After a fun and eventful weekend, we have much to discuss…

• It didn’t get posted over the weekend, but my Baseball Prospectus piece on Barry Bonds, “One Man is an Island,” is up today. It’s my sixth BP piece of the year, and though it was written in a bit of a crunch, when I look at it with the benefit of distance and smart editing, I’m quite proud. While it’s not a hardcore sabermetric innovation itself, I do think that the JAWS (Jaffe WARP3 Score) system has something useful to offer when gauging players’ Hall of Fame cases. Too often we get attached to players hanging on for the sake of accumulating milestones while dragging their teams down. One thing that JAWS shows, I think, is that players who don’t linger long past their usefulness end up helping their cases more than those who do. More on that in a moment.

• Additionally at BP, the Internet Baseball Awards, featuring a banner I designed, have opened for voting. The polling — your chance to elect the MVPs, Cy Youngs, Rookies of the Year, and Managers of the Year — will run until October 11. I’ll get to my picks sometime before then.

• I spent a great weekend in Washington, D.C. among some great friends and fantastic baseball minds. With the district’s freshly-restored status as a major-league city adding an unanticipated buzz to the backdrop, we visited the “Baseball as America” exhibit during its closing weekend at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History and tried to catch as much playoff-relevant action as we could. Between the Dodgers-Giants and Angels-A’s series, hell, this was the playoffs.

By the end of the weekend, our various rooting fortunes ran the gamut from elated and relieved Dodger fan (myself) to excited but nervous Yankee fans (Cliff Corcoran, Steven Goldman, and, shamelessly double-dipping, myself again) to despondent, philosophical A’s fan (Chris Kahrl, our gracious host for the weekend) to disconsolate Cubs fan (Alex Ciepley). By Friday night, Alex already appeared to have passed through Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’ five stages of grief. Me, I was still celebrating Dave Ross’ home run from 24 hours earlier even as the Dodgers coughed one up to the Giants. We all winced at having to inform Chris that Alfredo Almegaza had hit a grand-slam to widen the Angels’ lead over the A’s, and could only nod in distant understanding when Alex said about his team, “I’m already over it and looking forward to the off-season.” Ouch.

Sightseeing to the Smithsonian, the World War II Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial and other stops took us out of range of Saturday afternoon’s key games, though it did keep us talking about the coming Washington team. The consensus among us was in favor of the movement to name them the Grays, in tribute to the Negro League’s Homestead Grays, who played in Washington during the ’30s and ’40s and featured Josh Gibson. Other suggestions on our part veered away from the obvious (Sentators, Nationals, Federals, Diplomats, Monuments) to the ridiculous (Beltway Bureaucracy, Capital Punishers) to the really ridiculous (Bloodcougars — a favorite of Steve Goldman, and in a similar spirit, the Fightin’ Eels). We got our yuks all weekend long.

As for missing the games, I rationalized that watching Elmer Dessens start for the Dodgers was beyond the scope of healthy fandom, contemplated the shaky specter of Odalis Perez beating the Giants on three days’ rest on Sunday, and took solace in the fact that only a string of four consecutive victories by the Giants could knock the Dodgers out of the postseason. But when the score of Saturday’s ballgame (7-3 Dodgers on Steve Finley’s walk-off grand slam) was relayed to me as we rode the Metro back to Chris’ place, I let out a yell and danced in the aisle. “NL West Champs!”

For the Dodgers to win the west during the first year of new ownership, with most experts saying that they didn’t have a chance in hell, is sweet. No matter what happened this past weekend or what happens this coming month, they’ve been playing with house money all year long. Give Paul DePodesta an offseason to revamp the team and apply some of Moneyball‘s principles while taking advantage of the Dodgers’ deep farm system and considerably stronger financial state, and this could be a team hunting much bigger game.

For the Dodgers to win by kicking the Giants squarely in the cojones on the season’s final weekend is even sweeter. 1951, 1962, 1982, the fact that under Jim Tracy they had never won a September series against the Giants until last weekend… all of that matters little right now. To quote South Park‘s Eric Cartman, “Oh, the tears of unfathomable sadness. Yummy, yummy!”

I’ve been convinced for the past few years that Tracy is a hell of a manager, especially when it comes to getting more out of less by putting players with limitations in positions at which they can succeed. It’s a pleasure to see his hard work and perseverance rewarded, especially in the face of so many detractors and so much misfortune. The Dodger starting pitching damn near dropped an axle down the stretch, and a trade made for all of the right reasons blew up in DePodesta’s face due to injuries (of course, another trade worked out quite well, thankyouverymuch Mr. Finley). Yet the team found innumerable ways to keep winning, managing to eke out good pitching performances from the likes of Jeff Weaver, Jose Lima, and even Kaz Ishii, not to mention a great one from Odalis Perez. The relievers, most of them in-season pickups or recalls, kept picking each other up, and the hitters kept fighting until the final out through the rocky stretches of the past few weeks. Even if they repeat the postseason futility they have shown since the final out of the ’88 Series, they are deserving of their division championship and of their place in the hearts of Dodger fans everywhere.

• Elsewhere around the game, a tip of the cap to Adam Dunn of the Cincinnati Reds as well as his manager, Dave Miley. Dunn broke Bobby Bonds’ single-season record for batting strikeouts, a record that had stood since 1970. That it lasted so long, and that I note its passing here so vociferously is in no small part due to the chicanery of the managers whose players recently approached it.

In 2000, when Preston Wilson of the Florida Marlins reached strikeout number 185 in his team’s 155th game (Wilson had missed only one), manager John Boles limited him to single at-bats in back-to-back games to slow his progress. He did play as a starter in his team’s final three games, and finished with 187.

In 2001, Jose Hernandez of the Milwaukee Brewers racked up his 181st K in game 156. From then until the end of the season, manager Davey Lopes pulled him in mid-game three times and sat him three times, and he finished with 185. Not to be outdone, Lopes’ replacement, Jerry Royster, did the same thing to Hernandez the next yearwhen he racked up number 188 in the Brewers’ 151st game. He played in only three more games the rest of the season, though he avoided striking out even once.

Dunn finished this season with 195 strikeouts. He also hit .266/.388/.569 with 46 homers, 102 RBI, and 108 walks. He refused to sit when chasing the record, missed only one game all season, and faced the mark with self-effacing humor: “That is the one Bonds that I will have a record over,” he said. “Now I will just try to add on to it before the year is over.”

In this age of unprecedented power numbers, strikeouts don’t carry the stigma they used to. Nor should they, given that they actually go hand in hand with many positive offensive metrics. Bonds’ record was an anachronism, and for Dunn to assume the mark without shame amid such a fine season ensures that I’ll find room for him on my MVP ballot.

• Another player who will find room on my MVP ballot (though not at the top) is Ichiro Suzuki, who broke the 84-year-old hit record of George Sisler. Yes, he did it with a longer schedule than Sisler, yes, most of those 262 hits were singles (225 of them, to be exact), and yes, he doesn’t really walk much (49 times in 762 PA). Anybody who wants to tell me how a guy hitting .372/.414/.455 with 36 steals in 47 attempts while playing above-average defense isn’t helping his team — even if it is a crappy one — is wasting his or her breath.

• Speaking of the Mariners, a fond farewell to one of the classiest players in the game and one of the finest hitters I’ve ever seen, Edgar Martinez. The numbers are pretty damn impressive: .312/.418/.515 with 309 homers and 2247 hits despite not getting a regular job until age 27 and losing a fair amount of time due to injury even after that. His style of hitting frozen ropes off of the best pitchers at the best (or worst, depending on your perspective) times was impressive as well. Since his incredible AL Divisional Series in 1995, culminating with the series-winning hit, he absolutely KILLED the Yanks, and like no other player, he had Mariano Rivera’s number. In 19 plate appearances, Edgar hit .625 off of him with an 1.888 OPS.

If you missed Derek Zumsteg’s tribute, written last October when it was unclear whether he would come back, do check it out. Here’s a snippet:

I saw fans cry for the first time on Sunday, the last day of the Mariners season. Edgar Martinez was at bat in the eighth for what may be the last plate appearance of his career, and the standing ovation rolled on and on.

In Friday’s game, during his last-at bat of the first game of the home stand against the A’s, it started. Edgar always stares at the pitcher, intent on his job. But between pitches, he stepped back and his eyes glanced around, as if not sure the fans were cheering for him. That’s Edgar, though: 17 years as a Mariner, one of the best hitters to ever pick up a bat, in his last home stand, he wasn’t sure the M’s hadn’t just announced free hundred-dollar bills for every fan or something. We couldn’t have cheered that hard for free money.

Elsewhere, Zumsteg has made a case for Martinez in the Hall. With the benefit of JAWS, I’ll make another one. Here are the average career and peak Wins Above Replacement totals for each Hall of Famer by position (for a description of how these are computed see the aforementioned BP article)

POS       #  WARP3   PEAK   JAWS

P        59   90.2   41.6   65.9

C        13   95.7   41.4   68.6

1B       18   96.6   42.6   69.6

2B       16  111.8   47.0   79.4

3B       10  105.7   43.8   74.7

SS       20  101.2   43.6   72.4

LF       19  107.2   44.1   75.6

CF       17  112.2   47.4   79.8

RF       22  115.4   44.7   80.0

Hitters 134  106.2   44.4   75.3

Edgar     1  108.0   46.1   77.1

Despite his late start and despite spending most of his career as a DH, Edgar scores better than not only the average third baseman (of which half in the Hall are the wrong ones anyway) but also the average hitter. Among the Hall of Fame hitters I’ve seen in my lifetime, that score tops Willie McCovey (74.1), Kirby Puckett (71.6), Willie Stargell (71.1), Tony Perez (68.8), and Lou Brock (62.9). It also tops about 75 other hitters I didn’t see play, including Johnny Mize, Joe Medwick, Harmon Killebrew, Hank Greenberg, Ralph Kiner, Hack Wilson, George Sisler, Tinker-Evers-Chance… the list goes on. He should make it in.

• Speaking of emotional farewells written by Baseball Prospecus authors, Jonah Keri’s “Au Revoir, Mes Amours,” a tribute to the Expos as their departure becomes tangible, is required reading (and it’s free, so you’ve got no excuse). In the piece, Keri, who grew up in Montreal and played hooky at Expos games with his pals, touches many a nerve not just with regards to the sad fate of his hometown team, but also to the highs and lows of being a baseball fan anywhere. A sample snippet:

Fandom, more often than not, is about the city in which the team plays. Your hometown team becomes part of your identity. When your team wins, your hometown walks a little taller — you walk a little taller. When your team loses, you’re not quite right — a piece of yourself has been knocked down a peg. I was born and raised in Montreal. For as long as I can remember, an Expos victory has provided that bounce in my step; an Expos loss slumped my shoulders ever so slightly.

Tracing fandom can lead you to an even smaller place than your hometown. It goes to the ballpark where you grew up watching the games. It extends to the chesterfield (sofa, for you Yanks) where you sat, feet nowhere near touching the floor, seeing your first images of your baby-blue pajama-top wearing hometown heroes. I remember getting my first taste of Expos baseball watching games with my grandfather Max, sitting in his living room, watching a scratchy old TV, listening to him cheer Andre Dawson, rail against Rodney Scott. “Oh no, not The Woodchopper again!” he’d cry as Scott strode to the plate, his trademark ugly swing about to unleash another hopeless grounder to second on Expo Nation.

Really, that’s what being a fan of a sports team is all about. Enjoying the moment, cherishing the memories.

While I don’t envy Jonah’s pain, as somebody who grew up far from any major-league ballpark, I’m green at his descriptions of a not-so-misspent youth, and just reading about some of his favorite moments (and those of other Expos fans) is enough to induce both goosebumps and tears.

I’m reminded of a favorite piece written by the late, great L.A. Times sportswriter Jim Murray, anthologized in The Last of the Best as well as The Best American Sportswriting of the Century. “If You’re Expecting One-Liners,” written in 1979, is about Murray losing his good eye. “He stole away like a thief in the night and he took a lot with him,” wrote Murray, “But not everything. He left a lot of memories. He couldn’t take those with him. He just took the future with him and the present. He coudn’t take the past.”

Instead of bemoaning his cruel fate, Murray enumerates some of the things he saw and would like to see again, among them “Reggie Jackson with the count 3 and 2 and the Series on the line, guessing fastball. I guess I’d like to see Rod Carew with men on first and second and no place to put him, and the pitcher wishing he were standing in the rain someplace, reluctant to let go of the ball… Come to think of it, I’m lucky. I saw all of those things. I see them yet.”

Like Murray, Keri has written a powerful and graceful piece, bittersweet with an emphasis on the sweetness rather than the bitterness. Great stuff.

• The playoffs are coming! The playoffs are coming! I’ve maneuvered my schedule to work at home on Tuesday. But I had to had to pass up the opportunity to attend that evening’s Yankees-Twins opener because I’m finally going to see Wilco play, something I’ve been waiting years to do. Within my ticket group, I’ve foregone any other claim for a chance to see the World Series. A Dodgers-Yankees matchup would make my year, even though I’d probably have to take a week off of work just to keep from hyperventilating.

More on the playoffs next time…