Here I sit, humbly, at my bizarre looking keyboard and U.S. Trust Company owned CPU and CRT monitor, attempting to transmit my thoughts on an amazing week of sports. Those of you who know me would describe me as a generally laid back fellow who likes sports (especially baseball), mathematics, and grammar, and who occasionally has the audacity to put his ideas down in print. I read a lot. Whether it's a few stolen minutes of Torah on the subway, a dozen pages of the latest fantasy book, or one of 20-25 sports blogs that can be found in my internet bookmarks, there are almost always some words somewhere that are being seen by my eyes and interpreted by my brain. When one is exposed to so many authors on a daily basis, one tends to notice the varying styles of said writers. I find that when I write, I usually do so in a similar manner to the one in which I speak. Most of the good sports writers out there write the same way. Granted, these people can't be blamed because a statistical analysis generally does not provide one with much opportunity for linguistic creativity. On Friday, I read a post on baseballanalysts.com that honestly gave me chills. I don't know how he did it, but the writer had me totally engrossed in his short story. Maybe it was the words he used; his verbs, adjectives, and adverbs were all so powerful. I'm going to paste some of his sentences here in the hopes that I might soak in some of his expertise. His name is Russ McQueen, and here is how he writes:
-The new guy took the mound and things changed. An air of expectancy took hold, and the place got quiet. Sounds were reduced only to those necessary. It felt like a premonition of something terrible, or terribly great, like right before a big fish takes your lure and you know in your gut he's about to hit.
The first batter took his stance. Fast ball, strike one called. Not bad, right down at the knees and on the inside corner. With considerable zip. Not the one he wanted to hit, I thought. But then the new guy threw something I had never seen before. It was gorgeous, and it was terrible, and I wasn't sure I had seen it correctly. Fast like a heater, but in front of the plate it made a wicked dive, down and a little bit away from the batter, who buckled at the knees. Strike two called. Hearts beat faster – I know mine did.
"Throw it again," I prayed.
He did, only this time the batter mustered up a feeble excuse for a swing and made his retreat back to the bench, where he joined other mortals to watch the continuing carnage.
Five more up, five more down. One guy grounded out, but everyone else fell to that monstrous, terrifying curve ball.
I've seen the Grand Canyon and the Grand Tetons. I've walked into Yankee Stadium and Fenway Park and Wrigley Field on a Sunday afternoon. I've been to dozens of countries all over the world and seen it all. But I have never seen anything more riveting than that curve ball on that one cool, gray Saturday morning.
I have always remembered that awesome pitch as a big hammer the new guy swung and pounded batters with. It certainly went way beyond any fair deal I ever witnessed. To say "he threw a curve" was to understate the terror of the act. However ordinary the new guy looked to begin with, to me he had become substantially taller, heavier, and more dangerous.
For a moment there was no one sitting between me and Mr. Roebuck. "That's some kind of a curve ball," I managed, trying to make it sound as casual as I could so Mr. Roebuck wouldn't think I was overly impressed.
"Son, that's a pure yellow hammer," replied Roebuck. "And that is Bert Blyleven."
end
That kind of writing makes my heart beat slightly faster even now, after reading it three or four times. Apparently I need to use words like "pray" and "terrible" and "riveting" and "carnage" and "monstrous."
Meanwhile, there are a few other things I've read with which I'd like to bore you for a little while. Here is an excerpt from the firejoemorgan.com post about an article by Bill Plaschke. Plaschke's words are in bold and Ken Tremendous's are not:
-[Unitas] was football's Babe Ruth, and Bart Starr was its Lou Gehrig, and Sammy Baugh was its Ty Cobb, and Joe Montana was its Joe DiMaggio.
Dan Fouts was its George Sisler. Rich Gannon was its Paul Molitor. Rob Johnson was its George Kendrick. Jim Zorn was its Mark Loretta. Al Toon was its Wil Cordero. Marc Edwards was its La Marr Hoyt. Joe DeLamielleure was its Rick Rhoden. And, most obviously of all, Billy Joe DuPree was its Kevin Tapani. That's just a no-brainer.
Tom Brady is football's, well, um, Alex Rodriguez....right. He's the best player in the game.
Except that Alex Rodriguez, as boneheads like you are fond of pointing out, has never won a championship. So defend this statement, please.
end
The reasons I pasted this excerpt are a) because it's freakin' hilarious, and b) when I sent it to my brother, he responded by saying that I'm the Paul Assenmacher of bloggers. I still maintain that I'm the Juan Berenguer of bloggers, but that's neither here nor there.
I imagine there are two small items that my loyal readers (hello, hey, what's cookin'?, how's it shakin'? 'Sup, my man? There, now I've greeted all five of you) are expecting me to address. I will do so in chronological order. Bear in mind that I won't be saying much because most of the stuff I would say has already been said.
On Tuesday/Friday, the New York Metropolitans traded for Johan Santana, the best pitcher in all the known universe. It was a great deal; I'm very excited; he's going to make a huge difference. I woke up on Saturday morning to an argument between two of my roommates. I listened for a while, but I didn't actually join the discussion until I heard one of them say "how much of a difference can he make?" I was going to dive into a Win Shares analysis, but my brain wasn't entirely functioning yet. The point is, if Santana were on the Mets last year they would have made the playoffs. Period. It's as simple as that. Yes, the Mets are paying him an exorbitant amount of coin, but think about it for a second. I'm too lazy to do the actual math right now, but I've read that the average team pays between $4 and $5 million per win. If Johan Santana is worth five more wins over the course of the season than the average pitcher, then paying him $22 to $23 million is not really that ridiculous. If a slightly above average pitcher like Barry Zito can command $18 million a year for seven years, then $23 million for the best pitcher in existence is really a bargain. Okay, enough. If you want to read more analysis on the trade, read Rob Neyer's blog on ESPN, or aarongleeman.com, or beyondtheboxscore.com, or thehardballtimes.com. They're all way way better than me.
The New York Giants won the Super Bowl yesterday. I remember after the Super Bowl last year, I wrote that I can't wait for the Jets to play in one. Sitting with my friends in front of the TV yesterday was a riveting experience. The tension in the room was palpable. I'm not a Giants fan, but I was nervous all game too. I can only fathom how the Giants fans must have been feeling. I really don't know what else to say. I'm glad the Giants won; I'm glad the Patriots lost; I want the Jets to win. That's it and that's all.
I'm sure I'll have a lot more to say about Johan Santana and the Mets in the coming weeks. I'll mix in a few non-sports posts too. Peace.