just beat 'em and leave them.
As part of an interesting, interesting series about how stats are working with scouting in one of the lamest-seeming front offices in baseball, the Cincy Post put out an article featuring a chunk of this:In 2004, according to the Bill James Handbook, Dunn ranked seventh in the National League in OPS against fastballs (1.113) and changeups (1.035). . .
Off the cuff, the Reds' left fielder initially thought OPS might have something to do with strikeouts, a topic he is weary of examining. Told that the numbers represented his on-base percentage plus slugging average against each type of pitch, he saw the light. Almost.
"Ohhhh," he said. "No, that's cool. I did not know that. I have no idea what that is. But I promise to God it means nothing to me. "
***
So right. There is this baseball game on Sunday night that I've been thinking about non-stop for the past three weeks or so and been half-dreading, half-anticipating since they annoucned this season's schedule. Consequently, when people asked me at a 5:30 dinner on Sunday whether I'd seen "the game," I promptly had a full-scale freakout and started doubting my sanity because HOLY FUCK had there been a game on Saturday? I'd checked the calender like six times to make sure that the first game was on Sunday. Had I somehow missed a day in my consciousness? Was today actually Monday? Had I missed an entire day of classes and, more importantly, THE GAME?
And then they pointed out that there had been something called the, um, Final Four basketball NCAA champsionships the night before. I looked at them for a second, tried to understand why anybody could possibly care about that when the YANKEES and RED SOX were playing in three short hours, and then went back to dreaming about Randy Johnson old-school and Bubba Crosby's high socks.
The rest of the night went something like:Randy Johnson retires the side in order to end the top of first.
I give a girly-scream and raise my fists.
I realize that I am, like, the only person in the entire place making any noise.
I realize that the rest of bar in their Boston hats, Boston shirts, and loud moronic cheering throughout the pre-game clips of last season's ALCS is staring at me.
I notice that one girl is wearing a Boston red shirt that says "Ortiz? Yes, please!" Someone in the crowd had earlier screamed out "WHITE TRASH!!!!" at one of the first closeups of Randy Johnson.
. . . and fifteen minutes later when the Yankees score their first run of the night, the other people in my party hold me down in our booth to keep me from climbing on top of the table to scream hatred and defiance to the heavens and shoot the sixty or so people in red the double-barreled finger. As it is, I pump my fists and scream and sing LET'S GO YANKEES while clapping out the four-beat cadence and while also wearing Bubba Crosby/Aaron Boone's number with the Yankees.
Repeat, lather, and rinse with word substitutions of "second run," "third run," "sixth run", etc. as necessary. Remember to insert hysterical laughter when David Wells balks in a run and, again, when Ruben Sierra almost walks twice in the course of the game.
Off the cuff, the Reds' left fielder initially thought OPS might have something to do with strikeouts, a topic he is weary of examining. Told that the numbers represented his on-base percentage plus slugging average against each type of pitch, he saw the light. Almost.
"Ohhhh," he said. "No, that's cool. I did not know that. I have no idea what that is. But I promise to God it means nothing to me. "
***
So right. There is this baseball game on Sunday night that I've been thinking about non-stop for the past three weeks or so and been half-dreading, half-anticipating since they annoucned this season's schedule. Consequently, when people asked me at a 5:30 dinner on Sunday whether I'd seen "the game," I promptly had a full-scale freakout and started doubting my sanity because HOLY FUCK had there been a game on Saturday? I'd checked the calender like six times to make sure that the first game was on Sunday. Had I somehow missed a day in my consciousness? Was today actually Monday? Had I missed an entire day of classes and, more importantly, THE GAME?
And then they pointed out that there had been something called the, um, Final Four basketball NCAA champsionships the night before. I looked at them for a second, tried to understand why anybody could possibly care about that when the YANKEES and RED SOX were playing in three short hours, and then went back to dreaming about Randy Johnson old-school and Bubba Crosby's high socks.
The rest of the night went something like:Randy Johnson retires the side in order to end the top of first.
I give a girly-scream and raise my fists.
I realize that I am, like, the only person in the entire place making any noise.
I realize that the rest of bar in their Boston hats, Boston shirts, and loud moronic cheering throughout the pre-game clips of last season's ALCS is staring at me.
I notice that one girl is wearing a Boston red shirt that says "Ortiz? Yes, please!" Someone in the crowd had earlier screamed out "WHITE TRASH!!!!" at one of the first closeups of Randy Johnson.
. . . and fifteen minutes later when the Yankees score their first run of the night, the other people in my party hold me down in our booth to keep me from climbing on top of the table to scream hatred and defiance to the heavens and shoot the sixty or so people in red the double-barreled finger. As it is, I pump my fists and scream and sing LET'S GO YANKEES while clapping out the four-beat cadence and while also wearing Bubba Crosby/Aaron Boone's number with the Yankees.
Repeat, lather, and rinse with word substitutions of "second run," "third run," "sixth run", etc. as necessary. Remember to insert hysterical laughter when David Wells balks in a run and, again, when Ruben Sierra almost walks twice in the course of the game.