I got a pretty good chuckle this morning when I cracked open the ol' Facebook feed to find that quite a few friends and acquaintances back in the ATL are apparently going apoplectic over the (reported, then denied, but still probably pending) departure of the Thrashers. There are a myriad of reasons why this is hilarious.
First, I'm a native son of Atlanta, and since my friends are all in my age group, I'd like to remind them: THAT'S NOT OUR TEAM! Not the way the Braves, Falcons and Hawks are. For Pete's sake, the Thrashers didn't even exist until we were all in our mid-to-late teens. There's no deep and abiding home-team love at stake here. It's just not the case. We were born into a hockey-less town, and to a hockey-less town we shall return. And that's fine. Actually, it's better than fine. I have a long-standing philosophy about NHL teams in places like Atlanta: If your geographical coordinates do not facilitate little kids learning to skate outdoors on frozen ponds in the winter, you shouldn't have a franchise. (And no, the artificially created rink at Centennial Olympic Park does not count.)
If you're a real hockey fan who hails from the 404 or 770, you did, or ought to have done, your grieving at one of two previous junctures:
1. When our briefly resident IHL team, the Knights, moved to Quebec after four wonderful years. I loved going to Knights games as a kid. The old Omni (RIP) would be rockin', and I'd sit in the stands and think about how I was going to marry Manon Rheaume someday. Yes, our goalie was the first and only female to ever play high-level pro hockey. Not only was she pretty damn good in the net, she was a fox to boot. Sigh. Also, I once saw winger Stan Drulia rip off a hat trick in 96 seconds of game clock. Which, you know, was pretty a spectacular thing to witness live. Suffice it to say, the Knights were awesome. I miss them.
Or
2. When the Flames left for Calgary in 1980. If you remember that, it means you were a conscious and informed hockey fan in 1980. In which case, you're old. Sorry.
Let's take a second and ruminate on the trend here. Flames? Couldn't sell enough tickets, went to Canada. Knights? Couldn't sell enough tickets, went to Canada. Thrashers? Almost assuredly going to Canada, because, SURPIRSE!!!, they can't sell enough tickets.
The Flames lasted 8 years in the ATL: 1972-1980. The Knights, 1992-1996. The Thrashers, 1997-present. That's 26 combined years for three separate franchises, less than 1/3 of the Boston Bruins' existence. Clearly, Atlanta can't sustain a hockey team. And you know why? Because it's Atlanta!!! This is Braves territory. This is where the biggest defining sports characteristic of a resident is whether they root for Georgia Tech or UGA. (Of course, no matter which it is, we all hate Florida, FSU, and 'Bama equally.) Hell, the Falcons and Hawks have well-documented trouble in drawing good crowds, even in the midst of decent playoff runs. And someone thought a place with no hockey history and like two ice rinks within 100 miles of town was a good place to set up shop? After that same idea blatantly failed before? Twice?
What Bruce Levenson and Michael Gearon, Jr. were thinking when they brought ATL the Thrashers is up for debate, but whatever "logic" they were employing failed to take the past into account. If and when the team does move to Winnipeg, it won't be because they're is perpetually awful. It will be because Atlanta just ain't a hockey town. And we knew this already, because we learned it a long time ago and then learned it again. Plus, Winnipeg ought to have a team. All major Canadian cities should. Atlanta? Let's stick to baseball and football, which we all know and love. At least that way we can keep selling tickets.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Occasional Consonance: Twelve-tone Theory and the Cleveland Indians
In musical composition, there is a method called twelve-tone theory. The progenitor of the larger serialist movement, it was initially designed to push composition to its natural farthest point, removing the familiar contexts of key and tonality, and replacing them with a rigid mathematical system that utilizes all twelve notes in the western chromatic scale. The composer places the twelve notes in some order, either randomly or by design of a specific sequence or melody line. Once ordered, that sequence of notes becomes the top row in a 12 X 12 matrix generated based upon their order. When the matrix is complete, the composer may use any row or column (or half row or column) in its linear, retrograde, or inverted state to generate musical content, with the stipulation that the row must be completed before a new sequence may begin. This allows for compositional permutations, but within the limited parameters dictated by the twelve-tone matrix. Since every note in the chromatic scale is used, without reference to a set tonal center, the music produced by this method is jarring and disorienting (and often downright ugly to listen to), simply because our ears are not used to hearing the harmonic relationships it produces (we perceive them as dissonance) and the meandering nature of music which has no defined point of resolution.
However, if you listen to enough twelve-tone music (or atonal music in general), you not only begin to grow accustomed to the lack of focus, but your ears will start to discern moments in which the composition is briefly consonant, by virtue of two or more lines synchronizing in such a way that a temporary illusion of tonality is created. It's doesn't happen often, but it is there if you look for it. In college I was once assigned to write a twelve-tone waltz, and I accidentally created a matrix that, when used in the way I happened to use it, created a perfect-authentic cadence at the end. (This is the most consonant an expected conclusion/resolution to any composition. Basically, it's the musical equivalent of "... and they all lived happily ever after. The End.") It wasn't supposed to be that way; this stuff was designed with the expressed purpose of defying all the notions and rules of musical tonality and logic, but it happened. And you can hear plenty of examples of similar, if less-glaring, consonant happenstance in twelve-tone pieces if you listen hard enough.
Which is to say that if you muck around with enough random sequences and permutations, occasionally, something beautiful will be brought into existence, no matter how improbable or fleeting that beauty might be.
Which brings us to the formerly hapless Cleveland Indians.
For reasons that no one has yet been able to fully discern or satisfactorily explain, one of the league's most consistent doormats suddenly has the best record in baseball. Sure they play in the AL Central, arguably the league's shoddiest division. And yes, there's plenty of time left for them to flame out and finish under .500. Again. But at this point I think the term "fluke" no longer applies. Consider the Baltimore Orioles, who everyone was going gaga over for the first few weeks of the season after they charged out of the gate in stellar fashion. Now they're sitting at 19-22, in their familiar position of "bottom of the AL East." That was a fluke. The Tribe? They've been consistently beating up on people since opening day. Currently, they have a .650 winning percentage, which puts them on pace to win 105 games this year. 105 games! The Indians! How in the name of Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn is this happening?!?!?!?
Well, it really shouldn't be. For one thing, Cleveland's current roster is devoid of anything resembling a marquee player. Perpetually flagging attendance at Jacobs Field has necessitated that they trade those types in order to stay afloat over the years. I can't imagine the angst Tribe fans must have felt watching their two former Cy Young winners, C.C. Sabathia and Cliff Lee, go on to great success with other organizations after Cleveland dealt them to cut salary costs. In seeking to maintain some semblance of a competitive team after such moves, the Indians' front office has essentially taken what it could get. Castoffs, strays, iffy prospects, and guys who wore out their welcomes or were little more than trade bait elsewhere. It's been roster assembly as a random sequence. A matrix of seemingly ineffective and dissonant pieces.
Manager Manny Acta has been somewhat unfairly charged with the task of forging all these (seemingly) statistically irrelevant guys into a relevant team. And mostly, in the past, said team has played as their public perceptions of talent would suggest. They've been battered and abused and laughingstocks and goats. And yet, slowly, through enough sequencing of events and changes, something great has emerged. The dissonance and atonality that has surrounded this organization for so long has taken a hiatus, and in its place we're now hearing the sweetest of harmonies. This 2011 Indians incarnation keeps grinding out wins without a single player whose baseball card you'd really be excited to have fall out of a pack of Tops. You know, if anyone still bought baseball cards. (Puts on crotchety old-guy voice) "Back when I was a kid ..." (I'm only 29, but I'm gonna make a great crotchety old guy. Just you wait.) If you want a closer perspective on just how improbable this team is, consider the following:
The Tribes' starting rotation is keyed by Fausto Carmona and Justin Masterson, two guys you're likely unfamiliar with unless you live in Cleveland or are a total baseball nerd. And yet, their staff holds a perfectly respectable combined ERA of 3.56. The bullpen is similarly nondescript, but they're holding it down night in and night out. They don't blow leads, they stay out of jams, and they keep the mound and the scoreboard friendly for closer Chris Perez, who has racked up 10 saves this season and sports a 1.24 WHIP.
Conversely, the very definition of a "rag-tag assemblage" that is Cleveland's lineup is proving a dangerous and frustrating proposition for opposing pitchers. They have five starters batting .265 or better, with Travis Hafner and Asdrubal Cabrera as the offensive linchpins. "Who?" you ask. Exactly. But Hafner's .345 batting average and .958 OPS are sufficiently imposing, while Cabrera leads the team with 48 hits, 7 homers, and 27 RBI's. There aren't a ton of mashers here, but these guys just keep hitting and getting each other across the plate. It's "small ball" at its finest.
Dissonance. Atonality. The Indians have been through one of the most depressing stretches is recent baseball memory. Their evolving twelve-tone matrix of players has produced an extended period of grating, painful experiences. Finally, that disjointed randomization has produced a sonorous few measures of brilliance. The question now is: will they end the season in discord like so many compositions of twelve-tone creator Arnold Schoenberg, or with the perfect-authentic cadences of Mozart and Bach? Time will tell, but for the present I'd encourage Tribe fans to crank the speakers and enjoy the music.
However, if you listen to enough twelve-tone music (or atonal music in general), you not only begin to grow accustomed to the lack of focus, but your ears will start to discern moments in which the composition is briefly consonant, by virtue of two or more lines synchronizing in such a way that a temporary illusion of tonality is created. It's doesn't happen often, but it is there if you look for it. In college I was once assigned to write a twelve-tone waltz, and I accidentally created a matrix that, when used in the way I happened to use it, created a perfect-authentic cadence at the end. (This is the most consonant an expected conclusion/resolution to any composition. Basically, it's the musical equivalent of "... and they all lived happily ever after. The End.") It wasn't supposed to be that way; this stuff was designed with the expressed purpose of defying all the notions and rules of musical tonality and logic, but it happened. And you can hear plenty of examples of similar, if less-glaring, consonant happenstance in twelve-tone pieces if you listen hard enough.
Which is to say that if you muck around with enough random sequences and permutations, occasionally, something beautiful will be brought into existence, no matter how improbable or fleeting that beauty might be.
Which brings us to the formerly hapless Cleveland Indians.
For reasons that no one has yet been able to fully discern or satisfactorily explain, one of the league's most consistent doormats suddenly has the best record in baseball. Sure they play in the AL Central, arguably the league's shoddiest division. And yes, there's plenty of time left for them to flame out and finish under .500. Again. But at this point I think the term "fluke" no longer applies. Consider the Baltimore Orioles, who everyone was going gaga over for the first few weeks of the season after they charged out of the gate in stellar fashion. Now they're sitting at 19-22, in their familiar position of "bottom of the AL East." That was a fluke. The Tribe? They've been consistently beating up on people since opening day. Currently, they have a .650 winning percentage, which puts them on pace to win 105 games this year. 105 games! The Indians! How in the name of Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn is this happening?!?!?!?
Well, it really shouldn't be. For one thing, Cleveland's current roster is devoid of anything resembling a marquee player. Perpetually flagging attendance at Jacobs Field has necessitated that they trade those types in order to stay afloat over the years. I can't imagine the angst Tribe fans must have felt watching their two former Cy Young winners, C.C. Sabathia and Cliff Lee, go on to great success with other organizations after Cleveland dealt them to cut salary costs. In seeking to maintain some semblance of a competitive team after such moves, the Indians' front office has essentially taken what it could get. Castoffs, strays, iffy prospects, and guys who wore out their welcomes or were little more than trade bait elsewhere. It's been roster assembly as a random sequence. A matrix of seemingly ineffective and dissonant pieces.
Manager Manny Acta has been somewhat unfairly charged with the task of forging all these (seemingly) statistically irrelevant guys into a relevant team. And mostly, in the past, said team has played as their public perceptions of talent would suggest. They've been battered and abused and laughingstocks and goats. And yet, slowly, through enough sequencing of events and changes, something great has emerged. The dissonance and atonality that has surrounded this organization for so long has taken a hiatus, and in its place we're now hearing the sweetest of harmonies. This 2011 Indians incarnation keeps grinding out wins without a single player whose baseball card you'd really be excited to have fall out of a pack of Tops. You know, if anyone still bought baseball cards. (Puts on crotchety old-guy voice) "Back when I was a kid ..." (I'm only 29, but I'm gonna make a great crotchety old guy. Just you wait.) If you want a closer perspective on just how improbable this team is, consider the following:
The Tribes' starting rotation is keyed by Fausto Carmona and Justin Masterson, two guys you're likely unfamiliar with unless you live in Cleveland or are a total baseball nerd. And yet, their staff holds a perfectly respectable combined ERA of 3.56. The bullpen is similarly nondescript, but they're holding it down night in and night out. They don't blow leads, they stay out of jams, and they keep the mound and the scoreboard friendly for closer Chris Perez, who has racked up 10 saves this season and sports a 1.24 WHIP.
Conversely, the very definition of a "rag-tag assemblage" that is Cleveland's lineup is proving a dangerous and frustrating proposition for opposing pitchers. They have five starters batting .265 or better, with Travis Hafner and Asdrubal Cabrera as the offensive linchpins. "Who?" you ask. Exactly. But Hafner's .345 batting average and .958 OPS are sufficiently imposing, while Cabrera leads the team with 48 hits, 7 homers, and 27 RBI's. There aren't a ton of mashers here, but these guys just keep hitting and getting each other across the plate. It's "small ball" at its finest.
Dissonance. Atonality. The Indians have been through one of the most depressing stretches is recent baseball memory. Their evolving twelve-tone matrix of players has produced an extended period of grating, painful experiences. Finally, that disjointed randomization has produced a sonorous few measures of brilliance. The question now is: will they end the season in discord like so many compositions of twelve-tone creator Arnold Schoenberg, or with the perfect-authentic cadences of Mozart and Bach? Time will tell, but for the present I'd encourage Tribe fans to crank the speakers and enjoy the music.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Recap: Mavs-Thunder Western Conference FInals, Game 1
The crowd at American Airlines Arena got their money's worth last light. They were privileged to witness two transcendent scoring displays, a handful of "whoah" moments from the Dallas bench, and a win for the home team. The Mavs threw the first punch in this Western Conference Finals with their 121-112 victory over the Oklahoma City Thunder last night, riding a historically staggering performance from Dirk Nowitzki. For the big German, this was a night where a glance at the basic stat line: 48 pts., 6 boards, 4 dimes, and 4 blocks, doesn't even begin to describe what actually transpired on the floor. I can't actually decide which of these two nuggets is more impressive:
1. Dirk broke an NBA record by going a perfect 24-of-24 from the line, the most consecutive free throws ever in a single game, playoff or regular season.
2. He also went 12/15 from the field. That's a ridiculous 80% FG if you're scoring at home.
Dirk basically did whatsoever he chose last night while racking up those heady numbers. He got to the hoop, he posted up, and he put on a clinic with that patented fall-away on the right block. Scott Brooks threw half his roster at Nowitzki defensively (not an exaggeration), only to make an unpleasant discovery: every single player given that unenviable task came off the floor in bad foul trouble, while having failed to even remotely stem the tide of buckets Dirk was raining down on OKC. Serge Ibaka and Nick Collison did as well as could be expected, playing in Dirk's grill and contesting every shot, and still had to grab some pine midway through the third quarter when they each picked up their 4th fouls. And they were the best of the Thunder's options. Every one else looked completely useless.
As in game 4 of the Mavs/Lakers series, Dirk got plenty of help from a stellar Dallas bench. Jason Terry shot 50% from the floor, including 4 of 8 treys en route to 24 points, and J.J. Barea picked up exactly where he left off in that game. The Mavs' tiny spark plug dropped 21 points, including a stretch of 12 straight, on a helpless Thunder D in just 16 minutes of playing time, barreling past defenders and tacking on a few key three-point bombs for good measure. (The stretch in the fourth quarter where Nate Robinson was checking him, or, more accurately, trying and failing to do so, was a hilarious few minutes of tiny-dude-on-tiny-dude violence.)
Lost in all the fervor over the Mavs in general and Dirk's monster game specifically was Kevin Durant's own Herculean performance of 40 points, 8 rebounds, 5 assists, and 2 blocks. KD was solely responsible for keeping this one close down the stretch, and did a little bit of everything, including leading a few choice fast breaks and handling the ball in transition. Unfortunately, he got little help from anyone else. Russell Westbrook was a discombobulated mess, a mere shell of the player who rack up a triple double in game 7 against Memphis. Westbrook played atrociously disjointed basketball for the majority of the night, and his 20 point total belies the inefficiency he displayed in acquiring them (3/15 from the floor). He failed to handle well or get teammates decent looks, and was especially futile in pick-n-roll situations. Other than Durant, the Thunder's lone bright spot was Serge Ibaka, who feasted on the Mavs inside to the tune of 17 points.
This may sound odd, but I suspect the Thunder are actually feeling pretty good about this series after last night. It's highly unlikely that Russell Westbrook will submit another abysmal outing again, and for all the Mavs' firepower, the margin at the buzzer was only 9 points. Scott Brooks needs to accept that Dirk is essentially unguardable, and orient his defensive schemes to slowing everyone else down, and they'll cetainly need some better offensive production (I'm looking at you, James Harden.) Nonetheless, what could have been a massacre, and often felt like one, turned out to be more or less a to-the-wire affair after the Thunder climbed back from a 17-point deficit.
The fact that OKC kept this one so close, and kept digging in for a fight when things seemed insurmountable, means we're in for an epic series. Moreover, though they obviously don't guard each other normally, I also suspect we could be in for a rare treat along the lines of the great 'Nique/Bird playoff dueling shootouts from Dirk and Durant. You probably don't have a seatbelt on your couch or your favorite bar stool, but you might consider having one installed before game 2 tips on Thursday. You may well need it.
1. Dirk broke an NBA record by going a perfect 24-of-24 from the line, the most consecutive free throws ever in a single game, playoff or regular season.
2. He also went 12/15 from the field. That's a ridiculous 80% FG if you're scoring at home.
Dirk basically did whatsoever he chose last night while racking up those heady numbers. He got to the hoop, he posted up, and he put on a clinic with that patented fall-away on the right block. Scott Brooks threw half his roster at Nowitzki defensively (not an exaggeration), only to make an unpleasant discovery: every single player given that unenviable task came off the floor in bad foul trouble, while having failed to even remotely stem the tide of buckets Dirk was raining down on OKC. Serge Ibaka and Nick Collison did as well as could be expected, playing in Dirk's grill and contesting every shot, and still had to grab some pine midway through the third quarter when they each picked up their 4th fouls. And they were the best of the Thunder's options. Every one else looked completely useless.
As in game 4 of the Mavs/Lakers series, Dirk got plenty of help from a stellar Dallas bench. Jason Terry shot 50% from the floor, including 4 of 8 treys en route to 24 points, and J.J. Barea picked up exactly where he left off in that game. The Mavs' tiny spark plug dropped 21 points, including a stretch of 12 straight, on a helpless Thunder D in just 16 minutes of playing time, barreling past defenders and tacking on a few key three-point bombs for good measure. (The stretch in the fourth quarter where Nate Robinson was checking him, or, more accurately, trying and failing to do so, was a hilarious few minutes of tiny-dude-on-tiny-dude violence.)
Lost in all the fervor over the Mavs in general and Dirk's monster game specifically was Kevin Durant's own Herculean performance of 40 points, 8 rebounds, 5 assists, and 2 blocks. KD was solely responsible for keeping this one close down the stretch, and did a little bit of everything, including leading a few choice fast breaks and handling the ball in transition. Unfortunately, he got little help from anyone else. Russell Westbrook was a discombobulated mess, a mere shell of the player who rack up a triple double in game 7 against Memphis. Westbrook played atrociously disjointed basketball for the majority of the night, and his 20 point total belies the inefficiency he displayed in acquiring them (3/15 from the floor). He failed to handle well or get teammates decent looks, and was especially futile in pick-n-roll situations. Other than Durant, the Thunder's lone bright spot was Serge Ibaka, who feasted on the Mavs inside to the tune of 17 points.
This may sound odd, but I suspect the Thunder are actually feeling pretty good about this series after last night. It's highly unlikely that Russell Westbrook will submit another abysmal outing again, and for all the Mavs' firepower, the margin at the buzzer was only 9 points. Scott Brooks needs to accept that Dirk is essentially unguardable, and orient his defensive schemes to slowing everyone else down, and they'll cetainly need some better offensive production (I'm looking at you, James Harden.) Nonetheless, what could have been a massacre, and often felt like one, turned out to be more or less a to-the-wire affair after the Thunder climbed back from a 17-point deficit.
The fact that OKC kept this one so close, and kept digging in for a fight when things seemed insurmountable, means we're in for an epic series. Moreover, though they obviously don't guard each other normally, I also suspect we could be in for a rare treat along the lines of the great 'Nique/Bird playoff dueling shootouts from Dirk and Durant. You probably don't have a seatbelt on your couch or your favorite bar stool, but you might consider having one installed before game 2 tips on Thursday. You may well need it.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Cruel And Unusual Punishment
Vin Mazzaro made Major League Baseball history last night. The unsavory, humiliating kind. The kind that makes you the answer to trivia questions you'd rather not be associated with for the rest of eternity.
Some day, in the hazy future, some baseball writers and analysts will be sitting in a press box or having drinks at a bar, and, out of boredom or just for fun, they'll try to stump each other with obscure snippets of baseball knowledge. The quirky statistics and half-remembered names will flow like so much overpriced beer from the concessions stand. And eventually, someone could, if they so chose, present the following query to his or her comrades of diamond documentation:
"Who is the only pitcher since 1900 (the inception of baseball's "modern" era) to give up 14 earned runs in less than three innings' work?"
The answer is the Kansas City Royals' Vin Mazzaro, on May 16, 2011, against the Cleveland Indians, whose final line from last night's outing looked like this:
2 1/3 IP, 11 H, 14 ER, 3 BB, 2 K. Oh yeah, and it took him a staggering 77 pitches to record 7 total outs. This single outing elevated his season ERA from a modest 4.50 to a mind-bending 22.74. It also bumped his career ERA up by OVER A FULL POINT. One night of work, and the angel of pitching statistical death descends on a young man's career.
Just rereading that last paragraph made me call time, step out of the box, and take a second to reel my jaw back up from the floor. I mean, the guy failed as completely as is possible for a big league pitcher, and we didn't even know this was possible until last night. The only thing he didn't do was get tagged with the loss, which went to Royals' starter Kyle Davies, whose first-inning departure due to injury prompted Mazzaro's early bullpen appearance.
Pretty much immediately after he was pulled, Mazzaro was given marching orders. To Omaha, and the AAA Storm Chasers. After an outing of that dubious magnitude, it's a somewhat understandable decision by the Royals' organization, but ... really? They just acquired this guy! At age 25, he's still getting his seas legs under him, and shoving him back down the ladder over one appearance, no matter how horrendous, seems a little reactionary and extremist, no? He's a young guy that never demonstrated elite potential as a prospect, but was apparently considered enough of an asset to pick up. If the Royals genuinely believe that his mechanics or mentality or whatever need work, well, that's their call, but you get the feeling that one day without his best stuff (OK, that's admittedly an understatement) resulted in an instantaneous demotion, which doesn't seem totally fair.
And that brings us to the larger point: what in the name of Les McCrabb (the last guy to give up 14 earned runs in relief) was Mazzaro still doing out on the mound after things started going terribly, precipitously south? When was the last time you saw a reliever left to his own devices after giving up 3 or 4 runs? (I can't help but think of Tampa Bay staying with Dan Wheeler as the Red Sox staged one of the great postseason game comebacks we've ever witnessed in the 2008 ALCS, but you don't see this kind of thing often.) Usually, when it becomes readily apparent that a pitcher is floundering, especially a reliever, he gets yanked To the clubhouse with thee! Ruminate upon thy failures of today and we'll suss it all out in a side session sometime soon. Not so for Vin Mazzaro. For reasons known only to himself, Royals' manager Ned Yost elected to leave the kid out there even as things spiraled irrevocably out of control. Conventional wisdom took a sabbatical, and a young man's fate was altered as a result.
At what point does "trial by fire" become baseball sadism? Mazzaro was blatantly, obviously, conspicuously not up for it last night. Fair enough. We knew this early on in the proceedings. He retired four of the first six batters he faced, but after that, the Indians might as well have been hitting off a tee. It was exactly how you'd visualize one of Crash Davis' last lines directed at Nuke LaLoosh in "Bull Durham": "Listen, Nuke, these big league hitters are going to light you up like a pinball machine for a little while." The guy was getting tagged in every conceivable way. Repeatedly. At that point, doesn't logic dictate a pitching change? What, they had absolutely no other options in the Royals' bullpen? They couldn't have run one or four more guys out there to conduct damage control?
Apparently not. Mazzaro was inexplicably saddled with the unfair onus of completing a futile task despite a plethora of indicators that he wasn't the man for the job last night. The result was a pointedly unjust referendum on a career that was, if not exactly burgeoning, at least showing some signs of promise. No one can definitively say he was unfairly judged last night; the box score argues too strenuously to the contrary. But he should never have been left in the position to accumulate that box score in the first place.
Sadly, Vin Mazzaro will be immortalized as a statistical blip, an ignoble example, and an answer to a fluky trivia question, but the fault is not entirely his own. Every time he's reminded of this inglorious night in the future, he ought to curse Ned Yost, who patently failed to manage the game, and especially his bullpen, in any semblance of the word "correctly." Last night, a man's career arc may have been irrevocably altered for the worse by the stupidity of his superiors. The rest of us should be grateful that one bad day at the office (hopefully) does not hold similar implications.
Some day, in the hazy future, some baseball writers and analysts will be sitting in a press box or having drinks at a bar, and, out of boredom or just for fun, they'll try to stump each other with obscure snippets of baseball knowledge. The quirky statistics and half-remembered names will flow like so much overpriced beer from the concessions stand. And eventually, someone could, if they so chose, present the following query to his or her comrades of diamond documentation:
"Who is the only pitcher since 1900 (the inception of baseball's "modern" era) to give up 14 earned runs in less than three innings' work?"
The answer is the Kansas City Royals' Vin Mazzaro, on May 16, 2011, against the Cleveland Indians, whose final line from last night's outing looked like this:
2 1/3 IP, 11 H, 14 ER, 3 BB, 2 K. Oh yeah, and it took him a staggering 77 pitches to record 7 total outs. This single outing elevated his season ERA from a modest 4.50 to a mind-bending 22.74. It also bumped his career ERA up by OVER A FULL POINT. One night of work, and the angel of pitching statistical death descends on a young man's career.
Just rereading that last paragraph made me call time, step out of the box, and take a second to reel my jaw back up from the floor. I mean, the guy failed as completely as is possible for a big league pitcher, and we didn't even know this was possible until last night. The only thing he didn't do was get tagged with the loss, which went to Royals' starter Kyle Davies, whose first-inning departure due to injury prompted Mazzaro's early bullpen appearance.
Pretty much immediately after he was pulled, Mazzaro was given marching orders. To Omaha, and the AAA Storm Chasers. After an outing of that dubious magnitude, it's a somewhat understandable decision by the Royals' organization, but ... really? They just acquired this guy! At age 25, he's still getting his seas legs under him, and shoving him back down the ladder over one appearance, no matter how horrendous, seems a little reactionary and extremist, no? He's a young guy that never demonstrated elite potential as a prospect, but was apparently considered enough of an asset to pick up. If the Royals genuinely believe that his mechanics or mentality or whatever need work, well, that's their call, but you get the feeling that one day without his best stuff (OK, that's admittedly an understatement) resulted in an instantaneous demotion, which doesn't seem totally fair.
And that brings us to the larger point: what in the name of Les McCrabb (the last guy to give up 14 earned runs in relief) was Mazzaro still doing out on the mound after things started going terribly, precipitously south? When was the last time you saw a reliever left to his own devices after giving up 3 or 4 runs? (I can't help but think of Tampa Bay staying with Dan Wheeler as the Red Sox staged one of the great postseason game comebacks we've ever witnessed in the 2008 ALCS, but you don't see this kind of thing often.) Usually, when it becomes readily apparent that a pitcher is floundering, especially a reliever, he gets yanked To the clubhouse with thee! Ruminate upon thy failures of today and we'll suss it all out in a side session sometime soon. Not so for Vin Mazzaro. For reasons known only to himself, Royals' manager Ned Yost elected to leave the kid out there even as things spiraled irrevocably out of control. Conventional wisdom took a sabbatical, and a young man's fate was altered as a result.
At what point does "trial by fire" become baseball sadism? Mazzaro was blatantly, obviously, conspicuously not up for it last night. Fair enough. We knew this early on in the proceedings. He retired four of the first six batters he faced, but after that, the Indians might as well have been hitting off a tee. It was exactly how you'd visualize one of Crash Davis' last lines directed at Nuke LaLoosh in "Bull Durham": "Listen, Nuke, these big league hitters are going to light you up like a pinball machine for a little while." The guy was getting tagged in every conceivable way. Repeatedly. At that point, doesn't logic dictate a pitching change? What, they had absolutely no other options in the Royals' bullpen? They couldn't have run one or four more guys out there to conduct damage control?
Apparently not. Mazzaro was inexplicably saddled with the unfair onus of completing a futile task despite a plethora of indicators that he wasn't the man for the job last night. The result was a pointedly unjust referendum on a career that was, if not exactly burgeoning, at least showing some signs of promise. No one can definitively say he was unfairly judged last night; the box score argues too strenuously to the contrary. But he should never have been left in the position to accumulate that box score in the first place.
Sadly, Vin Mazzaro will be immortalized as a statistical blip, an ignoble example, and an answer to a fluky trivia question, but the fault is not entirely his own. Every time he's reminded of this inglorious night in the future, he ought to curse Ned Yost, who patently failed to manage the game, and especially his bullpen, in any semblance of the word "correctly." Last night, a man's career arc may have been irrevocably altered for the worse by the stupidity of his superiors. The rest of us should be grateful that one bad day at the office (hopefully) does not hold similar implications.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Musings On A Rodeo
Despite what the title might suggest, this post has nothing to do with Chad Ochocinco's insane (and hilarious) attempt to ride a bull on Saturday night. While I commend the man's innovative PR stunt/lockout-savvy income grab, and the fact that he's always good for a laugh, if you saw the clip, there' not much more you can really say. No, this is about a revelation I had today. Buried among all the hype of the 2011 NBA Playoffs is a good story. Or, at least, a great character in search of a narrative. The phrase "hidden in plain sight" comes strongly to mind.
I am not talking about the Heat attempting to self-fulfill the prophecy they so stridently and indecorously announced before the season started. Nor the Bulls' youngest-ever MVP and the saga his team began living out in earnest Sunday in the House That Jordan Built. Nor those precocious young darlings of the league from OKC, and what may or may not be amiss with their point guard.
I'm talking about the most fascinating team, with the most compelling personality, left standing in these playoffs. I'm talking about the Dallas Mavericks.
"But," you're saying, "they're being talked about plenty!!! Didn't we just spend a million hours talking about that Mavs/Lakers series?" Yes. Yes we did. But you know what? We were talking about the Lakers the whole time. The sweep, the game four massacre, every ounce of rehashing and contemplation was fueled by L.A. What were the implications for the Lakers? What did Dirk and Kidd and Jet and Peja and Tyson do to the Lakers? And what about Kobe? Every article and podcast and TV recap was filled with analysis and invective leveled at the Purple and Gold and what they did wrong. It's understandable, to a degree. There was the shabby ending to Phil Jackson's final season to mourn, and his career to recount. There were questions about Kobe and his quest to match or surpass Jordan's ring total, and whether either will be possible going forward. With all of the delicious Laker-centric stories to hitch a journalistic wagon to, who could blame us for failing to take the Mavs on their own merits?
And we're doing the same thing with the upcoming Western Conference Finals. The tactical analysis is, by necessity, equally mindful of both the Thunder and the Mavs. But everything else is still centered around either OKC's struggles with the Westbrook/Durant dynamic, or confined to the banal and limited old/young cliche. We're still discounting Dallas on their own terms; still failing to place them in the role of the protagonist as we did with the Heat, Bulls, Thunder, Griz, Lakers, and Celtics. We have deprived them of an individualistic context, only discussing them in relative comparison to whatever other entities are convenient to our purposes. Things might be different if Mark Cuban weren't maintaining a strict radio silence with the media. His uncharacteristic (and wise) deviation from his usual outspoken/controversial routine has deprived us of a reliably volatile fuel to throw on the Mavs' flame of discussion. So we settle for cliched tidbits and inane "can they finally shake off the playoff ghosts?" drivel. Even when the discourse becomes wholly oriented towards Dallas, our compass still fails to find a decent jump point. I've been as guilty a party as any. Too much history and too many failures had blinded me to the essential nature of this 2010-2011 incarnation. One man in particular exemplifies my failures of perception.
"Dirk is soft." Isn't that how the line goes? A long while ago, we made a gigantic mistake. And then we failed to correct it. And failed again and again after that. We chose to perceive a man a certain way, because the postseason win-loss record demanded that it be so. And then the myth became self-perpetuating and grew, as the Mavs continued to exit early from the playoffs. We all figured that our initial perceptions were sound, that Dirk "wasn't a winner." I suppose it's an equation based more upon some vague perception of disappointment than on reality. The reality is 25-10. That's Dirk Nowitzki's playoff average for points and rebounds, an elite statistical posting worthy of any and all accolades we can bestow. And yet ...
The "soft" label remains. Since he has entered the league, Dirk's output has cropped him with the best of the best, and yet because of repeated playoff failures, we've continued to write him off. We did the same with Stockton and Barkley and everyone else who, for whatever reason, failed to take home The Hardware at season's end. Why did we do it? Because he's an easy target. The goofy looking German dude who also holds the unofficial title of "Least Graceful Elite Player You've Ever Seen." The silly, quasi-mullet haircuts and awkward fall-away jumper made it easy to dismiss him as something other than what he is: One Bad Motha. For years, we've classified him as someone who simply couldn't lead a team to success. A "best player" guy who couldn't cross over certain borderlines. The truth was much more simple: Dirk didn't have enough heavy artillery around him. Wyatt Earp would have been a dead man if he'd walked into the OK Corral without his brothers and Doc Holiday. Can't we say the same for Nowitzki? Now that he's finally got a supporting cast around him, maybe we can start expounding on his greatness as opposed to languishing in his past.
And that's not to mention the routes the rest of the team has taken to get here. Peja, the Jasons (Terry and Kidd), Tyson Chandler. This team has been through an awful lot to get where it is. It's been painstakingly constructed and tweaked over the past several seasons. They have a billing as "old", but what they are is a miscellaneous grouping assembled to complete a defined task. Whether or not they succeed, it's worth noting the various castoffs and also-rans that have combined to bring a franchise to this juncture. But it's Dirk around which they cohere. He's the catalyst, the combustion engine, the nuclear option. The guy is built to be an assassin. Not the smooth, compact archetype of an MJ or a Kobe, but a stone-cold killer/closer/sniper/LEADER nonetheless.
It's time to define the Mavericks for what they are. Not their labels, not their histories, but their identity as a collective unit. But moreover, it's time to define Dirk for what he is. He's not a loser. Or a failure. Or soft. He's just a damned amazing basketball player who finally has the complimentary pieces around him to make a run at the only thing still eluding him in an otherwise brilliant career. We can talk about any other stories that occur to us, and play the narrative angles howsoever we choose, but let's acknowledge that Dirk Nowitzki is on the precipice of doing something that we long ago decided he was incapable of.
Let's give the man that. At 13 years in the league, this might be his last rodeo, and here's hoping it's a good long ride.
I am not talking about the Heat attempting to self-fulfill the prophecy they so stridently and indecorously announced before the season started. Nor the Bulls' youngest-ever MVP and the saga his team began living out in earnest Sunday in the House That Jordan Built. Nor those precocious young darlings of the league from OKC, and what may or may not be amiss with their point guard.
I'm talking about the most fascinating team, with the most compelling personality, left standing in these playoffs. I'm talking about the Dallas Mavericks.
"But," you're saying, "they're being talked about plenty!!! Didn't we just spend a million hours talking about that Mavs/Lakers series?" Yes. Yes we did. But you know what? We were talking about the Lakers the whole time. The sweep, the game four massacre, every ounce of rehashing and contemplation was fueled by L.A. What were the implications for the Lakers? What did Dirk and Kidd and Jet and Peja and Tyson do to the Lakers? And what about Kobe? Every article and podcast and TV recap was filled with analysis and invective leveled at the Purple and Gold and what they did wrong. It's understandable, to a degree. There was the shabby ending to Phil Jackson's final season to mourn, and his career to recount. There were questions about Kobe and his quest to match or surpass Jordan's ring total, and whether either will be possible going forward. With all of the delicious Laker-centric stories to hitch a journalistic wagon to, who could blame us for failing to take the Mavs on their own merits?
And we're doing the same thing with the upcoming Western Conference Finals. The tactical analysis is, by necessity, equally mindful of both the Thunder and the Mavs. But everything else is still centered around either OKC's struggles with the Westbrook/Durant dynamic, or confined to the banal and limited old/young cliche. We're still discounting Dallas on their own terms; still failing to place them in the role of the protagonist as we did with the Heat, Bulls, Thunder, Griz, Lakers, and Celtics. We have deprived them of an individualistic context, only discussing them in relative comparison to whatever other entities are convenient to our purposes. Things might be different if Mark Cuban weren't maintaining a strict radio silence with the media. His uncharacteristic (and wise) deviation from his usual outspoken/controversial routine has deprived us of a reliably volatile fuel to throw on the Mavs' flame of discussion. So we settle for cliched tidbits and inane "can they finally shake off the playoff ghosts?" drivel. Even when the discourse becomes wholly oriented towards Dallas, our compass still fails to find a decent jump point. I've been as guilty a party as any. Too much history and too many failures had blinded me to the essential nature of this 2010-2011 incarnation. One man in particular exemplifies my failures of perception.
"Dirk is soft." Isn't that how the line goes? A long while ago, we made a gigantic mistake. And then we failed to correct it. And failed again and again after that. We chose to perceive a man a certain way, because the postseason win-loss record demanded that it be so. And then the myth became self-perpetuating and grew, as the Mavs continued to exit early from the playoffs. We all figured that our initial perceptions were sound, that Dirk "wasn't a winner." I suppose it's an equation based more upon some vague perception of disappointment than on reality. The reality is 25-10. That's Dirk Nowitzki's playoff average for points and rebounds, an elite statistical posting worthy of any and all accolades we can bestow. And yet ...
The "soft" label remains. Since he has entered the league, Dirk's output has cropped him with the best of the best, and yet because of repeated playoff failures, we've continued to write him off. We did the same with Stockton and Barkley and everyone else who, for whatever reason, failed to take home The Hardware at season's end. Why did we do it? Because he's an easy target. The goofy looking German dude who also holds the unofficial title of "Least Graceful Elite Player You've Ever Seen." The silly, quasi-mullet haircuts and awkward fall-away jumper made it easy to dismiss him as something other than what he is: One Bad Motha. For years, we've classified him as someone who simply couldn't lead a team to success. A "best player" guy who couldn't cross over certain borderlines. The truth was much more simple: Dirk didn't have enough heavy artillery around him. Wyatt Earp would have been a dead man if he'd walked into the OK Corral without his brothers and Doc Holiday. Can't we say the same for Nowitzki? Now that he's finally got a supporting cast around him, maybe we can start expounding on his greatness as opposed to languishing in his past.
And that's not to mention the routes the rest of the team has taken to get here. Peja, the Jasons (Terry and Kidd), Tyson Chandler. This team has been through an awful lot to get where it is. It's been painstakingly constructed and tweaked over the past several seasons. They have a billing as "old", but what they are is a miscellaneous grouping assembled to complete a defined task. Whether or not they succeed, it's worth noting the various castoffs and also-rans that have combined to bring a franchise to this juncture. But it's Dirk around which they cohere. He's the catalyst, the combustion engine, the nuclear option. The guy is built to be an assassin. Not the smooth, compact archetype of an MJ or a Kobe, but a stone-cold killer/closer/sniper/LEADER nonetheless.
It's time to define the Mavericks for what they are. Not their labels, not their histories, but their identity as a collective unit. But moreover, it's time to define Dirk for what he is. He's not a loser. Or a failure. Or soft. He's just a damned amazing basketball player who finally has the complimentary pieces around him to make a run at the only thing still eluding him in an otherwise brilliant career. We can talk about any other stories that occur to us, and play the narrative angles howsoever we choose, but let's acknowledge that Dirk Nowitzki is on the precipice of doing something that we long ago decided he was incapable of.
Let's give the man that. At 13 years in the league, this might be his last rodeo, and here's hoping it's a good long ride.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Problems Fixed
OK, the "Stacking Chairs and Mopping Up Spilt Beer." post is fixed now. Please go read it. Thank you.
Problems
Apparently Blogger is nine kinds of stupid right now. Please ignore that last post until I can fix it to post correctly. Thank you.
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