Well Done, Edgar

In 2004, Edgar Renteria of the St. Louis Cardinals grounded out softly to the pitcher on a play that gave the Boston Red Sox their first World Series title since 1918. The Cardinals took the title in 2006, but I know I'm not the only fan who was a little disappointed that Edgar wasn't celebrating with them. That was corrected (a little bit) tonight.

Two years after Willie McGee's retirement, the position of "favorite active baseball player" was open (after briefly being filled by Tony Gwynn), and Renteria stepped in nicely. I was, I believe, the first person to sponsor his page on Baseball-Reference.com, and he was the first player I ever chose in a fantasy draft. Congratulations on winning the 2010 World Series MVP--you deserve it.

You might be a Cardinals fan if…

...at 1:01 Central Time today, you pulled up a PDF of the Mitchell Report, typed "pujols" into the search box, and hit enter.

That's what I did, and after taking a look at some of the blogs this afternoon, that's what a lot of people did. We all registered relief when no results came back, but  it's unwise to view a player's absence from the report as evidence that he doesn't use steroids. I believe Pujols is clean---he's shown none of the steroid-type spikes associated with steroid use, he has no reason (dipping production or being on the major league margin) to use, and he strikes me as an honest, straightforward man who sincerely cares about the integrity of the game. But on this report were 86 names that somebody was certain would never, ever use steroids. And anybody who thinks that the list, which used only two sources for most of the names it generated, is comprehensive is deluded. The list could be off by an order of magnitude---the players listed are remarkably diverse in terms of team, position, and age, but the one thing they seem to have in common is their carelessness. Presumably, there is another group of players (and trainers, and doctors, and executives) that was careful enough to steer clear of the investigation.

I was not alone among St. Louis fans in being relieved that the Cardinals were not terribly hard hit by the report. What a horrible way to react---finding only a few minor players from your favorite team implicated in this awfully damning report and treating that as a silver lining---but that's unfortunately the world we live in. Steroids have arguably ruined the last decade of the game, at least in terms of statistics and comparing with other eras. I wouldn't want to be a Hall of Fame voter right now---I'd be compelled not to vote for players linked with steroids, but even that is troubling because a) many of the links are based on hearsay and b) withholding votes from steroid users is essentially tacit approval of the people you vote for as being clean players, when you actually have no idea.

As I looked through the results of the investigation, one name jumped off the page. Fernando Vina. Fernando Vina? The guy who sits in between Mark McGwire and Tony Pena as the Cardinal acquisitions in which I am most disappointed? The guy whose only recourse for getting on base was attempting to get hit by a pitch? Was he taking steroid injections into his right elbow? Did he discuss with his trainer a mix of drugs that would allow him to dangle his limbs into the strike zone? Did he develop such a super-strong elbow that he was able to deflect fastballs with it four times a game? When the steroids came in, did the side of the package say, "Side effects may include an insanely overmanicured goatee"? That Fernando Vina?

This is really depressing, and the saddest part is that it probably doesn't get any better until Major League Baseball develops and agrees on a test for human growth hormone. As has been said elsewhere, the focus is on names like Roger Clemens when it should have been squarely on two names, Bud Selig and Donald Fehr. And shame on all of us fans, too, by the way. None of the stakeholders in this thing asked enough questions or demanded enough action, and now we're paying the price for it.

In other news, the Astros traded five players for Miguel Tejada (possibly the most productive active player implicated in the report) a couple days ago. Before the 2007 season, a couple Houston friends asked what I thought the Astros should do about Roger Clemens. I said that they should pay him $3 million to go play somewhere else. The reason behind that is that signing Roger Clemens, with his ability to lift the team out of the doldrums and into the playoff hunt, awakened something (let's call it hope) that was not necessarily productive in the long term. I didn't think the Astros would ever be great again with Roger Clemens; just good enough to almost make the playoffs. And with the way they tend to give up prospects, I think their focus should be squarely on the future. They don't need Roger Clemens around to change their viewpoint on "win now" vs. "win later". Well, the Astros have proven that they don't need Roger Clemens around to help them make ill-advised short term decisions; they can do that just fine on their own. In Tejada, they get a very good player for at least (and maybe only) one year. They gave up five players, including some promising youngsters, with 27 years remaining on their combined contracts. Yikes.

The Case for MLB Opening the Roof

On the eve of the first World Series game ever to be played in Texas, there is much consternation at the House That Special Purpose Entities Built. Major League Baseball has announced that if the weather is nice, it will intervene and order the roof open for game 3. While I have major problems with a sports league making such a mandate, there is a case to be made for it. Essentially, we're caught in a prisoner's dilemma.

Let's assume, for the sake of argument, that every team in Major League Baseball has a retractable roof. If you accept the premise, which is tough to refute, that baseball played outdoors is better than baseball played indoors, then the best situation for everyone is for all roofs to be open all the time. In any given city, however, the best situation is to keep your own stadium's roof shut for home games because it will allow your team's fans to have a greater effect on the game. So while optimizing overall utility, or happiness, or whatever, for all baseball fans requires roofs to be open, teams acting in their own interests will always act unilaterally to maximize individual payoffs, leading to a suboptimal outcome.

If its participants maximize their own utility, the prisoner's dilemma must end in a suboptimal outcome, unless there is an outside authority to enforce cooperation. Enter Bud Selig. John Nash would be proud.

Plato vs. Aristotle in the World Series

More than ever before, this year's World Series is not just a clash of two teams but a clash of opposing philosophies on the playoffs. You could say that this debate goes all the way back to the original Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon, Plato and Aristotle.

I've always enjoyed the fact that we have many different ways of crowning a champion. College basketball gives 64 teams a shot at the title, while college football pits the top two teams against each other (and was entirely determined by a vote until a few years ago). What I think is regrettable is that since more playoffs bring more money, there is a seemingly irreversible trend toward having more teams participate in the postseason. Some people enjoy the excitement of expanded playoffs, while others think that it's a poor way of choosing a champion. Which begs the question: just what is a champion?

One of Plato's most important ideas was the theory of forms. He believed that there existed a world outside of space and time that held universals, or archetypes, and that what we experience in our own existence is just an approximation of what exists in the world of forms. The most common example used is that of a chair. Plato said that when we call something a chair, we do so because it has "chairness"; that is, it calls to mind the ideal form of a chair. We will never experience a true chair, only our own earthly approximations of a chair.

Aristotle thought differently. He said that if something is made of wood (or something else suitable for making a chair) and is in a shape such that it can be sat on, then it's a chair. There are no forms; the particular is the thing.

So to Aristotle, the champion of a sports league is probably the team that walks away with the trophy. But to Plato, the true champion exists in the world of forms, and playoffs should tell us which team best exemplifies this ideal.

Once upon a time, the best team in each league won a trip to the World Series. Starting in 1969, each league was split up into an east and west division, whose champions would play in a league championship series. In 1995 the number of playoff teams was doubled once again, as a central division was added and a wild card slot was awarded to the team with the best record that did not win its division.

Those who take a Platonic view believe that the team that wins the most games is most likely to be the "true" champion, just as a larger sample size yields a greater chance that an observed result is the "true" result.

The wild card has greatly increased the chances that a team that has demonstrated itself to be not as good as a division rival can still have a shot at the title. Luck, and other factors, can account for 2 or three game differences between a division winner and its nearest rival, but the 22-game deficit with which the 1998 Red Sox won the wild card is pretty clear cut. Ditto the 2001 Athletics, who finished 14 games behind the Mariners. Of course, neither of these teams had much success in the postseason, but what are we to say about the 1997 and 2003 Marlins, who won the World Series despite finishing behind the Braves by 9 and 10 games, respectively?

Well, that depends on where you're coming from. Someone sharing Plato's views would probably argue that a long season is a better determination of the champion than a short playoff, but an Aristotelian would argue that a champion is whatever Major League Baseball says it is.

Which brings us to this year's World Series. Throughout the year, the Chicago White Sox have displayed quite a bit of what Plato might call "championhood." All year they have had one of the two best records in the league, and they have been solid in every aspect of play (hitting for average, hitting for power, baserunning, pitching, and defense). Plato would be proud.

The Houston Astros, as has been pointed out, have been built for the postseason. They have three dominating pitchers, a solid bullpen, and an almost unhittable closer carrying a team that is proficient but not dangerous with the bat. Actually, even proficiency took a while to develop. When the Astros started 15-30, and during some offensive droughts that were spread through the season, they routinely wasted great pitching performances by scoring one run or fewer. Though they had the eighth-best record in baseball during the regular season, if they prevail in the Series they will have done everything Aristotelians require to call them a champion, namely winning eleven postseason games.

So, by rooting for a participant in this year's World Series you're actually participating in a philosophical debate that has been argued for centuries.

Applying Greek philosophy to baseball may sound far-fetched, but actually it's quite appropriate. You see, Plato was quite a baseball fan, and the game inspired some of his most important ideas.

"Gee, Mr. Peabody, I didn't know that Plato watched baseball!"

"Why yes, Sherman. Surely you've heard of the...allegory of the dugout?"

The Eternal Sunshine of the Disheveled Shoebox

This is a story about a new kind of sports activism.

Back in 2001, the story of young Greg "Toe" Nash was gaining a lot of attention among gullible sports junkies, which is to say that he was all the rage in Daniel Lauve's Texas apartment. At first, Toe Nash sounded a lot like Sidd Finch, the Mets' barefoot Zen fireballer whom George Plimpton created for Sports Illustrated as an April Fools joke. (If you haven't read the story of Sidd Finch, then stop whatever you're doing and read it.) But Toe Nash, as revealed by Peter Gammons, was for real. He was a 6'6", 215-pound Little League phenom who had quit school and disappeared into the cane fields of Louisiana. When some scouts came to look at him, he hit monster homers from both sides of the plate and showcased his 95 mph fastball and drop-off-the-table curve. Once scouts from other teams had seen him, they spread the word that they had seen the next Babe Ruth. His talents were so good that his seventh-grade education and fear of civilization were seen as minor problems to be worked out.

Also in 2001, a newly-elected George W. Bush lowered the bottom marginal tax rate, giving me an extra $300 to play with. For some reason, I found myself in a place I hadn't been in several years: a baseball card shop, talking with the owner about her encounters with Stan Musial, Ozzie Smith, Willie McGee, and others. I decided to spend some of my rebate money on some baseball cards: $25 on an Albert Pujols rookie card, $1 on a Stan Musial/Mark McGwire card (the woman asked me if I was buying the card because of McGwire, and I said, "No, Musial," which prompted her trip down memory lane), and a few dollars on a Tampa Bay Devil Rays Toe Nash rookie card.

The Toe Nash card found its place at the bottom of some box and stayed there until the next year, when Toe's name came up once again. This time, he was arrested for aggravated rape of a 15-year-old girl. He pleaded guilty to the lesser charge of sex with a minor and spent eight months in prison. When I learned of the seriousness and credibility of the charges, I tore the baseball card in half and threw it in the trash.*

There was something very gratifying about disposing of that card. You've gotta understand that for a certain type of guy from a certain era (which has unfortunately passed), the baseball card is like a player's identity captured on cardboard. As funny as it may sound, when I threw away that card, I felt like I was erasing Toe Nash from baseball history.

As nice as that one act was, it was still just a single, solitary act. I wonder what would happen if a) many people had done what I did and b) the player for whom the "message" was intended actually received the message.

Imagine a prominent player, let's say Rafael Palmeiro, arriving at the clubhouse to find a huge sack of mail right next to his locker. He opens it, and out spill a few thousand cards bearing his image, sent in by thousands of fans who don't like the feeling they get in the pit of their stomach when they see Raffy's cards next to those of players they still respect and admire.

For a certain type of sports fan, I think this is a very powerful image. As an adult, I can accept that we speak logically about what Palmeiro did wrong and how MLB should respond, but that doesn't satisfy the 9-year-old in me. That kid can still tell you exactly what Raffy's 1987 Topps "Future Stars" card looks like (even though I haven't seen it in a few years and can't dig it up right now--it's in storage) and has an emotional reaction to the steroid controversy that's not satisfied by 10-game suspensions.

I'm proposing a very public, impactful, and cathartic form of sports activism. Every time a player is shown to have used steroids, he has his baseball cards returned to him from every fan who can't stand possessing them. And if I'm a young player a few lockers down from Rafael Palmeiro, that sight would send a much stronger message than anything I would see from Major League Baseball, or from the players' union, or in the media.

*Having gone back and looked at the current version of the Toe Nash story, I wonder whether I was justified in tearing up the baseball card. Nash claims that he and the girl had consensual sex, and the girl has established a record of inventing rape charges. Hopefully Nash, who was dropped by the Devil Rays, picked up by the Reds, and dropped by the Reds after an arrest for assault, can turn things around, though his baseball life is almost certainly over.