Dead Religions

High school students in Iowa directed”Trump!” chants at an opposing team that contained minority players. Their team lost.

Dear Adam [Director of Promotions, IE 66ers]:

Check out this sexiness in Frisco. Something like this needs to be built at San Manuel Stadium. I say the hell with the lazy river concept though; lets just jump right to the firehoses. Let’s face it, many of the 66ers’ fans are in dire need of a bath. A pool or a lazy river is just going to create a massive oil slick that will burn for days if touched by an open flame. It will be the Cuyahoga all over again.

I know you are thinking, “Hey Bads85, we are in the middle of a drought, and El Nino is nothing more that El Ninito. We can’t turn firehoses on people; that is a terrible waste of water, plus the human rights activists will be all up our ass.” May I suggest gentler, kinder firehoses like something one might find in a car wash? In fact, we can even use modern car wash technology to reclaim the water. In fact, why don’t we just build a car wash in left field, and run the unwashed through on open sleds? We can promote it as a amusement park ride, and presto, we do out part for a cleaner and shinier San Bernardino. On off days, we can run hobos through there because we are all abut making the community better.

Your friend in baseball,

Bads85

The encounter with the Canadian Snowbirds indicated is that I am in dire need of a pilgrimage to cleanse my soul after years of a sedentary lifestyle. Years ago when the Jackalopes still had precarious grip on the gang power structure of the Cactus League, no damn Canadian Snowbird would have dared approached our dinner table –– we would have fed them to the Mexican World Baseball Classic fans.

We were much younger then. We were also much wiser because our vision was not clouded with discontent or doubt. We were free to reap the benefits of our wisdom because we were not shackled by responsibilities. We had not become slaves to our material desires. Even if someone had warned us we would never be that free again, we would not have listened. We would have probably hogtied the poor bastard onto the hood of a BMW and paraded him around town, just like we did with Cubs’s fans back then.

But alas, the Jackalopes are gone forever, and Team Canada has an automatic berth in the WBC for 2017. There will be no last ride of the Jackalopes to regain past glories. This year I travel to the Cactus with four cherries. My most grizzled Cactus League companion will be an eleven year old boy with a sharp tongue, but serious impulse control issues when it comes to heckling. And breasts.

The Cactus League landscape has changed greatly since the Jackalopes last rode. It is much sinister now, and quite frankly, this setting might have eradicated the Jacakalopes quicker than four eight balls of cocaine and a bevy of strippers. If history has taught us anything, it is that the Jackalopes were not very adaptable. Hell, Baseball Prospectus’s Pitcher Abuse Points lasted longer than them.

But we can learn from the Jackalopes and ensure past mistakes are made. The Jackalopes thought they could save their world, but they were only interested in saving their world. They were willing to let other worlds burn while they protected their turf. As a result, the barbarians crept closer to the gate, and the Snowbirds became entrenched.

The past is gone though. Heroes are scattered. We can only forge a new future, a future where we spend more time drinking beer than discussing how that beer was made.

Remember when Bill James was just the crazy, out of touch stats guy who had once been a pioneer, but stayed in his covered wagon while the rest of the stat community built an interstate right by his farm? He was almost humorous then, kind of like how those settlers in the DirecTV commercials are almost funny. Well, now Bill has turned his analysis to Donald Trump, and the results are about as mixed as his “Fools Gold” books.

Rather than nitpick James’ portrait of Trump, I am going to jump the alarming, and very dangerous assumption James makes – that there are not enough morons in America to elect Trump. James is assuming that all the people voting for Trump are morons, which might make James feel awfully smug on his moral high ground, but it is an erroneous thought. Just because some radically disagrees with your political stance does not make them stupid, but more importantly, plenty of intelligent people are starting to buy what Trump is selling because demagogues are very persuasive, especially when the other choices are complete shitshows.

Intelligent people are starting to rationalize a vote for Trump. “Yeah, he might say crazy things about race, but he probably doesn’t mean them, and he has the balls to say what needs to be said about other facets of politics.” Even James gives Trump a hat tip for courage. It is this type of rationalization that allows demagogues to gain power. A nation doesn’t just wake up and say, “Hey, let’s get behind the crazy guy! The trains will run on time!” Modern demagogues don’t seize power; it is slowly given to them when the electorate rationalizes a vote for them.

That rationalization becomes much easier in a democracy when the other choices are very grim as it fuels even more rationalization. “You know, he isn’t nearly as bad as Clown 1, and Clown 2, well, that guy is batshit crazy, so I can’t vote for him. And Clown 3, well, the world will just walk all over him. Trump will stand up to our enemies.” Once this rationalization starts, it quickly gains momentum, and dismissing a demagogue’s followers as morons just adds more fuel to train.

One of Mark Shapiro’s first orders of business will be handling his diva, Jose Bautista, who is demanding a five year, $150 million dollar deal. That is a great deal of money for a player who could get popped for steroids at any time, plus Bautista is old. Sure, Jello isn’t his primary diet like Albert Pujols, but the dude won’t be that far away from enjoying AARP benefits when that contract is over, assuming he isn’t in prison for some sort of violent assault then. He already is four years older than Jim Thome when Shapiro let him walk.

Meanwhile it appears Shapiro’s new lackey, Ross Atkins, has a rather creepy crush on Bautista that probably contains prison sex fantasies. In a recent interview with ESPN, Atkins talked about how much he loves being around Bautista because Bautista fires him up. Of course, Ross never was around talent like that in Cleveland because Larry Dolan and Shapiro had strict rules to ensure high priced talent wasn’t allowed in an Indians’ uniform.

The seven Blue Jays’ fans who aren’t still basking in the glow of the greatest NBA All Star Weekend in the last two decades are hoping that a fast start by their team will ensure that Shapiro doesn’t kick off another one of his legendary fire sales. What these fools don’t remember is that the Indians started 11-1 that season, and Shapiro was singing the praises of Ricky Gutierrez, then the bottom fell out, allowing Shapiro to trade every decent player to parlay that into one playoff appearance six years later.

Of course, Shapiro and his humping lap dog Atkins will not be able to trade Bautista if an errant pitch shatters Jose’s wrist, so Shapiro might just want to start the fire sale sooner than later.

The home of the Cactus League does not consist of only baseball pilgrims. Others flock to the desert because the desert offers warmth. Snowbirds abound, but most of them are easily avoided because they are old and are in bed before the sun slips below the Shadow Mountains. A motel breakfast lounge is where you are most likely to run into them, and they will certainly want to try to make conversation with you. Most just want companionship, but others like to assert their intellect because it is the closest thing they feel to an erection these days.

There are often double standards in breakfast lounge conversations with snowbirds. The old coot by the bacon can bitch endlessly about trivialities from a certain location, but if that particular soul gets called on something about where he is from, a murder of crows will swoop in to stop the inquiries. Meanwhile, the much better looking guy by the orange juice gets gruff for asking about the toaster.

Anyway, the solution is to avoid breakfast lounges in hotels, and you can usually avoid most snowbirds, which are pretty much harmless anyway. Go straight to the bar. Drink your breakfast, and forget the snowbirds altogether. Most breakfast lounges have a shitty view anyway.

Fuck the Canadian snowbirds though. Their passive aggressive politeness does a very poor job of concealing their contempt, which of course, they don’t really want to conceal anyway. “Wow, we really thought there would be citizens patrolling the streets with assault rifles down here. Imagine our relief that things aren’t what we thought.”

What makes their contempt so comical is they are Canadian, not the French. Hello, what has Canada ever accomplished? Dieppe was a goddamn disaster, their whiskey is just gross, their beer causes gas, and their hockey league has to be propped up by American teams in warm weather climates. When you point that out to them, they reply, “But Drake promoted the 2016 NBA All Star game in Toronto, so that means it was the best All Star game in the last twenty years.”

Look, you asshats made enough money to come down to Phoenix to bitch and moan about America for a couple of months while your land is frozen. Your money was probably made in a criminal manner, and as Americans filled with the frontier spirit, we do not besmirch that at all. What does piss us off is you interrupting our Cactus League discussions with your interjections on U.S. politics. If I am talking to my daughter about the odds of obtaining a Mike Trout autograph at a restaurant, that is not an open invitation to interrupt my dinner conversation to ask me my feeling about Donald Trump or gun control. How is that oil economy doing these days anyway?

I don’t want to talk American politics with you, Mr. Canadian Snowbird. If we must discuss anything at all, let’s discuss the juvenile bat flip your star baseball player employs every time he makes solid contact with a baseball, Oh, I am a racist for bringing that up? I forgot what a diverse land you are from. How are those First Nation Tribes doing? How many minutes did PK Subban play in Sochi?

Listen, you Canadian fanboy, it is not racist to think bat flipping is an affront to the decency of baseball. Just because some of Jose Bautista’s detractors don’t like Latin players doesn’t mean that all of the bat flip detractors are racist. In fact, it is really fucking shallow to lump all those who don’t care for bat flips in with the racists. You make it easy to hope that Bautista fails a steroids’ test.

Bongwater: You use that line over there? Once we cross it, our innocence is gone, and it is never coming back.

Me: That is the line of a handicapped parking space.

BW: Allow me my metaphor, Thaddeus. I listened to all your bullshit about the Mormon Rocks on the way up here. We are going to a park that has no video scoreboard. The stadium is a giant cinder block. If we are lucky, the smoke from the wildfire will block the high tension power lines. We could still go to Vegas now. Once we cross that line, there is no turning back. What is it going to be?

Me: Is this some more blood brothers to the end fantasies? They have new beer gardens. Let’s roll.

False advertising: There are no new beer gardens, just dirty tables reserved for groups that won’t be coming here today. Modelo is not being sold today, although the advertisement announced there would be a Modelo Party Porch. Maybe one hundred people are in the stadium at this time. Our main concern is finding a bathroom, but it does not seem like restroom markers are in the operating budget.

We walk to the Diamond Club, figuring there has to be bathrooms there, and maybe there are, but we immediately turn away after we open the door to the cinder block hut because the smell of death is so strong. The room is filled with old people, obviously some sort of holding area before they cross over to the other side. We calmly retrace our steps because we’ve seen so many fucked up things in the Cal League that St. Peter’s Waiting room doesn’t phase us.

The bathroom is enormous, ten times the size of the team shop, which is just a closet. It is somewhat clean – no one has shat on the floor yet today. Someone is moaning in one of the stalls though, and once again, we feel Death’s presence. However, if Death is going to take us, we are emptying out bladders first.

Things start to look up when we see a Goose Island Brewery tent, but those taps are closed today. It seems the only beer we are drinking today are 25 ounce Budweiser products, no doubt the baseball gods punishing us because Whiskey Jack is wearing a Budweiser baseball jersey because he has the fashion sense of a Philistine. We can purchase “Eat Your Opponent’s Chicken Tenders”, which don’t sound too appetizing because the JetHawks are the opponents. Mexican music is reverberating throughout the concourse in honor of Domingos Latinos’ Day, which is fine, but as of now, there are no Mexicans in the park besides the Bat Boy, just jittery white people. Bongwater shouts for some Skynard, and receives vacant stares from the other patrons.

As we find our way to our seats and see the splotchy grass in the outfield, I realize that I have seen pictures of better parks in prisons. The luxury boxes here appear to be self-parody – a few seats walled off by cinder blocks and a door. The Bat Boy’s pants are bloused above his knees and his jersey is at least four sizes to big. He looks like a Latin Eddie Gaedel. The PA dude announces, “You and Me will be singing the National Anthem, and commences singing. Along the way he goes silent so the fans can fill in the gaps. Whiskey Jack looks at me and says, “You brought us to one fucked up place.”

Outside the outfield fence, cars have arrived, and people are jumping out of them to set up umbrellas and tables. Coolers come out as the High Desert’s version of the Knothole Gang settle in for the first pitch. “We should be with those people,” Bongwater says. “I bet they have weed.”

A twelve year old vendor is walking through the empty stands because child labor laws obviously don’t apply here. As he approaches, I see he is filthy, and selling balloon figures for a dollar.

Me: How many of those do you think you are going to sell today?

Him: Maybe five. Probably three.

Me: Why do you do it? You aren’t making any money.

Him: My mom runs the face painting stand. The Mavericks let me work the stands. We don’t have much money since Dad left.

I give him a ten dollar bill, tell him I don’t want any balloons, and to have a good day. The kid is shocked, mumbles thank you, and moves on. After the kids is out of earshot, Bongwater tells me I got played.

Me: Your lack of faith in humanity is depressing.

BW: Would you have given a kid from Berdoo money like that? Hell no.

Perhaps Bongwater is correct. I don’t have time to dwell on it as people are yelling at us.

Strangers: You are not from around here!

BW: Damn straight. We have all of our teeth.

Strangers: Ooh, aren’t you special! All of your teeth!

Things start to escalate, then a towering dude with a Texas Rangers insignia on his black polo shirt makes the scene. I squint and see it is a Mavs’ shirt. Towering Dude knows how to placate the denizens. Goddamn, this is an affable chap (later we will find out his the GM), and even I am getting caught up in his spiel, then I notice his Iron Cross tattoo on his calf, and think, “This dude is going to try to eat us later.”

An unintelligible promotion between innings gets Bongwater rolling about a promotion the 66ers should do:

Bongwater: They should have White Flight Night. White people sit in certain sections named after certain San Bernardino neighborhoods: Del Rosa, Arrowhead, North Park, Marshal, Valencia, Verdemont… Then let the minorities in and have them move from section to section, and watch the white people flee. Eventually, they will get to the outfield, which will be filled with the Klan. The white people feeling will either have to turn and meet the minorities or join the Klan.

Me: What is the point?

BW: History, man. It is like those Civil War enactments.

Rock Stoner: That is the dumbest thing I have ever herd.

BW: Needs more hobos, doesn’t it?

Rock Stoner: No, those white people would just move to Highland.

Around the fifth inning we take a walk around the stadium because the score is 12-1. We go into the Team Store, which has no Mavs’ merchandise, just Rangers’ stuff. The lady running the shop says all the Mavs’ merchandise was shipped to the wrong city, which sounds like typical minor league bullshit – the team needed the gate receipts from the first weekend to pay the deposit on their merchandise. We wish her the best and move on.

When we go back to our seats, some shade seekers are now in our section. Immediately, chirping from six rows behind us starts as we sit down:

Old Men: There goes out view of home plate! You know what I call that pitch? A hat pitch! A big hat pitch because we can’t see anything else.

Whiskey Jack: Would you passive aggressive gentlemen like us to move?

Old Men (sarcastically): Not at all. You are fine right there.

Whiskey Jack: Great! I would have moved if you asked me, but not now.

Old Men: Are you dumb, Boy?

Me: How are we possibly blocking you view?

Old Men: Your aren’t. It is the principle of you sitting in front of us. This place is empty.

Me: These are our seats. You guys haven’t been there all game.

Old Men: We moved to get in the shade.

Me: Guess you should have snagged better seats, fellas. Or at least been cordial.

And then I get hit in the head with a half eaten churro, and before I can respond, Iron Cross Calf is there with his soothing voice, and the old people anger disappears. Iron Cross Calf wants to know if he can get me anything, and I tell him I want to know about the face painting family, and he says, “Oh, that is a sad story,” and I cut him off, saying that is all I need to know. A little bit later, we get up to leave because this place sets minor league ball back thirty years. On the way out, we pass the face painting table, and Bongwater gives the mom a wad of cash. No one says anything until we get to the car.

The Toronto Blue Jays, the passion of our northern friends led the league in combined Replay Challenges with ninety seven. However, there Game Time only averaged 3 hours and one minute, which was the second fastest Game Time Average in the Majors. Obviously, this means there is no correlation between game time, so we can move on and talk about the Cubs signing Jon Lester, effectively ending his career as a Major League pitcher.

1908 — and we are coming to Mesa this spring to hunt you down.

Of course, perhaps the Blue Jays, being from Canada and all, are just some sort of outlier. Let’s tale a look at the top ten MLB teams in combined Replay Challenges and their game times (using STATS Inc.’s data, which for some reason is different than B-Ref because COUNTING IS HARD).

Team RC Game Time

TOR 97 3:01
CHC 90 3:12
LAD 88 3:14
TEX 88 3:06
TAM 81 3:19
DET 79 3:14
COL 77 3:12
KCR 77 3:02
SEA 75 2:59
PIT 74 3:09
LAA 74 3:15
SDP 73 3:01
ARI 72 3:03
SFG 72 3:05
CWS 72 3:08
MIL 70 3:07
HOU 70 3:10
BOS 70 3:17
MIN 69 3:07
ATL 65 3:04
CLE 62 3:12
CIN 61 3:03
PHI 60 3:09
BAL 60 3:07
STL 59 3:05
OAK 59 3:05
WAS 54 3:05
FLA 53 3:05
NYY 52 3:12
NYM 50 3:08

There really isn’t much of a correlation between Time of Game and Total Replay Challenges. You know what has a strong correlation with Time of Game? Extra inning games. If baseball is serious about speeding up the game, they would do something about those abominations — and, yes they are abominations because beer is not served after the seventh inning, but one is supposed to sit in a hard plastic seat and continue to watch baseball. If baseball wants to speed up the games, then allow ties, which would certainly change some managerial strategies — or at least put in the International Tie Breaker.

Now some of you might be saying, “Bads85, you’ve done lost your mine. But even if we took your raving seriously, MLB is more concerned with the time it takes to play nine innings.”
Well, the answer to that is easy — a clock. Don’t give me any romantic bullshit that baseball never had a clock — guess what, baseball never had three hour plus nine inning games before. Put a clock on the batter and the pitcher and speed things along. Fuck Mr. Batting Gloves if he gets all hurt, and the Mr. Compusure on the mound can’t get his shit together quick, he can look for a new line of work.

There certainly was a great deal of complaining about instant replay in MLB last year — ANGRY HOLLERIN’ even. Lord know I did my share — there was nothing worse than being in the middle of relating a narrative, and suddenly the natural ebb and flow of the game is gone, and suddenly no one wants to listen to your story because the umpires are holding up everything. However, according to Mr. Bill James, replay was unused in almost 80% of the games — on average, thirty-five for team. There were only 1276 challenges last year in baseball. That doesn’t seem like much, in fact as Bill James says, it seems that managers might under utilizing the challenge. Or maybe umpires are just really good.

Here is a breakdown by type of play

Tot Replay % Overturned

Tag 544 42.6
Force 508 56.5
Fence 82 30.5
HBP 48 45.8
Fair Ball 47 27.7
Trap 27 77.8
Missed Base 9 22.2
Passed Runner 1 0.0

There were ten more replays (2 overturned) for “record keeping”, which I am not sure what that is.

Overall, 604 players were overturned — 47.3%. The trap/catch play gets overturned the most, which makes sense because of umpire positioning. The fence replays are something I would like to see by park because I would bet that most of those come from outfield where there HR line is not clearly delineated. Tags are overturned less than forces, which really isn’t surprising ether. 223 replays went to review from the umps themseleves — take those out of the mix and the Overturn % jumps to 52.6.

The Cubs challenged the most (56) because when you have won a World Series since 1908, the reality in front of you is hard to swallow. There Overturn % was 44.6. The team with the worst percentage was the Blue Jays with 33.3 (16/48). The Yankees (23/28) had the best Overturned % by far — 82.1. The Marlins (19/27) were the second best. The A’s challenged the least with 26.

Tomorrow I will examines challenges per club with game time by club to see the correlation.