1/21/14
If you've been reading The Baseball Romantic, you'll remember reading that I unsuccessfully tried out for the Chicago Cubs. It was a long, long, long shot, but I at least wanted to try. I was a sophomore in high school at the time, in the midst of an exceptionally mediocre high school baseball career. I worked hard enough to eventually earn myself a starting spot on the varsity team playing third base and batting leadoff (except for my final home game as a senior, when my jerk of a coach batted me ninth. He and I never got along. I never figured out why). I loved playing the game too much give it up after my last high school game, so not being content with an exceptionally mediocre high school baseball career, I wanted to also have an exceptionally mediocre college baseball career.
I enrolled at Campbell University, a small school not too far from home. I wanted to go to a small college specifically because I might have a better chance of making the team. Deep down inside, I knew I probably didn't have the talent to play college ball, but I thought I had the hustle for it. I had been greatly inspired by the movie Rudy and I thought maybe things like that happened in real life. So on my application to Campbell, under Hobbies and Special Interests, I wrote BASEBALL. I also wrote in the margin that I planned on trying out for the team.
About two weeks after my acceptance letter came, I got a phone call. On the other end was Campbell's baseball coach. I don't remember everything I said, but I remember thinking I could talk him into a scholarship over the phone (I couldn't). "Your application says you're gonna try out for the team," he said. He sounded like a friendly, jovial man and I looked forward to playing for him. "That's good! Do you pitch?" I told him that I only pitched one inning in my whole life, but I had come in with the bases loaded and only one out and got out of it unscathed. I wasn't a pitcher per se, but I pitched batting practice almost every day. His tone changed to what sounded like disappointment. "Oh," he said. "Well, we're in the same boat as every other baseball team in the world. We need pitchers. You're welcome to try out anyway and we'll give you a fair look." I wasn't sure how to feel about our conversation, whether to be excited that he called me or discouraged that I wasn't a pitcher. Either way, he knew who I was and would be expecting me at tryouts.
I showed up at the field that first hot August afternoon, determined to be the hustlingest, hardest-working player on the field. If I couldn't stand out by my talent, I could stand out by my effort. I had been practicing and working out pretty hard all summer in anticipation of tryouts, so I was already in pretty good shape when I got there. Still, I was so sore that I could barely walk at the end of each day's practice. The coach said the same thing at the conclusion of practice every day: "Thanks for sweating freely, men!" And I did. I probably lost about five pounds that first week, and I didn't have it to spare. On Thursday of the first week, during stretches, I saw the coach walking toward me with an orange CAMELS BASEBALL t-shirt in his hand. I thought he was coming toward me and my heart started pounding. "I made it!" I thought. But he stopped at the player stretching next to me and tossed the shirt to him. "Don't lose this one and don't give it to no little girls either," he said. So close, yet so far away.
One afternoon the next week, sore, sweaty, but hopeful, I was walking off the field after practice when the coach approached me and put his arm around me. "I appreciate you coming out here every day and sweating freely," he said, "but we need pitchers. If you could pitch, we could use you." My heart sank. But I wasn't ready to give up just yet. I reminded him that I pitched batting practice every day in high school and I would be willing to try to pitch. I just wanted to play. He had a puzzled look on his face. "Son, you don't come to NCAA college baseball to learn how to pitch. You need to know how to pitch when you get here," he said. I couldn't argue. So I shook his hand and mumbled something about being thankful for the opportunity, and picked up my equipment bag and started off the field, brokenhearted.
"Now what?" The question rolled through my mind a thousand times between the field and my dorm room. "All I've ever wanted to be is a ballplayer, it's all I've worked toward, and I didn't make it. If I can't play small college ball, I surely can't play professionally. Now what?" Thirteen years came to a stop that day (I started playing when I was five). I majored in communications with the vague notion of going into radio broadcasting (that didn't work out either), played intramural softball, played countless games of catch with my roommate (he didn't make the team either), and played a few seasons of softball after college, but I never found the answer to the question, "now what?"
And honestly, I still haven't.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Crunching the Numbers on "Crunching the Numbers"
1/16/2014
Recently I posted a blog entry regarding sabermetrics and their place in the game of baseball. Are they a valid means of evaluating players or should we let what we see happen on the field be our indicator, regardless of what the numbers say? Well, in writing that entry, I realized that I am not nearly as educated in sabermetrics as I should be. So I went to the library and checked out Baseball Between the Numbers: Why Everything You Know About the Game is Wrong by the Baseball Prospectus Team of Experts. Hopefully by the end of it I will be more knowledgeable.
I have only read the introduction ("Batting Practice") and the first 19 pages, but so far I'm not very impressed. It seems so far that many of the formulas and factors they use in their calculations are arbitrary (but I'm no mathematician). There also seems to be some flawed logic in some places. But I'll hold off full judgment until I read more. I'll give a more detailed account of what I learn after I complete the book. I have also reserved a copy of The Hidden Game of Baseball by John Thorn, which also goes into statistical analysis. My goal is not necessarily to be a full-blown sabermetrician, but really to gain more of an understanding of the application of advanced statistics to the game of baseball and why so many coaches and players are anti-sabermetrics.
I am also planning on examining conventional baseball wisdom regarding strategy to find out if it works or not. Are there certain things that teams have been doing for decades that just don't work? Would they be better off scrapping it all and going back to the drawing board (for example: would it be a good idea to bat somebody like Matt Kemp in the leadoff slot--he's got plenty of speed--in order to get him to the plate more often and thereby increase your run production?), or is what we're doing the best plan?
More to follow...
Recently I posted a blog entry regarding sabermetrics and their place in the game of baseball. Are they a valid means of evaluating players or should we let what we see happen on the field be our indicator, regardless of what the numbers say? Well, in writing that entry, I realized that I am not nearly as educated in sabermetrics as I should be. So I went to the library and checked out Baseball Between the Numbers: Why Everything You Know About the Game is Wrong by the Baseball Prospectus Team of Experts. Hopefully by the end of it I will be more knowledgeable.
I have only read the introduction ("Batting Practice") and the first 19 pages, but so far I'm not very impressed. It seems so far that many of the formulas and factors they use in their calculations are arbitrary (but I'm no mathematician). There also seems to be some flawed logic in some places. But I'll hold off full judgment until I read more. I'll give a more detailed account of what I learn after I complete the book. I have also reserved a copy of The Hidden Game of Baseball by John Thorn, which also goes into statistical analysis. My goal is not necessarily to be a full-blown sabermetrician, but really to gain more of an understanding of the application of advanced statistics to the game of baseball and why so many coaches and players are anti-sabermetrics.
I am also planning on examining conventional baseball wisdom regarding strategy to find out if it works or not. Are there certain things that teams have been doing for decades that just don't work? Would they be better off scrapping it all and going back to the drawing board (for example: would it be a good idea to bat somebody like Matt Kemp in the leadoff slot--he's got plenty of speed--in order to get him to the plate more often and thereby increase your run production?), or is what we're doing the best plan?
More to follow...
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Almost a Cub--Well, Not Really
1/14/2014
In Major League Baseball's never-ending quest to discover new talent, baseball scouts use every tool at their disposal to find players. As numerous as the scouts are, they can't watch every high school or college game every year. So there is the terrifying possibility that the next Willie Mays might slip through the cracks. One of the methods they use to prevent this from happening is the tryout camp. This is a one-day (most of the time) camp held at minor league parks nationwide, in which young players are invited to showcase their skills in front of scouts and coaches.
In 1992, the local nine was a Cubs affiliate. The Cubs held a tryout camp that summer at Ernie Shore Field, open to players ages 16 to 22. I was 16, and I saw the camp as my golden opportunity to start my journey to the Majors.
Let me say at the outset that I was an exceptionally mediocre ballplayer. And I say that as a sort of boast. I was not blessed with very much size or strength or speed or coordination. So to rise to the level of mediocrity was a great achievement for me. I worked extremely hard to become a so-so player. So I was not expecting the Cubs' scouts to come running to me, contract in hand, begging me to sign. At least not that day. My goal was to get my name out there, impress them with my hustle, so that they might be interested in me when I turned 18 and was old enough to sign. That was the plan, anyway.
I got to the park early (by design; again, to show my eagerness). I signed in at the registration table and was given a piece of cardboard with a rope around it and a number printed on the back (43). I was to tie that number around my waist so the scouts could identify me. I would be known as Forty-Three for the rest of the day.
There must have been 200 players there, and I was easily the smallest (and from what I could tell, one of very few 16-year-olds). I was intimidated and almost embarrassed to be trying out with so many bigger, stronger, more advanced players, but I reminded myself that I didn't need to make the Cubs' roster that day; this was just the first step in a long journey that would find its culmination in Cooperstown. Besides, if a diminutive adolescent could hold his own with high school seniors and small college players, that would impress their socks off, right?
The first thing they had us do was run. They had set up two cones in right field, forty yards apart, and had us form two lines beside one of them. The scout keeping the stopwatch emphasized that, although we were running in twos, it was not a race. It was simply a time-saving measure, running two at a time instead of everyone individually. Still, no one wants to be outrun. I was near the front of my line and my turn came early. The guy I wasn't racing against (but really was) was much faster than me and would have beaten me handily (if it was a race, which it wasn't; but it really was), but about two-thirds of the way to the finish he stumbled and fell so I won (but it wasn't a race). I don't remember my time but it wasn't spectacular. The other guy got to run again.
Next they sent the pitchers and catchers to the bullpen, the outfielders to the warning track in centerfield, and the infielders to third base. One of the coaches stood in centerfield and hit a fly ball and a ground ball to each outfielder and had them throw the ball to third base. This allowed the outfielders to show off their ability to catch a fly ball, charge a ground ball, and throw the ball a long way. The infielders, of which I was one, had the chance to demonstrate their ability to catch thrown ball from a hundred yards away. I passed that test with flying colors.
Next they divided out the first basemen and positioned all the other infielders at shortstop. Each infielder would get three ground balls and would throw across to first base. I was not near the front of the line this time, so I got to watch all the others, all bigger, stronger, more advanced, field their grounders and throw bullets across the infield. I was fairly intimidated when my turn came. Now, I was never an Ozzie Smith, but I was average. I could field a ground ball. Unless, of course, there were scouts and coaches from the Chicago Cubs watching. I was so nervous that I dropped all three grounders hit to me. I picked them up and made three decent throws to first base, but that was irrelevant. My fate was sealed. I wasn't going to be a Cub.
Once everyone had completed their fielding and throwing, the coaches had us all take a break for a few minutes while they conferred and decided who would get a second look and who would get to go home. Finally one of the coaches announced that he was going to call out a list of numbers; those whose numbers were called would stay on the field, while the others would report to the batting cage. Forty-Three was omitted, so I hiked up the hill along the right field line, where one of the coaches had five batting tees set up in the cage. He instructed us to pair up, hit five balls each off the tee into the next, put our cardboard numbers in this box, and thanks for coming. After five non-descript swings (at that point, what difference does it make how descript they are?), I dropped my 43 in the box and headed toward the exit. My goal had been to put my name out there, but the Cubs' scouting corps had probably already forgotten my name before I got to my car.
I played out the rest of my exceptionally mediocre high school baseball career and received nary a phone call. Not from any colleges or pro scouts, or even the Cubs. Not surprising, but disheartening nonetheless. I didn't exactly root against the Cubs after that, but I did get a sort of satisfaction whenever one of their infielders made an error. I could do that, I thought, and for a lot less money.
I would work up the gumption to try out for my college team a couple of years later, but that's another story for another time.
In Major League Baseball's never-ending quest to discover new talent, baseball scouts use every tool at their disposal to find players. As numerous as the scouts are, they can't watch every high school or college game every year. So there is the terrifying possibility that the next Willie Mays might slip through the cracks. One of the methods they use to prevent this from happening is the tryout camp. This is a one-day (most of the time) camp held at minor league parks nationwide, in which young players are invited to showcase their skills in front of scouts and coaches.
In 1992, the local nine was a Cubs affiliate. The Cubs held a tryout camp that summer at Ernie Shore Field, open to players ages 16 to 22. I was 16, and I saw the camp as my golden opportunity to start my journey to the Majors.
Let me say at the outset that I was an exceptionally mediocre ballplayer. And I say that as a sort of boast. I was not blessed with very much size or strength or speed or coordination. So to rise to the level of mediocrity was a great achievement for me. I worked extremely hard to become a so-so player. So I was not expecting the Cubs' scouts to come running to me, contract in hand, begging me to sign. At least not that day. My goal was to get my name out there, impress them with my hustle, so that they might be interested in me when I turned 18 and was old enough to sign. That was the plan, anyway.
I got to the park early (by design; again, to show my eagerness). I signed in at the registration table and was given a piece of cardboard with a rope around it and a number printed on the back (43). I was to tie that number around my waist so the scouts could identify me. I would be known as Forty-Three for the rest of the day.
There must have been 200 players there, and I was easily the smallest (and from what I could tell, one of very few 16-year-olds). I was intimidated and almost embarrassed to be trying out with so many bigger, stronger, more advanced players, but I reminded myself that I didn't need to make the Cubs' roster that day; this was just the first step in a long journey that would find its culmination in Cooperstown. Besides, if a diminutive adolescent could hold his own with high school seniors and small college players, that would impress their socks off, right?
The first thing they had us do was run. They had set up two cones in right field, forty yards apart, and had us form two lines beside one of them. The scout keeping the stopwatch emphasized that, although we were running in twos, it was not a race. It was simply a time-saving measure, running two at a time instead of everyone individually. Still, no one wants to be outrun. I was near the front of my line and my turn came early. The guy I wasn't racing against (but really was) was much faster than me and would have beaten me handily (if it was a race, which it wasn't; but it really was), but about two-thirds of the way to the finish he stumbled and fell so I won (but it wasn't a race). I don't remember my time but it wasn't spectacular. The other guy got to run again.
Next they sent the pitchers and catchers to the bullpen, the outfielders to the warning track in centerfield, and the infielders to third base. One of the coaches stood in centerfield and hit a fly ball and a ground ball to each outfielder and had them throw the ball to third base. This allowed the outfielders to show off their ability to catch a fly ball, charge a ground ball, and throw the ball a long way. The infielders, of which I was one, had the chance to demonstrate their ability to catch thrown ball from a hundred yards away. I passed that test with flying colors.
Next they divided out the first basemen and positioned all the other infielders at shortstop. Each infielder would get three ground balls and would throw across to first base. I was not near the front of the line this time, so I got to watch all the others, all bigger, stronger, more advanced, field their grounders and throw bullets across the infield. I was fairly intimidated when my turn came. Now, I was never an Ozzie Smith, but I was average. I could field a ground ball. Unless, of course, there were scouts and coaches from the Chicago Cubs watching. I was so nervous that I dropped all three grounders hit to me. I picked them up and made three decent throws to first base, but that was irrelevant. My fate was sealed. I wasn't going to be a Cub.
Once everyone had completed their fielding and throwing, the coaches had us all take a break for a few minutes while they conferred and decided who would get a second look and who would get to go home. Finally one of the coaches announced that he was going to call out a list of numbers; those whose numbers were called would stay on the field, while the others would report to the batting cage. Forty-Three was omitted, so I hiked up the hill along the right field line, where one of the coaches had five batting tees set up in the cage. He instructed us to pair up, hit five balls each off the tee into the next, put our cardboard numbers in this box, and thanks for coming. After five non-descript swings (at that point, what difference does it make how descript they are?), I dropped my 43 in the box and headed toward the exit. My goal had been to put my name out there, but the Cubs' scouting corps had probably already forgotten my name before I got to my car.
I played out the rest of my exceptionally mediocre high school baseball career and received nary a phone call. Not from any colleges or pro scouts, or even the Cubs. Not surprising, but disheartening nonetheless. I didn't exactly root against the Cubs after that, but I did get a sort of satisfaction whenever one of their infielders made an error. I could do that, I thought, and for a lot less money.
I would work up the gumption to try out for my college team a couple of years later, but that's another story for another time.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Crunching the Numbers
1/12/2014
"Statistics are used much like a drunk uses a lamppost: for support, not illumination."--Vin Scully
"Sabermetrics." It's a word derived from the acronym SABR (Society for American Baseball Research) and was coined by one of the Society's pioneers, Bill James. Sabermetrics is the statistical analysis of every aspect of the game in order to evaluate performance and player value.
Statistics have been a big part of baseball since its earliest days. Baseball is more rich in numbers than any other sport (does anybody really understand football's Quartback Rating?). Anyone who has ever collected baseball cards has no doubt spent countless hours poring over the treasure trove of numbers on the backs. Watch a game on TV some time. The screen is littered with numbers at the top and bottom and almost resembles a Wall Street ticker. Stats in baseball are ever-present and always have been. Never in the game's history, however, have fans been so inundated with statistics as we are now.
A growing number of fans are joining the ranks of the "stat-heads", those who read, devour, study, and analyze the numbers. Sabermetrician Brian Kenny of the MLB Network tells fans that we should trust the numbers, not our eyes. Many fans use players' statistics to break down the game into quantitative pieces. Some use them simply to draft a successful fantasy baseball team. For the players, however, stats are their livelihood. They are the product they sell. In 1929, Philadelphia Phillies outfielder Lefty O'Doul batted .398, easily tops in the league. The following year he batted "only" .383 and had to take a $1000 pay cut.
In Michael Lewis' book Moneyball (and the corresponding movie), we read about the value some baseball people place upon sabermetrics. Lewis tells of Oakland Athletics General Manager Billy Beane and his use of sabermetrics to field a winning team. With almost no resources, Beane uses Bill James' methods of analysis to determine each player's value and to put the best team, for the money, on the field. Sabermetrics are credited with Beane's numerous winning seasons and frequent postseason appearances.
The world of sabermetrics has its detractors. Many former players, including Joe Morgan, Jack Morris, Jim Kaat, and many others, believe sabermetrics are misleading and give a false impression of how to win the game on the field. Knowledge of baseball's situations and strategies trumps knowledge of the stat sheet. So in our endeavor to more thoroughly understand and enjoy the game of baseball, who should we side with--the brilliant thinkers and analysts, or those who played the game so well for so long?
My personal opinion is that, for fans at least, the two sides don't need to be mutually exclusive. The game on the field--its situations, mechanics, strategies, ebbs and flows--can be "seasoned" by the application of sabermetric data. We can observe the situation on the field, look up the numbers of the batter and/or pitcher in that situation (they're readily available with just a mouse click or two), combine that with traditional baseball wisdom of what the batter or pitcher is supposed to do ("the book"), and get a more developed and well-rounded picture of the workings of the game.
I own a copy of Bill James' Historical Baseball Abstract (a fascinating statistical analysis of the very best players in history at each position, as well as a thorough explanation of the formulas used to determine those rankings), I check the stat lists daily during the season, and I enjoy the use of statistical probabilities in Strat-O-Matic. However, the sheer volume of stats have become overwhelming to me. Gone are the days of simple statistics: batting average, home runs, and runs batted in for hitters, wins and losses, earned run average, and strikeouts and walks for pitchers. They're still there, but they're being choked out by newer, more advanced matrices. The amount of data produced is infinite, which almost makes it meaningless. Just as too many cooks spoil the broth, too many numbers blur the picture.
WAR (Wins Above Replacement--the theory that each player contributes to a certain number of wins per season, and the calculation of how many wins a particular player provides beyond the production a team can get from available players by paying the league minimum), BABIP (Batting Average on Balls in Play--a statistic that removes a batter's strikeouts from the equation in order to determine his production when he actually makes contact--used to justify keeping high-strikeout sluggers like Adam Dunn and Mark Reynolds on the roster), OPS (On-Base Percentage Plus Slugging--used to evaluate a batter's consistency in getting on base and hitting with power--this is actually pretty useful), OPS+ (OPS adjusted for individual ballpark factors--all smoke and mirrors), ZAP3, CAR54WHERERU, and on and on it goes. Statistical overload. Too much data to handle to be able to see a clear picture. I'm sure that if I looked hard enough, I could find some set of numbers to prove conclusively that the greatest second baseman in history is Steve Jeltz. The numbers don't lie, but they can tell us more than we need or want to know. It's easy to get so tangled up in numbers that we miss the forest for the trees.
Still, the plethora of statistics provide abundant fuel for the hot stove. Fans can still enjoy baseball in the winter by using the numbers from the previous year to argue about the awards that were given (MVP, Cy Young, etc.), trades, free agent signings, and predictions for the upcoming season. And there are certainly enough statistics out there to keep us busy for the whole five months.
I don't consider myself a "stat-head", although I do enjoy tinkering with the numbers now and then. They do make the game a little more fun to watch. But I much more enjoy what the numbers don't tell us: which pitcher has the best curveball (Clayton Kershaw), which batter has the sweetest swing (Anthony Rizzo), which player has the funniest name (either Coco Crisp or Didi Gregorius), which ballpark is the prettiest (I haven't been to many, but from what I can tell from TV games, either PNC Park in Pittsburgh or AT&T Park in San Francisco), which player has the most fun on the field (Elvis Andrus), etc. Granted, all of those superlatives are in the eye of the beholder, but that's part of the appeal. Baseball is not a flat, two-dimensional thing. There are any number of aspects of the game for us to enjoy, be it statistics, ballparks, player personalities, strategies, uniforms, or any combination of the above. The game has lots of facets, which allows for lots of opinions, and very often nobody's right and nobody's wrong. We can relish whatever facet or facets or the game appeal to us and all have fun together.
"Statistics are used much like a drunk uses a lamppost: for support, not illumination."--Vin Scully
"Sabermetrics." It's a word derived from the acronym SABR (Society for American Baseball Research) and was coined by one of the Society's pioneers, Bill James. Sabermetrics is the statistical analysis of every aspect of the game in order to evaluate performance and player value.
Statistics have been a big part of baseball since its earliest days. Baseball is more rich in numbers than any other sport (does anybody really understand football's Quartback Rating?). Anyone who has ever collected baseball cards has no doubt spent countless hours poring over the treasure trove of numbers on the backs. Watch a game on TV some time. The screen is littered with numbers at the top and bottom and almost resembles a Wall Street ticker. Stats in baseball are ever-present and always have been. Never in the game's history, however, have fans been so inundated with statistics as we are now.
A growing number of fans are joining the ranks of the "stat-heads", those who read, devour, study, and analyze the numbers. Sabermetrician Brian Kenny of the MLB Network tells fans that we should trust the numbers, not our eyes. Many fans use players' statistics to break down the game into quantitative pieces. Some use them simply to draft a successful fantasy baseball team. For the players, however, stats are their livelihood. They are the product they sell. In 1929, Philadelphia Phillies outfielder Lefty O'Doul batted .398, easily tops in the league. The following year he batted "only" .383 and had to take a $1000 pay cut.
In Michael Lewis' book Moneyball (and the corresponding movie), we read about the value some baseball people place upon sabermetrics. Lewis tells of Oakland Athletics General Manager Billy Beane and his use of sabermetrics to field a winning team. With almost no resources, Beane uses Bill James' methods of analysis to determine each player's value and to put the best team, for the money, on the field. Sabermetrics are credited with Beane's numerous winning seasons and frequent postseason appearances.
The world of sabermetrics has its detractors. Many former players, including Joe Morgan, Jack Morris, Jim Kaat, and many others, believe sabermetrics are misleading and give a false impression of how to win the game on the field. Knowledge of baseball's situations and strategies trumps knowledge of the stat sheet. So in our endeavor to more thoroughly understand and enjoy the game of baseball, who should we side with--the brilliant thinkers and analysts, or those who played the game so well for so long?
My personal opinion is that, for fans at least, the two sides don't need to be mutually exclusive. The game on the field--its situations, mechanics, strategies, ebbs and flows--can be "seasoned" by the application of sabermetric data. We can observe the situation on the field, look up the numbers of the batter and/or pitcher in that situation (they're readily available with just a mouse click or two), combine that with traditional baseball wisdom of what the batter or pitcher is supposed to do ("the book"), and get a more developed and well-rounded picture of the workings of the game.
I own a copy of Bill James' Historical Baseball Abstract (a fascinating statistical analysis of the very best players in history at each position, as well as a thorough explanation of the formulas used to determine those rankings), I check the stat lists daily during the season, and I enjoy the use of statistical probabilities in Strat-O-Matic. However, the sheer volume of stats have become overwhelming to me. Gone are the days of simple statistics: batting average, home runs, and runs batted in for hitters, wins and losses, earned run average, and strikeouts and walks for pitchers. They're still there, but they're being choked out by newer, more advanced matrices. The amount of data produced is infinite, which almost makes it meaningless. Just as too many cooks spoil the broth, too many numbers blur the picture.
WAR (Wins Above Replacement--the theory that each player contributes to a certain number of wins per season, and the calculation of how many wins a particular player provides beyond the production a team can get from available players by paying the league minimum), BABIP (Batting Average on Balls in Play--a statistic that removes a batter's strikeouts from the equation in order to determine his production when he actually makes contact--used to justify keeping high-strikeout sluggers like Adam Dunn and Mark Reynolds on the roster), OPS (On-Base Percentage Plus Slugging--used to evaluate a batter's consistency in getting on base and hitting with power--this is actually pretty useful), OPS+ (OPS adjusted for individual ballpark factors--all smoke and mirrors), ZAP3, CAR54WHERERU, and on and on it goes. Statistical overload. Too much data to handle to be able to see a clear picture. I'm sure that if I looked hard enough, I could find some set of numbers to prove conclusively that the greatest second baseman in history is Steve Jeltz. The numbers don't lie, but they can tell us more than we need or want to know. It's easy to get so tangled up in numbers that we miss the forest for the trees.
Still, the plethora of statistics provide abundant fuel for the hot stove. Fans can still enjoy baseball in the winter by using the numbers from the previous year to argue about the awards that were given (MVP, Cy Young, etc.), trades, free agent signings, and predictions for the upcoming season. And there are certainly enough statistics out there to keep us busy for the whole five months.
I don't consider myself a "stat-head", although I do enjoy tinkering with the numbers now and then. They do make the game a little more fun to watch. But I much more enjoy what the numbers don't tell us: which pitcher has the best curveball (Clayton Kershaw), which batter has the sweetest swing (Anthony Rizzo), which player has the funniest name (either Coco Crisp or Didi Gregorius), which ballpark is the prettiest (I haven't been to many, but from what I can tell from TV games, either PNC Park in Pittsburgh or AT&T Park in San Francisco), which player has the most fun on the field (Elvis Andrus), etc. Granted, all of those superlatives are in the eye of the beholder, but that's part of the appeal. Baseball is not a flat, two-dimensional thing. There are any number of aspects of the game for us to enjoy, be it statistics, ballparks, player personalities, strategies, uniforms, or any combination of the above. The game has lots of facets, which allows for lots of opinions, and very often nobody's right and nobody's wrong. We can relish whatever facet or facets or the game appeal to us and all have fun together.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Does it really matter?
1/14/2014
Does baseball really matter? I mean, really matter? Is the world any better off because a particular player batted .300 or won 20 games? Would life as we know it be substantially different--better or worse--if there were no such thing as baseball? Or basketball, football, hockey, golf, tennis, or water polo for that matter?
An argument can be made that, in some cases, the world is a little better off because of baseball. For example, stories abound of young boys in underdeveloped countries (and even poor communities here in the US) who make it to the Major Leagues and are then able to take care of their families. So at least to that degree, baseball (and other sports) gives a glimmer of hope where there was none.
It's been said that baseball is not a matter of life and death, but the Red Sox are. I believe that statement gets to the heart of the importance of baseball. The game in and of itself makes absolutely no contribution in matters of national debt, homelessness, foreign policy, world hunger, and so on. But for the fan, baseball provides a peg on which to hang hope. I can choose a team based on whatever criteria I deem appropriate (geography, favorite players, colors, or what have you) and hitch my wagon to that team, so to speak. I can follow that group of players through the ups and downs of a summer, exult in the victories and grieve the losses. That's why many fans use the words "we" and "us" in regard to a team, even though the fan never suited up, threw a pitch, or swung a bat. I have, in my mind and heart if nowhere else, formed a bond with that team. I feel very connected to them. I can win the World Series vicariously.
More than that, baseball is a means of escapism. For the three or so hours that the game is being played, I can forget about all the troubles of the world. Not to be callous or uncaring, but spending a few hours at the ballpark is a pleasant diversion from all the things that keep us awake at night. For those few hours, I don't have to worry about all the things I worry about at other times. I can watch "us" play baseball instead. A psychiatrist would probably say that's not a healthy way to deal with worry, but there it is.
That's why I don't get caught up in all the efforts to speed up the game. In my ears, it sounds like we're saying let's hurry up and get this thing over with. It's almost as if a ballgame were a root canal or IRS audit. I don't want it to be over with. I want the game to last a while. Take your time getting into the box, batter. Don't be in too big a hurry to throw the ball, pitcher. Let's enjoy ourselves for a little while longer. As soon as the game is over and I leave the ballpark or turn off the TV, I have to get back to real life. (Ironically, in the early days of baseball, the game was thought to be too fast and too violent for American tastes. In our time, baseball is considered not fast enough or violent enough for American tastes.)
So in answer to the original question, no, baseball doesn't really matter. A billion starving people in the world have no idea that the Boston Red Sox won the World Series, and they care even less. But for the fan, it matters (maybe a little too much at times). It's an outlet. It's therapeutic. It's a connection to a world that's bigger than our own. It's a tonic. It makes life a little more tolerable. And that's important, isn't it?
Does baseball really matter? I mean, really matter? Is the world any better off because a particular player batted .300 or won 20 games? Would life as we know it be substantially different--better or worse--if there were no such thing as baseball? Or basketball, football, hockey, golf, tennis, or water polo for that matter?
An argument can be made that, in some cases, the world is a little better off because of baseball. For example, stories abound of young boys in underdeveloped countries (and even poor communities here in the US) who make it to the Major Leagues and are then able to take care of their families. So at least to that degree, baseball (and other sports) gives a glimmer of hope where there was none.
It's been said that baseball is not a matter of life and death, but the Red Sox are. I believe that statement gets to the heart of the importance of baseball. The game in and of itself makes absolutely no contribution in matters of national debt, homelessness, foreign policy, world hunger, and so on. But for the fan, baseball provides a peg on which to hang hope. I can choose a team based on whatever criteria I deem appropriate (geography, favorite players, colors, or what have you) and hitch my wagon to that team, so to speak. I can follow that group of players through the ups and downs of a summer, exult in the victories and grieve the losses. That's why many fans use the words "we" and "us" in regard to a team, even though the fan never suited up, threw a pitch, or swung a bat. I have, in my mind and heart if nowhere else, formed a bond with that team. I feel very connected to them. I can win the World Series vicariously.
More than that, baseball is a means of escapism. For the three or so hours that the game is being played, I can forget about all the troubles of the world. Not to be callous or uncaring, but spending a few hours at the ballpark is a pleasant diversion from all the things that keep us awake at night. For those few hours, I don't have to worry about all the things I worry about at other times. I can watch "us" play baseball instead. A psychiatrist would probably say that's not a healthy way to deal with worry, but there it is.
That's why I don't get caught up in all the efforts to speed up the game. In my ears, it sounds like we're saying let's hurry up and get this thing over with. It's almost as if a ballgame were a root canal or IRS audit. I don't want it to be over with. I want the game to last a while. Take your time getting into the box, batter. Don't be in too big a hurry to throw the ball, pitcher. Let's enjoy ourselves for a little while longer. As soon as the game is over and I leave the ballpark or turn off the TV, I have to get back to real life. (Ironically, in the early days of baseball, the game was thought to be too fast and too violent for American tastes. In our time, baseball is considered not fast enough or violent enough for American tastes.)
So in answer to the original question, no, baseball doesn't really matter. A billion starving people in the world have no idea that the Boston Red Sox won the World Series, and they care even less. But for the fan, it matters (maybe a little too much at times). It's an outlet. It's therapeutic. It's a connection to a world that's bigger than our own. It's a tonic. It makes life a little more tolerable. And that's important, isn't it?
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Adventures in Official Scoring
1/8/2014
This one is a little lengthy. Sorry!
In 2007, I had the opportunity to be the official scorer for the Winston-Salem Warthogs (Single-A affiliate of the Chicago White Sox; they're now called the Dash). It was a good experience and I'm glad now that I did it, but at the time, it almost made me hate baseball. See, being an official scorer is not unlike being an umpire. You can't be a fan anymore. You have to watch the game critically. And you have to face the players and coaches about your decisions, which can be very unpleasant.
One day in January of '07, I was perusing the Warthogs' website just for fun, and I saw that they were looking for an official scorer. I thought getting paid to watch baseball games would be a good way to spend the summer, and it might open doors for other jobs in baseball. So I applied, was called in to meet with Director of Public Relations Ed Collari, and was recommended to the Carolina League office (official scorers work in their respective cities, but they are employed by the league, not by the team). I had some idea of what lay ahead of me, but I was really not prepared.
My duties were thus: I would get to the park about an hour before game time, pick up my pre-printed scorecard that Ed provided for me, call the lineups in to the Minor League Baseball office in New York, and wait for the game to start. After each half inning, I would call MiLB and report all the details. At the conclusion of the game, I would call them back and go over all the final numbers and totals, print off three copies, and take one down to the Warthogs' manager, pitching coach, and hitting coach (Ed would take one down to the visiting coaches) and answer any questions they had. I could change any decisions I made within 24 hours, so this was their time to make their cases.
The job of a minor league coach is to help his players succeed and move on to the next level. And that sometimes involves fighting for a hit or an error. I understand that and I respect them for it. The job of the official scorer, however, is to fairly and impartially decide hits and errors (among other things), and therein lies the conflict. If I determine that a batter should be awarded a hit and he later scores, it goes as an earned run against the pitcher and mars his record. If, however, I rule it an error and he scores, it goes as an unearned run which makes the pitcher look better, but the hitter's batting average goes down.
Hitting coach Wes Clements made it clear to me what I was to do: "We need you to give us all the calls you can," he told me. "When we go on the road, those guys give their teams all the breaks, so we need you to do the same thing for us. If it can go either way, it goes to us." I told him I would keep that in mind, but that I would be as fair as I could. J.R. Perdew, the pitching coach, was even more direct. "F--- fair," he said. "Give us the f---ing calls." Baseball people love the F-word, and Perdew is to profanity what Beethoven is to music. To be fair, both Clements and Perdew are congenial, likeable men and I have no reason to regard them as anything other than fine gentlemen. And the team's manager, Tim Blackwell, is one of the nicest people I ever met in baseball. I hold no ill will toward any of them. They are astute baseball men and they are good at their jobs. But if they think you're wrong, they will let you know, and not always in a tactful way.
"You're f---ing wrong," Clements told me one night after a game. Perdew chimed in. "F---ing-A right," he said. "We've been in this f---ing game a long f---ing time, and there is NO F---ING WAY that f---ing ball is a f---ing hit." Six times in one sentence. Message received, loud and clear.
My seat in the press box was up high and slightly to the third base side of home plate, which is really not a great view. I also didn't have the benefit of any sort of videography or replay, so I had to make decisions as the plays happened. If I was unsure, I relied on the input of Dan Collins, the local sportswriter who sat next to me. Often the White Sox would have a scout or roving coach in the press box, and their help was invaluable. One such gentleman was Nate Oliver, who was the roving baserunning instructor for the White Sox. He was an infielder for the Dodgers, Cubs, Giants, and Yankees in the 1960's. He was one of the kindest, sunniest people I have ever met. He traveled with former Phillies and Cubs infielder Manny Trillo, who was at that time the roving infield instructor for the White Sox. The two of them regaled us with story after story of big league ball. One night I had a tough call and was unsure how to score it, so I asked Nate what he thought. "It's an error," he said, "but if you score it that way, you're gonna get a lot of grief from Wes. Up to you." I gave it an error and received the aforementioned grief. Telling Wes that Nate said it was an error didn't help.
I thought about it during a game one night: out of a hundred plays, probably ninety don't need an official scorer. Strikeout, walk, home run, double to left, etc. Of the remaining ten, five are usually pretty easy: obviously a hit or obviously an error. It's those last five plays out of a hundred that can go either way that can get an official scorer chewed out.
The low water mark came pretty early in the season, on May 19. The Warthogs were hosting the Lynchburg Hillcats, then a Pirates affiliate. It seemed like almost every play required my judgment and most of them could have gone either way. By the end of the game, both teams wanted to string me up. Gary Redus, former first baseman and outfielder for the Reds and Pirates, was in Lynchburg's dugout as a roving coach. He stared and pointed up at me several times. He sarcastically clapped his hands in my direction when I made a call that pleased him, which meant it displeased the Warthogs' coaches, and one or all of them would come out of the dugout and raise their hands at me incredulously. I had no friends that night.
Lynchburg had a leadoff hitter named Pedro Powell who was by far the fastest guy in the league (he stole 67 bases that year). About the 5th inning, he dropped a perfect bunt down the third base line. The Warthogs third baseman, Victor Mercedes, was playing in and was on the ball quickly. Knowing Powell's speed, Mercedes tried unsuccessfully to field the ball barehanded. As the ball trickled under his fingers, I looked over at Powell who was only about halfway to first base. It would have been a very tough play for Mercedes even if he had fielded it cleanly, but my judgment was that he probably had a little more time than he thought he did and didn't need to barehand the ball. So after much deliberation, I scored it an error on Mercedes. The Lynchburg dugout went ballistic.
After what seemed like years, the game finally ended. I wanted to get out of the press box, turn in my box score, and get out of Dodge. But on my way out of the press box, Lynchburg's radio broadcaster walked in with his cell phone to his ear and said "Here he is, Branny. Hang on a sec," and handed me the phone. On the line was Lynchburg's manager, Jeff Branson (he was recently named the hitting coach for the Pittsburgh Pirates). He was a good player for the Reds in the 1990's and played on the US Olympic team in 1988. He wanted to discuss the Powell play. I was expecting to get reamed out, but he was very cordial. He asked me what I saw that led me to score it the way I did, listened patiently, and explained why he thought it should have been a hit. He asked me to at least consider changing it. I said I would, thanked him for not yelling at me, and handed the phone back. I braced myself and headed to the Warthogs' clubhouse.
"All right, guys," I said as I walked into the coaches' office, "I know I had a rough night. I've already had to talk to Jeff Branson about the Pedro Powell play." J.R. Perdew chuckled. "Only f---ing call you got right all f---ing night," he said.
That was my worst night of the season, but there were other skirmishes. It all boiled down to arrogance vs. ignorance. "We've all played at this level," the coaches told me, "you haven't. We know what we're talking about. You listen to us. We'll tell you what to do." They saw me as a nerdy, Bill James following stat-head who knew all the numbers but didn't know a curveball from a kumquat. I don't think I was ever able to earn their respect.
There were other nights that went as smooth as silk. There were no hard calls, every ball was caught, and Dan Collins and I had some great conversations about baseball, music, food, and whatever else we could think of. I could walk into the coaches' office with no apprehension and shoot the breeze with them for a few minutes. On nights like that it was a fun job. But I shed not a tear when the season came to an end. Baseball had become a job for me (and a very hard one at that), and I wanted no more to do with it. I watched very few games in 2008 (I don't think i went to a single Warthogs game) and finally started warming back up to baseball in 2009. I missed it too much to stay away too long.
This one is a little lengthy. Sorry!
In 2007, I had the opportunity to be the official scorer for the Winston-Salem Warthogs (Single-A affiliate of the Chicago White Sox; they're now called the Dash). It was a good experience and I'm glad now that I did it, but at the time, it almost made me hate baseball. See, being an official scorer is not unlike being an umpire. You can't be a fan anymore. You have to watch the game critically. And you have to face the players and coaches about your decisions, which can be very unpleasant.
One day in January of '07, I was perusing the Warthogs' website just for fun, and I saw that they were looking for an official scorer. I thought getting paid to watch baseball games would be a good way to spend the summer, and it might open doors for other jobs in baseball. So I applied, was called in to meet with Director of Public Relations Ed Collari, and was recommended to the Carolina League office (official scorers work in their respective cities, but they are employed by the league, not by the team). I had some idea of what lay ahead of me, but I was really not prepared.
My duties were thus: I would get to the park about an hour before game time, pick up my pre-printed scorecard that Ed provided for me, call the lineups in to the Minor League Baseball office in New York, and wait for the game to start. After each half inning, I would call MiLB and report all the details. At the conclusion of the game, I would call them back and go over all the final numbers and totals, print off three copies, and take one down to the Warthogs' manager, pitching coach, and hitting coach (Ed would take one down to the visiting coaches) and answer any questions they had. I could change any decisions I made within 24 hours, so this was their time to make their cases.
The job of a minor league coach is to help his players succeed and move on to the next level. And that sometimes involves fighting for a hit or an error. I understand that and I respect them for it. The job of the official scorer, however, is to fairly and impartially decide hits and errors (among other things), and therein lies the conflict. If I determine that a batter should be awarded a hit and he later scores, it goes as an earned run against the pitcher and mars his record. If, however, I rule it an error and he scores, it goes as an unearned run which makes the pitcher look better, but the hitter's batting average goes down.
Hitting coach Wes Clements made it clear to me what I was to do: "We need you to give us all the calls you can," he told me. "When we go on the road, those guys give their teams all the breaks, so we need you to do the same thing for us. If it can go either way, it goes to us." I told him I would keep that in mind, but that I would be as fair as I could. J.R. Perdew, the pitching coach, was even more direct. "F--- fair," he said. "Give us the f---ing calls." Baseball people love the F-word, and Perdew is to profanity what Beethoven is to music. To be fair, both Clements and Perdew are congenial, likeable men and I have no reason to regard them as anything other than fine gentlemen. And the team's manager, Tim Blackwell, is one of the nicest people I ever met in baseball. I hold no ill will toward any of them. They are astute baseball men and they are good at their jobs. But if they think you're wrong, they will let you know, and not always in a tactful way.
"You're f---ing wrong," Clements told me one night after a game. Perdew chimed in. "F---ing-A right," he said. "We've been in this f---ing game a long f---ing time, and there is NO F---ING WAY that f---ing ball is a f---ing hit." Six times in one sentence. Message received, loud and clear.
My seat in the press box was up high and slightly to the third base side of home plate, which is really not a great view. I also didn't have the benefit of any sort of videography or replay, so I had to make decisions as the plays happened. If I was unsure, I relied on the input of Dan Collins, the local sportswriter who sat next to me. Often the White Sox would have a scout or roving coach in the press box, and their help was invaluable. One such gentleman was Nate Oliver, who was the roving baserunning instructor for the White Sox. He was an infielder for the Dodgers, Cubs, Giants, and Yankees in the 1960's. He was one of the kindest, sunniest people I have ever met. He traveled with former Phillies and Cubs infielder Manny Trillo, who was at that time the roving infield instructor for the White Sox. The two of them regaled us with story after story of big league ball. One night I had a tough call and was unsure how to score it, so I asked Nate what he thought. "It's an error," he said, "but if you score it that way, you're gonna get a lot of grief from Wes. Up to you." I gave it an error and received the aforementioned grief. Telling Wes that Nate said it was an error didn't help.
I thought about it during a game one night: out of a hundred plays, probably ninety don't need an official scorer. Strikeout, walk, home run, double to left, etc. Of the remaining ten, five are usually pretty easy: obviously a hit or obviously an error. It's those last five plays out of a hundred that can go either way that can get an official scorer chewed out.
The low water mark came pretty early in the season, on May 19. The Warthogs were hosting the Lynchburg Hillcats, then a Pirates affiliate. It seemed like almost every play required my judgment and most of them could have gone either way. By the end of the game, both teams wanted to string me up. Gary Redus, former first baseman and outfielder for the Reds and Pirates, was in Lynchburg's dugout as a roving coach. He stared and pointed up at me several times. He sarcastically clapped his hands in my direction when I made a call that pleased him, which meant it displeased the Warthogs' coaches, and one or all of them would come out of the dugout and raise their hands at me incredulously. I had no friends that night.
Lynchburg had a leadoff hitter named Pedro Powell who was by far the fastest guy in the league (he stole 67 bases that year). About the 5th inning, he dropped a perfect bunt down the third base line. The Warthogs third baseman, Victor Mercedes, was playing in and was on the ball quickly. Knowing Powell's speed, Mercedes tried unsuccessfully to field the ball barehanded. As the ball trickled under his fingers, I looked over at Powell who was only about halfway to first base. It would have been a very tough play for Mercedes even if he had fielded it cleanly, but my judgment was that he probably had a little more time than he thought he did and didn't need to barehand the ball. So after much deliberation, I scored it an error on Mercedes. The Lynchburg dugout went ballistic.
After what seemed like years, the game finally ended. I wanted to get out of the press box, turn in my box score, and get out of Dodge. But on my way out of the press box, Lynchburg's radio broadcaster walked in with his cell phone to his ear and said "Here he is, Branny. Hang on a sec," and handed me the phone. On the line was Lynchburg's manager, Jeff Branson (he was recently named the hitting coach for the Pittsburgh Pirates). He was a good player for the Reds in the 1990's and played on the US Olympic team in 1988. He wanted to discuss the Powell play. I was expecting to get reamed out, but he was very cordial. He asked me what I saw that led me to score it the way I did, listened patiently, and explained why he thought it should have been a hit. He asked me to at least consider changing it. I said I would, thanked him for not yelling at me, and handed the phone back. I braced myself and headed to the Warthogs' clubhouse.
"All right, guys," I said as I walked into the coaches' office, "I know I had a rough night. I've already had to talk to Jeff Branson about the Pedro Powell play." J.R. Perdew chuckled. "Only f---ing call you got right all f---ing night," he said.
That was my worst night of the season, but there were other skirmishes. It all boiled down to arrogance vs. ignorance. "We've all played at this level," the coaches told me, "you haven't. We know what we're talking about. You listen to us. We'll tell you what to do." They saw me as a nerdy, Bill James following stat-head who knew all the numbers but didn't know a curveball from a kumquat. I don't think I was ever able to earn their respect.
There were other nights that went as smooth as silk. There were no hard calls, every ball was caught, and Dan Collins and I had some great conversations about baseball, music, food, and whatever else we could think of. I could walk into the coaches' office with no apprehension and shoot the breeze with them for a few minutes. On nights like that it was a fun job. But I shed not a tear when the season came to an end. Baseball had become a job for me (and a very hard one at that), and I wanted no more to do with it. I watched very few games in 2008 (I don't think i went to a single Warthogs game) and finally started warming back up to baseball in 2009. I missed it too much to stay away too long.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Michael Young
In the past, I have made the mistake of not truly appreciating certain players until after they retired. For example, I more or less took for granted that Cal Ripken Jr. would always be there. Same with George Brett. I became so accustomed to seeing them play--every season, every game--that I never really considered the idea that someday I might not see them any more. I knew that they couldn't play forever, that eventually they would have to retire, but I didn't believe it. Then, suddenly, they weren't there, and I missed them.
Thankfully, I haven't made that mistake with Michael Young.
I first became aware of Michael in 2001, when he was an up-and-coming second baseman for the Rangers. That was Alex Rodriguez's first year in Texas, so of course he got all the publicity. Not much was said about Michael that season or the next, but he came into his own in 2003, batting .306 with 204 hits. The following season, Rodriguez left Texas for New York ("I never would have gone to Texas if they had told me, 'Alex, it's going to be you and 24 kids,'" he said), and Michael Young became the face of the Texas Rangers.
He was an All-Star six straight seasons (2004-09) and again in 2011, and won the All-Star Game MVP in 2006. Between 2003 and 2012 he averaged 198 hits per season with a .304 average. He also established himself as an elite major leaguer and the captain of the Rangers.
But the greatness of Michael Young goes beyond mere statistics. He has demonstrated a selfless attitude that seems to be sorely lacking in today's game. A shortstop by trade, he willingly moved to second base when the team acquired Rodriguez (shortstop to second is a bigger move than one may think). Upon Rodriguez's departure, Michael moved back to short and cleared the way for new Ranger Alfonso Soriano (remember when he was a second baseman?). Elvis Andrus became the Rangers' shortstop in 2009, moving Michael to third base. All was fine and dandy until the Rangers acquired All-Universe third baseman Adrian Beltre. Rangers brass asked Michael to take on a "super-utility" role, meaning that at various times he would play all four infield positions or be the designated hitter. Michael bristled at first (understandably) and asked to be traded. However, he soon relented and agreed to be the Michael of All Trades. That season was quite possibly his best campaign, as he finished with a .338 batting average, a league-high 213 hits and a career-best 106 runs batted in. All this while only striking out 78 times in 689 plate appearances. His willingness to be whatever the Rangers needed him to be was integral to the team's reaching the World Series for the first time ever.
"A hitter should have a solid plan at the plate and not give away at bats," Michael has said. "Honestly, I'm never looking to work a walk. I'm looking to go up and make hard contact every time." A simple approach. Make the most of every trip to the batter's box. Michael is not willing to take a game off, or even a single at bat. Six hundred eighty-nine plate appearances is a grind, yes, and especially in the Summertime Texas heat. But he knows that even one of those could make a difference in a game, and possibly the season. Twenty-four other players are counting on him to take his team-first mindset to the plate every single time. In addition to that approach, he has the quickest bat this side of Gary Sheffield. Michael has been a distinct pleasure to watch.
Michael was traded to the Phillies in December 2012 and then to the Dodgers in August 2013. He has become a little harder for me to follow since I never go to Phillies or Dodgers games and they're not shown on TV much where I live. I was able to watch him in the playoffs last season, however, and I checked the box scores every day and rooted for him in that way.
At the time of this writing, Michael is thirty-seven and the clock is ticking on him. He was granted free agency by the Dodgers at the close of the 2013 season and is currently unsigned. Somebody will snatch him up soon, but he will more than likely have a limited role in the coming season. I'm not sure how much baseball Michael has left, but I think it's safe to say that his exemplary career will soon be coming to a close (two, maybe three more seasons at the most?). The shadow behind him is long. After that, then what? He certainly has the credentials to coach or manage if he would like. I'm sure that with his baseball acumen, he would be a great asset to any club's front office. But that's all speculation. As for right now, he's still a player. What about the Hall of Fame? Probably not. However, with 2,375 career hits and a career batting average of exactly .300, he certainly merits consideration. Regardless, I and the Texas Rangers fans for the last decade can be proud that we had the privilege of watching Michael Young grace The Ballpark.
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