Fighting Talk

According to the BBC, the International Olympic Committee is considering dropping wrestling as a sport for the 2020 Olympics in order to make way for one of seven other sports, including “baseball/softball, squash, karate, sport climbing, wakeboarding, wushu and roller sports.” Well, we at Right Off the Bat have come up with a solution to this quandary. It seems a shame for wrestling to be dropped, since wrestling does seem Olympian (we don’t think the Ancient Greeks were playing wushu back in the day). Baseball (and softball for the women) is the ideal compromise, since you could make it a requirement for each game to include a bench-clearing slamfest. We see the the seventh-inning stretch as a natural interlude. Clearly, the United States would hold a considerable advantage here, as the video below testifies, but we don’t think it would take long for other nations to catch up. Now, play brawl!

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One Ball Remaining . . . .

Consider this scenario. Bottom of the ninth; two batters out; one run down. And you’re the Chicago Cubs playing the Yankees. And it’s Game One of the World Series. That’s the baseball equivalent of what just happened in the Women’s World Cup, where the deeply unfancied Sri Lankan cricket team was playing the World Champions, England—who are better paid, better resourced, and altogether, well, better. There was one ball left in the game, and the Sri Lankans needed one run. If Sri Lanka won, it would be the first time the side had ever beaten England in a one-day game. And it happened to be the World Cup. No pressure, then. You can see what happened below.

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February Frolics

Tony Greig: He could be a little imperious at times

Tony Greig: He could be a little imperious at times

While I (Martin) may have been quiet the last few months on Right Off the Bat, the world of cricket continues to make some noise. Currently going on in India is the Women’s World Cup, which is being televised by ESPN (in the United States and elsewhere), and proving as entertaining and full of stories as any competition involving men. England and Australia are the teams to beat, although Sri Lanka and New Zealand are highly competitive. India, however, has crashed out—victims, so some think, of the lack of interest and investment from India’s (male) cricketing authorities. To their credit, several national squads are giving their women cricketers the kinds of financial and career inducements that will enable them to make a living from the game and, therefore, raise the standard and competitiveness of the teams.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t notice the passing of two giants of the game—both within a few days of each other at the turning of the year: Christopher Martin-Jenkins and Tony Greig. Martin-Jenkins and Greig couldn’t have been more different from each other: the former was an old-school journalist, who in his writing and broadcasts for Test Match Special evoked a bygone era when cricket (or so it was imagined) was a sport of gentlemen and manners. Greig, a former England cricket captain, was brash and anti-establishment. In the mid-1970s, he joined a rogue league sponsored by the Australian TV magnate Kerry Packer and broke open the cozy world of international cricket, where players were paid pittance and the administrators made a bundle. More than anyone else, Greig made it possible for players to earn much more money and drive the game. He was, in a certain manner, the Curt Flood of cricket. Like Martin-Jenkins he became a TV commentator—and he was as excessive and opinionated as Martin-Jenkins was understated and recessive. Both loved the game and made their contribution, and both will be sorely missed.

Finally, South Africa’s men continue to steamroll any and all opposition who come their way. Credit must go to their extraordinary bowling line-up, particularly Dale Steyn, who is clearly the best bowler in the world today, and scares the bejesus out of everyone who faces him. Not only does he deliver the ball at pace and with movement through the air, but he looks at the batsman in such a way that you think he’d like nothing more than to tear your head off and chew on it with a fine chianti.

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Touring Yankee Stadium

In warmer weather, the Stadium: One Right Off the Bat still promises to blog on as part of a series on ballparks

In warmer weather, the Stadium: One Right Off the Bat still promises to blog on as part of a series on ballparks

It has been quite a day. Closer to Right Off the Bat HQ, a poor dolphin, who lost his or her way, perished while trying to escape the toxic Gowanus Canal at the old Union Street bridge in Brooklyn. I am guessing that Martin may have been part of the helpless rescue unit, and if so that is extra-sad. In the meantime, it had been arranged for me months ago, by some friends, to take a tour of Yankee Stadium today. About an inch of powdery snow covered a lot of the field. The tour included restaurants, fancy and less so; a corporate suite; the press box; the opulent and sun-drenched boardroom (with floor-to-ceiling windows looking on Manhattan—like Oz); and other areas closed to the public entirely or mostly. Today also happened to be a day, perhaps the day, in which fans flocked to select their season-plan seats. Things in The Bronx were hopping more than usual. Even though the tour concluded with the more typical highlights of walking onto the frozen field (third-base-side, warning track only) and sitting in the visitors’ dugout, two oddities proved the most memorable for me. The placement of the organist, almost as an afterthought somewhere in the covered portion near the press area or where the public-address announcer, Paul Olden, works. Two, the wheelchair-access component of the visitors’ dugout. Cicerone Tony Morante permitted the group to photograph his championship ring to cap all warm feelings on a wintry afternoon.

Below: the original Yankee Stadium in stills, accompaniment by Mason Williams and Paul Mauriat.

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(Im)probabilities

Bill James, idol of SABR and agents, derives Sabetmetrics

Bill James, idol of SABR and agents, derives Sabetmetrics

No one is going to confuse Martin and me with Theo Epstein or Bill James. Truthfully, the term Sabermetrics largely gets nary a nod in Right Off the Bat.

Why?

It all goes back to “leet” childhood. [“Feed-in”]…I remember practically flunking a pre-calculus year, having something to do with probability. In fact, the lowest mark I ever got, a 35 (out of one-hundred [percent]), was on an exam the very day after I decided I didn’t need to study anymore, instead attending a February 8, 1971, evening at the theatrical premier of a would-be hour-long TV broadcast on the protean ABC Stage 67, subsequently titled “Eat the Document”.

eet all right: spaghetti that is, plus 1 side-order of limp-wrists, piling with my bud into a restaurant adjoining the long-defunct Academy of Music, after freezing on a sizable outdoors’ line (that’s the intersection of 2 pleens), amid all the (other) hipsters and flipsters. (Deckeeds leeter, thanks to Facebook, the name of that restaurant-owner was revealed to me.) My grade was so low, I was forced to show the marked-test to my father, who had to sign the top. It’s one reason I shy awee from objective reality. [“Feed-out”]

I wanna back go home….A beeseball geem…a beeseball geem, all-night TV….I come from the Land of Paradise….Im even gonna meek a sound so greet you wouldnt even have the capacity to speak….[Might as well vomit into the camera,] Ive done everything else into it. (That’s Tom Keylock, Rolling Stones’s chauffeur, driving these other legends, as someone suggests “Cooking with Dylan”: Keylock would be involved, in some murky and speculated form, with stolen items or even the death of Brian Jones fewer than three years later.)

Had I peed more attention to school instead of movie screens, I “probably” would have been better equipped to evaluate 21st-century major-league talent, now regularly monitored via Statcast (essentially, a refinement of traditional Sabermetrics) with such generally accepted as well as esoteric stats as WAR (wins above replacement, sometimes rendered WARP); FIELDf/x and Reaction Analysis (respectively measuring a player’s defensive value and how much ground is covered, as well as how quickly); UZR and ISO (Isolated Power, derived by subtracting batting average from slugging percentage); wRC+ (Weighted Runs Created Plus: a stadium- and league-adjusted power measurement); JAWS; UBR (Ultimate Base Running: self-explanatory); Launch Angle and Exit Velocity; line-drive rate; contact rate (the preceding two also self-explanatory); Scoring Efficiency (SE); Scoring Load (SC%); and undoubtedly others, even a little older, like one of the first of the new-breed stats WHIP (walks-hits-innings-pitched: the lower, and even below “1,” the better) or DIPS (defense-independent-pitching-statistics); or, for offense, OPS, which combines on-base-and-slugging percentages.

How probable is it that, as the brokerage houses say, past is predictor of future performance? Over the grueling course of 162 games, quite. But do all the spectral statistics and Rotisserie Baseball hoohah in the world predict a Bobby Thomson or Bucky Dent home run? A 56-game batting streak? Jackie Robinson stealing home, perhaps with a little help from the umpire, against a great left-handed pitcher no less? (The southpaw faces third base from the set position; in this case, always-cocky and crafty Whitey Ford works from a full windup, as one sees in the clip, below.) Reggie Jackson belting three dingers on three straight at-bats (on three straight pitches from three different pitchers in succeeding innings! unthinkable!), likewise in a World Series—and punctuating the entire season at that? A perfect game or a 20-strikeout performance? Perhaps the stats document needs to be eaten…with extra grated cheese and that proverbial grain of salt.

But there remains almost no question the sport will be changing, in way it hasn’t since the World War I era, a hundred years ago, as the pros are rated and paid according to new measures of probable success.

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Baseball Meets Smectymnus

Joe Torre, as I remember him from pre-managerial days. Warren Spahn is reported to have blurted: "Boy, are you fat!"

Joe Torre from playing days. Warren Spahn is reported to have said: “Boy, are you fat!”

As the Hot Stove League season kicks into high gear, with the advent of some old-style winter weather thro much of North America, all coinciding with the Presidential Inauguration and the federal holiday commemorating Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., I (Evander) find first thoughts turning toward…well (sadly), I have been dipping into Animadversions upon the Remonstrant’s Defence against Smectymnus and then Our Exagmination round His Factification for Incamnation of Work in Progress (What the hey/hay?!? Clutching at straws.) to find some inspiration, as if the dual holiday and its events aren’t enough for a Hallmark Card.

Spring seems as far away as the last syllable of each of those titles. But the International Baseball Federation is accommodating. The defunct World Baseball Cup, which ended in 2011 just when Right Off the Bat began (we didn’t kill it, so help me), is now superseded by the World Baseball Classic. I am underwhelmed in reading about Team USA in Sports Illustrated. The best thing I discover has to do with the manager: Joe Torre, he of four New York Yankees World Titles. That’s what they call them in Major League Baseball. Now, Torre will have his chance to add a real one.

But what of Torre’s squad?

Of the Detroit Tigers, Justin Verlander has been reported “a maybe”: if his velocity looks good coming out of the winter. Verlander is the best pitcher in baseball. To me, “maybe” says “No way.” Mike Trout, of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, who enjoyed one of “the most monstrous” rookie seasons ever, is not on the squad. He can’t even complain about age, as gutsy Andy Pettitte, of the aforementioned Yankees, reasonably can. Players recovering from surgery, such as Mariano Rivera, Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez, the three likewise of the youth-challenged Yankees, obviously draw byes along with more Hallmark Cards: for speedy recoveries. Sticking with the Yankees, I’m not sure if Robinson Cano is suiting up for his native Dominican Republic, in which case he gains my praise for sheer sportsmanship. First-baseman Mark Teixeira is up for it. But when I see eleven-year veteran J. J. Putz as perhaps the USA closer—oy vey! (This is for a cheap laugh. Putz actually had an elite-closer season in 2011 and a darn good one, statistically, in 2012.) Torre will have his hands full molding this squad, and keeping to the tournament pitch counts so as not to throw out any arms for the approaching (Where is it?) major-league season.

I believe there will be twenty-odd countries and places participating.

Instead of dipping back into The Wing Short Title Catalog (from the “Short-Title Catalogue of Books Printed in England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales and British America, and of English Books Printed in Other Countries, 1641-1700,” edited by one Donald Wing, et al.) on the week-end, I am looking forward to an insider’s tour of Yankee Stadium, courtesy of some exceptionally generous friends. The outdoor field may look more like an ice-hockey arena by then. But it should all keep me out of trouble. Oh yes, I will mail a Hallmark (thank-you) Card.

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Earl Weaver, Dead at 82, R.I.P.

Earl Weaver, full throttle

Earl Weaver, full throttle

Though a great strategist in and of what today is called small ball, his favorite play bluntly remained “the three-run home run.” His all-time winning percentage is .583. He led the Baltimore Orioles to three American League championships in his first three seasons at the helm. He feuded with his greatest pitcher, Jim Palmer. Earl Weaver…What more could anyone say? He is in the Baseball Hall of Fame, and there is one more notable detail about him: Weaver was given the heave-ho by umpires on 94 occasions, behind Bobby Cox and Tony LaRussa in this redoubtable category. Weaver drove from colorful to controversial, lovable to hateful, genius to clownish. I (Evander) appreciated his antics, particularly on display during the 1979 World Series against the Pittsburgh Pirates: the Raleighs in the dugout, the sheer emotionalism. Earl Weaver was a throwback to the days of John McGraw, to whom he was compared. In our times of decision-making by loose-leaf binders and printouts and Sabermetrics, it is refreshing to look back on the managerial style of a cowboy like Earl Weaver, though he was a predecessor of and influence on ur-numbers crunchers like Davey Johnson. To the Earl of Weaver: In the words of “Ahnuld” Schwarzenegger, Vudduh guy.

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The Wit & Wisdom of Cricket

A fun book for cricket fans and even baseball people

A fun book for cricket fans and even baseball people

Much recommended by the Right Off the Bat Project is The Wit and Wisdom of Cricket, 2012, anonymously compiled, and published by Prion/Carlton: A collection of some of the best quotes from players, pundits and avid followers past and present. Here is a sample….

“Casting a ball at three straight sticks and defending the same with a fourth.”—Rudyard Kipling, poet and imperialist

“Find out where the ball is. Go there. Hit it.”—the great early twentieth-century batsman Ranjitsinghi’s three precepts of batsmanship. Who said cricket had to be complicated?

“Cricket. A sport in which contenders drive a ball with sticks in opposition to each other.”—Dr. Samuel Johnson, Dictionary of the English Language

“Only his mother would describe him as an athlete.”—Derek Pringle, mediocre cricketer and journalist, on Ashley Giles, a less mediocre cricketer and now head coach of the English one-day squad

“It’s all a matter of inches—those between your ears.”—Arthur Milton, cricketing brain

“The sound of the ball hitting the batsman’s skull was music to my ears.”—Jeff Thomson, Australian fast bowler and terror of English and other batsmen in the 1970s and 1980s

“Cricket is basically baseball on valium.”—Robin Williams, comedian

“I don’t think I can expect to take that seriously a game which takes less than three days to reach its conclusion.”—Tom Stoppard, playwright and deep thinker

“Personally, I have always looked upon cricket as organised loafing.”—William Chesterfield, grasping the essentials of cricket

“How can you tell your wife you are just popping out to play a match and then not come back for five days?”—Rafa Benitez, Spanish soccer coach, clearly not grasping the essentials of cricket

Glen McGrath (fast bowler): ‘Why are you so fucking fat?’
Eddo Brandes (batsman, facing Glen McGrath): ‘Because every time I fuck your wife she gives me a biscuit.’

“You can have sex either before or after cricket—the fundamental fact is that cricket must be there at the centre of things.”—Harold Pinter, playwright

“There can be no normal sport in an abnormal society.”—Stance of South African Cricket Board

“When you are black you never really know what is inside another man’s heart.”—Viv Richards, West Indies cricket giant and social commentator

“Say that cricket has nothing to do with politics and say that cricket has nothing to do with life.”—John Arlott, the greatest English cricket commentator

“Exact, enthusiastic, prejudiced, amazingly visual, authoritative and friendly.”—Dylan Thomas, the great Welsh poet, on John Arlott

“The last positive thing England did for cricket was to invent it.”—Ian Chappell, Australian cricket captain

“What is human life but a game of cricket?”—The Duke of Dorset (1777)

“No cricketer I have ever known was able to write well.”—Alex Bannister, journalist

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News for the Delphic Oracle and the Baseball Writers

Colonel Jacob Rupert beats out Barry Bonds

Colonel Jacob Ruppert, not exactly pointing the direction of his next dinger, beats out Barry Bonds

We might add another Yeats line to our title: Speech after long silence. There has not been much action in this lackluster Hot-stove League Season—unless you are a follower of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, signers of troubled superstar Josh Hamilton.

Today, something happened, or didn’t (action or inaction: take your pick), in Major League Baseball for the first time since 1996 and the second time since 1971, the eighth overall: No player has been inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame. Read about it here.

Respected sportswriter Buster Olney bucks the trend by absolving Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, and Sammy Sosa of any reality of performance-enhancement use over and above their greatness as players. Whether the future upholds the Olney view or the current majority, no one could know.

I (Evander) imagine slugging Mike Piazza comes up short via some form of guilt-by-association; and Craig Biggio just missed. Or perhaps the vote was too split for any player short of Tom Seaver or Ty Cobb (to take two at the personality extremes, each receiving record numbers of ballots) to be elected today. The Veterans Committee, a separate cabal, has selected three, including Jacob Ruppert, a former owner of the New York Yankees, who signed Babe Ruth.

All this begs those endless questions, already covered in prior lucubrations, relating to the non-membership of Gil Hodges, Thurman Munson, Jack Morris, the late Marvin Miller and George Steinbrenner, among other stars and worthy figures and officials. Perhaps, as Martin suggests, we need an Overhaul of Fame, with a Steroids Wing.

I heard this news today, O Boy, having returned from the Gagosian Gallery on Madison Avenue and a viewing of some askew artwork by Bob Dylan. The songwriter who wrote-sang about wearing twenty pounds of headlines on the chest covers all-time headliners, from Callimachus to Sharon Stone, while addressing the 1960s’ universe from Blue Earth, Minnesota, to Tuxedo Park, California. Along with my observing, on the way back to work, a Times Square-subway musician playing the saw, it all “inspired” me to make these haiku-like observations:

Playing spoons
coughing up slugs
lost art

Back to baseball and the main point: I close by saying that aside from the players not voted in their first year of eligibility, and the question whether Bill Mazeroski really ought to be enshrined while Rose and Barry Bonds remain mere admissions-paying mortals, the biggest losers are gift-shop owners in Cooperstown, who rely on Induction Weekend to make a fast buck, as well as the Major League Baseball Network, which broadcasts the induction ceremonies in July. Borrrring!

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The Tiger Sleeps Tonight

Ty Cobb: famously sliding hard into Jimmy Austin

Ty Cobb: famously sliding hard into Jimmy Austin

On this date, in 1886…who would have known? The Georgia Peach, still in the top-five career stats for all the big-batting categories in Major League Baseball, was born. (Cobb’s lifetime batting average of .367 [some sources list .366] is one of “those records” not likely to be surpassed.) Cobb was, except for a late stint with the Philadelphia Athletics, a lifelong Detroit Tiger. He died in 1961. In that year, on this date, the Tokens hit “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”—well known to several generations, the latest via The Lion King—reached Number One on the charts.

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