I went to my 10-year high school reunion on Saturday. I didn’t plan on going, but at the last minute I realized I had nothing better to do, nothing to be bitter about, and no reasonable justification for turning down an open bar.

I’m glad I did; it was a good time. And it got me thinking, which I appreciate.

A few of my former classmates — Mets fans all — know my current occupation. The rest were surprised to learn that I’m not in politics, which seems laughable to me today, but decidedly wouldn’t to someone who hasn’t spoken to me in 10 years.

I went to college in Washington, D.C. because I was certain I had a future in government. I used to half-jokingly (but not nearly jokingly enough) say I wanted to be the President, mostly because I spent my teenage years seized by a pathetically vain desire to impact the world in some lasting way, a compulsion that could probably be better explained by a decent psychologist.

Then I went to college and met the people who would actually go into politics, and realized they were in it for more than vanity and the promise of free food. And I learned that, for every strong opinion I was certain I was right about, there was someone at least as smart as me who felt exactly the opposite way.

And the difference between me and them, in many cases, was that their confidence made me more skeptical about my views, while my confidence only seemed to make them more certain of their own.

That turned me off to the whole thing, and pretty quickly. How could I be so confident about things so many people — people I liked, and people whose company I enjoyed — were sure were wrong?

So I ultimately majored in English and music and bailed on plans to go to law school after graduation. I taught for a while, then went to grad school, then stumbled into an editing job, and now, here I am.

I mention that history on this ostensibly sports-based blog because of a good article I read on FullCountPitch.com detailing the mythical battle between sabermetricians and scouts.

As Gary Armida points out, the split in the way we evaluate baseball players exists mostly in the media, as every Major League organization weighs both the statistical evidence of past production and the observed indicators of future production.

That’s not to say, of course, that every team weighs the two equally, or that every team uses the same measurements and scouting techniques.

It is to say, though, that those too dogmatic on either side of the perceived divide are foolish. The best writers and the best fans, of course, know this. The worst participate in the kind of baiting and closed-mindedness that made me grow to hate politics.

This space, and all of my baseball writing, hinges mostly on stats, because they are something I can grasp. Numerical measurements are, by their very nature, perfect for simple comparisons.

And I focus on dime-store economic principles, because they’re often just extensions of common sense, and I strive to maintain that in most of my decisions (though I often fail).

But I recognize, of course, that there is a whole lot of merit to what scouts say. There is probably a reason why Yusmeiro Petit has yet to live up to his Minor League numbers in the Majors and why Jose Reyes has far exceeded his.

I don’t write about the scout’s perspective often because I am not a scout, and though I have some familiarity with the basics of baseball mechanics, I do not feel confident enough to opine about them without a professional level of understanding.

Instead, I temper nearly everything I write with buts and maybes and on the other hands, because even though I realize it weakens my writing, I know it is the best way to delay my exposure as an outright fool.

I feel confident that if the Mets sign Bengie Molina to a multi-year deal it will prove to be a mistake and that if they sign Matt Holliday to a multi-year deal it will not, but I am not sure of either.

The only thing I am certain of is uncertainty. There’s a ton of that in baseball — and in politics, for that matter — but not nearly enough of it in the way it is represented.

Howard Megdal brought up a very interesting point by e-mail last night. According to Fox Sports, the Phillies reached out to second baseman Orlando Hudson to see if he would be willing to move to third base before they signed Placido Polanco, himself a second baseman by trade, for the hot corner.

Keep in mind that, with both Chone Figgins and Adrian Beltre still on the market, it’s not like there are no slick-fielding third basemen available. Both of those guys are supposedly looking for a lot more than Polanco got, of course, but the Phillies didn’t exactly wait out the market.

I should note that if the Mets made the same move — a hypothetical, since they obviously don’t need a third baseman — I’d be killing Omar Minaya for it. Three years and $18 mil for a guy who doesn’t even play the position seems excessive, especially since he’s 34.

But since these are the Phillies — the big, bad Phillies, the team that always seems to beat up on my team — I’ll go ahead and assume they know something I don’t.

I’m just not quite sure what that could be.

This odd piece about Texas Rangers’ ownership and front-office politics gives me an excuse to talk about Nolan Ryan.

Ryan will apparently be back as Rangers president next year, and I’m glad. The Rangers are brimming with young arms, and under Ryan’s leadership, the team has taken the emphasis off pitch counts and innings limits.

Interesting. Not necessarily good or bad, but interesting, for sure.

Pitchers, like all players, are huge investments these days, so it makes sense for teams to try their best to protect them. On the other hand, and as Ryan points out, pitchers seem to get hurt pretty frequently under strict pitch counts and innings limits.

My colleague Mike Salfino has been on a campaign to expose the various shortcomings of the so-called Verducci Effect for a while now, and he makes a lot of good points. So does David Gassko at the Hardball Times.

I would guess — and this isn’t really much of a leap — that some pitchers are more prone to innings- and pitch-related fatigue than others. But teams are cautious enough with pitchers that no one ever gets the chance to show he can be the next Nolan Ryan.

Nolan Ryan, then, will give his pitchers the chance to be the next Nolan Ryan. He’s the perfect guy to do it, too: A tough, old Texan who isn’t afraid of the criticism he will inevitably face if one of his prized young arms does get hurt.

I never loved Ryan when I was a kid and he was still pitching. My dad thought he was about the coolest guy in the world because Ryan was the last Major Leaguer older than he was. I thought he was a bit overrated, and he was never as good, in my head, as Tom Seaver must have been.

But what I failed to appreciate about Ryan then was the value inherent in his ridiculous durability, the same thing that allowed him to pitch effectively into his mid-40s. From when Ryan broke into the Mets’ rotation full-time in 1971 to his last full season in 1992, he averaged 226 innings. Over 21 seasons.

In that time, he started more than 25 games in every season but strike-shortened 1981. He started 30 or more in 16 seasons, and from 1972 to 1977 — arbitrary endpoints, for sure — he averaged 287 innings a year while leading the league in both strikeouts and walks in five of the six seasons.

That’s a lot of pitches.

Also, in June of 1974, he threw a 13-inning start against the Red Sox in which he struck out 19 and walked 10. In the same game, Luis Tiant threw 14 1/3 innings and lost. That’s gotta sting.

Also, one time Nolan Ryan kicked the living crap out of Robin Ventura. This is up there with my favorite things to happen on a baseball field, and has to go down in history as one of the greatest displays of old-man strength of all-time.

I love how nonchalant Ryan is when Ventura comes charging at him. I assume Ryan said something like, “You wanna dance?” in a good Clint Eastwood growl. Or, alternately, he just said “Texas!” every time he punched Ventura in the head, because that’s generally what I imagine Nolan Ryan saying whenever he does anything.