By In Stuff

Why I Like WAR (with Poker talk)

OK, here’s a long and rambling essay I’ve pounded out about why I like Wins Above Replacement, not as the end-all, be-all*, but as a pretty good place to start when trying to figure out a player’s value.

*”Be-all and the end-all” as phrase comes from Shakespeare, from MacBeth specifically, when MacBeth used to the phrase basically to mean “All there is to it.” He was referring to killing King Duncan of Scotland, and he was essentially saying that if killing him the be-all and the end-all — if he could kill the king and have that be the end of it — it would be done. But because there could be consequences in the afterlife, there are more issues involved.

We tend to use end-all, be-all differently, as a phrase to describe the ultimate, the very best we can get, all we would really need.

But before going to WAR (alert: I will try to avoid war puns from now on), let me talk a bit about this little discussion I had with Bill James.

Here was the starting point: Poker. Let’s say you’re playing three down, five-card stud poker (first three cards down, last two up). OK? You’ve been dealt four cards so far, and this is what you have:

2H 2D KS 8C*

*I’m suspect you know this but that’s the two of hearts, two of diamonds, king of spades and eight of clubs.

Your opponent, though you don’t know it, has this:

JC 8S 8D JS

So, basically, you have almost nothing, a pair of twos. This seems really good to you for reasons that are not especially clear to anyone else. Your opponent has two pair — jacks and eights. You have not read him right and you are sure he’s bluffing and so you put everything into the pot — your house, your car, your big screen TV, your prize copy of The Machine (now in paperback!), everything. You have a very serious gambling problem, my friend, and you should look into that.

Then it’s down to the last card. He gets the ace of spades. You, against ludicrous odds, get the 2 of clubs, which gives you three deuces — YOU WON! Woo hoo! The Giants win the pennant!* You run around, do a dance, act like a big jerk, and the guy across the table is crying because he put all of HIS prize possessions into the pot (including his copy of The Soul of Baseball), and he knows that he just got beaten by someone who does not know what he/she is doing.

*Top 32 sports calls is coming this week.

From here, Bill asks a simple question:

Which card is the MVC — Most Valuable Card?

It’s a fun question that you can look at many different ways. Looking at it one way, the final 2, the 2 of clubs, HAS to be the most valuable card. I mean it showed up out of nowhere and hit the walk-off homer or got the ninth inning save — it was the difference maker! It delivered the win! Zack Greinke — after all I’ve tried to impart upon him — would probably pick the 2 of clubs because, as he so eloquently told Bob Dutton, the two most important stats are probably “innings and wins.”*

*Zack … Zack … Zack … even with all the hard work Brian Bannister and I have put in, you’re still showing Joe Morgan announcing signs at age 26. It’s not good. Justin Verlander, Roy Halladay, Felix Hernandez, C.C. Sabathia ALL had more innings and wins than you did last year. I know you didn’t enjoy winning the Cy Young last year, and I know you’ve grown overwhelmingly frustrated with pitching for the losing Royals City, but come on.

Back to the card game. So, some people would say the last 2 is your MVP, your Cy Young winner, whatever. Trouble is, how do you differentiate that 2 of clubs from the 2 of hearts and 2 of diamonds? They’re all of the same importance. So what’s the difference? Timing? Clutch performance? RBIs? Wins? And anyway, how can a TWO be the most valuable card in the game? It’s a two.

Looking at it another way, the king should be the most valuable player card. It was the best card on the winning team, and the MVP award is often just that — best player on a winning team. Trouble is the king didn’t really play much of a role in winning the game and anyway it wasn’t the best card in the game.

So that’s another way to look at it: The ace has to be the most valuable card because it’s the highest value card. It clearly had the best season. Trouble is, the ace played for a losing team. And even on that losing team, he did not play much of a role.

Looking at it still another way, the 8 of clubs could be the most valuable player card. How do I come up with that one? Well, if the 8 of clubs had gone to the other team, he* would have been the difference maker, he would have made that the winning hand (three 8s would have been decisive). By having the 8 of clubs, you prevented the other team from getting him. Trouble is, you really have to kind of stretch your mind to even come up with that philosophy.

*Eight is a very masculine number.

What’s the right answer? That’s the beauty of this thing … there is no RIGHT answer. This is all just a goofy Batman could beat Superman talk. Hands, not cards, win poker games. The first hand won not because of one card but because of the three twos. The second hand lost because three of a kind beats two pair. It’s likely that if you ever won a game like that with that much on the line, yes, you would always view the 2 of clubs as your favorite card. You would come away thinking that’s your lucky card, you’d have a T-shirt made with the 2 of clubs on it, the 2 of clubs would become famous among your circle of friends. But it took a whole series of events, and a collection of cards to win. And remember, if that last card had been the 2 of spades or another king, you still would have won.

You can bring a little of that to baseball too … we try to calculate individual players’ value because it’s fun and because we want baseball cards to increase in value, and we want posters to hang on our walls. But it isn’t individual players who win games. Put the 1923 Babe Ruth on the 2010 Pittsburgh Pirates — even assuming that he would have the same kind of year, the Pirates will still stink. They will stink less, certainly, but teams win games and teams win championships and it’s telling that many of the greatest seasons in baseball history ended without the team even making the playoffs:

Walter Johnson’s 1913 season? Senators finished second.

Rogers Hornsby’s 1924 season? Cardinals finished sixth.

Ted Williams’ 1941? Red Sox finished second.

Stan Musial’s 1948? Cardinals finished second.

Steve Carlton’s 1972? Phillies finished last.

Dwight Gooden’s 1985? Mets finished second.

Barry Bonds 2001? Giants finished second and out of playoffs.

And these are some of the very greatest seasons in baseball history. Poker HANDS win. Baseball TEAMS win.

Still … it’s a fascinating exercise to think about how much less the Pirates would stink if they replaced Lastings Milledge with the 1923 version of Babe Ruth. Murray Chass on his non-blog blog printed a “letter,” from one of the “obviously intelligent, articulate people,” who agree with him on the absurdity of advanced stats like WAR. A few of the the letter’s obviously intelligent, articulate words:

When an MVP-level candidate is rated 6 to 8 (wins above replacement), you can’t help but shake your head. Because, of course, it means that an MVP is ONLY WORTH six to eight more wins than a “replacement’ player.” If that’s the case, then let’s stop going to Major League games, and cheer for AAA players, who must be only one or two games less worthy than their average peers in the Majors. Indeed, we’d all save a lot of money at the ballparks if we only embraced a WAR-inspired commitment to Triple A.

Sigh. It’s amazing how irrational people get when it comes to making arguments against things they don’t like. How many wins WOULD this person say that an MVP candidate is better than a replacement player? Twenty wins? Thirty? Has he done the math on this? His intelligent and articulate calculations would seem to assume that a team of Class AAA players would win zero games in the big leagues — they wouldn’t. The Pirates are essentially a team of replacement plyaers plus Andrew McCutcheon and Neil Walker and a couple of other guys — but they’re not going to lose 162. They’re going to lose 100, maybe even 110. A full team of replacement players might lose 120, like the 1962 Mets.

More, the letter’s author seems to assume that a team with, say, three MVP candidates and the rest filled with Class AAA players would win 100 to 130 games. They wouldn’t. There are a million examples of this — but let’s just throw out the 1996 Mets. he Mets had three players who had great years. Todd Hundley mashed 41 home runs. Bernard Gilkey was fabulous, hitting .317 with 30 homers, 117 RBIs, 108 runs scored. Lance Johnson was excellent, hitting .333 and scoring 117 runs. The Mets had some other pretty good players, much better than Class AAA players. And the 1996 Mets still lost 91 games.

Great players don’t win games by themselves in baseball. They don’t. I thought that was one of the beautiful points of baseball, that teams win games.

Look: One of the great things about watching and enjoying sports is that there are no rules. You can believe what you want to believe. It’s supposed to be fun. Dan Quisenberry said the best thing about baseball is that there’s no homework … I would add there are no pop quizzes. If you want to believe that baseball is won entirely by heart, that RBIs and wins are the two most important numbers, that defense can be measured best and entirely by what you see, that Jack Morris and not Bert Blyleven belongs in the Hall of Fame, that numbers deaden the sport, you are absolutely entitled — more than entitled, you are empowered to see the game as you want to see it, enjoy it as you want to enjoy it. I’m not sure what you’re doing here, 2,000 or so words into this essay about WAR, but you absolutely should watch all sports for the joy of it. I just hope you’re not running a team I like.

But I like WAR. I like it because while it is complicated — complicated enough that Baseball Reference and Fangraphs come up with different, often very different, results — it is also extremely simple and entirely sensible. And it attempts to answer the poker question of value and the Babe Ruth question of how much difference a player can make.

Here’s what I mean: Let’s say you wanted to calculate a player’s value. How would you do it? For an every day player — and we’ll stick with those for now — you would try to determine the player’s offensive and defensive value to his team, right? Maybe you would look at a players RBIs, stolen bases and errors. Maybe you would look at a players batting average, home runs and fielding percentage. Maybe you would look at a players wOBA, his Bill James base running numbers and his UZR. But, really, it’s all going for same thing. I think the last one is more precise than the first two, but we’re still going for the same thing.

And that’s really all WAR is — looking at a player’s value offensively and defensively. I know the replacement thing throws people — but I think you need to have a baseline to compare the player. You could do this any number of ways. You could pick a really HIGH baseline — you could make your stat read Wins Below Willie Mays (WBWM) or Value Under Albert Pujols (VUAB). But that wouldn’t be much fun to do and would probably tell us more about Willie Mays and Albert Pujols than the players themselves. You could look for value above average — that what OPS+ and ERA+ do, and those are valuable stats. But there are so many positions and so many roles that “average” is kind of a tricky concept in baseball (which is why ERA+ doesn’t make a lot of sense for relief pitchers, and a 100 OPS+ is really good for a shortstop, quite lousy for a left fielder).

Replacement level makes sense to me. On the most simplistic level, a replacement player is just what the word suggests — a player you could easily get in an emergency to replace someone. He is the sort of player that is lingering on the end of the bench or is pretty good in Class AAA — the sort of player who gets paid the minimum or could be picked up for “cash considerations” or the dreaded “player to be named later” in a minor trade that nobody would notice. Every team has loads of replacement players, even if they would not call them that. Some are starting for teams like the Royals.

Joe McEwing — he’s a replacement player. In many ways, he’s the perfect replacement player. He played nine seasons for four different teams, posted a 71 career OPS+, played every position but catcher, tried really hard and was always available. If you were going to put a name to replacement player, I would say Joe McEwing is perfect* — and it doesn’t hurt that his career WAR is 0.0. The stat could easily be WAM — Wins Above McEwing.

*I saw someone on Baseball Reference used Willie Bloomquist as his example — same principle. Others long-timers who fit the tag: Danny Bautista, Jeff Huson, Doug Strange, Matt Mieske, James Mouton, Luis Rivera, and so on and so on and so on. It should be noted that most replacement players don’t have the longevity of the players listed above. Those players offered SOMETHING that inspired people to keep bringing them back. Replacement players, necessarily, tend to have short careers.

Once you figure out what replacement level is, WAR then compares the player’s value to that level — depending on position, depending on ballpark, etc. The offensive part can be involved, but it’s the easier part. People disagree about the specifics of offense, but in a larger sense people agree that it’s about getting on base, it’s about advancing bases, it’s about avoiding outs, you know, all that stuff. Fangraphs WAR uses wOBA and Baseball Reference uses Rbat, but they’re both built around linear weights (a single is worth this, a home run is worth that, etc). Base running is also factored in — stolen bases, caught stealing, etc. Pretty straightforward.

Defense — that one’s tougher. Here’s the problem: Defense has played a very small role in the mainstream definition of a player’s value. Yes, sure, people give it lip service. GMs will constantly tell you that they are trying to improve the team’s defense. Then they will go out and sign some 90 RBI outfielder who can’t move. Media types like myself will say that defense is important and then vote defensive liabilities for MVP. You want to see something fascinating? I looked back at the MVPs in both leagues for the last 40 years. They break down like so:

First base: 17

Left field: 15

Right field: 11

Third base: 10

Shortstop: 7

Center field: 6

Second base: 6

Catcher: 5

OK, does that order look familiar at all? If you’re a fan of Bill James, it should. That order is almost a precise replica of Bill James Defensive Spectrum, which ranks the positions from easiest to hardest:

The Defensive Spectrum:

First base

Left field

Right field

Third base

Center field

Second base

Shortstop

Catcher

Look at that: Except for a couple of extra MVPs to the glamour position of shortstop, the MVPs have gone in perfect order from easiest position to hardest. Why? Because the MVP is an offensive award. Because our idea of value in large part revolves around offensive contributions — and not just any offensive contributions but certain KINDS of offensive contribution. The last MVP to hit lower than .295 was Kevin Mitchell way back in 1989. We all know the MVP has been skewed toward RBI men. From what I can tell, the last position player to win an MVP award largely because of his defense was, I don’t know: Ryne Sandberg in 1984? Zoillo Versalles in 1965? Phil Rizutto in 1950?

All three of those players, you should know, led position players in their league in WAR.

And this is one of the big things I love about WAR — it really does attempt to look at the whole player. Defensive statistics are more advanced and more controversial than ever, and because of that Baseball Reference WAR and Fangraphs WAR can fluctuate pretty wildly (Baseball Reference uses Total Zone as their defensive stat; Fangraphs uses UZR). But the point to me is that WAR is TRYING to figure the defensive contribution. It’s TRYING to get at the whole player, and not just the obvious stuff. It’s TRYING to make an educated guess about a player’s total value. I don’t have to agree with all the conclusions. I don’t have to like the inconsistencies, don’t have to like that someone like Josh Hamilton is ranked as by far the most valuable player in all of baseball (by Fangraphs) and as the fourth most valuable player in the American League (by Baseball Reference). I don’t have to agree with all the conclusions. I can live in shades of gray, I really can. I can decide for myself what stats are worth. I can like WAR without having it determine every single thing I believe or like about baseball.

The question I asked a few hundred words back was this: How many more wins would this year’s Pittsburgh Pirates win if they had 1923 Babe Ruth in right field instead of Lastings Milledge? It’s a make-believe question without a real answer. Maybe the Pirates would pitch Ruth on days he didn’t play right. Maybe teams would intentionally walk Ruth every single time (which would actually ADD to his value). Maybe other players would be inspired by Ruth. Maybe they would play even worse because he was around. Maybe none of that would happen.

At the moment, the Pirates are on pace to win 55 games, lose 107. WAR says Ruth in 1923 had a WAR of 14.7. WAR says that Milledge, in 2010, is actually worse than replacement by 1.1 wins. So adding the numbers together, WAR makes the claim that 1923 Ruth would make the Pirates 16 wins better — taking them from 55-107 to 71-91. That seems to me about as good an answer as we can find right now.

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By In Joe Vault

Rafer Johnson and the Power of 10

First event: 100-meter dash

Rafer Johnson came into the decathlon 50 years ago — at the 1960 Olympics in Rome — as the heavy favorite and the world-record holder. He got off to a bit of a rough start. There were three false starts in his 100-meter heat, and on the third he ran about halfway before realizing that he had to come back. The extra energy he exerted may have depleted him, and Johnson ran a 10.9… slow by his high standards. He had run a 10.6 when setting the world record at the Olympic trials in Eugene, Ore., just months earlier.

(more…)

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By In Baseball, History, Joe Vault

Is That All I Did?

Bob Gibson smiles hard. It’s about to happen again. Over the years, Gibson has learned to tell when someone is about remind him how ferocious… heartless… intimidating he used to be. He has learned to brace himself for those peppy, ‘You were vicious!” compliments (they are compliments, right?) and the awed “You were a killer out there!” tributes (they are tributes, right?). He has learned to see them coming, the fans — they’re definitely fans — who remember him fondly for that glare and those up-and-in fastballs, who think of him as young and raging and invincible, with fury and pride and the purest annoyance oozing from his forehead instead of sweat.

“Mr. Gibson,” this man says. “Oh, do I remember the way you pitched. I remember all those batters you hit. They were so scared of you.”

(more…)

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By In Baseball, Joe Vault

The Imperfect Game

There was something beautiful lost in the Jim Joyce fiasco, something that I hope I remember for as long as I remember the blown call. Yes, it’s hard to think about beautiful things when you have just watched one of the most absurd injustices in the history of baseball. But I’m a father of two young kids. And fathers find themselves looking for lessons. And there was something beautiful in the Jim Joyce fiasco.

(more…)

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By In RIP

John Wooden

Most people can live with the vague. For instance: What is success? Well, um, you know, um, there’s that old line about art: I know it when I see it. I know it when I feel it. Success is like that, right? I can’t quite put it into words what success means, and other things like “happiness,” or “class,” or “integrity,” but I don’t need the words, right? These are things that come from wordless places deep inside, things that cannot be defined, things that we believe transcend definition. That’s OK. We KNOW what success means, even if we can’t really SAY what it means. Most of us can live comfortably in that hazy world.
(more…)

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By In RIP

Paul Splittorff

You will hear people say all the time that they don’t want to live in the past. But I think that, more often than not, is a half-truth. Don’t we all want to live at least a little bit in the past? Don’t we all want to remember those moments when the sun was brightest, when the children were little, when the hole-in-one dropped, when we were the ninth caller to the radio station? Don’t we all save the scribblings and trophies and photographs that remind us? I once made a volley in tennis between the legs, a winner that scraped the line, a shot so perfect that Federer could not have done it better. I think about it often.

(more…)

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By In Baseball, RIP

Harmon Killebrew

The gentleman the sportswriters somewhat desperately called “Killer” was just 23 years old in 1959 — but by then Harmon Killebrew already had played parts of six seasons in the major leagues. Six seasons. He was of that peculiar bonus baby time, when owners (as owners tend to do) went looking for convoluted and spectacularly destructive methods to control their own spending. Certainly, they might have controlled spending by not spending as much money. But that was deemed unrealistic.

(more…)

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By In Golf, RIP

Seve Ballesteros

There’s a moment at the 1997 Ryder Cup that I think of now. That Ryder Cup was at the Valderrama Golf Club, in Sotogrande, along the Alboran Sea, almost in the shadow of the Rock of Gibraltar. The captain of the European team was Seve Ballesteros, and even with all the beautiful scenes there in and around Sotogrande, it was Seve who was the overpowering presence. He was everywhere.

(more…)

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By In Baseball, History, RIP

Robin Roberts

A few years ago, I came home and found a message on the answering machine from someone who claimed to be Robin Roberts, the Hall of Fame pitcher. The person was calling because he had read some of my work, and he liked it, and he happened to be in Kansas City to see his brother and he wanted to meet me at the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum so he could tell me some baseball stories.

My first thought was that it had to be a put-on. Hall of Famers don’t just call up sportswriters they don’t know because they want to chat. But I also had to admit that I didn’t quite get why anyone would pretend to be the pitcher Robin Roberts (as he had to be known so as not to be confused with the television anchor Robin Roberts). And then, I had to admit that I really didn’t know that much about the pitcher Robin Roberts.

I did a little research. The thing that jumps out at you when you look back at Roberts’ career are the complete games. From 1950 through 1956, Robin Roberts started 37 or more games and completed more than 20 games every season — that’s Deadball Era stuff. Roberts led the league in starts six straight years, in complete games five straight years, in innings pitched five straight years, in victories four straight years. He was, in those days, a force of nature. Put it this way: He threw 28 consecutive complete games in 1952-53, and he was so enraged when he got pulled after seven innings against Brooklyn* — Bums Send Roberts To Showers! — that, for perhaps the only time in his career, the genial Roberts refused to talk to reporters.

*It was July 9, 1953; to give you an idea about the time, that was the same day that Ted Williams announced that he would play for the Red Sox in 1954 (if they wanted him), one day before Ben Hogan won the British Open at Carnoustie and the same day when a reported shortage of barbers sparked the trend story that more and more men planned to cut their own hair.

There was no Cy Young Award then, but in the six years leading up to the award — 1950-55 — Roberts received some serious MVP consideration. Here’s how he ranked in MVP votes among pitchers.

1950: 2nd, behind only teammate Jim Konstanty
1951: 5th
1952: 1st; finished second overall, 15 points behind Cubs outfielder Hank Sauer
1953: 2nd, behind only the Braves’ Warren Spahn
1954: 2nd, behind only the Giants’ Johnny Antonelli
1955: 1st

So, he probably would have won two Cy Youngs in his prime, and maybe more.

The prime years and innings took their toll on Roberts, who was rarely a great pitcher after 1955. He had a losing record the rest of his career and a league average ERA. But he had already made his mark. Few in baseball history threw harder than Roberts did in those overpowering years. Bill James has guessed that Roberts probably threw in the upper 90s, topping 100 sometimes. And he pounded hitters with that fastball again and again, nine innings at a time, sometimes more than nine*, whatever it took. A force of nature.

*Roberts threw 21 games of 10 innings or more — he threw 17 innings in beating Boston in 1952 and 15 in beating St. Louis in 1954.

One other thing about Roberts’ career that you should know — he gave up home runs. Five times he led the league in home runs allowed. The 505 homers he allowed in his career is the all-time record — at least until Jamie Moyer , who is just seven behind, breaks it sometime this year. The funny thing, as you will see, is that Roberts was oddly proud of that home run record; he was proud of everything he did in the game. Hey, giving up home runs was part of his style — you are supposed to challenge the hitter. Roberts didn’t walk many. Sometimes he won, sometimes you won. That’s baseball.

Anyway, I called back the number left on the machine, and, of course, it really was Robin Roberts — it would not be much of a story if it wasn’t. We met at the museum that evening (“Here I am!” he said when I first saw him). We walked around the museum for a couple of hours, looking at the various photographs and exhibits, and I listened to Robin Roberts tell stories. He was 77 then and remembered everything. I will cherish that night for the rest of my life.

What was it like? Roberts saw a photograph of Satchel Paige, and he remembered that he had once faced Paige in a barnstorming game. Roberts wasn’t exactly a great hitter — his lifetime .167 average is dead last in baseball history for anyone with more than 1,500 at-bats — but he had grown up believing that he would be an every-day player, so much so that he was a switch-hitter. And Paige showed him no respect. He was toying around with him and threw him some sort of eephus pitch. Roberts lined a single to center.

What he remembered most, though, was going up to Paige years later and telling him about that hit.
“Roberts,” Paige said back, “I got a big black book of all the great hitters who got a hit off me. And you ain’t in it.”

All the stories Robin Roberts told me that night were like that: self-effacing, funny, warm, touching. He talked about the first time he saw Willie Mays hitting in a batting cage and how he saw Mays blast home run after home run into the upper deck. And he thought, “Well, here’s something new.” He talked about the consistent grace of Hank Aaron and his old teammate Brooks Robinson. He talked about what it was like to have Luis Aparicio and Richie Ashburn making great plays behind him. I remember that we went into the small theater to see the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum movie, which begins with a young man singing The Star-Spangled Banner. Roberts stood up and put his hand over his heart.

At one point, he saw a display for Jackie Robinson and he told me two of my favorite stories, both revolving around Robinson. One was about Robinson. One, I think, was more about Robin Roberts.

The first story was about the Whiz Kid Phillies of 1950. While people often talk about the collapse of the 1964 Phillies, they tend to forget that the 1950 Phillies tried to do it first. Those Phillies were up 7 1/2 games on the Brooklyn Dodgers on Sept. 20. They were still up five games a week later, on Sept. 27. But then they lost five straight games, and that Sunday they had to beat the Dodgers in Brooklyn or be forced into a playoff. Roberts was 24 years old and was sent out to lead the Phillies to their first pennant in 35 years. He was pitching on two days’ rest.

He pitched 10 innings. The only run he allowed was on a Pee Wee Reese home run. Roberts worked his way out of a bases-loaded jam in the ninth — thanks in large part (as Roberts himself said) to a perfect throw by Ashburn to nail Cal Abrams at the plate. He also led off the 10th inning with a single… that eventually led to Dick Sisler hitting a three-run homer. Roberts finished things off in the bottom of the 10th, and the Phillies won the pennant.

After the game, Roberts was sitting there on his stool, champagne dripping from his hair, when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He looked up. It was Jackie Robinson. “Congratulations,” Robinson said.
“Think about that,” Roberts told me. “Think about how much class that took. I couldn’t have done it, I’ll tell you that.”

Of course, Robin Roberts would have done it. He was like that. And that leads to the second Jackie Robinson story. In 1951, everyone remembers that the New York Giants came back from oblivion to catch the Brooklyn Dodgers and then beat them on Bobby Thomson’s “The Shot Heard ‘Round the World” home run. What many people don’t realize is that the Dodgers actually had to win their final two games against Philadelphia just to force that playoff. They beat Roberts 5-0 on a Saturday. But the Sunday game was quite a different story.

In the Sunday game, Robinson started off terribly. He hit into a double play, booted an easy ground ball that allowed two runs to score, took a called third strike, threw wild on another play. He would make up for it. In the eighth inning, the Phillies led 8-5, but the Dodgers pulled within a run. And Roberts was put into the game even though he had pitched the day before. He gave up a single to Carl Furillo that tied the score.

Then, Roberts pitched five gutsy scoreless innings. It looked like the Phillies were going to win in the bottom of the 12th inning — they loaded the bases and then Eddie Waitkus lined what looked to be a sure single up the middle… so sure that Dodgers pitcher Don Newcombe began to walk off the mound in disgust. Instead, Robinson made a diving catch just inches off the ground — so close that there were Phillies fans who remained certain decades later that he did not catch it. Robinson hit the ground so violently that play was stopped for five minutes as he regained his breath.

Two innings later, with curfew just a shade of dark away, Robinson hit a home run off of Roberts to give the Dodgers the lead and force the classic playoff with the Giants. Robinson would call it the biggest hit of his career.

You may have already known all that, or at least the basics of it. But what struck me that day in the Museum was how Robin Roberts remembered it. He was, well, proud of it. He was proud of his whole career. He pitched hard. He gave his all. And Robinson beat him. No shame in it. Sometimes he pitched the game-winner. Sometimes he gave up the big home run. And it was all part of his beautiful journey in baseball.

“If I don’t give up that home run to Jackie,” he told me, “there is no Bobby Thomson home run. There is no playoff. It’s a good thing I gave up that homer to him, isn’t it?”

And then, he smiled: “Of course, one thing I could do was give up home runs.”

That’s how I remember him. That smile. That humble line. Robin Roberts died on Thursday at his home in Florida. He was 83 years old. I had talked to him a few times since we met at the museum, and he was always the same: Humble, kind, eager to avoid hurting anybody’s feelings. He lived a big life. He was in the Army air corps. He was a star college basketball player at Michigan State. He was a great big league pitcher. He was one of the pioneers of the baseball players association — he, along with Jim Bunning, pushed for the hiring of Marvin Miller. He was deeply involved with the Baseball Hall of Fame. He has had his number retired in several places, and he is in numerous Halls of Fame, and he has had a stadium in his hometown of Springfield, Ill., named for him.

But I still tend to remember him most as the modest man who could not help being proud of the home run he had allowed to Jackie Robinson, the one that set up perhaps the greatest moment in baseball history. “You want to be proud of your successes,” he told me, “but you want to be proud of your failures, too. The important thing is try hard.” And Robin Roberts always did.

(more…)

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By In Stuff

Snuggies

As everyone here certainly knows, I love infomercials. It’s a sickness, I know, but I’m turning 42 this week, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m probably not changing much from here on in. And I love infomercials. I have spent way too many hours in my life sitting in a recliner and watching someone sell:

 (1) The miraculous pasta pot, that has little holes on top so that you can drain the boiling hot water without ever taking the pasta out of the pot! Sure, I bought one. It’s great. Only trouble is that the top really doesn’t stay on all that well, and also your chances of scalding yourself while trying to to pour out the water is roughly 1 in 2. Current use: Planter.

(2) The revolutionary wok-like pan device that allows you to cook fast in the steam. Make pasta dishes in a snap! Steam the greenest vegetables ever! Sure I bought one. It’s great. Only trouble is, it really doesn’t work any differently from the actual Wok we have other than it’s more cheaply made. Current use: Space eater in pantry.

(3) The Magic Bullet. Little tiny blender allows you to make awesome smoothies, delicious cheese cake and the famous six second scrambled eggs! Sadly, my family has never let me buy one.

(4) The Infinity Razor. This was, by far, my favorite infomercial-type item — I blogged about this already. It’s the razor that comes with a lifetime guarantee, meaning you will NEVER need to replace it. Ever. And it will always stay sharp. Forever. And, by far my favorite part of it, was that if you bought one they would give you one free. Even I wasn’t stupid enough to buy one/two.

(5) The magical-white stuff that makes scratches on your car disappear forever. Say you have a scratch on your car. Well, you put this white goop on top of it, buff it with this incredibly flimsy shammy-type device that rotates the soft pad at speeds up to 1 revolution per minute — seriously, this thing moves around about as fast as those plastic little kiddie toy windmills * — and, voila, the scratch is completely gone, your car is just like new. Current use: Lost in garage.

*I never understood why these toy windmills were supposed to be fun. Hey, look, I can make this thing go around! I mean, how many minutes of entertainment can even the smallest kid get out of that? It’s like those party favors that you blow, and the little paper unwinds and you hear that kazoo sound … really, you do that twice and haven’t you more or less drained all the possibilities?

But, after being set straight by Holly and Mechelle I now have a new favorite infomercial-type commercial. I appreciate that I’m a bit late to the party … but let me be the millionth person to say it: That Snuggie Blanket has to be the most amazing commercial I’ve ever seen on television. I know you have seen this thing over and over already, but just in case, here is the idea: The Snuggie is a blanket with sleeves. I’m not saying that as some vague description, that’s their slogan. Snuggie: The Blanket With Sleeves.

Now, at first glance, you may think: Hmm, a blanket with sleeves. Sounds like, I don’t know, a SWEATSHIRT. Or a SWEATER. Or a FLEECE PULLOVER. But the brilliance of the Snuggie is not in the innovation. It is in the way they sell it. The commercial (which you can see at the end of the post, though I suspect you won’t) is pure brilliance from beginning to end.

Scene 1: Woman sitting on couch in thin white sweater of some kind. She appears to be cold based on the way that she is shivering while crossing her arms. The narrator says, quite reasonably: “You want to keep warm when you’re feeling chilled but you don’t want to raise your heating bill.” The raising of the heating bill is symbolized by a cartoon arrow with dollar signs on it going up in the air and the sound of a cash register bell going off. Tension has already been set in motion. This early scene is shot in stark black and white, like it’s “Double Indemnity.”

Scene 2: Woman laying down on couch, only now she’s trying to cover herself in a thread-bare blanket … and she’s having one heck of a difficult time with it. The blanket simply will not cooperate. The narrator says: “Blankets are OK, but they can slip and slide.” I love the early concession — Blankets are OK. This is not an attempt to put blanket people out of business, they want that clear up front. There is a cordless telephone next to the woman … this will play a key role in our next scene.

Scene 3: Woman TRIES to reach for the phone. But the blanket will not allow her to get it immediately. It takes at least .8 seconds for her to get the phone. The narrator says: “And when you need to reach for something, your hands are trapped inside.” This has to be the single greatest moment in television history; this moment when an actress is attempting to demonstrate how difficult it is to reach for a telephone when your hands are trapped inside a blanket. She makes O.J. trying on the glove look like Coppola in Godfather III. She tries to reach for the phone, but she can’t quite get it right away, and then she has the most priceless look in the world, this look that says: “Oh, wow, haven’t we all been here, trying to get that doggone phone when we’re wrapped in a blanket, oh, if they can put a man on the moon and find a cure for polio, why oh why can’t they find a way to free my hands from a blanket.”

Scene 4: Everything bursts in full color! And the narrator says: “Now, there’s the Snuggie. The blanket that has sleeves!” The woman demonstrates by putting on this very red robe type thing that you put on the same way that you put on hospital gowns. Narrator: “The Snuggie keeps you totally warm, and gives you the freedom to use your hands.“ The woman then demonstrates how easy it is to reach for the phone while wearing the Snuggie — it is easy. And she has this wonderful smile on her face, one that says: ”Yes! American technology!“ It seems a tad bit unfortunate that she is using a cordless phone that looks like it’s right out of 1989, but I’m guessing people with 1989 cordless phones would probably be the target audience.

Follow-up scenes: Man in Snuggie who looks a lot like Friar Tuck sits in a recliner and shows conclusively that the Snuggie does not constrict remote control freedom of movement … Older woman in Snuggie reads a book (but you say: Isn’t it too dark there to read a book? We’ll get back to you on that one!) … Fairly young man wearing Snuggie goes to work on his computer while the narrator says, ”Use your laptop without being cold!“ … Friar Tuck is back, this time he’s hungry and wants to have a bowl of popcorn — and he CAN because the Snuggie has sleeves.

Product Close-up of Snuggie: A hand goes lightly over the top while narrator tells us about the Snuggie’s softness.

Older woman is back, now she’s knitting with the Snuggie which seems an odd thing to do since I thought the whole point of this commercial is that actual CLOTHES have become obsolete. … Original woman is back now, and she’s reading a book to a young girl who looks absolutely nothing like her but is apparently supposed to be the daughter. The daughter is wearing a Snuggie too. A new slogan, ”Wrapped in Warmth!“ appears on the screen.

And so on. There are some amazing follow ups — a man and a woman standing next to each other, both wearing Snuggies, looking like they are in some kind of monastery; a woman proving she could hold a baby OR a dog with her Snuggie; a campfire scene right out of the ”Blair Witch Project With Snuggies;“ a young woman sitting in her college dorm room wearing a Snuggie, apparently content to live a dateless life on campus and so on. And then, believe it or not, there are two scenes that top all the rest:

1. There’s a scene of the family — the guy who was working on his laptop, the woman who was so frustrated reaching for the phone, their daughter who looks nothing like either one — all of them at a ballgame, surrounded by people dressed in normal clothes like coats. And the three of them are sitting in the middle of it all, wearing these preposterous Snuggies, looking, seriously, like they are in some sort of very frightening fleece cult. It’s no wonder the people around them are trying desperately to ignore the dangerous Snuggie Family and just watch the game. It’s like a Cohn brothers movie.

2. The narrator says: ”Similar products sell for up to sixty dollars.“ I appreciate that every infomercial must have the ”similar products“ line in it. But in this case, well, one — similar products? Really? There have been previous unsuccessful attempts to sell the blanket with sleeves? And two — these failed entrepreneurs decided that sixty dollars was about the right price point? The narrator then offers the Snuggie for the amazing price of $14.95, which really is an amazing price. And it comes in three colors.

The commercial reiterates the many features of the Snuggie — you can use your remote, it will keep you warm, it has sleeves — and then they offer the bonus prize … a ”compact, press-and-open book-light,“ apparently so Grandma in her Snuggie can read the third Twilight book without raising her electricity bill.* That’s a $15 value absolutely free.

*I often wonder how they decide which cheap contraption gets to be the main item and which one has to be the lousy bonus prize. Like, couldn’t this have been a whole commercial about the ”press-and-open book-light,“ and as a bonus you get the blanket with sleeves? I’m sure they have market analysts who study it.

For people like me who love infomercials, this is Beethoven’s 5th Symphony, this is The Contest, this is Starry Night, this is the best there has ever been — utterly worthless product based on entirely absurd premise sold by actors who are apparently from outer space. It’s a masterpiece. And I should add that my 7-year-old daughter Elizabeth just came in her and watched the infomercial and said, ”I want a Snuggie.“ I’m beaming. Like father like daughter.

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