Dr. Metablog

Outdoor Gear Shops

Although I regularly walk our many nearby scenic mountain trails, I'm not a genuinely "outdoorsy" person. I don't ski, or snowboard, and I certainly don't rock climb. No climbing at all if I can help it. At this time, I have no plans to "summit" anything, not even my step stool.  My camping days are long over; no more sleeping outside even in a fancy modern tent. So it's not I who is the target of the two dozen outdoor gear shops that are within neighborly distance of my well-heated home and welcoming mattress.

 

These "gear" stores are ubiquitous; a guy can hardly take a few steps on the semi-famous Boulder Mall without stumbling into one or another. Perhaps you think that I exaggerate? Let's look at the facts. Right within a block or two there's Red Fox Outdoor Equipment ("crafted for adventure"); HIMALI ("apparel that stands up to the highest and harshest conditions on Planet Earth"; Teton; Black Diamond ("designed for epic outdoor adventures"); Stio ("built for Alpine pursuits"), Burton (snowboards, boots, outerwear); Mount Inspiration Apparel; The North Face; Eddie Bauer; Arc'teryx ("weatherproof footwear and apparel"); Fjäälraven (a Swedish outpost); Amundsen (Norwegian); Moosejaw ("funky fun-loving climbing gear"); Epic Mountain Gear; MontBell; Backcountry ("gear up for fresh powder"); REI; Neptune Mountaineering; Helly Hansen; Patagonia; Nomad ("a mountain lifestyle retailer"); Cotopaxi ("sustainably-designed outdoor gear"); Volcom "skating & snowboarding-inspired apparel"); Norrøna Concept Store (outdoor apparel plus espresso bar); Christy Sports; Rapha "world's finest cycling clothing"). In addition, there are also several "previously owned" -- formerly called "second hand" -- outdoor gear shops.

 

Who buys all this stuff? Boulder doesn't contain enough bravers-of-the-elements to support so many enterprises. Perhaps it's the tourists. It's also been theorized that most of the gear business is internet-driven and that the various manufacturers like to boast a brick-and-mortar presence in prestigious Boulder. I wouldn't know; I'm perpetually gearless.

 

Should a slug-a-bed like myself feel indolent and guilty in the presence of such passionate mountaineering energy?  Maybe a little, but mostly I'm amused by what seems to me conspicuous equipment consumption. Life is not about "gear." 

 

Question: does our Mall have more outdoor gear shops than it does marijuana outlets?  Or coffee shops? A census is warranted. 

 

What would the Boulder Mall look like if I myself were the target audience. Well, it just so happens that many years ago I designed a mall of me. You can look it up.

Where My Grandchildren Play Soccer

Stunning, is it not? Just at the west side of our fair city, set against the first manifestations of the Front Range. Six well-tended fields, scores of players and many, many parents and grandparents (among them me, on sunny Saturday mornings). I can't imagine a more idyllic and peaceful scene. 

Do Luke and Caleb and Asher appreciate the glory of their situation? Why should they, after all? It's what they've always known; they take it for granted that soccer should be played in such lovely and prosperous surroundings. Later on, they'll come to know more about the circumstances of less fortunate people.  

It's hard for me not to compare Foothills Community Park with the P S 217 schoolyard of my own childhood. Ours was a representative "playground," no better or worse than would be found in any other middle-class or working class neighborhood. No grass, just solid concrete from one chain-link fence to the other. It was where we ran races, played "two-hand touch," flipped baseball cards, played punchball, stickball, basketball, softball, boxball, box baseball, handball, and any other game that could be improvised with a pink spaldeen. There were, as I remember, four basketball backboards and rims, arranged as two full courts. But one of the backboards was missing, the pole having disappeared many years ago and never replaced. Another of the poles had been set in the ground at an angle of perhaps 80 degrees and never corrected. It was useless. And then the two other baskets, on the Newkirk Avenue side, were set in ground that was not level, so that the basket was 9' 6" or so if you shot from the left side and 10" 6" on the right. Maybe this was a benefit; it helped us master trigonometry.

The P S 217 schoolyard was crowded. Various sports overlapped and shared the fields. If you were playing basketball, you had to watch out for line drives off the bat of one of the softball players. This taught us to be alert.

I did not feel at all deprived or "underprivileged" -- it was life as I knew it -- but I'm mighty glad that my grandchildren enjoy the luxury of grass and space and peace. In the words of the great Sophie Tucker, "I've been rich and I've been poor, and, believe me, rich is better."

Herman Wehmeier; Pitching 1950-2022

For three days last month we stayed in a BNB just across the Connecticut River in New Hampshire. The place is owned (or perhaps only managed) by a family bearing the surname Wehmeier. It's a rare name, but one not entirely unfamiliar to me. Like any member of my baseball-obsessed generation, I was immediately put in mind of the only other Wehmeier who's ever crossed my path. I refer of course to Herman Wehmeier, of famous memory, the right-handed pitcher who played fourteen seasons of major league ball, mostly for Cincinnati and the Phillies. His career, from 1945 to 1958, coincided with the period of my greatest interest and enthusiasm for baseball -- the years in which I studied Dodger box scores with an assiduity that I never granted to algebra or Latin.

Herman Wehmeier was a solid pro, but not a Hall of Fame quality pitcher. His lifetime W-L was 92-108 and his cumulative ERA was 4.80. He made it into the record books because he led the league in Walks Allowed three times, in Wild Pitches twice, and in Hit Batsmen and Earned Runs Allowed once apiece. 

When looking over his stats, one particular number stands out. Herm started 240 games in his career and pitched an astonishing 79 complete games. He finished one out of every three games that he started! A remarkable achievement from the perspective of 2022, is it not?  A new world of "closers," "set-up men," "openers" and precipitous yankings.

Among active pitchers, Max Scherzer, who might be my nominee for pitcher of the decade, has, in 14 seasons so far, pitched just 12 complete games. In his best year, 2015, he had just 4. Jacob deGrom, who is as talented a pitcher as baseball can boast, has started 207 games in his career so far, just 4 of which he has completed. The present leaders in complete games are veterans Adam Wainwright with 28 and Justin Verlander with 27.

Robin Roberts, one of the best pitchers of Wehmeier's era, once pitched 28 complete games in a row, one of them lasting 17 innings. Lifetime, Roberts started 609 games and completed 310. 

Herm Wehmeier

 

Baseball Vocabulary

I grew up in a baseball-saturated world. The radio voices of Red Barber and Connie Desmond were the water in which I and my family and my neighbors swum. It was therefore natural that I early absorbed the vocabulary of baseball and that many words carried baseball meaning to me long before I recognized their alternative and larger existence.

For example, as a boy, I encountered the word "mound." It signified, and signified only, a pitcher's mound -- the ten inches of sand and clay from which a pitcher throws a ball. I had no idea that mounds could exist in nature or indeed, could exist anywhere outside of a stadium, there being no mounds on Coney Island Avenue, or, at least, none that I recognized as such.

And then there was the word "pitcher." If someone had said to me, in the 1940s, that "little pitchers had big ears," I might have thought of Preacher Roe, but I would have had no idea that there was such an object as a pitcher for water or other liquid. A pitcher was not jug, ewer, or crock -- it was a man standing on a rubber fooling a batter with a slow curve.

Standing on a "rubber?" Yet another word that had a specific baseball meaning, years before it became an eraser or a galosh or a condom.

Similarly, a "streak" was not a gash of color until many years after it was a winning streak or a losing streak or batting streak. A "dugout" was not a canoe, not in my corner of the universe.  Nor was a "rally" a political meeting or protest. A rally would never have led to a "strike" -- a word which I knew only as one of the allotted three. "Battery?" A team of pitcher and catcher, not something of military or electrical storage interest.

And then there were the plethora, the fountain of lovely words peculiar to baseball, like "shortstop" and "blooper." 

Inning was exclusively a baseballism. Not so "outing" which was in my childhood a pitcher's stint on the mound, and which only later became a picnic (or, even later, an involuntary revelation of someone's sexual inclinations). 

October 24:  How could I fail to include "pennant." When did I learn that a pennant was a kind of triangular flag?  Not in the 1940s (or even 50s).

I grew up in a baseball-saturated world. The radio voices of Red Barber and Connie Desmond were the water in which I and my family and my neighbors swum. It was therefore natural that I early absorbed the vocabulary of baseball and that many words carried baseball meaning to me long before I recognized their alternative and larger existence.

For example, as a boy, I encountered the word "mound." It signified, and signified only, a pitcher's mound -- the ten inches of sand and clay from which a pitcher throws a ball. I had no idea that mounds could exist in nature or indeed, could exist anywhere outside of a stadium, there being no mounds on Coney Island Avenue, or, at least, none that I recognized as such.

And then there was the word "pitcher." If someone had said to me, in the 1940s, that "little pitchers had big ears," I might have thought of Preacher Roe, but I would have had no idea that there was such an object as a pitcher for water or other liquid. A pitcher was not jug, ewer, or crock -- it was a man standing on a rubber fooling a batter with a slow curve.

Standing on a "rubber?" Yet another word that had a specific baseball meaning, years before it became an eraser or a galosh or a condom.

Similarly, a "streak" was not a gash of color until many years after it was a winning streak or a losing streak or batting streak. A "dugout" was not a canoe, not in my corner of the universe.  Nor was a "rally" a political meeting or protest. A rally would never have led to a "strike" -- a word which I knew only as one of the allotted three. "Battery?" A team of pitcher and catcher, not something of military or electrical storage interest.

And then there were the plethora, the fountain of lovely words peculiar to baseball, like "shortstop" and "blooper." 

Inning was exclusively a baseballism. Not so "outing" which was in my childhood a pitcher's stint on the mound, and which only later became a picnic (or, even later, an involuntary revelation of someone's sexual inclinations). 

October 24:  How could I fail to include "pennant." When did I learn that a pennant was a kind of triangular flag?  Not in the 1940s (or even 50s).

Genuine, Unedited, Unimproved Excerpt from a Conversation with my Brother

He:  Did you know that they are now playing seven-inning games?

Me:  Yeah, double-headers.  And that they're starting a runner on second base in extra inning games?

He:  Good thing Dad didn't know about this. It would have killed him on the spot.

Me: Yeah, sure would have. DH rule took a couple of years off his life.

World Series Results Claimed to be a Hoax

The Tampa Bay Devil Rays now claim that they won the 2020 World Series against the Dodgers -- even though most of us saw the Dodgers win by a margin of 4 games to 2.  The Rays claim that in Game 5, two runs scored by Tampa Bay were nefariously credited to the Dodgers. The scoreboard, they claim, was designed and controlled by Hugo Chavez who "flipped" the runs. Although an audit conducted by Major League Baseball Commissioner Rob Manfred showed no such evidence of tampering, Tampa Bay and their increasingly rabid supporters continue to contend that "the whole series was a hoax and a fix."  Mobs of fans, some outfitted in bizarre costumes, resist reviewing videotapes of the games, contending that the tapes have been altered by space lasers controlled by "Rothschild interests." Tampa Bay fans plan to storm Dodgers Stadium in Los Angeles, rescue the trophy, and demand that their team be declared the winner -- "or else."

 

Meanwhile, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers football team now says that it will accept the results of next Sunday's SuperBowl game "only if we win."  

The "Yips"

The yips have been big news this week because Jose Altuve, Houston's golden-glove second baseman has made three throwing errors in two games. Glaring, costly errors. He's bounced balls to first base and to second base -- throws of twenty or forty feet which he has made successfully thousands of times in his outstanding career.

The "yips" is sports jargon for the sudden, inexplicable inability to make an ordinary or routine play. It's commonly used by golfers when they start missing short putts --but baseball has its famous yippers -- Steve Saxe, Chuck Knoblauch (both of them second baseman who have the shortest, easiest throws)  and now, possibly Altuve. Sometimes a good pitcher will lose his control and start to miss badly; the retired pitcher at the microphone will say, "he's lost his release point," which is a yippish diagnosis without using the word. Athletes think that the problem is psychological but it's possible that the condition is merely neurological - a "focal dystonia" or muscle spasm in the wrist. Basketball yips? Yes, sometimes a good foul shooter will miss four or five in a row. 

I suspect that the yips may not be a sports-only syndrome.

Once, a decade or two ago, I was driving across the country on a four-lane and needed to brake. For some reason, my feet (I was driving a standard transmission so both feet and the clutch pedal were involved) couldn't remember which was the brake pedal. I flailed with both feet and was utterly panicked for about five long seconds. Then I came to my senses, put the correct foot on the correct pedal, and continued on in normal fashion. Life continued. But if I had crashed the car and killed myself, which was certainly a possibility, investigators would have thought that I had fallen asleep at the switch. They'd have been wrong; it was just the yips -- a failure to perform a task that should have been entirely routine.

I wonder how many road disasters are caused by undiagnosed yippishness.

Do actors get the yips? Do musicians? Dentists?  Airline pilots? Surgeons ("You know, I've done that back surgery hundreds of times but three out of the last four, I've sliced entirely through the guy's spinal cord").

A Serious Presidential Lie

No question but that he's a serial liar: just think of the birther thing, the attendance at the inaugural, Sharpiegate, "the best economy in the history of the world," that Hilary Clinton received 3 to 5 million illegal votes, "total exoneration," the 16,000+ lies and misstatements since 2016 that the Washington Post has catalogued. Enough falsehoods to circle the earth several times, or more likely, stretch from here to Alpha Centauri. 

Nevertheless, all these falsehoods pale in comparison to the latest revelation.  

He repeatedly boasted that he was such a baseball star at the New York Military Academy that he could have gone to the majors. Someone finally investigated. Box scores from the 1950s show that he batted .138, with 3 rbi's and scored one run. Said one baseball guy, “You don’t hit .138 for some podunk, cold-weather high school playing the worst competition you could possibly imagine" and go pro. “It’s absolutely laughable. He hit .138—he couldn’t fucking hit."  

OK, he lies about everything. But about baseball? Some things should be sacred. Off limits.

Senior Pentathlon, or Octogenarian Olympics

In the Senior Decathlon also known as the Octogenarian Olympics, there are five events requiring different levels of agility and skill.  Events are scored both on speed (as in track) and grace (as in gymnastics). 

1.  Getting out of bed and putting on socks.
2.  Entering and leaving an automobile.
3.  Rising from a kneeling position.
4.  Driving at night.
5.  Finding one's keys.

Cookie Lavagetto's Teeth

Approaching 80, I've been studying the Brooklyn Eagle for the date of my birth, March 11, 1939. "War and war's alarms" dominate the news, but nevertheless day-to-day life in Brooklyn was reassuringly perennial. Here's a highlight from the Around the Town column:

 

"One of the features at the Montauk Club's 50th anniversary dinner tonight will be the lyrics written by Dr. J. L. McAteer. The genial dentist wrote all the lyrics for the show and they are expected to be quite something."

 

I have to confess that although I spent the first 17 years of my life in Brooklyn, I had never heard of the Montauk Club. But it exists! It was formed in 1890 and it's still there -- housed in a fancy Venetian Gothic building in Park Slope.

But it's not the Montauk Club that's the subject of this paragraph -- it's the "genial dentist" and lyricist J. T. McAteer who has quite something in store for us. "Around the Town" continues:  "Dr James McAteer is the dentist for the Brooklyn  Baseball Club and examines the teeth of each and every player on the club.  Seems that Business Manager Larry McPhail is fussy about it and insists on x-rays at least once each year. As far as McAteer is concerned, infielder Cookie Lavagetto has a perfect set of teeth, while good ones are owned by pitcher Van Mungo and infielder Johnny Hudson."

So now we know. Cookie Lavagetto had perfect teeth! What a revelation. Information that has been hidden for 80 years. Everyone knows that Lavagetto broke up Bill Bevan's 1947 World Series no-hitter with a double off the Ebbets Field scoreboard. But who knew a damn thing about his choppers?  This is neglected news of historic proportions. 

And it makes a guy wonder about the other players on the team (aside from those with semi-perfect teeth -- the legendary Van Lingle Mungo and unknown-to-me Johnny Hudson). Were other Dodger teeth cavity-filled, crooked, misshapen, stained with tobacco juice, busted, false, even missing. No wonder the '39 Dodgers were so bad. Twenty-five players and only three to write home about, teeth-wise.

So here they are, the fabulous teeth of Cookie Lavagetto, bright and shiny, glistening at us over the years (I'm sorry but I couldn't find a picture of Cookie's molars).

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Durocher 1947

In 1975, Leo Durocher wrote an as-told-to autobiography called Nice Guys Finish Last. I read every word of it, but I got to tell you, it's not a good book. It's a piece of self-justifying pro-Durocher propaganda. It's argumentative, hyperbolic, unreliable. Durocher was an irascible man: he got into fights with sportswriters, players, umpires, owners, coaches, wives -- everyone he encountered. In every single case, he was absolutely blameless and they were absolutely wrong. The gambling that got him suspended for a year? -- why, it never happened.

Durocher doesn't give it the emphasis it deserves, but he had, by accident, a place in the story. Durocher was manager of the Dodgers when Branch Rickey hired Jackie Robinson. It was a watershed moment, a supremely important step in the civil rights movement, and the beginning of a major transformation of not just baseball, or sports, but of the nation and the world.

Durocher played his part, and he's proud of it, but I can't help feeling that he missed his moment. His vision was so narrow, so constricted, so unaware. I suppose he should be commended for doing the right thing, but as far as I can tell, he did it for trivial reasons and did not have a glimmer of understanding of either oppression and injustice on the one hand, or equality and freedom on the other.

When some Dodgers proposed to petition Rickey not to sign Robinson, Durocher called a team meeting. Here's what he says that he said to them:

"I hear some of you fellows don't want to play with Robinson and that you have  a petition drawn up that you are going to sign. Well boys, you know what you can do with that petition. You can wipe your ass with it. Mr. Rickey is on his way down here and all you have to do is tell him about it. I'm sure he'll be happy to make other arrangements for you. I hear Dixie Walker is going to send Mr. Rickey a letter asking to be traded. Just hand him the letter, Dixie, and your'e gone. Gone. If this fellow is good enough to play on this ball club -- and from what I've seen and heard, he is -- he is going to play on this ball club and he is going to play for me. I'm the manager of this ball club and I'm interested in one thing. Winning. I'll play an elephant if he can do the job, and to make room for him I'll send my own brother home. So make up your mind to it. This fellow is a real great ballplayer. He's going to win pennants for us. He's going to put money in your pockets and money in mine. And here's something else to think about when you put your head back on the pillow. From everything I hear, he's only the first. Only the first, boys. There's many more coming right behind him and they have the talent and they're gonna come to play. These fellows are hungry. They're good athletes and there's nowhere else they can make this kind of money. They're going to come, boys, and they're going to come scratching and diving. Unless you fellows look out and wake up, they're going to run you right out of the ball park. So I don't want to see your petition and I don't want to hear anything more about it. The meeting is over. Go back to bed."  

To me, his speech, though apparently effective, is trivial -- an opportunity wasted. He opposed the petition for three reasons: one, it defied authority (his and Rickey's); two, Robinson is going to help us win and therefore make us money, and three, there are "others" on the way, who also want to make money, so get out of the way.

The idea that Jack Roosevelt Robinson and others of his hue should be allowed to participate out of simple fairness and equity did not occur to him. Slavery, racism, segregation, justice, equal opportunity -- not part of his thinking. Durocher's awareness of his place in history -- zero. What a disappointment!

Written in 2009 and Republished Today, as Relevant Now as Then: As Time Goes By

Two nights ago [this would be October of 2009, of course], I watched the Phillies trounce the Dodgers, 11-0. What a colossal drubbing! HDTV let me appreciate Cliff Lee's southpaw masterpiece in exquisite detail. But for me the most memorable moment of the evening wasn't Lee's artistry or 270-pound Ryan Howard's mad-dash triple to right. Instead, it was the discovery that the Phillies'  lanky, awkward-but-effective scraggly-bearded right fielder Jayson Werth sports a noteworthy baseball pedigree. His grandfather was Ducky Schofield, a good-field no-hit infielder from the 1950s -- from the days, that is, of my golden youth. Holy jumping jiminy! I saw this young feller's grandpappy play! 

Youch!  More evidence, as if more were needed, of my long-in-the-toothedness.

Why should I be surprised?  I went to my first baseball game in 1946 (at Ebbets Field -- Cardinals 3, Dodgers 1).  Before there was TV. I've been attending to the game for 63 years. Close to three generations.  [Nine more years have passed since I first wrote this;  so 72 years now.]  

I've grown accustomed to father-son combos. Bobby and Barry; the Griffeys (who once played together in the same outfield); Felipe and Moises; huge Cecil Fielder and his even more enormous son, Prince; the Hundleys, the Stottlemyres, and many, many others. Sometimes while I'm watching a game I lose track of time. Eric Young, Jr. looks and runs so exactly like his father that it's easy to fall into flashback mode. I remember a game in which Pedro Borbon came in to relieve. Holy moly, I said to myself -- he's a right-handed pitcher. Why the heck is he throwing with his left hand?  Then after a few seconds of complete bafflement it came to me: Pedro Borbon, Jr. I had simply lost twenty-five years -- a phenomenon to which your "mature" brain is occasionally and increasingly prone.

Jayson Werth isn't even the sole grandson. Aaron Boone's father was the catcher (and manager) Bob Boone and his grandfather was the Cleveland infielder Ray Boone, whom I also saw play, but only on the TV. And then there's the Bell family: grandsons David and Mike, father Buddy, and grandfather Gus, a big hitter with Cincinnati during the Ducky Schofield years.  

So here's the question. Will I hang around long enough to watch the great-grandsons play? Is Jayson Werth fertile?  Does he have any kids?  Are there any budding Boones or baby Bells waiting in the wings?

Baseball 1958-2018

1958:  First batter of the game is Smith. He's batting .278. First pitch is a ball. Smith is 5'9", 155 pounds. Married, two children, makes his winter home in Fort Smith, Arkansas. Sells tractors in the off-season. Good curve ball hitter.

2018:  First batter is Smith. He's batting .278. His slugging percentage is .342. His OBP is .335. His OPS is .445. He hits .225 against right-handers and .303 against left-handers. First pitch is a ball. On first pitches he's batting .225. With a count of 2 and 0, he's batting .247. Second pitch is a ball. On two strike pitches he's at .175. On fast balls in the upper right quadrant of the strike zone, he's batting .345. On fast balls in the lower left quadrant he's hitting .175. On two strike pitches, he strikes out 25% of the time and hits fly balls 30% of the time. He bats .283 in his home park, .246 on the road. Day games, .290, night games .225. His OPS in away night games against a left-handed pitcher is .341. In this ballpark he's batting .283. He's batting only .125 against this pitcher, just two for sixteen lifetime, and one of the hits was a double, but that was in a different ballpark and in a previous season. He's batting .285 against fastballs, .276 against curves, .225 against four seamers, .215 against split fingers, and .275 against change-ups. He sees an average of 4.3 pitches per at bat against right-handers and 5.1 against left-handers. He swings and misses 38% of the time. Here's the next pitch; it's a strike. When he connects against a left-handed split finger fastball in the lower left quadrant the ball comes of his bat at an average velocity of 85 miles per hour to left field, 87 to center field, and 76 to right field. His average launch angle is 18 degrees. With men on base, he's hitting .285. With runners in scoring position, .290; his launch angle to right field against right-handed split finger fastballs in the lower left quadrant rises to 25 degrees, but only on his first at bat in a game. Afterwards, it declines to 17 degrees. But that's in April and May, on weekends. In August and September, under the lights, his launch angle is 20 degrees against change-ups from right-handers who throw into the upper right quadrant when there's a man on second or third and fewer than two outs. There's ball four.  

Here comes the manager out to the mound. That's all for this pitcher. We'll be back in a moment. 

Do the Dodgers Have an Outfielder Named Bacchus Pederson?

Judging from his spectacularly wonderful name you might guess that Bacchus Pederson is either a character in a novel by Thomas Pynchon or the son of a Swedish father and a patriotic Greek mother. Not so. He's the creation not of eccentric parents or postmodern fiction the but of the voice recognition system that's been close-captioning that 2017 Dodgers-Astros World Series. He's an imaginary being. He does not exist. Except on the TV screen.

There is, however, a up-and-coming not-Greek-but-Jewish on-his-mother's-side left hand hitting center fielder for the Los Angeles Dodgers named Joc Pederson. And what is the relationship between Joc and Bacchus, you ask?

The other day (and the following morning because the game went on roughly forever), I watched the epic 13-12 Houston win over the Dodgers. A most exciting game. There was bad umpiring by the home plate official, there were balls flying out of the bandbox and onto the short porches, there was some beautiful defensive plays and some costly mental errors. See-saw, back and forth.

And yet more. Inasmuch as my veteran ears are past their prime and over the hill, I now supplement my hearing with "close captioning." I try to catch what Joe Buck and John Smoltz say and then watch as their words, or some approximation of their words, flashes across the screen. It's an activity that is almost as fascinating and much more amusing than the game itself. And it is out of this experience that the fanciful mythological figure of Bacchus Pederson emerges. Smoltz says "a fly ball to center and back goes Pederson." CC writes "a fly ball to center and Bacchus Pederson." No human being would translate "back goes" into "Bacchus". It's nonsensical and not even decent English grammar. t's got to be a machine, an idiot savant machine, that, stumped by "back goes," has located "Bacchus" in its word hoard. 

And similarly, what is an "Amana board?"  Something wooden manufactured in the Amana colonies in Iowa, you might guess. No, it's CC for "a man aboard." 

CC produces all sorts of comic linguistic wonders because it's utterly untethered to common sense. 

When John Smoltz, a human being who knows all there is to know about pitching, said that the left-hander was going to try to "bury it in the back foot," knowledgeable baseball fans would understand exactly what was meant. The lefty intended to throw an unhittable pitch by coming as close as possible to the left-handed batter's left foot. However, readers would have to be mighty clever to interpret the meaningless wild CC phrase "Marriott in the back foot."  

Other electronic locutions were easier. Not much of problem with "hit it into the upper tank" or "rubbing him of a double" or "sacrifice bump" or "Taylor will eat it off."

Some CC flights of fancy require a little more interpretive skill. Will the Dodger manager replace his pitcher with "a fresher god?" Perhaps a "fresher guy." Did the pitching staff "hand out seven rocks?" Seven walks is more likely. Do the Dodgers have a right fielder named Yossi el Pogue?  No, but they do have Yasiel Puig. Was a reliever taken out after "a short student?" Naw, it was a short stint. Did a pitch come "in her half" of the plate?  Who is "her"?  But no, it was "inner half." Is it possible that a batter "applied to center?"  No but he might very well have "flied to center."

Here's one that is Impossible to comprehend: "Turner headset hard." I had to rewind and listen again: "Turner hits it hard." 

Sometimes CC sounds vaguely spiritual. "Flies want to center," says CC. Do they really, I ask. But what Joe Buck said was "flies one to center." 

My favorites, aside from the immortal Bacchus Pederson, are errors that make no sense at all. What does it mean to say that a pitcher is a "shortest writer." And that he "threw his lighter."  The correct locutions: he was a "short strider" who "threw his slider." 

Voice recognition systems are technological marvels, no doubt. But they have a way to go. There's still a place at the table for humans. 

Greek and Latin Basketballese

Now that we've at last come to the NBA playoffs and are heading toward another Warriors-Cavaliers showdown, it's fitting that we reflect on basketball jargon, which is distinguished by its many colorful monosyllables: hoops, hops, bigs, stuff, slam, jam, slash, dish, board, glass, dunk, pick, screen, paint, lane, point, wing, trey, rim, post, trap, "D", roll, box, press, tip, swish, bank, brick, feed, stroke, hole, "J", rock, range.

But down-home slang is not basketball's only linguistic register. 

Curiously, roundball jargon exhibits a contrary tendency toward polysyllabic words of Greek and Latin origin. Some teams, for example, are said to be "physical." "Physical" (from Gr. physicos = nature) means, in basketballese, simply "rough" and does not imply that the other team plays either an ethereal or spiritual game. It used to be that a guard played on the "outside" and a center on the "inside"; nowadays they've become "perimeter" (Gr.) and "interior" (L.) players. A fast break has become "transition offense." A player doesn't drive to the basket; he "penetrates." Players no longer jump; they "elevate"; they don't block an opponent's shot, they "reject" it. In an odd linguistic development, a point guard no longer passes the ball; he "distributes" (Latin: distribuere, to allot) it. In its ordinary signification, to "distribute" a basketball would be to cut it into pieces like a loaf of bread and give each teammate a slice, but not so in the language of basketball. Only a few years ago, it was still possible to "switch" from guarding one man in order to guard another; now players "rotate." "Rotate," derived from "rota," the Latin word for wheel, properly means "to turn on an axis, to spin." A defender who did not switch but rotated would pirouette, and pirouetting would not be an effective defensive strategy. (A better classical upgrade for switch would be "revolve.") Even sillier than rotate: "rotate over" or "rotate around"-- a usage that evokes the grotesquerie of a big guy in a tutu pirouetting across the baseline -- a vision that is all the more picturesque now that traditional basketball shorts have been replaced by big ol' floppy bloomers. Just last night I heard a TV announcer declare that a seven-foot tall player had "a lot of verticality." (I suppose that if he fell to the floor he would have lots of "horizontality"). Players don't score; they "convert," as in, "they had a transition opportunity  but failed to convert." They don't push an opponent out of the way;  no, no, no, -- they create space (Latin: creant spatium). Although I am not a physicist, I suspect that space is something like matter, and can therefore neither be created nor destroyed. At least not created by power forwards, however potent they may be. How silly of me to object; neither the laws of physics nor the usual constraints of language are binding on punditor basketballensis. OK, game's on; let's see how well they play -- oops, sorry, how well they execute.   

More NBA Onomastics

A surprising number of current NBA players take the floor with their names reversed: first name for surname, surname for first. The king of this confusion is LeBron James, who in any sensible universe would be named James LeBron. And then there's the budding star Nerlens Noel. Who can possibly doubt that Nerlens Noel is a copy editor's error for Nerlens, Noel -- the lost comma precipitating the embarrassing inversion? The very same error seems to have produced Leonard Kawhi, Jack Jarrett, Howard Dwight, Irving Kyrie, Arthur Darrell, Leonard Meyers and Anthony Carmelo. Then there's Cory Joseph, the Spurs' talented backup point guard, about whom Edward Arlington Robinson wrote the poem -- o wait no, that was Richard Cory -- or Cory Richard, as he would have been known if he had preferred b-ball to banking. 

And there are also two closely related onomastic anomalies: the "two first name syndrome" featuring Chis Paul and Paul George (with help from Joel Anthony), and the "two surname syndrome," where the Dallas Mavericks teammates Tyson Chandler and Chandler Parsons have completely confounded prae with cog. Or should their team now be updated to Mavericks Dallas?

"Creating Space"

If you listen to the announcers of the NBA games, basketball players defy the laws and logic of physics. They "create space."

One of the greatest space-creators was Shaquille O. Others merely imitate his technique. His most characteristic play was to drive his massive left shoulder into the chest of the defender, knocking him backwards a couple of feet. When he had gained a sufficient advantage and had room to maneuver, he would flip the ball (awkwardly) toward the basket. HIs defender would as likely as not be charged with a foul while the pre-Newtonian announcers would celebrate him for 'creating space.' And a beautiful game would be transformed into a brutal game. 

And why is LeBron James allowed to create space on his every drive to the basket?  He's gifted enough that he doesn't need the advantage;  but nevertheless, he routinely pushes off with his off hand, often lodging his off-elbow in the chest of the hapless defender.  

I often watch LeBron create space on hdtv where I've precorded the game. I can therefore watch the same play again and again. In doing so I stop time, or run time backwards. He creates space, I stop time.

So two can play at defying Einstein. 

Two (Possibly Three) Improvements to Soccer

Netherlands-Argentina was exciting and rather beautiful until it went to penalty kicks. What a foolish way to find a winner! It's as if, in basketball, tie games led to a foul-shooting contest, or if, in baseball, instead of extra innings they started hitting fungoes for distance. Soccer travesties itself by resorting to penalty kicks. A better solution: play until someone scores. Sudden death. I mean, sudden victory. I would hope the game (the match) would end before midfielders start to collapse from exhaustion.

Brazil-Germany offers a second opportunity for improvement. Is it not time to institute a mercy rule.  When there's a mismatch in junior high girls softball and one team gets ahead by ten runs, the game is called off. It's over. It should be the same in soccer. Team A, let us say, runs up a five goal lead -- stop the game, everyone go home.  Why should a team (Brazil, for example) suffer interminable humiliation.  

And a bonus recommendation: no biting. Recidivist biters should be banned for life. 

Why We Love Kenneth Faried

Because he plays with infectious enthusiasm. Because he's undersized for his position but unfazed. Because he plays a better game today than he did last week. Because he's so often the first man down the floor, outrunning and outhustling his opponent. Because he's not the most gifted athlete in the league, but he makes the most of his abilities. Because he plays within himself and doesn't force up bad shots. Because he can score fifteen or twenty points a game without a play being called for him.

Sure, he's occasionally out of place on defense.True, he hasn't yet learned how to play the pick and roll. His offensive games is limited to putbacks and short jumpers. And sometimes he has a bad game because the opponent is bigger and better.

But he's learning. He's coachable.

And because he's the first NBA player to pledge support for gay rights. (Kenneth has two mothers and he "loves them both.") Congratulations, Kenneth Faried, for speaking out.

Life after Football

Every year, football becomes harder and harder to watch. When the quarterback is blitzed and has his clock cleaned, or a receiver on a crossing pattern gets his bell rung, I no longer think, brilliant play. Instead, I think, pain and concussion.

Not a game goes by but that a lineman leaves the field of sport on a gurney, to admiring huzzahs and applause from the comfortable spectators.

Have I become more timorous -- or more compassionate?  I still admire the skill level of the players but I'm distressed because these gladiators have become permanently injured for my amusement.

There's a Washington Post article about a lineman named Tre Johnson, who left the game in 2003 after nine seasons in the NFL. Johnson, who earned two degrees before he was drafted, is now a highly-regarded middle-school social studies teacher at the private Landon School outside Washington. His is a post-career success story.

The Post article offers some information about Johnson's present state of health. He's forty-something years old and for three years has been walking three miles, twice daily, in order to shed some weight.  More power to him, he's now under 400 pounds and hoping to get back to his playing weight of 275. He suffers from diabetes, high cholesterol and elevated blood pressure. He's already endured nineteen surgeries (seven on his shoulders, seven on his knees, an elbow, hands and Achilles’ tendon). "He can't sleep more than three hours at a stretch. There’s not a morning he doesn’t wake up in pain, and it takes a full hour to get moving in tolerable discomfort." Although when he played, no one kept track of concussions, Johnson has some sort of brain injury, because he can't tolerate bright or fluorescent lights. To what degree his banged-around brain has been seriously disabled will not become clear for a few more years.

Tre Johnson is doing well, but what about other ex-players who are not quite so healthy?

Baseball, 1955 and 2012

In 1955, Duke Snider lived at 178 Marine Avenue (in Brooklyn's Bay Ridge). His was the middle house in this picture.

Gil Hodges lived here, at 1120 32 Street. Two floors, 1400 square feet. 

 
Harold "Pee Wee" Reese and family made their home in 970 square feet of 9714 Barwell Terrace. Carl Erskine's home, at 9318 Lafayette Walk, was even smaller,

   

just 910 square feet.

Sandy Amoros lived in Bed-Stuy, in this brownstone at 147 Bainbridge Street, most likely on just one of the three floors. His was the leftmost building.

 

 And here is Alex Rodriguez's 2012 house in Miami, Florida.  It's up for sale for $38,000,000,

      

which is what 19,681 square foot waterfront properties go for nowadays. A bargain, for all I know.

Why We Love Sports

I have to admit that I'm thoroughly taken with the Jeremy Lin story. It's so wonderfully, ridiculously improbable. Asian-American guy, Harvard!! economics grad, plays OK with the Erie Bayhawks and the Reno Bighorns but is released by two not-so-strong NBA teams. A last-resort number 4 point guard on the Knicks, sleeping on a couch in his brother's apartment, he comes off the bench to lead the worst team in the league to five straight wins, drops 38 on Kobe and the Lakers, etc. etc. Tyson Chandler, grumpy all season long, is now smiling. It's not just Frank Merriwell; it's everyone's secret dream. And a morality play to boot-- keep trying, persevere, trust your own abilities, take advantage of the opportunities. An inspiration and a message in the same package. 

It can't last. JLin can't keep on averaging 27/8. The Knicks will eventually lose (though let's hope not tonight against shakey Toronto). One of those top point-guard defenders, such as Avery Bradley, is going to eat him alive one of these days. But he's the real deal and if he stays healthy, remains coachable, works on his three and on his left hand, he could have a great, historic career.

Meanwhile, it's absolutely fascinating. Ama're returns tonight; that should be easy. The test will come when Carmelo's groin heals. Can Lin and Anthony work and play well together? I'll be watching.

And congratulations to Tommie Amaker, Lin's Harvard coach; he's got to be one heck of a proud guy.

Another person who's mighty happy: David Stern, who's been struggling to get a toehold for the NBA in the world's largest untapped market.

Nugget-Watching

This year's Nuggets are now at 3-2 and each game has been worth watching. Because there are no superstars, there's a different plot every game. The ball moves and doesn't stop as when, in the old day, it came into the hands of Carmelo, or, even worse, The Answer. Everyone plays defense; everyone runs, almost everyone gets into the game. Arron Affalo is the key, I think, because he sets the example of constant effort. As soon as he gets into better shape, and his three starts to fall, he'll be even better. Lawson is fearless and swift as an arrow and he's become adept at pocket-picking. Andre Miller is a player to identify with: he can't run, can't jump, has no range, has no weight-room/steroid muscles and his mid-range is more of a leaner than a jumper, but he's smart, resourceful, tricky, and throws a better alley-oop than anyone in the league. He's the kind of steadyEddie you want to be in there for the last five minutes. Al Harrington, who was injured and out of shape last year, has come back strong and is now a classic sixth-man-scorer-off-the-bench-instant-offense-go-to-guy. The Birdman is as erratic as all get out but he remembers to swat a couple away every game. Unfortunately, he's mutilated his body to the point that any person of aesthetic sensibility must fast-forward through his foul shots. The furriners give the team great balance (and because they're untattooed, provide a welcome relief for the eyes.) Gallinari, the Italian, shows great promise, especially when he goes to the rim with two-handed authority. When Nene, from Brazil, plays up to his ability, he's sensational, and the more time he gets at PF the happier he'll be, which is why it's crucial that Timofey Mozgov, the massive Russian center. learns to move his feet and avoid the fouls. Mozgov will improve as the season progresses. Rudy Fernandez, the lone Spaniard, plays good man D., but won't make a real contribution until the outside shots start to fall. And then there's the half-Greek 7-footer, Kosta Koufos, who plays with great enthusiasm.

Not to mention Kenneth Faried, college rebounding sensation, who's chomping at the bit, waiting for one of the regulars to go down.

Other reasons to watch the Nugs: no J. R. Smith (a most talented nutcase), no Kenyon Martin (effective on D but always borderline thuggish, and with the ugliest no-spin set shot ever); no Carmelo playing matador. Addition by subtraction.

It's a short long season, ths year. Stay healthy, guys.

Landau versus Gottlieb

While in the Bay Area, I visited SF's Museum of Asian Art,  where this grotesque, beautiful piece of maximum conspicuous consumption was on display. 

It's a silver Landau made for the Maharaja of Bhavnagar around the turn of the last century.  Needless to say, I was utterly appalled by the waste and extravagance though dazzled by the workmanship.

 Afterward, I took a trip to Alameda's Pinball Museum. Here's a bank of classic 50's Gottliebs.

I played this magnificent piece of craftsmanship

and, still a master of the flipper, won three (3) free games.

I can't remember whether the silver coach was owned by this couple of dandies (also in the Asian Art Museum) or one of their cousins, 

but no one who looked like either a maharaja or maharani was playing with Gottlieb's silver balls.  I didn't spy anyone at the pinball museum who was nearly so well accoutered.  

What's the Deal with the Necklaces that Baseball Players are Wearing?

What are those beads with which half of the players now accesorize?  Why, they're magic titanium necklaces. "The necklaces... work by stabilizing the electric flow that nerves use to communicate actions to the body. All of the messages in your body travel through electricity, so if you’re tired or just pitched nine innings, the electricity isn’t flowing as smoothly as it can,” said Joe Furuhata, a Phiten (Phiten is the company that manufactures the beads) spokesman. “Our products smooth out those signals.” Persuasive as all get out, isn't he?  Nothing like smooth-flowing electric signals, though whether AC or DC he doesn't specify. Here's some more science from the website: "Titanium Necklace Benefits have been proven to be many. Some of these benefits include alleviation from discomfort in your shoulders and neck, and it helps the whole body to relax as well. Titanium necklaces are known to ease pains and aches of the upper back, and also enhance the circulation of blood from the upper body to the brain and other major organs. Included in the titanium necklace benefits are that they have anti-radiation and anti-fatigue properties."  So it's not just electricity: it's also pain relief and improved circulation, plus the beads ward off radiation (a major problem in ballparks nowadays). 

Gotta love the use of the passive voice: "Titanium necklace benefits have been proven to be many."  Proven by whom?  Here I am searching for a citation, an experiment, a demonstration, a study, even a minuscule perfunctory footnote. But there's nothing. Not a whisper of evidence. Nor could there be: what sort of double-blind experiment would it take to prove the efficacy of the beads. I guess I'm a non-believer, once again. So is the chief of sports medicine at NYU, who says, "it's all superstition."

OK, so baseball players are superstitious. No news there. But what are we to think when Ron Washington, the manager of the Texas team, sports a magic necklace?  Here he is:

Can you see the beads: trust me, they're not ordinary; they're genuine "titanium-infused plastic." 

Does "Wash" think that his beads improve the performance of managers, whose job is of the brain rather than of the body?  "Wow, I never would have thought to call for that double steal if I hadn't been wearing my magic beads!"

Altogether, the ubiquitous necklaces lead me into further despair about the quality of American education.  

Lady Stallions!!!

Lady Stallions!?! Not only a New Jersey soccer team, but an oxymoron of Shakespearean achievement. Not a simple oxymoron either, like Romeo's "cold fire, sick health," but a figure of speech on the far frontier of Oxymoronia, along with such classics as Utah Jazz and Christian Science. What, pray tell, is a Lady Stallion?  Even in an age of gender fluidity, it's hard to get a grasp on this one. Oh, I understand the principle -- the men's team is the Stallions, and therefore it follows as night the day that the distaff team acquires the same name, prefixed with Lady. In the same way, we have, out here, the Buffs and the Lady Buffs. I would offer not the slightest demurral if the men's team was called the New Jersey Horses and women's team was the New Jersey Lady Horses. It's awkward but logical. Lady Horses may not be either a poetical or an intimidating moniker, but it doesn't boggle the grammatical mind. But a stallion is archetypically male, the snorting captain of his harem-herd of equine odalisques, groupies, wives, mistresses, and girlfriends. Against all challenges, he bites and kicks and if necessary injects himself with steroids and horse growth hormone in order to maintain his macho primacy. A lady stallion is therefore utterly impossible both emotionally and linguistically. The term is a travesty. Better to call them the New Jersey Mares, which makes linguistic sense. Or even better, the New Jersey Geldings (which are, in an odd  kind of a way, no-longer-male stallions).    

Although I myself would reserve the name Geldings for institutions named after gentleman who have made the sacrifice and earned the right: the Origen Divinity School Geldings or the St. Abelard Preparatory School Geldings. But that's a horse of another color.   

Although particularly egregious, Lady Stallions do not stand solitary in their linguistic purgatory. Also competing are the Lady Rams (suggested alternative: Sheep), the Lady Bucks, and the Lady Bulls (alternative: Cows). No teams named the Goats. No Lady Boars (or Pigs either, for that matter). In defiance of all logic, there are the Oregon Lady Ducks, which is truly an impossibility, because properly, the men's team should be the Drakes, the women's the Ducks (or Lady Drakes). There are no teams, as far as I'm aware, named either the Geese or the Lady Ganders; yes, there are the South Carolina Gamecocks, but I'm going to guess that the distaff side is not named the Lady Gamecocks. Wait, I'll google it. OK, the South Carolina women's softball team is named ... the Gamecocks, which is bad enough, but could have been worse, because in my world of propriety, "lady" and "cocks" should never inhabit the same sentence.  

Dogs are a problem. No one calls their team the Dogs. But there are some breeds who are allowed to play. Bulldogs and Mastiffs and Greyhounds are in, Poodles are out. The University of Georgia proffers the Lady Bulldogs, but not one college, high school, or club has thought to give us either the Lady Dogs, or whatever is that word by which female dogs are denominated.

Another Great Moment in Basketball Announcerese

It was an excellent win for Dallas. The series isn't over yet, but it's better to be up 3-2 than down 2-3.  Terry, Kidd, Chandler, Marion, and Berea all played beautifully. Dirk Nowitzki had another lovely game. 

And in the booth, Jeff Van Gundy continued to mangle the language at a yogiberra level: "Dirk Nowitzki is now a household name in every locker room in the world."     

A Great Moment in Sportscasting History

Rajan Rondo is knocked down by Dwayne Wade and falls awkwardly dislocating his left elbow.  Even though it's gruesome, the tape is repeated over and over again. We see Rondo's arm bend backwards and we see him writhe in pain.

Jeff Van Gundy:  "It's horrible. I can't watch."

Mark Jackson (a Brooklynite who doesn't like Van Gundy):  "You can't look?  I always wondered where you were from.  Now I know.  You're from the suburbs."

Later, Rondo returns and heroically plays the fourth period with just one working arm. 

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Arena

Thank you, thank you. (Applause)  You're a terrific audience. (Applause).  Hey, did you see what's going on in basketball.  A Brigham Young player was thrown off the team for having pre-marital sex. (Audience groans).  No kidding.  Doesn't look good for BYU.  They got rid of the only kid on the team who could score.  (Laughter)  Wouldn't it be great if Duke played BYU in the NCAA finals?  The Blue Devils versus the Blue Balls.  (Laughter) Thank you, thank you.  Actually, the team isn't named the Blue Balls.  They're called the "Cougars."  Who would name a team "cougars?" Unless out there in Provo, Utah, they think that "cougars" means "mountain lions?"  (Knowing laughter)  Did you know that the official airline of Brigham Young is Virgin Atlantic?  (Hoots) And that Brigham Young players don't have numbers on their Jerseys;  they use letters.  The team color is scarlet.  (Audience groans). Hey, just checking -- did Wilt Chamberlain go to BYU?  (Audience is mystified)   How did the coach find out about the sex?  I don't know but there's a rumor that the girlfriend, a BYU volleyball player, is pregnant.  No one knows whether she is or not,  because they can't see under her burqa. (Confusion, jeers, embarrassed tittering)  OK, we have a great show lined up. We'll be right back. (Hysterical laughter and applause)

Baseball Facts

In 1968, the average AL batter hit .230 and Carl Yastrzemski won the batting championship, hitting .301; in 1930, the average NL batter hit .303. In 1904, 87.6% of starting pitchers completed their games; in 2004, of 4854 starts, only 150 were completed (3.1%). In 1997, the Texas Ranger franchise was purchased for $252 million; The Ballpark in Arlington was built for $191 million;  in 2000, Alex Rodriguez signed a ten-year contract with the same Texas Rangers for $252 million. In 2004, the New York Yankees sold 3.78 million seats at an average ticket price of $27.34;  in the same year, the Montreal Expos sold 750,000 seats at an average price of $10.82. In 1976, the average salary for a major league baseball player was $51,501; it's now $2,632,655. In the new Comiskey Park, built in 1991, the first row in the new upper deck is farther from the field than the last row in the old park. In 1932, the Giants' shortstop "Doc" Marshall was nicknamed the "ancient mariner," because "he stoppeth one of three." In 2004, the Colorado Rockies hit .305 at home; they hit just .258 on the road. In 1904, Jack Chesbro introduced the "spit ball."  He won 41 games, a record that has never been surpassed.