Category: Baseball

Hardball

Cleveland Indians shortstop Ray Chapman was hit by a pitch thrown by Yankees pitcher Carl Mays at the Polo Grounds on this date in 1920. Chapman apparently never saw the pitch. It hit his head hard enough that Mays thought it had hit the bat; the pitcher fielded the carom and tossed it to first for the presumed out. Chapman took a few steps and collapsed (some reports say he collapsed immediately). He died the next day.

The tragedy caused Major League Baseball to direct umpires to replace the baseball whenever it became dirty. The spitball was outlawed as well, partially in response to Chapman’s death. Previously pitchers dirtied every ball as soon as it was put in play, with dirt, tar, tobacco juice, petroleum jelly. A sticky, dirty off-balance ball could be thrown contrary to the batters expectations — and was hard to see.

Batting helmets were not made mandatory until 1971, though some teams adopted them earlier. Older players could choose not to wear a helmet. The last was in 1979.

On April 12, 1909, Philadelphia Athletics catcher Michael Riley “Doc” Powers crashed into the wall chasing a pop up. He died of of peritonitis as a result of the surgeries two weeks later. And he himself was a physician. It was opening day.

Those are the only two fatalities from on-field action in Major League history.

I attended a game, probably in 1957. Kansas City vs. Detroit at Briggs (later Tiger) Stadium. If I’ve found the right game, it was Jim Bunning vs. Don Larsen. I do remember Vic Power coming to the plate as a pinch hitter and declining a batting helmet. Bunning made him reconsider quickly however, and Power made a great show of going to the dugout and putting on a helmet.

Jackie Robinson

… appeared in his first major league game 67 years ago today. He went hitless but scored the winning run.

The front page of the Pittsburgh Courier, once the country’s most widely circulated African-American newspaper, conveys the significance of that day.

Robinson Pittsburgh Courier

Pay As You Go

I read John Feinstein’s Where Nobody Knows Your Name: Life In the Minor Leagues of Baseball the other day.

Among other things, I learned that when a minor league player — that is, one without a major league contract — is called up, he is paid for each day at the rate of the minimum major league salary ($500,000 this season) divided by 180 days. A player called up for three days, for example, would be paid $8333.33 ($500,000 divided by 180 times 3). A typical AAA player is paid $2,150 a month (for the five month season), so a few days in the big league is quite a bonus.

At lower levels the pay is much less — “Most earn between $3,000 and $7,500 for a five-month season.” [In lawsuit minor leaguers charge they are members of ‘working poor’]

Major league players receive $100 a day for food on the road; minor league players $25. Minor league umpires are paid $1900-3500 a month (for five months).

In the higher minors, the players, manager and coaches are employed (and paid) by the major league team. The local franchise — for example, the Albuquerque Isotopes — controls and manages everything else, but not the baseball.

Last Night’s Photo

First Pitch

First pitch of the second home game of the season. Click for large version.

The ball can be seen — I think — in the air with the tarp behind it, between the umpire and the 3rd baseman. iPhone 5s photo.

Alas, Rainiers 9 Isotopes 7 in a classic high desert pitchers’ duel.

Best Line for a Blustery Day

“I believe in the Church of Baseball. I’ve tried all the major religions, and most of the minor ones. I’ve worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, trees, mushrooms, and Isadora Duncan. I know things. For instance, there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball. When I heard that, I gave Jesus a chance….”

Annie Savoy

Pitchers and catchers begin reporting in two weeks.

The first World Series game ever

… was played 108 years ago today.

The Pittsburgh Pirates beat the Boston Americans 7-3.

Cy Young was the losing pitcher that day, but went on to win two games as Boston won the best-of-nine series, five games to three.

The Americans became known as the Red Sox in 1908. They were never known as the Pilgrims, though the name is often cited.

Just watching it WAS fun

“There are several stories that will mark baseball’s fine last evening, but the most agreeable, even for this Red Sox fan, is that of Dan Johnson, who’d spent part of the season in the minor leagues despite being among the team’s great hopes going into the season. His two-strike home run down the right-field line never got very high off the ground, and just barely hooked inside the foul pole. … His teammates didn’t quite believe what had happened either, as they slapped him on the head and seemed to giggle, yes, like little boys. Being good enough to play professional baseball must be fun, and hitting a season-extending home run must be even more fun.”

The Sporting Scene : The New Yorker

Johnson was batting .108.

Moneyball

From Roger Ebert’s review:

“Moneyball” is not a traditional sports movie, and indeed should be just as gripping for non-sports fans. It’s not a series of Big Games. When it goes to the field, it’s for well-chosen crucial moments. Its essence is in terse, brainy dialogue by the two accomplished screenwriters Aaron Sorkin (“The Social Network”) and Steven Zaillian (“Gangs of New York”). As in “The Social Network,” abstract discussions reflect deep emotional conflicts. There are a lot of laughs, but only one or two are inspired by lines intended to be funny. Instead, our laughter comes from recognition, an awareness of irony, an appreciation of perfect zingers — and, best of all, insights into human nature.

From Joe Posnanski’s review:

This is a pretty long movie — more than two hours. And there are a lot of scenes where nothing happens. We spend a good chunk of time alone with Billy Beane in the car. There are plot swings that don’t go anywhere. There’s a lot of actual baseball footage — probably more than has ever before been in a major motion picture. And, let’s face it, some of the crucial questions of the movie are: (1) Will Beane be able to acquire Ricardo Rincon? (2) Will the A’s beat a terrible Kansas City Royals team? (3) Will A’s manager Art Howe realize he should have Chad Bradford, and not Mike Magnante, as the first man out of the pen?

These aren’t exactly, “Will Luke be able to destroy the Death Star,” or “Does Ilsa choose Rick or Victor” sorts of questions.

Best baseball on TV line of the day

“For the World Series, how about letting the great Vin Scully have one last hurrah?  We won’t have many more chances to hear this national treasure.   Oh, and let him work alone. It’s the best Tim McCarver will ever sound.

“And while we’re on the subject of the upcoming baseball playoffs – there’s something wrong when Dick Stockton is working for two networks and Jon Miller is not even working for one.”

By Ken Levine

The Myth of Pressure

Joe Posnanski thinks the best player is the best player, regardless of the pennant race. Pressure he says, is not on the winners.

Think about it: What pressure is there on players in pennant races? The pressure to win? Sure. But players come to the ballpark energized. Everyone on the team is into it. The crowd is alive and hopeful. The afternoon crackles. Anticipation. Excitement. There is nothing in sports quite like the energy in a baseball clubhouse during a pennant race. Players arrive early to prepare. Teammates help each other. Everyone’s in a good mood. There’s a feeling swirling around: This is exactly the childhood dream. The added importance of the moment could, in theory I suppose, create extra stress. But the reality I’ve seen is precisely the opposite. The importance sharpens the senses, feeds the enthusiasm, makes the day brighter. Baseball is a long season. Anything to give a day a little gravity, to separate it from yesterday, to make it all more interesting … anything like that, I think, is much more likely to make it EASIER to play closer to the peak.

A losing clubhouse? Exactly the opposite. The downward pressure is enormous and overwhelming — after all, who cares? The town has moved on. A Hawaiian vacation awaits. Teammates are fighting to keep their jobs or fighting to impress someone on another team or just plain fighting. The manager might be worried about his job. The reporters are few, and they’re negative. Smaller crowds make it easier to hear the drunken critics. Support is much harder to come by, and there is constant, intense force demanding that you just stop trying so hard. After all: Why take that extra BP? You’ve got the swing down. Why study a few extra minutes of film? You’ve faced that hitter before. Why take that extra base? Why challenge him on that 3-1 pitch? Why? You’re down 9-3 anyway.

Click above to read Joe’s analysis of pressure. Click here to read his strategy for the AL MVP vote.

Play of the day

This is a AAA game, Nashville Sounds vs. Omaha Storm Chasers.

Runners at first and second none out.

And if it isn’t clear, yes it is a triple play (notice tag of second before throw to first).

The Ball-Strike Machine

Among the great things about baseball are some that its critics most disparage — too slow and too many statistics. Many of us that love baseball cherish most that it moves at a pace that allows us to revel in the inside stuff.

Joe Posnanski has written another piece that shows what I mean. There are human beings that despite the great effort it takes to pitch, can throw the ball with various speeds and spins and move it around within a finite space. Read about Glavine and Maddux deep in his story and think of the mastery it takes. The Ball-Strike Machine.

I don’t think there’s really any question that Maddux in his prime was the beneficiary of a wide strike zone. He didn’t just achieve this with his name or reputation. He achieved it by expanding the zone with his almost ludicrous command of pitching. He pitched the way a brilliant shell-game operator works the cup and balls — he showed the umpire a pitch a tenth of an inch outside, then pitch a half inch outside, then a pitch three-quarters of an inch outside, and so on, until he could throw a pitch into Centennial Park and the umpire would think it grazed the corner.