Fathers and Sons, OPS+ Style

I was recently reading a post on Joe Posnanski's blog about Kansas City Royals shortstop Tony Pena, owner of a ridiculously low OPS+ of 5, when it occurred to me that Pena's awful production at the plate could be leading toward a rather dubious record.

In 1993, Pena's father Tony, in his fourth season as a catcher for the Boston Red Sox, started the year with three hits in his first eight at-bats against the Royals. That was as good as it got; six months and three hundred at-bats later, his season ended with an 0-for-5 against Milwaukee and a .181 batting average. Whenever someone like Julio Lugo comes along and struggles mightily for an extended period of time, Pena is the one I compare him to, the guy I look at while thinking to myself, "Well, it could be worse."

The elder Pena's OPS+ in 1993 was 32; something told me that the combined father-son total of 37 had to be a record. Using Baseball Almanac's list of father-son teams in baseball history and Baseball-Reference's numbers for OPS+ and ERA+, I was able to put together two lists: 130 position playing families and another 35 pitching duos. (I wasn't going to include the latter list, but thought since Posnanski sparked this topic and the Bannister family was on it, I'd make mention of it.) The one thing I didn't put together was a list of instances where the father was a pitcher and the son a position player, or vice versa; it felt kind of like comparing apples and oranges.

(Minimum totals are 200 at-bats for position players and 50 innings for pitchers.)

37 - Tony Pena (32)/Tony Pena (5)
84 - Wally Mattick (44)/Bobby Mattick (40)
94 - Clyde Barnhart (29)/Vic Barnhart (65)
96 - Jimmy Cooney (35)/Jimmy Cooney (61)
98 - Dick Schofield (51)/Dick Schofield (47)
102 - Bob Kennedy (41)/Terry Kennedy (61)
103 - Billy Sullivan (29)/Billy Sullivan (74)
104 - Bob Boone (40)/Bret Boone (64)
104 - Mike Brumley (59)/Mike Brumley (45)
109 - Jimmy Cooney (35)/Johnny Cooney (74)

As I expected, it's not even close - and a lot of the blame for that lies on the shoulders of Pena the Younger. Big Tony's 32 OPS+ in 1993 was bad, but as you can see, he wasn't the lowest dad on the list: Clyde Barnhart and Billy Sullivan both suffered through worse seasons in their careers. But Vic and Billy, respectively, were there to pick up the slack for their old men. Little Tony, on the other hand, is putting up the absolute worst offensive numbers I've ever seen. Maybe the worst ever.

Not much in the way of Hall of Famers and all-time greats on that list. Compare that with the top ten duos:

419 - Bobby Bonds (151)/Barry Bonds (268)
323 - Cecil Fielder (167)/Prince Fielder (156)
311 - Ken Griffey (140)/Ken Griffey, Jr. (171)
307 - Tito Francona (171)/Terry Francona (136)
299 - Felipe Alou (142)/Moises Alou (157)
299 - Howard Wakefield (110)/Dick Wakefield (189)
296 - George Sisler (181)/Dick Sisler (115)
292 - Jose Tartabull (121)/Danny Tartabull (171)
280 - Tony Perez (159)/Eduardo Perez (121)
279 - Earl Averill (157)/Earl Averill (122)

No surprise at the top (interesting note: by himself, Barry Bonds would be 14th on this list): Barry Bonds has the top three single-season OPS+ marks in baseball history and his father was no slouch either. Actually, it strikes me as ironic that Bobby's best OPS+ came in 1975, his only season in New York, a season in which he was uprooted from his longtime home in San Francisco and shipped across the country, never to be the same again. (Posnanski wrote about that as well.)

The real shocker was number four. Tito and Terry Francona? Really? Yes, really - Tito had a great year for the Indians in 1959, finishing fifth in the MVP voting, and Terry was quite useful as a part-timer with the Expos in 1984.

Three of the dads are in the Hall of Fame (Sisler, Perez, Averill) and at least four others (Bonds, Fielder, Griffey, Alou) enjoyed long, productive careers. Two of the sons should be Hall of Famers (Bonds, Griffey), while Alou has been very good for a long time and Fielder is too young to predict.

And, as promised, the pitchers:

Thornton Lee (173)/Don Lee (121) – 294
Mel Stottlemyre (176)/Todd Stottemyre (117) – 293
Mel Queen (106)/Mel Queen (181) – 287
Dizzy Trout (168)/Steve Trout (117) – 285
Pedro Borbon (158)/Pedro Borbon Jr. (124) – 282
Chet Nichols (81)/Chet Nchols (198) – 279
Ed Walsh (189)/Ed Walsh (85) – 274
Jim Bagby (144)/Jim Bagby Jr. (117) – 261
Clyde Wright (127)/Jaret Wright (131) – 258
Herman Pillette (136)/Duane Pillette (115) – 251
Floyd Bannister (129)/Brian Bannister (121) – 250
Julio Navarro (118)/Jaime Navarro (125) – 243
Joe Coleman (107)/Joe Coleman (135) – 242
Steve Grilli (89)/Jason Grilli (134) – 223
Lew Krausse (99)/Lew Krausse Jr. (118) – 217
Diomedes Olivo (142)/Gilberto Rondon (56) – 198
Mike Bacsik (100)/Mike Bacsik (91) – 191
Jack Lively (76)/Buddy Lively (106) – 182
Steve Grilli (80)/Jason Grilli (96) – 176
Herman Pillette (100)/Duane Pillette (74) – 174
Thornton Lee (80)/Don Lee (93) – 173
Julio Navarro (100)/Jaime Navarro (72) – 172
Ed Walsh (95)/Ed Walsh (76) – 171
Mike Bacsik (84)/Mike Bacsik (82) – 166
Jack Lively (76)/Buddy Lively (88) – 164
Chet Nichols (81)/Chet Nichols (79) – 160
Mel Stottlemyre (87)/Todd Stottlemyre (69) – 156
Pedro Borbon (72)/Pedro Borbon Jr. (82) – 154
Lew Krausse (99)/Lew Krausse Jr. (51) – 150
Dizzy Trout (94)/Steve Trout (53) – 147
Mel Queen (61)/Mel Queen (86) – 147
Floyd Bannister (68)/Brian Bannister (75) – 143
Jim Bagby (63)/Jim Bagby Jr. (66) – 129
Clyde Wright (73)/Jaret Wright (54) – 127
Joe Coleman (53)/Joe Coleman (68) – 121

Draft Day Number Two

I don't have much time for fantasy leagues anymore. Whereas I used to sign up for a basketball or hockey league just for the hell of it, it's gotten to the point where I've realized that playing a fantasy game is no fun if I don't even remotely care about the sport. That's not the only factor, though - this baseball season was the first in probably ten years that I didn't have an entry in a Yahoo! league (although I think my participation in the epic Lozoball makes up for it), and it's mostly because I knew I wouldn't have the time to make it work.

Football, though, I just can't seem to quit. At the start of last season, I told myself I wasn't going to join any leagues. Then my brother called to make sure I was still interested in helping him run his team (I was). One team wouldn't be so bad...then Signal to Noise put out word that he was starting a Channel 4 News Team league. And of course, I had to join that one - can't let the News Team down.

This year, I'm back in both leagues, hoping to improve on second and third place finishes, respectively. If the News Team draft this afternoon is an indicator, however, that's not looking likely.

Soon after the draft started, I decided on my strategy: take as many players as possible from my other fantasy team; that way, I wouldn't have to worry about rooting for as many players on any given Sunday. Also, it figured to make this post-draft rundown that much easier to write. I've got a kitchen to clean and bottles to wash, folks. Can't be taking all evening to tell you all about the seventeen guys I picked.

So if you want my rationale for selecting Reggie Wayne, Carson Palmer, Edgerrin James, Rob Bironas, Justin Fargas, Bernard Berrian, Kris Brown, and Steve Slaton, just go here. My opinions haven't changed that much in the past week. The rest of my team, in draft order, is below.

Randy Moss, WR, New England Patriots - Drafting out of the number five slot to start, I decided to go with Moss. He probably won't put up numbers similar to last season, when teams started figuring out how to defend him late in the year, but 1,500 yards and 10-15 touchdowns don't seem like a reach. Hopefully Tom Brady is healthy, because this pick gets a lot scarier if the ball is in Matt Cassel's hands.

Willie Parker, RB, Pittsburgh Steelers - The best running back remaining. I've never been a huge fan of Parker's game, but that doesn't mean he isn't a threat to put up good numbers every week.

Chris Cooley, TE, Washington Redskins - I was all set to take Antonio Gates in an earlier round, but the dreaded autopick selected him for another team two or three selections ahead of me. Cooley is still a decent pick at the position, a security blanket for Jason Campbell.

Jerricho Cotchery, WR, New York Jets - Roddy White was on the board, in my queue, ready to be drafted, and I just couldn't do it. Matt Ryan's performance this year figures to be too uneven to put much trust in his receivers. Still, I would've snagged White in a later round if TSW hadn't been there to take him first.

New England Defense - Needed a defense and they always seem to put together a productive unit. Lots of questions, but it was a reasonable pick given the other defenses available.

Brett Favre, QB, New York Jets - Cotchery was already in the fold, so I figured I'd go with the combo package and grab Favre. Depending on how he grasps the Jets playbook, he could end up playing in front of Palmer before long, especially if injuries to Ocho and Housh cause Palmer's negatively effect Palmer's numbers.

Arizona Cardinals Defense - This was supposed to be Houston; I have a very good feeling about them this season, especially that young defensive line. But Williams, Okoye and Company came off the board the round before I planned on taking them and the next best defenses (Seattle and Indy) had the same buy as the Pats, so I went with Arizona. They may not see a lot of PT this year.

Ted Ginn, Jr., WR, Miami Dolphins - Well...he's a return man, and he's got a year of pro experience under his belt, and he's got a new veteran quarterback throwing to him. Hell, he's a sixteenth round pick who might never see my starting lineup.

Jon Kitna, QB, Detroit Lions - Kitna fucked our fantasy team last season, sucking enough throughout the season that he might have cost us a chance at finishing first overall. At the draft, I suggested to Tim that we should draft him and let him sit the bench for the entire year. He was all for it, but the opportunity never came up. This draft, however - enjoy your new home, Kitna. Watch out for splinters.

My Uncle Jimmy

Ethel Moynahan was my father's mother, my Grammy, a diminutive woman descended from John Locke, the settler who founded the town of Rye in the early 1600s. Born in 1914, she married my grandfather when she was 19 and eventually bore eight children, six boys and two girls, over a twenty-year period. The oldest of those, Uncle George, grew up to become the fire chief in town before retiring and moving up north. The seventh was my father, still known as "Daddy" to four and "Gramps" to six more.

The second was Jimmy.

Jimmy (always "Jimmy" or "my uncle Jimmy", never "Uncle Jimmy") was born in the mid-1930s (I never remember the exact year), and his arrival was a sobering reality. Whereas Uncle George would have been a year or two old, probably starting to toddle around and get into the sort of mischief that toddlers do, it was immediately apparent that something was not quite right with Jimmy. Later, Grammy learned that she had suffered from an iodine deficiency during pregnancy, an issue that could have led to problems with all eight children. As it was, only Jimmy was affected: he was born with cretinism, "a condition of severely stunted physical and mental growth due to untreated congenital deficiency of thyroid hormones."

The doctors were not optimistic, and this is where truth begins to bleed into legend. This was circa 1935, the middle of the Great Depression, and doctors saw fit to present Grammy and Gramps with two options for the newest member of their family: they could place him in an institution or take him home. Either way, they said, the chances of him living for more than a few years were slim.

My wife and I were confronted with the possibility of a severe disability when she was pregnant with our son, so I can begin to imagine what it was like to hear that news. That was a hypothetical situation, though, a byproduct of someone's inability to correctly read an ultrasound. This was reality. Jimmy was disabled, severely and perhaps mortally so, and there was no cure. How do you react to that information? What do you do?

I don't know for sure what I would have done if Joey had been born with Trisomy 18, but I know what Grammy and Gramps decided: to hell with the institution. Their boy was coming home with them to their little white farmhouse near the center of town.

Have you ever seen a miracle - a living, breathing embodiment of the impossible? I have. Jimmy, the baby who doctors said didn't stand a chance, probaby wouldn't see the end of the depression, still sits in a chair next to a window in the kitchen of that house. He's 72 or 73 years old, I think, not that the exact age matters all that much. My mother insists that he has lived so long because he has never been forced to deal with the stress of change, a strain that his mind might not be able to handle. All of his years have been spent in the same house, with the same people, the same supports. That idea makes a lot of sense - Grammy cared for Jimmy until the mid-nineties, when serious medical problems led to her placement in a local nursing home, and he has since been looked after by my father and two of his brothers.

The way I look at it, though, is that Jimmy's survival went beyond the mere fact that his basic needs were cared for - in my view, he has lived for seventy years because he has been loved and treated with an uncommon devotion that I have been led to believe started with my grandmother. From my perspective, and this is where reality and legend truly merge because I really have no proof that this is true, it was her strength and unwillingness to quit on her child, her faith in his chances at a meaningful existence, her ability to impress upon her children the importance of caring for their brother after she was gone, that saved his life.

I think the thing that most people want out of life is for that meaningful existence. They want to believe that their lives really mattered in the grand scheme of things. The miracle of Jimmy's life is that he wasn't supposed to be around for all that long, he wasn't supposed to live long enough to matter - yet here he sits, seventy years later, helping to provide that meaning to those who care for him. That's miraculous.

My Favorite Movie Quotes, Volume 10

One day, I'm going to make a list of my favorite movie characters; Burt Lancaster's Dr. Graham will be very close to the top.

Field of Dreams (1989)

Dr. Archibald "Moonlight" Graham: Well, you know I... I never got to bat in the major leagues. I would have liked to have had that chance. Just once. To stare down a big league pitcher. To stare him down, and just as he goes into his windup, wink. Make him think you know something he doesn't. That's what I wish for. Chance to squint at a sky so blue that it hurts your eyes just to look at it. To feel the tingling in your arm as you connect with the ball. To run the bases - stretch a double into a triple, and flop face-first into third, wrap your arms around the bag. That's my wish, Ray Kinsella. That's my wish. And is there enough magic out there in the moonlight to make this dream come true?


Ray Kinsella: Fifty years ago, for five minutes you came within... y-you came this close. It would KILL some men to get so close to their dream and not touch it. God, they'd consider it a tragedy.

Dr. Archibald "Moonlight" Graham: Son, if I'd only gotten to be a doctor for five minutes... now that would have been a tragedy.


Dr. Archibald "Moonlight" Graham: You know we just don't recognize the most significant moments of our lives while they're happening. Back then I thought, well, there'll be other days. I didn't realize that that was the only day.

Draft Day

My brother and I attended the draft for our fantasy football league yesterday (well, HIS league, I should say; the other owners are all his friends and I'm just kind of along for the ride). It's my third year as his "general manager" and I have to say we haven't done too bad: a middle-of-the-pack finish while I gained my bearings in Year One, followed by a second-place finish last year. Naturally, since Tim had never won anything before, this was attributed to my help; I'm inclined to believe that luck (and three guys named Reggie Wayne, T.J. Houshmandzadeh, and Wes Welker) played a pretty substantial role in the final standings.

In our family, the general theory with regards to fantasy drafting is to do as little preparation as possible. Tim emailed me earlier in the week to say that he was swamped at work and it was up to me to do any necessary research. I had a busy week myself, so it wasn't until Saturday that I got down to business, copying and pasting the rankings from Sportsline and all the necessary draft info into a Word document. That took a good five minutes and felt a little too much like actual work, so I called it a night and waited until noon on Sunday to print everything out (the draft was at one and I had to drive an hour; time management is one of my finest qualities).

So we got to the draft late, which was okay because we kept our maximum number of players and could afford to miss the supplemental draft. One of the other guys (somebody who actually reads this blog! Yeah, I have a reader! That makes, what, nine? Maybe ten? Anyway - hi Ryan!) caught us up on the players that had been taken to that point - every single running back in the top 15, more or less - and we were good to go.

When breaking down a draft, I usually like to go round-by-round, so I can review how things unfolded from a more detached perspective. Unfortunately, I forgot to mark the order in which we made our picks, so a positional review will have to suffice.

Quarterbacks
Carson Palmer, QB, Cincinnati Bengals - Right off the bat, we got lucky. Most of the keepers this year were wide receivers and quarterbacks, and just about everyone went on a running back binge in the first round - I think one other person chose a quarterback early, and they went for Roethlisberger - so Palmer was available later than we expected. After nearly a full season with Jon Kitna at the helm last year, it'll be nice to maybe get some prediction from the position this time around.

Jason Campbell, QB, Washington Redskins - We really only need Campbell to cover Palmer's bye in Week 8. Worst case scenario, he sucks and we either pick up somebody else or take a loss at the position that week; best case scenario, he plays well all year and we have some options.

Running Backs
Marshawn Lynch, RB, Buffalo Bills (Keeper) - Our three running backs last year were Marion Barber, Willis McGahee, and Lynch. Faced with keeping one of the three, I chose Lynch, who I think will be solid this season. This means Barber will score 15 touchdowns and McGahee will run for 1,500 yards, so draft accordingly.

Edgerrin James, RB, Arizona Cardinals - James was our second pick. He was the best back remaining at that point, which should tell you everything you need to know about the rate at which they were flying off the board. Later on, somebody mentioned his name again and the guy sitting next to Tim said simply, "Edgerrin James sucks." Tim comes back with, "Hey, hey, we drafted him earlier, he can't suck - he better not, anyway," anything to make himself feel better about the pick. The response? "I'm sorry - you should just release him." Moral support from your fellow owners is a key part of the drafting process, I think.

Justin Fargas, RB, Oakland Raiders - Tim talked me into this one, saying that he thought Fargas had a decent year last year (it was the same rationale he used for Chris Cooley; that worked out well for us). As soon as the pick was made, the guy I've known the longest, since I was about ten, looked at me and said, "Oakland, didn't they draft a running back this year? Who was it? McFadden?" Oops. Fortunately, when I got home I read somewhere that Fargas is still the starter for now, so we could see some value from that pick, especially if he doesn't need to be any more than our third back.

Steve Slaton, RB, Houston Texans - Andrew sold me on Slaton as a potential sleeper pick, so we went with him in the later rounds to help fill out the roster (it helps that Ahman Green is made of glass). The funny part was when I announced the pick. I tend to talk quietly, mostly because I'm dreading the day I call a name that has a) already been taken, b) suffered a season-ending injury that I don't know about, or c) is a tremendous reach, and the guys recording everyone's picks were at the other end of the table. So I quietly said, "Slaton," and the following exchange occurred between me and another guy I've known forever, probably fifteen years at least:

ME: We'll take Slaton.
HIM: Who?
ME: Steve Slaton, running back, Houston.
HIM: Slater?
ME: Sla-ton. S, L, A, T, O, N.
HIM: I literally cannot hear a word you're saying.
(Somebody louder and closer relays the pick; I write "SLATON" on a piece of paper and hold it up)

I sometimes wonder why these guys tolerate me.

Wide Receivers
T.J. Houshmandzadeh, WR, Cincinnati Bengals (Keeper) - Tim expressed some concern on the way over about Housh's health. I told him that he supposedly had injury problems all last season - I think it was his hamstrings, but I'm too lazy to look it up - and still led the league in receptions. I'm not gonna believe the injury report until he gives me a reason to believe the injury report.

Reggie Wayne, WR, Indianapolis Colts (Keeper) - While the thought of Wayne serving as a target for Jim Sorgi is a little scary, keeping him was a no-brainer. Wide receivers were big scorers in our league last season - the Wayne/Housh/Welker triumvirate earned us an ungodly number of points - and Wayne figures to put up decent numbers no matter who is throwing him the ball.

Bernard Berrian, WR, Minnesota Vikings - The best remaining receiver in a round where we needed to take a third receiver. Please, somebody, get him the ball.

Vernon Davis, TE, San Francisco 49ers - We hoped Cooley would fall to us in Round 5, but of course that didn't happen, so I suggested Davis. My theory is that inexperienced quarterbacks like J.T. O'Sullivan and Alex Smith tend to feel more comfortable making shorter, high percentage throws to the tight end. It worked last year with Campbell-Cooley, let's hope lightning strikes twice.

Ben Watson, TE, New England Patriots - Another filler pick. We wanted a receiver and ended up choosing between Kevin Boss and Watson. Tim won. We'll see how this works out.

Defense/Special Teams
Dallas Cowboys - A pure need pick. They were the best available at a slot where we needed a defense. (Actually, that's not entirely true - I think the Chargers were still on the board, but after the Merriman news, I wasn't touching them with a ten-foot pole.)

Houston Texans - Surprisingly, they were still available in the last round. Mario Williams, DeMeco Ryans, Amobi Okoye - honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if this squad produces some decent fantasy points this season.

Kickers
Rob Bironas, K, Tennessee Titans - I remembered Bironas for his eight field goal game last season; he also has a strong leg and an average of 110 points in three seasons.

Kris Brown, K, Houston Texas - This just hit me: we drafted kickers from the team that currently plays in Houston and the team that used to play in Houston. Craaaaaazy, man. Brown also has a strong leg. We picked him up late last year after he nailed three fifty-yarders in one game.

In Massachusetts, All Traffic Laws Are Optional

I spent my first two years after high school studying business at Western New England College, a small private school in Springfield, Massachusetts. It was three hours away from home, so I didn't make it back very often, but it seemed like every time I did, something weird happened on the trip.

There was the time I woke up from a peaceful slumber to see my father slamming on the brakes and skidding to a stop about three inches off somebody's back bumper. Or the time my mother let me drive and I ran over the top of a Christmas tree that had fallen off of someone's car and landed in the middle of the Mass Pike. Or the time my father worked an overnight shift the night before picking me up and let me drive so he could rest - not knowing that I had also pulled an all-nighter (he took the wheel somewhere on 290, I think it was, when he noticed me dozing off in the middle of three lanes of traffic).

There was also the time my brother hurtled across the state at nearly impossible speeds in the middle of a terrible thunderstorm, completing the three-hour trip in a shade under two hours. Or the time we made it all the way home safely, my mother pulled up in front of the house, cut the engine, and informed my sister and I that our grandmother had died. Or the time I promised a girl I was dating that I would be home in time to see her on Friday night, only to find myself sitting in traffic for hours on the Mass Pike, helplessly watching the minutes tick away*. It's a miracle I made it through those two years in one piece, both mentally and physically.

*True story: I finally got home at like eleven o'clock and immediately went to her house...where everyone was asleep except her little brother. He went and woke her up, and her first words to me were, "I think you should not be here." I'm pretty sure I was going for the whole "sweet and innocent, I missed you, Lloyd Dobler is my hero" thing, only it backfired terribly.

None of those are my favorite, though. No, my favorite story involving trips to and from Springfield is the time my dad accidentally took a wrong turn and ended up backing off of an entry ramp to the highway. Yeah.

See, in Springfield, the ramp for 290 West was immediately before the one for 290 East. Because we traveled that road so rarely and the road signs were useless, it was easy to get the two mixed up. One day, he did just that, taking the first exit. Unfortunately, this was useless to us, since we live in New Hampshire, not New York. Most people who were so clearly committed to a direction would continue on their path, take the first exit, and reverse direction. At least that's what I would do. Not my old man, though. He just threw it in reverse, looked over his shoulder, and very calmly started backing up.

The best part was his reaction to other motorists, many of whom were, predictably, annoyed at his rather unorthodox driving methods. He just waved them off casually, said, "Yeah, blow it out your nose,"* and continued focusing on the task at hand. I, meanwhile, cowered in the passenger seat, hopeing he knew what he was doing. I guess he did - either that or we were incredibly lucky, because we made it off the wrong on ramp and onto the right one without being splashed all over the highway. So that was nice.

*Yes, my dad has been known to actually say things like this.

Anyway, this was probably close to ten years ago, and until yesterday, I had never seen anyone else attempt a similar maneuver.

I was driving down Route 3, moving over to get off at Exit 8, when I noticed a car stopped in the breakdown lane just beyond the exit, to the left of the sign. As I watched (and approached), the reverse lights came on and the car began to back up. It probably would have been fine if he had gone straight back, waited for me to pass, and eased onto the exit. What he did, however, was attempt to execute what appeared to be a three point turn in front of the exit, blocking the very path I was attempting to take. Even my dad wasn't so bold as to completely block off a highway exit - he just made it much harder to pass. This fella, until he moved back to the other side of the highway, was having none of that. In retrospect, I'm almost impressed.

I'm a believer in the duality of things, I guess you would call it, the idea that certain things balance out. You treat someone a certain way, for instance, someone else comes along later and treats you the same. It's the universe's way of teaching us a lesson. But this one...this one I did not see coming. Well played, Karma. Well played indeed.

End Of An Era

My wife and I are moving at the end of next month, so I decided the time was right to get rid of one of my many collections/obsessions. Faced with a choice between baseball cards, movies, books, and fifteen years of Sports Illustrated, I picked SI, the magazine my mother first subscribed me to when I was thirteen years old.

I always figured I'd hang onto my Sports Illustrateds for awhile, but there were two key points that informed my decision to let them go:

1) Fifteen years of Sports Illustrated equals four or five boxes. Heavy boxes that would have had to be moved, then stored again. If we were moving to a house and I could pull them out and put them on a bookcase or something, maybe they would've been worth keeping. We're moving to a townhouse, though, another rental, which means we'll probably be on the go again in a few years. Not worth it.

2) I always thought it would be cool to keep something like this for my son to use someday - maybe he'd need pictures for a school project, or just want to read a sports story from when Dad was a kid. Then I remembered that my father did the exact same thing, holding onto stacks and stacks of National Geographics that I never once looked through. Besides, Sports Illustrated recently opened its online archives - if Joey wants to read an old SI, he can visit its web site.

So about two weeks ago, I started going through all the magazines, tearing off the covers (I'm keeping those in a file folder), my favorite Rick Reilly Point After columns (he wrote some great ones through the years), and some of the better long features. Joey can get online for most of his content - if he ever wants to read some real quality writing, however, I want to be able to pull out something like Gary Smith's story on the death of Pat Tillman and hand him the actual pages on which it appeared.

Tonight, I was in the 1994 to 1996 range when I flipped to a Point After from October 7, 1996. My usual custom is to read the first sentence or so, gauge the tone (I tend to go for more serious stuff), and decide if it's worth keeping. The first sentence of this one stopped me right in my tracks:

The list of reasons to love Alex Rodriguez was already longer than Art Schlichter's rap sheet, but when the regular season ended on Sunday and the last of the dizzying hitting records went into the books, the Seattle Mariners' shortstop may have made his most significant contribution yet to the game of baseball.

That was enough to read the whole thing, and I was glad I did, because this gem revealed itself later on:

If Rodriguez does win the award, he will hear the same lame charge that was made last year. The Belle boosters will insist the MVP is a personality contest, and they will not be entirely incorrect. Personality may not be as important as batting average, but it is impossible to expect a voter to ignore Belle's bizarre off-the-field antics. More than merely a marvelous athlete, Rodriguez is by all accounts a team player and a terrific person.

This made me chuckle; how many writers today would call Alex Rodriguez, "a terrific person"? Finally, I looked at the byline to see who penned those words. The name was like a gift from the gods: Gerry Callahan.

Callahan, of course, is cohost of The Dennis and Callahan Show, the morning show on Boston's WEEI. I haven't listened to them in years, but I would almost be willing to guarantee that in recent years, Callahan has had negative things to say about Rodriguez. There's no crime in that, obviously - this article was written almost twelve years ago; opinions can change drastically in twelve weeks, never mind twelve years - and Rodriguez was still years away from joining the Yankees and becoming an instant target, but I found it amusing, given the subsequent paths taken by both men. (Somebody please parse that last sentence. It's pretty awesome.)

Surprisingly, Beach Volleyball Does Not Have Great Announcers

My wife was watching the Olympics when I got home tonight, and even though she went to bed an hour ago, the channel hasn't changed, which means I've been watching the Women's Beach Volleyball gold medal match for the past twenty minutes or so. Words can't express my disappointment that the Chinese team of Xue Chen and Zhang Xi didn't make the final - I was looking forward to watching them square off against Kerri Walsh and Misty May-Treanor.

Anyway, this post isn't meant to be creepy and lecherous; sorry about that. No, my reason for writing tonight (holy shit! I think Kerri Walsh just killed someone with a spike! Brutal!) was to call bullshit on something the announcers have mentioned at least twice so far and will probably bring out again when the ridiculously good Walsh/May-Treanor duo takes the gold:

No team in the Olympic history of beach volleyball has won back-to-back gold medals.

When you first hear that, it's pretty impressive. "Really? No team has ever won back-to-back-golds? Cool, they're gonna make history!" Um, yeah. Right. What they are failing to mention is that Beach Volleyball became an Olympic sport for both men and women in 1996, which means that this will be only the fourth gold medal awarded. But the announcers have failed to mention that point. To hear these guys call it, no team in the long and storied history of Olympic Beach Volleyball has won two golds in a row.

(Holy crap: they just said that in their last match, one of the Chinese players started grabbing her shoulder and "ran off the field of battle." IT'S A BEACH VOLLEYBALL GAME! THERE IS NO FIELD, OR BATTLE! That is officially the most ridiculous sports-war comparison I have ever heard, or will ever hear.)

(Oh, one more thing: if I'm Matt Treanor, I'm a little concerned about the fact that Jason Kidd is making a special effort to come out and watch my wife play volleyball. To quote H.I. McDonough in "Raising Arizona", "You keep your goddamn hands off my wife!")

Forty Is The New Thirty: 2008 Update

Thirteen months ago, I wrote about the seven major league teams that had gone the greatest length of time without a forty homerun hitter. The information presented was good for about two months, at which time Tampa Bay's Carlos Pena went deep for the fortieth time (the first Ray, Devil or otherwise, to reach that mark) and whittled the list down to six.

This seems like as good a time as any for an update. The six remaining teams and their current droughts are listed below, along with the current homerun leader as of August 19 (or August 18; whenever Baseball-Reference.com updates).

Minnesota Twins

Last player to hit 40: Harmon Killebrew, 1970 (41)
Current leader: Justin Morneau (19)

The Homerun Derby-winning first baseman has just five round-trippers since the All-Star Break, including one in August, which has been an all-around dismal month so far.

Pittsburgh Pirates

Last player to hit 40: Willie Stargell, 1973 (44)
Current leader: Nate McLouth (22), Jason Bay (22)

Considering Bay isn't even in the same league anymore (just for giggles, he's got three homeruns in Boston, for a total of 25), this one falls to McLouth. And it's probably gonna keep falling - call me foolish, but I don't see Nate McLouth hitting 18 homeruns in the next six weeks.

Detroit Tigers

Last player to hit 40: Cecil Fielder, 1991 (44)
Current leader: Miguel Cabrera (25)

True story: I happened to be watching a Brewers game with my mother over the weekend. She was amazed when I told her that Cecil Fielder's son was playing for Milwaukee. Anyway...Cabrera got off to a slow start, with eleven homers from April to June, but he is straight slamming in July and August (sorry - I wanted to see how that looked): 14 so far, with ten days left. Forty is not an unreasonable goal.

Kansas City Royals

Last player to hit 40: None
Current leader: Jose Guillen (16)

Yeah. This is not good. Let's move on... (Wait, first: Tony Pena's OPS+ is 2. My next project might be to determine the all-time worst father-son or brother-brother OPS+ numbers for a single season. Pena's father, Tony, put up a mighty 32 for the Red Sox in 1993. In other words, my next project might already be complete.)

Florida Marlins

Last player to hit 40: Gary Sheffield, 1996 (42)
Current leader: Hanley Ramirez (27)

What the hell happened to Dan Uggla? First half: 81 games, 23 homers. Second half: 30 games, 3 homers. Hanley hasn't been a whole lot better, with 23 before the break and just 4 since. At one point he looked like a decent bet for 40-40. Not so much now.

Baltimore Orioles

Last player to hit 40: Rafael Palmeiro, 1998 (43)
Current leader: Aubrey Huff (27)

All off-season, Huff admired porn stars (surprisingly, that link is not safe for work), trashed Baltimore, and stewed over the loss of his share of Tampa Bay's single-season homerun record. He now has 13 homers in July and August. Can he do it? Can he hit 13 more? Can he make Baltimoreans (Baltimorans? Baltimorons? Baltimorites?) forget Rafael Palmeiro? If he gets to 35, he should grow a sweet 'stache, just to help ease the pain.

They Made Me An Offer I Couldn't Refuse

My older sister, Jennifer, often gives me a hard time about this blog - specifically, the fact that she doesn't get mentioned as much as she would like. (Or ever.) And she's right: most of my family stuff here revolves around my wife and son, and I did once hammer out a lengthy ode to my father and a more off-the-cuff post about my brother, but nothing about my sisters or my mother. (Or my grandmother, for that matter, although I've had something in the works for a couple months that could remedy that. It's currently simmering in the drafts.)

But tonight - well, this morning, technically - I was watching the Olympics, sorting through old Sports Illustrated magazines, when something hit me: aside from my wife, who was kind enough to marry me, Jennifer has probably given me the two greatest personal honors of my life.

She has asked me to be the godfather of not one, but two of her children.

The first was Hannah, who will turn six this October, eleven days before my own birthday. I was working in Cooperstown when Jennifer asked me about being her godfather - I think it was in an email, or an IM, or some other convenient but impersonal method of modern communication. It was one of those things that was both surprising (my standard role in the family is "comic relief"; this was a bit more serious than I was used to) and unsurprising (our brother was the godfather to Jennifer's first child, Patrick; I figured she was just moving on down the line).

In almost six years, I'm not sure that it has ever really sunk in that Hannah is my goddaughter. Yeah, I set up a bank account for her (back when I was single, living at home, and actually had money to give) and tried to put some extra thought into her birthday and Christmas presents, but I don't know - "godfather" was just a term, maybe as a result of having grown up with godparents I generally only saw on important family holidays, if at all.

But in late June, a few days after Jennifer's third child, an unexpected little lady named Abigail Susan (please let her middle name actually be Susan. I'm not 100% positive, it's 2:30 in the morning, and there's no one to ask) showed up, Vicki and I drove over to see her for the first time. While we were there, taking turns holding her and trying to avoid making our son too jealous, Jennifer popped the question: would we like to be Abigail's godparents?

My first instinct was to look for Vicki's reaction, because after eight years she has me trained to follow her lead on virtually all matters. We didn't exactly say yes right then and there, I don't think, but one of the nice things about my family is that you don't always have to say something out loud to make it happen. They asked, we cracked a couple jokes about it, they knew we were interested - that's all it took. We were committed. Just give us the time and place and we'll be there.

That was about six weeks ago, and I've been way too wrapped up in the mostly petty problems of my own life to really think about this christening, which will take place in about seven hours. But tonight, as I mentioned above, it finally hit me - this is an honor, a tremendous honor, an important honor, and it comes at a time when I really needed to know that I mattered to someone outside my own little nuclear family. I don't know how to say it any better than that.

So thanks, Jen, for showing me that I matter. It means more than I can explain.

Excuse Me - I'm Going To Be Openly Shallow For A Minute

You know, I don't normally post pictures of pretty ladies just for the sake of posting pictures of pretty ladies, but I'm watching Women's Beach Volleyball on NBC right now and I have to say: Kerri Walsh is Hott. That's right - capital H, two Ts. And tall.



Also, she is very good at volleyball.

Just Because

I was never a huge Nirvana fan growing up, but I bought a Greatest Hits CD a few months ago. This is my favorite song from that collection:



When I'm in the car, I like to crank the volume around the thirty second mark. Great opening sequence.

My Favorite Movie Quotes, Volume 9

Nicolas Cage has long fascinated me as an actor. Even when he's bad, he's still kinda good and fun to watch - his 1996-97 trifecta of The Rock/Con Air/Face-Off ranks among the most watchable in my entire DVD library.

Raising Arizona (1987)

Ed McDonnough: [sobbing] Turn to the right.
H.I.: What's the matter, Ed?
Ed McDonnough: My "fy-ance" left me.
H.I.: [narrating] She said her fiancé had run off with a student cosmetologist, who knew how to ply her feminine wiles.
H.I.: [out loud] That sumbitch. You tell him, I think he's a damn fool, Ed. You tell him I said so - H.I. McDonnough. If he wants to discuss it, he knows where to find me: in the Maricopa County Maximum Security Correctional Facility For Men State Farm, Road Number 31, Tempe, Arizona! I'LL BE WAITIN'! I'll be waitin'.

The Rock (1996)

Stanley Goodspeed: Look, I'm just a biochemist. Most of the time, I work in a little glass jar and lead a very uneventful life. I drive a Volvo, a beige one. But what I'm dealing with here is one of the most deadly substances the earth has ever known, so what say you cut me some FRIGGIN' SLACK?

Con Air (1997)

Cameron Poe: If this goes bad, Larkin, I'm afraid my daughter won't understand. If you talk to my wife again, you tell her I love her. She's my hummingbird. But, I couldn't leave a fallen man behind. You'll do that for me, won't you, Larkin?
Vince Larkin: Sure, I will. What are you gonna do for me?
Cameron Poe: What do you think I'm gonna do? I'm gonna save the fuckin' day!

City of Angels (1998)

Seth: You're an excellent doctor.
Maggie: How do you know?
Seth: I have a feeling.
Maggie: That's pretty flimsy evidence.
Seth: Close your eyes. It's just for a moment.
[touches her hand]
Seth: What am I doing?
Maggie: You're... touching me.
Seth: Touch. How do you know?
Maggie: Because, I feel it.
Seth: You should trust that. You don't trust it enough.

The Family Man (2000)

Kate: When you got on that plane, I was sure it was over. I left the airport afraid I'd never see you again. And then you showed up the very next day. That was a good surprise. You know, I think about the decision you made... maybe I was being naive, but I believed that we would grow old together in this house. That we'd spend holidays here and have our grandchildren come visit us here. I had this image of us, all grey and wrinkly, and me working in the garden and you re-painting the deck. But things change. If you need this, Jack, if you really need this, I will take these kids from a life they love and I'll take myself from the only home we've ever shared together and I'll move wherever you need to go. I'll do that because I love you. I love you, and that's more important to me than our address. I choose us.

Jack: We have a house in Jersey. We have two kids, Annie and Josh. Annie's not much of a violin player, but she tries real hard. She's a little precocious, but that's only because she says what's on her mind. And when she smiles... And Josh, he has your eyes. He doesn't say much, but we know he's smart. He's always got his eyes open, he's always watching us. Sometimes you can look at him and you just know he's learning something new. It's like witnessing a miracle. The house is a mess but it's ours. After 122 more payments, it's going to be ours. And you, you're a non-profit lawyer. That's right, you're completely non-profit, but that doesn't seem to bother you. And we're in love. After 13 years of marriage we're still unbelievably in love. You won't even let me touch you until I've said it. I sing to you. Not all the time, but definitely on special occasions. We've dealt with our share of surprises and made a lot of sacrifices but we've stayed together. You see, you're a better person than I am. And it made me a better person to be around you. I don't know, maybe it was just all a dream. Maybe I went to bed one lonely night in December and I imagined it all. But I swear, nothing has ever felt more real. And if you get on that plane right now, it'll disappear forever. I know we could both go on with our lives and we'd both be fine, but I've seen what we could be like together. And I choose us.

Arnie: [quoting Jack] Don't screw up the best thing in your life just because you're a little unsure about who you are.

My Favorite Movie Quotes, Volume 8

Road House was on AMC tonight, and I got to thinking about Sam Elliott. It was the first movie I ever saw him in; fifteen or so years later, he's one of my favorite actors.

Road House (1989) - Wade Garrett

Doc: Is this the part where you tell me what a great guy your friend is?
Wade Garrett: Not hardly. This is the part where I tell you I want you for myself.
Doc: [laughs]
Dalton: Oh, yo. Whatever he's saying, you can be fairly sure it's a lie.
Wade Garrett: [giving Dalton a look and her a longer look] Don't bet on it.

The Big Lebowski (1998) - The Stranger

[first lines]
The Stranger: [voiceover] Way out west there was this fella I wanna tell ya about. Goes by the name of Jeff Lebowski. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. See, this Lebowski, he called himself "The Dude". Now, "Dude" - there's a name no man would self-apply where I come from. But then there was a lot about the Dude that didn't make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise. But then again, maybe that's why I found the place so darned interestin'. See, they call Los Angeles the "City Of Angels"; but I didn't find it to be that, exactly. But I'll allow it as there are some nice folks there. 'Course I ain't never been to London, and I ain't never seen France. And I ain't never seen no queen in her damned undies, so the feller says. But I'll tell you what - after seeing Los Angeles, and this here story I'm about to unfold, well, I guess I seen somethin' every bit as stupefyin' as you'd seen in any of them other places. And in English, too. So I can die with a smile on my face, without feelin' like the good Lord gypped me. Now this here story I'm about to unfold took place in the early '90s - just about the time of our conflict with Sad'm and the I-raqis. I only mention it because sometimes there's a man... I won't say a hero, 'cause, what's a hero? Sometimes, there's a man. And I'm talkin' about the Dude here - the Dude from Los Angeles. Sometimes, there's a man, well, he's the man for his time and place. He fits right in there. And that's the Dude. The Dude, from Los Angeles. And even if he's a lazy man - and the Dude was most certainly that. Quite possibly the laziest in all of Los Angeles County, which would place him high in the runnin' for laziest worldwide. Sometimes there's a man, sometimes, there's a man. Well, I lost my train of thought here. But... aw, hell. I've done introduced it enough.

We Were Soldiers (2002) - Sgt. Maj. Basil Plumley - This might be my favorite Elliott role, mainly because it seems to exist solely to give him the opportunity to growl one-liners. The three quotes below come at various points in the movie and are not, I don't think, based on actual conversations between the two characters.

Sgt. Ernie Savage: Good morning, Sergeant Major.
Sergeant Major Basil Plumley: How do you know what kind of goddamn day it is?

Sergeant Ernie Savage: Beautiful morning, Sergeant!
Sergeant Major Basil Plumley: What are you a fucking weatherman now?

[after Savage is rescued]
Sergeant Major Basil Plumley: That's a nice day, Sergeant Savage.

Bye, Manny

Thanks to a school field trip to my hometown, I had the opportunity to make a rare visit to see my parents this afternoon. My mother's first words to me after I walked in the door: "Where's my grandson?" My father's first words to me after I walked in the door: "Where's Manny?"

Thirty hours later, give or take, and yep, Manny Ramirez is still gone, leaving on a jet plane to the Left Coast. Say what you will about the guy - he was a prima donna (is that one word or two?), he was a clubhouse cancer, he didn't work hard enough on his fielding, he didn't take the game seriously enough - I'll counter with the following:

a) He probably has the prettiest swing I've ever seen on a righthanded hitter.
b) He played the Green Monster as well as anybody.
c) He is on the short list of Greatest Righthanded Hitters of All-Time.
d) He was often accused of being a man-child, some sort of idiot savant who turned into a God with a 34-inch piece of ash in his hands, but a more accurate description is that he worked extremely hard to hone his craft off the field and approached his job with a childish joy on it.

Say what you want about Manny: I'm gonna miss the big guy. But NOT "Manny Being Manny". I always hated that phrase. Los Angeles can have it.