The only thing we have to Fiers

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The very first thing that statistical analysis shows us is there is a whole lot of randomness involved in every single baseball outcome. Predictions based on statistics are merely suggesting the most likely outcome. Not even Colin Wyers of Baseball Prospectus is so soulless as to not appreciate when something unlikely and random occurs during baseball. If anything, a basic understanding of statistical likelihood, enhances one’s enjoyment of short hops, fielding flubs and unexpected performances.

And this is why Mike Fiers is the most enjoyable story in baseball right now.

– Dustin Parkes, Getting Blanked.

Good read from Parkes on Fiers, the Brewers’ 27-year-old rookie sensation. I especially like the excerpted part because it reiterates something I’ve argued many times before: Understanding baseball’s probabilities fosters a greater appreciation for both the unlikeliest and likeliest outcomes. It’s beautiful when Jeff Francoeur plays like a superstar for a few months and then it’s beautiful when he regresses to his career norms. Baseball is the best.

As for Fiers: Certainly no one could have predicted this level of success in his first go around the big leagues, but his Minor League stats were pretty good. He was old for every level, but his career Minor League strikeout-to-walk ratio is over 4 and he seemed to suppress hits pretty effectively. Maybe his stuff doesn’t look like a typical Major Leaguer’s, but then maybe there’s some selection bias there.

From the Wikipedia: Pud Galvin

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I’ll never not be entertained by old-timey baseball stuff.

From the Wikipedia: Pud Galvin

James Francis Galvin was born on Christmas day of 1856 in St. Louis, Missouri. He grew up in an Irish neighborhood called Kerry Patch and trained as a steamfitter, but by the age of 18 he was pitching for the St. Louis Brown Stockings in the National Association, playing something similar to modern baseball but featuring almost no offense. No one on the 1875 Brown Stockings sported an OPS over .550 besides Lip Pike, who was utterly awesome for his time.

According to this Wikipedia-endorsed bio (from which I’m getting most of this information), Galvin was “uneducated and unrefined,” and as a teenager he exclusively wore flannel shirts and ate with his hands. That sounds a lot like me as a teenager, but I thought I was pretty refined.

Galvin played independent ball in 1876, then played one year for Buffalo of the International Association in 1877, then surfaced in the Majors for good as a 22-year-old when the Buffalo Bisons joined the National League in 1879. Galvin purportedly earned the nickname “Pud” because he made hitters look like pudding. Known as a gentleman, he was also called “Gentle Jeems.” And for his durability (detailed in the next paragraph), the 5-8, 190-pound Galvin was called “The Little Steam Engine.”

From 1879-1884, Galvin averaged 504 innings a season, starting nearly 70 percent of Buffalo’s games in that stretch and throwing 317 complete games, culminating in back-to-back years of more than 600 innings and 70 complete games in 1883 and 1884. He was pretty good, too, notching a 114 ERA+ and a 4.62 strikeout to walk ratio over his first six seasons as a full-time Major Leaguer. At one point he started 22 straight games and completed all of them. Galvin’s 1884 campaign, in which he went 46-29 with a 1.99 ERA over 636 1/3 innings, produced the highest single-season pitcher WAR in baseball history, though Galvin was so atrocious with the bat that his offense cost his team about 1.9 wins.

In Buffalo, Galvin became lifelong friends with fellow mustache man and future president Grover Cleveland.

A lot of this isn’t from the Wikipedia, by the way. Feel free to add it.

Another thing that’s not on the Wikipedia is that Galvin and most of his teammates probably sucked, at least by contemporary standards. The game was obviously massively different then — there was no pitcher’s mound yet, for one thing, plus the distance from the mound to home plate changed multiple times during Galvin’s career, Galvin never saw the need for a curveball, and he threw underhand. But take a look at the work Patrick Flood put together here. If fielding percentage is a decent indicator of the level of play, the way it increased over 100 points from 1871 to 1901 suggests the game was rapidly (and not surprisingly) developing and improving, presumably due to increased exposure and a broader talent pool, plus more time to figure out what the hell to do on a baseball field.

Which brings me to an important question, and something I think about pretty frequently: At what level could Galvin and his teammates from 1884 reasonably compete today if they could time-travel here and have modern equipment (but not modern training, since that throws everything off)? The league’s .899 fielding percentage, if we’re using that method, suggests the level wasn’t any better than a typical high school league today. Obviously the fielding stats are subject to the whims of subjective scoring and shoddy groundskeeping, but then so is high-school ball.

In other words, if I crewed up with some bros to form a competent but by no means good amateur team of adults in 2012, how far back in time would we have to travel to be able to compete with Major Leaguers? I bet it’s sometime around the 1880s, or maybe a little later if my friend Bill comes. Bill can throw really hard.

Back to Galvin: He was traded to the Pittsburgh Alleghenys in 1885 and ate innings for them until 1889. That season, incidentally, Galvin openly used the Brown-Séquard elixir, a supposed performance-enhancer made by draining monkey testicles. At the time, the Washington Post reported:

If there still be doubting Thomases who concede no virtue of the elixir, they are respectfully referred to Galvin’s record in yesterday’s Boston-Pittsburgh game. It is the best proof yet furnished of the value of the discovery.

In 1890, Galvin left the National League for the uncreatively but somewhat deliciously named Pittsburgh Burghers. The Burghers played in the newly formed Players’ League, which was presumably named after the football pool Lenny Dykstra keeps asking you to join. The Players’ League was formed by the Brotherhood of Professional Base-Ball Players over a spat with the National League owners, but it folded after one season and ultimately hurt the players’ standing, as it led to the demise of the American Association and more leverage for National League owners.

Galvin returned to the NL’s Pittsburgh franchise in 1891, the first year in which it was called the Pirates. He was traded to the Browns midway through the 1892 , but suffered a leg injury in a collision with Cap Anson and retired later that year. He attempted to hang on as an umpire in 1893, but did not take criticism well.

Galvin died broke and fat in Pittsburgh in 1902 after several failed business ventures. To date and for the foreseeable future, he ranks second in innings pitched and complete games in Major League history. He was the first pitcher to win 300 games, the first to throw a no-hitter on the road, and presumably the first to advocate monkey testosterone.

How this happens

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But with Bay inching closer to the Citi Field exit, here’s what likely happens next. He finishes this season in his new part-time role and then returns for spring training next year (for those screaming trade, don’t waste your breath).

At that point, Bay will have roughly a month to prove he can be a productive piece in the Mets’ lineup. That should provide Bay the opportunity to show he can do more than slap grounders to the left side of the infield or strike out, his signature contributions of the past two seasons.

But if that trend continues, and there appears to be no bottom to Bay’s spiral, the solution is unavoidable. He’ll have to be released before Opening Day, with the Mets picking up the remaining $19 million on his tab — $16 million salary, $3 million buyout of his 2014 option.

– David Lennon, Newsday.

That sounds spot-on to me. Much was made yesterday of Sandy Alderson saying that the team would not eat Jason Bay’s contract, but what would anyone expect him to say? “Yeah, actually I’m quite sick of seeing him ground out weakly to the shortstop and can’t wait to cut him loose, $19 million be damned.”

Alderson keeps it tight, as he should. Here’s what I said in June:

The Mets will and should give Bay every chance to make good on his contract. Since it hasn’t happened yet and the injuries are piling up, it doesn’t seem likely to happen. And this front office doesn’t seem prone to carrying players that can’t pull their weight just because they’re paying them. I’d guess Bay comes to Spring Training, we read a couple stories about how he’s in the best shape of his life, and the Mets keep him around while the roster picture clears up. If no one gets hurt and he isn’t 2009 (or even 2010) Jason Bay again, they cut him loose late or send him packing in a Gary Matthews Jr.-style deal, provided he’s willing to waive his no-trade clause.

I’m sticking to that story. I’ll add that I expect some segment of the Mets’ fanbase to fret like hell over the possibility of Bay making the team out of the gate in 2013 over some better or younger player, just as some did in 2010 with Oliver Perez and Luis Castillo. Unless Scott Hairston leaves in free agency and the Mets can’t find any other righty- or switch-hitting outfielder who’s anything close to a Major Leaguer or Bay shows up to camp magically and legitimately rejuvenated, it’s hard to see how he fits on a big-league roster.

Roy Hibbert is awesome

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I know a lot of you don’t follow Georgetown basketball and its alumni the way I do. But if you pay any attention to college or NBA basketball and you don’t love Roy Hibbert, you’re doing something wrong.

If you’re unfamiliar, the 7-foot-2 Hibbert entered Georgetown as a gangly freshman in 2004, unable to do a single push-up and useful on the court mostly just for his height. But he bulked up in the weight room and developed into a good passer and a surprisingly good shooter, well-suited to the modified Princeton offense the Hoyas run. By his junior year, he was a first team All Big East player and helped the Hoyas to a Final Four run. Then he passed up a potential lottery-pick payoff to return for his senior year because he promised his mother he would graduate.

Across four years in the NBA, Hibbert has again improved from very-tall guy to good player, pacing the Pacers in rebounds and blocks the last two seasons and earning his first All-Star nod this year. You may know him from his excellent cameos in Parks and Recreation. He also does stuff like this, which prompted this post.

And he did this in one of the most exciting regular-season sporting events I’ve ever seen. This was the first three-pointer Hibbert ever attempted in his college career:

Sandwiches of Citi Field: Original Filet Mignon Steak Sandwich

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No one is happier than I am that I’ve carved out some weird and awesome niche as a Mets and sandwich writer. And I am so very grateful that a non-zero number of human people want to read what I have to say about the Mets and sandwiches that I’m driven to do the best damn job I can covering this beat, especially when that entails eating sandwiches at Mets games. So I hoped to eat the first Original Filet Mignon Steak Sandwich served at Citi Field.

I failed. When I got to the new Pat LaFrieda stand in Citi’s center-field concession area on the Field Level concourse shortly after 5 p.m. on Tuesday, there were somehow already a few people ahead of me on line. I suspect most if not all of them were Mets employees, so I can vaguely lay claim to eating the first Original Filet Mignon Steak Sandwich served to a civilian at Citi Field. But typically everyone who doesn’t work at SNY blurs the line between the network and the Mets so it’s not even worth making the case. Whatever. I ate one of the first Original Filet Mignon Steak Sandwiches served at Citi Field. It looked like this:

 

Maybe it’s not much to look at, but on that sandwich are three nearly burger-sized pieces of steak from famed meat purveyor Pat LaFrieda, who is the only person I’m aware of that can accurately be described as a “famed meat purveyor.” The guy provides meat to many of the best burger places in New York and the stand at Citi Field represents his first foray into retail.

The sandwich is prepared on a hot, flat grill. The woman behind it laid down the three pieces of steak and some caramelized onions, then spread slices of Monterey Jack cheese on top of the onions to melt. When the steak was ready, the man next to her distributed the pieces evenly on a split french-bread hero, shoveled on a layer of melted cheese and onions, then added a scoop of something the press release described as “secret au jus.”

The Original Filet Mignon Steak Sandwich costs $15, steep for a sandwich even inside a ballpark. But the thing is delicious.

Fun fact: Before I started writing about sandwiches, I was way pickier about the ingredients that go on my sandwich. If I were ordering this with no plans to review it, I’d have asked for no onions, as onions — especially slithery sauteed onions — typically turn me off.

But I have found in this pursuit that a great sandwich can make me understand and appreciate an ingredient I previously did not. That’s what happened here: the onions and the oniony au jus add a lot of flavor, a wealth of sweetness that complements the steak and cheese and is absolutely essential to the sandwich as a whole.

The steak is so good. When I watched the woman prepare the sandwich I worried the unsliced pieces of filet mignon — way larger than you normally see on steak sandwiches — would prove difficult to chew through in a single bite of sandwich. Fret not: It’s prepared rare, and it’s so tender it bites almost like a burger. I tried my best not to be biased by the brand and to assess the meat on its own merits, but within two bites I was thinking, “damn, this Pat LaFrieda dude is the f—ing balls.” To boot, it’s got a pleasant black peppery seasoning that gives the sandwich a touch of spice.

The cheese feels like more of a binding element to affix the onions to the steak than anything else, but the creaminess it added was certainly welcome. And the bread was fresh and sturdy, toasty and crunchy on the outside but soft with au jus on the inside.

It’s a hell of a sandwich, on the same tier with the Shake Shack burger and Blue Smoke pulled pork in what has to be the greatest sandwich ballpark in all the land. My only quibbles with it are that there might have been a touch too much of the onion flavor (even necessary as it was), that it’s a bit messy for ballpark fare, and that it’s $15.

Here’s why I suck at this: While I was wolfing it down over one of the standing picnic tables out in center field, a guy in a chef’s jacket approached me and introduced himself as an Executive Chef at Citi Field. He noticed that I was eating the sandwich and wanted to know if I had any feedback.

Seems like a great networking opportunity just fell in my lap, no? I knew I should tell this guy that I actually write about Citi Field food all the time and try to strike up a conversation, and maybe he could become a valuable source or at least hook me up with free food. But I’m awful and awkward at networking and self-promotion, plus I was too focused on enjoying the sandwich to think about much else, so I panicked and said, “uhhhhhhh, the meat is really good!”

It is, though.

Development unarrested

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Reports all over the Internet have it that the long-awaited fourth season of Arrested Development will begin filming today and will debut on Netflix all on the same day sometime in early 2013.

Needless to say, I probably won’t be going to work that day. The first three seasons of Arrested Development stand as the best thing that has ever been on TV. And yeah, I’ve seen all of The Wire and Breaking Bad and most of The Sopranos and plenty of All in the Family and several episodes of Bethenny Ever After*.

Still, as this once-ridiculous pipedream moves closer to reality, I find myself growing more concerned that the new season of Arrested Development will not meet the standards of the first three and will thus sully the show’s near-perfect record. Even if the new shows are only half as good as the old ones they’ll still be worth watching, though.

Also, apparently Michael Cera now looks a lot like Beck:

*- This is not actually true. But I assume it is high art.

Taco Bell Tuesday

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This was a relatively slow week in Taco Bell news, but the Internet provided plenty of entertaining Taco Bell-related content regardless.

Indiana man fired for urinating on Nachos BellGrande: Tweeting his crime spree was the best idea Cameron Jankowski ever had! Jankowski, a Taco Bell employee, tweeted photos of himself peeing on an order of Nachos BellGrande to someone named Hunter Moore, the man responsible for a now-defunct “revenge porn” site called Is Anyone Up? who has now taken to more productive pursuits like the #pissolympics — a challenge to his Twitter followers to document urinary feats.

Ahhh… I’ve got nothing. To Jankowski’s credit, the Nachos BellGrande were apparently not served, which is good. He deleted his Twitter account in the wake of the incident, and Taco Bell claims it will “pursue legal action.” If you’re into seeing a perfectly good plate of nachos defiled, the actual photo is available at Mashable. There were always rumors in college about people who got public urination citations on P St. in DC. That’s all I can really offer for that hashtag.

Eureka!: InsideSTL.com published an absolute goldmine of old Taco Bell commercials from YouTube. If you’re only looking to kill 10 minutes consuming Taco Bell-related content online, you’re definitely better served enjoying their collection than reading the rest of this post. Among the revealed commercials: Hilarious jingles, evidence of a Scorpions souvenir cup available at Taco Bell in the 80s that I absolutely must have, and all sorts of ridiculous 80s and 90s people.

Given the current poultripolitical climate, though, it seems worth highlighting the following. I have various irresolute opinions about Chick-Fil-A’s intolerance that I’m not particularly eager to share here. Most of them boil down to the fact that I want to be able to continue eating any delicious sandwich I want without it representing a political or cultural statement, and it’s currently pretty much impossible to do that at Chick-Fil-A. Anyway, the good news is that I can still claim ignorance of any sociopolitical stances espoused by Taco Bell higher-ups that I might disagree with, plus this 1989 commercial suggests that Taco Bell is at least open to rampant 80s homoeroticism:

Taco Bell supports local music: Every year, Taco Bell provides $500 Taco Bell gift cards to 100 up-and-coming bands and musicians as part of its Feed the Beat campaign. I’m for it. It feels like a more innocuous version of when Marlo Stanfield gives out $100 bills to the stoop kids for school clothes. This way, if and when any of the bands blow up, Taco Bell can assume it has their support for the ministry of propaganda in the restaurant wars. Also, go figure the Easy Star All-Stars enjoy Fourthmeal.

Taco Bell linked to social-media buzzwords: Hey guys, did you know that a “Twitter-based widget connects consumers with advertisers and marketers and corporate brands by creating a customized streaming Twitter feed that integrates with digital displays such as billboards, corporate micro-sites and other display campaigns.” Well, it’s true! And Taco Bell uses it!

Incidentally, excerpts from the article that would make decent band names: “User Generated Content,” “Corporate Micro-Sites,” “Flexible Interactive Tools,” “Digital Screens,” “Brands and Enterprises.”

Hey have you heard The Corporate Micro-Sites’ new album? I like it but I think it’s a bit derivative of Brands and Enterprises.

The quest for “authenticity” in food is still stupid and baseless: William Booth of the Washington Post details the findings of two recent books on the history of the taco. The money quote:

“The idea that the taco is somehow deeply authentic isn’t supported by the facts. The taco is kind of like chop suey and pepperoni pizza. Tacos are a product of modernity. And this is true not only in the United States but in Mexico,” said Jeffrey M. Pilcher, history professor and author of “Planet Taco: A Global History of Mexican Food.”

There’s a lot of good stuff in there about tacos, so it’s worth clicking through to read the whole thing.

Walk this way

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In case you missed it, Mike Baxter played the whole game Saturday and went 0-for-0. He walked five times, tying the National League record for a nine-inning game. TedQuarters celebrates this achievement, and notes that Baxter now owns the team’s best on-base percentage. (Small sample size, of course.) Here’s video:

Zeppelin rules

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The downside to life is that it comes with a neverending onslaught of nonsense and senselessness, tragedy and inconvenience, violence and frustration and sickness and stupidity, plagues and pains and problems that bubble and fester and grow as we lurch toward our one true outcome. The upside is Led Zeppelin.

My gripe for today is mundane: I need to get an MRI every few months, and I hate MRIs. It seems, ironically, that they are in my case perfectly tailored to upsetting the symptoms of the condition they’re being used to monitor, as the tense quarters and frequent vibrations seem to freak out my neck, back and arms.

A few years ago, the MRI that ultimately diagnosed my M.S. rendered my entire left arm spasmodic and numb for a couple of hours. Too stupid or prideful to say anything to the people at the MRI place, I had to untuck my shirt and leave the place with my pants belted on but unbuttoned and unzipped because I could not control my left arm enough to fasten either. I staggered in shock to the Columbus Circle mall and sat at a table in the Borders on the second floor until it passed, terrified. It sucked, needless to say.

You know what doesn’t suck? That’s right: Led Zeppelin. At the MRI place today, for the first time, they offered headphones and asked me what type of music I like. I asked what my options were, and they said it was Pandora so I could pick whatever I wanted.

I’m not a huge Zeppelin guy or anything. I only own one of their albums, plus a CD full of their hits that I downloaded my freshman year of college during peak-Napster. But I recognize that they’re awesome, and under pressure of the waiting technicians I didn’t want to pick anything too obscure or too pretentious so I just blurted out, “Zeppelin. Led Zeppelin.” So they played Zeppelin, and Cream and Pink Floyd and the Rolling Stones, and it was hard to imagine anyplace I’d rather be than crammed inside the MRI tube. When George Thorogood came on I thought about squeezing the little emergency button for help, but I stuck it out.

How can music possibly be so awesome? How does it exert so much power over our moods? Is there anything else so abstract that we appreciate so regularly? To what evolutionary advantage did we become emotionally susceptible to series of percussive and pitched sounds strung together?

Who cares?