The On Deck Circle

Baseball History, Commentary and Analysis

Ten Facts About Cooperstown, New York

Virtually every baseball fan knows that the Baseball Hall of Fame is in Cooperstown, New York.  But what do we know about Cooperstown, N.Y.?  I’ve been to Cooperstown a couple of times, though it’s been nearly twenty years since I’ve had the opportunity to visit the Hall of Fame.  I thought I might take a few minutes to see what kind of information I could uncover about Cooperstown.  Here are some facts I’ve decided to share with you:

Cooperstown, New York

Cooperstown, New York (Photo credit: Dougtone)

1)  Cooperstown is not named for the writer, James Fenimore Cooper (although the author did live and pen some of his stories, such as “The Last of the Mohicans,” in Cooperstown.  It is actually named for his father, William Cooper, who founded this town in the late 1780′s (though it first became officially incorporated in 1812.)

2)  Cooperstown Dreams Park was established in 1996, and the Youth Baseball League it serves features up to 1,350 teams competing per season.  The season lasts from the end of May until the end of August.

3)  The population of Cooperstown is 1,833, down nearly ten percent since the year 2000.  The population of Cooperstown is 91% white.  There are six black families and one resident of full-blooded Native-American ancestry. Females outnumber males 55% to 45%.  There is one registered sex offender in town limits.

4)  About one-quarter of the people of Cooperstown walk to work.  That’s very cool, except in the winter.

5)  Approximately 35% of the population are affiliated with a religious congregation.  Nationally, about 51% of Americans are affiliated with a particular religious congregation.  A plurality in Cooperstown are Catholics (43%.)

6)  The most common first name among deceased individuals in Cooperstown is Mary.  The most common last name among deceased individuals is Smith.  I would suggest that if your name is Mary Smith, you might want to avoid Cooperstown.  On the other hand, you would have a life expectancy of 81.5 years old.

7)  The first speeding ticket issued in Cooperstown was given out in 1906.

8)  No one born in Cooperstown has ever played Major League baseball.

9)  Company G of the 176th Infantry Regiment of New York was recruited from Otsego County (in which Cooperstown is located), as well as a few of the other surrounding counties.  They saw action in Virginia, North Carolina and Louisiana.  The majority of casualties this regiment suffered occurred at the Battle of Cedar Creek in Virginia in 1864.

10)  The last public hanging in Cooperstown took place in December 1827.  The man condemned to death was a first cousin of James Fenimore Cooper named Levi Kelley, convicted of killing his tenant, Abraham Spafard.  While the hangman was putting the noose around Kelley’s neck, the grandstand collapsed under the weight of the crowd of onlookers, killing one person and mortally wounding another.  The execution, however, went on as scheduled.

 

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The Future of Innings Not Yet Melted

Years ago, a friend of mine and I were making lists of the best players who played for each of our favorite teams.  Mine, of course, was the Mets.  His was the Red Sox.  We made our lists in the L.L. Bean warehouse, Zone 21, amidst the cardboard dust and broken yellow straps that littered the floor.  We had another two hours until the end of our shift.  No windows through which to notice the snow.

His list had many of the predictable names:  Teddy Ballgame, Yaz, Fisk, Clemens…he even added Babe Ruth to his pitching staff.  I granted him that one.  The old pig-farmer was once a kid lefty with promise.  Then, panic-stricken into silence, I noticed that his list of the greatest Red Sox of all-time included Tom Seaver.  He had shoplifted Tom Terrific right out of the store under his coat, much as the Reds had done in ’77.  This couldn’t stand.

Yagottabefuckinkiddinme, I blurted out.  Seaver?  He threw what, maybe 90 pitches in his entire Red Sox life?  That’s like me accidentally walking into a wedding ceremony, and emerging with a ring.  It just don’t work that way.  I slowly crossed Seaver’s name off his list.  Looking up at him, I said, “try again.”  I wrote, “Calvin Schiraldi” in small, neat letters over smudged Seaver.

But rules are rules, and we had none when we set up our lists.  My friend saw the loophole, and pounced.  That’s how winners happen.  When the Reds scammed Seaver from the Mets for a broken harmonium and a box of confiscated Turkish porn films, Mets fans knew they’d been had.  But losers always find a way to lose; it’s as irresistible as running a tongue over a broken tooth.  Still, Dan Norman?

Up to that point, I had left Nolan Ryan off my list of Mets, along with Ken Singleton, Amos Otis, and Paul Blair, as well as Snider, Mays, and Ashburn. I topped off my updated list with Bret Saberhagen.  But then so did he.  Going for the kill, I scribbled Jimmy Piersall’s name down, Mets class of ’63.  Clearly, that was below the belt.  My friend groaned.

Nothing left to do but gloat as I leaned on the pallet jack, waiting for the fork-truck driver to come back around.  Forty more cases of fleece jackets to load, then home to an Old Thumper and some chow.  Should be about 4:30 by now.  Not that it mattered.  The cold apartment on Spring Street was dialed up to December Maine Cold, frost on the handrails and black-slick death ice on the stairs.

The click of cleats on hardwood floors was still months away.  Leather glove smell of organic dirty perfume hidden in closet under box of wide-ruled college notebooks, stats of ’73 Mets in the margin of Sociology 101 scribbles.  Invertebrates and Mollusks in red notebook between columns of stadiums I’d meant to see.  Most are gone now, but the notebooks remain, hostage facts squeezed and forgotten in boxes.

My friend on my second-floor landing now, semaphore scorecard waving like a warning, his evidence of a 1986 Houston Astros ballgame.  Mike Scott and his vanishing split-finger optical illusion.  Beat the Mets twice in the playoffs. Not pitching, but counting coup.

I added Mike Scott to my list.  Drafted by the Mets in 2nd round, 1976.

My buddy just shook his head, but he had brought along an extra pair of six-packs and some egg rolls, so we were good for the evening.  Steel winter morning was still twelve hours away, and the inside of our souls were calm with pencil-mark scorecards and dog-eared almanacs, becalming order to the ordinariness of existence, waiting for the next hot prospects to melt in toaster-oven future, promise of a 44-double season mounting with the death of each winter day.

Was spring really true?  Who could say?  Future inning snow-flakes shadowed the night sky, blinding us from the moon’s faint light.  Floating to earth, all of next season, a snow carpet, tranquil and smooth, yielding nothing but the quietness of expectation.

 

 

 

 

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Rickey Henderson Looks Good On the Dance Floor

There’s been a great deal of early season hype about whether or not Cincinnati Reds outfielder Billy Hamilton, who stole over a hundred bases in two consecutive minor league seasons, could match that feat as a rookie this season.  Of course, Hamilton will have to be able to reach first base a reasonable number of times to be able to do so.

Thus far, he is 0 for 2014, having reached base via a base on balls once in 13 plate appearances, without a single safe hit to his credit.  He was also thrown out in his only stolen base attempt.

Still, it’s very early in the season, and Hamilton did bat over .300 in a late-season trial last year, and he hit well this past spring training as well.

Some say Hamilton has the raw speed to steal over 80 bases, if not this year, then certainly in some future season.  That prompted me to research which player(s) was the last to steal over 80 bags in a year.  The answer, perhaps unsurprisingly, is Rickey Henderson and Vince Coleman, back in 1988.  Actually, Henderson stole 93 that year for the Yankees.  Vince Coleman led the N.L. with 80 steals.  No other player has reached 80 steals since then.

For those of you who remember watching Henderson play baseball, especially when he was on the base-paths, you will remember that there have been few players like him who could create so much excitement in so many ways.  Rickey was never boring.

I have a Youtube clip of Rickey Henderson playing baseball, and another clip a bit below that of a song that I think goes well with Henderson’s style of play.

To match them up, first click on the bottom (Arctic Monkey’s) video (make sure the volume on your computer is turned up.)  Then go up and click on the Rickey Henderson video.  Be sure to click on the mute icon below the Henderson video to the left of the 2:21, or you’ll be listening to two overlapping videos.  Then click on the full screen icon on the far right,  and watch Rickey do his thing.  (The music lasts slightly longer than the Henderson video.)

Sorry about my lack of technical expertise, but I was born and raised in an analogue world.  I hope you enjoy this synthesis of modern music and classic, old video.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Day Babe Ruth Called His Shot

Writing about Babe Ruth is like writing about God.  No matter what you say about either of them, you are bound to offend someone.

Still, there is one major difference between the two of them. God never hit 714 home runs.

Oh, sure, God COULD have hit that many if he had wanted to, you say, but we’ve heard that before about countless prospects over the decades. Yet only a heroic Henry Aaron and an inflatable Barry Bonds have surpassed Ruth. Gods, of course, have the power to know what truths the future holds, a power that mere mortals are not privy to.

So how, then, was Babe Ruth able to predict that he would hit a home run off of Cubs pitcher Charlie Root in that legendary at-bat in the 1932 World Series? Actually, the essential question here is, DID Babe Ruth truly call his shot on that early October afternoon in Chicago?

It all began with sportswriter Joe Williams.  In the late edition of the same day as the game, he wrote, “Ruth Calls Shot As He Puts Home Run No. 2 In Side Pocket.” (Ruth had already hit another home run earlier in the game.) At first, even Ruth dismissed the story, saying that he was just pointing towards the Cubs bench telling them he still had one more strike to go.

As time went on, however, Ruth began to warm up to the story, embellishing it as time went by.

Yet no other player on the field that day was able to positively confirm that Ruth actually did call his shot, a monster 440-foot home run towards the flagpole beyond the outfield wall. Still, the famous photo exists that shows Ruth gesturing, arm outstretched, pointing at someone or something during this very at-bat.

Isn’t it at least plausible that this enormously talented hitter and consummate showman really could have called his shot that day? Ruth later claimed that he announced, “I’m gonna hit the next pitched ball past the flagpole. Well, the Good Lord must have been with me that day.” God, apparently, is a Yankees fan (which would explain a lot of things.)

Yet Yankees pitcher Charlie Deven, in an interview given seven decades later, said that while at first he thought Ruth’s foreshadowing gesture was indeed a portent of the subsequent home run, he was corrected by Yankees shortstop Frank Crosetti who told Deven that Ruth simply put up one finger to indicate he still had another strike coming.

Cub’s pitcher Charlie Root denied to his dying day that Ruth called his shot.  In one interview, he said that if Ruth had tried a stunt like that, his next pitch would have knocked Ruth on his ass.

The player who was physically closest to Ruth in that moment was Cubs catcher Gabby Hartnett.  Hartnett later stated that Ruth did not in fact call his home run.  Instead, he said that Ruth bellowed, “That’s only two strikes,” while pointing at the Cubs dugout.

One might argue that Crosetti simply wasn’t physically close enough to Ruth to hear what he actually said.  And it can also be argued that Gabby Hartnett, being the catcher for the opposing team during a bitterly contested World Series (which the Yankees swept in four games), would have every reason to try to deny additional glory to the Yankee legend.

We must keep in mind that Ruth was not a brash, 25-year old kid just trying to make a name for himself.  In that case, it is conceivable that players on both teams would have tried to cut Ruth down to size for his lack of humility. But Ruth was an aging, 37-year old legend playing in his last World Series.  He was not just another star; he was THE star that all of baseball was indebted to for leading the way out of the woods of the scandalous 1919 season which could have ruined baseball indefinitely.

It was his exploits that changed the game forever, filling stadiums all over America, putting a little more money in every player’s pocket. In other words, his reputation already cast in stone, it’s hard to see why, if Ruth really had called his shot that day, not a single player on the field that day would grant him this one last diamond in his crown.

Unless, of course, it never happened. But why, then, would Ruth feel compelled to embrace this apocryphal tale?

To answer this question, we have to take a closer look at Ruth the Man, as opposed to Ruth the demigod. Despite enjoying a very productive season in 1932, Ruth was clearly no longer the dominant slugger in the American League.  For the first time since 1925, Ruth failed to lead the league in any of the following three categories:  Home Runs, RBI’s, or Slugging Percentage.

His teammate, Lou Gehrig, with whom a tense rivalry existed, had driven in 151 runs to Ruth’s still fine 137.  Worse, Jimmie Foxx of the Athletics had out-homered Ruth 58 to 41, falling just two homers short of Ruth’s own single-season home run record.

While Foxx and Gehrig had finished 1-2 in MVP voting in ’32, Ruth finished tied with Joe Cronin for a distant 6th in the balloting. Ruth, age rapidly creeping up on him, must have sensed his days as baseball’s most awesome slugger were numbered.  He also must have known that despite how much he was loved by his countless admirers, in the end, his on-field production would dictate the intensity and degree of their future admiration.

Ruth would also have realized that the world itself had changed drastically since the Yankees glory days of the late 1920’s. Charles Lindbergh had flown across the Atlantic back in ‘27.  Now, Europe was faced with the specter of Fascism in Spain, Italy, and Germany. A world-wide Depression had taken hold, and America itself was threatened by malignant forces both from within and without.

In short, the world was clearly not headed into a new Age of Reason.  Dark forces could only be effectively met by new heroes.  Franklin Roosevelt and his inspirational Fireside Chats were still months away.  Ruth, then, already a hero back in the heady days of the ‘20’s, tapped into the American Zeitgeist once again, and delivered the miracle this emotionally impoverished nation needed, i.e., that a man could still control his destiny.

Babe Ruth’s Called Shot resonated with the American public because it proved that even in the face of extreme darkness, heroic moments were still possible.

Yet, for our purposes here today, during a time of renewed social and economic turmoil, our rationalist selves have to accept that there just doesn’t seem to be any objective evidence that Babe Ruth really did call his shot.

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National League Picks: 2014

Following up on yesterday’s post featuring my A.L. picks, here are my soon-to-be-proven absolutely foolish N.L. picks.  Go easy on me, lads.  Playoff teams are in bold.

National League

National League (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

N.L. East:

1)  Washington

2)  Atlanta

3)  New York

4)  Florida

5)  Philadelphia

N.L. Central:

1)  St. Louis

2)  Pittsburgh

3)  Cincinnati

4)  Milwaukee

5)  Chicago

N.L. West:

1)  Los Angeles

2)  San Francisco

3)  Colorado

4)  Arizona

5)  San Diego

St. Louis Cardinals go to the World Series and take on the Detroit Tigers.  The Cardinals win in a classic seven-game match.

 

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American League Picks: 2014

I know I’m bound to get many, perhaps most of these wrong, but making predictions is part of the pre-season ritual around here.  We’ll check back after the World Series to see how well my predictions turned out.  This post is for the American League only.  Tomorrow, I’ll check in with a brief post on the National League.  My playoff team picks are in bold print.

The logo for the American League.

The logo for the American League. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A.L. East:

1)  Tampa Bay

2)  Baltimore

3)  Boston

4)  New York

5)  Toronto

A.L. Central:

1)  Detroit

2)  Kansas City

3)  Cleveland

4)  Chicago

5)  Minnesota

A.L. West:  

1)  Anaheim

2)  Oakland

3)  Texas

4)  Seattle

5)  Houston

The Detroit Tigers make it all the way to the World Series vs. the St. Louis Cardinals.

Tomorrow I’ll tell you which team I pick to win the World Series.

 

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A Cloud Hangs Over Red Sox Nation

William Miller:

One helluva read. Baseball writing, or any other kind of writing, doesn’t get much better than this.

Originally posted on On Sports and Life:

Few big cities are home to sports fans more passionate than those in Boston, and at least in recent years scarcely any other metropolis has fielded a set of teams that have given their fans more reason to cheer. Since 2001 the Patriots have won three Super Bowls. The Celtics won their league-leading 17th NBA championship in 2008. The Bruins ended a nearly four decade long drought with a Stanley Cup title three seasons ago, and were back in the Finals last spring. Then there are the Red Sox, who under the ownership of John Henry have become one of the Great Game’s elite franchises, winning three World Series trophies in the last decade.

The success of the Sox has brought joy to fans of long-standing, who suffered through their portion of the 86 years between one title in 1918 and the first of the recent string in 2004; and…

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Each Team’s Single-Season WAR Leader

Measured by WAR (Wins Above Replacement), which player has had the best individual season for each team in Major League history? Listed alphabetically, here are the single-season WAR leaders for each baseball team (since 1900), and the year during which they produced the team record:

1)  A’s – Eddie Collins – 10.5, 1910

2)  Angels – Mike Trout – 10.9, 2012

3)  Astros – Craig Biggio – 9.4, 1997

4)  Blue Jays – Roger Clemens – 11.9, 1997

5)  Braves – Greg Maddux – 9.7, 1995

6)  Brewers – Robin Yount – 10.5, 1982

7)  Cardinals – Rogers Hornsby – 12.1, 1924

8)  Cubs – Rogers Hornsby – 10.4, 1929

9)  Diamondbacks – Randy Johnson – 10.9, 2002

10) Dodgers – Sandy Koufax – 10.7, 1963

11)  Expos / Nats – Pedro Martinez – 9.0, 1997

12)  Giants – Barry Bonds – 11.9, 2001

13)  Indians – Gaylord Perry – 11.0, 1972

14)  Mariners – Alex Rodriguez – 10.3, 2000

15)  Marlins – Kevin Brown – 8.0, 1996

16)  Mets – Dwight Gooden – 12.1, 1985

17)  Orioles – Cal Ripkin, Jr. – 11.5, 1991

18)  Padres – Kevin Brown – 8.6, 1998

19)  Phillies – Steve Carlton – 12.1, 1972

20)  Pirates – Honus Wagner – 11.5, 1908

21)  Rangers / Senators – Josh Hamilton – 8.9, 2010

22)  Rays – Ben Zobrist – 8.8, 2011

23)  Reds – Joe Morgan – 11.0, 1975

24)  Red Sox – Cy Young – 12.6, 1901

25)  Rockies – Larry Walker – 9.8, 1997

26)  Royals – Zach Greinke – 10.4, 2009

27)  Tigers – Hal Newhouser – 12.0, 1945

28)  Twins / Senators – Walter Johnson – 16.0, 1913

29)  White Sox – Wilbur Wood – 11.7, 1971

30)  Yankees – Babe Ruth – 14.0, 1923

As you may have noticed, a pair of players each appear twice on this list.  Rogers Hornsby holds the single-season WAR mark for both the Cardinals and the Cubs.  Kevin Brown, and under-appreciated pitcher if there ever was one, compiled the greatest single-season WAR for both the Marlins and the Padres.  A pair of men named Johnson, Randy and Walter, also appear on this list.

What do you make of the fact that four of the six highest WAR’s on this list occurred before 1925?  Could it be that the level of talent between the very best players and the average players was much greater then than it has been since?

The 1930′s and the 1950′s are, perhaps oddly, the only two decades since 1900 not represented at least once on this list.

Four players, Larry Walker, Craig Biggio, Roger Clemens and Pedro Martinez, each set their respective team records in a single season, 1997.  Three other players, Cal Ripkin, Kevin Brown (twice), and Greg Maddux, also set their team’s record during that same decade, the 1990′s.

Fourteen different pitchers are represented on this list, including five lefties:  Koufax, Carlton, Newhouser, W. Wood and R. Johnson.

Given how much offense has historically been expected from first basemen, it is surprising that not one single first baseman is represented on this list.  Nor are any third basemen or catchers to be found here.  But eight players who were primarily middle-infielders during their careers are on this list.

Chronologically, the list spans from Cy Young’s 1901 season with the Red Sox to Mike Trout’s 2012 with the Angels.  Five of these players are still active:  Trout, Josh Hamilton, Ben Zobrist, Zach Greinke, and (technically) A-Rod.  Trout and Hamilton are currently teammates on the Angels.

All but seven of these players are still alive.  Only Babe Ruth, Walter Johnson, Cy Young, Rogers Hornsby, Honus Wagner, Eddie Collins and Hal Newhouser have passed away.

The Baseball Hall of Fame has identified the period 1947-72 as the “Golden Era” of baseball.  Interestingly, however, only four of the single-season WAR records on this list occurred during that era, and three of them (Carlton and Perry in ’72 and Wood in ’71) barely qualify.  Only Koufax’s 1963 season fits squarely in that arbitrary time-frame.

It will be interesting to see if any of these records fall this season, or over the next several years, as today’s talented young ballplayers leave their mark on the game.

 

 

 

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His Own Paranoia

The sun barely leaked through the chipped, vinyl shade in the cinder-block hotel room just outside of Anaheim.  Night game vs. the Angels.  Four-nothing win.  Figueroa tossed eight, then Lyle in the ninth.  A manager barely had to show up for one like that.  Nothing to fight for.  No one to kick.  Just a damn lineup card.  Shit, why waste two and a half hours in fucking A.L. Disneyland watching Grich fan three times when there’s plenty of blondes and bourbon waiting to be tasted?

His dirty little secret (all the other ones were dirty, but not secrets), was that he hated to drive.  Whitey loved to drive that Ford truck of his he’d won at that golf tournament, the one where he’d met that girl serving drinks at the Bottom’s Up Lounge near Tahoe, the one that he’d had his eye on first, but Whitey was a sneak and a pervert, and he always got what he wanted.  A three-two curve on the outside corner; always got the call.  You’d think the ump got paid off, or something.

Motel

Motel (Photo credit: Beyond Neon)

Wrong end of the bed, his balls itched, and his neck had stiffened up a bit from the awkward angle he’d crashed onto the bed, out cold now for nearly fourteen hours.  He knew the shower was a good place to start, but dumps like this always had lukewarm water, and those shitty little pieces of soap the size of a condom wrapper.  Christ, why did everything need to be so hard?

As he lay sprawled on the double-bed, the T.V. tuned to an afternoon rerun of Wheel of Fortune, a commercial came on with that damn kid singing the Oscar Mayer song, “My bologna has a first name….” and on and on.  This caused him to remember, with a start, that today was Father’s Day, and his own boy, Billy Joe, was probably going to be in the locker room, waiting for him.

God, he felt like a fraud.  He’d never even played a single game of catch with little Billy in around six years.  The kid was growing up, what twelve, thirteen years old this year?  By now, he’d had to know what a dick his dad was.

Still, at least he had a father.  He thought again as he slowly sat up, head pounding, that if he’d ever found out who his own real father was, he might just kick his ass.  Who the hell was he to abandon him!  Not to mention mom.  Grandma practically fucking raised him, too.  “Bella, apparecchia la tavola.”  And to his mother, “Gira il sugo, gira il sugo.”

These words would come to him at the oddest of times in random places.  Comiskey Park, 4th-inning, second game of a doubleheader, “Bella, apparecchia la tavola.”  Not now, grandma.  We gotta strike out Melton, first.

The cracked, plastic alarm clock he always took with him on the road dripped minutes like a sieve, now only three hours to game-time.  He ran a hand over the stubble on his gaunt face, and thought of Jill, his girlfriend who he kept promising he’d marry if he ever got another divorce.  There had been plenty of each — girlfriends and divorces —  in his life, but like a ship’s captain who knew where the hidden reefs were, he’d managed to steer clear of any major shipwrecks, at least up to this point.

Finally in the shower, his head becoming clearer, like the dissipating fog on a battlefield at first light, he let the water run down his back as he thought of how they’d all fight over his money when he was gone.  All those ex-wives, girlfriends, hangers-on and has-beens would want a piece of the action.

Well, it was all George’s doing anyway.  That rich bastard may have fired him about as many times as Billy’d been married, but he paid well, and, in his own way, he was a generous old Kraut, even if he did have his henchman following Billy around “for his own good.”

His driver showed up at the motel at 4:30 p.m. sharp, just as Billy’d finished dressing in his tan pants and blue, v-neck shirt.  Nowhere to go but to the ballpark, same as so many other nights in his life since he got his first call to The Show back in ’50.  Gotta call The Mick again soon.  Maybe hit the town tonight if he was around.  Might go over to Mulroney’s Pool Room, down a few, just to take the edge off.  Maybe all the edges, and the corners, too.

And anyway, who was going to stop him?  The best way to keep them guessing was to not stay in one place too long.  If you did, they could finally pin you down.  Isn’t that what he’d learned his whole life, since he was a kid?  “Bella, apparecchia la tavola!”

Just don’t get pinned down, ’cause then they own you.

Then there’s no more running, not even from yourself.

Just like anybody else, he had his own paranoias about things,” Billy Joe said. “I think he got bored very easy, almost manufactured trouble at times in his life. Because of his boredom. He had to be out there on the edge. In the middle of the action.”  - Billy Joe Martin, on his dad, Billy Martin.

Read more at http://observer.com/1999/06/billy-martins-family-in-benchclearing-brawl/#ixzz2wTGQ6Vac

This song’s for you, Billy:

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Do You Enjoy Baseball as Much as You Used to?

William Miller:

Let Arne know what you think.

Originally posted on Misc. Baseball:

This question is aimed at people who started following major league baseball before the late ‘90s, that is, before the Internet became a big deal, before every game of a season was televised, and before the home run boom really got going. Was MLB more enjoyable in the earlier years? If it was, did that result from you being younger, or from changes in MLB and how it’s presented by legacy media and on the Web?

I think if you remain a baseball fan after the transition from adolescence to adulthood, you inevitably realize that many, maybe most of the players in MLB have few exceptional qualities beyond their ability to play baseball. Certainly they are not, in any moral sense, better than the ordinary human being. This produces a more skeptical attitude toward MLB: the raw emotional attachment to teams and players goes away, and so you enjoy the…

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