--alas, only a name to me at that moment. Two and a half hours later, he was much more than a name. If his performance the previous year at the Monterey festival put him on the map, his Woodstock marathon defined the sizable portion of the map that was his alone. Only weeks before, he had formed a new group with bassist Noel Redding and drummer Mitch Mitchell. They played everything they had rehearsed; that took about 45 minutes. Following that was another 45 minutes of old Hendrix songs that they all knew how to play. "That's all we know," Hendrix apologized at 9:30 AM to the thousands of stragglers like me. "If you wanna stick around. . ." We did, and they kept playing. That's when he unleashed the scorching version of "The Star-Spangled Banner" which remains the festival's anthem (along with Country Joe's "fish cheer" from late Saturday afternoon). They jammed for another hour, playing until 10:30 AM, a scintillating performance that topped and capped the near three dozen performances which preceded it.

And then it was over, and time to face reality. For me, that meant 11 miles back to Monticello, where I didn't expect to find my car because the word got around that they had towed all the vehicles parked along the interstate. I think it was at that point that I realized how poor my condition was. I hadn't eaten--all I had in the previous 30 hours was one lukewarm hotdog and a lukewarmer soda. Somehow I missed the "breakfast in bed for a half-million people" that Wavy Gravy trumpeted in the movie. I was weak, sleepless, and disoriented (as Blind Faith would put it a year later, "wasted and I can't find my way home"). I had called my parents Sunday morning to let them know I made it and was alive, but I didn't stop to call them Monday morning. I just tried to get to Monticello. That wasn't very easy. People with cars were giving rides, which meant hopping on the hood or roof elbow-to-elbow with other unfortunates, but there were a lot of cars abandoned along the road which prevented drivers from getting through. So the whole trip back involved long walks up and down those damn hills, interspersed with occasional, brief lifts from soon-stymied drivers.

It took more than three hours to get to Monticello, and sure enough, there wasn't a car in sight. I walked around the curve where I thought I'd parked the Plymouth, walked and walked until I was sure I'd gone much further than where I could possibly have parked. There was nothing to do but call home. By the time my father drove the 90 miles to rescue me, I learned that there were four big yards where the tow trucks might have taken the car. My father, who masked his dismay at my condition by expressing his relief that I was still alive, took us around to all four. No luck. If it wasn't the victim of a tow truck, what then? We took the back road to Ferndale and the regional highway patrol barracks, where we reported the car missing and/or stolen.

From there it was back on good old I-17, three exits west of Monticello. Three exits later, my father pointed. "What's that?" he chirped. Oh, just my mother's car--right where I had left it two mornings earlier. It was the only car we saw along the road, and I couldn't explain why it alone had apparently been spared by the tow trucks, just as I couldn't explain how I had failed to spot it in the first place. Trust me: my father busted my balls about that one the rest of his life.

No doubt I was physically exhausted and mentally disoriented from the wear and tear of the weekend, not to mention the contact high. My father was alarmed--and smart--enough to forbid me from driving home. So my mother's car stayed along the shoulder for another day while my father hurried me sullenly back to New Jersey.

I had a reel-to-reel tape recorder in my room, and since I was too exhilarated and wired to go to sleep, I grabbed my own microphone and started talking. And talking. I put on tape everything I could remember about Woodstock, and didn't stop talking for more than three hours, filling both sides of the tape. That winter I transcribed about two-thirds of it, and I still have that transcript somewhere. A lot of it is simply set lists; I tried to recall every song I'd heard by every group.

Unfortunately, I no longer have the tape. Two years later, while I was away at college, my parents had a garage sale and sold it (yeah, along with my baseball card collection and a few other treasures). Trust me: I busted his balls about that one for a long time, too. Somewhere out there, someone has three-plus hours of a wide-eyed adolescent's hour-by-hour account of Woodstock. So please do me a favor. Start asking everyone you meet if they've ever heard this tape. I want it back!

Some Amazing Pitching Seasons

2009-08-11T04:57:00.000-07:00

Today I'm posting six more of my "A Closer Look" columns originally written for the Hall of Fame website. They cover fantastic feats by great pitchers, four of them Hall of Famers. I found these stories fascinating and hope you will, too. They are posted below and archived at "A Closer Look":

John Hiller's incredible comeback from a heart attack
Nolan Ryan's most heartbreaking season
Gaylord Perry's extra-innings excellence
Joe McGinnity's forgotten 35-8 season
Jack Taylor's unbelievable complete-game streak
Dizzy Dean: the last NL pitcher to win 30 games in a season

Enjoy these game-by-game accounts, and we'll resume our regularly scheduled programming next time around.

A Closer Look: John Hiller's Amazing Comeback

2009-08-11T04:55:00.000-07:00

After his stellar 1973 season, John Hiller won so many awards that he can’t even count them all. The accolades included the Sporting News “Fireman of the Year,” the “Comeback Player of the Year,” the Hutch Award, and the Babe Didrikson Award. But the award that remains the most special to Hiller was the “Heart of the Year” Award from the American Heart Association, previously given to the likes of Presidents Eisenhower, Johnson, and Nixon. From 1972-1976, the recipients were Pearl Bailey, Nixon, Hiller, Henry Fonda, and astronaut “Deke” Slayton. That’s heady company, and Hiller remains the only athlete to receive the award.

John Hiller was three months shy of his 28th birthday when he suffered a heart attack in January of 1971. The left-hander from Toronto had a decent career going with the Detroit Tigers, with a 23-19 record and 2.98 ERA in just over 400 innings. In 1967, he had pitched shutouts in his first two starts in the majors. Used mostly in relief with occasional starts, he tied an American League record in 1970 with seven straight strikeouts, and concluded that season on a high note with a two-hit shutout of the Indians.

Then his life caved in. “Why me?” he wondered, but he didn’t have to look very far. Like a number of other pitchers who came up with the Tigers in the mid-70s – Mickey Lolich, Denny McLain, and Fred Gladding – he had considered conditioning optional, especially in the off-season. A heavy smoker, he had watched his weight balloon to 220 on a 6’1” frame. By the time he got out of the hospital, he weighed 145. He quit smoking, curtailed his drinking, and had an intestinal bypass to facilitate weight loss. Placed on the Voluntarily Retired list, he got a job selling furniture, began running, and gradually worked himself into shape. His eventual playing weight stayed around 165-175.

Despite getting “in the best shape of my life” by the end of 1971, Hiller’s road back to the majors was a tough haul. The Tigers were leery of taking him back because a Detroit Lions player named Chuck Hughes had died that season of a heart attack. There was no precedent for a ballplayer coming back from a heart attack. The Tigers did agree to take him to spring training, but designated him a coach and left him in Florida when the 1972 season began. Nearly broke, stuck in Florida with his wife back home in Minnesota, he refused to give up, fighting for his baseball life with reluctant Tigers executives.

Finally his persistence wore them down, and he rejoined the Tigers in July. He pitched well, recording a 2.05 ERA in 25 games. His lone victory was an important one during the last weekend of the season with the division title on the line; he one-hit the Brewers through six innings and finished with a 5-hitter, winning 5-1. His hard work to come back had been validated, but the best was yet to come.

In 1973, Hiller put together one of the finest seasons ever by a relief pitcher. The major statistics give an idea of how superbly he pitched – he set a major-league record with 38 saves, pitched 125 1/3 innings in 65 appearances, struck out 124 while yielding only 89 hits, and had a 10-5 record with a sparkling 1.44 ERA. His performance deserves close examination, as it represents the workload faced by many top relievers of his generation. “When the manager told you to pitch, you pitched,” Hiller recalls. And his manager in 1973, Billy Martin, wanted him to pitch all the time. Hiller warmed up in 41 of the team’s first 44 games, appearing in 17 of them. From May 16 through July 8, he pitched 22 times, logging 34 2/3 innings, and allowed just one run. Only three times all season did he allow more than one run in a game, and he blew just three saves. Of the 84 baserunners he inherited, only 12 scored. With runners in scoring position, opponents batted a paltry .131 against him.

Several years ago, the folks at Rolaids, who give out the annual award for relief pitchers, created what they call the “Tough Save”. It answers critics who assert that there are too many “cheap” saves, such as when a reliever enters in the ninth inning with a three-run lead. (How many times did Hiller enter in that low-stress situation in 1973? Zero.) For a “tough save,” you have to face at least the tying run on base when you enter; starting the ninth inning with a one-run lead isn’t tough enough by this definition. I have researched dozens of individual relief seasons, and nobody had a higher percentage of tough saves than Hiller did in 1973. Exactly half of his 38 saves qualified. He believed that facing runners made him a better pitcher thanks to the rush of adrenalin and increased concentration. A closer look will show just how he responded to pressure.

April 26, at Texas, 3-2 lead, 9th inning, 2 outs, tying run on 2nd – retired Dick Billings.

May 5, vs. Texas, 2-0 lead, 8th inning, 1 out, runners on 1st and 3rd -- retired all 5 batters.

May 18, vs. Boston, 5-4 lead, 9th inning, 1 out, tying run on 2nd – retired Carl
Yastrzemski, walked Orlando Cepeda intentionally, retired John Kennedy.

May 28, vs. Oakland, 4-3 lead, 8th inning, 2 outs, tying run on 1st – got Reggie Jackson, then retired side in 9th.

June 5, at California, 5-2 lead, 6th inning, bases loaded – fanned Winston Llenas, then pitched one-hit ball over final three innings.

June 27, vs. Milwaukee, 5-4 lead, 9th inning, 0 outs, tying run on 2nd – fanned first two batters, then intentional walk, retired final batter.

July 1, vs. Baltimore, 4-3 lead, 7th inning, 2 outs, tying run on 2nd – retired Don Baylor, then allowed one hit in final two innings.

July 2, at Cleveland, 4-3 lead, 8th inning, 2 outs, runners on 1st and 3rd – fanned John Lowenstein, retired side in 9th.

July 3, at Cleveland, 5-4 lead, 8th inning, 1 out, runners on 1st and 2nd – retired all five batters.

July 10, vs. Texas, 4-3 lead, 7th inning, 0 outs, runners on 1st and 2nd – retired side while allowing just a walk, had 5-3 lead starting 9th and won 5-4.

July 30, at Baltimore, 4-3 lead, 9th inning, 2 outs, runner on 1st – walked Bobby Grich, then fanned Paul Blair to end game.

August 7, vs. Oakland, 2-0 lead, 8th inning, 1 out, runners on 1st and 2nd – got Billy Conigliaro to hit into double play, then struck out the side in the 9th (Bert Campaneris, Billy North, Sal Bando).

August 8, vs. Oakland, 3-2 lead, 9th inning, 2 outs, runners on 1st and 2nd – got Mike Andrews on fly out to end game.

August 11, vs. Chicago, 4-2 lead, 8th inning, 1 out, runners on 1st and 3rd – fanned Jerry Hairston and Carlos May, then retired side in order in the 9th.

September 2, vs. Cleveland, 2-1 lead, 7th inning, 0 outs, runner on 1st – 3 innings of two- hit ball to win 2-1.

September 4, vs. New York, 2-1 lead, 9th inning, 2 outs, runner on 3rd – got Graig Nettles.

September 9, at Boston, 5-4 lead, 9th inning, 1 out, runner on 1st – walked Dwight Evans, then retired Tommy Harper and Luis Aparicio.

September 14, vs. Milwaukee, 2-0 lead, 8th inning, 0 outs, runners on 2nd and 3rd – gave up run on sacrifice fly, then two scoreless innings to win 2-1.

September 21, vs. Boston, 3-1 lead, 6th inning, 1 out, runners on 1st and 2nd – walked Carl Yastrzemski but got Orlando Cepeda on inning-ending double play; allowed 1 hit over final three innings.

There you have John Hiller at his best, doing the job time and time again with no margin for error. By comparison, today’s average closer faces such peril only two or three times a season. Look at it this way: from 2000-2003, only five teams had a higher four-year total of tough saves than Hiller’s 19 in 1973, and the leading individual pitcher (Keith Foulke) had 15. From 2000-2003, Mariano Rivera recorded a mere 13 tough saves out of 154; that’s 8.4%, compared to Hiller’s 50%. Have no doubts about the man’s heart.

Today, most managers avoid making relievers pitch more than a couple of innings, fearful of giving the opposition a second look at any pitcher’s stuff. Not so with Billy Martin managing John Hiller in 1973. Hiller faced at least 10 batters 19 times; in those games, he pitched 74 2/3 innings (that’s right, averaging nearly 4 innings per outing) and yielded only 14 runs for a 1.69 ERA. His most remarkable effort came on July 22 at Texas, when Martin brought him in with nobody out in the 2nd inning, trailing 3-0. Hiller held the Rangers scoreless over the next eight innings, striking out 10. The Tigers tied the game and sent it into extra innings. In the 10th inning, Hiller allowed a single and walk and was relieved with one out; the reliever allowed a game-winning hit that pinned a tough loss on our man. Two weeks later he pitched more than five innings against the Yankees before losing on a Horace Clarke home run in the 14th, this time bested by New York reliever Lindy McDaniel, who pitched 13 innings in relief. Those were the days!

Hiller kept up his good work in 1974, going 17-14 with a 2.64 ERA for a team that finished last. He was still going strong in 1978 with a 9-4 record and 2.35 ERA when he received what he regarded as his highest compliment in baseball. Ralph Houk, his manager since 1974, was retiring after the season, and in his final game he phoned the bullpen and asked Hiller to get warm. “I’d like to see you pitch one more time,” Houk told his favorite pitcher. Hiller gave him what he wanted: a strikeout and a foul popup.

Hiller retired from pitching in 1980 with a lifetime 87-76 record and 2.84 ERA in 545 major league games. He is now enjoying retirement in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, participating in Tigers fantasy camps and wondering why today’s pitchers aren’t pushed to throw more innings. He looks back on his heart attack as a blessing. “It made me a better person and a better pitcher,” he says. In 1973, it made him one of the best relievers ever.