All-Star Selection (Updated)

While I was in D.C. this past weekend, my brother politely mentioned that he hardly ever finishes a post about food. I started this blog to have some fun and keep in touch with friends and family in a new and interesting way. Since food is one of the most consistent things in my life, I blog about it a lot. Today's post is dedicated to my brother; I'm trying to get back to writing about other things. I promise!


Voting for this year's All-Star Game closed last night at midnight. This Sunday marks the annual hoopla of the All-Star Game Selection Show. It's time to reflect on the spectacle that is the Major League Baseball All-Star Game.

Every year around this time, there is a rash of articles listing sports journalists' "picks" to some fantasy All-Star team based solely on worthiness. Almost as frequent as the preseason predictions and early season "duds & studs" articles, these "picks" are almost always accompanied by some light moaning and groaning about how the fan vote, especially with fans stuffing virtual ballot boxes up to 25 times each, makes it a popularity contest, or how the modern requirement of one all-star from each team shafts some truly deserving players.

These arguments are predicated on one assumption I don't entirely buy: that the All-Star Game, with all its pomp and circumstance, is actually prestigious. Don't get me wrong. I'm sure it's an honor to be named to the team. Red Sox stalwart Tim Wakefield has never made it, and I'm really rooting for him to be there this year. I'm just not sure there's much prestige to being an all-star any more.

Let's assume briefly that there is prestige in being named, which means that perhaps the players with the best stats should go. How do we determine worthiness? Obviously the fans fail pretty miserably at that, not because most baseball fans are idiots, but because large-market teams will always benefit from having more fans (and, in the case of the Red Sox, a truly national following). And, well, because some fans are idiots. But players, manager, and writers are idiots. They are responsible for voting for the important end-of-the-year awards, and they get it wrong almost as often as they get it right. How else do you explain Nate McLouth and Michael Young both receiving Gold Gloves (managers' vote) last year. McLouth finished last in both leagues in the Dewan plus/minus system, a system developed by John Dewan and the good folks at Baseball Info Solutions to measure defensive performance. This system is one of the best at measuring defense, and it has McLouth as a staggering MINUS 40 defender last year. That basically means that McLouth made, wait for it, forty fewer plays in centerfield than a league average player. That number would improve if someone got him the hell out of centerfield, but it still boggles the mind that anyone would see Nate McLouth play centerfield and think, "Hey, this guy deserves a Gold Glove." Point is, players, managers, coaches, and writers are only marginally better at selecting players based on "worthiness" than fans, and that likely only because they don't have the chaos of the masses.

The highest honor in the game, induction in the Hall of Fame, is voted upon by members of the Baseball Writers Association of America. They mostly get it right, but, as better writers than I have attested, there are problems, ranging from mule-headed voters to a pesky emphasis on character and reputation. If the selection process for the most prestigious honor in the game is flawed, then why is there so much fanfare about the selection process for an exhibition game that is, as far as I can tell, no longer even prestigious? Some of it has to do with the fact that the selection process for the All-Star Game has changed so much over the years, making it feel less entrenched than the HOF process. And, of course, most of the fanfare is harmless fun. The dialogue occasionally gets nasty, though, which is what baffles me the most. It's obviously a flawed process, but if there's a better way, I'd like to hear it.

In fact, I'm even for the one-player-from-every-team rule. It was instituted in order to take away some of the large-market bias of the fan vote and allow fans of teams like the Royals and Pirates to have some sort of rooting interest in the game.

And it does that. Quite simply, it makes the game more fun. And that's what the All-Star Game has to be about: fun. SI recently ran an article about the players that are fun to watch. Marchman takes the idea to an extreme, but I like the idea of picking players based on who is fun to watch. Of course, that preferences speed, which is more fun to watch than, say, OBP. Still, it would be lots of fun to see Ichiro, Carl Crawford, and Jacoby Ellsbury patrolling the outfield grass at Busch.

Ultimately, it doesn't really matter who gets selected to the All-Star Game. For the guys who do go, it's great and fun and an honor. For the guys who don't, it's a few extra days off. But it's not like the major awards, which can cement a player's reputation (no one will move McLouth from center now that he's a Gold Glove outfielder!) and pad a HOF resume. One trip to the game doesn't really affect HOF votes at all.

Everything about the All-Star Game should be good natured. (Remember Larry Walker batting right-handed against Randy Johnson? That's the All-Star Game for you.) I'm one of the few die-hard fans who can watch the Selection Show this Sunday without yelling at my TV. That's the Zen of the All-Star Game. In the end, it's doesn't really matter, and it's all about having fun.

Update: Wakefield got an All-Star nod, and, just two days after writing this post, I got all teary-eyed listening to him talk about the honor on NESN. I suppose I never really believed what I said myself.

Chuck Norris Baseball Facts

I've been posting about baking far too much lately, so here are some Chuck Norris baseball facts (inspired by Halos Heaven) for my non-baking friends:

Chuck Norris doesn't steal bases. He is given them as gifts.
When umpires make a call, they turn to Chuck Norris and say, "If that's alright with you, sir."
Chuck Norris once hit a home run through the Green Monster.
The Milwaukee Brewers added a new feature to Miller Park: everytime Chuck Norris hits a home run, Bernie Brewer will slide into a mug of blood.
When Chuck Norris plays third base, the first baseman wears a catcher's mitt.
Teams recently started employing the Chuck Norris shift, in which all eight fielders stand in the bleachers and the pitcher stands behind the batting practice screen.
Barry Bonds did not take steroids. He was touched by the right hand of Chuck Norris.
When Chuck Norris bats, he hits 2.000.
Monument Park is actually a memorial to all the players beaned by Chuck Norris.
The Tampa Bay Rays took the "Devil" out of their name because it was trademarked by Chuck Norris.
Players who hit behind Chuck Norris don't get any RBI, because Chuck Norris always drives himself in.

Some Baseball Questions

With popular color analyst Jerry Remy on indefinite leave after a bout with lung cancer, NESN has turned to a revolving door of analysts to patch the hole left behind by the RemDawg. The experiment has seen everyone from Dennis Eckersley to Kevin Kennedy to Dave Roberts try their hand at analysis.

Even the best baseball commentators say some absolutely ridiculous things. I chalk that up to a number of reasons, chief among them the fact that most analysts are former players. If you think about it, most field managers are ex-players, but very few general managers or front office professionals are. That is partially because the front office has to deal with so much more than just the game of baseball. But, it is also partially because ex-players tend to rely on instincts and feelings and can rarely view the game as a business or from a critical distance. Remy occasionally said some ridiculous things, but he was always able to view the game the way any good analyst should: from multiple perspectives. He recognized the value of statistics and of subjective, intangible evaluation.

Without Remy in the booth, I've been listening a little more closely to his temporary replacements. Just the last couple of games, they have said several things that have baffled/puzzled/intrigued/infuriated me. Mostly, though, they have made me wonder. If I were a smarter/better person, I would whip out the ole sabermetrics and try to find some answers to the questions they've raised. Since I'm not, I'll just ask the questions. These are some thing that I would love to have someone (other than me) complete a statistical analysis of:

1.) Does ritual trump athleticism or vice-versa? Commentators frequently assert that a player seems "out of sorts" or "uncomfortable" because his routine is off. Japanese players struggle because the American baseball is a slightly different size than the Japanese ball. Position players commit more errors when they play in a position they're not used to. On one level, that logic absolutely makes sense. Baseball players are creatures of habit (which makes me wonder: how much of "home field advantage" is mere comfort?). On another level, though, that logic makes no sense to me at all. These players are paid millions of dollars to be athletes. They should be able to throw a cantaloupe if required, right?

2.) Every time the Sox have the bases loaded, the graphics folks at NESN kindly provide us with the hitter's career numbers with the bases loaded. Almost invariably, the average hovers around .360 and the RBI total is about the same as the AB. Then, also almost invariably, the analyst will assert that the hitter is "clutch" with the bases loaded. My question: how much of the .360 is the hitter's "clutch-ness" and how much of it comes from the fact that pitcher's are usually not on top of their game when the bases are loaded. In other words, are bases loaded averages inflated by hitters capitalizing on a taxed pitcher?

3.) Kevin Kennedy, my favorite of NESN's stopgap announcers, constantly referred to 2-2 as the perfect "running count." Why is that? Do certain counts actually lead to more successful stolen bases? It stands to reason that first pitch steals are successful more often than steals later in the count (if only because the percentage of straight steals is higher on the first pitch). Beyond that, I have no idea. Joe Posnanski has a great piece on hitters' vs. pitchers' counts. I would love to see a similar piece on what happens on the rest of the field for various counts.

4.) The only claim that has truly infuriated me was the idea (perpetrated by both Eck and Kennedy) that a baserunner can "do more damage" by staying at first base early in a count than by stealing second base on the first pitch. The theory behind this is seems sounds: the pitcher will throw more fastballs to the hitter with the threat of the steal looming. Honestly, though, isn't it always more damaging to have a runner on second base? Would you want a speedy runner to pull up with a single instead of taking a clear double? If the guy is going to steal anyway, why not do it early in the count and increase the likelihood of him scoring on a single?

5.) I'm always fascinated by the tension between rationality and emotion. When K. and I watch TV, she always complains that characters do things that just don't make sense. I always remind her that they are often in the midst of emotional turmoil and therefore not entirely rational. Of course, these things are not entirely mutually exclusive, but they tend not to mix well. Thus, I always wonder when commentators talk about a player being "distracted" or "consumed" by emotion. Most analysts say that they will "take" the "fiery, passionate" guy over the lackadaisical player (read: J.D. Drew). Then, they turn around and claim that players (pitchers mostly) are too emotional and therefore more likely to get distracted and not execute properly. Is emotion a strength? Does it have any tangible effect on a player's performanace?

These are all questions to which I have no answer. I am only a baseball fan, and one with no advanced knowledge of stats, at that. I am curious, though. Mostly, though, I want Remy back.

Ryan Zimmerman's Hit Streak Ends :(

I had no idea Ryan Zimmerman was such a ... player. *Laugh track.*

Sorry for the outage lately. Big baseball post coming up; hopefully some baking posts, too.

Until then, my friends.

16-Whaaaa?!

All I have to say is this: after an 11-inning marathon last night and a 5-hour slugfest tonight, it's only fitting that Sports Illustrated couldn't manage to fit the entire score of the Yanks-Sox game in one headline. (I would direct you over there, but it seems they fixed the problem immediately after I took my screen cap.)

Big Papi

I absolutely lurv the phenomenon, nay, the force, that is David Ortiz, or "Big Papi." Everything about the guy—his fractured English, his knack for big hits, his playful demeanor—makes him an absolutely joy to watch both on and off the field.

The subject of today's post, though, is Big Papi running (if you could call it that). As any Red Sox fan knows, there's a bit of cringing and some laughing whenever Big Papi motors around the bases.

Can't you just feel the earth shaking beneath your feet?
I thought pretty much all the jokes about Big Papi running had been made by now. But I was listening to the WEEI broadcast of tonight's game against the Twins, and the announcer said that Big Papi "rumbled over to third base on the play." Okay, I thought, rumbled is a nice word to describe that. Not exactly original, but nice all the same.

The announcer followed that call with the rather innocuous statement that Ortiz "moved from second to third." The prefect juxtaposition of "rumbled" and "moved" sent my mind into overdrive. The image I got in my head is this: Big Papi packing up his moving boxes and reluctantly renting a U-Haul to drive all the way over from second base to third. This is a delightful image for a number of reasons, most notably because Big Papi really does take up residence on one base.

This line of thought inevitably led me to wonder: What other metaphors could we use to describe Big Papi running? What are some good verbs to use, other than "rumble"? I would like to expand my vocabulary for making fun of Big Papi, and the more elaborate and complex, the better.

The 2004 Boston Red Sox: Major League IV

My friend Amanda wrote a wonderful paper prompt for her first-year writing students. The book her students read was published in 1998, and it makes the argument that entertainment has overrided all other forces in American society. Her prompt asks her students to apply the author's argument to any event since 1998. It sounded like such a fun prompt that I decided to write a response to it myself. I hope it's good enough for her to give to her students (or at least give me a decent grade):



Ask any Red Sox fan about the 2004 team, the first group of Sox to win a World Series in 86 years, and you will likely hear about Dave Roberts' stolen base or the shocking trade of franchise player Nomar Garciaparra. You will almost certainly be treated to the story of Curt Schilling's heroic "bloody sock" game in the ALCS or Bill Mueller's base hit off Mariano Rivera. For sports fans, these individual moments are what crystallize into memory; Red Sox fans, for instance, are less likely to recall Bill Buckner's fruitful career than they are to associate Buckner with his crucial error in the 1986 World Series. What connects these isolated stories, these "spots of time" as Wordsworth would call them, are storylines: the story of the 1986 Red Sox, who came so close to winning a World Series before the "Curse of the Bambino" struck them down, or the story of the 2004 Red Sox, a ragtag band of self-professed "idiots" who finally overcame adversity to win it all. Like background radiation from the Big Bang, lingering throughout the known universe, these storylines are everywhere: they are part of the fabric of American sports. To be a sports fan or a Red Sox fan is to follow these storylines, whether you want to or not.

When Neal Gabler wrote Life the Movie: How Entertainment Conquered Reality in 1998, he both could and could not anticipate the 2004 Red Sox. Gabbler's argument, that entertainment is "the most pervasive, powerful and ineluctable force of our time," is confined predominantly to fifty years prior to the book's publication (9). Life the Movie trades in specific instances of the ways entertainment has come to rule over every facet of American life, from politics to sports to religion. While Gabler's concrete examples stop in 1998, the force of entertainment rolls on until today: as Gabler admits in the introduction, "Every day the life medium generates new episodes. Every day someone finds more inventive applications for its use" (10). The 2004 Boston Red Sox were one of these "new episodes," as much TV show as baseball team. From their identity as a band of "idiots" to the drama of their ALCS win against the Yankees, the 2004 Red Sox were a team based on entertainment, a team that sold itself so well to American sports fans that they created an entire nation of followers.

Prior to the 2004 season, the Red Sox, along with the Chicago Cubs, were perennial "underdogs," always expected to finish second to the mighty Steinbrenner-led Yankees and never expected to win a World Series. The entertainment value of the 2004 Red Sox lay primarily in this underdog identity. The story of the underdog is one of the most enduring stories in American sports, likely because it reaffirms the "American dream" of self-betterment and provides the illusion that sporting events are spontaneous and unpredictable (in other words, the illusion of "reality"). Hollywood has capitalized on this borderline-mythological trope for decades: Gabler, for instance, extols the brilliant cross-marketing of Disney films and sports franchises in The Mighty Ducks and Angels in the Outfield (118). The '04 Sox, though, were one of the first "real" teams to embrace this identity and appropriate it for entertainment purposes. If we follow Gabler's argument, then this appropriation of a Hollywood trope by an actual team is only natural. Gabler argues that the traditions of nineteenth-century baseball would be sacrificed on the altar of television and twentieth-century entertainment: "lowering pitching mounds, shrinking strike zones, quickening playing surfaces … all designed … on the assumption … that for most fans high-scoring games were far more entertaining than low-scoring ones" (118). In this light, the 2004 Red Sox were merely a more sophisticated continuation (a "new episode" if you will) of the trend in baseball toward mascots and other sensory delights.

The underdog identity of the team manifested itself in a number of ways, but the most prominent of those was the team's own label of the "idiots." The "idiots" epithet emerged from Kevin Millar's 2003 coining of "Cowboy Up!", a phrase that was meant to encourage teammates to give their all. The '04 team embraced the "idiots" label and constructed themselves, consciously or unconsciously, as a group of characters in an ongoing baseball comedy. There was Millar, the fun-loving first baseman who kept things light and enjoyable in the clubhouse. There was Millar's partner in crime, Johnny Damon, the hirsute center fielder, affectionately dubbed "Caveman Johnny" by fans, who entertained fans by hustling around Fenway Park's cavernous center field and showing off what everyone knew was quite possibly the worst arm in the history of the game. There was David Ortiz, "Big Papi," the team's lovable teddy bear of a designated hitter, a reclamation project from the Minnesota Twins, who would rumble around the bases with a grin of his face. And, of course, there was the paragon of entertainment, Manny Ramirez, who fans would later remember for making phone calls from Fenway Park's famed Green Monster in between innings and diving to cut off an outfielder's throw from fifteen feet away. On the one hand, they were simply a good baseball team led by a new manager and the youngest general manger in baseball; on the other, they were the living embodiment of the Charlie Sheen movie Major League, in which a team of misfits put together for the sole purpose of losing band together to win a division title.

Of course, sports provide fans with the illusion of "reality"; sports marketing focuses on the sport itself, the actual games of baseball being played. Gabler calls this phenomenon the "macguffin," or the thing that is ostensibly the purpose of any given discursive realm (for baseball, the game itself, for religion, salvation, and so on). According to Gabler, the macguffin is an elaborate ruse, a bait-and-switch, but it is, to reappropriate his phrase, "the most pervasive, powerful and ineluctable" ruse of all. The "macguffin," the ruse, of the 2004 Red Sox was that these individuals, these characters, were baseball players first and foremost. The media coverage of their American League Championship Series (ALCS) victory over the vaunted Yankees, though, reveals just how much of a ruse that is.

The 2004 ALCS was full of singular moments like Roberts' steal and Mueller's hit up the middle, but, more than anything else, it was a theatrical dramatization of the underdog story. The best-of-seven series started inauspiciously for the Sox, who dropped the first two games by a combined five runs, 10-7 and 3-1. The series moved from New York to Boston, and the Sox were promptly humiliated, 19-8, by a Yankees team that won the AL East that year (MLB). The story should be familiar by now. ESPN's SportsCenter constantly flashed various statistics that basically told the same story: no team in the history of baseball had ever come back from three games down to win a best-of-seven series. Of course, the Red Sox would eventually come back to win the series, dramatically defeating the previously invulnerable Yankees closer Mariano Rivera in Game 4 and mostly cruising through the rest of the series. Media coverage of the ALCS focused on the dramatic reversal of fortunes, the underdog finally conquering the pit bull. And why not? This was entertainment at its finest. Talk of the "Curse of the Bambino," an 86-year-old curse that started with the trade of Babe Ruth to the Yankees, sold the team to its fans. Ironically, the media would later divest itself of the "Curse" and all its trappings. The retrospective official website of the 2004 Red Sox says of the ALCS, "It wasn't miraculous, it wasn't mystical, it wasn't mysterious. It was the Boston Red Sox being the better ballclub. Forget the Curse. Forget the ghosts of Yankee Stadium" (MLB). This effort to reassert the "macguffin" of the ALCS—it was about baseball, not the Curse—is entirely unconvincing to anyone who watched the events unfold. Of course, on some level, it was about "the Boston Red Sox being the better ballclub." Mostly, though, it was about them becoming the better ballclub, rising up from the depths of their division to overcome their greatest adversary and exorcise the "ghosts" of the Curse.

If the ALCS was the theatrical dénouement of the 2004 Red Sox soap comedy, then the World Series was its anticlimax. The Sox swept the St. Louis Cardinals in four games, absolutely dominating them by any measure. This less-than-dramatic ending to a supremely entertaining season did nothing to dispel the mythos of the Curse-breaking team, as news stories just after the Red Sox won the World Series affirmed what everyone already knew about the team: they were a baseball phenomenon unlike anything the game or its fans had ever seen. As Dan Shaughnessy of the venerable Boston Globe simply attested, "They did something that had not been done in 86 years." (Shaughnessy would later publish Reversing the Curse: Inside the 2004 Boston Red Sox, a book that epitomizes media coverage of the Curse.) Other sports teams, even other baseball teams, had entertained fans; this was nothing new. The 2004 Boston Red Sox, though, perfected the art of sports as entertainment: they thrilled fans with their "idiot" antics and reaffirmed the traditional American ideal that the underdog can win (rather, deserves to win). The force behind the 2004 Red Sox was the same force that Gabler would argue is behind all sports teams, the force of entertainment. This team, though, harnessed that force to shape its own identity better than perhaps any other team in the history of the game.

World Baseball Classic

I've been sitting on a long, rambling post about the World Baseball Classic since before this blog even existed. Now that Clemson has promptly bowed out of the NCAA Tournament and my brief flirtation with March Madness is over, that post will see the light of day.

I, like most Americans, have mixed feelings about the Classic. When it premiered in 2006, I found it interesting, but little more than a novelty. As I mentioned in my last post, though, I've started reading more baseball books in the past year, a symptom of my increasing interest in the sport of baseball as a whole, its cultural construction, its history, its traditions (most notably the Hall of Fame), and its future. I used to follow the Red Sox and a few other teams. Now, I follow baseball. And, by God, I love the sport quite unlike I love anything else in my life.

It's 2009 now, and I absolutely love the idea of the World Baseball Classic. Baseball is far too insular, and the chance to see international legends like Sadaharu Oh and young prospects alike is exciting, to say the least. Its execution, on the other hand, is sometimes less than desirable. I know this is a gross generalization, but there tend to be two camps when it comes to opinions on the WBC. There are those who think it is a travesty and a farce, that it has no real significance (with my '06 "novelty" stance as a moderate view). This is the prevailing opinion of the media, which did not even bother to televise the U.S.-Venezuela seeding game. Then, there are those who revere the tournament and what it brings to baseball, but lament America's apathy and criticize American fans and the baseball powers-that-be for not being engaged on the same level as other countries. (This group is very similar to other discourse groups of which I have been a part, where advocacy is so crucial that "immanent critique," or the criticism that emerges from within that discourse, is not tolerated.) I tend to borrow freely from both camps: I love the Classic, but I think that the American apathy surrounding it is as much the fault of the WBC and its setup as it is of MLB and American fans.

The evidence that America considers the WBC an exhibition, part of Spring Training, is ample. Many of the country's best players, particularly its ace pitchers, are not participating. Guys are thrown out there to "get work in," even in high-leverage situations. The fans are equally unconcerned, and one game in Miami drew barely 13,000 fans (roughly a third the number of fans at a practice session in Tokyo). Can we blame them, though? Because of the timing of the WBC, smack in the middle of Spring Training, and its numerous built-in off-days, it becomes difficult for players to get ready for the coming season and still participate in the tournament. When the interests of an MLB club and the interests of the WBC collide, the MLB club will almost invariably win out. Thankfully, a number of American players share my love of the WBC. After the U.S.'s stunning walk-off win over Puerto Rico, players like Brian McCann and David Wright talked about the night as the most exciting of their professional careers. This is the kind of enthusiasm that other countries already have and the U.S. desperately needs.

Unfortunately, this enthusiasm did not carry over to American fans and MLB clubs. Hell, it didn't even carry over to the next game, as U.S. manager Davey Johnson acted like the game didn't matter. Of course, the game didn't technically matter (it was only a seeding game), but as the Japan-Korea seeding game attests, even a trivial game in the WBC is still an exciting international matchup.

While the format and schedule of the WBC is clearly partially to blame for America's apathy, the fans, the media, Major League Baseball, and the culture of American sports in general are also to blame. With a few exceptions, such as the Olympic basketball "Dream Team," American fans have never been particularly enthused by their country’s participation in international sporting events. I find this strange considering the sense of blind patriotism in the country, but, such is the price to pay for not caring about soccer (sorry, football), the only sport to provoke massive riots in international play.

The distinctly American attitude toward international sports goes far beyond that, though. I'm not sure whether to blame the media, the fans, the clubs, or the athletes themselves, but I'm fully convinced that American athletes are expected to be docile, non-confrontational, and, to be frank, stupid.

Remember John Rocker? He was publicly lambasted (in no small part by Sports Illustrated) for speaking his mind and saying that, gasp, New York's subway system is dirty and full of freaky people. The comments that so provoked an entire nation:

"Imagine having to take the 7 Train to the ballpark looking like you’re riding through Beirut next to some kid with purple hair, next to some queer with AIDS, right next to some dude who just got out of jail for the fourth time, right next to some 20-year-old mom with four kids. It's depressing."

Now, Rocker was not a particularly brilliant individual, but I have to stretch to find his comments even mildly offensive. Sure, the "queer with AIDS" thing is a problem, but people have said much worse things before.

The proverbial buck does not stop there, though. Oh no, American players are taught not to criticize anyone, including those deserving of criticism. When baseball players talk trash about another team, they are called loudmouths and idiots. When they, heaven forbid, criticize a member of their own team, they are called traitors.

International players, on the other hand, are taught to speak their mind. They have not adopted the dumbed-down, non-confrontational jock-speak of American athletes. One need only listen to the press sessions for other countries in the WBC to see evidence of the cultural difference. I'll provide two examples. After his third base coach made an obviously poor decision to send a runner home at a crucial point in the game, Netherlands left fielder Bryan Englehardt (pictured below) said,

"Maybe the coach needs to stop the guy on third base. After the game, you think about it, and you say that it was one [turning] point."

In America, calling a coach out like that would be unthinkable.



In the Japan-Cuba elimination game, Ichiro Suzuki, one of my favorite players, tried to lay down a bunt. Ichiro, who usually excels in international play, has been abysmal this WBC, and he got under the ball and popped it up. After the game, he said (in loose translation),

"That failed bunt put another crack in my very tattered heart. It was as if I was the only guy on our side wearing a Cuban uniform."

I'm not sure about the combination of "crack" and "tattered," two words that don't normally go together, but I don't claim to understand the subtleties of the Japanese language. Point is, Ichiro wears his heart on his sleeve frequently, but you don't hear him say these kinds of things after Mariners games. I'm sure that's because his identity in Seattle is primarily as a Mariner and MLB player, not as a Japanese baseball player. That's just not the kind of thing you say in Major League Baseball.



Unfortunately, we'll have to wait until 2012 for the next Classic to see if the U.S. can get its act together. I suspect it won't unless some significant changes occur. (What those changes involve, I'm not sure; I just invite the possibility of change.) In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy watching Japan and Korea battle it out baseball's greatest stage. It's nice to see countries actually care about being crowned the best in the world.

Buying Books at Borders

I just got back from Borders, where I went to spend a gift card leftover from some occasion or another. Now, I don't buy new books in stores, unless they are of the bargain variety. I mostly buy books used or new on Amazon, and I've been borrowing more and more from the library lately (this semester, for the first time, I got my class books from the library). So, this was an experience for me. Of course, I was overwhelmed by all the gorgeous books on display in Borders, and I left with more than I intended. I went to get Jennifer Boylan's two memoirs, She's Not There and I'm Looking Through You. Borders claimed to have both, but neither a nice salt-and-pepper gentleman (I hope I age that well) nor I could find She's Not There. I had to settle for I'm Looking Through You, but now I'm anxious, since I can't possible read the memoirs in reverse chronological order. That's just not who I am.

I'm excited, though, because Jennifer Boylan will be coming to my school to give a talk. Our English Graduate Student Association, of which I am a part, is bringing Jenny to talk to us about memoir writing. Of course, people can't possibly ignore the fact that she is transgender, so the college's LGBTQ club will have its own separate event with her. Needless to say, I'm thrilled. I haven't read her work yet, but I'm planning to do so as soon as possible. Do you think she'll sign my books?



Borders has ordered She's Not There, but who knows how long it will take.

I succumbed to the buy-one-get-one-half-price table, as well. I bought two books I've been meaning to read:





I absolutely love Nicholson Baker, but I've been putting off Human Smoke since its publication a year ago. It's just so long. Plus, my school contacted Baker to see if he would speak to us about writing (he lives in Southern Maine, so it only makes sense), and his publicist said that he would give a one-hour lecture for $10,000, plus airfare. $10,000? Airfare from Portland to Bangor? The man's no Thomas Pynchon, but he's certainly living like it.

As for Moneyball, I've arrived at the point in my life when it's a must read. For some reason unknown even to me, I only recently, in the past year or so, started reading extended baseball writing. I don't know why I kept those two parts of my life separate, the baseball and the books, but I did. Until now. I've been reading some of Bill James's books, and my wonderful spouse bought me the Hardball Times Baseball Annual from last season. Next up, Moneyball. A lot of people have misconceptions about Moneyball, fed mostly by Joe Morgan and the like. While I'm interested in the Moneyball approach, I think the bigger issue at play in the book is the fight against the traditions of baseball and how deeply rooted in tradition on-field (and front-office) strategy really is.

Now that I'm done with the M.A. exam, I'm hoping that I actually have time to read for pleasure. My optimism is not based in any reality: reality is the dozen student papers that sit untouched on my computer. Perhaps I should get back to those and stop spending time writing about things I'll be reading when I have more time.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Your 2009 Boston Red Sox

I just felt a macabre sense of satisfaction and giddiness when I realized, while reading a story about Julio Lugo undergoing arthroscopic surgery, that Opening Day is two and a half weeks away. The story indicates that Lugo will miss 3-4 weeks, "eliminating any chance he had to be ready for Opening Day." This bits of news answers one of the many questions swirling around this year's Red Sox team. Mind you, I love questions of the baseball variety; the anticipation of Opening Day, especially the Spring-time feel that comes with Truck Day, Spring Training, and the WBC, is one of the best things about being a fan.

Here are my other questions about the 2009 Boston Red Sox:

Who will emerge as the Opening Day regular starting shortstop?
Can Big Papi bounce back from an awful (for him) year?
Will Lester reward his lucrative new contract?
Is this Jacoby Ellsbury's year? The Sox front office certain seems to think so.
Which prospect will contribute significantly to the team this year?
Will Rocco Baldelli survive the season? Can Smoltzy return to his former strength?
How early in the season will J.D. Drew bow out?
Who's our biggest rival? I'm not sure I can accept the Tampa Bay Rays as a power in the AL East.

We're in for one hell of a ride this year. Is anyone else as excited as me?