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The Jackalopes prided themselves on being amazing hecklers. We dedicated a great deal of time to preserving a dying art. The penalties for a bad heckle were severe — buying a bucket of twenty beers and intense disparaging from one’s peers. However, we always left the umpires alone because we felt there was little point nailing neutral stewards of the game. However, if I knew then what I know now, things would have been much different.

Gamblers have always felt that umpires have a significant influence on the outcome of the game, but baseball’s statistical community was slow to research the umpires’ influence on the game. However, that has changed in recent years. Baseball Prospectus has been charting umpire tendencies for quite some time. Others have began delving into this, including Patrick Kilgo, who presented a study using Pitch f/x data at SABR 41. According to Kilgo’s study, umpires, on average, have an 84% accuracy rate in calling balls and strikes.

Andrew Goldblatt recently published, Major League Umpires’ Performance, 2007-2010, in which he charts R/9, K/9, BB/9, an K/BB for all umpires in that time period then compares them to the MLB average. Golblatt’s book is fascinating, not just because of the data he presents, but because he includes wonderful narratives for each umpire.

Goldblatt’s data indicates that there wide ranges in umpire results. For instance, in 2007, Mark Wegner led major league umpires with a 15.46 K/9 while Randy Marsh had the lowest K/9 with an 11.69 — almost a five strikeout per game difference (the league average was 13.34). In Runs/9 in 2007, Gerry Davis led the league with 11.81 while Jeff Nelson was 5.82 (LAVE 9.63). Goldbaltt doesn’t appear to make any adjustments the pitchers those umpires called for the season, so there obviously is noise in that data. It is important to remember that research is a process. Too many statheads want to discard research because the author isn’t using the the “best” technique. To paraphrase Chris Dial at SABR 41 in the hotel lobby, “Pardon me for being snarky, but you are free to conduct your own study. Until then, just STFU and listen.” Goldbaltt’s data is a wonderful starting point for others to start there own research, which I fully intend to do in a series of comparisons with umpire game logs from Retrosheet.

Wow, one day back, and already a slew of questions via email. The responses from my faithful readers warm the cockles of my not so black heart. Let’s cut to the chase with some answers.

When are you going to write about the Indians? How do you compare Acta to Wedge? What do you think of their chances the rest of the year?

I’ll get to the Indians eventually, but writing about a team with Orlando Cabrera in the starting lineup is tough. Wedge was pure comedy gold for a writer; Acta is a tough read. Unlike most Indians fans, I think Wedge got a bad rap. Acta does far more head scratching things, but he has even less to work with than Wedge. As for the Tribe’s chances the rest of the year, they have Orlando Cabrera in the starting lineup. However, the AL is weak this year, something you would observe if you turned your head away from your regional sports network and looked at the box scores.

Are you still going to write stats stuff?

Yes, I think my next frontier will be about the umpires’ influence on the game. Stay tuned.

Screw the Jackalopes. What about the DSEC? They were as epic and the Jackalopes and endured a lot longer.

Yes, the Double Secret Elitist Club was indeed a fine fellowship of men, and we did bring down a few ballparks (who can forget the beer batter in San Bernardino who tried to climb into the stands to fight us?). Those stories do indeed need re-telling.

How is the McCourt thing going to shake out?

MLB will take the team and circumvent McCourt’s ownership of the stadium/concessions/parking lot by pushing for a downtown stadium.

What do you have against Cubs’ fans?

1908.

SABR 41 was a string of epiphanies for me, not the least being it was time to put the Jackalopes to rest. Long time readers of the Other Blogs will remember the Jackalopes; we were the savage gang that fought vicious turf wars on the mean streets of Scottsdale during Spring Training from about 2002-2006. Armed with frozen daiquiris in one hand, shots of tequila in the other, and a bucket of iced beer at between their feet, they took on all comers in the time before Spring Training went corporate. Many a challenger was eviscerated by the Jackalopes’ sharp wit and keen baseball acumen, left to wither in the baking Arizona sun. Plus, we had very cool nicknames like the Yard Gnome, Sir Jolters, the Beloved Nephew, Bad Scooter, the Ruggedly Handsome Snowplow Driver, Mr. Bamboozled, Black47, and the Scarecrow (a 280 pound chap not named for his frame, but the fact he kept the black birds away). We even had our own T-shirts and theme music because cool is cool.

Alas, the Jackalopes are no more, felled by distance, poor health, and family responsibilities. They haven’t ridden in over three years, and the last ride was pitiful. However, for a time, we were kings, I feel a strong obligation to preserve our story with this eulogy. So put the kids to bed, pour a stiff drink, and listen to the story of a determined bunch of friends charged with the responsibility of upholding the integrity of baseball’s oral tradition.

To understand the Jackalopes, one must be cognizant of the Cactus League at the time. Major League Baseball was peaking in popularity thanks to many new parks and sluggers knocking the ball out of the park. However, the Cactus League was still rather still untouched by the corporate pillaging occurring at the Big Leagues. Beers at a game were two bucks, players were very accessible even during the games (and in the bars at night), tickets were under $5.00, and games were rarely sold out. However, while the games were rather idyllic, the scene in the stands was often savage. Baseball pilgrims trekked from all over the land to beat their breasts and resurrect their ancient ghosts while consuming vast quantities of alcohol. Battle lines had been drawn over whose ghosts were more omnipotent, and each year, those skirmished were re-fought. This began to change at the time Sir Barry Lamar Bonds began his march on the baseball record books. Suddenly, the Unwashed began arriving to the Cactus League en masse, treating Spring Training as some sort of adult Spring Break, soiling the religious lands with their ignorance and inability to hold their liquor. In this setting, the Jackalopes were born.

The Jackalopes’ first ride was March 9th, 2002, when the Yard Gnome made the scene. Sir Jolters, The Beloved Nephew, and I had been attending games together since 1998, but the Jackalopes weren’t truly formed until Sir Jolters brought that demented fuck, who I liked immediately, to an Angels/Padres game in Tempe. We arrived in the game a little late because the Angels still hadn’t learned to handle a large crowd at Spring Training, and it took us over an hour to park and get in the gates (somewhere an old usher is rotting in baseball hell for that delay). We had just been served our beer when Aaron Sele sparked a bench clearing brawl by plunking Ryan Klesko. The Yard Gnome had paid for the beer with a $100 bill, but left his change on the counter to crawl over people to see the fight (the Yard Gnome received his name from me because of his small stature — sometime later, I would offer him fifty bucks to black paint his face and stand in my lawn with a lantern whenever I had parties). I knew then I had found a partner for the road.

By time the second brawl broke out in the game (Klesko came out in street clothes to try to get some licks in), we had started pleading for my wife, seven months pregnant with our second child, to drive us to Tucson for a night game. Being the road warrior she is, she obliged, and after stopping to get two eighteen packs after the Tempe game, we were on the road to Tucson Electric Park. That game was forgettable, probably because of the copious amount of beer consumed, but the Yard Gnome had blown off his girlfriend to go, and she dumped him on the phone while we were at the park. On the outside, the Tard Gnome kept his composure, but as a kindred soul now for six hours, I knew he was hurting, so we started doing tequila shots to ease the pain. On the way home, we became mired in a huge traffic jam, making the ninety minute drive a three hour affair, which gave us the time kill those eighteen parks while engaging in a heated Mike Schmidt versus George Brett debate.

The next morning, the door bell rang at 8:30. There was the Yard Gnome with a pitcher of bloody marys, ready to start preparation for that afternoon’s game. Ride we did.

Next: Rain Delays in the Cactus League; the Jackalopes versus the Scouts at the Arizona Fall League.

SABR went to Dodger and Angels Stadium this week, and some members didn’t have kind things to say about Southern California’s baseball cathedrals. This evoked mixed emotions as I have poked fun at both stadiums for over two decades. However, I am not particularly fond of outsiders taking potshots at places that are like home to me. Most circles of friends have one idiot in the circle, and while those in the circle might bash the idiot, they are very protective of outsiders doing the same. Well, over the years, both stadiums have become my inner circle idiots, and I don’t care for outsiders unduly criticizing them, especially god awful Cubs’ fans.

Under Frank McCourt’s reign of terror, Dodger Stadium has become has dilapidated as the team on the field. In my row Friday night with SABR, there were four consecutive broken seats, a mean feat since the stadium went through a hundred million plus renovation not too long ago. Unfortunately, the renovation resembles a bad plastic surgery operation on an aging Hollywood starlet. At this point, only the wrecking ball can save Chavez Ravine. However, its one saving grace is that it is not heavily populated by Cubs’ fans, who think drinking beer while getting their pasty skin sunburned in a baking toilet is the consummate baseball experience (not surprisingly, their spring training facility in Mesa offers the same experience). What makes Cubs’ fan unbearable is the fact that like to travel to other places and ramble on about how great Wrigley is, and how Cubs fans are superior to other fans.

Look, Mr. 1908’s, you guys are Cubs fans. It wasn’t long ago that mounting a Cubs’ fan on the hood of an old gas guzzler and driving him around Scottsdale during Spring Training was not only considered good, clean fun, but a civic duty since the herd is in constant need of thinning. Don’t make cracks about our beach balls while droning on about the sanctity of Wrigley, especially since your bellies look like you ate a few beach balls (yeah, I went there with my big gut, Lard Ass). Baseball is played year round in Southern California. While your freezing your tails off in January, we are taking our kids to their travel ball games. More players from this region make it to the Bigs than any other region on the planet. We know baseball out here and don’t have to pretend that every trip to a major league park is a serious religious endeavor.

Look, bash on the Dodger Dogs all you want. They are terrible, especially since the mustard choices in Dodger Stadium are criminal. However, don’t eat three of them and continue tell us how bad they taste. Instead, try the Doyer Fries, which are quite good and can only help your sickly constitution (the morning dooker following Doyer Fries is indeed a religious experience — The Morning Apocalypse we call it).

Saturday morning, I heard Dave Cameron, the genius behind Fan Graphs, tell people to be prepared unpleasantness at Angels’ Stadium. Unlike some people, I enjoy Cameron very much (I thought his self deprecating joke about the Sixth Best Organization in baseball in front of a packed room at SABR was simply awesome), and his disparaging comments about the odious Rally Monkey were dead on. However, Angels’ Stadium is far more than the Rally Monkey, and Bouncing Baby Jesus on a Pogo Stick, Cameron, you are a Mariners’ fan. While some Mariners’ fans aspire to grow up and become the Red Sox Nation, Mariners’ fans are still babes in the woods covered with the taint of fourteen years of Ron Fairly broadcasting who watch their team in a blimp hangar. Angels’ Stadium is often goofy, but people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw hand grenades.

I’ve been to major league parks in all the cities in North America besides Montreal and Tampa, plus a slew of minor league parks. Criticizing them to feel superior serves no purpose, except for Petco (the Gateway to El Centro!) because Padres fans aren’t smiley at all. The are insecure whelps who are mad at living because there is a hole in their heart from the knowledge that San Diego will never grow from the shadows of Los Angeles and Tijuana. They live amongst beauty, but can’t get past the intangible “We Should Get More Recognition”. Years of transplants trapesing through their sports stadia have made them even more bitter, so now they take to behaving like Raiders fans. Maybe even worse, because of the high number of tranplants in the area, there is an excellent chance that one might get stuck sitting next to a Red Sox fan, and there really isn’t much worse than that, except for a Pirates’ fan wearing a Lynn Swan jersey in one’s section.

The stadium is clean, but congested because of its Mad Hatter design. The food is decent, but nothing memorable (that is still much better than Dodger Stadium). As for the staff, most of their concession stands are worked by fundraising groups. The workers are volunteers, usally having no idea what they are getting into. Thier groups gets a certain percentage of sales while the stadium gets ridiculously cheap labor. Most of this cheap labor is incompetent, which leads to long waits. The speciality stands are different, but often the help there is snobby, which just makes me want to slap their smug faces.

But I digress. I’d rather have fire ants devour my gonads than go to Petco, but I still go about three times a year. Why? Because they play baseball there. I don’t go to ballparks and bash their fans (that is what the intertubes are for) and their different traditions. If you come to my house(s), don’t bash my idiots — or feed them for that matter.

“It is you again!” — old lady at the SABR Convention at Long Beach, showing her displeasure of having to sit near me at the Angels’ game.

Over the years, I have had many wonderful and often surreal baseball experiences, traveling from park to park across the land. This weekend at the SABR Conference in Long Beach, I realized that those experiences were in danger of being forgotten because I quit writing. While exchanging stories from the road with other SABR members, all whom I had never met, I received many incredulous looks as I began re-telling old stories to a new audience. “Who the hell is this guy? Is he for real? Is security close in case we need them?” many of the facial expressions screamed. I didn’t even make to many of the best stories (the smashing of the Tim Salmon Bobbleheads; the green assed Rally Monkey, etc.) for fear of scaring my new acquaintances.

Yes, I am for real — over the years, I struggled with what type of baseball writer I was trying to be. Was I a stat head? Was I a historian? Was I a clown with big red shoes? I think I finally have the answer — I am a baseball humorist who derives that humor from human interest stories. So the trek starts anew, with my writing being the record. I don’t know how many old readers will come back, or how many new readers will come aboard, but I feel the stories must be told.

The Cleveland Indians won a game Thursday night when rock star Shin-Soo Choo smacked a single into a seagull grounded in the outfield in extra innings. In a city that has been eternally cursed by a water nymph residing in Lake Erie, this cannot be a good thing. Some sort a wicked retribution surely most follow, like Marty Schottenheimer being named head coach of the Browns again.

The fact that the seagulls have recently made Progressive “We Can’t Spring For a Good Looking Spokeswoman” Field their home is rather unsettling. How long will it be before those birds go all Hitchcock on the few remaining people who live downtown and tear their flesh from their bones with their dirty little beaks? Will Mayor Frank “Cool Hand Shady” Jackson be able to recover from the Ohio Supreme Court’s ruling against the City of Cleveland’s requirement for employees to live within city limits and muster a defense against the invading predators, or will he take to the hills with his fleeing work force?

Not so long ago, during the false revival of the nineties, the city had the chance to appease the Erie water nymph by constructing a large monument to burning Cuyahoga in the form of Ralph Perk’s bowling shoe topped by an eternal flame. The city declined, choosing instead to believe the past could be forgotten because some drunks were willing to consistently moor their boats outside some really rot gut bars. Alas, waiters and waitresses cannot sustain a tax base, and the window for redemption soon closed. John Hart went mad, the city willingly gave its hopes and dreams to the Lerner family,  soon downtown the boards were back up, and the seasons began being tracked by the announcement of undisclosed injuries of members of the Cleveland Browns.

Now as Cleveland faces another exodus of tax payers as its workers scramble to the suburbs, perhaps the true Cleveland apocalypse is set to begin. A couple of years ago, the midges made the scene, now it is the gulls, just daring Indians’ employees to feed them Alka Seltzer so they can explode like martyrs in a fine red mist, setting in motion the next chain if events that will result in fiery destruction.

Or maybe the status quo will remain.

I knew victory would be denied in the Cavs’ series opener against Orlando the instant the blimp shot of a fully lit, but empty Jacobs “Progressive Can Suck My Bum” Field . Yes, the Indians were on the road in Kansas City, but there the Jake was attracting an array of flying insects because the Powers That Are in Cleveland feel the insecure need to showcase their city.

Just who do these clowns think they are fooling? Everyone knows downtown is a shit hole — the stadium lights of a not so new baseball stadium aren’t going to change that. People across the land aren’t going to say, “Wow, look at that cool baseball stadium! Honey, let’s vacation in Cleveland this year.”

If the city leaders wanted to properly showcase the city, images of prostitutes who have reclaimed their rightful turf around Jacobs’ Field would be shown. Add some shots of the long unemployment lines and decaying schools, then throw in the perennial orange construction barrels that are a band aid on the festering cancer of decaying infrastructure. Show the desolate Flats that once offered the false hope of urban renewal.

Burn, Cuyahoga, burn.