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Pain and Injury

After the game, (James) Harrison said he tries to hurt opposing players because it helps the Steelers win, although he doesn’t try to injure players.
— AP story about James Harrison saying he might retire from football.

* * *

It’s all there, I think. The whole NFL issue — right there in one seemingly incongruous English sentence. You already know that Harrison, the Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker, had two helmet hits in the game against Cleveland Sunday, one that caused a Joshua Cribbs concussion, the other that caused a Mohammed Massaquoi concussion.

The Massaquoi hit was particularly savage — savage enough that the NFL fined Harrison $75,000 (though not savage enough to draw an actual penalty during the game). Harrison was so outraged — and perhaps puzzled — by this fine that he was excused from practice Wednesday, apparently so he could ponder his future. He had said on the radio that he was not sure he could go on playing in a game that was foreign to him. Those hits, he says, were exactly what he had been TAUGHT to do on a football field. They were clean hits. They were textbook hits. And now, to have those hits referred to as dirty, to be fined for them and perhaps (down the road) to be suspended for these kinds of hits — as the NFL is now threatening — well, supposedly Harrison isn’t sure he wants to play that game.

This is actually a common reaction among some players to the NFL’s recent reaction to big hits. The league has talked about really cracking down on these hits to protect players, and I’ve read numerous comments from players who think that’s a lousy thing. Most of it is summed up in what Brian Urlacher told the Chicago Tribune, in the midst of a rather entertaining tirade: “”You know what we should do? We should just put flags on everybody. Let’s make it the NFFL — the National Flag Football League. It’s unbelievable.”

But to get back to the line at the top — I think whole thing is wrapped up there. Read it again.

— Harrison wants to hurt opponents.
— Hurting opponents helps win games.
— Harrison doesn’t want to injure opponents.

The town between Hurt and Injure. The valley between Pain and Damage. This the tiny little sliver of land where the National Football League tries to exist. Pro football is about hard contact, it has always been about hard contact. There’s Chuck Bednarik standing over an unconscious Frank Gifford. There’s Raiders owner Al Davis explaining his basic strategy for winning: “The quarterback must go down. And he must go down hard.” There’s Turkey Joe Jones throwing Terry Bradshaw on his head. There’s Butkus, snarling, breathing smoke even on warm days, tackling with such ferocity that you can almost feel him trying to finish the play off by biting off the running back’s head. “I never set out to hurt anybody deliberately,” Butkus would famously say, “unless it was, you know, important, like a league game.” There’s Lawrence Taylor breaking Joe Theisman’s leg on Monday Night Football, and the Gifford himself, now as announcer, telling you turn away if you cannot handle the gruesomeness.

And as the players get bigger, strong, faster, the hits get harder, louder, more spectacular. The NFL may claim otherwise … but the league wants this. We as fans want this. Big hits equals big action. It’s not that hard to understand. The NFL releases videos with the most ferocious of these hits, set to music, with stories about the hits being told lovingly, Crunch Course, Crunch Course II, Big Blocks and King Size hits. Steve Atwater once told me he would put his kids to bed at night with the story of the preposterously crushing hit put on running back Christian Okoye.

We love big hits. We remember them. We talk about them forever — who can forget running back Earl Campbell lowering his head into the chest of Isaiah Robertson and sending him flying backward (Campbell would always feel bad about that hit; he said for a while it ruined Isaiah Robertson’s life — it is still shown quite often in highlight packages). In different cities, the NFL teams celebrate the most breathtaking hits on the scoreboard, that big hit usually sponsored by a local company, a brick company, maybe. This is FOOTBALL man. We can’t tolerate missed tackles. We want receivers to fear the middle. We watch the linebacker close in behind the quarterback, the blind side, and the quarterback can’t see him coming, and we know it, and the cheers grow louder, the anticipation thicker, we wait impatiently for it, a hit so hard that the ball will go flying and the quarterback will seem to bend backward and …

But we don’t want anyone to get injured. Not seriously injured, for sure. That’s the worst, that moment when the game has stopped, the doctors are huddled over someone on the ground (“He’s not moving!”) and the players surround the scene, many of them with their helmets off, on one knee, like they’re praying, some are praying, the football game has turned into a funeral scene, no, nobody wants that. Isn’t that why fans always cheer as players come off the field, either under their own power or on a stretcher? We are with you! We are thinking about you! Nobody wants to see a player seriously hurt, his life forever altered. Nobody wants to meet a former NFL hero in a mall or an airport, and see them limp and groan as they walk. No, nobody wants that. No we want them all to pop back up, like Wile E Coyote always pops up no matter how many times he falls off a cliff, no matter how many times he is crushed by a boulder, no matter how many times his Acme rocket collides head on into cactus.

And here is the riddle of football — how can you hurt without injuring, how can you weaken without harming, how can you send a receiver flying backward and have him pop right back up, good as new, Wile E. Coyote gone back to the drawing board? The NFL keeps wanting us to believe there’s a real answer to this riddle. The league makes the equipment better — or at least that’s what we keep hearing and desperately want to believe. They make the pads more secure, we hear. They make the helmets safer, we are told (though the New York Times had this haunting story Wednesday). The trainers tape every bendable part before before every practice and every game as if the players are windows in the eye of a hurricane — or at least that’s what we choose to believe.

The NFL tinkers with the rules constantly to prevent the most dangerous of hits — the chop-block, the clip, the clothesline, the horse collar, the helmet-to-helmet, the trip, the facemask grab, the forearm shiver, the punch, the unloading on a defenseless receiver and whatever devastating tackle they will come with next. The NFL makes the injuries part of the fabric of the sport so that they sound bland … they even release injury reports each week with the tamest-sounding of conditions — probable, questionable, out. Probable means they’re playing no matter how much pain they’re in. Questionable means they might not play, but they also might. Out means out. Put someone else on your fantasy team.

And with all this, we want to believe that it’s all not as bad as it looks. We need to believe it so we can enjoy the games. We LOVE pro football. And when we see something like this — those are the 57 injuries this week listed as concussions, head injuries or migraines — well, it’s tough to know exactly how to feel. The town between Hurt and Injure. The valley between Pain and Damage. We want to believe this place exists. We LOVE pro football.

Some years ago, I wrote a story about the pain my friend Priest Holmes would feel after every single game. Priest Holmes was a running back in the NFL for 10 years, a great one. He suffered a torn ACL, a devastating hip injury, and at the end there were times when he lost feeling after hits. He carried the football 1,780 times, caught another 334 passes, and that means even if you take away his 94 touchdowns that would mean he still was tackled more than 2,000 times, which of course doesn’t include the many times he had to block, or his time as kamikaze man on special teams. It doesn’t include what happened after the whistle. Defenders would do just about anything to stop him, intimidate him, discourage him — you don’t want to know what goes on inside those piles of pads and players. After games, he would walk slowly to get a long rubdown, he would sit in hot tub of water for a long time, and we reporters — being reporters — would gripe about what was taking him so long.

When I wrote about his extreme pain, I got a surprising number of emails from people who made it clear: They didn’t want to hear it. One response in particular stands out in my mind, it was an email tirade from a very angry guy who said he worked hard for a living, and he didn’t care how much Priest Holmes hurt. It was his job to hurt. And anyway, the man wrote, he doubted the pain was even that bad. Priest was just complaining to get attention. He wasn’t tough enough. He wasn’t durable enough. And those hits are not THAT bad.

I was disgusted by the callousness of the man. Disgusted. And then I realized, no … my disgust … had little to do with the man … I was disgusted because … haven’t I believed many of those same things? Haven’t I thought, “Oh that hit didn’t look that bad?” Haven’t I thought, “Oh, he’s faking the injury?” Haven’t I thought, “Come on, how long should a leg injury keep you out?” Doesn’t loving professional football DEMAND that you believe many of those same things?

So where are we now? There’s a real momentum now to stop the most bloodthirsty of hits. We do, many of us, most of us even, worry that the game is getting too scary, too painful, it’s hard to maintain our suspension of disbelief. We want the NFL to do something about the injuries. But, what? We still want the NFL to still be about pain. We want both those things, same time. And are we really willing — in that place deep down, in what what Jack Nicholson in “A Few Good Men” called “places you don’t talk about at parties” — really willing as fans to give up pain to stop injuries?

“We should just put flags on everybody,” Urlacher said, you will remember. “Let’s make it the NFFL — the National Flag Football League. It’s unbelievable.” How many fans do you think cheered when he said those words. How many fans felt like he was taking those words right out of their own gut?

I should add here that in the actual interview, Harrison explained the difference between hurting a player and injuring them — or at least the difference in his mind. “I don’t want to see anyone injured,” he told reporters. “But I’m not opposed to hurting anyone. … There’s a difference. When you’re injured, you can’t play. But when you’re hurt, you can shake it off and come back. I try to hurt people.”

How can someone — even a former NFL defensive player of the year — tackle someone hard enough to hurt them but not injure them? Harrison didn’t explain it. And, of course, he hasn’t exactly walked that fine line. He was reportedly thinking about retiring before playing in a league where he could not cause as much pain, but Harrison is back at practice today. Turns out that he has decided he loves football too much to retire from it. Yep. That’s about where most of us stand.

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More On The Intentional Walk

I noticed this comment from Brilliant Reader Keith K. about the intentional walk, and it is something I have thought about quite a bit over the years so I wanted to mention it here:

First the comment:

I am with Joe in his anti-IBB stance in that it often is a bad strategy that leads to more runs. I don’t agree on the “anti-competition” angle (that, in Joe’s words, “you are showing no confidence,” “taking away a potentially exciting moment from the fans, “refusing to take the game head on,” and “inviting bad karma.”)

In that sense, an IBB is not unlike a quarterback opting never to throw in the direction of a shutdown cornerback, or a basketball team double-teaming a star post player so he never gets the ball, or a tennis player consistently hitting the ball away from his opponent’s lethal forehand, etc. All are valid strategies that may frustrate the fans but increase the chances of victory. I don’t think you can criticize the move on that basis.

As mentioned, I have thought quite a bit about this — trying to figure out why I dislike the intentional walk so much compared to similar strategies in other sports. I came to two conclusions which you may disagree with, but hey, it’s my blog.

1. I don’t think there ARE similar strategies in other sports. I think baseball is, at least among the most popular American sports, the only one that offers an opportunity quite like the intentional walk. That’s in part because baseball is the only sport that forces a set lineup on a team. You have to go in order in baseball. Every player in the lineup must get the same opportunity. You don’t do that in football, in basketball, in hockey, in tennis, etc. In basketball, you can get the ball to Wilt every time and he can score 100 points. In football, you can give the ball to Emmitt Smith every time and he might gain 300 yards. In hockey, you can get the puck on Wayne Gretzky’s stick every time. Nothing in the rules prevents these things. In baseball, Albert Pujols comes up when he comes up, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I think the intentional walk is a unique strategy that plays upon the uniqueness of baseball.

2. The most similar-sounding of strategies — like the ones Keith mention — are actually in my mind not similar at all. I’ve thought a lot about this, thought a whole lot why triple teaming a receiver is any different from the intentional walk.

Here’s why, I think: triple teaming a receiver is an attempt to DEFEND that star player. Same with double-teaming a star-post player. You are not trying to avoid the player. You are actively trying to shut that best player down. That, for me, is at the heart of competition.

Keith’s examples — hitting a ball away from a player’s forehand or not throwing to a receiver covered by a shutdown corner — are I think utterly non-comparable. Not throwing to a covered receiver is simply an obvious part of being a quarterback. And hitting away from a player’s best stroke in tennis is an attempt to EXPOSE THE WEAKNESSES of an opponent. You also want to block Joe Frazier’s left hook. These are all at the heart of competition.

I think the intentional walk is quantifiably different. You are not attempting to defend the other team’s best player. You are not attempting to expose his weaknesses. You are not doing anything at all except simply granting him a base in any and all efforts to avoid facing him.

No other sport has this. There is no strategy in tennis that allows you to give your opponent a free point if he promises not to hit his first serve hard. There is no strategy in football or basketball that allows you to give the other team free points if they promise not to let their star player touch the ball. Even Hack a Shaq — which is a crappy strategy that makes basketball dreadful to watch — is an attempt to expose a player’s inability to make free throws.

Point is, these are STRATEGIES to beat a team. Baseball has plenty of strategies. You bring in a lefty to get out a lefty hitter. You throw sliders to a hitter who has shown an inability to throw sliders. You study a pitcher’s motion to get a good jump on a stolen base attempt. These are active strategies used to BEAT an opponent.

I don’t think the Intentional Walk is a strategy. I think it is a bargain. It is, fortunately, not an especially good bargain which is why we don’t see more of it. But it’s like a backroom deal you cut — we’ll give your guy first base but he’s not allowed to hit.*

*Even the sacrifice bunt is not a bargain — because both teams still have to DO things. You have to get the bunt down. The other team has to field it. A variety of things can happen. They can get the lead runner. You could beat out the bunt. It’s not a straight out for base trade. You don’t do anything in the intentional walk.**

**I just thought of this, so I’m adding it: Maybe this is what it comes down to … the intentional walk takes no skill. Maybe that’s at the heart of things. Every other-sport example that people bring up … it takes skill. Double teaming a receiver or defensive end still involves skill — receivers beat double teams all the time. Punting out of bounds to avoid a punt returner takes skill (though kicking off out of bounds does not — I think THAT would be a close equivalent, kicking off out of bounds and giving them the ball at the 40 — I’d hate that too). Putting 8-men in the box and actually stopping the run takes skill. But throwing four pitches off the plate, well, I can do that. No skill involved. No opportunity for the opponent to counter. Maybe that’s at the heart of what bugs me so much about it.

Look, I know deep down that there’s nothing to be done about the intentional walk. If it was discouraged by the rules — if, as I have at times wished, an intentional walk awarded TWO bases instead of one — then teams would just PRETEND to pitch to someone. The walk as avoidance is simply locked in the fabric of the game. But I do think it’s a flaw in the game. It’s a a cheap way for managers to avoid the other team’s best hitter in big situations. That’s why I hate it. And that’s why I love when it blows up in a million pieces.

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A Good Intentional Walk Day

Look, sometimes the intentional walk “works.” No matter how much I might despise the thing, I cannot deny that basic reality. One job of a manager is to, best of his ability, put his team in position to prevent the other team from scoring runs. And there’s no question that walking to avoid the other team’s best hitters, or walking a batter with the pitcher coming up, or walking to set up a double play … these things will often accomplish the goal. I hate the intentional walk so much that I sometimes fail to mention this. So I’ll start with it here. Sometimes, the damned thing works.

See, the intentional walk is not like a regular walk. It’s not as valuable. The Hardball Times did a fascinating bit on this a couple of years ago when they used linear weights to show how the intentional walk played out from 2005-2008.

Intentional Walk Situations 2005

Original situation: 932 expected runs.

After IBB: 1,148 expected runs.

After IBB: 1,038 actual runs.

Intentional Walk Situations 2006

Original situation: 1067 expected runs.

After IBB: 1,318 expected runs.

After IBB: 1,217 actual runs.

Intentional Walk Situations 2007

Original situation: 1,016 expected runs.

After IBB: 1,249 expected runs.

After IBB: 1,129 actual runs.

Intentional Walk Situations 2008

Original situation: 974 expected runs.

After IBB: 1,220 expected runs.

After IBB: 1,065 actual runs.

There’s quite a lot that you can take from these numbers, I think, but the main two are these:

1. After an intentional walk, teams as a whole score more runs than the original expectation … which is probably obvious since you are putting another man on base.

2. While that’s true, they score quite a bit less — almost 10% less — than the NEW expectation.*

*In other words, let’s say the opposing team has a man on 2nd with one out. According to Baseball Prospectus’ run matrix, in 2010 they would be expected, on average, to score .68 runs for the rest of the inning.

Now, let’s say your pitcher unintentionally walks a guy. Now there are runners on first and second with one out. So the expectation changes. Now your opponent would be expected, on average, to score .88 runs in the inning. The expectation obviously goes up.

But if it’s an INTENTIONAL WALK, the expected runs doesn’t go up quite as much. The new run expectation would land somewhere in the middle, somewhere between .68 and .88. The other team would not score as much as they would on a normal walk because there’s usually at least some logic behind the intentional walk — it’s usually done for reasonable match-up purposes.

So yes, absolutely, sometimes the intentional walk works. Sometimes it minimizes damage. Sometimes it helps your pitcher get out of the inning unscathed. Sometimes …

But I still despise it — as I’ve written many times — for two basic reasons. One is more of a gut reaction: I think the intentional walk basically wimpy and anti-competition. When you intentionally walk the other team’s best hitter, for instance, are you making it a better game? Absolutely not. In my opinion, you are doing the opposite. You are showing no confidence in your pitcher or team. You are taking away a potentially exciting moment from the fans. You are refusing to take the game head on. You are inviting bad karma. And you are bringing a boring, negative, final inning of The Bad News Bears vibe to the game. An intentional walk is like the prevent defense squared.

Two, in the larger sense, it doesn’t work. The intentional walk works just enough to keep the illusion going, but as you can see by The Hardball Times numbers above, teams, over a whole season, will allow more runs after an intentional walk than they would have been expected to allow otherwise. I do realize that managers don’t really care about the larger sense — they only care about the moment, and in the moment it seems to make a whole lot of sense to walk Albert Pujols, to walk Josh Hamilton, to walk to the pitchers spot. If it works in the moment, the manager and the fans certainly won’t care that, in the long run, walking somebody will make matters worse. People who win at blackjack don’t care that most people lose. I understand. But it’s still a negative strategy.

Tuesday, Texas vs. New York, was a glorious game for anti-intentional walk people like myself. Twice, pronounced intentional walk situations came up. One manager walked. One manager trusted his team. And, for one night at least, the baseball gods provided justice.

The intentional walk you will remember instantly — when an intentional walk backfires, there’s no hiding. I still have absolutely no idea why Joe Girardi intentionally walked David Murphy in the sixth inning. Even if if put on my “OK, let’s talk reasonably about intentional walks” hat, I have no idea why Joe Girardi walked David Murphy. I thought it was bizarre.

Let’s set it up again. Sixth inning. Yankees led Texas 3-2. Texas’ Nelson Cruz was on second base — he had hustled to second base on a long fly ball to center. A.J. Burnett was still pitching for the Yankees*.

*We can question that one too, but let’s stay focused.

OK, David Murphy came to the plate. David Murphy is a pretty good hitter, especially against righties. He’s not a great hitter, understand. He has never gotten 500 plate appearances in a season. But he’s a pretty good hitter. This year he hit .291/.358/.449 which is good. Over his whole career, he has been about that good against right-handed pitchers. In 22 plate appearances against A.J. Burnett — if you care about such things — he has been about that good: He hit .294/.455/.471 against Burnett.

On deck was Bengie Molina. And Molina had a dreadful offensive season. He hit .249/.297/.326 this year. Against righties over his whole career he has hit .265/.296/.384 — that on-base percentage, whew, it’s fair to say that Bengie doesn’t believe in walking (or running). He had only faced Burnett five times, and only managed one hit, so that doesn’t really tell us anything.

There’s no question that, in a vacuum, the Yankees would rather face Molina there. If baseball changed the rules (don’t tempt Bud) and allowed the opposing team to choose which hitter was sent to the plate, the Yankees would and should always pick Molina instead of Murphy. But that’s not what we’re dealing with here. What we’re dealing with here is:

— Facing David Murphy with the tying run on second.

— Facing Bengie Molina with the tying run on second AND the go-ahead run on first.

That’s a big difference in situation. Is it that big of a difference in hitter? I don’t think so. You know what the difference between a .249 hitter and a .291 hitter? You should know this from repeated viewings of Bull Durham. Over 500 at-bats, it’s 20 hits. The season is 21 weeks long. It is about one hit a week. One guy will get about seven hits in a 24-at-bat week. One guy will get about six.

To me, it’s a bad, bad bet — even if you believe in the intentional walk. Yes, in the Molina situation you have a slightly better chance of getting out of the inning without giving up a run. But you have a better chance of giving up MORE runs.*

*For fun (I did this once before with Albert Pujols) let’s look at typical Molina vs. Murphy in those situations — we’ll use the last two years as our guide. In parenthesis, I’ll put how many runs each outcome would produce over 500 plate appearances.

Murphy — runner on second, two outs.

— 65% of the time he will make an out (0 runs).

— 16% of the time he single (81 runs over 500 PAs)

— 5% of the time he will double (26 runs)

— Less than 1% of the time he will triple (2 runs)

— 3% of the time he will homer (30 runs).

— About 10% of the time he will walk or get hit by pitch (0 runs but extends the inning).

That’s a total of 139 runs. The inning continues 35% of the time.

Molina — runner on first and second, two outs.

— 71% of the time he will make an out (0 runs)

— 17% of the time he will single (85 runs)

— 4% of the time he will double (20 certain runs, add however many runs you get from Murphy scoring from first … I added 7 runs. So that’s 27).

— Less than 1% of the time he will triple (how Bengie Molina hit two triples the last two years I’ll never know — add 2 runs).

— 2.5% of the time he will homer (39 runs runs).

— About 5% of the time he will walk or get hit by pitch (0 runs but extends the inning).

That is a total of 153 runs. The inning continues 29% of the time.

So there’s your tradeoff. Are you willing to increase your chances of giving up ZERO runs by five or six percent by also increasing your chances of giving up more runs? I honestly do not see why you would. Not in this situation. I mean ninth inning, tie score, you have to get out of it to force extra innings, I get it. But here? You’re at home. You’re up a run. Why would you put the go-ahead run on base? Why would you walk David Murphy who, no disrespect, ain’t exactly Dale Murphy? And it’s not like Bengie Molina is incapable of heroics — the guy did hit three home runs against the Yankees in the 2005 ALCS. They showed those home runs back-to-back-to-back on TBS just before the at-bat, which led to a cool television moment …

… because, of course, Molina crushed Burnett’s first pitch into the left-field stands for a three-run homer that may have ended the Yankees World Series dreams. Baseball, as a game, isn’t really about justice, but everything about THAT home run felt just. You’re the manager of THE New York Yankees, for crying out loud, and you’re at home, and you’re up a run, and you intentionally walk David Murphy in the sixth inning? Yes, for us Intentional Walk Bashers, that Molina home run was like Mardi Gras.

But there was another, perhaps less-noticed situation just a half inning earlier. The Yankees had runners on first and second with one out. Lefty Derek Holland was on the mound. Alex Rodriguez was at the plate.

Now, here was a potential intentional walk situation — if such a thing exists. A-Rod, a righty, was at the plate. Robinson Cano, a lefty, was on deck. It is true that A-Rod throughout his career has hit lefties slightly WORSE than righties — and this year he hit only .217 against lefties. It is also true that Cano, while he does not hit lefties quite as well, does hit them well enough.

But you don’t need me to list off all the reasons why an intentional walk there is a bad choice. The point is, some managers would seriously consider an intentional walk here. Last year, teams walked A-Rod eight times to face Cano though it’s interesting to note that this year it only happened once*. When the situation came up I got a couple of emails and Twitter responses wondering why the Rangers would not intentionally walk A-Rod.

*It’s somewhat telling — both about the development of A-Rod and Cano — that Rodriguez was only intentionally walked once all year.

But, say what you will about Ron Washington’s, um, sometimes unconventional managing — he does not believe in the intentional walk. Only my guy Gardy in Minnesota intentionally walked fewer batters than Wash in 2010. I don’t know if Washington avoids the intentional walk for statistical reasons, for personal reasons, because he doesn’t want to back down — and I don’t care. The Rangers pitched to A-Rod. And A-Rod certainly could have hit a long home run, which would have left Washington forced to answer some hard questions. He could have drilled a double that scored two runs and left people shaking their heads.

But on this good intentional walk day, A-Rod hit into the inning-ending double play, setting up Girardi and the Yankees for their fateful meeting with intentional walk destiny.

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Natural Lee

Costello: Who has it?

Abbott: Naturally.

Costello: Who?

Abbott: Naturally.

Costello: Naturally?

Abbott: Naturally.

Costello: So I pick up the ball and throw it to Naturally.

Abbott: No you don’t! You throw the ball to Who.

Costello: Naturally.

Abbott: That’s different.

Costello: That’s what I said!

— Who’s On First

* * *

Mark Teixeira was the first New York hitter to strike out on Monday night at Yankee Stadium against Cliff Lee. Teixeira offered at an 86-mph change-up that was probably two-inches off the outside corner. That was Tom Glavine’s pitch, the one he dined on for 22 seasons and 305 career victories — a change-up just off the corner. There’s almost nothing productive a hitter can do with that pitch. The only effective way to deal with it is to let it go, make the pitcher come back to the plate next time, or (if it is really close) just try to spoil it, foul it back. The problem is, the pitch looks so easy to drive. It looks so big and fluffy in the batter’s line of sight. It really is the closest thing to the Bugs Bunny’s perplexing slow ball. Teixeira had to try and hit it. And he had to miss.

Alex Rodriguez was the second New York hitter to strike out against Lee. The count was 2-2 and Lee threw the same 86-mph change-up that baffled Tex, a change-up just off the plate, and A-Rod did the right thing, he fouled the ball off, gave himself another pitch. Lee then threw an 87-mph change-up another inch off the plate, and A-Rod again did the right thing, he let it go … only this time the pitch actually wasn’t a change-up. It was the cutter. The ball cut back toward A-Rod at the last second, flew over the outside corner of the plate. The umpire called strike three.

Marcus Thames was the third New York hitter to strike out against Lee. He went up there to determined to hold his own, he was swinging at everything, like a guy being attacked by bees. He fouled off a fastball on the outside corner, fouled off a cutter that buzzed inside, fouled off fastball that was up and in, fouled off that dreaded change-up on the outside corner. When a hitter fouls off so many hot pitches, you credit them for hanging in there, and Thames was hanging in there. But his head was spinning. He looked a bit dizzy. He struck out swinging on a cutter that broke in when he clearly expected it to break away.

* * *

It’s hard to know exactly when Cliff Lee became this sort of artist in residence. He wasn’t this kind of pitcher at all when he started pitching regularly for the Cleveland Indians in 2004. He was all power then, a somewhat moody 6-foot-3 lefty from Arkansas who could and did throw high-90s gas. He had other pitches, for whatever that’s worth … a mediocre slider, a promising but undeveloped curveball, a Fleetwood Mac change-up that would go its own way. He was an archetype then, a hard-throwing lefty without much of an idea. He’d strike you out, he’d walk you, he’d give up long home runs, he’d get in trouble with his other pitches and then, often enough, get out of it with his best heat. And when he did poorly, he’d get furious. He once threw his glove 20 rows into the stands.

He won 18 games in 2005 and lost only 5 and because of that differential he got some Cy Young votes he probably did not deserve (his 2.3 Wins Above Replacement that year was 33rd among American League starters). He was probably thought of as being better than he actually was as a pitcher. He won 14 more in 2006, though his 4.40 ERA was only slightly better than league average and scouts muttered that his fastball was losing velocity.

* * *

Jorge Posada was the fourth New York hitter to strike out Monday night. Lee threw him five fastballs to five different parts of the plate. There was nothing tricky involved. Lee threw a fastball low and outside, then one up and over the middle, a third belt high and inside, a fourth over the outside corner and finally that last over the inside corner. Posada swung through the last one. Every one of those pitches registered at 91 or 92 mph.

Curtis Granderson was the fifth New York hitter to strike out. He swung and missed a curveball. It was the fifth curveball that Lee had thrown on the night — and the first four were all called for balls. Lee generally seems to throw the curveball when he sees the concentric circles spinning in batters eyes, when he can tell their minds are muddled and they are guessing. Usually the hitters buckle and let the curveball go and hope for the umpire to call it a ball (something umpires often do — perhaps just to keep things fair). This time Granderson swung. He missed.

Derek Jeter was the sixth New York hitter to strike out. Pitchers all around baseball know that Jeter cannot hold back on high fastballs. They have always been his baseball temptress. He has had plenty of success on high fastballs, which makes them dangerous pitches to throw. But if you can throw the fastball just one inch higher than Jeter likes it, one inch, you can finish him off. Cliff Lee throws the 93-mph fastball one inch higher than Jeter likes it. And Jeter swung and missed.

* * *

Nothing went right from the start in 2007 for Cliff Lee. He injured his groin in spring training. He was not quite ready for his fastball to lose some of its heat. The Indians were badgering him to throw more of his secondary pitches, to not rely so much on his fastball.

And, though he’d had some success, he really did not know how to be a pitcher. That lack of certainty finally bubbled to the surface. Hitters teed off. Lee gave up 28 doubles and 17 home runs in fewer than 100 innings. Those secondary pitches still had no shape, and his fastball was not getting him out of trouble anymore, and Lee felt the world closing in. He beaned Sammy Sosa on the night Sosa was being honored for hitting his 600th home run and did not even leave the mound to check on him (sparking an argument between Lee and his catcher, Victor Martinez). Lee mockingly tipped his cap to booing fans. The Indians had a very good team in 2007, and they really did not need that sort of thing. Lee was sent to the minor leagues.

It isn’t like everything changed in the minor leagues, either. It doesn’t work like that. Lee walked 25 in 41 Class AAA innings down there. But getting sent to the minor leagues when you’re a 28-year-old pitcher is a challenge moment, a “Who am I going to be?” kind of moment. Many don’t make it back. Lee found a whole other pitcher in himself.

* * *

Nick Swisher was the seventh New York hitter to strike out, and at this point Lee was so mesmerizing that Swisher was actually CELEBRATED for his strikeout. Hey, at least he made Lee work. He fouled off six straight pitches — an up-and-away fastball, a cutter that worked its way back over the plate, an up-and-in fastball, a down-and-in cutter, a fastball that brushed the outside of the plate, and a fastball that brushed the inside of the plate. None of those pitches, not one of them, was a good pitch to hi, but they were strikes anyway, and Swisher spoiled them one after another, and maybe this was the only way to get to Lee, maybe the only real plan was to keep fouling off pitches until he made his mistake. Lee then threw a cutter outside and at the knees and Swisher swung over it. No mistake this time.

Thames was the eighth strikeout victim. Last time he was fooled by a cutter. This time he swung over a curveball that bounced just beyond the plate. Catcher Bengie Molina chased down the ball and threw it to first to complete the strikeout.

Granderson was the ninth strikeout. Lee and Molina apparently realized he first time through that Granderson could not lay off Lee’s curveball. That pitch had become hypnotic for Granderson. So Lee threw the curve with two strikes and Granderson did swing though he managed to foul it off. He was not completely asleep yet. Lee threw a low and away fastball that Granderson fouled off, and then threw the curveball again. This time Granderson amenably swung and missed.

* * *

Lee was a thoroughly different pitcher in 2008. There’s the famous story about the jazz genius Charlie Parker, how he was nothing particularly special as a saxophonist, then he went away for a while and when he came back he was, in the words of Buck O’Neil, “blowing sounds nobody had ever heard before.”

Cliff Lee started off the 2008 season by winning his first six starts. His seventh start he threw nine shutout innings but took a no-decision. His ERA then was 0.67. His strikeout to walk ratio was 44-to-4.

What happened? Suddenly, Lee’s control was pinpoint, his curveball was unhittable, his change-up was tantalizing, his cutter was devastating. Baseball people talk all the time about “the light coming on.” That was the usual line about Lee in 2008 — he suddenly figured things out. The light came on.

But … what light? It’s not like Lee figured out one or two things. He was inventing a whole different kind of pitching. What other lefty could come at you with five pitches, all commanded, all controlled? Who else could be a little bit of Glavine AND a little bit of Maddux? It was startling, not because Lee had become a great pitcher — that always seemed possible — but because he had become THIS KIND of great pitcher. He walked just 34 batters all year. He gave up the fewest home runs per nine innings in the league. He led the league in ERA. He was preposterously good in a whole new way. He had become a power pitcher AND a finesse pitcher. And hitters were dizzy.

And then, because of his circumstances, Lee became something else — gun for hire. The Indians could not afford him, so Lee was traded to Philadelphia where he had one of the great postseasons ever, winning four games with a 1.56 ERA. But there was something weird about his relationship with the Phillies, something just a little bit off, and the Phillies traded him to Seattle before this season after getting Roy Halladay, an odd move that nobody quite understood. Then it looked like he would be traded to the Yankees, and he ended up in Texas instead.

And this year, despite injuries and a brief slump, Lee walked 18 batters in 212 innings. Eighteen batters. He doesn’t give up home runs. He throws complete games. His 10.28 strikeout-to-walk ratio is the best ever for a pitcher who has thrown 200 innings. Best. Ever.

And though Halladay threw a no-hitter, and Lincecum had his brilliant game against the Braves, this has been Lee’s postseason. He is the master at work.

* * *

Jeter was the 10th strikeout. The Yankees had actually managed to get the leadoff man on base for the first time in the game … and that leadoff man was burner Brett Gardner. There was little doubt he would try to steal. The TV announcers seemed a bit excessive in their praise Jeter for allowing strike two — an inside-corner fastball — go by so that Gardner could steal second base. They did not say much of anything, when Jeter swung and missed another temptress fastball an inch higher than useful.

Which for some reason reminds me of this exchange in the movie Gandhi.

Gandhi: You’re a temptress!

Margaret-Bourke White: Just an admirer.

Gandhi: Nothing is more dangerous, especially for an old man.

Thames was strikeout No. 11. By now, poor Marcus seemed struck out before he ever stepped into the batter’s box. Lee threw five pitches, all on the inner half of the plate, the last a high fastball that Thames swung under. He might have been expecting something else. Or he might have given up expecting. This was his third strikeout. On this night, it’s clear Thames could not hit a ball off a tee if Cliff Lee had been the one to put it there.

Posada was strikeout No. 12. He could have been called out on a two-strike curveball that just barely missed the outside corner — the announcers would say it went “around the strike zone,” a common phrase in baseball though my friend and former big-league umpire Steve Palermo told me that such a thing is impossible. He said the ball doesn’t bend that much — CANNOT bend that much. “A ball cannot go around the strike zone!” Palermo says with authority. Maybe Posada was pondering this question when he watched a 92 mph fastball go over the inside half of the plate for strike three.

Finally, Brett Gardner was the 13th strikeout. Gardner had gotten the only clean hit against Lee — Posada had managed a bloop single — and he had almost beaten out an infield hit with what is becoming his trademark slide-into-first-base maneuver. So he was the one guy in the Yankees lineup who seemed to have an idea of how to hit Lee.

So Lee had one last guy to figure out. He had the rest of the Yankees utterly defeated. He had fooled Jeter with high fastballs and Granderson with low curves. He had make Teixeira look foolish on slow change-ups, and he baffled A-Rod with his cutter. He had sent some frustrated Yankees fans home.

Lee threw a fastball on the outside corner for called strike one.

Yes, some of the Yankees crowd had gone home. They had come to the ballgame for a party; they did not need to see any more of this Cliff Lee making a shambles of this three-quarter-of-a-billion-dollar lineup. It is hard to appreciate artistry when it is done at your team’s expense, in your ballpark, in your city …

Lee threw a fastball on the outside corner for called strike two.

Eric Clapton has said that music can be condensed to a single note, if that note is played with the right sincerity. Cliff Lee stood on the mound with an 0-2 count against Brett Gardner and he could have thrown an infinite variety of pitches. He could have thrown his change-up away, his cutter in, his curveball down, his fastball up, his slider (which he rarely throws anymore) down and in, and he could have mixed and matched any of those pitches and those locations. It wouldn’t really matter. He now had Brett Gardner as captivated and spellbound as everyone else. He could do pretty much anything, as long as he did with sincerity. All he had to do was throw the ball to who. Who? Naturally.

Cliff Lee threw a fastball on the outside corner. And Brett Gardner watched it go by for strike three.

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The Tony Pena Story

The story about now-Yankees bench coach Tony Pena ran in The Kansas City Star back in 2003. I went to the Dominican Republic with Tony … and though it may sound goofy to say this, well, for me the experience was almost, spiritual. So this is one of my favorite stories … and I thought it might be fun to dust it off in anticipation of the Yankees and Rangers playoff game tonight.

On the road to Villa Vasquez, Tony Pena cried, not for the first time that day and not for the last.

“No,” he said. “Not that story. I will not tell that story.”

His Mercedes raced through dust and bugs and waves of heat, past emptiness.

Nobody lives on the road to Villa Vasquez. It is too hot and too dry. They say that when revolutionaries were killed — in the Dominican Republic, revolutionaries were often killed — their bodies were buried here.

They say that at night, you hear ghosts.

“Not that story,” Pena said again. He shook his head. “I will tell you everything. But not that story. Some things, the heart cannot bear to hear.”

He stared through the windshield ahead and did not talk for a moment. The silence was unlike him. Pena cannot bear quiet. He has always needed noise in his life — music, applause, laughter, bat cracks, glove pops, cheers, whistles, chatter, snores, the ringing of cell phones. Pena has three cell phones. When one does not ring for even a short while — a rare occurrence — he instinctively checks to make sure it works.

“No,” he said again, and then “No” again to fill the silence. Tears trickled from beneath his sunglasses. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and blood rushed to his fingertips. He pushed the car even faster. The cactuses blurred past. After a while, a small shack appeared. Another. A farmer. A goat. We had reached Villa Vasquez. The ghosts were behind us.

“Now,” Pena said, his tears already dried, “I will show you where it all began.”

* * *

Every year, Tony Pena takes this sentimental journey. It is something he must do. The journey begins at the baseball field in Villa Vasquez. Pena stood outside, wrapped his fingers around a chain-link fence. As always, dozens of children played baseball on the field. Some wore gloves. Others wrapped their hands in rags. Some threw baseballs, others threw stones swathed in tape.

“They are me,” he said.

Pena had come to this field more than 25 years ago to try out for the legendary old Pittsburgh scout Howie Haak. In those days, in the smallest towns of Latin America, there was only Howie Haak. He was la esperanza. The hope. Haak was the kind of man who could chew tobacco for hours without spitting. He was the only man who would hold a tryout camp in Villa Vasquez.

“I was just a skinny little kid,” Pena said. He pointed at one of the thinnest kids on the field, one who wore a torn Houston Astros T-shirt.

“Like him,” Pena said.

Memories rushed back at him like 95-mph fastballs. He called over Royals general manager Allard Baird and pointed at different children, some who threw with a certain snap in their wrists, some who wore tattered sandals on their feet, some who reminded Pena so much of himself.

Look now. Pena is manager of the Kansas City Royals. He caught for almost two decades in the major leagues. He owns one of the biggest bottled-water plants in the Dominican Republic. His driveway is jammed with luxury cars that can push high speeds on the narrow two-lane roads that wind through his country. His swimming pool is shaped like a baseball. He is rich and utterly beloved.

He keeps coming back to the field in Villa Vasquez.

“I was so hungry,” he said of that day when he tried out for Howie Haak. Pena lived in Palo Verde, some 30 miles away. He was 18. He slipped out of school early, ran part of the way, hitched a ride the rest. He had not eaten for a day and a half. When he got to the field, he felt weak. He could not have weighed even 140 pounds.

But he still hit home runs to left field, center field and right field. He threw low and hard to second base. There were 50 dreamers there. Howie Haak chose only him.

“Mrs. Pena,” Haak said to Tony’s mother, Rosalia. “We want your son to play baseball in America.”

“I have heard you,” Rosalia said. “Now get out of my house.”

* * *

“Look,” Tony Pena said. He was driving away from Villa Vasquez on the bumpy two-lane road toward Palo Verde, where he grew up. People along the road recognized the car and waved wildly.

“Look,” he said again, and he pointed out the window to the top of a distant mountain. “Can you see it? If you look very hard, you can see the crane up there. Can you see the crane? Can you see where they are building?”

He kept pointing to the spot.

“That is the highest spot in the Dominican Republic,” he said. “From up there, you can see everything. You can see the valley. You can see the ocean. You can see the whole island. I used to look up there and dream.”

“Now,” he said, as he rolled up the window, “they are building my house up there.”

* * *

In Palo Verde, the old woman nodded and shrugged. And Tony Pena walked in.

Sunlight slipped through cracks in the roof. The walls warped inward. Pena pointed to a wall and a framed photograph of Pedro MartInez, perhaps the greatest player to come off this island. “Right there,” Pena said, “there used to be a picture of Jesus.”

This was his home. Six Penas lived in this tiny house with its dirt floors.

Octaviano Pena worked 14 hours a day in an irrigation ditch. He made the equivalent of a few dollars a week. Rosalia taught school for less. Tony slept with his three brothers in the side room, about the size of a walk-in closet. From the front porch, they could see the banana trees that foretold their future.

“Hope?” asked Luis Silverio, Pena’s longtime friend and the Royals’ first-base coach. “What hope? This was so long ago. There were no baseball scouts in the Dominican then. There were no academies. To dream about playing baseball in America took a big imagination then.”

Pena dreamed anyway. It was Rosalia who taught him baseball. Octaviano was too busy, too exhausted, too beaten down by life. Tony liked to say, with a strange pride, that his father did not even know on which hand to wear a baseball glove. “He worked,” Pena said, “every minute of every day.”

Rosalia taught them baseball. She had been a softball star, and she would place two little Penas in the outfield, one in the on-deck circle and one in the batter’s box. She pitched. “She had some kind of arm,” Tony said. “Hitting her was like trying to hit Nolan Ryan.”

She didn’t consider baseball a career option for Tony. Boys in the Dominican were supposed to play baseball — it added color to a dreary life of farming and burning sunshine. But that was all. Tony Pena’s life was already laid out. His future wife, Amaris, lived three houses down. He was strong enough to work in the banana fields. He would have children and live his life in Palo Verde. When the baseball scout asked to take Tony away to America for baseball, he might as well have asked to take him on a spaceship to Pluto.

“Please,” Tony said to his mother. And then he said something that can only be loosely translated to mean: “Baseball is all that is in my heart.”

Rosalia remained unmoved.

“If I don’t make it in one year,” Tony said, “I will come home.”

Rosalia considered the offer. Octaviano did not agree, but it was Rosalia who would decide. And she nodded. She was sitting right there, Tony Pena would say more than 25 years later, and he pointed to a table under a straw roof. His voice began to choke a little. He walked out into the sunshine.

“Thank you so much,” Allard Baird said to the old woman who had let everyone into Pena’s old house. “Thank you so much. That was so nice.” The woman looked puzzled.

“That was nice of her, wasn’t it?” Baird said to Pena.

“What do you mean?” Pena asked.

“Well, for her to let us into her home.”

“I own this home,” Pena said. “It is my home.”


“Yes,” he said. “I let this woman live here. She is a friend.”

Pena took one more look back at the little house.

“I have only one condition. She must leave it exactly the same. Exactly the way it was when I was a child here.

“Exactly the same,” he said. “Forever.”

* * *

Tony Pena handed out Royals caps outside his old house. Dozens gathered around him. People poured out of their homes to get a hat and to shake Pena’s hand and to tell stories. Allard Baird watched from a distance.

“The first time I remember seeing Tony Pena,” Baird said, “he was with Boston. He was catching. Roger Clemens was on the mound. Clemens was all over the place. He couldn’t throw a strike. He had no command. He was awful.

“And all of a sudden, I see Tony Pena call timeout. Joe Morgan, the Red Sox manager, starts to walk out, but Pena told him to go back into the dugout. He’s got it under control. Tony walked to the mound and just started screaming at Clemens. I mean, he went nuts. He’s pointing and yelling and getting into Clemens’ face. The umpire was afraid to go up there.

“And you know what? Clemens took it. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t think there was anybody else on earth who could talk to Roger Clemens that way. He just listened, and when Pena went back behind the plate, Clemens pitched an unbelievable ballgame.”

As Baird finished, Pena walked over to get more Royals caps.

“I was just telling the Clemens story,” Baird said.

“The one where I told him to (bleep bleep)?” Pena asked.

“That’s what you told him?”

“Yes. That’s nothing, though. You should tell the story about when I went to the mound and hit our closer Jose Mesa in the head.”

“You hit Jose Mesa in the head?”

“Yes,” Pena said as he went back to give out some more caps. “He wasn’t paying attention.”

* * *

The grass stopped growing on the field Tony Pena built in Palo Verde. Pena wanted to build a little paradise here, where he had played ball as a child.

When he played, it had been a dirt field, hard as tile, with cracks and bumps and craters. He built outfield walls, carved a soft infield, planted the greenest grass to be found for 40 miles.

The Dominican heat baked the field. The grass stopped growing.

“It used to be … ” Pena began, but he stopped.

“Ah,” he said. “Everything used to be something.”

Tony Pena did not want to come back to his old life. That was what pushed him to play baseball with an almost deranged passion. There was this day, when he was playing in the rookie leagues — and not playing much — when Howie Haak called Pena over.

“Kid,” Haak said, “you better start playing. ‘Cause they’re gonna cut you.'”

“How,” Pena asked in halted English, “can I get them to give me a chance to play?”

“I don’t know,” Haak said. “But you better figure it out.”

Figure it out how? Pena did not speak English well enough to talk to anybody. In a way, though, that shielded him from the hard truth: Nobody in the Pirates organization thought he could play. They decided he was too weak to hit home runs, too impatient to lay off bad pitches, too erratic to catch in the major leagues.

He hit .214 his first minor league season, all in part-time duty, and he was shuffled out to left field and third base, where he was completely lost. Soon after, they moved him to catcher, and he set a league records for errors. They were ready to give up on him. It’s a common Dominican story. He did not know how to convince them he could play.

The answer, unexpectedly, came in Buffalo, Pittsburgh’s Class AA team. Pena noticed there was a short fence in right field. And that short fence was his escape. Every winter, Pena returned home to the Dominican Republic, milked the cows, worked the land, listened to his father grumble that it was time for him to give up this baseball foolishness. “It is time for real life,” Octaviano said.

Instead, Tony Pena ran the stairs in front of the biggest church in Santiago to build up his stamina. He taught himself to crouch with one leg sticking out, so he could give pitchers a low target and still spring up and throw out base runners. He would swing a heavy bat for hours every day to gain strength. He prayed at night for God to show him the path.

And when he saw that wonderful short fence in Buffalo, he understood. That was his path. He practiced poking long fly balls toward that short right-field fence. He had shown no power until then. But he hit 34 home runs in Buffalo — more than twice as many as he would ever hit again.

And he was noticed. Two years later, he was in the big leagues, where he would stay for 18 seasons, win four Gold Gloves, play in five All-Star games and two World Series.

“He and Johnny Bench were the two best catchers I ever saw,” said Jose Cruz Sr., who played 19 seasons in the major leagues himself. “Soft hands. Strong arm. A leader. That was what made Tony Pena special. He was a leader.”

* * *

Tony Pena drove slowly on the bumpy dirt road, past banana trees. “Juan Marichal lived not so far away,” he said softly. But his mind drifted elsewhere. He was quiet again. He could not stop looking at the trees.

“People don’t know how heavy bananas are,” he finally said. “You drag them and drag them until you cannot move. People don’t know. Your whole body hurts. You can’t even sleep at night because your whole body hurts.”

Pena said he has never lived a day — not a single day as player or coach or manager — when he did not think about what might have been. He imagined himself pulling bananas, the way all his friends, all his loved ones, everyone he grew up knowing, ended up pulling bananas.

“People in the Dominican are so happy,” he said. “That’s what I love about my country. People are so poor. They have no money. They live in these little houses. Everybody thinks they must be very sad. But they are not. They are so happy.”

He cried again. And he drove over a ditch into a little town. In the center of town, there was a dirt field. Children played baseball.

“Look,” he said. “My country.”

* * *

Tony Pena has a sentimental streak wider than the road to Santiago. He brought pieces of the Dominican with him to baseball. When he hurt his thumb, he holed out a lemon, poured salt inside and kept his thumb in there. “This is how we heal in the Dominican,” he told amused reporters.

But he played that night.

Whenever he would get a new catcher’s mitt, he would spend an hour or more bashing it with a baseball bat. “It’s too new,” he would say. “In my country, you never see a new glove.”

And all during his career, he saved things. He saved every glove he ever used. He saved every bat that delivered an important hit. He saved buckets of baseballs, often asking teammates to sign and date them. Now, the lettering on those baseballs has faded. He cannot tell which ball means what. It does not matter. He has a room in his home in Santiago with every ball, bat, glove, trophy, plaque and photo he could bring back. They all mean something.

“Whenever I go in that room,” he said, “I see something, and it makes me remember. I like to remember.”

His favorite photo is of the last time he went up to hit. He was the manager of Aguilas, a team in Santiago that is probably more beloved than any other team in the Dominican Republic. Every winter, without fail, Pena played for Aguilas. His jersey is retired in Aguilas Stadium, along with the jersey of his brother, Ramon. There were years, Tony suspects, when he caught 170 games in the major leagues, including spring training, then caught 75 more in Santiago. He does not know how he did it.

“People have loved Tony Pena because of the way he played,” Silverio says.”But he became a hero because he came home.”

“Everybody in the Dominican,” Royals second baseman Carlos Febles said, “wants to be Tony Pena.”

In his favorite photograph, Pena is surrounded by his Aguilas players. And they all point toward the field. Pena had decided to send up a pinch hitter. And his players demanded that he go out and hit himself.

Pena looked at the photo. “I can hear the crowd chanting my name,” he said.

Flags waved. Feet stomped. Pena shook his head, “No, no, no,” but eventually he did go out to the plate. The photo does not show what happened when Pena went up to hit.

“Base hit,” Pena said. “Base hit off of Jose Mesa. And we won.”

* * *

Tony Pena weaved his car in the twilight, through small towns, through a police checkpoint, around entire families riding on mopeds, past long lines of men walking along the side of the road. “They are looking for work,” he said. “When they get tired, they will go to sleep by the side of the road. And tomorrow, they will walk to the next town.”

He parked by the water in Monte Cristi, where he was born. He stepped out, and mosquitoes attacked with vengeance. Monte Cristi is one of the oldest towns in the new world — Christopher Columbus landed not so far away. Pena walked out to the water, to the largest boat on the docks that overlooked the north Atlantic Ocean. The boat is his. He climbed in and leaned against the railing and looked over the water. He talked about how the Royals would win, despite everybody picking them to lose. They would win because they would believe.

Pena said he has always known how to make people believe.

“You know,” he said, “after I finished playing, there were teams that offered to make me a coach. Right away. Chicago wanted me to be a coach. Houston wanted me to be a coach. I said, ‘No.’ I didn’t want to be a coach. I wanted to be a manager. So I told them, ‘Send me back to the minor leagues.’

“And they said, ‘You don’t want to go back to ride buses and all that.’ And I said, ‘Yes, I do. Send me back.’ They sent me to New Orleans for three years. It was hard. But I learned so much. You have to go back to learn. You have to go back to the beginning.”

He nodded and swatted at mosquitoes. In the Dominican, as the old line goes, they treat Tony Pena as something larger than a man and something smaller than a saint. He played baseball with joy, made millions, became a manager, and then, most important, he came home.

He still comes home. Every day, all winter, strangers come to his door. They need medicine or food. He offers it to them quietly. Politicians seek his approval. Mothers push their children toward him to reach for his hand so maybe something will rub off. His Royals play on television all summer.

“I’m not sure that people in Kansas City realize who Tony Pena is,” one Dominican journalist said. “You have hired our national hero.”

“I have seen people forget where they came from,” Pena said. “They buy expensive things — houses, cars, boats — and they forget. I cannot forget. I must not forget. I tell myself this every day. If you forget where you came from, you forget who you are.”

* * *

“All right,” Pena said softly as he drove through the dark, back to his home. “I will tell you the story now.”

The sun had gone down. The air was cool on the road back to Santiago.

“When I signed with the Pittsburgh Pirates,” he said, “my signing bonus was $4,000. That was more money than my father made in a year. It was so much money, there was no place near my home to cash the check. We had to go to Santiago, to the bank there, to cash it.

“When we got there, we cashed the check, and I tried, I tried to … “

Pena started to cry again. He stumbled on. He tried to give the money to his mother. But Rosalia would not take it. The money was his, she said, to save, to use if baseball failed, to give to his children. Tony told her that he would make it. She did not believe him. And she would not take the money.

“Proud,” Pena said softly and angrily. “So proud.”

A few days later, some men came and took away what little furniture filled the Pena home. Octaviano could not make the payments. Tony ran up to the men and offered his money, but Rosalia shouted at him. “No,” she said. “That’s yours. That’s yours for your life.”

Then, to the men, she said, “You may not have his money.”

Tony pleaded with her. He said they could not live in an empty home. He could not leave knowing that the house was empty. He begged her to take the money. But she would not listen. So one day, he quietly slipped out of the house and went to the company that took back the furniture. He gave them $800 and bought back all the furniture. He had it delivered to the house.

Rosalia was so angry, she would not speak to him.

“Bye, Mama,” he said to her as he headed to America to play baseball. She said nothing at all.

Years later, long after such things were forgotten or at least not talked about, Tony Pena and his mother went driving. They often went driving after Pena bought his first car. By then, he was one of the best catchers in baseball, a rich man, a Dominican hero.

They drove around a beautiful community near Santiago. “Isn’t this nice?” he asked his mother.

“Yes,” she said. “It is beautiful.”

They then drove through a neighborhood of homes. It was a neighborhood they had driven through before, many times. “I love these homes,” Rosalia said.

“I know,” Tony said. “I know.”

And they pulled up to the nicest home.

“What do you think of this one?” he asked her.

“It is the home of my dreams,” she said.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a key, gave it to her.

“It is yours,” he said. They both cried for a long time.

“All the things I have done in my life,” Tony Pena said, “that is the greatest. I bought my mother a home. It is the greatest thing a man can do.”

Rosalia Pena still lives in that home. Tony Pena still returns to the Dominican every winter.

And, in Santiago, there is an open bank account. In it is $3,200 plus 25 years or so of interest. It is every remaining penny of the bonus the Pittsburgh Pirates gave Tony Pena a long time ago.

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Top 32 NFL Coaches as Players

So here’s what I was thinking about the other day … why is it important that a professional sports coach or manager (especially in baseball) be a former player? In baseball, as I have already written here, at least 80% of the managers in baseball played in the big leagues, and just about every player was a star ballplayer at some reasonably high level*.

*Even Buck Showalter, who takes more than his share of heat as a non-player, hit .324 one year in Class AA one year and struck out only 24 times in 615 plate appearances.

In the NBA, by my quick count, 22 of the 30 coaches who ended the season last year with teams played in the NBA. And in basketball, unlike baseball, many of the greatest players ever — Larry Bird, Isiah Thomas, Bob Cousy, Dave Cowens, Bill Russell, Dan Issel, Bob Lanier, even Wilt Chamberlain briefly while playing — have tried their hand at coaching. Few of the all-time great baseball players, especially in recent years, have become managers.

In the NHL, I count 21 of the 30 coaches as former NHL players though remarkably some of the best hockey names in coaching — Guy Boucher, Peter DeBoer, Barry Trotz — did not play in the NHL. They did play hockey at high levels, though,

So the question is: Why? Why is it that playing the sport at a high level is widely viewed as a prerequisite for becoming a coach those three sports? I think you could come up with a million reasons if you want, but I have chosen three:

1. Players’ respect. There’s a sense among general managers and owners that players will be more likely to respect and follow a manager who has played at or near the highest level (or maybe the converse is more true: That players are more likely NOT to respect and follow a manager who has not played at or near the highest level). Pro sports, people will often tell you, are about people. These are not tabletop games — I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard that while writing about sports. And so, to earn the players respect (the thinking goes) you need that history as a player.

2. A sense of understanding. There’s a sense among many that to understand the game at the extreme heights necessary to coach the game, you need to have played it very well. This is why 72.4% of the nasty emails I get contain the phrase “Did you ever play?” Obviously, sports understanding is 1,000 times more important for coaches than for sportswriters, and and the sense among many is that you need to have been in those situations. You need to have been on the court with the game on the line, or in Game 148 with your body aching, or on the ice in the heat of the playoffs.

3. A natural connection between playing and coaching. Anyway the connection seems natural in those sports. While baseball (through gritted teeth) has come to accept various highly educated General Managers who never played baseball above high school (if there), the idea a non-playing MANAGER being hired still seems jarring to the mind. And most people will tell you it couldn’t work. The idea of someone like Bill Belichick — a low-level college football player who basically learned the game by studying film in his father’s basement — becoming a baseball manager is simply foreign to the mind.

And that leads us to the point: None of my three reasons have any effect on football. Below, I’ve ranked the 32 NFL coaches as players … and I should say that it was almost impossible to do because I HAVE NO IDEA how good a player most of these guys really were. That’s because only five coaches of the 32 had real NFL careers (two more were NFL replacement in 1987). Only a handful beyond that had even remotely memorable college careers. One coach never played football at all — he really did want to be a professional golfer. Another almost died on a football field in college and never played another down. There are more coaches in the NFL from Wesleyan College than from Notre Dame, Ohio State, Michigan, Texas, Alabama, Georgia, USC, Oklahoma and Nebraska combined. And there are more coaches from Eastern Illinois than Wesleyan College.

So how do you explain it? NFL coaches certainly must demand respect. How do they do it without playing in the league? NFL coaches certainly need to have that understanding of the sport — how do they gain it if they never played at the highest level? Football, you would think as much as any sport, should have that strong connection between playing and coaching. But in the NFL playing in the league is certainly no prerequisite … as you will see below only five NFL head coaches legitimately played in the NFL (two seem to have had brief careers as replacement players in 1987). Frankly, when you look hard at the coaches who get hired, you would think that having played in the NFL would be a negative on your resume.

Bill Walsh didn’t play a down in the NFL — he (like many NFL coaches) became a graduate assistant while pursuing a Masters degree. Dick Vermeil followed the same path. Marv Levy didn’t play in the NFL — he went to Harvard for graduate work in English history. Jim Mora didn’t play in the NFL — he joined the Marines. Bill Parcells didn’t play in the NFL, though he actually was drafted in the seventh round out of Wichita State. Jimmy Johnson didn’t play in the NFL, though he was part of the great 1964 Arkansas team as a player. And so on. Even Vince Lombardi didn’t play in the NFL (though it was a fledgling league then, and Lombardi was one of the famed Seven Blocks of Granite at Fordham).

And so on. Though some of the great NFL coaches — Don Shula, Tom Landry, Chuck Noll, Bill Cowher and others — did play in the NFL, it almost seemed beside the point. The NFL decision makers (and in many ways the NFL decision makers alone) had come to see coaching football as a completely different career track from playing football.

It’s fascinating to me that football is like this and has been like this for so long. You would think, from an outsiders view, that football would be the MOST insular of sporting worlds not the LEAST. Football seems so regimented, so stuck in its ways … but when it comes to hiring coaches owners and general managers are almost bizarrely open-minded and revolutionary. When Scott Pioli, who had so much success in New England, took over Kansas City and went looking for a coach, he hired a man who had never played football on ANY level, a man who wanted to be a professional golfer, Todd Haley, And while the jury is still out on Haley — and while former running back Larry Johnson did call out Haley on Twitter — the Chiefs have made strides in 2010 and it seems to me that kind of hire would be almost impossible in baseball.

OK, so now here are all 32 coaches loosely ranked 1-32 as players.

1. Mike Singletary (San Francisco): Absolutely no question who is in the top spot. He was, of course, a Hall of fame linebacker, and the anchor of the legendary 1985 Bears defense.

2. Jack Del Rio (Jacksonville): A pretty clear No. 2 choice as well. Del Rio had an eleven year pro career, with the Kansas City Chiefs, Cowboys and Vikings, and he made one Pro Bowl in 1994. He might be best known for his staunch pro-union stance — he was so pro-union he was once photographed with a shotgun while in a picket line, and he got into a brief skirmish with Chiefs legend Otis Taylor, who was serving as a scout at the time.

3. Ken Whisenhunt (Arizona): He was a sturdy NFL tight end for the Atlanta Falcons — he started from 1986-88 and caught 53 passes over those three years.

4. Gary Kubiak (Houston): He played his entire career as a backup to John Elway in Denver, which is not a bad way to make a living. He did start five games, and he had some talent. His senior year he led the SW Conference in touchdown passes at Texas A&M.

5. Jeff Fisher (Tennessee): He was a star defensive back at USC, and he actually played 49 games for the Chicago Bears, mostly on special teams. He had one punt return for a touchdown.

6. Lovie Smith (Chicago): Well, we’re all done with our non-replacement NFL players. That’s it: FIVE guys played in the NFL, two made Pro Bowls. The ranking definitely gets trickier from here. Smith played linebacker and safety at Tulsa and was chosen a second-team All American by the AP in 1978.

7. Wade Phillips (Dallas … at least as I type this): He was a three-year starter at the University of Houston where it was said that he set a school record for tackles.

8. Tom Coughlin (New York Giants): He set the Syracuse record passing yards, though — through no fault of his own — he was by far the least successful player in the Orangeman backfield when he played (he played in the backfield with TWO future Pro Football Hall of Famers, Larry Czonka and Floyd Little). Coughlin is old enough that when he played, his position was called “Wingback.”

9. Marvin Lewis (Cincinnati): He was a very good linebacker at Idaho State — making first-team All-Big Sky three times.*

*This has nothing to do with anything — and I hesitate to tell this little story because people might think I’m making fun the Big Sky conference and I absolutely not. They play good and fun football in the Big Sky, and they absolutely should have All-Conference teams. But I do think these “All-Whatever Teams” can get carried away. One year my good friend Chuck Culpepper was covering the Great Alaska Shootout, and he was pondering whether to put a guy on first-team All-Great-Alaska Shootout. He was asking me about it, and it suddenly hit me and I found myself asking him what I thought was a rather remarkable question: “Do you mean there’s a SECOND TEAM All-Great Alaska Shootout?” It turns out, there was.

10. Tom Cable (Oakland): He was a star offensive lineman for University of Idaho. It has been written in several places that he was briefly a Colts replacement player in 1987, though I cannot find any official record of it. That little tidbit, though, is actually included in his official Raiders biography (“he spent one year with the Colts”) which is surprising since the Raider tend to keep just about everything, including their last eight seasons, as hush-hush as possible.

11. Sean Payton (New Orleans). Payton was DEFINITELY a replacement player — he played in three games for the Chicago Bears in ’87, completing 8 of 23 passes. What does it say about the NFL that not one but TWO replacement players are head coaches? Payton was apparently a very good quarterback at that hotbed for NFL coaches, Eastern Illinois.

12. Mike Tomlin: (Pittsburgh). He played wide receiver at William & Mary, and was a good player there. He had school record with 20 touchdown receptions. He was good enough there that he has his own YouTube video.

13. Jim Caldwell (Indianapolis). He was a four year starter as defensive back at Iowa, which is not quite as impressive as it sounds. Iowa was struggling quite a bit then. The Hawkeyes went 0-11 one of this seasons. But teammates say he was a good player.

14. Andy Reid (Philadelphia): Offensive lineman at BYU. Apparently, according to his own bio, one of his quirks as a player is that at the same time he was a writing a column for the Provo Daily Herald and, yes, that he loved Jim Murray and dreamed of writing at Sports Illustrated. Maybe we could change jobs for a day or something.

15. Chan Gailey (Buffalo): He was a three year letterman at quarterback for University of Florida. I’m not sure how much he played. I do know two things (1) He ran the wishbone; (2) He IS an Eagle Scout. I mention this last bit because once in writing a story about Gailey I mentioned that Gailey WAS an Eagle Scout. I heard from half of the world’s Eagle Scouts who alerted me that once you are an Eagle Scout you are ALWAYS an Eagle Scout, there is no past tense there, it is a lifelong title.

16. Mike Smith (Atlanta): Well, the rankings keep getting trickier and trickier as I get less and less information to work with. Smith was a linebacker at East Tennessee State, and was good enough to twice be named team MVP. I’ve also seen that he played briefly in the CFL.

17. John Fox (Carolina): He played defensive back at San Diego State with Herm Edwards, and Herm said he was a good player. But now that I think of it, Herm always said it in sort of a semi-serious “Oh, John was a good player, yeah, good player” kind of way, so I don’t know.

18. Norv Turner (San Diego): Here we are, barely even halfway through the list, and already we’re talking about backup college players. Turner was a three-year letterman at Oregon though if he’s known for anything there as a player it is for backing up a pretty decent quarterback named Dan Fouts.

19. Pete Carroll (Seattle): He played free safety at University of the Pacific and was good enough to win All-Conference honors.

20. Eric Mangini (Cleveland). He was a nose tackle at Wesleyan University, and it says that he holds the single season and career sack records there. I have no idea what to make of this information except that he was a better player than Bill Belichick.

21. John Harbaugh (Baltimore). He was a defensive back at Miami University, the cradle of coaches. The word I’ve heard is that he was a talented player who had his career slowed by a nasty knee injury.

22. Mike McCarthy (Green Bay). I’m not sure how good a tight end Mike McCarthy was at Baker University, but he certainly takes great pride in the school. He and the Packers have more than once made generous donations to Baker.

23. Jim Schwartz (Detroit): A story about Schwartz at Georgetown’s own Web Site does not go into any detail about how good a player he was … only that he “played linebacker.” Hmm. The story does say that he’s an avid chess player*, and he uses lots of statistics in his coaching.

24. Josh McDaniels (Denver). He played some quarterback and some wide receiver at John Carroll. Hard to find any information about how good a player he was.

25. Raheem Morris (Tampa Bay): He was a safety at Hofstra — that’s about all any of the bios about Morris say. No idea how much he played.

26. Tony Sparano (Miami): He did start at center for the University of New Haven … and the training center is named for him, though I suspect not because of his play. He was a successful coach at New Haven, twice coaching the team into the Division II playoffs.

27. Bill Belichick (New England): He played center and tight end at Wesleyan University. but football was probably not his best sport. He was captain of the lacrosse team his senior season.

28. Rex Ryan (New York Jets): He was a defense end at Southwestern Oklahoma State University. Hard to tell how much or how well he and his twin brother Rob played, but apparently they raised enough hell that at least once their father, Buddy, was called to bail them out of jail.

29. Mike Shanahan (Washington): He was a quarterback at Eastern Illinois, but he suffered a horrible injury during the spring game — he ended up losing a kidney, doctors at the time said his life was in danger. He obviously never played again.

30. Brad Childress (Minnesota): Talk about eerie. Childress was a quarterback who transferred from Illinois to Eastern Illinois, though he never played a down at Eastern Illinois… because he suffered career-ending injury before the season began. That makes TWO NFL coaches who not only went to Eastern Illinois but had their careers ended by freak injuries.

31. Steve Spagnuolo (St. Louis): He was a starting wide receiver at Springfield College. Hard to tell how good a player he was, but he was a good enough student that he won the school’s male scholar-athlete award his senior year.

32. Todd Haley (Kansas City): He never played football — his connection to football was through his father, Dick Haley, who was one of the architects of the Steel Curtain Steelers of the 1970s. Dick Haley, it should be said, DID play in the NFL. Todd wanted to be a golf pro, and while there are no coaches who played FOOTBALL at the University of Miami, Todd did play golf at the U.

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Bunting on Mariano

You may or may not have noticed — I probably shouldn’t point this out in case you missed it — but I picked the Minnesota Twins to beat the New York Yankees in the ALDS. I had what seemed to me like solid reasons at the time: I really thought that the Twins would be tough to beat at home, and I thought the Yankees starting pitching problems after C.C. Sabathia would bite them.

More than that, I think I once again underestimated something, something I tend to forget until I see the Yankees play again. Then I remember. That something is this: The Yankees the last couple of years (I think) have put together one of the greatest postseason recipes in baseball history:

The recipe is this:

1 dominant starter

9 or 10 good-to-great hitters to wear down opponents.

1 Mariano Rivera

On the negative side, the ingredients will cost you a lot of money … you can’t even find them at Dean at Deluca. On the positive side, this recipe is so good I’m not even sure you need the dominant starter.

Friday, again, we saw how the Yankees win in the postseason. The Texas Rangers improbably built up a 5-0 lead against C.C. Sabathia and the Yankees, and the Rangers were at home, and the crowd was going crazy, and they STILL lost. Why? Well, they lost in part because Rangers kind of lost their minds. Manager Ron Washington went a little bit cuckoo in the eighth inning as he started throwing out relief pitchers the way a spurned lover throws clothes out a window (Washington used five pitchers in the eighth inning though none of the five happened to be his best reliever).* Ian Kinsler (unconvincingly playing the role of “tying run”) got picked off first by Kerry Wood in one of the more bizarre base running blunders of recent times. The Rangers players, as the air grew lighter and lighter, seemed to seize up, both at the plate and in the field. And so on.

*After the crazy eighth inning — when the Yankees scored five to take a 6-5 lead — announcer John Smoltz said one of the most curious things I’ve ever heard a baseball announcer say (and that is saying something). He was trying to make the point that the Rangers needed to put the bad inning behind them, realize that things weren’t dire, they were only down one run, they could still win the game. It was a good point to make: Don’t panic, don’t make too much of things. Only this is what he said:

“If someone had told the Rangers they would be down only one run in the eighth inning, they would have taken that.”

Huh? Or to be more specific: Huh? The Rangers would have taken being down a run to the Yankees in the eighth inning? Um, I don’t think so. I think it was just a misspeak to make the above point, but I think by saying it that way John actually made several other points that he didn’t want to make.

But it seems to me that the way teams continuously collapse against these Yankees in the postseason is no fluke and it’s no accident and it’s no coincidence. This is all part of the recipe. The Yankees bludgeon teams into mistakes the way Tiger Woods used to strangle major championships on Sundays. The Yankees FORCE teams to go out of character, force them to try absurd things, force them to believe that they had better be perfect or they don’t have a chance. The Yankees force it, and teams obligingly crumble.

The Yankees mostly do this with their lineup, their non-stop, no-break, every-inning-is-a-threat lineup — Jeter, Swisher, Teixeira, A-Rod, Cano, Thames or Berkman, Posada, Granderson, Gardner. You can start that lineup almost anywhere, and it’s still better than just about any other lineup in the league starting right at the top. When Posada makes the last out for an inning, for example, suddenly the lineup looks like so:








Thames or Berkman


Great lineup? Absolutely. No, Jeter is not really a No. 3 hitter at this point in his career — but he’s a first-ballot Hall of Famer, and sure enough he smacked two doubles in the last two innings Friday night. But go ahead, play around with it … almost any combination of those nine hitters makes for a scary inning. Pitchers can work through three innings, five innings, seven innings, but sooner or later odds are that lineup is going to score runs, especially during that modern-baseball-era gap between the starter and the closer.*

*As I write these words, the Rangers have just taken a 5-0 lead over the Yankees in Saturday’s game. So, you could say that adding too much Phil Hughes could mess up the recipe. Then again, it’s only the third inning.

Here’s another way to think about it: Imagine your team, whatever your team is, down a run in the late innings. As a fan, you probably have a certain place in the lineup that you hope is coming up. If you’re a Rangers fan down a run, you probably would hope that Josh Hamilton, Vlad Guerrero, Nelson Cruz are coming up. Something like that. A Phillies fan would probably hope to get Chase Utley, Ryan Howard, Jayson Werth up there. A Giants fan needs Aubrey Huff and Buster Posey. Even bad teams, say the Royals, would hope to get David DeJesus and Billy Butler to the plate.

But for the Yankees … it just doesn’t matter. Sure, they might want Teixera, A-Rod and Cano, but it’s certainly no problem if they get Posada, Granderson, Gardner, Jeter, Every inning they have the heart of the order up. They come crashing at you like waves hitting the shore.

Then, of course, if they have the lead in the ninth inning they send Mariano Rivera out there and that’s that. I don’t know how much stock to put into the Mariano Effect — that teams not only can’t hit Rivera but also try too hard in earlier innings because he’s always lurking — but I do suspect that Rivera plays on the mind. I’ve mentioned before that before the movie Gandhi came out, there was a real push in India to have him portrayed only by a ray of light, that he was too remarkable to be represented by a mere actor. With Rivera, I keep expecting a ray of light to come trotting in out of the bullpen.

So — a lineup that will eventually get you, the best postseason reliever in baseball history, and (as a bonus) a few hundred million dollars in starting pitching — I’m not sure why I keep underestimating the Yankees. Even now, as I look ahead, I think the Phillies have the best team in baseball, and that remarkable Phillies starting pitching could neutralize the Yankees recipe. I keep thinking that the Rangers, if they can just get Cliff Lee out there, would have a shot of winning this series in seven games. But, you know what? Until I see someone break this particular Yankees blueprint for postseason success, I should probably assume that no team can beat them over a seven-game series …

All of this was just supposed to be a prelude to my real question of the day which is this: Is it smart to sac bunt against Mariano Rivera?

I was thinking about this Friday night, of course, because the Rangers bunted. Man on first, nobody out, needing one run to tie, the Rangers’ Elvis Andrus got down a successful sacrifice bunt (with two strikes). The Rangers, of course, did not score the tying run, did not even manage to get the runner to third base. But that doesn’t mean it’s right or wrong.

My first thought was: Wrong. It has to be wrong. We all know how good Mariano Rivera is … just giving him an out, it seems to me, is like giving Usain Bolt a head start. The only thing you have against Rivera are your three outs … they are precious, they are rare, and you have to use them absolutely as well as you can. To give them up for one base seems to me a bad deal.

But … the more I thought about it, the more wisdom I got from wise people like Tom Tango, the more I realized that this topic is a lot more complicated than that.

First, let’s state the obvious: Giving up an out for a base, the vast majority of the time, is a lousy deal. This is why you don’t see it happen very often — there were only 1,500 or so sacrifice hits in more than 185,000 plate appearances this year.

The numbers change, but generally speaking (I have been toying with Tom Tango’s run calculator to come up with these numbers):

— With a runner on first and nobody out, a team will score about 42-44% of the time.

— With a runner on second and one out, a team will score about 40-42% of the time.

Of course, it depends on the quality of hitters coming up, the quality of pitcher on the mound and various other things, but in a mathematically precise world the gaining of second base and losing of an out DOES NOT give your team a better chance of scoring a run. At most, it’s a break-even. If anything, it gives you a lesser chance. And, beyond the “how often you score” issue, it DEFINITELY hurts “how much you score.” This is why the sac bunt drives so many of us crazy, especially in the early innings, especially when you waste a good hitter by bunting*.

*Interestingly enough, bunting a runner from second to third with nobody out — a move I very openly despise — DOES accomplish that one limited goal of scoring more often. A team with a runner on second and nobody out should score 59-61% of the time. But a team with a runner on third and one out score score 67-69% of the time.

Now, I still think this is a lousy move most of the time because your overall expected runs goes down — this relates to the classic line about how if you play for one run that’s what you’ll get. But if you are a manager who wants or needs that one run and only that one run, then it seems by the numbers I’ve run that in many, even most situations, bunting a runner from second to third isn’t as bad a play as I’ve always believed.

OK, so that’s the general bunting scenario. But what about a specific question like this one: Is it worth sac bunting against Mariano Rivera in the ninth inning, down one run, in a postseason game. One of the problems with answering this question is that people tend to oversimplify the sac bunt, tend to turn it into a two-part multiple choice issue: Bunt works, bunt doesn’t work.

But that’s not realitiy. There are several other possibilities — here are eight of the more common sac bunt possibilities:

1. The runner moves to second, batter’s out, sac bunt.

2. The runner is thrown out at second, batter’s safe at first.

3. The runner moves to second, batter’s safe at first (a single or an error).

4. The runner moves to third on bad throw, batter’s safe at first.

5. The runner is thrown out at second, batter’s out too, double play.

6. The runner stays at first, batter pops up bunt.

7. The batters fails to bunt on first two tries, hits away two strikes.

8. The batter fails to bunt on first two tries, bunts again foul, strikeout.

Any and all of these are possibilities and each has its own value. A speedy runner who could turn a sacrifice bunt into a single 20% of the time would change the whole formula. A bad bunter who will foul off the first two bunt chances 75% of the time would change the whole formula. And so on.

So let’s simplify the Rivera question even more — let’s make it this: is it worth it in the larger sense to give up an out to move a runner to second base against the best postseason closer ever? So for this we assume 100% success rate on the sacrifice bunt, and we also assume the batter is out 100% of the time.

As it turns out, Tom Tango put this EXACT table in The Book — a Mariano Rivera scoring distribution table. According to the table:

Runner on first nobody one: Team will score 37.4% of the time.

Runner on second one out: Team will score 36.2% of the time.

So that seems to settle things — your percentages go down. Only, maybe not: As Tom explains, the better the pitcher gets, the percentages get closer and closer until finally, at some point, they flip and you actually have a better chance of scoring with a runner on second and one out than you do with a runner on first and nobody out.

Tom’s Rivera chart refers to the 2007 version of Mariano Rivera, when he gave up 3.2 runs per game. It does not refer to his postseason work. In the postseason, Rivera has an 0.72 ERA in 137 innings of work. He has given up two unearned runs on top of that, so he has given up .85 runs per nine innings.

So, with Tom’s help — and by help I mean “Tom did this” — we calculated some percentages using Rivera’s numbers in the playoffs.

If you use Rivera’s exact postseason numbers — this is assuming he is and will be as good as he has been in the postseason — the math looks like this:

Runner on first nobody out: Team will score at least one run 21.8% of the time.

Runner on second, on out: Team will score at least one run 26.8% of the time.

Even if you tinker with the numbers, make Rivera a bit more hittable, the bunt still works out as a good play.

And there you go. It really does seem that if you need one run against Rivera you do have a better chance of doing it with a runner on second and one out than a runner on first with nobody out. Of course, it’s not that simple. How easy is it to bunt successfully against Rivera? Where are the Yankees playing? Who is coming up? And so on.

But I do think that in a game where Ron Washington made some, er, unusual moves, well, I think my initial reaction in the ninth inning was wrong and I think Washington probably made the right mathematical call by having Andrus bunt.

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The Night Of The Pitcher

Now, this little tidbit doesn’t mean much, but it’s a good place to start as we prepare for one of the most exciting pitching matchups in postseason baseball history, Saturday night’s game between Philadelphia’s Roy Halladay and San Francisco’s Tim Lincecum. I cannot begin to tell you how psyched I am for this game. Well, actually, I will tell you quite a bit about that.

But let’s start with this bit of obscurity …

There have only been nine postseason matchups ever between multiple Cy Young Award winners. They are as follows:

— 1966, World Series Game 2: Jim Palmer vs. Sandy Koufax.

Comment: What I did here was look for any match-up between pitchers who EVENTUALLY were multiple Cy Young winners. In 1966, Jim Palmer was only a rookie and it would be seven years before he won even his first Cy Young. Koufax, meanwhile, was fully formed, having just finished his last and perhaps greatest season. In other words, this game would only be seen as a great pitching match-up years later. And, so of course, it did not go at all like expected. Palmer flashed some of his future brilliance throwing a four-hit shutout while Koufax, not exactly helped by four of the six errors the Dodgers committed, was pulled after only six innings (and having allowed four runs, one of them earned).

— 1968, World Series Games 1 and 4: Bob Gibson vs. Denny McLain.

Comment: In this case, neither of the pitchers were multiple Cy Young winners while the Series was going on. Neither had won a single Cy Young yet. Gibson would win the 1968 award after the World Series and then win his second Cy Young in 1970. And while people tend to remember McLain for his 30-win season and the various legal troubles he had afterward, he did win back-to-back Cy Young Awards in 1968 and 1969. McLain at 25 had already won 114 games and two Cy Young Awards, pretty amazing.

Their match-up was wildly hyped in ’68, of course. Both had just come off seasons for the ages. McLain had won 30 and Gibson had finished with a 1.12 ERA. Anyway, both of their games turned out to be pretty terrible pitching matchups. In Game 1, Gibson had one of the most dominating performances in World Series history, he threw a shutout, and he struck out 17 which is still a World Series record. McLain, meanwhile, only lasted five innings and gave up three runs — walks to Roger Maris and Tim McCarver, back-to-back singles by Mike Shannon and Julian Javier, an error thrown in, and that was the end.

Game 4 was even more lopsided. Gibson allowed one run and struck out 10. McClain could not even get out of the third inning. Lou Brock, one of the great postseason performers by the way, led off the game with a homer off McLain. The Cardinals added an unearned run in the inning — that run coming on a McLain error — and then battered McLain in the third.

McLain came back to pitch a brilliant complete game in Game 6. And Gibson battled — and lost — the seventh game to the Tigers and the irrepressible Mickey Lolich.

— 1995, NL Division Series Game 4: Greg Maddux vs. Bret Saberhagen.

Comment: There wasn’t a lot of hype about this one because by 1995, Saberhagen was a shell of his younger self. He had won his second Cy Young way back in 1989, and though he had pitched reasonably well since then (he was terrific in the strike-shortened 1994 season for the Mets) he had not pitched a lot. Injuries had drained much of his young brilliance.

Maddux, meanwhile, was about to win his fourth straight Cy Young Award and was at the height of his powers. He would still have, I figure, four excellent seasons, and a handful of good ones, but he would never again have as good a year as he had in 1994 and 1995. Over those two seasons, Maddux was 35-8 with a 1.60 ERA, a 266 ERA+, 337 Ks to 54 walks, six shutouts, the master of everything. I have never enjoyed watching a pitcher more than I did Maddux in those years.

Neither pitcher threw well in this game. Maddux got rapped around a bit, allowing 10 hits, two homers and four runs in seven innings. Saberhagen got the worse of hit, lasting only four innings and giving up six runs, five of them earned.

— 1999 ALCS Game 3, Pedro Martinez vs. Roger Clemens.

— 2003 ALCS Games 3 and 7, Pedro Martinez vs. Roger Clemens.

These should have been the most anticipated pitching matchups in recent postseason history — perhaps the two most dominant pitchers of the era and two powerful personalities going at it — but for whatever reason I don’t remember them that way. Maybe it’s because none of the games turned out to be remarkable pitching duels.

The 1999 game turned into a joke and fast. Clemens lasted only two innings, he gave up a homer to John Valentin in the first, gave up a couple of doubles, a single and a walk in the second, got pulled after one batter in the third. Pedro, meanwhile, cruised for seven shutout innings, striking out 12.

The third game of the 2003 ALCS was better, but still hardly a classic. Pedro gave up four runs in seven innings — the Derek Jeter homer and Hideki Matsui’s run-scoring ground-rule double are what stand out — and Clemens gave up two runs in six innings. What I really remember about that game is what I tend to remember about many Yankees postseason triumphs: Mariano Rivera threw two perfect innings to close it out.

The seventh game of the 2003 ALCS is a classic, but only because everyone remembers Grady Little refusing to take out Pedro in the eighth and Aaron Boone’s 11th inning homer. It’s easy to forget — I DID forget — that Clemens actually started that game for the Yankees. He got pulled after three ineffective innings. Over his career, Roger Clemens had one of the greatest postseason performances ever — his 15 strikeouts, one-hit shutout against Seattle in the 2000 ALCS — and his two-hit, no-run performance against the Mets in the 2001 World Series was both controversial (throwing the bat toward Piazza) and indisputable. But he did start 32 other postseason games and throw 182 other postseason innings, and his ERA in those was 4.10.

— 2001 NLCS Game 1, Greg Maddux vs. Randy Johnson.

This could have — maybe even should have — become the Ali-Frazier pitching matchup of the era, two utterly dominant pitchers doing it two completely different ways. Unfortunately, this was the only time they matched up in the playoffs.

The game was indeed a bit of a pitching classic. The Diamondbacks scraped a run in the first helped along by a Marcus Giles error — it was not an unearned run, but the error clearly played a role. Craig Counsell singled, moved to third when Luis Gonzalez reached on the Giles error. Then Reggie Sanders singled in Counsell.

Counsell scored the Diamondbacks second run too, that was in the fifth when he doubled and scored on Gonzalez’s single.

That was it — two runs for Arizona. It was plenty. Unit threw a complete game, three-hit shutout with 11 strikeouts.

— 2001 NLCS Game 5, Tom Glavine vs. Randy Johnson.

Different multiple-Cy-Young winner for the Braves facing Unit, same story. Glavine was 35 by the time of this game, and though he would still have some good moments left, he was no longer quite as great as he had been. He allowed a run in the fourth, but the Braves tied it in the bottom of the inning when 498-year-old Julio Franco homered off Unit — the first run the Braves managed against Johnson. But as Braves fans will remember clearly, the next half inning Craig Counsell reached on an error, and pinch-hitter Erubiel Durazo homered off Glavine to give the Diamondbacks a lead that they would not lose.

OK, so that’s all of them. As you can see, these match-ups have been a mixed bag. If you want to go to the time before the Cy Young Award, yes, there certainly were some remarkable postseason pitching match-ups … you have Koufax against Whitey Ford, you have Lefty Grove against Burleigh Grimes, you have Lefty Gomez against Dizzy Dean, you have Christy Mathewson against Eddie Plank and so on. But the truth seems to be this: Two truly great pitchers, both in their prime, facing off in the postseason … it’s a rare, rare thing.

And we get it tomorrow night in Philadelphia.

At the moment, this is NOT YET a match-up of multiple-Cy Young winners. But it will be — Tim Lincecum has already won two Cy Youngs, and when the voting is announced in a few weeks we’ll get official confirmation that Roy Halladay will win his second Cy Young in 2010. It will be, I believe, the first ever matchup between last year’s Cy Young winner and this year’s.

And more than the awards, this is a matchup between perhaps the two most striking pitchers in the game. The best of rivalries — Ali-Frazier, Brady-Manning, Evert-Navratilova, Watson-Nicklaus, Magic-Bird, Sampras-Agassi, Tom-Jerry — offer something beyond ferocious competition, something beyond compelling games. They offer clashing styles, interlocking pieces, thrust-parry, point-counterpoint.

And here you go. Halladay personifies persistence, mind-numbing persistence, he pounds the strike zone again and again and again with similar pitches, a fastball that cuts and a cutter that’s fast, over and over, almost always on the inside corner or the outside corner, over and over, fastball and cutter three-quarters of the time, with an occasional change-up or curveball to throw a wrench into the machine and send the hitter’s body into convulsions. Halladay set a career high in strikeouts this year — he did throw his swing-and-miss change-up more than ever before — and he walked just THIRTY batters, and more than anything he kept on coming at hitters relentlessly. No starter in the game throws a heavier pitch; when you see how the ball thuds off the bat you would swear Halladay is throwing billiard balls. Boxing (like chess) has become more of an example than spectator sport — that is to say it’s more fun to compare stuff to boxing than to actually watch boxing — but it does seem true that Halladay works the body, scoring points and wearing down opponents with every pitch. He’s remarkable to watch because he’s so unremarkable to watch. He’s a master craftsman. He pitches older than his 33 years.

Tim Lincecum, meanwhile, personifies youth, excitement, genius. There’s nobody QUITE like him. There has never been anyone QUITE like him. He has that weird windup that inspired people to call him Freak, the mid-to-high 90s fastball that seems to be thrown out of a sling shot, the absurd curveball that at times still seems to move like one of those toy remote control helicopters, and the even more absurd change-up that flutters around erratically, even emotionally, like an 8-year-old child in Toys R Us. And, of course, he’s maintaining that skateboard-dude vibe (as an editor pointed out to me, he is kind of the spitting image of the skateboard bully Dolph from the Simpsons), and so you are never entirely sure what he’s going to do.

Halladay is a classic black and white movie starring someone like Humphrey Bogart — you could see him pitching in a tux.

Lincecum is a 3D comedy adventure starring Adam Sandler — you could see him pulling out a guitar and singing a funny song on the mound.

And this takes the match-up to new heights — I can never remember being so fired up for a postseason pitching duel. Of course, pitching duels can fizzle quickly — a bad early inning by either pitcher more or less ends the fun. But I don’t think this one will fizzle. They are both breathtakingly good, at the height of their powers, coming off legendary performances. The scene will be crazy in Philadelphia. Everything lines up.

And the beautiful thing is we could see the duel again in San Francisco. As I’ve written before, I never entirely bought into the idea that 2010 was “The Year of the Pitcher.” Go back and look at the numbers from 1968 … THAT was the year of the pitcher. There was plenty of offense this year. But Saturday should be the night of the pitcher. For a night, we might just go back to 1968.

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Sweeney: An Essay

A comedian friend told me this once … I’m paraphrasing: “People think the punch line is the most important part of the joke. But it isn’t. The punch line is nothing. If you tell a joke right, you can say 50 different punch lines and all of them will be funny. If you tell a joke right, you can grab a kid out of the crowd and have him come up and give the punch line.

“It isn’t the punch line. It’s the set-up. Everything is in the set-up. You ever hear about the biggest laugh in the history of television? They say it was Jack Benny … you remember he was famous for being cheap. Simple gag, a mugger holds up Jack Benny, which already is funny. Then the mugger says ‘Your money or your life.’ And Jack Benny just stands there. Doesn’t say a word. The laughter grows louder and louder and louder. He just holds it, that look on his face, and by the time he gives the punchline — “I’m thinking” — everybody’s howling. Nobody even HEARD the punch line they were laughing so hard. Why? Jack Benny had been setting up that joke for 40 years. The punch line had nothing to do with it.”

Pick a day any day. Make it a Tuesday. Make it a Tuesday in August. That seems as bland a day as any. Of course, it could be a Wednesday in May or a Sunday afternoon in July or a Monday as the days grow shorter and September bleeds into October. The point, the only point, is it could be any day, because the days of a losing baseball season don’t change much. They repeat, they rerun, nothing especially important changes. At first, when there’s hope, you know that you have to be in Detroit on Tuesday. Once hope fades, you only know that it’s Tuesday because you are in Detroit.

So, make it a Tuesday in August, and the Kansas City Royals are out of the pennant race because by August the Kansas City Royals are ALWAYS out of the pennant race. By August, the Royals players have also reached acceptance. At first, in April, maybe even into May, the players believe in themselves, believe that this year will be different, that if this pitcher can be at his best, and this hitter can have a few balls drop in, and this outfielder can run down a few more balls …

By late June, the best of them still cling to the belief that things can be turned around, that it isn’t hopeless. There might be a team meeting. Occasionally someone will say something in the local paper, something about how they have to get their act together. The manager and general manager will try something bold — send this guy to the minors, move that guy to the leadoff spot, put the other guy in the bullpen — and praise his team for refusing to quit. The general manager will talk about how he isn’t giving up on this team, there’s too much talent here, there’s no time to panic, the guys just have to stop TRYING so hard, they’re putting too much pressure on themselves.

By August, though, illusions are gone. Oh the players still understand — if understand is the right word — that they are lucky people, that they play baseball for a living, that they get paid a lot of money to do it. But by August the muscles ache constantly. Arms feels dull, slightly dead. The games are only as important as the imagination can make them. Some days the imagination allows them to see the 10-year-old boy they used to be, the boys who dreamed only of playing big league baseball. Some days, though, that picture is cloudy. The body doesn’t want to run out hopeless double-play ground balls. The arm doesn’t want to throw another 3-1 fastball to a hitter whose eyes are as large as cantaloupes. None of them want to face another collection of reporters who want to ask, yet again, what went wrong. By August, many hide in the weight room and the shower until the reporters and television cameras dissipate. The ones who come out do so out of duty. But, then, everything by August in a losing season feels duty-ridden. You play hard because you are supposed to play hard. You give your best because you owe it to your teammates, your fans and yourself. You try because to not try would tell you something bad about yourself.

But it all only matters because you tell yourself so.

So it’s a Tuesday in August, in Kansas City, the Royals are 25 or so games back, the manager has already been fired, Raul Ibanez is in the Kansas City clubhouse getting ready. Raul is one of the good ones, a self-made player who never stopped believing that he was good enough even though there was plenty good reason to stop believing. This is the first year he has been given 500 plate appearances in a season. He’s 30 years old.

He’s getting himself ready for the game mentally, physically, emotionally, and he knows he will do it … but it’s a chore. Raul cannot help but feel the dreariness of the season creeping up on him. He looks around at his teammates and knows it creeping up on them too. The losing has burned them out … it’s like standing in the sun too long, something else they have all done. It’s 103 degrees outside. Or something like it. One of the first English phrases Ichiro Suzuki learned playing in the big leagues is that August Kansas City in hotter than two rats f——- in a wool sock.

That’s how hot it is outside, and that’s how blah it is inside in the clubhouse, and Raul Ibanez feels the eyes of the younger players on him. They aren’t quite sure how to deal with all this. How are they supposed to react when baseball has stopped being fun? How much spirit are they supposed to show when playing only for pride? And even though Ibanez is new to this stuff too, he’s older, and they are watching him, watching how he goes about things, they are watching to see if he will show any signs of despair. He has to brace himself against it. He has to come up with jokes, in English and Spanish, light talk, something to show that he’s still into this season. He has to listen to some pumping music, something like that, to inspire himself, to forget about how much his body’s hurting, to make all the losses disappear, to remind himself that just because they’re LOSING does not make them LOSERS. It’s a Tuesday in August, another mostly meaningless day in another mostly forgettable season, and the reporters are asking their exhausted questions, and maybe 10,000 or 12,000 fans are still coming to the ballpark, and the ballplayers are pretending that it is still fun …

And all of a sudden Raul hears singing. Happy singing … “isn’t life wonderful?” singing … “aren’t we the luckiest people on planet earth?” singing … Raul Ibanez looks up and stares in crazy disbelief.

It’s a beautiful morning!

Ahhhh, I think I’ll go outside a while!

And just smile!

That … is Mike Sweeney.

* * *

Mike Sweeney, you probably know, is a part of the Philadelphia Phillies now, which means he is in the playoffs for the first time in his life. Mike Sweeney played in 1,454 regular season games before he got his first at-bat in his first postseason game. It was a hit, a bloop single, off preposterously hard-throwing Aroldis Chapman. Sweeney always could fight off a fastball.

So that was 1,454 games without a playoff appearance, and of course his teams lost most of them. Sweeney spent the bulk of his career — parts of 12 seasons — playing for the Kansas City Royals. The Royals had losing records in 11 of those seasons. The Royals lost 100 or more games in four of them, 90 or more in four other seasons. In Kansas City, he played for four managers, not including the two interims, played in five All-Star Games, signed an under-market deal that somehow made him look greedy later, almost won a batting title, almost won an RBI title, played hard though his body disintegrated, and by the end heard a few boos mostly because he could not stay healthy.

Put it this way: In Kansas City he had 1,398 hits in 4,669 at-bats. That’s a .299 batting average.

Had he managed 1,399 hits in those 4,669 at-bats — one more hit — he wold have hit .300.

That was the not-so-charmed story of Mike Sweeney in Kansas City. And all the while, he sang. He cared. He endured. He signed the autographs, and he appeared at all the charity events, and he served as media spokesman for defeat. Oh, sure, it backed up on him sometimes. People around town still remember the time he snapped when Detroit pitcher Jeff Weaver shouted something at him that, as Sweeney delicately put it, “Webster never put in his dictionary.” Sweeney threw his helmet at Weaver and charged after him. He would be suspended for 10 days, though his teammates (and, quietly, a few of Weaver’s teammates in Detroit) only gained more respect for him after the incident. “Believe me,” one said, “Weaver had it coming.”

Anyway, there was that, and there were other times when he expressed frustration at the organization or teammates who he didn’t think were giving their all and so on. There were times he felt the mean sting of the fans’ disapproval when he was really trying the best he could to get healthy.

But mostly, day after day, he came into the clubhouse singing, he spent every game playing hard as he can, he came back too soon from injuries, he played through intense pain … all for a mostly-hopeless team that was usually playing out the string. The other players looked at him like he was a freak. They all loved baseball, grew up with it, dreamed about it, but still they wondered: How could ANYONE love baseball — especially this kind of losing baseball — as much as Mike Sweeney?

* * *

Mike Sweeney was born a few days premature — “Couldn’t wait to get into this world,” he will say (yes, he will really say this). So when he was put in the incubator his father, Mike Sr. — Big Mike, everyone calls him — also put in a toy plastic bat.

Big Mike had wanted to play big league ball. He hacked around in semi-pro ball for a while, tried to make a go of it in the Angels minor league system, but when his first son was born he gave it all up and drove a beer truck. On the side, Big Mike would teach kids how to hit baseballs over at the Home Run Park batting cage in Anaheim. The one kid who would not come out of the cage, of course, was Mike Sweeney Jr.

The kid’s life was a Brady Bunch episode — anyway, that’s how Mike Jr. remembers it. They grew up, big Irish Catholic family, in a house on Tam O’ Shanter Lane. His memories are of Sunday morning trips to church, picnics when they would listen to Vin Scully on the radio, California Angels ballgames where he would watch his favorite player, a catcher-outfielder named Brian Downing. All that stuff. His one brush with the law happened when he and a friend toilet-papered a house. The officer told him he was going to jail for a long time. In memory, Mike Jr. believed it.

He was a catcher — probably because Downing was a catcher — and the Royals took him in the 10th round of the 1991 Draft. His catching did not leave anybody too impressed, but he started hitting with power when he was 21and the thing is he almost never struck out. All those days in the batting cage had given him an almost freakish ability to swing hard and make contact. From 1999 to 2002, Sweeney would hit .324/.396/.535 and would be in the Top 10 in fewest strikeouts per at-bat each of those four seasons.

By then, the Royals had given up on him as a catcher. They tried hard to make him a first baseman, and Mike tried hard to make himself a first baseman, and whenever you would ask scouts or coaches how he was doing defensively they would usually say the same thing: “Mike Sweeney can REALLY hit.” The effort to make Mike a first baseman was probably best expressed by one coach who, while watching Sweeney take extra ground balls, muttered: “That guy would rather face Nolan Ryan in a phone booth on Christmas in the dark that take a ground ball.” But Sweeney kept taking those extra ground balls. As one Royals player would say: “Mike isn’t a great first baseman. But he’s as good as he can be, I know that.”

The hitting went better. The first year the Royals gave him a shot to play every day, that was 1998, Sweeney hit .322 with 44 doubles and 22 home runs. Every thing was a line drive. The next year he hit .333 and set the Royals record with 144 RBIs. The next year he smashed 46 doubles. The next year he hit .340 and went into the final weekend with a shot at the batting title. He played every day, he carried himself with grace, he was a force in the community, he was the face of the Royals.

And it was just before that 2002 season that the Royals and Sweeney agreed to a semi-strange deal. The Royals offered Sweeney a five-year, $55 million — a deal that was so far under market value that, according to numerous people at the time, Sweeney took quite a bit of guff about it from the players union.*

*Later, after things took a bad turn, people would remember this differently, would think of Sweeney being wildly OVERPAID, though his newly minted $11 million deal put him only tied for 36th in baseball in 2003, not much for a 29-year old hitter coming off four very good years.

The odd part of the deal (if you don’t think a player taking an undervalued deal to stay in Kansas City is odd enough) is that the Royals gave Sweeney an out. They put in a small-print exit clause: If the teams did not finish .500 or better in either 2003 or 2004, Sweeney would be released from the final three years of his contract and could become a free agent. This seemed like a sure thing. The Royals had eight straight losing seasons going into 2003 — and they had lost 100 games in 2002.

Only, wacky things happened in 2003. The Royals, against all logic, won 16 of their first 19 games. They then started the inevitable losing but, of all things, were re-energized by the re-emergence of an almost forgotten pitcher named Jose Lima. In mid-August, the Royals improbably were still in first place. They clinched winning season on Sept. 22. They promptly lost five of their last six. But Sweeney was locked in.

And Sweeney … was happy about t. Yes, his body was beginning to betray him; in 2003, for the first time in a while, he did not hit .300 and he only played in a 108 games. But all he ever really wanted was to play for a winner in Kansas City, and 2003 seemed like a promising sign. He was as happy playing baseball as he ever had been …

He did not know then that the mirage of 2003 would be followed by three impossibly awful seasons, 100-plus losses in every one. He did not know then that his back would never again be right, that his hamstrings would pop like strings on a tennis racket, that the next four years would a a succession of pain and disappointment, that he would miss game after game. He did not know then that the under-market-value contract that he had signed because he loved Kansas City would soon be viewed as pure greed by some fans who grew tired of seeing his name on the disabled list, who grew sick of seeing his bat speed slow, who needed someone on the field to blame for all the Kansas City losing. By the last year of his contract, Sweeney hit just .260 in only 74 games, and for this he got paid $11 million, and there was a lot of anger and cynicism swirling around him.

Still … Sweeney kept singing his way into the clubhouse. It was something to see. He kept playing as hard as his body would allow him, harder even. He kept trying to lead, kept trying to inspire, kept strong with his faith, kept trying all the while … anytime the players would take a “nicest guy in baseball” poll, Sweeney’s name was always at or near the top. He went to Oakland, then to Seattle, offered a little value as a pinch-hitter and occasional first baseman, the word was always that he was going to retire. But he figured that as long as somebody was willing to give him a job, he’d keep on playing the game for the minimum salary.

Whenever I would see him, he would rush over, talk about his family, ask about mine, and say the same thing: “Can you believe I’m still here playing this game?”

* * *

In August, the Phillies needed a little help, they traded for Sweeney. He was thrilled. He was suddenly, unexpectedly, for the first time in his life, part of a great team. And now here he is, in the playoffs for the first time. His role is tiny, almost insignificant. He will pinch-hit, maybe.

But that doesn’t matter. When you’ve been through all those losing seasons, that doesn’t matter at all. When or if Mike Sweeney steps to the plate during this National League Championship Series, the announcer will undoubtedly say something like this: “And here’s Mike Sweeney, who after so many losing seasons in Kansas City is finally playing in his first postseason.” And most people will miss it. Most people will miss it because, well, they weren’t there. They don’t know, and probably don’t care about all those terrible seasons, all those hopeless games, all those teammates he inspired, all that Kansas City humidity, all those injuries that made him feel helpless, all the fans who lost patience, all that singing …

“It’s funny,” Sweeney says. “When I was a kid, I would be getting ready in the morning. And my sister would say, ‘Be quiet already!’ And I’d say, ‘What? What was I saying?’ And she would say, ‘You were singing again.’

“I’d say, ‘I was?’ And then, sure enough, I’d hear myself singing. And I’d tell her, ‘I can’t help it!’ “

Now Mike Sweeney’s finally in the playoffs. That’s the punch line. But of course, the punch line isn’t important. That’s the secret of a good joke … and a good life. The punch line is just the punch line. The set-up, that’s what matters.

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32 Greatest Sports Calls

Here, finally, is that list. Could that big iPad review finally be coming soon after?

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