March 2007 Archives

Skip "Wheels" Slater spent 17 years in the major leagues, and holds the record for getting picked off first base in more different uniforms than any other player (23). He made headlines in 1983 when the Atlanta Braves offered his services to any other team at any professional level in return for a bag of balls and a bottle of Neat's foot oil; they found no takers. After his involuntary retirement, Slater spent several years as a baseball analyst for ESPN. He was fired from his post in 2003, when, during a "Baseball Tonight" segment, he called John Kruk "dumber than a shit-stained pair of drawers, with three times the stench". Since then, he's lent his unique perspective on the game to everyone from USA Today to the Shop-Rite Pennysaver. Scratchbomb is pleased to present his National League preview.

Slater's 1975 Topps card, now a rare collectible because every kid who found it in a pack of 1975 Topps threw it out.

Most baseball "experts" like the superstars. The big home run hitters. The fireballing pitchers. They tell you that these are the guys who win games.

These experts are bald-faced liars. There, I said it. These men (and the occasional woman) are liars, and whenever I meet one of these guys, I never hesitate to give them a knuckle sandwich right in their lying mouths. Some people might call that "hot-headedness" or "criminal assault". But I always remember what my pappy said: "You catch someone in a lie, punch 'em right in the face. Then go run and hide in a ditch somewheres."

No, the guys who really win you ball games are the scrappy little players. The guys who drag bunt in the 9th when their team's down by 6 runs. The guys who sprint to first after they've been plunked in the hip. The guys who are frequently used as coasters for the other players' Gatorade cups. These players might be tiny and weak and injury prone and possibly asthmatic and sometimes they're albino. But they leave it all out on the field, every time they run out of the dugout on their tiny, scrawny legs.

I know this because I was one of those guys. During my career, I was never the fastest guy on the field. Or the biggest. Or the tallest. And I almost never hit a home run. Or even a double. And I didn't hit for average and I didn't draw too many walks either. And a lot of times, pitchers would throw straight at my helmet 'cause they thought it was funny to watch my puny little body twitch around in the dirt.

But I was willing to do anything to help my team. Go up to the plate and take a pitch off my ribcage? You got it, skip! Play right field when Boog Powell was too hungover to stand up straight? No problem, coach! Lay down in field and act as second base during an equipment shortage? Just go ahead and paint me white!

I hear a lot of these stat-head types talk a lot of crap about this kind of player, saying they're a sentimental waste of a roster spot. Thing is, these are the same eggheads who made up a crazy new stat called VORP: Value Over Replacement Player. It's supposed to measure the worth of a player versus that of an average player at that position.

Two can play at that game, fellas. If you're gonna measure a monster home run hitter or a strike out king against an average player, then you can do the same with my kind of player, the scrappy little go-getters who make the most of the tiny drops of talent God has given them. My premise is, when a squirt like Joe McEwing bats .250, it's as impressive as when a regular player hits .300.

Of course, I needed some hard evidence, and I ain't too good with math. So I went over to Cal Tech with my old buddy Joe Morgan. We kicked down the door of the statistics department and gave 'em all wedgies and locked 'em in the lab until they came up with a fancy new stat that would prove what I've known my whole life: a tiny, scrappy player is actually worth more than what his seemingly measly statistics say he's worth.

The basic formula we came up with is this:

[(height in inches + average number of annual trips to the DL) *
(dirt accumulated on uniform in cubic centimeters + bunt attempts)] /
[years spent in minors + positions played at least twice at the major league level]

This gives us a player's Graduated Resident Intensity Tally, or GRIT. The average major leaguer has a GRIT of 0. Superstars like Albert Pujols or Roy Oswalt have negative GRITs, because their enormous natural talent precludes any need to employ GRIT-heavy metrics. And of course, players like Darin Erstad have huge GRIT levels, because it takes 100 percent of their total effort to equal about 65 percent effort from the average player.

Running this metric on all the players in the National League, I've determined that the following teams are the ones to watch this year:

NL East: Philadelphia Phillies Yeah, they got the reigning MVP, and Chase Utley's good if you like a young second baseman who can hit to all fields. But the real difference maker on this team will be third baseman Wes Helms. He's a gritty, gutty, blue-collar player, not like all those other fancy white-collar third basemen in this division. Then there's pocket-sized outfielder Shane Victorino, who can zip around the bases on those rare occasions when he reaches safely. And of course, they have Aaron Rowand, a fantastic player who could have led the league in GRIT if he hadn't broken his face against an outfield fence so early in the season. A never-give-up and never-think-things-through attitude--that's what wins you championships!

NL Central: Milwaukee Brewers Jeff Suppan is my kinda pitcher. You watch him throw and you wonder to yourself, How in the hell can this junk get people out? And yeah, sometimes he gets lit up like a Christmas tree, but GRIT says he's good for at least 7 Wins When His Team Scores 8 Runs Or More. Craig Counsell looks like he's taken a few liners off his face, and I like players who make me look like a matinee idol in comparison. I also like guys who are sons of ex-major leaguers, and the Brewers have two of them (Prince Fielder and Tony Gwynn Jr.). That's a lot of gritty genes right there!

NL West: Los Angeles Dodgers Now that the evil Paul DePodesta and his merciless spreadsheets have been banished, it's good times in La-La Land! Juan Pierre is the scrappiest player on the Left Coast, and the fact that statheads despise his lack of OBP (whatever that is) only makes me love him more. The Dodgers also still imploy Olmedo Saenz, at great expense to their precious roster spots and daily meal allowances. And if I was Grady Little, I'd start gritty Mike Lieberthal over that young whippersnapper Russell Martin. Sure, Martin's got more upside, but only Lieberthal can look so world-weary when he takes off his catcher's mask to watch a double split the outfielders.

Wild Card: Cincinnati Reds Here's all you need to know: Ryan Freel talks to his imaginary friend while playing the outfield. That's my kinda crazy. If that doesn't convince you that this team is going places, take a look at that bullpen. Mike Stanton. David Weathers. Rheal Cormier. The list of grizzled, angry vets goes on and on! When I see a reliever go to the mound, I don't wanna see some young hot shot like Jonathan Papelbon. I wanna see some guy who looks like his wife is on his ass to redo the kitchen, and his kids are begging him for money to buy some damn stupid thing, and the mound is his fortress of solitude against a world that's betrayed his youthful dreams. A team like this has gotta make the postseason, 'cause none of them wanna go home a month earlier than they have to.

Around this time last year,I wrote a more compact version of this tale for MSN Sports Filter. But since that site has passed into the Interweb Graveyard, I hope you'll indulge me in recycling seasonal material.

My grandfather--my father's father--died when I was 8 years old. So my memories of him are vague and littered with the weird, stupid things that little kids think are important. It takes a lot of mental power to pull out what I actually remember of him after I sift through all the Transformers and Thundercats and Mad Magazines.

I remember that I thought my grandfather had a funny voice, which I now realize was an Irish accent lathered with tar from decades of smoking Winstons. I remember that he always smiled, a smile with his teeth half-parted, as if he was about ready to laugh, though I don't remember ever hearing him laugh. I remember that he had glasses with thick, gauzy lenses that made it hard to see even the faintest traces of his eyes. I probably couldn't have seen his eyes anyway, because he seemed about 10 feet tall to me.

I remember that his fridge was always stocked with this strange slightly carbonated red lemonade that he brought back with him from his frequent trips to Ireland. I searched in vain for it both times I was in Dublin, but I couldn't find it because I didn't quite know what I was looking for. No one else in my family remembers it, leading me to believe it was just some weird beverage my mind concocted while I was puzzling out adventures for Optimus Prime.

He was born just before Ireland gained its independence, became an adult just as the Depression hit, and fled to America on his own after World War II. So he didn't have the good fortune of living in easy times. Post-war Ireland was a pretty brutal time and place, even by the low standards that Ireland had for an acceptable economy. He left his wife and children behind and worked in New York for three years before he had enough money to send for them. He was a baggage handler at JFK's TWA terminal for almost thirty years. My mom still has his retirement gift in our basement: a wooden plaque with a barometer and thermometer mounted on it, neither of which ever worked.

"Okay, Mr. Vitale. The tape is rolling. You can start your reading whenever you're ready."

"First of all, I wanna say this is an honor. Doing voice over work for the great Ken Burns. I mean, New York, The Civil War, The Brooklyn Bridge, baby. You can't beat that with a stick. It's unbeatable, just like DiGiorno pizza. It's not delivery, baby!"

"Thank you, Mr. Vitale. Now, whenever you're ready."

"Okay, baby, let's do this! Civil War Part II! It's awesome with a capital Appomatox, baby! We're gonna make a Bull Run at another dozen Emmys! And lemme tell you, that violin theme song, whatever it's called, that is undoubtedly the most moving piece of music ever written for television. If that doesn't make you get all misty eyed, you gotta be made of stone, baby!"

"Okay, now if we could get to the script..."

"And my main man, Shelby Foote, with all of his poignant insights and Southern aphorisms. That man is a living legend. I've been around the block a few times, and lemme tell you: I've never seen a man who could drive home a bitter truth like Shelby Foote. He reminds me of another Southern gentleman: Coach K, baby! Never mind their late season swoon--the Blue Devils are going to the Final Four! That's right, folks, you heard it right--the Final Four is gonna be Duke, Ohio State, Florida, and Duke! I'd love to hear Shelby Foote's bracket picks."

"He's dead. Please start your reading."

"That's a tragedy. Almost as bad as Syracuse not getting a tournament bid. I had Jim Boeheim over at my house and he had a good cry while we watched 'Hoosiers'. Gene Hackman. Dennis Hopper. The quintessential sports movie. That high school basketball team coming back to win the state final, that's a Cinderella story for the ages, baby! Kinda like how the Union stormed back to defeat the South. Ulysses S. Grant, baby! Grant and General Lee coming together to turn back the evil forces of Boss Hogg..."

"There's a million things wrong with what you just said, but I'll ignore all of them if you'll just start your reading."

"Listen up--I gotta mention my good friends at Boost Mobile. Sign up now for Dickie V's Dipsy Doo Dunkeroo Bracketology Knowledge-y, and you can win tons of prizes. Hats. Shirts. Hats. More hats. It's great! All you gotta do is text them your phone number so you can be harassed with messages for the next seven years, baby..."

"If you don't start reading right now, I'm going to cut off oxygen to the sound booth."

"Okay baby, let's get rolling! Cue that weepy violin music, baby!"

"There's no music. For the love of Jesus, please read."

"*ahem* 'My darling Melissa: Words can not express my longing for you. My pen trembles when I call to mind your alabaster skin, your soft amber curls, and the warmth of your smile. Know that you are in my thoughts every waking moment of every day. And know that when I lay my head down on a hard, unforgiving Army cot, the only thing that can soften the scratch of the canvas and bring on the sweet respite of slumber is to whisper your name. I feel it wrap around me as if I were an infant being swaddled and cradled to his sleep. Oh Melissa, would that I could promise to return home soon. Would that I could promise to return at all! But that is for Providence to decide. All I can do is pray that He shall see fit to return me to your arms. If He does not, then know that we shall see one another again in the sweet by and by. And know above all, that with my last breath, with my dying words, I shall utter but one phrase and be at peace:' Coach K, baby!"

"The script doesn't say that!"

"I know! I'm bringing my own Dickie V flavor to the material! It's what the kids want!"

"Do any of you sound engineers have a taser?"

The month of March is here, evidently, which brings along with it the NCAA College Basketball tournament. This annual sporting event inspires thousands of unfortunate torso paintings, and turns office workers across the nation into amateur bookies. It sends the public into a collective, oh I don't know, madness one might say. I wish there were some alliterative way to describe the tournament and the frenzy that spreads across the nation in its wake.

Maybe, Spring Psychopathology? Yeah, that rolls off the tongue.

Of course, most of the tournament berths are already sealed up through conference championships or bribery, and even the majority of the remaining teams to be selected won't exactly come out of left field. But the NCAA always picks a few so-called mid-majors, schools you probably haven't heard of unless you went to them or have a severe gambling problem.

Betting on any small school is a dicey proposition. Everyone likes a Cinderella story, but the likelihood of West Ass Crack Teacher's College going anywhere in the tourney is minimal at best. Unless Billy Packer thinks it's a travesty that they were picked for the tournament in the first place. In that case, the team should at least make it to the Sweet Sixteen.

Still, it's fun to dream of king-killers, because hey, we all want to murder monarchs, right? This Sunday, the NCAA will finalize the tournament spots in an event known throughout the land as "Weekend Winnowing". Here's a few of the small-school squads who just might make the cut.

East Mississippi A&M: Once known for having one of the best small-school programs in the country, EMA&M was scandalized in 1991 when it was discovered that their point guard was actually a Holstein. The school argued that having cattle in its starting five was actually a disadvantage, but the NCAA still banned the school from the tournament for five years, and the cow was sold to Black Angus. EMA&M is now back to its winning ways, and extremely difficult to beat on its home court, mostly because that court doubles as a kill floor.

San Quentin State: This school prides itself on giving troubled youth a second chance. Failing that, third, fourth and fifth chances are equal as common for its student-athletes. Their most versatile player is Deshawnjames Williams, who usually plays center but is also used as a shooting guard when he brings a glock onto the court. Jamatador Oneill is the team's leading scorer (37 ppg, 17 confirmed kills), but he gets into foul trouble often. During the Penal Conference final, Oneill T-ed out early in the second half when he stabbed an opponent in the throat as he took a free throw.

Lancaster County Community College: Champs of the Mennonite Conference, the only one to still use wooden peach crates for baskets. Their most feared player is 6' 7" forward Ezekiel Schmidt, whose 31.7 ppg average is even more impressive when you consider that he must run up and down the court in suspenders and leather shoes. This may be the last chance for LCCC to crack the tourney, as many of its best players will soon be lost to the NBA Draft, and to rumspringa.

Tompkins Drama School: Their point guard is in love with the head cheerleader, who doesn't know she's carrying another man's baby. Their center's toughest opponent is himself. What their forward doesn't know about their shooting guard could kill them both. And their coach is carrying a deep, dark secret that could tear his school apart--if his wife doesn't destroy it first. But put them together, and this ragtag group of misfits will leave it all out on the court, where they just might have...the right stuff. Unless they pull a Big East team in the first round; then they're dead.

Boffo's Clown College: BCC is known for its tough brand of play. Few opponents can score from the post when their sophomore Pinky employs his unstoppable Squirting Flower defense. It doesn't matter much on the court, but the school is also renowned for having the smallest team bus in the NCAA.

Monsanto Institute of Technology: MIT has created a near-perfect basketball team, literally. Using DNA samples from NBA legends and a patented genome extraction and self-replication technique, the school grew its starting five in large, fluid-filled vats that mimic the conditions of the womb. This procedure has drawn condemnation and protests from nearly every single political and religious leader in the world , though it has eliminated all suspicion of recruiting violations. Freshman 32XJ7 is a standout for his flawless three-point shot and the unnerving, soulless cast of his eyes.

Today, Scratchbomb takes a break from YouTube-Phoria to welcome back sports columnist Skitch Hanson. You may know him as the author of the highly popular syndicated sports column "Up The Middle," the six-time winner of the Mike Lupica Award for Most One-Sentence Paragraphs Written In A Year. You may have read his best-selling books "You Don't Have To Understand Something To Hate It" and "Why Everything Good In The World Happened 30 Years Ago". He's also a frequent guest on ESPN's sportswriters panel show YELLING. Without further ado, here's Skitch.

Spring Fever is in the air. And it's not the Spring Fever I caught at a Bennigan's in Gainesville last March that actually turned out to be Hepatitis A.

No, this Spring Fever is Spring Training, a virulent pandemic causing inflammations of Excitement throughout the nation, bursting pustules of Anticipation, and scratchy red patches of Hope. This Spring is a highly contagious affliction for which there is no cure. And unlike my Spring Fever, this one won't cause liver failure.

Baseball is more than America's Pasttime. It's a metaphor for the changing of the seasons, the ebb and flow of time. We suffer through a hard winter, with snow and sleet and seasonal effective disorder. Then suddenly baseball reemerges to give us a reason to live once again, right when we're at the end of our collective rope--I mean, when we're literally ready to throw a noose over a beam in our collective basement.