Week of April 9, 2021

Lee Elder breaking barriers at Augusta in 1975…and making it look good. His caddie should’ve been an extra in Caddyshack, FWIW.

A Modest Proposal: The Gonzaga Tax

On Monday night, Gonzaga got absolutely sonned by Baylor in the National Championship game. It came as absolutely no shock to me. In a group text before the game, the question was posed: “Who ya got?” After a flurry of “Gonzaga” responses, I was the lone “Baylor” response. At halftime, with Baylor up 10, I said, “This was too easy. Gonzaga plays a shit schedule every year.” The game summed up well by this:

Or this:

And it’s true. I will never take them seriously as a true basketball power. They get to fatten up all season on the backs of schools like Portland, San Diego, Pacific, Santa Clara, Pepperdine, and San Francisco. Folks, those are not tough games. Gonzaga gets to coast through the regular season, resting players if necessary, and show up fresh for the tournament. They were 31-0 this year, and to their credit they did play two or three tougher teams in the pre-conference season. But they still get to get healthy and win easy games for three months. 31-0 is nice…but when it includes 17-0 in the WCC, there’s not a lot you can glean from that. In fact, Gonzaga is 92-3 over the last five seasons in conference (and 182-13 over the last ten seasons in conference). It’s just like Boise State in its heyday under Chris Peterson – they played a bunch of cream puffs and then had one tough game all year, for which they were supremely healthy and amped up, and then celebrated when they beat a major conference team that lost two or three times in its own conference. 

And yet Gonzaga has built up a reputation on these inflated records. After first crashing the scene as a Cinderella in 1999, they’ve been considered a national power for at least 15 years. And with that cream puff schedule, they are almost always over-seeded, thus giving them an easier road through the tournament. And yet, come tournament time, they always crash and burn. In the last twenty tournaments, they have gotten by the Sweet 16 just 4 times. For most programs this would be good – but for a program who gets seeded like Gonzaga does, it’s not.

Put Gonzaga in the Pac-12 and see what happens to that record. I’m not saying they wouldn’t be upper half. They would probably be upper third most years. But they aren’t going 92-3. That UCLA team that outplayed Gonzaga over the weekend lost seven conference games this season, including its last four. Beginning the day after Christmas, Gonzaga played one team (BYU) that would not have finished dead last in the Pac-12 this year. 

Thus, my proposal: until Gonzaga moves to a stronger conference, they should have a seed tax – whatever seed the tournament committee wants to place them at, drop them three spots. Gonzaga will then be appropriately seeded. -TOB

Nine Innings with Cousin Wolf

An old buddy of mine has pulled off quite a feat. Matt Halverson, a musician who records under the name Cousin Wolf, had a really good idea a decade ago. Nine songs, each about a major league baseball player. 

I told you it was a good idea. But here’s the thing – not a lot of people care about a good idea. As just an idea, Nine Innings, is a fun topic to run through over a bunch of beers while watching an entire ballgame at a bar—What would the Ken Griffey Jr song be? What about Kerry Wood, or – hey how about a Vlad & Vlad Jr song?

And that’s where an idea like this almost always ends: last call. To make it more than a good idea, someone needs to write the damn songs. And guess what? They have to sound good, and maybe even say something. I can promise you that is a challenge. No matter the ambition or intent, the songs have to be good.

Excellent music video idea.

Halvy’s songs are good. Good – what the hell does that mean? To me, a good song has something that brings me back to listen. By that measure, the two songs Cousin Wolf has released so far – “Kevin Elster” and “Roger Maris” are good, and a yet-to-be released “Dave Dravecky” is real good. Not only that, but Halvy wrote excellent essays about the story behind the songs. 

On “Kevin Elster”, he writes:

In the sixth game of the 1992 season, Elster hurt his shoulder, and he missed the rest of the year and all of the next. He played a handful of games with a few different teams in 1994 and ’95, and suddenly, it was 1996. Baseball was on a steroid-fueled trajectory toward unheard-of power numbers, and Elster hadn’t had a starting job in years. So, he signed with Texas — in part because his brother lobbied on his behalf — where he planned to compete to be the backup shortstop. 

Now, in those days, the Texas Rangers clubhouse was also one of the game’s steroid hubs. Ruben Sierra in the early ’90s was one of the first notable and obvious users, and that carried right through to steroid godfather Jose Canseco and busted teammates like Rafael Palmeiro, Juan Gonzalez, Ivan Rodriguez, Kenny Rogers, and eventually Alex Rodriguez.

In fact, Canseco wrote in his tell-all book “Juiced” that he introduced Pudge, Gonzalez and other Rangers players to steroids between 1992 and ’94.

So, back to Elster. In 1996, when young Benji Gil got hurt during spring training, Elster became the starting shortstop and had by far the best season of his career at age 31, hitting .252 with 24 homers and 99 RBI.

He parlayed that into a million-dollar free-agent deal with Pittsburgh the next offseason, and though he played parts of three more big league seasons, he never again came close to the success of that magical ’96 campaign.

One of the crazy parts about that era of baseball is that we just don’t really know who did what — or what impact it had. But I know for myself, as a kid shortstop in the ’90s who just loved playing baseball, that if I’d been given Elster’s option to either take the same juice everyone else was taking and enjoy a few more years in the game, or take the high-road home, who’s to say what I would have done? And with all the focus on the stars who broke records and shattered fans’ innocence, would anybody even care after all these years what Elster did or didn’t do during that 1996 season?

On “Roger Maris”, Halvy has this to say about his fellow Fargo, ND native:

Maris had worked for most of his life to become a good baseball player, and in 1961, after a few really excellent seasons, things came together in ways no one had seen coming. In some ways, he gotten better than he’d ever intended.

And his reward for happening to become exceptional? To be told that he should be somebody else. To play in front of too many who saw him only as not a legend, as not immortal, as not The Babe or The Mick or the Yankee Clipper.

Original artwork from Zach Scheet, Halvy’s neighbor growing up.

You read those two excerpts, and you realize that Nine Innings isn’t just a good idea; it’s an idea in the hands of someone who can actually make the idea worth your time. Halvy can’t help but see baseball as a way into all those big questions we ask ourselves. That sure resonates with me. 

I can only call him Matt Halverson ‘Halvy’ because that’s what I called him back in college. We played ball together, drank some beers, and I too often lost at caps to him, Sammy, Lou, and Timmy. High Life returnables. 

Halvy and I spoke Wednesday. The intent was to discuss the project in full, but we haven’t talked for many years, so we caught up, with baseball and this project mixing in when it suited us.  

Before I share some of my favorite exchanges, please go to https://www.cousinwolf.com/music/nine-innings and check out Halvy’s project in full. His writing is every bit as good as the songs, and he’s got seven more songs to release! – PAL 

Source: Nine Innings”, Cousin Wolf

Excepts from the old friends catching up

On my one ‘issue’ with the project:

PAL: I have to ask you, as a Twins fan, you’ve three guys on your list that played for the Yankees. What the fuck, dude?

MH: I honestly that at the end had the same thought. And I’m like, no Twins. Three Yankees seems like such a cliche in and of itself. I honestly didn’t know who Carl Mays had played for when I was already like midway through writing about him. I just knew his name as having the guy who killed Ray Chapman with a pitch. And so that one was a little bit like, ah shit, another Yankee, but like Maris and Gehrig, I kind of wanted to write about from the beginning. 

On Lou Gehrig: 

PAL: I was listening to “Lou Gehrig”. We are older than Lou Gehrig was when he died. He had a 17-year career and died. He was younger than us. That actually caught me.

MH: And the fact that he, like, died so publicly, like to me that was what that one was really striking, too, is he gets this disease that’s going to take apart his body in a very short time. That’s one hundred percent going to happen. And there’s no hope. And he still has to be this legend. He doesn’t just get to be a man who’s, like, terrified and dying in a hurry and all this stuff he’s got to let go out and, you know, be the Iron Horse and be Lou Gehrig and be a myth, be a legend until he dies. And to do it all.

How baseball’s place has changed roles: 

MH: I’ve always loved baseball, but like five years ago, I just realized that I was still in a couple of fantasy baseball leagues that were just a job for me that I didn’t want anymore, or it’s like it would feel so good to not have to check that stupid thing every day, you know what I mean?

For one thing, my oldest is 12 and he’s my stepson technically. And we’ve been playing catch for ten years now. And it’s been like one of the great joys of my life to connect with them in that way and to be like coaching them and playing so much baseball. 

I was reading this Samurai book, and it talked about this idea of like through one thing, knowing thousand things. You know, like you can’t know everything about everything, but like if you work really (hard), you can know everything.

And it was I kind of realized it like it didn’t matter what I had bought into as a kid. I had done that. I poured myself into something. And I really like giving baseball all I had and taking it as far as I could at that time and been steady with it for, you know, forever. And it was these things that I almost thought of myself as not being able to do, you know, to be that persistent with something, to be that steady with something. 

On the idea of sidekicks (Roger Maris, and Kent Hrbek…of course): 

MH: With like Roger Maris, I knew what I was writing the whole time, and so I wanted to create a beginning of like ‘what the fuck’s going on?’ and then a middle of like (Maris…and Halvy) finding my way to finding myself and the resolve to do this and then a triumphant ending.

MH: Yeah I feel like Hrbek to me always seemed like Puckett’s sidekick all those years, you know, and like underappreciated. My dad was always talking about how the crime that Don Mattingly won all those gold gloves and Hrbek never got one. 

PAL: I feel like that was a very common stance among midwestern fathers in the 80s and 90s.

MH:  I discovered in some baseball reference rabbit hole that Hrbek finished second in MVP voting to Willie Hernandez, the reliever. In like eighty four, Willie Hernandez, the Tigers reliever, won Cy Young and MVP in the same year. But I did not realize that Hrbek had his best season and finished second in MVP voting. If they don’t the MVP  to some chump reliever,  how differently is Hrbek’s career remembered? It seemed like his third full season. He’s an MVP that sets him on just like in many people’s minds, a different trajectory from there.

PAL: Willie Hernandez? What the hell? A reliever who had a nine and three record with a one nine era and thirty saves won the Cy Young and AL MVP?

Ohtani Is Here, Again

If you’re a longtime reader of this blog, you’ll recall how excited I was for the arrival of Shohei Ohtani, the slugger/pitcher, when he arrived to MLB a few years ago. Early on, we saw flashes of what he can do – big dingers at the plate and electric stuff on the mound. But injuries derailed things, including Tommy John surgery. After 2019, there were rumblings the Angels might ask him to choose – hitting or pitching.

But 2021 is a new year and Ohtani is back. New manager Joe Maddon is reportedly encouraging Ohtani to not only pitch and hit, but to try to play every day, or close to it. In his first start on the mound and it was fun as hell. In the top of the first, he threw a fastball 101 mph. In the bottom of the first, he hit a 451-foot bomb, with an exit velocity of 115 mph.

And that seems like the Ohtani promise, finally fulfilled. Hopefully, this time, he stays healthy. -TOB
Source: Let Us Have Ohtani,” Tom Ley, Defector (04/05/2021)

This is Goofy

White Sox outfielder Eloy Jimenez got hurt just before the season began and will likely miss the whole season. Apparently he is beloved by teammates because they acted like he died. They hung his jersey in the dugout and everything.

I mean, what the heck? The dude tore his pec – he’s not dying! Here’s Defector’s Chris Thompson hilariously roasting the whole hilarious scene:

The Chicago White Sox kicked off their season Thursday night without departed outfielder Eloy Jimenez, who at the tender age of just 24 years old was suddenly ripped from our world by a God whose purposes are never more mysterious than when the good are cruelly cut down in the prime of life. Coming off a promising sophomore season and primed for a bright future, Jimenez must now lift his White Sox teammates in spirit and memory, from a place beyond the grave. But Opening Day would not be complete—would not be right—without a tribute to this fallen teammate, and so the White Sox took some time during pregame ceremonies to touchingly memorialize their lost brother-in-arms.

First baseman* José Abreu carried a Jimenez jersey lovingly signed by all his teammates out onto the field for player introductions, along with a pair of Jimenez’s batting gloves. I just know that Jimenez was looking down on this moment from a better place, and appreciated this truly moving ceremony. Please, excuse yourself from whatever you are doing so that you may process the deep emotions in private.


Source: White Sox Send Eloy Jimenez To The Great Baseball Diamond In The Sky,” Chris Thompson, Defector (04/02/2021)

Video of the Week:

We showed you the highlight last week, but now you get it with that Jomboy commentary.

Tweets of the Week:

Song of the Week: Parcels – “Tieduprightnow”

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All right, I’ll tell you what. You look like nice people. I’m going to help you out. You want a beautiful name? Soda…All names sound strange the first time you hear ’em. What, you’re telling me people loved the name Blanche the first time they heard it?

-George Costanza

The Pocket

My year of running through a pandemic.

The pocket. A hell of a lot of words have been strung together in attempts to explain why people choose to run long distances. Before the pandemic, my explanation had a word count of two: the pocket. 

The phrase comes from music. When the members of a band, especially the rhythm section, lock into the groove perfectly, they call it being “in the pocket”. It goes beyond playing at the same tempo; each beat has a shape. 100 beats per minute can feel staccato, with the band attacking right on the first edge of the beat, or a band can slide into the very last nook at the back of the beat. Listen to pretty much any D’Angelo song to hear a band playing on the back of a beat, and think of “Imperial Death March” from Star Wars to hear a rigid attack. The pocket is a feel, created by all players adding their element at the exact right time and emphasis.

For years, runs were about finding the pocket with my breath and footstrikes. It wasn’t as simple as finding the same mile pace: some days I found the pocket at a 07:12 pace, and other days I’d find it on the other side of 07:45. I’d consider it a good run when got into the pocket within a mile or two. I breathed in through the nose for three strides, then out through a loose jaw for three more. A heart rate broken into triplets.







Once I’d find it, few thoughts passed through my mind. The pocket was meditation, and I could run for hours in it. When I finished, my mind was power-washed. My body: elastic, spent. More than a P.R. or adding a marathon to the count, I ran for the pocket. 

Like everything, the pocket changed last March. 

In the early months, I tried to leave the pandemic at home, but I ran past evidence of it everywhere. Senior hours and lines forming outside Piedmont Grocery. Homemade “wear a mask” and “stay home” signs taped to bay windows of spacious homes I dreamed of affording. I’d run down center of an empty Grand Ave.—a main drag that leads to a San Francisco-bound freeway entrance at 7:30 AM on a weekday. It wasn’t long before the feigns had medical masks hanging from their ears. 

Fear came with me on a lot of those runs. I tried to find the pocket with it, to figure out where it could fit in with my breath and footstrikes, but fear made me pull up and stop on two occasions.

In normal times, stopping in the middle of a run was a no-go. The reason for stopping didn’t matter—an untied shoe, forgetting to silence my phone, even a turned ankle—all of them messed up the rhythm. To stop out of urgency, to make a call that couldn’t wait until I finished, was something I’d never experienced. 

The first time I stopped on the northwest side of Lake Merritt by rowing docks and the Lake Chalet restaurant. The NBA had just suspended its season. As odd as it may sound to future generations, a sports league shutting down sticks out as the first major decision to put the world on hold. Many shutdowns would come soon after, and on that morning on The Daily podcast a journalist was discussing when the borders would closed to international travel. My brother-in-law was in London at the time, on his way to a backcountry ski trip in the Swiss Alps (of course he was: all of his trips are essentially bringing to life the Instagram photos from outdoor apparel companies). 

I called my father-in-law. I told him Jack needed to find a flight home, that day if possible. I’ve recently become marginally comfortable giving my father-in-law feedback on his golf swing, so to call Don and say his son needed to get back stateside was beyond the range of our communication in March, 2020. Yet, to wait the four miles until the run was done felt like a wasting of very important minutes.

I stopped in front of the lamp further back to make the call to Don.

Don agreed, and so did Jack once he saw future flights from the U.S. to the U.K. getting cancelled on dates before his scheduled return flight. He bought a one-way ticket on one of the last commercial flights back to the states, having never made it to Switzerland. Good fortune, as it turned out: they checked passports at the gate to see if people had been outside of the U.K. before letting passengers board. Switzerland would’ve presented an issue. It would be months before commercial flights from the U.K. came into the states. 

Not long after, I stopped a run near the top of the hill on the way to Lake Temescal. The only thing worse than stopping on a run is stopping in the middle of a climb. 

I can’t remember if I called my brother, Tony, or if he called me, but we talked about Mom and Dad. We spoke of the nightmare scenario so many would experience: Mom or Dad getting infected and dying alone in a hospital. We discussed telling them they had to stay home. Although nearly 40, I was (and am) very much getting used to telling my parents what’s in their best interest, although they may not sense my hesitancy.  

I could hear Tony turning over the idea in the silence between my heavy breaths. Even that early, my head was always on a swivel when on runs, ready to pull the Buff over my nose and mouth if I saw someone approaching. No decision was made. It wasn’t Tony’s to make, but there’s still an authority coming from the oldest of the six of us. Least I felt it. We hung up.

I was so far from Minnesota at that moment. I’d felt far from home before, but there on the hill the feeling didn’t come from a distance or homesickness. I was far from home in the sense that I didn’t know when I’d be back. Would I be allowed to go home? Would interstates set up barriers at state borders? It sounds crazy, but at that point last spring Spain and Italy weren’t letting people leave their homes except for groceries. 

I returned to the climb, but it took an extra moment to get the legs chugging again.

Tony called back a half mile later, just past the parking lot at the top of the hill. Yep, he was going to text the rest of the family. It was too much of a risk with Mom’s history of pneumonia and aspiration issues. Delivering food for Meals on Wheels, going to the grocery store, church, bookclub— all of it had to pause until we had an idea of what the hell was going on. 

From that moment until a few weeks ago when my parents were vaccinated, the anxiety of the nightmare kept churning. 

The collective unknown that came with the pandemic took months to accept. I’d check the stats every morning as if they were box scores: positive test rates, hospitalization numbers, deaths. I’d search for any indication that a turn in the right direction was coming. 

When there wasn’t proof, I’d cling to blind faith that things would get better.  Maybe there was something to warm weather helping tamp down the spread, or that the virus would just fizzle out, or the geniuses would figure out a simple treatment that would get us back to normal in a few months. We knew so little (remember when we were scrubbing down out groceries and weren’t super eager to pump gas without a glove?). The collective unknown is the component of the last year I will try and fail to capture for our future kids. 

Now, when I run those routes and stride over those hidden, autobiographical markers, I think of when I stopped.

As spring led into summer, more and more runs were open-ended. An appreciation for the enormity of the pandemic settled. There was nowhere to go, not much to do, and an end wasn’t in sight. Those were the facts. 

So I ran with no route in mind. I looped back in the direction of home when I had enough. Finishing was a release, but it came with a malaise when my stride switched from running to walking.

The pocket became a place to formulate, not to meditate. I bungled the peculiar rhythms of new thoughts and disagreements. Fitting them into the triplet of breaths and footstrikes was a struggle.

I would false start on rebuttals for a brother. I’d privately consider if a sister was right, and I was angered when I was sure she wasn’t. I’d stew over my parents letting it slip that they were still delivering Meal on Wheels. I get pissed at myself for avoiding a disagreement over the phone in favor of a comfortable conversation molded around empty pleasantry. I’d fester at what I assumed they thought about my take on the pandemic, and I’d be quick to note the times they didn’t ask. I’d wonder if we were in a Bay Area bubble of overreaction, and then I’d remember what the infectious disease experts were saying. 

‘Agree to disagree’ wasn’t going to cut it when it came to this virus and how it could spread through people that display no symptoms. Damn right it was personal; how long would it take for me to get over passing the virus onto a stranger who then was hospitalized or worse? Could I forgive the friend, the neighbor, the family member if they got my parents sick? 

Every interaction on any given day had the threat to go there. Everyone was on edge at all times. Over days, weeks, months the reminder was constant: we did not agree on what the greater good meant. There was a corrosion in all of it. 

When I’m stuck, I either write or run. This last summer required a lot of both. 

I’m sure it took hundreds of miles to get my head around the varying points of view held by the people I love the most. I didn’t agree with them—not even close in some cases—but I understood how they got to their outlook. Each of our most pressing concerns before the pandemic were only magnified by it. Since the beginning, we’ve found our COVID lane through circumstance as much as science, and that includes most of us whose opinion falls in line with Dr. Faucci. Of course, therein lies the problem when it comes to COVID. 

Take our circumstance: Natalie and I were lucky enough to keep our jobs through it all. That was never a persistent concern, and we figured out how to work from home. We don’t have kids. We have a little money saved. Of the very few worries we had in our life before the pandemic—and by any measure they were few—the health of our parents was near the top. I worried about Dad’s mobility and diet. I worried about pneumonia with Mom. Natalie’s parents both had their turns with cancer. Of course, those concerns only spread with COVID and how the risk of serious issues increased for those with compromised immune systems. What other reason did we need to wear a mask and stay home if that’s what would help keep the older population around us safe? It wasn’t too much to expected those around our parents to do the same. Anything we could do in order to give the smart people more time to figure out a treatment was worth it. 

For healthy family members that owned or worked at small businesses—where working from home wasn’t an option —guess what their point of view has been? Risk assessment wasn’t as one-dimensional for them. Or how about the folks with kids trying to find their place in school? Or grandparents whose love in life is to be around their kids and grandkids? A year to folks in their 70s is not the same as a year to people in their 30s. 

It took time, but I learned how to run with both my outlook and the realization that many people I respect had an understandable reason for their outlook. Some days I could find the pocket with all of that in my mind, on my shoulders, in my chest. I’d run fast and smooth. I genuinely don’t know if that should be a point of pride. 

Natalie and I joke that our first year of marriage should count for more than a year. 2020-2021 should be a pandemic-adjusted marriage season due the sheer amount of time couples spent together. 

We tried all the COVID distractions to keep our minds busy in that 100-year old rental, with our wisp of a landlord and her never-ending divorce living below us: puzzles, cards, one (and only one) tik-tok dance, Tiger King. At that point, it was unclear if being outside was even advisable, and I waited for the news that the Bay Area would go into full lockdown, meaning limited time outside the house. That would’ve crushed me. 

Maybe Natalie knew that subconsciously, because that’s about the time she became possessed by the idea of organizing a half marathon. 

We can all get caught up in an idea while passing the time watching TV, but the next moment is the crucial one. While most of us let the idea float by, Natalie reached for the laptop. Within the hour, a flyer was designed with flamengo included for strictly aesthetic reasons. She sent out a group text to Chris, Katelyn, and Basma. Chris and Basma were immediate yeses, Katelyn would be closing in on the third trimester come race day on July 11. I was assigned the role of course architect and asked to present some East Bay route options. Elevation change was a chief concern. Natalie does not mess with running hills. 

Natalie went overboard for a race that would feature all of three competitors, and this little project brought an energy that was so needed. We quickly christened it the “Quarantine Crawl”, and for the next twelve weeks there was a familiar old purpose to a run. T-shirts with the aforementioned flamengo were ordered. My wife is the greatest. 

I ran the long runs with Natalie and Basma (Chris was on the other side of the bridge), mostly along the bay between the Emryville and Berkeley marinas. We’d run with Treasure Island, then the San Francisco skyline, then Alcatraz, then the Golden Gate Bridge over our left shoulders.

They would find their pocket on a few of the runs. It would happen in that silent acceptance found far from the beginning and the end. Conversation would slow to a drip of monosyllabic encouragement. They’d sync up their breath and strides. It was cool to watch them get to a place so meaningful to me. 

We’d splay out on B’s stoop afterwards with a cold drink. They’d recap the different phases of the run, proud and exhausted. I would bask in their sweat-stained accomplishment. And after a couple early route mishaps, the Quarantine Crawl was a success, complete with 3.5 spectators: Natatlie’s parents, Katelyn with Emerson in her belly. 

(A quick aside to anyone thinking about a DIY road race: it has been my experience that, when designing a running course, chalk arrows on the sidewalk are not 100% reliable, so limit the amount of turns. Better yet, just bike with the racers).

Then came the fires. 

A dry lightning storm, an event described in The New York Times as a “freakish siege of thousands of dry lightning strikes in Northern California — a weather event on a scale not seen in decades” sunk Natalie and I in late August and early September. Everyone had a pandemic low point, and that was ours. 

Dry lightning? In Minnesota, lightning came with thunder, followed by rain. The only dry lightning I’d heard of prior to August was from Springsteen’s The Ghost of Tom Joad

I ran the morning these pictures were taken before the Air Quality Index spiked. Forget dystopian; as I ran, I wondered if we were entering apocalyptic territory. It wasn’t hyperbole. Didn’t feel that way at least. There was no pocket to be found that morning, and it was obvious I wouldn’t be running in the coming weeks. With ‘outside’ added to the list of closures, my world became even smaller that morning.  

At the time, we had an unhinged president already sowing voter fraud months before the election (not knowing what would follow at the Capitol on January 6), a country in the depths of a racial reckoning, a pandemic, and now flames raged across the western half of the United States. We were trapped under smoke miles thick, amongst other things. 

This is the same lake pictured above when I stopped to call my Father-In-Law. Photo credit: Yalonda M. James / The Chronicle

There was no longer comfort at home. That old house Natalie and I were renting couldn’t keep the smoke out. The windows were old and cheap, and all the window frames were rotted. Smoke came in as easily as the spiders Natalie despised. We went to my in-laws’ house. They had new windows, and we needed clean air. Natalie was six weeks pregnant with our first child. 

I was exhausted. Of course I had reasons to be happy and grateful, but come fall it took such effort to reach those states of mind. Sometimes I felt like a fool to look for the positive. Optimism and obliviousness—it was hard to tell which current was which. 

The smoke cleared (for the season), and I was running the first day the AQI dropped back into the yellow zone. In the winter months, we’ve adapted in this time before we finally beat back the pandemic (as of writing this, over 30% of the country has been vaccinated, with about 3M receiving shots each day). Caution has replaced fear in our neighborhood. We’ve found ways to be happy and be with friends. Turns out, outside is a great place to be in most any weather. Park hangs have long since replaced Zoom calls with friend groups. Beer gardens are heaven, and we all can find the beauty in the orange glow of a propane heat lamp. 

I’ve never run more than I did in the last year, even years training for multiple marathons. Cue the Jackson Browne from the Forest Gump montage.

Along the way, I’ve become familiar with so many other runners in the neighborhood. Each one of them gets a head nod when we cross paths. There is the young dad with his two daughters who would run a lap around Rose Avenue every morning, face shields and all. There is the bearded guy I’d pass near 40th and Broadway most mornings. Always in his red shirt (man, I hope he owns multiples). Dude must’ve lost 40 pounds in the last year. There was the mom with her daughter and son, maybe 10 and 12, heading up that same hill to Lake Temescal where I stopped to talk to Tony about Mom and Dad. There is the old guy – the same shape and stature as Dad, who prefers his afternoon walks with a cigar. I love the smell of his cigars. There is the other old guy – has to be late 70s – who is still running. If you watch his arms, elbows held up high and pumping, he’s running, so don’t worry about his cargo shorts and walking feet.

And then there is this little girl. Our little girl. I want to write her name, but Natalie and I are keeping it close until she’s born. We call her by her name all the time. I’m saying it in my mind right now. I love the full name and the nickname, too. It sounds good sandwiched between laughs, and there’s a nice weight to the full name for when I’ll need to be stearn. She’ll be here in a month or so, but she’s already my running buddy. She’s in the pocket with me, racking up the miles. 

And that would be a sweet end to this look back. Far too sweet for a pandemic retrospective.

The very sound of the word— pandemic— annoys me. Alway will. I’m over it. I’m over talking about it, debating it, having it lurking on the periphery of every goddamn thought. The threat in every conversation to go there. The edge. I’m over it. We all are. 

I want to leave it behind. Yet, even after the vaccines, even if it were eradicated, the pandemic will show up in moments we don’t expect. There’s a shared trauma the scope of which we won’t grasp for years.

I have little idea where life will take us, but I’ll be there running. On some otherwise forgettable run, I might smell a familiar cigar, or I’ll see a line forming outside a grocery store. Something will trigger a memory of the pandemic and break my triplet of breath and footstrikes. I’ll lose the rhythm, but only for a short distance. I’ll remember how to run in a pandemic. I’ll play the rhythm by heart, and I’ll find the pocket again.

-Phil Lang, April 7, 2021

Week of April 2, 2021

Happy Opening Day, folks!

*When a League Changes its Games, What Do We Do with the Record Books?

This week the NFL voted to officially expand its regular season to 17 games. I take no strong opinion either way – if the players are for it, then it seems fine to me. But The Ringer’s Riley McAtee asked an interesting question: How will a 17-game season impact NFL record books? As in 1961, when people derided Roger Maris for hitting 61 home runs in 162 games when Babe Ruth’s record of 60 game when teams only played 154 games, you have to think there will be healthy skepticism at some of the records that will surely fall. 

For example, we are definitely heading for the first 6,000 yard passing season (remember when 3,000 was the gold standard??). We’ll likely get 2,300 yards rushing. Maybe 25 sacks? Basically every major statistical record is in jeopardy, with teams playing 6.2% more games. So how will those records be treated?

My guess is that, as with Maris, as the record is broken (assuming it is not broken until Game 

17), there will be people who will howl that the record doesn’t count. That it deserves an asterisk. That the previous record holder is the true record holder. But as time passes, people will forget. Enough players will pass the old record holder, even in just 16 games, that eventually it won’t matter anymore. 

The career numbers are even more fascinating. A player playing 15 seasons gets almost an entire extra season of games. Is Emmit Smith’s rushing yard total in jeopardy? Probably not, as the league has moved away from running and away from featured running backs. In fact, is Smith’s record the only untouchable record? If nothing else, the debates about this stuff should be fun. -TOB

Source: How Will a 17-Game Season Impact NFL Record Books?Riley McAtee, The Ringer (03/31/2021)

PAL: Single most insane stat from this numbers-heavy story: George Blanda threw 42 interceptions in a 14-game season back in 1962. George, my man, the check down is your friend.

How a Meme Becomes a Meme, as There’s a Drive into Deep Left Field by Castellanos and That’ll Be a Homerun, and Why One in Particular is Funny

Last year, longtime Reds’ announcer Thom Brennaman was caught on a hot mic using a gay slur. It was no accident. He was referring to some unnamed city (ahem) as being full of that slur. It was not good. Not long after, word had made it to Thom that his comment had gone out on the air, and he left the broadcast mid-game, first offering an apology. As apologies go, it was not good. He did not directly apologize to the group of people he slurred, and even apologized to his employers. But it was made so much worse by the fact that, mid-apology, without missing a beat, Brennaman casually called a home run by the Reds’ Nick Castellanos.

The awfulness of the slur and the awkwardness of the call went viral over the next couple days. But then, slowly percolating in the Twitterverse, a meme began to rise weeks later. A copypasta, as it’s known, in which people began copying and pasting Brennaman’s home run call, “as there’s a drive into deep left field by Castellanos and that’ll be a homerun. And so that’ll make it a 4-0 ballgame,” and using it as a non-sequitur for comedic effect. It started to catch fire. A few funny examples:

This article breaks down how and why this joke went viral and why it works as a joke – which I really enjoyed. Sometimes you don’t know why something is as funny as it is, you just know it is. But I enjoyed reading why this works:

Then there’s the syntax. The home run call is itself a non sequitur, which enables the Castellanos call to be linked to any preceding sentence just as logically (or illogically) as it was when Brennaman first uttered the infamous lines. Just stick in a comma, add an “as there’s a drive,” and you’re good to go. “The ‘as’ is the killer [word] there,” Ingall says. “It lends itself with that ‘as’ to memeing so well.” The “drive into deep left field,” Baccellieri observes, is also perfectly situated between the “big-picture seriousness” of the “man of faith” clause and the “melancholy vibe” of the headset sentence.

It’s a pretty fun read about how the internet turned a bad story into a good one. -TOB

Source: How ‘A Drive Into Deep Left Field by Castellanos’ Became the Perfect Meme for These Strange Times,” Ben Lindbergh, The Ringer (03/29/2021)

PAL: How can a story be this good while being so much longer than it needed to be?Still, this is a pretty fascinating exploration of the construction of a joke written, revised, and perfected by committee. 

What stands up to replays is the timing of the home run. As Lindbergh highlights in his opening, all of the variables that had to line up exactly so in order for Brennaman’s home run call to slot into his apology without missing a beat. Lindbergh revisits the at-bat later on when he writes:

If Castellanos had taken strike two, maybe Brennaman could have submerged himself in that sea of sorrys and avoided disproportionate attention. “If it was just the formulaic apology, then there would have been an eye roll and maybe some commentary about that,” Milner says. “We would have moved on. But the incongruity of him calling a play in the middle, it just further punctuates how rote this must have been, that he wasn’t even heartfelt enough to get through it without turning to this play call.” The apology’s performative nature was laid bare, all because of a drive into deep left field by Castellanos.

Can’t say I’ve ever read a story like this one.

Video of the Week:

Can’t do that, Cody.

Tweet(s) of the Week:

Song of the Week: Cousin Wolf – “Kevin Elster”

More on this story, the songwriter, and the ambitious project next week.

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You’re crying from Home Alone?

-Jerry Seinfeld

Week of March 26, 2021

R.I.P. Elgin Baylor

NBA great Elgin Baylor died this week. He was 86. As is the case with athletes before my time, I learned more about him in the past few days than I’d ever known. Bill Simmons referred to him as the “forgotten pioneer” of the NBA. Simmons, who hasn’t written a column in years, read a portion of his Page 2 story about Baylor from back in 2008. This detail was a stunner:

It’s impossible to fully capture Elgin’s greatness five decades after the fact, but let’s try. He averaged 25 points and 15 rebounds and carried the Lakers to the Finals as a rookie. He scored 71 points against Wilt’s Warriors in his second season. He averaged 34.8 points and 19.8 rebounds in his third season — as a 6-foot-5 forward, no less — and topped himself the following year with the most amazing accomplishment in NBA history. During the 1961-62 season, Elgin played only 48 games — all on weekends, all without practicing — and somehow averaged 38 points, 19 rebounds and five assists a game.

Why was this better than Wilt’s 50 per game or Oscar’s season-long triple-double? Because the guy didn’t practice! He was moonlighting as an NBA player on weekends! Wilt’s 50 makes sense considering the feeble competition and his gratuitous ball-hogging. Oscar’s triple-double makes sense considering the style of play at the time — tons of points, tons of missed shots, tons of available rebounds. But Elgin’s 38-19-5 makes no sense whatsoever. I don’t see how this happened. It’s inconceivable. A U.S. Army Reservist at the time, Elgin lived in a barracks in the state of Washington, leaving only whenever they gave him a weekend pass … and even with that pass, he could only fly coach on flights with multiple connections to meet the Lakers wherever they happened to be playing. Once he arrived, he would throw on a uniform and battle the best NBA players alive on back-to-back nights — fortunately for the Lakers, most games were scheduled on the weekends back then — and make the same complicated trip back to Washington on Sunday night or Monday morning. That was his life for five months.

The idea of that situation in modern times is so bananas. 

On a more personal tip, Kurt Streeter paid tribute to Baylor by re-telling a family story in which Baylor played a large part. His family knew it well, texted him about it as soon as they heard the news that Baylor had passed. It’s a perfect story, in that it captures the folklore nature of sports. Our brushes with greatness. TOB seeing Willie Mays. My Joe Mauer tales. 

Baylor floating
Mel Streeter

Streeter’s dad, himself passed away 15 years ago, knew how to tell the story, which makes sense, because it sounds like he told his kids the tale enough times to workshop it. 

Per Streeter: 

“Did I ever tell you about the time I played Elgin Baylor?” my father would say as he looked into my eyes, filled with wonder no matter how many times he’d begun this way.

“Elgin couldn’t score on me, no he couldn’t. Not in that first half he couldn’t.”

How perfect is that opener? It tells you everything you need to know about the second half. The story goes much deeper than Streeter’s dad facing off with an all-time great who, along with Bill Russell, changed the way basketball was played. 

I wish now that I had asked my father more about his one-and-only game against Baylor, more about that league and those times. But dad died 15 years ago. As close as we were, some of his history will always be cut off from me. I don’t know what team he was on when he played against Baylor. I don’t know if it was a big game with high stakes — like the battles that helped decide who would head off to the A.A.U. national championship.

Thankfully, I have a firm recollection of the look on my father’s face as he spoke of how, in a head-to-head matchup between two tall, lithe and powerful forwards, he held Baylor to two first-half points. Oh, and dad never let any of his four sons forget that while he was holding down Baylor, he was lighting up the scoreboard. Even before my older brother Jon knew I was writing this column, the moment he heard about Baylor’s death he sent me a text with his own recollections of our family’s well-told tale: “Dad scored 11 in the first half!”

Two great reads about a “forgotten pioneer”. Both are worth reading in full. – PAL 

Sources: Elgin took the game to new heights”, Bill Simmons, Page 2 (10/08/08); “The Time Dad Locked Down Elgin Baylor”, Kurt Streeter, The NY Times (03/23/21)

I’m Guessing That High School Baseball Won A Lot

I was looking up opening day details, and I just stumbled upon this factoid, ℅ Thomas Harigan over at MLB.com: three pitchers from the same high school will make opening day starts for their MLB clubs. It’s those young guys pictured in the tweet at the top of the post, each first round draft picks.

Jack Flaherty (Cardinals), Lucas Giolito (White Sox), and Max Fried (Braves) all went to Harvard-Westlake in the L.A. area. What’s more, they were teammates! It’s not like one of them is 34, another 29, and another 24; they were on the same team. That’s crazy, right? That’s crazy. – PAL 

Source: 1 high school has 3 Opening Day starters?!”, Thomas Harrigan, MLB.com (03/25/21)

How 3D Printing Is Making Sports Safer

I started reading this, and thought, “Oh yeah; why haven’t they been doing this for years?” An engineering lab at Auburn has been 3D printing guards for football players based on body scans. And while joints aren’t yet on the table, the relatively early results have been very positive. 

Per Andy Staples:

Why do the custom guards protect better? Physics. A guard that isn’t designed to fit a player’s body won’t allow the force of a blow to dissipate evenly. So certain points on the body must absorb more force. A guard made to fit the contours of the athlete’s body reduces that issue. “There are no what you’d call stress concentrations,” Zabala said. “It dissipates the stress out over the entire surface. It’s 100 percent contact area. If you can distribute the load over the entirety of the surface, then it’s safer for anybody.”

And the idea that a guy could bruise a ribs in the first half of a game and be wearing a custom guard by the second half is pretty incredible. It doesn’t take long to see the applications to other sports as well.

The story then becomes less about the idea and more about making a business out of it. 3D printers are common, so what makes XO Armor positioned to take this concept and turn it into a large company? What’s stopping another competitor from joining the game

The current plan is a subscription model with athletic departments and franchises, but they wonder if there’s a future where the company partners with sports orthopedics across the country. I mean, in three years will TOB be backing dudes down in the pickup game some XO Armor? 

I enjoyed the read, but it sure read like a glowing company review from a very popular college football writer. I wouldn’t mention this, but TOB sent another story from The Athletic, one written by the great Marcus Thompson, about the rapper Macklemore finding the healing power of golf…and by the way he started a golf clothing line. Curious to hear from folks as to whether or not this Staples story read a little like an advertorial for XO Armor.- PAL 

Source: Auburn ingenuity: Custom guards to protect injuries making impact on college football and beyond”, Andy Staples, The Athletic (03/24/21)

Video of the Week: “Two Cheeker” – Kruk is the best.

Tweet of the Week:

Song of the Week: Anderson .Paak – “Make It Better (Feat. Smokey Robinson)”

What’s my problem, punks like you, that’s my problem. And you better not screw up again Seinfeld, because if you do, I’ll be all over you like a Pit Bull on a Poodle.

-Lt. Bookman

Week of March 19, 2021

A Moment of Genius Fandom   

There are cool sports traditions, and there are ones that can feel oh so forced. Here’s a story about a very, very cool tradition from a soccer team in San Sebastián, Spain. The idea, over a half century old,  may have been the product of a hallucinatory haze. I’m already in. How about you? 

Here it is: a single fan shoots off bottle rockets just outside the stadium when a goal is scored. One rocket means the opponents scored, and two rockets shot off means the home team, Real Sociedad, scored. This fantastic idea was courtesy of Patxi Alkorta. Now, his great nephew carries on the tradition. 

One theory is, back in the day, the rockets were an easy way to let the fisherman out in the Bay of Biscay know how the game was going.  The real genius of the idea is not necessarily the rockets, but the code. Per Rory Smith:  

That the tradition’s appeal endured, though, was not only because it was something unique to San Sebastián — “the fans see it as something that belongs to us,” said Iñaki Mendoza, Real Sociedad’s club historian — but because of the simple genius of Alkorta’s idea: that perfect moment of suspense between the two bangs, the silence filled by hope and dread.

“When people are walking through the city on the day of a game and they hear the first rocket, they wait in suspense for the second,” Mendoza said. “And when they hear it, they resume their walk with a smile, because La Real has scored.” Izagirre described it as “a beautiful moment, where everyone is waiting.”

As the team has played to an empty stadium over the past year, the tradition has taken on another angle. While it’s not about breaking news (everyone has it on their phone), but it reminds folks that the game is not being played in a tv or some far off place but rather right there in town, and sometime soon they will be there to see it. – PAL

Source: The Rocketman of San Sebastián”, Rory Smith, The New York Times (03/18/21)

TOB: Oooooh that moment of suspense must be incredible. 

No Direction Home

A handful of folks reading this considered working in sports as a dream job when we were younger. Maybe one of your friends gave it a shot, or maybe you did, and it becomes clear pretty quickly just how difficult it is to break into that industry. For one, you’ll likely get paid shit for a good amount of time,  because the teams – whether it’s the Minnesota Twins or the Sioux Falls Canaries – know how common this dream is this dream is and they pay accordingly, and that’s if you’re lucky. Most folks have a hard time finding a spot to begin with!  Per John Gonzalez: 

That’s the tricky part of the whole dream job thing, especially in pro sports when there are only so many of those to go around in the first place. Unless you’re extremely charmed, there comes a time when you wonder how long you ought to keep chasing after it—and how far you’re willing to go

It’s only a matter of time that the dream is replaced with the reality that it’s likely going to take a long time and a lot of luck in order to get the job you imagined as a kid.  As Adam Tatalovich says, “Not everybody can be Erik Spolestra. Not everyone is coming in as the intern and then you become the head coach. I always knew these jobs would only last for so long.”

Tatalovich is the feature in Gonzalez’s story, and he’s an interesting dude. Tatalovich is a basketball scout, which was a pretty nomadic existence before the pandemic. Back in February, he was working for Guangzhou, a team in the Chinese Basketball Association. There’s a break in the CBA season in January around Lunar New Year. Most coaches and scouts step away from the job and go on vacation; instead, Tatalovich went to Turkey to meet up with a legendary coach there. And thus began his odyssey. Tatalovich hasn’t been back to Guangzhou since. 

March bled into April, and April gave way to a host of concerns—chief among them that he was officially unemployed and his prospects were limited. The woman Adam rented his Airbnb from in Belgrade let him convert it from week-to-week to month-to-month. Clothes were another issue, but that was hardly new. A lot of his belongings were left behind in China. He had an apartment’s worth of stuff stuck in storage and out of reach in Sacramento. He left behind a couple of bags worth of clothes in Australia. More of his things were scattered at friends’ houses all across the United States. All he had was the bag he packed for what he thought would be a quick holiday when he left Guangzhou.

How he spent his time and how he found his way to a job with the Knicks, and what he calls the absence of a nest – I found it all to be a distinct story and point of view on the last year. – PAL 

Source: The COVID Odyssey of One NBA Scout”, John Gonzalez, The Ringer (03/15/21)

RIP Marvin Hagler

Marvin Hagler died this week. He was my all-time favorite fighter. He didn’t take shit and he was tough as hell. Charles Pierce wrote an excellent tribute to Hagler this week, and I suggest you read it. But more importantly, if you even kinda like boxing, watch Hagler’s fight against Tommy Hearns, which in my opinion is the greatest single performance in boxing history. If you think boxing is slow and boring, just spend fifteen minutes watching this fight, and you see how two guys elevated the sport to its purest form.

Two guys, at the peaks of their career, absolutely gutting it out. Incredible. -TOB

Source: Marvelous Marvin Hagler Wouldn’t Bend,” Charles Pierce, Defector (03/15/2021)

PAL: I’d never seen this fight, and TOB is not overselling it. Honestly, this has to be up there in the pantheon of greatest sports ‘highlight’ ever. It’s incredible. Aside from the absolute grit from both of these guys, a few things stood to me, a complete boxing novice. 

  1. Hagler, a lefty, could switch stance and punish in a right-handed stance. 
  2. Hearns’ hands are is so fast. On those long arms, his punches are like a whip with an anvil on the end of it. 

And I heard this anecdote a couple times in the past week that Pierce references, too. After a debatable loss to Sugar Ray Leonard, Hagler walked away from the sport with his brain and some money. He moved to Italy and never game back. Leonard wanted a rematch. Big money. 

Later, when promoter Bob Arum came to New Hampshire to pitch a rematch with Leonard, Hagler’s response carried the sound of a great iron door, closing.

“Tell Ray,” Hagler said to Arum, “to get a life.”

That’s good stuff. 

What Happens When a Football School’s Basketball Team is Better Than the Football Team?

This was a very entertaining article. Here’s the premise:

Every American college that has a big sports culture is either a football school or a something-else school. While a few might identify most closely with lacrosse, baseball, hockey, or volleyball, the most common alternative to football schools are basketball schools.

The article focuses mainly on Michigan and how the basketball team the last few years has been much more successful than the football team. So has Michigan become a basketball school? No, not even close. The issue is the emotional connection, and for whatever reason, certain fanbases have a deep connection with one sport over another:

Coaston got hooked on the Wolverines at their 2005 win over undefeated Penn State, when Mario Manningham caught a walk-off touchdown as time expired. “The highs would be some of the best moments I’ve ever had,” she says.

The most crushing recent loss to the Buckeyes came in 2016, when Michigan came inches away from stopping Ohio State on fourth down to lock up an overtime win. “The emotions I had had about Trump winning in 2016—I was like, ‘I’m fine, I know I can handle this,’ ” Coaston says. “ ‘For the work I do, this is a really important moment, but I’m ready for it.’ I had put all of those emotions into a box, and then I’d shoved that box into Michigan football, and then the Michigan–Ohio State game happened in 2016, and I was like, ‘Ohhhh, no. The box exploded.’ There is no emotional safe space for pretty much anything.”

The box exploded is an all too accurate way to describe it. So is this:

“I don’t think I ever have thought about a Michigan basketball loss more than like a half-hour after it ended,” Slate’s Ben Mathis-Lilley, a fan since he was a kid in the ’90s, says, “whereas there are Michigan football losses from, like, 18 years ago that I still think very vividly about all the time.”

Swap Cal for Michigan in that paragraph and it’s eerily accurate for me. 

The author suggests a school cannot switch what kind of school it is. But I disagree, because it happened with Cal in the early 2000s. Cal had been a basketball school, with a very strong basketball culture and a passionate fanbase that packed its arena for every game. And then, over a span of 2-3 years, that flipped. The reasons for that are many and involve a rather unique confluence of events – the football team got good, the basketball team was involved in a pay-for-recruits scandal, and the beloved basketball gym was torn down and replaced with a sterile, sucky arena.

Still, this was a fun article and a nice primer for the start of the NCAA tournament. -TOB

Source: “Why So Many College Sports Fans Feel Miserable All the Time,” Alex Kirshner, Slate (03/17/2021)

Video of the Week:

Tweet of the Week:

Song of the Week: The White Buffalo – “Sycamore”

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What evidence is there that cats are so smart, anyway? Huh? What do they do? Because they’re clean? I am sorry. My Uncle Pete showers four times a day and he can’t count to ten. So don’t give me hygiene.

-Elaine Benes

Week of March 5, 2021

The Eyes are on the Eyes of Texas



If you missed it, University of Texas football players created quite the stir last fall when they began refusing to stay out on the field and sing the school song, Eyes of Texas, as has long been tradition. They did this because the song has roots in racism, and good for them. The reason this is a story again, in March, is because the players correctly are not letting it go. But also because a reporter obtained e-mails sent by boosters to the school complaining about the players, and boy howdy are there some doozies. Before we get to the e-mails I have to add this. I have been to two Texas games in my life – one in Austin, the other in Berkeley. But as I read this article I realized I have no idea how Eyes of Texas sounds, or what the lyrics are. So, as I was reading, I decided to pause and go read the lyrics to the song. And, wow. Not only are they dumb as hell, but I also found out the song is set to the tune of I’ve Been Working on the Railroad! That is so hilariously stupid. Why the hell do these people care about a nursery song with dumb lyrics? I went back to the article and then read this:

Texas is not the only school that would make this choice. But it is the one school that’s in the position of forcing players to go along with this particular song, which if you haven’t heard it, is sung to the tune of “I’ve Been Working On The Railroad.” A banger, it is not.


I laughed out loud. A banger, it is not. Many of the emails threatened to pull donations – some of them claiming to have donated over $1,000,000. Again – imagine first loving a football team so much you donate SEVEN FIGURES, and then getting so upset at the idea of a dumb song set to I’VE BEEN WORKING ON THE RAILROAD not being sung by players who don’t want to sing it. The hell?  Two of the emails from boosters, however, lay it all bare

“Less than 6% of our current student body is black,” wrote Larry Wilkinson, a donor who graduated in 1970, quoting a statistic UT-Austin officials have stated they’re working to improve. “The tail cannot be allowed to wag the dog….. and the dog must instead stand up for what is right. Nothing forces those students to attend UT Austin. Encourage them to select an alternate school ….NOW!”
“It’s time for you to put the foot down and make it perfectly clear that the heritage of Texas will not be lost,” wrote another donor who graduated in 1986. Texas also redacted that name. “It is sad that it is offending the blacks. As I said before the blacks are free and it’s time for them to move on to another state where everything is in their favor.”

THE BLACKS. That’s really all you need to know about this story: rich, white assholes want to exercise their power over others. A story as old as time. -TOB

Source: “UT Needs Rich Donors”: Emails Show Wealthy Alumni Supporting “Eyes of Texas” Threatened to Pull Donations,” Kate McGee, The Texas Tribune (03/01/2021); In ‘Eyes of Texas’ Debate, Texas Chooses Donors Over Doing What’s Best for Players,David Ubben, The Athletic (03/01/2021)

PAL: I laughed at that line, too, TOB: “A banger, it is not.” Winning is the most valued tradition, and that comes from talented players competing for your school. It may not feel like it, but the power here lies with the players and students, not with a few boosters who try to bully the school to shape it around their incomplete, childhood memories of the school and its football team from back in the ‘good ol days’. 

If the players, especially good ones, don’t want to stand and sing the song, then they don’t have to, and if the team punishes them, the team will lose more. More games, and more recruits. Fewer big-time recruits will go to Texas – because who wants to play for an average team that prioritizes some booster and his/her obsession with a dumb song? As the anonymous booster points out, there are plenty of other schools where they don’t have to do that, and I’ll add this: plenty of other schools with better football programs. If the school bows down to these boosters, then program will become more insignificant than it already has become. The school is worried about money drying up now? Keep losing and see what happens. 

It’s easier to argue over symbolic traditions than it is to address what U.T. fans and boosters care about most: the team hasn’t been a title contender in over a decade. Alabama, Clemson, Ohio State, and – perhaps most painful – Oklahoma have left Texas behind. There isn’t an easy solution to that problem, so they turn their attention to a song, to preservation in the name of ‘heritage’. 

Again, winning is the most valued tradition, and that comes from players. This situation is a hell of an unfair burden to put on a kid—to choose between what feels wrong (singing an old minstrel song in the name of tradition) and what you love (playing football). And for a few, that fight could lead to the end of their football days (being benched or not having a scholarship renewed). One thing’s for sure: the adults in the room will be no help. The coaches get paid a lot, and they want to keep cashing those checks. Guess who’s behind writing those checks. 


I know very little about pool. Billiards. We played in the basement growing up, and I like to play at a bar. Pool is a great conversation starter. Other than that, and Minnesota Fats, I know very little. Some guys like to wear a vest when they play, right? What’s that about? Efren Reyes is a pool legend. He’s considered the best pool player in history in the same way Wayne Gretzky is considered the best hockey player – it’s not really up for debate, and no one is looking for one. Reading his story from the perspective of someone who knows very little about the game only made this story from Eric Nusbaum and Adam Vllacin even better.  The opening is fantastic: 

Efren Reyes would rather not have become the most famous and universally praised pool player in the history of the world. Would rather not have gone pro or been the subject of a million YouTube highlight reels or won every single pool tournament known to man. Would rather not have become so successful, so universally admired that there is a literal X-Men character based on him. 

Going pro, getting famous—this was all a last resort. Because what Efren Reyes really wanted to do was hustle.  

He was born in a town called Mexico, in the Filipino province of Pampanga, about 40 miles up the highway from Manila. When he was a kid, the family moved down the highway and into the capital. Efren had an uncle there who ran a pool hall called Lucky 13. Efren started hanging around the pool hall, watching the older men—the good players and the bad ones—while working as an attendant, and goofing around at the empty tables. 

Who among you is not reading a story about a Filipino from the town of Mexico who would go on to become the best pool player ever and the inspiration of a comic book character?  I am thinking about what else to add to this story to convince you to read it. What other details, what other quotes. The more I think about it, what else do you need that’s not in that opening? OK, here’s Reyes dominating: 

Go read the story already! – PAL Source: The Greatest Pool Player In History Just Wanted To Hustle”, Eric Nusbaum and Adam Vllacin, Sports Stories, ℅ Defector (03/02/21) TOB: I had never even heard of this guy, but now I love him. If for no other reason than this anecdote relayed in the story:

At the inaugural Derby City Classic in 1999, he won the “Master of the Table” award for best all-around player. At the ceremony he refused his trophy. “I play for money,” he said as he accepted his $25,000 check.

CTC. Cut that check, baby!


Well, this is interesting – two businessmen, working closely with female athletes, are trying to turn the existing concept of a sports league on its head. Or, at least, re-invent it from scratch. They wondered why women’s sports, in particular, don’t seem to have huge professional followings in the U.S. So, they did some research:

In their research, four trend lines in fan behavior stood out: 1) Supporters were more likely to exhibit passion about individual players than they were about entire teams. 2) They were engaging with sports on a variety of platforms, just as likely to play in a fantasy league or consume highlights on Instagram as they were to watch actual games. 3) They were increasingly interested in athletes’ personalities and off-field lives. And 4) They took close notice of “values orientation,” the standards and ideals that a league and its athletes center on.

In other words, the existing model of professional sports has been difficult to navigate for any upstart league, particularly for women’s leagues, which tended to be shut out of mainstream media coverage. But if you were building something new—if you weren’t necessarily worried about filling stadiums in a dozen different markets or landing a major cable deal; if, instead, you marketed directly to an existing segment of fans—you could make it work.

Ok, so – a league in a bubble, with fandom not centered on regional ties? This doesn’t sound all that revolutionary so far. But the devil is in the details, and when they say they are throwing out the 20th Century American Sports model, they are not kidding:

At the start of each season, a small number of players would be named as captains. Those captains would draft teams in a live-streamed event, promoted as much as any game, which would mix personality (Who’s picking whom?) with strategy (How are they approaching the intricacies of roster construction?). These teams would then play one another over the course of the next week. But while each game would look and feel familiar, with a winner and a loser, what really mattered would be the individual stats, kept with a unique scoring system, tailored to the sport, that accounted for offensive and defensive performance. These individual numbers would be tracked on a leaderboard, and at the end of each week team captains would draft anew, remaking their rosters to form completely new teams. Finally, at the end of the season, rather than a championship squad, there would be one woman atop the leaderboard. Your fill-in-the-blank-sport champion.

Uh, wow. That is certainly different. But they’re not done:

Every player would earn the same base salary but could activate performance-based bonuses that doubled or even tripled that takeaway. They’d all play in one city (Rosemont, Ill., for softball; Dallas for volleyball…) to cut out the costs of traveling and operating multiple stadiums, and to facilitate the creation of media content around the players, who’d be living and spending time together, getting drafted by their fellow athletes each week. They’d all have ownership stakes in the league. And they’d make decisions together, on the rulebook and on marketing strategy, all the way down the line.

Officially wild. Baccellieri, long one of my favorite writers and Twitter follows, succinctly explains the rationale:

Fans can follow individual athletes they already know from college or, say, from Instagram, rather than try to embrace brand-new teams with whom they have no history, no local connection.

This makes some sense. Two of my favorite Cal players of all time are Aaron Rodgers and Marshawn Lynch. When they got to the NFL, I rooted for them, but with some reservation – though I have my issues with the 49ers, they are still the team I grew up rooting for and rooting for Rodgers or Lynch often meant rooting against the Niners, usually indirectly, but often very directly, including in the playoffs. If the NFL followed this model, instead, I could unabashedly root for those two guys . I could root for Ozzie Albies or Fernando Tatis, Jr., because I like to watch them play, without worrying about what their good performances doe to my team’s playoff chances. Because I’d have no team. I’d just have My Guys. And we all know I love My Guys. That’s not to say that I want MLB to change to this model – hell no. But I see the logic for a niche sport, like women’s softball. The fanbase is small but devoted, and most start following players in college. After college it becomes difficult to follow the players – the teams, and even the leagues, are forming and folding all the time, and it becomes hard to invest in emotionally, as three of the sport’s best players all agree:

The existing model for professional softball was untenable. The average annual salary in NPF was around $5,000. The number of viable teams fluctuated each season. As much as they loved the game, they’d never banked on softball as a serious career. Almost no one could. 

This is true of a lot of sports, for men and women. Even Women’s Soccer – I have lost count of how many teams Alex Morgan has been on (I just looked it up and it’s 7 in 10 years, geeze).  If, instead, I could follow her on Twitter, see her highlights, and be able to see she is kicking butt on the “leaderboard”? I dunno – I think I really would pay more attention. And that’s what Athletes Unlimited hopes. They don’t just want to reach diehards. By focusing on national (“all 30 softball games ran on TV or were streamed by ESPN and CBS; 22 of the 30 upcoming volleyball matches will be on CBS or Fox subsidiaries”) and social media, they hope to reach everyone:

“There’s going to be your volleyball fans, your lacrosse fans—those are the people who are always watching, it doesn’t matter the format, right?” says Jessica Mendoza, a softball player turned ESPN analyst and now an Athletes Unlimited board member. “But now there’s going to be a guy who likes to gamble! Now he’s going to watch a women’s lacrosse game and notice stuff he never would have noticed. … And it’s not just one guy like that. There are hundreds and thousands, and they absorb sports for different reasons. I think, ultimately, a lot of them are going to walk away and be like, I like watching women’s volleyball. I like watching women’s softball. Not all of them, but I think a lot of them—and that makes me happy.”

This is an interesting concept, and a really good read. -TOB Source: Welcome to the Grand Softball Experiment,” Emma Baccellieri, Sports Illustrated (02/26/2021)

Winter Surfing Looks Awesome and Miserable

I love a good photo essay, and the NY Times has this cool thing going during the pandemic where they feature a photojournalist taking the viewers to places in the world a bit harder to get to these days. In this most recent installment, Ryan Carter captures winter surfers on Lake Huron.  Per Carter: 

In recent years there’s been a significant increase in the popularity of lake surfing in North America. Unlike ocean surfers, who often depend partly on tides, lake surfers rely solely on strong, sustained winds. The stormy winter months often bring the biggest waves — and therefore the best surfing conditions.

The photos are surreal. The snow, the ice, the flurries, and the surfboard. It’s like surfers found the last place on earth – a deserted lake town. It all feels a bit apocalyptic.  Check out all of the photos in the link below. – PAL 

Source:Surf’s Up. The Temperature Isn’t.”, Ryan Carter, The New York Times (03/01/21)

Video of the Week: A couple excellent jomboy breakdowns.

Tweet of the Week:

Song of the Week: Anderson .Paak, Feat. Rick Ross – “CUT EM IN”

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I gotta focus. I’m shifting into soup mode. 

-George Costanza

Throw Strikes!

An Incomplete Guide of What Not to Shout at a Baseball Game

Spring is so close. Baseball teams have returned to Arizona and Florida. Daylight Savings—the good one—is just on the other side of next weekend. Maybe there’s an end to this pandemic up ahead, and with some luck, each of you reading this story will soon enough find yourself in a lawn chair watching a baseball game on a long, warm, golden evening. Can you feel the grass between your toes? Don’t forget the sunflower seeds. 

We’ll all be rusty on the situations, players and spectators alike. Understandable; it’s been a minute. While the kid playing right field may have forgotten where to throw the ball on a single with a runner on first and two outs, you may have forgotten what to yell at the game. 

Nothing is everywhere at a baseball game. It permeates. For nearly 200 years spectators have filled the nothing between the pitches with chatter. We are compelled to be heard in that nothing. Of course, leaving the nothing as silence is no good either (games with empty stadiums is a recent reminder), but often the nothing is filled with counterproductive, self-evident, too late, passive-aggressive, not-as-clever-as-you-think crap. 

There are any number of sentiments fitting to yell at a baseball game, but there are a handful of phrases that need to be removed from any spectator’s rotation. They gotta go, regardless of intent. That’s what we’re here to start. 

With the help of friends, family, coaches, parents, I’ve collected the following list of things to avoid shouting when at a baseball game. Consider this a living document. Send me what I’ve missed. We’ll work together on it, and in the process we’ll make games, especially youth sports, just a little less dumb. 

Keep your distance, and keep yourself from yelling any of the following at the ballgame.  

Throw strikes! If nothing else comes from this list other than one less person shouting Throw strikes! at a baseball game, then this story will have been worth it.

To the folks who yell that at a game, I ask you: what in the goddamn hell do you think all pitchers, ages 8 to 80, is trying to do? I promise, their intention was not to walk the previous four hitters. Just because they struggle to throw a strike doesn’t mean they forgot the purpose of their presence on the mound. All pitchers, at every level and every game, are trying to throw strikes, so stop shouting that.

Focus! Question: would someone yelling Focus! while you worked help you keep your attention on the task at hand? Similar: Keep your head in the game! 

Tie goes to the runner! You’re superhuman? You have a slow motion feature in your brain? Oh, you don’t? So then maybe ease up on the retired gym teacher umpire making a judgement call on the bang-bang play. In fact, just resist the urge to yell rules, made-up ones—like “tie goes to the runner”—or otherwise.  

Trust your arm. How does one trust his or her arm? Can an arm betray trust? Can an arm earn trust? This phrase is typically something a father will say to his child who he thinks is superior to the hitter. Trust your arm, in other words, is “your average fastball is more than this kid can handle.” Or, consider this: maybe the pitcher isn’t trusting his/her arm because it sucks on that day and the last four batters have hit standup doubles. 

He’s not looking to hit. One of my favorites, ℅  my college buddy Kevin Wiessner. While the spectator is saying this to the pitcher, this is just as much directed at the opposing team’s hitter. He’s not looking to hit is saying no less than “this player is bad at hitting a baseball. So terrible that you, pitcher, don’t need to waste time thinking about pitch selection or location. The only way this hitter hurts you—the only way— is if you can’t throw three strikes.”  

He’s not looking to hit is the combination of Throw strikes! and calling an opposing player trash in one succinct phrase. 

Watch the junk! God love him, my dad would yell this anytime I had two strikes on me in an at-bat. Thinking about a curveball with two strikes is an effective way to watch a fastball go by and strikeout looking. We’ve all been told hitting is very hard, and it happens in less than a second. My advice: don’t put ideas into a kid’s head the moment before he/she needs to make a decision.

In fact, no instruction is helpful from the stands during the game. Practice is the time for instruction. The batting cage is time to work on technique and approach. If you want to fill your kid’s head with bad info, at least do it away from the game. That time is over once the game starts. 

If you’re in the stands, then you are not the coach, so don’t coach. I know it might feel like it, but your 11 year-old’s MLB draft stock will not be impacted by the fourth at-bat in the 9 AM consolation game at the weekend tournament 50 miles on the other side of nowhere. 

Special consideration for “don’t” coaching from the stands. The only thing worse than shouting stay down at the infielder who just a ground ball go between his legs is to shout don’t come up!  Same goes for don’t lunge (when hitting), don’t nibble (when pitching). If you’re committed to shouting dumb things at a baseball game, at least shout what you want. 

Just a long strike! A favorite phrase of the dad who fancies himself the funny guy in the crowd. Typically this one comes out after an opposing cleanup hitter who hit puberty three years before the rest of the kids sends a pitch 400-feet on a line, just foul. While technically true—the foul ball is a strike—psychologically, this was not just a strike. Anyone at the game feels it and knows it to be true. A missile foul ball can be far more damaging to the pitcher’s psyche than a ground ball with eyes.

I understand the intention of trying to get the pitcher to move onto the next pitch, but we can get there without drawing attention to the ball that cratered the hood of a SUV in the parking lot beyond right field. 

Besides, everyone knows a foul ball – be it a bunt or a moonshot – is a strike. It doesn’t need to be said, and it does not deliver the positive reassurance proposed in the phrase. 

Just ‘lets’ us score more! I have saved the worst for last. This is not a common phrase—thank god—and we must keep it that way. 

This embarrassment is the wordcraft of an otherwise excellent coach and mentor. He knows who he is, and it is out of an abundance of respect that I don’t call him by name. Future generations of his family don’t deserve the burden, so great is this crime against the game. 

Coach would like to shout this, almost with a sick glee, when the opposing team was in the frenzie of scoring several runs in an inning. There’s a momentum that comes with the opposition putting together a big inning. With each run, the weight gets heavier, and it gets harder and harder to get out from under it. Even an out is an act of mercy. 

That’s when he’d shout it: Just ‘lets’ us score more! 

What it felt like: 

5 runs deficit? Not a problem! 

8 runs? We’ve done it before! 

10 runs? What an awesome opportunity! 

First, the opposing team scoring a lot of runs did not then let us score more runs. A victory required more runs. Second, big comebacks happen not through blinding positivity, but through a plodding, steady persistence. 

The rebuttal to my argument is that the phrase is about a mindset, of course. It’s not meant to push blind positivity. It’s more of a PG version of an “f-it” mentality. It’s about avoiding a dugout of moping. Moping leads to a little less hustle, and no team’s coming back from a big deficit feeling sorry for itself.

All of that is true and right, but there’s got to be a less lame, bright-eyed way to convey that point. Just ‘lets’ us score more is like yelling “just ‘lets’ us swim!” to the townspeople as the dam breaks. 

So what are some good phrases to yell at a ballgame? It’s pretty simple: heap specific praise on players, especially on the young ones. 9/10 things you shout should be positive. Don’t be the a-hole who only chimes in when his/her kid does something.  If you’re consistently praising all the good stuff, then it’s fine to call out a lack of hustle and mental mistakes, but maybe go with “we” instead of a kid’s name.

You might be wondering, “Who is this guy to tell me what to shout at a baseball game?”

I’m no one, man. But on this, I am right.

– Phil Lang, 03/03/21


Since we’re here, we can quickly cover off on some other sports, too, including basketball, hockey, soccer, volleyball, swimming, and more. 

Here’s a start of running list of phrases to avoid: 

Get the ball






Kick (swimming)

Over (volleyball)

Let’s hear some chatter

Look alive

Take the body

Move it

Keep your head in the game

Walk it off

Box out

Any swearing at a youth game, because you’re better than that. 

Not exactly a phrase, but this still ought to go: holding up four fingers to signal the 4th quarter of a football game, as if to say your team owns the fourth quarter. How unoriginal can a “tradition” be? 


Week of February 26, 2021

“Good-Looking Ballplayer”

This is a story about the unlikely source material that helped inspire a new way of thinking and evaluating talent in baseball. 

Daniel Kahneman (Cal grad, TOB) and Amos Tversky wrote Thinking, Fast and Slow, a book about behavioral economics. These guys were not baseball dudes. Kahnman won a Nobel Prize in economics. The book barely references baseball, but it’s a major influence on many general managers, executives, and scouts throughout the game. 

Most of us are aware of Moneyball — both the best-seller Michael Lewis book and the Brad Pitt movie (really holds up as an all-time great sports movie) which in large part details how the Oakland A’s took a fresh look at the stats to find undervalued players. They needed to— the team couldn’t compete with the big market teams in terms of paying big-name players. 

In the movie version, one of my favorite scenes is when Billy Bean (Brad Pitt) sits down with all the old scouts and tries to explain how the team needs to take a different approach to evaluations. The scene is a perfect example of what Kahneman and Tversky defined as “the representativeness heuristic” — the idea that assessment is heavily influenced by what is believed to be the standard or the ideal.

While there were other baseball influences at play in Oakland (Bill James’ work on baseball statistics, to name one), it’s no wonder that many decision-makers in today’s game credit the economists’ work in Thinking, Fast and Slow as having a major impact on how they try to evaluate talent for their teams. 

Orioles Assistant General Manager, Sig Mejdal, is one such decision-maker. He worked at NASA prior bringing his biomathematics brain to baseball.

He says:

“When we look at the players standing for the national anthem, it’s hard not to realize that quite a few of these guys are far from stereotypical or prototypical. Yet our mind still is attracted quite loudly to the stereotypical and prototypical.”

Other executives who likely have a raggedy copy of the book in their office: Andrew Freidman (Dodgers), John Mozeliak (Cardinals), Sam Fuld (Phillies). I’d bet my next paycheck the Giants Farhan Zaidi is on this list, too.  Excellent read. – PAL 

Source:This Book Is Not About Baseball. But Baseball Teams Swear by It.Joe Lemire, The New York Times (02/24/21)

Baseball Players…SMH. In an article I otherwise would not have shared here, about how MLB/MLBPA negotiations regarding the expanded playoffs and universal DH are going, Andrew Baggarly included this note from Giants’ MLBPA rep Austin Slater which raised my eyebrows, about player attitudes toward the COVID-19 vaccine:

“It’s case by case how each player feels about (the vaccine),” Slater said. “It’s a decision they need to make individually and with their family. All you can do is provide information and point them in the right direction when they have questions. Hopefully that’s enough for people to make the decision.”

Wait, uh – what? Case by case? That sounds like a whole lot of vaccine resistance amongst baseball players. But then a thought hit me that made Slater’s comment make a lot more sense: Baseball players are generally pretty quiet about their politics, but we hear enough rumblings to have a good idea that as a whole they lean heavily right, and will you look at this:

According to the recent Gallup poll, the rate of willingness to get the vaccine increased in both Democrats and Republicans with 91% of Democrats (compared to 83% in December) and 51% of Republicans (compared to 45% in December) willing to get vaccinated.

Oh. Wild. To be clear: 500,000 people have died in this country alone, and somehow the percentage of Republican anti-vaxxers has soared. Last January, the percentage of Republicans who believed it is important to vaccinate kids was 79% (down from 93% in 2001), as compared to 92% of Democrats. That was bad enough, but a year and 500,000 dead later, the number of Republicans who are willing to get the COVID vaccine is 51%? 


Source: Giants Need Expanded Playoffs; Union Rep Austin Slater Says it’s a No Go For Now,” Andrew Baggarly, The Athletic (02/25/2021)

Golden Years Softball League

Every time I return to Minnesota, I’ll do the Body By Bennett run. I can’t remember which of the siblings authored the name the 4-mile loop through Central Park, around Bennett Lake, and back down Transit, but the name stuck. In the spring and summer months, somewhere between 1 and 1.5 miles, the trail passes the softball complex. On weekdays, starting the senior softball leagues are ripping. They dominate the fields on weekday afternoons, when everyone else is – you know – working. 

So when I saw this essay from Abby Ellin about her 83-year old dad’s softball league, I had a good feeling I’d be sharing it with you. She doesn’t disappoint. This guy may as a well be playing at Central Park in Roseville.

There are sweet moments and hilarious moments, too. Their rebellion to sitting down or sitting out on life is inspiring. Although, the chatter is a bit different: 

“You get the vaccine?”

“I keep trying, but every time I go to the website it crashes.”

“The Democrats are keeping the vaccine for political reasons.”

“That’s a conspiracy theory!”

Then there was movement on home plate. “I need a runner!” yelled batter Carl Slutz, who at 86 is one of the league’s oldest players. It was a good day for Slutz (“It’s pronounced ‘Slootz,’” he stressed). If he got a hit in this at-bat, he would be 5 for 5.

I love that these old guys are filling their days doing something that — for many of them, I assume—they’ve loved since they were young boys. It’s something that buoyes them in this world instead of waiting for whatever’s next. 

Not my dad.

Playing sports has centered him for the past eight decades. He has been voted the most valuable player a few times. He was out on the field the day after one of the worst moments in his life, when my sister died. The camaraderie and oxygen were more critical than ever. Besides, what good would staying home have done?

“It’s not going to change anything,” he said. “I didn’t play well, let’s just say that.”

It reminded me of something Neil Lewis, 87, one of the Golden Years’ commissioners, told me last year. “When you get old, if you just lay around and watch TV you’ll go to hell, in plain English,” he said. “You’ve got to keep your mind going.”

Not so long ago I’d say I’d never play in a softball league. Didn’t appeal to me enough to make it a priority once a week. I loved baseball when I played. Softball felt so casual, and I loved how intense baseball was for me. I relented and played in a few softball leagues in SF. Nothing stuck. We should give it another go, TOB. These old dude’s seem like they’re having a blast. 

A heartwarming essay worth the five minutes to read in full. -PAL

Source: The Retired Boys of Summer Play On”, Abby Ellin, The New York Times (02/25/21)

Aww, Man Julius Randle was named an All Star this year for the first time in his career. His mom recorded a congrats video and they played it on the jumbotron at MSG, as Julius looked on.

That’s cute and all, but after the game Randle provided some context that took it from, “Aw” to “I’m not crying, I’ve just been chopping onions”: 

“It was definitely amazing,” Randle told reporters after the game. “Throughout the course of this past year, it’s definitely been tough on all of us. But my mother, she hasn’t been able to leave the house; she’s a diabetic. We’ve been extra cautious with her.”

Dang, man. Can we get this woman a vaccine, please? -TOB

Source: Here Is A Delightful Surprise Message From Julius Randle’s Mom,” Patrick Redford, Defector (02/24/2021)

Video of the Week:

Tweet of the Week:

Song of the Week: Aaron Frazer – “Over You”

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I worked out with a dumbbell yesterday. I feel vigorous. 

-Frank Costanza


County rinks in Minnesota resemble oversized garden sheds. Concrete floors, pitched aluminium roofs, little-to-no insulation. They are cold, the ice is fantastically hard, and voices carry, including my dad’s on occasion.

“Pass the damn puck!” 

His voice thundered off the cinder block walls and ice, overwhelming the click-clack of sticks.

Like all dads, mine had a different tone of voice kept in reserve. That ‘enough bullshit’ voice. He went to it sparingly. It was a blunt object, a force used for absolute clarity. The sound of it left me cringing on the bench in its echo. He wasn’t yelling at me, not usually. 

Those hockey games were twenty-five years ago and more. How I now measure anything in that length of time is hard to believe, but here we are. Now, my point-of-view is rotating. My wife, Natalie, and I are expecting a little girl in three months. She’ll be our first, and I fill the in-between moments of the day imagining pieces of her life to come. 

I know I’m 10 years away from any real sports dad moments, as any game played by kids younger than 10 more closely resembles a chaos theory experiment than any actual sport. I’m pumped for that youth sports phase, to be a sports dad. The thought of it leads back to my dad. 

Jim Lang’s run as a sports dad is an all-timer. With some back of napkin math and conservative estimates, it’s fair to say he attended somewhere in the ballpark of 4,560 of his kids’ sporting events over a 24-year run (1980-2004), that comes out to a little more than a game every other day.

Here’s how I got to that number. I started with Tony, the oldest of us kids, and estimated his total amount of games/events played in a sports season, having shorter season game totals for younger ages (10-13), then bumping up for older years. Then I added up the total amount of games I played in (I am the youngest). I assigned the average of Tony’s total and my total for the other four siblings. Everyone played 3 sports when kids, and at least two sports through high school. I added estimated college games for my sister, Angie, and me.

My dad’s attendance record at these games/events is legendary. I said 95% and my brother, Matt, thought that figure was actually low. Put in another way, he remembers the games of his my dad missed, including the first inning of a Little League game in which Matt hit his only home run. 

I don’t know how my dad did this while running a business for many of those years. I’m not even counting the 17 grandkids and their games. The man’s put in his 10,000 hours as a sports dad. 

Adding numbers is one way to measure sports parenting. Games, years, dollars, miles. God only knows how many miles my dad rolled on the odometer cutting across the metro area to find some random soccer or baseball field behind some random middle school in a suburb across town. Worse yet, out-of-town tourneys. There’s also the emotional investment to consider. That’s not as easy to count or weigh. 

Parents are like driving instructors when it comes to their kids’ emotions around sports. They ride shotgun while the kiddos take the wheel. The kids try their best to navigate the highs and lows of the wins and losses, to get the feel for triumphs and slights, all the while mom or dad are ready to take control, slow down, and get everything pointed back in the right direction if things get out of hand. 

Game in, game out. Every drive home maneuvering around every bad call, success, substitution; every interaction and how it proved so-and-so really did think such-and-such. 

The more I think about it, maybe the teenage years are the emotional equivalent of teaching the kid to drive a stickshift. 

We’ve all heard a story or two about unhinged sports parents, and I’ve wondered if youth sports have become an outsized focus for many, not to mention a billion dollar industry. Still, youth sports are incredibly important, and not because they allow parents to help their children realize the dreams their mom and dad could’ve realized if only they’d had a stronger parental guide. And while the life lessons are invaluable, there’s a bigger reason why youth sports commandeer so much of us. 

In sports, parents witness their kid experience success and failure in public. 

Where else in a parent-child relationship is that a more regular occurrence than during youth sports? Where else can a parent watch that play out in real time from the comfort of a folding chair? Algebra tests aren’t exactly a spectator sport, and there aren’t 30 school musicals a season. First kiss, first heartbreak, a nailed or failed summer job interview— all secondhand. Come adulthood, so much success and failure is relayed, discussed with but rarely seen by parents.  

We’ve manufactured elaborate ceremonies to celebrate some definition of success. Weddings (love, family), graduations (knowledge), birthdays (not dying), sacraments (spiritual progress), retirement parties (career), funerals even (you know, all of it). These are the recognition of success, but not the act itself. As for failures, we ignore those at pretty much any cost, and have mercy on anyone who experiences failure in public or has them captured on social media.  

Success and failure. Success and failure. Over, and again. Those early glimpses of how a child will handle both certainties – it must be immensely vulnerable and captivating to watch how both shape a child. 

I try to sense the volume of the numbers and emotions of my dad amassed as a sports dad. While us kids were always his priority at those games, he genuinely cared about how the team played. How could he not? He sat through too many games to watch selfish play, timidity, or mental mistakes.  

“Pass the damn puck!” There was a lot more beneath those words than my dad simply being fed up with having to watch a kid’s failed attempt at an end-to-end rush for the fifth time in the period. I am only just beginning to feel my little girl kicking in Natalie’s belly, and I still need to learn, uh, everything about being a dad, but am I fool to think I can now understand just a bit of why my dad would yell every now and again? 

It wasn’t too much for my dad to suggest the kids play as a team. 

Not so long ago, I envisioned myself as the silent dad at my kids games. I’d played and coached enough youth sports to have made the vow so many have made: I would never be the parents losing their shit at the game. 

All of us have experienced some version of these parents. They are the ones berating an umpire making $30 a game, the ones who can’t go five seconds without frantically reminding kids of techniques from across the field, the ones openly questioning coaching decisions to anyone within earshot. Nowadays, I’m guessing these are the folks starting chat groups online to talk crap and plot like cowardly teenagers. 

Out of fear of becoming one of these idiots, I planned to be the silent dad, and that was a stupid plan. 

My best youth sports experience was my baseball team from 13-15. I always appreciated that we had enthusiastic, young coaches (my brother, Tony, and brother in-law, Jay) that connected with the kids. I’m only now fully appreciating how great the families were. Much of the families were the same every year, and while it wasn’t perfect, there was a genuine feeling that parents were pulling for each kid to succeed on the team. 

We won a lot, which never hurts, but the sports cliches regained their original meaning in large part because the parents cheered when teamwork, resilience, effort, preparation, competition manifested into great play. They would call it out when those qualities were lacking, too. Compliments were often directed to specific kids, critiques rarely were.  

As much as where I was born, those families represent where I grew up. I don’t know where I’ll be living in ten years: here in California, back in Minnesota, or maybe there’s a curveball waiting for us down the line. Wherever we are, the families sitting around us in the bleachers will make up a meaningful part of our community. They will be a part of where my kids are from. 

While I won’t threaten my dad’s career numbers, we’re still talking about many games, many miles, many hours, many emotions. If we’re signing up for all of that, then we have to try doing it right. I gotta do my part as a sports dad in helping create an environment where the cliches have meaning. I want to be a parent heaping genuine praise on all the kids when they deserve it, including mine. And for every ten ‘atta boy!’, I want to be part of community that understands yelling “passing the damn puck!” is not an aggression, but preservation. 

I don’t want to help build community in which our fear of offending means we avoid making any positive impact on each other. Sports parents can create that environment or ensure it never has a chance.

Of course, my daughter might not even like sports. Those in-between moments I brought up at the beginning of this story? When I think about the pieces of her life, the truth is the vast majority of those won’t include sports. That’s why youth sports have to be about the lessons and the community that helps teach them. About learning how to compete, being a good teammate, celebrating success, collapsing into failure, and waking up the next day moving on from both. 

I’ll end with one of my favorite stories of my dad as a sports dad. the concession. 

My sister, Libby, was a basketball player. A good one, too. She was the only one of us kids who had any skill for that game. Plus, the Langs aren’t in the height business. She was a point guard on the high school team, and played plenty on varsity as a junior. Come her senior year, she was a likely starter, but there was this seventh grade phenom. The coach decided to bring the phenom up to varsity. Libby bore the brunt of it, and rarely played. My dad was upset. Plenty of no b.s. voice when that topic came up in the house. 

The phenom was incredible, no question about it. She went on to play and coach at Marquette and now coaches at Penn State. It wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t about her; my dad couldn’t get past the question as to why a seventh grader had to play varsity, and how that was the reason Libby couldn’t take her final lap as an athlete before going to college (Libby would agree that her participation on the J.V. golf team the following spring was strictly about getting a tan…she played in flip-flops, folks) 

Ultimately, there was nothing to be done. The kid was great, coach wanted her playing varsity, and so Libby sat the bench. Who knows what factors were at play—maybe the coach was worried she’d lose a future star player to another school if she didn’t play the 13 year-old right away. 

My parents still were there in the stands, even though it was clear how the season would play out. At one game, my dad walked down the bleachers, passed behind the bench and told Libby he was going to the concession stand – did she want a hot dog?

Imagining that moment kills every time. I’m laughing as the write this!

My dad has devoted the entirety of his time on building two legacies: his career and his family. That’s it. That’s the complete list of things Jim Lang cares about.  Sports have been a big part of his life because they were important to his kids.

I told my dad about this story last night. His response to when I told him 4,560: “And I enjoyed every one of them.”

My dad relished our sports successes. They made him goddamn giddy. And when the puck ought to be passed, he’d say it. When we failed, he felt it. And if concession was the last option, then he’d give us a laugh as we moved on to the next piece of life waiting for us. 

Phil Lang, 02.17.21


Week of February 12, 2021


We are going to standup, put on our big boy pants, and walk into the weekend.

NBA Players Examining Black History

The NBA players of today are the best of any era, IMO. They are the best players (by far) and the best citizens. The Athletic’s Jason Jones profiles a number of players who have made learning Black American history a priority, and it’s a really good read. He discusses what these players have learned, how they’ve learned it, and the perils of self-education on the internet. I highly recommend you read it. I especially liked this passage, from the Kings’ Harrison Barnes:

“Sometimes people have a tendency to take (Black history) and put that in a box: well that’s education, those are things you learn in school,” Barnes said. “I kind of went through that process and the reality is there’s so much about American history but specifically African American history that is not taught in schools and is not widely publicized. There are certain narratives that are taught and shared and repeated that it’s important to engage in those dialogues. If nothing else, American history is very complex, specifically African American history. A lot of times people don’t have any inclination to do the extra research on it.”

That’s a great point by Barnes, and I have been embarrassed a few times in the last year by major events in American history I had never heard of, especially in regards to Black Americans. On some levels, it’s not my fault because these events and people weren’t covered in school. As Kings’ rookie Tyrese Halliburton said:

Haliburton, like many people, has had a lot of time to look into issues during the pandemic and realized he didn’t have an in-depth knowledge of Black history.

He was able to see what he truly had never been taught.

“I learned the basics of Black history, learned about slavery, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, the big pillars of African American history,” Haliburton said. “I feel like in full honesty, African American history is not focused on enough in school … I hate that it’s acknowledged as African American history instead of American history. No, that’s the history of our country.”

But Barnes was right – education shouldn’t stop when we leave school, and that’s on me – on all of us. -TOB

Source: “As NBA Players Delve into Black History, Questions Abound on How and What They Learn,” Jason Jones, The Athletic (02/10/2021)

The Relievers Get Their Day

Life depended on it, what reliever from your team would you trust to get 3 outs in a 1-run game?  Let’s just say it: it’s a light sports news week, folks. The Super Bowl is done, winter sports are just getting going, and baseball still feels far away. In other words, not a ton of sports stories this week, unless you want TOB and me to go rounds over the Red Sox trading Andrew Benintendi to KC…yeah, I didn’t think so.

So instead, let’s turn to Grant Brisbee for a good ol’ fashion bar debate. Since we scoured the internet for a week and couldn’t find much sports stories worth sharing, it feels fitting to only now write many words about relief pitchers. The ground rules, per Brisbee: 

First, we’re talking about the best version of this reliever. You pick the season. I’m not sure if you were more impressed with Robb Nen in 1998 or 2000, but that’s up to you.
Second, it has to be a reliever. Don’t play five-dimensional chess and pick Tim Lincecum from 2008. And don’t play six-dimensional chess and pick Madison Bumgarner from 2014. He doesn’t count, either.
Third, that best version of the reliever has to be when he was with the Giants. Don’t play seven-dimensional chess and pick Joe Nathan unless you want the 2003 or 2016 version.

Let me first apply this to Twins relievers for our MN readers. Obviously, the best reliever we ever had was Jack Morris just going 10 innings in Game 7, but rules are rules. Brisbee was talking Nathan in a Giants uniform, but Nathan put together some good stats as the Twins closer. I knew that, but I was shocked to see just where his performance stacked up historically.  Per Do-Yuong Park of MLB.com:

Nathan stands alone in his dominance out of the Twins’ bullpen. The club’s all-time leader among relievers in ERA (2.16), saves (260) and strikeouts per nine innings (10.9), the six-time All-Star was the shutdown force that awaited at the back end of the bullpen for much of the Twins’ extended run of American League Central success in the 2000s. He was part of the 2004, ’06 and ’09 teams that won division championships, saving 44, 36 and 47 games during those three campaigns, respectively. He was durable in that time, too, making at least 64 appearances in his first six seasons with the Twins until he missed the entire 2010 campaign due to right elbow surgery. The right-hander’s peak seasons involved some crazy numbers — ERA+ marks topping out at 316, 294 and 284, for example — and there was hardly any inconsistency to be had in his game. Consider, for example, that Nathan converted 89.13 percent of his save opportunities throughout his career, placing him just ahead of Hall of Fame closers Mariano Rivera (89.07 percent) and Trevor Hoffman (88.77 percent).

I’ll wait while you read that last sentence again. I did the same. That’s a pretty unassailable case for MN Nathan, and yet he really made me nervous, and I think a lot of Twins fans will tell you the same. He converted a higher percentage of saves than Mo friggin’ Rivera, and I was very nervous when he was on the mound. How about that, eh? 1991 Rick Aguilera was pretty great, too. And he closed out nail-biters on that ’91 World Series run. 1 earned run during the playoffs, all high leverage situations. 3 saves in ALCS against a Blue Jays team that would go back-to-back in ‘92 and ‘93, 2 saves in the World Series, and he held his ground in Game 6 and got the W. High pressure playoff situations is really where a reliever makes his bones in my book. That’s a reliever I can feel good about in this situation.  Also, Rick’s beard or goatee was always so perfectly manicured.

Aguilera over Nathan, on the mound in a tight situation and facial hair. I can trust that first guy to keep it orderly. Chin hair guy will leave me dangling.

For the Giants, If I’m going on feel, I felt very, very good about Jeremy Affeldt coming out of the pen for the Giants in 2012 and 2014. He didn’t give up home runs (1 a piece in each of those seasons), and he had a ERA+ of 154 in 2014, which is very good (I’m pretty sure…I just want to impress TOB with my use of ERA+). He threw hard, but wasn’t a one-pitch guy, and I never felt the moment was too big for him. He wouldn’t give in, and – yeah – that can be hard to grind out sometimes as a viewer, but that kind of confidence in a veteran reliever helped make him a key bullpen guy in all three of the championship teams.  However, he really blows up my facial hair standards set up earlier, because he went to the mound with a long flavor saver quite a bit.

TOB: We have to stick to relievers here. My first thought was actually 2012 Postseason Tim Lincecum. He made 6 appearances, all in relief. He had an ERA of 2.55, a batting average against of just .150, OBP of just .209, and slugging of just .200 for an OPS against of .409. That is ELITE. 

Of course, I’m cheating a bit because Lincecum was mostly not a reliever. Brisbee specifically said not to pick 2008 Lincecum, which I didn’t technically do. Plus, I hadn’t read the article when I first picked 2012 Postseason Lincecum, so I only cheated a little, and I feel pretty good about the pick. 

But if I had to pick a more conventional reliever, I gotta go either 1998 Nen or 2011 Romo. And I think I’m leaning Romo, in part due to an all-time great walk-up song.

That song would get the crowd fired up for a win. And yeah, there’s also some recency bias with Romo. But, other than that and El Mechon, check out these 2011 Romo numbers:

Simply one of the most dominant relief seasons in history. Forty-eight innings. Seventy strikeouts. Five walks, and one of those was intentional. Romo’s ERA that season was 1.50, but his FIP was 0.96. Is it rare to have a FIP that low? It is. It’s happened four times in history.

FIP is Fielding Independent Pitching – basically your expected ERA based on walks, strikeouts, and home runs, equalizing all else to account for the fact that pitchers have varying levels of competent defenses behind him. As Grant notes, a 0.96 FIP is ridiculous. Plus, I get to walk out of the snake room, arms held in triumph with this guy:

Source: If You Had to Choose a Giants Reliever From History to Save Your Life …“, Grant Brisbee, The Athletic (02/10/2021)

The Mavs Stopped Playing the Anthem and Nobody Noticed, Until They Did

This week, a “news” “story” “broke” – the Dallas Mavericks had quietly side-stepped the kneeling-during-the-anthem “controversy” by simply not playing the stupid song before games. For thirteen home games, they played without playing the song and no one seemed to notice or care. And then a reporter for the Athletic noticed and asked. Mark Cuban acknowledged they had not played it all season and that the reporter was the first to ask about it. 

This really ends this “controversy” doesn’t it? It was never about the anthem, or about the military, or about patriotism. It was never about the song. It was about Shut Up and Dribble. It was about not wanting a person of color to rock the boat and make white people feel uncomfortable. 

Many of us knew this truth, of course. But this story really hammers it home. And for a half day I thought, “Wow, maybe the anthem will just go away before sports games forever.” Of course, that didn’t happen. In fact, the NBA chickened out. Before the season, Cuban got approval from the league to not play the anthem, but once the story broke the NBA ordered them to resume. LOL. Spineless, Adam Silver. -TOB

PAL: I read an opinion column from Ezra Klein the other day about progressivism in California. There’s a lot in there specific to California’s approach to progressive politics, but the part in his story that really resonated in the context of this Mavericks story is the following:

There is a danger — not just in California, but everywhere — that politics becomes an aesthetic rather than a program. It’s a danger on the right, where Donald Trump modeled a presidency that cared more about retweets than bills. But it’s also a danger on the left, where the symbols of progressivism are often preferred to the sacrifices and risks those ideals demand.

So, yeah, the controversy over the anthem is a dumb one. It doesn’t take much to see why someone might want to protest that song, but I also think it’s much easier to write about, comment on, argue over, symbolic gestures than it is to dig into policies that can bring about the change many seek. Each organization should make the call as to whether or not they make the anthem a part of the game experience. 

Everyone knows Gretzky is the greatest hockey player of all-time. What this post presupposes is…maybe he wasn’t?

I was scouring for stories, last night, and I found this funny little throw-away post from Defector that included a video of how bad hockey goalies were in the 80s. And so was The Great One actually great?

This video is pretty damning for 99. 

The amount of goals from the neutral zone is appalling. Extra credit for catching the movie reference in the headline. – PAL 

Source: Was Wayne Gretzky A Fraud”, Tom Ley, Defector (02/11/2021)

TOB: This feels very right to me. I caught hockey at the tail end of Gretzky’s prime – he was already in L.A., and did lead them to that won Stanley Cup Final loss. But he never did it for me. 

But I will say that 8 minutes of cherry-picked goals is not exactly fair.

Tweet Storm

As Phil mentioned, it’s a slow week. So I decided to do a quick Tweet/Video round-up because there is a lot to share this week. 

First up, this funny exchange. After baseball writer Andy McCullough wondered aloud what Royals player Kyle Zimmer has been doing this offseason, Sam Selman, a Giants player and apparent friend of Zimmer, helpfully updated McCullough on Zimmer’s goings on.

Next we have a Sacramento Kings fan with an excellent Mandalorian gif when discussing wanting to see Kings’ super rookie Tyrese Halliburton in the game.

That is perhaps very niche, as you have to be in the venn diagram overlap of Kings fan and Mandalorian fan, which fine. What’s not niche are these very relatable tweets.

Changing gears, I watched the following video at least a dozen times Thursday night.

That is Warriors player Juan Toscano Anderson, with the excellent skip pass, celebrating the Curry three-pointer before Curry has even caught the ball. LOLLLLLL. And of course, splash. Great stuff, Juan T. 

I really enjoyed this mash up of Jason Williams highlights, spliced with former Sacramento Monarch Ticha Penicheiro. It is extremely cool.

But I have saved the best for last. All due respect to Phil’s tennis choice, this is the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time.

“If he hit the ball very far, he may run on all the pillows, around the pillows. Sometimes someone is stealing the pillows. Sometimes if a man hits a man with the ball he may run to the pillows. And the boys in the trench, they sit in the trench and they look around and they spit spit spit.”

Video of the Week 


Tweet(s) of the Week:

Song of the Week – Black Pumas: “Know You Better”

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“I am one of few people who looks hot eating a cupcake.”

-Kelly Kapoor