The game of baseball lost one of its more endearing personalities yesterday when Tug McGraw died of brain cancer at age 59. I have fond memories of Tug as a Phillie, the ace reliever for the loyal opposition to my Dodgers in the late ’70s and early ’80s. I enjoyed pulling for the Phils in the 1980 postseason; McGraw’s triumphant, arms-up celebration after striking out Willie Wilson to win the World Series is one I and every baseball-loving kid my age re-enacted countless times in our own yards and imaginations. Now, like his opposite number in that Series, the Royals’ zany reliever Dan Quisenberry, McGraw’s been taken from us too soon.

In 1969, McGraw was part of the amazin’ crop of young Mets pitchers — along with Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman, and Nolan Ryan — who helped to turn the game’s laughingstock into a World Champion. Perhaps most famously, he coined the rallying cry, “You gotta believe,” which inspired the pennant-winning 1973 Mets. On August 20 of that season, the team stood at 55-67, in last place and 7 games out of first in a tightly-bunched NL East. Over the next six weeks, McGraw reeled off 5 wins and 12 saves while allowing only four runs in 41 innings. At 82-79, the Mets won their division by 1.5 games, upset the heavily-favored Cincinnati Reds in the NLCS, and lost a seven-game World Series to the defending-champion Oakland A’s.

McGraw went on to pitch ten years for the Phillies, a span during which they won six division titles, two pennants, and their only championship in franchise history. As the man attached to the team’s defining moment, McGraw is being mourned as royalty today, his passing front page news in the Philadelphia Inquirier, with about a dozen features attached to the story. Dave Anderson of the New York Times has some fond memories of McGraw’s time in New York, while Frank Litsky has the Times obituary, which includes some touching words from the late, great Red Smith: “He is a beautiful guy, a sensitive, emotional, demonstrative, genuine, outgoing, affectionate, exuberant, sad and sometimes irresponsible human being… left-handed and lighthearted and not necessarily more predictable than the screwball he throws, but he is no dummy.”

McGraw was one of the game’s eminently quotable players, coming up with some beauties:

• On the difference between natural and artificial playing surfaces: “I don’t know, I never smoked Astroturf.”

• On his physique: “I have no trouble with the twelve inches between my elbow and my palm. It’s the seven inches between my ears that’s bent.”

• On signing a new contract: “Ninety percent I’ll spend on good times, women and Irish Whiskey. The other ten percent I’ll probably waste.”

• On pressure: “Ten million years from now, when then sun burns out and the Earth is just a frozen iceball hurtling through space, nobody’s going to care whether or not I got this guy out.”

• His fastballs, which he named: the Peggy Lee (which had batters asking “Is that all there is?”), the Bo Derek (“the one with a nice little tail on it”), the John Jameson (straight as Irish whiskey), the Cutty Sark (it sailed), and the Titanic (it sank).

It’s rare when a sports figure can be recalled with affection by fans in two cities with such a heated rivalry. But today we all agree on something: Tug McGraw was a rare individual.

As the baseball world prepares for the announcement of the Hall of Fame Class of 2004, one very high profile ex-player has begun laying the groundwork for his own election in 2005. Pete Rose has published a book in which he admits to gambling on Cincinnati Reds games while managing the team in 1987 and 1988, actions he’s vehemently denied since his lifetime ban from baseball 15 years ago. On Thursday evening, a prime-time interview with Rose will air on ABC.

It’s not hard to view Rose’s actions with skepticism. He wants commissioner Bud Selig to reinstate him, both so that he can be eligible for the Hall of Fame and so that he can work in baseball again. Time is running out on his window of opportunity to gain election to the Hall via the Baseball Writers of America ballot. And, last but not least, he never met a money-making opportunity he didn’t like.

Recall that back in August, Baseball Prospectus writers Will Carroll and Derek Zumsteg broke a story that Major League Baseball would reinstate Rose, setting off a distasteful chain of events which led to them being bashed by MLB blowhards and so-called legitimate news outfits embarrassed at being scooped.

It’s important to note that the two main points of BP’s report — Rose’s reinstatement by Major League Baseball, and the lack of a need for him to admit wrongdoing for that to happen — haven’t proven to be true yet. On the contrary, Rose HAS admitted wrongdoing, MLB has yet to reinstate him, and if Bad Rug Bud and His Butt-Ugly Thugs perceive too strong a backlash over Rose’s admission, such reinstatement may not take place.

What isn’t clear yet is whether BP’s scoop changed the story itself, the actions of the principals involved. Did Bud feel the backlash and require this admission? Did Pete decide that this was a golden opportunity to make a buck? Expect both camps to say whatever is politically expedient; I’m not sure we’ve ever heard the truth on the matter from either Bud or Pete, and I’ve got better things to do than wait for hell to freeze over.

I’m going to put aside my cynicism about Rose (who “in his interview with Primetime… says he bet without knowing how drastic the penalties would be,” despite the warning posted in every major league baseball clubhouse) and the manufactured sincerity of this media event for the moment to call bullshit…. no, I mean, to call your attention to a unique angle from Alex Belth.

When we were down in New Orleans, Alex and I had an interesting discussion about the Rose situation and about the growing influence of nontraditional, Internet-based outlets for baseball coverage. Today he’s got a stellar piece relating our outsider experience in New Orleans to the topsy-turvy world of the Rose scoop, including some choice quotes from Carroll about the obstacles of an outsider taking on an inside story. Meanwhile, Zumsteg has his own brief take on the latest news at his USS Mariner blog.

Are Carroll and Zumsteg vindicated yet? No, and they’ll be the first to tell you that. But you can bet that they will come out smelling better than the (S)Hit King when this story’s final chapter is written.

With results of the 2004 Baseball Writers of America voting to be announced on Tuesday, the Hall of Fame is on everybody’s lips. Writers everywhere — those with ballots real and imagined — have been posting their votes online. Alex Ciepley has an accurate take on the situation — and some good picks — at his Ball Talk blog.

In the past, I’ve done lengthy rundowns of the ballot in preparation for the results, and you can rest assured that I’m doing the same this year, but with a new wrinkle. I don’t want to jinx anything, so I won’t say much more than that my picks will be up early in the coming week… somewhere.

The hot-button candidate in the online baseball community is Bert Blyleven, who won 287 games in the big leagues and is #5 on the all-time strikeout list. Blyeleven hasn’t gotten much love from Hall of Fame voters in his first six years on the ballot, failing to top 30 percent when 75 percent is the required number to achieve enshrinement. But the consensus among many who have studied the issue beyond simple wins and losses is that he belongs in the Hall. Rich Lederer has an excellent summary of the statistical case to be made for Blyleven, and he’s even taken that a step further by emailing two Hall of Fame voters, Bill Conlin and Jeff Peek. The responses he got were very enlightening. Conlin, a Philadelphia Daily News sportswriter who’s known nationally for his girth and his belligerence more than his intellect, dismissed Rich’s work as “cybergeek stuff,” while Peek, who writes for the Traverse City [Michigan] Record-Eagle, admitted that in his first-ever Hall ballot, he blew it on Blyleven.

I’ve remarked among friends a number of times that the Hall of Fame is an area where statheads might make a meaningful difference in convincing voters to re-examine their previously held assumptions about certain players. Rich’s work is proof that occasionally, somebody might listen. From another precinct, Aaron Gleeman points to a recent article by Sporting News writer Ken Rosenthal, in which he refers to park-adjusted figures on Baseball-Reference as helping to sway him in Blyleven’s favor.

Early returns at Baseball Primer show that Blyleven hasn’t gained much support, but he’ll still have eight more years on the ballot after this one, and there’s hope that the BBWAA voters might be swayed sooner or later. After all, not all of those ballot-hogs can live forever.

It’s been a slow week on the baseball front, which has suited me fine. Things might stay a little quiet around here for the next several days; I’ve got a couple of big projects in the works which are taking a lot of my writing time. If the tumbleweeds start to get you down, I invite you to check out the pieces which I consider to be my best work of 2003. I’m extremely proud of each and every one of these seventeen (too many for a Top Ten, not enough for a Top Twenty, and with no baseball relevance whatsoever, numerically speaking), which remind me that this transitional year — in which I left my job of nearly six years, moved in with my girlfriend, seriously injured myself, saw this site’s readership more than double, and made some real-live friends thanks to my work here — was a pretty good one for me, bum shoulder be damned.

Apologies to anybody who feels this is overly self-congratulatory, but as the great writer Jimmy Breslin once said, “If you do not blow your own horn, there is no music.” Roughly in chronological order (and with apologies if the permalinks to blog entries aren’t working in your browser):

• The Hoyt Scale Re-Revisited, my first article for Baseball Primer, in which I examine a helpful method to rate relief pitchers. Just this morning, I hit the motherlode for the data I was missing (thanks to friends in high places), and I’ll be significantly revising this study in the coming weeks.

• DIPS 2002, my attempt to keep Voros McCracken’s groundbreaking work in the public eye. Yes, full 2003 stuff is coming, as is a rundown of some of the latest research…

• Lenn Sakata: The Midget Wrestler Catches On. Hot on the heels of this site’s first mainstream media mention in the San Jose Mercury News is a profile of the first ballplayer I ever spoke to.

• Tony Suck: The Man Who Lived Up to His Name, my study of one of the worst players in baseball history. So highly thought of, it was a Clutch Hit on Baseball Primer not once but twice.

• Spring Back to Life, my account of a trip to Florida in March in search of some rejuvenation.

• Up in Arms, a look at the A.J. Burnett situation and the topic of pitch counts. Who knew that this would have such an impact on the Florida Marlins?

• Clearing the Bases Several Times Over, one of my notorious multi-topic pieces. I really got on a roll in this particular one, to which I’ll attribute being the first time I got comfy writing in my new apartment.

• Return of the Bulldog, my review of Jim Bouton’s latest book, Foul Ball: My Life and Hard Times Trying to Save an Old Ballpark. Sadly and predictably, the team Bouton and his partner tried to purchase, which became the Berkshire Black Bears in the hands of rival owner Jonathan Fleisig, is abandoning Wahconah Park and moving to Connecticut. Oddly enough former Red Sox GM and frequent Futility Infielder target Dan Duquette is the man with the best hope for keeping baseball in Wahconah.

• A Perfect Pitch, my review of the American Folk Art Museum in New York City’s exhibit, “The Perfect Game: America Looks at Baseball.” The exhibit runs through February 1, 2004, so if you’re in the area, it’s a must-see.

• The Bonds of Summer, my reaction to Dan Le Batard’s ESPN Magazine article on Barry Bonds and the passing of his father, Bobby.

• Goosebump Moments, a wrap-up of the regular season’s final weekend. I attended two games and watched two more, and saw some things that I’ll remember for a long, long time. How often do you give a standing ovation from your own living room?

• I Am Trying to Break Your Heart, my coverage of the Yankees-Red Sox ALCS Game Seven. No, the Yanks didn’t win the World Series, but memories of this night are keeping me warm this winter. I’ve watched that eighth inning a few dozen times already. Favorite images include Hideki Matsui’s leap into the air after scoring the tying run and Jorge Posada’s Incredible Hulk celebration after the hit which did it. See also Rhapsody in Pink, my girlfriend’s account of what it was like at the Stadium that night.

• A Futility Infielder Vocabulary Lesson, a quick piece I did earlier on the day of Game Seven while trying not to dwell on the matchup. My entries for the Big Book of Bitter Defeats, the Big Book of Bad Ideas and the Get Off My Property Home Run were well-timed, if not quite prophetic. Soooner or later, I’ll make this a permanent feature of the site.

• Let It Bleed, a rumination on writing that’s both a reaction to a piece on the hiring of Don Mattingly and an introduction to the exhumation of a feature which presaged this site. We’ll count the first two links as part of this “Best of” bunch, but I make no such claim on the third. Caveat emptor.

• Bum (with a Bad) Shoulder, a discussion of my torn labrum and impending surgery, with a big assist from Will Carroll and his fatehr, Dr. William Carroll.

• Working the Room in a Winter Wonderland, my account of attending baseball’s Winter Meetings in New Orleans, a weekend that I’m still savoring.

Well, those were my faves. If anybody out there feels that I’ve missed one of theirs, please let me know via the comments link.

I’ll close my final entry of the year with a hearty “Thank You!” to all of my dear readers for taking the time to visit this site during 2003, and for making this endeavor feel special to me. At the risk of slapping my forehead for leaving somebody out, here’s a special thanks to the not-so-small handful of (mostly) writers who’ve given me some encouragement, help, traffic, or just stimulating discussion this year: Rich Allen, Alex Belth, Chaim Bloom, John Bonnes, Dan Brown, Mike Carminati, Will Carroll, Clifford’s Big Red Blog, Jon Daly, Elephants in Oakland, Sean Forman, Aaron Gleeman, Steven Goldman, Aaron Haspel, Julien Headley, Alex Lash, Rich Lederer, Jonathan Leshanski, Mitchel Lichtman, Larry Mahnken, Tim Marchman, Art Martone, Travis Nelson, Irina Paley, Avkash Patel, Long Gone John Perricone, Dayn Perry, David Pinto, Repoz, Christian Ruzich, the Score Bard, Joe Sheehan, Geoff Silver, Nate Silver, Pete Sommers, Greg Spira, Seth Strohs, John Strubel, Dave Studenmund, Robert Tagorda, Jon Weisman, John Wiebe, Ryan Wilkins, and the Baseball Primer Clutch Hitters.

Even more special thanks to my family (Mom, Dad, Bryan) and friends (Issa, Julie, Nick, the Hardts, the Hoffstens, the Pipers, the Wiedemanns, and others) who’ve provided such wonderful encouagement and emotional support during this very strange year, and most definitely to my girlfriend Andra, for not only giving me the space to spend so much of my time on this, but for letting herself get caught up in the fun as well. I’m a very, very lucky guy to have all of these people in my life.

Best wishes to all of you for a Happy New Year!

This one just writes itself…

Item 1 (Wednesday, December 25): Yankees assessed luxury tax of $11.82 million, based on their $184.5 million payroll. They are the only one of 30 teams to exceed the $117 million threshold set by the most recent Collective Bargaining Agreement. The threshold will rise to $120 million in 2004, as will the Yanks’ tax rate (22.5 percent, up from 17.5) when they exceed it.

Item 2 (Thursday, December 26): Yankees assessed revenue sharing payment of $48.8 million, the highest in the majors, of course. For some reason, the news about which team will receive the most hasn’t been trumpeted in the same manner. That would be the Milwaukee Brewers, the team commissioner Bud Selig doesn’t own. The Brewers will receive an estimated $18 million against a $40.6 million payroll, despite which the team has decided to reduce its 2004 payroll to $30 million. Oh, and according to professor of economics Andrew Zimbalist, who wrote an article in the New York Times last week (see previous link, now at Sports Business News), the Brewers have shown an operating profit of $20.24 million in their three years in Miller Park. No wonder the politicians of Wisconsin want to audit the team’s books.

Item 3 (Saturday, December 28): Yankee owner George Steinbrenner faints at a memorial service for legendary Cleveland Browns quarterback Otto Graham. In a slow week, this qualifies as front page news in both city tabloids.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Give me an owner willing to spend money to buy a winner over one who tries to hide the money and cry poor any day of the year. Give me an owner, even one as boorish as Steinbrenner, willing to stand in the fire of public opinion for his decisions over a faceless corporation any day of the year. Give me an owner willing to charge me face value for a ticket to one of the premier attractions in all of sports over one which scalps its own best tickets. As Selena Roberts wrote in the Times:

Without a healthy George for three decades, superstars, has-beens and raw projects would not have had anyone to inflate their salaries to a point where the union can cry collusion when owners fall below the bar Steinbrenner sets. Sometimes, the Boss will even bid against himself to provide an economic boost for malcontents like Kenny Lofton.

So, feel better, Boss. Your loyal partner, D. Fehr.

Without a robust Steinbrenner on the prowl, the Red Sox would not be as motivated to turn to a Luke Skywalker wannabe like Theo Epstein as a means of defeating the dark forces they despise. Recently, Schilling used Boston’s desperation as leverage to land his wish list.

So, get well, George. Your happy nemesis, Curt.

Without a vital Boss at the helm of the Yankee dynasty, how would Murdoch’s Fox TV have created a ratings point from a Marlins World Series if Florida hadn’t had a foil like Steinbrenner? Now, more coupon-clipping teams than ever can live the same small-market dream with the revenue wealth Steinbrenner has to share.

So, take care, George. Your ego equal, Rupert.

Without a hearty Steinbrenner to create an off-season diversion, baseball would be mired in unsavory topics like drug testing, THG and home run asterisks. Instead, those annoying subjects were quickly pushed aside because of an American League East shopping spree inspired by the Yankees.

So, speedy recovery, George. Milwaukee’s public enemy, Commissioner Bud Selig.

Truly, every baseball fan should join in, sign a card, send a letter or bake some cookies. Some might successfully argue that the Boss with the shopaholic tendencies has snuffed out baseball, but without Steinbrenner in the daily mix, who would give the sport life?

He is the necessary evil in the empire.

Get well soon, George. Baseball needs you far more than it needs ass-clowns like Selig.

• • •

Speaking of Otto Graham, while you’re sitting around watching football over the next few weeks — the only time of year I ever pay attention to the sport since this site’s inception — raise a glass to the man who showed America that the forward pass was the best thing since sliced bread, thus making football watchable. And while you’re at it, raise another glass to the late Sid Gillman, the architect of the modern passing game, who himself passed last January 3. Air Coryell and the West Coast Offense were outgrowths of his philosophy. Where have you gone, John Jefferson?

• • •

More time for punchlines: Peter Gammons is in a band called the Fabulous Penetrations on an album which will also feature the musical talents of Theo Epstein, Scott Spiezio, and Jack McDowell. Draw lots among yourself to see who gets to shoot me first before I have to listen, because I swear that if anybody on Baseball Tonight starts plugging this shit I am going to Dial M on somebody’s ass.

• • •

And now to a couple of good blogs I’ve been meaning to point out for awhile… one is Dick Allen’s Baseball Blog which despite the nominal resemblence to the former star, is more general in focus. This particular Rich Allen (as he also bills himself) lives in Ireland and keeps his blog with three other pals. Though he writes about his namesake once in awhile, Rich has lately been working on studying whether hitters’ batting average on balls in play correlates with their groundball/flyball ratio. He hasn’t reached any conclusions yet, but it’s interesting stuff nonetheless.

The other is El Lefty Malo, a mostly Giants-themed blog done by Alex Lash, a man who holds a special spot in my personal pantheon. Back in college, Alex served as my mentor not once but twice. First he was the supervisor of the late, lamented East Campus Dining Center, a dark and grimy burger mecca on the far reaches of the Brown University campus. The best lesson Alex imparted when training me for that same post was to never let go control of the stereo during my shift, lest I be forced to listen to somebody else’s music. I think he also taught me that 8 minutes on the clock rounded up to 15, and that it was acceptable to stand there with a blank timecard test-punching until the magical mark was reached so long as you discreetly got rid of the test card. No wonder the ECDC (pronounced “Eck-Deck”) closed before my senior year.

Second and more importantly, Alex was an editor of good clean fun, the campus’ official weekly entertainment paper. He brought me onboard to write about music — I think my first review was of Neil Young’s Ragged Glory — and generously praised my nascent writing efforts. At the end of my first year doing that, he appointed me Music Editor. Back then I wanted to be the next Lester Bangs, a condition which took about seven years to find a cure for. Now I just want to be… some cross between Red Smith, Bill James, Rob Neyer, Roger Angell, Roger Kahn, Jim Bouton, and Jules Tygiel, or something like that (nah, actually I just want to be the next Jay Jaffe, noted writer).

Alex, who’s now a professional journalist, found my blog over a year ago and emailed me out of the blue, and he recently came out of the woodwork again to say holá. Named after an “ancient Mexican baseball insult” dating back to his days as a high-school pitcher, and self-described as “craftily working the outside corner,” his blog has been going strong since September, sometimes in conjunction with a friend. Alex has been keeping a close eye on money lately, whether it’s the Giants payroll, non-tendered players, or the Cardinals new privately-financed stadium deal. Check him out.

• • •

Anybody in the New York City area who’s a regular to the Internet baseball world should make an effort to hit the Baseball Primer meetup on Monday, January 5, 2004. It’s in my neighborhood, fortunately, at Waikiki Wally’s Tiki Bar & Hawaiian Restaurant, 101 E. 2nd St., so I’ll be there — if not with bells on, then at least my replica Seattle Pilots jersey. There are other meetups on the same day around the country; follow the link above or check Primer to find out where yours is.

• • •

I’m pleased to announce to all concerned that my right shoulder, which underwent surgery six weeks ago, has been slowly healing. Those of you who saw me (or a one-armed bandit bearing my name) at the Winter Meetings in New Orleans should know that I’ve shed my sling and have begun physical therapy. Still, progress is slow, glacially slow. On a day-to-day basis it’s hard to see any improvement, but on a week-to-week basis, I know that my range of motion has impoved and I’ve stopped taking pain medication. It’s a start.

Yesterday I went out and bought a 3-foot dowel for use with my home exercises. The first thing I did when I brought it home was to grip the end of it, right hand over left, tap the outside corner of some imaginary home plate, twirl the stick a few times, à la Willie Stargell, and then swing it slowly, as if in instant replay. I wasn’t smacking a game-winning homer in this fantasy, just lining a sharp single up the middle. What can I say? I’ve got realistic goals right now.

The following is an encore presentation of my annual December 25 piece, revised to incorporate new stats and other info through the 2003 season.

December 25 marks a holiday for most of this country and probably, for most of my readership — if so, my sincere wishes for a happy holiday to you. For me the day is somewhat more paradoxical: I’m Jewish and thus don’t celebrate Christmas, which is fine by me because I’m none too fond of that red and green color scheme. It also happens to be my birthday, number 34 to be exact.

I’ll spare you the tales about how this combination of circumstances influenced my psyche while growing up (long story short: people forgetting birthday bad, never having to work or go to school on birthday good) and, as usual, move onto the baseball angle in all of this. Baseball-reference.com lists 65 players as being born on December 25, including Hall-of-Famers Pud Galvin and Nellie Fox, and future Hall-of-Famer Rickey Henderson. Henderson is undoubtedly the best major-leaguer born on this day, but then again, he’d be the best major-leaguer born on any one of over three hundred other days, too.

Given that there are 256 members of the Hall of Fame (including executives), having two or three HOFers born on any single date is an above-average representation. Still, having spent some time looking over the resumes of the 65 ballplayers with December 25 birthdays, I can’t make any claims for the All Xmas Team I’ve assembled. They’re exceedingly long on futility infielders and backup catchers, short on outfielders, first basemen, and power hitters in general. Their pitching is pretty solid — a front three of Pud, Ned, and Ted — though they don’t really have a closer.

Pos  Name (Years)                 AVG   OBP   SLG   HR

C    Quincy Trouppe (1952)       .100  .182  .100    0   

1B   Walter Holke (1914-1925)    .287  .318  .363   24

2B   Nellie Fox (1947-1965)      .288  .348  .363   35

3B   Gene Robertson (1919-1930)  .280  .344  .373   20

SS   Manny Trillo (1973-1989)    .263  .316  .345   61

LF   Jo-Jo Moore (1930-1941)     .298  .344  .408   79

CF   Rickey Henderson (1979-)    .279  .401  .419  297

RF   Ben Chapman (1930-1946)     .302  .383  .440   90



C    Gene Lamont (1970-1975)     .233  .278  .371    4

IF   Tom O'Malley (1982-1990)    .256  .329  .340   13

IF   Joe Quinn (1884-1901)       .261  .302  .327   29

IF   Bill Akers (1929-1932)      .261  .349  .404   11

OF   Red Barnes (1927-1930)      .269  .347  .404    8

OF   Gerry Davis (1983-1985)     .301  .370  .397    0

PH   Wallace Johnson (1981-1990) .255  .316  .332    5



Pos  Name (Years)                 W    L    S   ERA

SP   Pud Galvin (1875-1892)      364  310   2  2.86   

SP   Ned Garver (1948-1961)      129  157  12  3.73

SP   Ted Lewis (1896-1901)        94   64   4  3.53

SP   Charlie Lea (1980-1988)      62   48   0  3.54

SP   George Haddock (1888-1894)   95   87   2  4.07

RP   Al Jackson (1959-1969)       67   99  10  3.98

RP   Lloyd Brown (1928-1940)      91  105  21  4.20

RP   Eric Hiljus (1999-2002)       8    3   0  4.72

RP   Charlie Beamon (1956-1958)    3    3   0  3.91

CL   Jack Hamilton (1962-1969)    32   40  20  4.53

A few words about the selections:

* Quincy Trouppe spent twenty-two years in the Negro Leagues before receiving a 10-at-bat cup of coffee with the Cleveland Indians in 1952, at age 39. He was a fine player in his day, making All-Star teams everywhere he went and accumulating a lifetime Negro League Average of .311. He also won a Negro League championship as player-manager of the Cleveland Buckeyes. Bill James rates him the #7 catcher of the Negro Leagues in the New Historical Baseball Abstract. One more interesting note about him: during the height of World War II, he had trouble securing a passport to play in the Mexican League. The league’s president intervened, and made arrangements for Trouppe’s services in exchange for those of 80,000 Mexican workers. You could look it up.

* Manny Trillo played most of his career as a second baseman, and a slick-fielding one at that, winning three Gold Gloves and setting a record for consecutive errorless games. But Nellie Fox also won three Gold Gloves at 2B, so I took the liberty of moving Trillo to SS (where he had limited experience). I’m sure he and Nellie would have made a fine double-play combo. Trillo is the only Christmas-born ballplayer whose real name is Jesus.

* Jo-Jo Moore and Ben Chapman both crack Bill James’ Top 100 lists by postion. Moore ranks 77th among LFs, Chapman 55th among CFs (I put him in right because he played a good portion of his career there). Chapman was, by all accounts, an aggressive ballplayer who fought a lot. He stole as many as 61 bases, and had some power as well. He later managed the Philadelphia Phillies for parts of four seasons and is most noted for baiting the rookie Jackie Robinson with racial epithets. Schmuck. We’ll let Trouppe manage this squad, just to rub it in Chapman’s face.

* Red Barnes — don’t you love that name? Gerry Davis did pretty well in 73 ABs for the Padres, but missed out on their glory year of 1984. There’s now an umpire with the same name, but I can’t figure out if its the same guy.

* Wallace Johnson was a pretty good pinch-hitter whose claim to fame was the hit that put the Montreal Expos in their first (and only) postseason in 1981. He spent five years as the third-base coach with the Chicago White Sox but was fired after the 2002 season. At last notice, he had plans to run for a city council position in Gary, Indiana, the murder capital of the U.S. Fun.

* Three of the pitchers on this team made their names in the 19th century, when pitching and pitching stats were much different. Galvin had back-to-back 46-win seasons in 1883 and 1884, making over 70 starts each year. He won 20 games or more ten times, and lost 20 games or more 10 times as well. George Haddock went from 9-26 in 1890 for Buffalo of the Players League to 34-11 with Boston of the American Association the following year. Ted Lewis won 47 games over two seasons for the Boston Beaneaters in 1896-1897.

* Ned Garver was a hard-luck pitcher who managed to go 20-12 for a St. Louis Browns team that went 52-102 in 1951. This performance so impressed MVP voters in the AL that he finished second to Yogi Berra.

* Speaking of pitching for lousy teams… at 8-20 with a 4.40 ERA, Al Jackson could have easily been mistaken for the ace of the 1962 Mets (though Roger Craig had an equal claim). Jackson managed to lose 88 games in a 5-year span, four of those with the Mets. He had a long career as a pitching coach (Red Sox, Orioles, Mets) and is now a roving instructor within the organization where he gained his fame (or infamy).

* A couple of others have claims of infamy. Pitcher Jack Hamilton is best known for hitting Tony Conigliaro in the face with a pitch in 1967, one of the most severe beanings in the annals of baseball. Hamilton’s only major league homer was a grand slam off of the aforementioned Al Jackson. Morrie Rath (who didn’t make the cut here), a second baseman with a career 254/.342/.285 line, was hit by a pitch from Chicago Black Sox hurler Ed Cicotte to open the 1919 World Series. The message of this purpose pitch: the fix was in.

* So far as I can tell, there’s at least one Jewish ballplayer with a December 25 birthday. Alta Cohen played in 29 games from 1931-1933 for the Brooklyn Dodgers and the Philadelphia Phillies. In his first game he got two hits in a single inning when the Boston Braves failed to notice that he batted out of turn. He spent the rest of his career paying for his sins: .194/.289/.224.

* The first Christmas-born ballplayer, Nat Jewett (who I’m guessing didn’t celebrate either), was a member of the 1872 Brooklyn Eckfords of the National Association, who went 3-26 for the season. Sweeeet.

* Rickey Henderson was the only Christmas-born ballplayer to appear in the majors in 2003. After starting the season at Newark of the independent Atlantic League (where he hit .339/.493/.591 in 56 games), the Dodgers finally picked up the phone in mid-July. Rickey got off to a flying start, hitting two homers in his first four games, but thereafter went 10-for-58 with one measly double and finished at .208/.321/.306. Oh mama, can this really be the end?

* Erik Hiljus spent time in the bigs from 1998-2002, most notably going 5-0 with a 3.41 ERA in 2001. But poor control and the Oakland A’s pitching depth have apparently doomed him. He spent all of 2003 at the A’s AAA club in Sacramento, going 11-10 with a 4.69 ERA in 174.2 innings.

* Only two other Christmas-born ballplayers who have appeared in the majors are still active in organized ball. The first is outfielder Tarrik Brock, who went 2-for-12 in his cup of coffee with the 2000 Cubs. Brock, a veteran of thirteen professional seasons, spent 2003 in the Dodger organization, mostly with the Jacksonville Suns of the AA Southern League, where he hit .272/.386/.495 in 98 games. The second is outfielder Scott Bullett, 35, who hit .233/.283/.356 in 247 games from 1991-1996, mostly with the Cubs. Bullett played in the Mexican League in 2003, splitting the season between the Reynosa Broncos and the Monterrey Sultanes, and hitting .323/.409/.495.

Rickey, Nellie, Manny, Quincy, and all of my fellow December 25-born mates — happy birthday, guys!

Word on the street is that due to a dispute between my service provider and my web host, email to me at jay@futilityinfielder.com may be bouncing. Should that happen to any of you, please email me at this address until further notice. Apologies for the inconvenience; you can guess how happy I am over this development, especially while I’m on vacation.

Update: It appears the jay@futilityinfielder.com address is working again, but anything sent to it on December 23 (Tuesday) is gone, gone, gone. Please re-send if necessary.

“Ain’t no sense worrying about things you got no control over, because if you got no control over them, ain’t no sense worrying.” — the Prophet Gozzlehead

Because its status has changed as often as the weather, and because of some sage wisdom I once received from a pinstriped leadoff hitter with the worst throwing arm I’d ever seen, I long ago resolved not to sweat the potential Alex Rodriguez-Manny Ramirez trade. The mainstream media have turned the potential Red Sox-Rangers trade into a red-ball requiring round-the-clock coverage, calling this the Deal of the Century and the Trade of the Millenium and pumping clichés along the lines of “the Hot Stove has never been hotter” until the cows have keeled over in the pasture. This soap opera has been going on for over six weeks, and if we’re to believe reports, the deal is finally dead because yet another artificially imposed deadline set by a desperate billionaire has passed.

My recent experience at the Winter Meetings in New Orleans, where conflicting reports about the deal’s status swirled around the Marriott lobby like twin tornadoes, only strengthened my resolve not to worry about this trade. At one point I overheard Peter Gammons and Jayson Stark talking about it to a third party and though my rabbit-ears briefly buzzed, I walked right past. I spent three days perfectly happy to listen to somebody — anybody — tell me that the Devil Rays were about to sign Jose Cruz, Jr. or speculate whether Scott Spiezio or J.T. Snow would make a better first base foil for Jason Giambi, rather than listen to one more report about the status of the A-Rod deal. As my mother is prone to say, “D.I.L.I.G.A.S.?” – Do I Look Like I Give A Shit?

The Yankee fan in me is supposed to be cowering in fear over this deal, which would bring the AL MVP to the heart of the Red Sox batting order, where he could feast on Yankee pitching 19 games a year. Oh. Having died about two dozen small deaths in October, one for every time the Yank hurlers had to run the Nomar-Manny-David Ortiz gauntlet, I’m decidedly unfazed by that possibility.

On the other hand, the East Coast sophisticate in me is supposed to be elated that yet one more great player would be inducted into our midst, arriving in a division most accurately referred to as the AL Beast. I didn’t know we were in a hip-hop war with the West Coast; somebody please bust a cap in Billy Beane’s ass for me, and tell that bitch Bill Bavasi what time it is.

The Dodger fan in me is supposed to be elated at the possibility of this deal, because should A-Rod hit Beantown, the likely destination for Nomar Garciaparra is L.A. Yes, I’ll be bummed when Cesar Izturis and his .597 OPS are put out of a job, but I fully believe second baseman Alex Cora’s Incredible Vortex of Suck can do at least something to offset the 25 homers and 100 RBI which Nomah will provide to that offensive excuse the Dodgers have for an offense.

The baseball fan in me who has been shelling out hundreds of dollars a year and spending countless hours in front of the TV watching cranky millionaires play ball is supposed to be outraged — OUTRAGED, I tell you — that the players’ union stood in the way of this deal, demanding that A-Rod’s record-setting contract was adhered to. The pundit in me is supposed to be churning out thousands of words a week telling my readership why this deal is either going to destroy baseball or save it.

Kids, I’m over it. When the first rumors of the story broke, I took a long hard look in the mirror and said to myself, “Only when Alex Rodriguez is photographed wearing a Red Sox jersey am I going to get worked up about this.” And I take great pride that, at least in this instance, I’ve been true to my resolve. I got more worked up over the Yanks re-signing futilityman Enrique Wilson to a one-year, $750,000 contract than I did over the thought of A-Rod in a B cap, perhaps on the theory that if I ignored it, the trade would just go away. My pal Nick and my blog-bud Alex Belth may have been losing sleep over the trade, or tearing their hair out in fist-sized chunks, but that’s not me.

I’m not convinced that the deal is “dead,” because I’ve seen too many horror movies where the protagonist wipes off his brow and says, “Whew, I’m glad that’s over!” moments before brain-eating radioactive zombies from Hell burst through the back door and wreak havoc all over again, eating the girlfriend, the loyal dog, and the plucky sidekick with the limp. See, I always find myself checking my watch in those situations, knowing that it’s too soon for the movie to be over. And since it’s not July 31 yet, I’m not buying the exaggerated reports of this deal’s demise.

But I’ll say this. I’ve never been more depressed at the state of mainstream baseball coverage than I have been over this deal. The likes of Mike Lupica and Peter Gammons put forth shrill down-from-the-mountain pronouncements, pointing fingers at the big egos involved here — players, agents, owners, union leaders — without ever turning the mirror on themselves, and plenty of writers followed suit. This whole three-ring circus has been an exercise in their self-importance, these old hens leaking rumors to anyone within earshot in order to keep the attention focused on their au-thor-i-tah around the clock. Said hens feel obliged to tell A-Rod that he doesn’t need those extra $12 million, or $30 million, or $80 million, or whatever it is because he’s already paid more than entire countries, most of which have no chance of finishing in the first division of the Third World. And while they’re telling Rodriguez how much money he doesn’t need, they might as well get off another shot or two at how greedy the entire Players Association is, and how evil Gene Orza is for protecting the interests of the constituency he’s paid to protect. These writers have so much invested in covering this Deal of the Century that they’re blaming anyone and everyone who stands in its way. So much for no jeering in the press box.

That’s not to say that there hasn’t been good coverage of the situation. Jack Curry of the New York Times has done a good job sticking to the facts, ESPN’s Jim Caple weighed in with a unique angle on A-Rod trying to steal Nomar’s job and another piece about the union’s point of view, and the Baseball Prospectus guys — particularly Joe Sheehan and Chaim Bloom — have been batting… well, they’ve been putting up very high EQAs.

The other thing that chafes my ass about this whole non-deal is that, unlike some trades which are contingent on a contract extension and the two teams given 72 hours to hash out a deal, the Sox have had weeks to talk to A-Rod. Geez, Bud, tell us who’s your real favorite in that Yankee-Red Sox rivalry.

I’ll admit that I thoroughly enjoy the schadenfreude of watching the richest man in baseball toil in the obscurity of the AL West cellar, a prisoner of the contract he signed. I have plenty invested in preserving the fragile equilibrium of unhappiness in the Red Sox ranks, those one-named divas agitating for more respect as they prove how self-centered they are, and I’m hoping that Kevin Millar’s Foot-in-Mouth-ectomy shows up on the Surgery Channel. Furthermore, I love to see a writer lashing out at Larry “Evil Empire” Lucchino, even if that writer is Tracy Ringolsby. So I’m happy that thus far this trade hasn’t be consummated.

But if it does go down, whether tomorrow or in Spring Training or one minute before August 1 strikes, I’ve got no beef with Rodriguez or Hicks or Henry or Boras or Orza or any of the other principals involved for figuring out a way to do the deal that’s within the rules. The union’s gains which created those rules are hard-won, and for all the mess he’s in, A-Rod’s money is well-earned — on a marginal basis, he really is worth that extra dough. The only caveat to that deal is that I’m not going to read one more goddamned word about if I can help it. There are too many other pressing baseball issues — such as Bert Blyleven’s Hall of Fame candidacy, the amazing career of Chicken Stanley, and the secret lives of fungo hitters — for me to give any more attention to this one.

Home for a week in Salt Lake City, my eye drifted to this SI.com article about former local minor league star Willie Mays Aikens, whose legend was made during my youth here. Born just following the 1954 World Series (not during, as the baseball cards claimed), Aikens was named by his delivering physician for the Giants superstar outfielder, who made a pretty fair catch that year. A first baseman, he was the California Angels’ #1 pick (#2 overall) in the January 1975 draft.

Despite being glacially slow and lousy on defense, the man could hit, and he rose quickly, reaching the Salt Lake Gulls, the Angels’ AAA affiliate, in 1977. He he hit .336 AVG/.435 OBP/.569 SLG with 14 homers in a half season and earned a promotion to the big club, where he hit only .198/.277/.242 in 101 plate appearances. He spent all of 1978 in SLC, hitting .326/.423/551 with 29 homers and 110 RBI, but stuck with the Angels in 1979, and was a regular on their AL West-winning squad. Sharing time at first base with Rod Carew and at DH with Don Baylor, he hit .280/.376/.493 with 21 homers. Inexplicably, he failed to receive a vote in the Rookie of the Year balloting, providing the general public with its only reason to remember John Castino. But as the first minor-leaguer I followed to make good in the bigs, he holds a special distinction in my eyes.

Aikens was traded to the Kansas City Royals in a five-player deal that December, and became the starting first baseman on a pennant-winning team. He hit .278/.356/.433 with 20 homers, his stats suffering due to overexposure to left-handed pitching (.694 OPS vs lefties, .899 vs righties). In the opening game of the World Series against the Philadelphia Phillies, he entered the national spotlight by slugging two home runs in a losing cause. He singled in the winning run in the 10th inning of Game Three, then matched his two-homer feat in Game Four, helping the Royals to even the Series at two games apiece and becoming the first player with two multi-homer games in the same World Series.

He had three more good seasons in KC, the best of which came in 1983, when — limited to only 89 PA against lefties — he hit .302/.373/.539 with 23 homers. But the headlines he earned that year weren’t so good. Aikens was one of four Royals, along with Vida Blue, Jerry Martin, and Willie Wilson, who were arrested for attempting to purchase cocaine, pled guilty, and drew three-month jail sentences as well as year-long suspensions from baseball by commissioner Bowie Kuhn. Those four thus earned the ignominious distinction of becoming the first active players to do time.

Days after being suspended, Aikens was traded to Toronto for Jorge Orta. His suspension was reduced, and he resumed his career with the Jays, but he was a disappointment, hitting only .205/.298/.376 in 1984. He got off to a similarly slow start in 1985 and was released in May, never playing in the bigs again. Ironically enough, he homered in his final big-league at-bat.

Aikens continued to play in the Mexican League, but his drug problems followed. By the early ’90s, according to the SI article (written by Mike Fish), he was doing coke day and night, and his weight had ballooned to 300 pounds. He was busted again in 1994 for selling Complete AK 47’s illegally to an undercover female cop, and with his prior record and the presence of a shotgun in his squalid house, drew a sentence of 20 long years in the federal penitentiary in Atlanta.

Nine years into his sentence, Aikens has been trying to clear his name. He requested a presidential pardon and got former players and managers, including Hal McRae, Dusty Baker, and Jim Fregosi, to write on his behalf. But recently he learned that his request had been denied by President Bush. Still, Aikens’ case has made him something of a poster child for the flaws with mandatory sentencing. The crack distinction is crucial to his case. According to Fish:

Aikens ending up selling about 2.2 ounces to the undercover cop. But because of the tougher federal guidelines for crack, he was sentenced as if he had sold 15 pounds of powder cocaine. Plus, he got five years for using a firearm during commission of a crime.

Several sources, from SI writer Frank Deford to conservative columnist Debra Saunders, have noted that the crack was produced at the behest of the undercover cop, and had he not cooked up the rock, his sentence would have run out years ago.

Fish’s article tries to draw a comparison of Aikens to Darryl Strawberry and Lawrence Taylor, and while it’s true his is a sadder tale than theirs — seeing as how both of those men are free and still cashing in on their celebrity — the small matter of a gun involved in his crime doesn’t exactly help his cause. But there’s no getting around the sorrow of this story, especially for somebody who remembers marvelling at his long home runs.

On his eponymous blog, Will Carroll has a hilarious blind-item list of the great but (sadly) unattributable quotes from the Winter Meetings. There are too many reputations to protect to go attaching names to these (I only gave away a couple), but it’s great that somebody has preserved some of the more memorable lines from such a great weekend.