Freakonomics

Freakonomics, the new book by Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner, provides its readers a great set of tools in combatting our age of conventional wisdom and punditry. It's funny, subversive, and more than a little disturbing, but its lessons are quite useful.

People who have read James's Historical Baseball Abstract, Axelrod's The Evolution of Cooperation, and Herrnstein and Murray's The Bell Curve (which is probably nobody--I'm only two for three) will probably find that Freakonomics combines these three. Like Bill James, Steven Levitt has an uncanny knack for getting at the drivers of any phenomenon, and he is constantly drawing conclusions that fly in the face of conventional wisdom. (With James, these conclusions involve how to evaluate ballplayers; in Freakonomics they have to do with why crime rates rise and fall and how children become successful adults.) Like Axelrod, Levitt draws insightful conclusions about human behavior from piles of numbers. Like The Bell Curve, Freakonomics has occasionally wandered into the sensitive area of race and has been criticized for the methods underlying its conclusions.

Hardcore economists will probably be (and have been) disappointed by the book. The authors often leave aside the details of the methodology that produced their results, and they dwell on topics like correlation and causality and regression analysis, offering definitions that would be appropriate for people who are totally new to these concepts. Oh yeah, and the book's not even about economics.

I've found the book to be an excellent guide in avoiding some of the traps we all fall into. Though I'm familiar with correlation and causality, I (like most people) draw conclusions about causality when they are unwarranted, and Freakonomics helps train readers in thinking through causality more thoroughly. For instance: a child named Jake Williams will do better in life than a child named DeShawn Williams--does that mean that the name a child has matters in his development? Freakonomics shows that this is a pretty complex question.

Freakonomics is likely to follow in the proud footsteps of Good to Great and The Tipping Point, which is to say that it will be read in a lot of airport terminals by a lot men in blue shirts and sport coats for the next few months, only to be collecting dust on a bookshelf a year from now. Like any flavor of the month, you shouldn't use it as the basis for immediately changing the way you view the world, but neither should you forget its many great lessons when the next big thing rolls in.

It was 20 years ago today…

It's pretty jarring to think that this summer represents the 20th anniversary of my becoming a St. Louis Cardinals fan. I've been a Cards fan longer than I've been just about anything.

It's funny what's stuck with me about that 1985 season. I still remember the first game I ever attended with my dad at Busch Stadium, against the Phillies, where the guys in front of us kept making ridiculous bets with one another. I remember instructing my 2nd grade classmates on the spelling of John Tudor's name when we were composing fan mail in class. I remember Fredbird visiting our assembly at Chesterfield Elementary. I remember seeing Willie McGee patrolling center field in between Vince Coleman and Andy Van Slyke, which I still think is the greatest outfield I've ever seen. I remember thinking Coleman was the fastest human being on the planet. And I remember thinking Jack Clark was some sort of Colossus at the plate, even though his home run total of 22 is more than pedestrian by today's standards. I remember Tudor and Dwight Gooden going against each other with the division on the line when both had sub-2.00 ERAs. I remember envisioning the tarpaulin that ate Vince's leg as some sort of monster that lived under the Astroturf at Busch Stadium. I remember Ozzie's homer in game 5 of the NLCS, and Jack's in game 6. I remember wondering why my family wasn't watching game 7 of the World Series as it was still going on. I remember being dejected over the loss to the Royals but thinking how much would it matter because the Cardinals would go 101-61 and win the pennant every year from now on.

I don't know how good I'll be at updating this blog, but hopefully it will be a good place to park all the thoughts that don't quite fit elsewhere. I'm still trying to write for and update the SportsHistory website as much as I can. Look for future articles on the following:
- Coach John Gagliardi and his unique coaching style, which is an (almost certainly unintentional) acknowledgement of the fact that football teams are complex adaptive systems
- The ethics of professional participation in the Olympics
- Game theory and Cold War Olympic strategy
- Cricket: Friend or Foe?
- The St. Louis Rams: The Tech Bubble of the NFL
- A new way of scoring baseball games
- and a whole bunch more

Headed Home

Mumbai/Paris/New York/Cincinnati/Austin

I don’t know how they expect me to fly halfway across the world without a little TV monitor right in front of me. I actually did watch two movies on the plane, even though I had to watch them on the awkwardly placed common screens.

The Indian movie was bad. Really bad. For the sake of simplicity, I’m going to recount it in clichéd “boy meets girl” format:

Boy sees girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Boy finds out where girl lives. Boy goes to girl’s apartment. Boy professes love for girl. Girl does not reciprocate. Boy goes home dejected. Boy attempts suicide. Girl finds out that boy has attempted suicide over her. Girl decides to give boy a chance. Girl falls in love with boy. Boy and girl spend gobs of time together. Girl attempts suicide (scarf on the ceiling fan style—nice touch). Boy finds girl attempting suicide. Girl reveals that she is in debt. Boy robs bank for girl. Boy finds out girl is actually married to someone else and that she and her husband have schemed to get him to rob a bank for them. Boy plots revenge. Boy fights with girl’s husband. Girl dies.

My favorite part of the film was that not only were there two attempted suicides, which seems like a lot, the second of them was just a trick, the woman’s way of letting her fake boyfriend think she’s really desperate.

The other movie was Sideways, a movie that several of us were excited to see. But I think that everyone who watched it ended up somewhat disappointed. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best movie to watch in the middle of the afternoon on an airplane, but I still think that film critics must be chronically depressed human beings. If you create a movie where people just kind of trudge around through the molasses of their own introspective miserableness, you’ve got a cult hit and a critical masterpiece on your hands.

Our stopover was once again in Paris. You know, you hear a lot about people who go to Europe, and they come back hating the French. Well, I went to India, and I came back hating the French. And it wasn’t just me. We saw a lot of tourists in India (we were often mistaken for British or Australians), but the French tourists just seemed a little more annoying than the others. There was a big group of them at the hotel in Jaipur who seemed obnoxious, and ever since then it seemed that the people who were most likely to be irritating in some way were the French people.

In India you could get a Coke for 15 rupees, or about 30 cents. In the Charles de Gaulle Airport you can buy a Coke for about three Euros, which is about four dollars.

Many of us had pretty much the same experience flying into JFK. We were greatly anticipating being back on terra firma in the United States and not having to worry about the dirtiness, the smell, the way people treated you, the animals all over the place, and the way just about everything was substandard. As soon as we got into New York, the elevator didn’t work, some of the people were rude, and there were pigeons at the gate. Still, they were our animals and broken stuff and rude people.

Next stop: Cincinnati. We were greatly looking forward to Cincinnati because we had a four-hour layover and could have hamburgers and get our first glimpse of the NCAA Tournament. The burgers were good, and the tournament was better. I got to see the end of the Michigan St.-Kentucky game, which turned out to be a classic. It was a good game, but really it was good to be watching any kind of ballgame again in the United States. That’s when I really felt like I was back home.

It became obvious pretty quickly that not too many of the scheduled flights were making it out on time. Our flight was supposed to leave at a few minutes to nine, but we were pushed back gradually, and we didn’t actually leave until almost midnight. During our long wait, every one of us slept at one point or another. I taught Texas Hold ‘Em to Shinji and Lili.

When we finally got back to Austin, the entire airport was closed except for us. Shinji and I caught a cab back to Oak Park, and I spent about as much on that cab as I had on all of my rickshaw rides in India. And the cab ride didn't even raise my heart rate.

“You Call Him Dr. Jones, Doll!”

Udaipur/Mumbai

We flew out early this morning for Mumbai, where it all started. We got a hotel room on Juhu Beach and pretty much stayed there all day. I tried to watch the cricket match, but somehow we got stuck watching The Gangs of New York. I went down to the business center to watch the match and to send out an email of my journal entry from Sunday.

Today was when Holi really gets going. Out in the streets there were people just covered in powder, and in the airport on the way over here we saw people embracing as a way of spreading powder onto one another.

A bunch of us ate dinner together at the Chinese place in the hotel. It was great because it had a giant lazy Susan in the middle of the table, just like in Indiana Jones. I did my best Short Round impersonation.

The food of the day was the Thai fried rice I had for dinner. They had Thai chicken fried rice and they had veggie Pad Thai, but they didn’t have chicken Pad Thai. So Justin and I both asked for chicken Pad Thai. They brought it to Justin, but to white boy they brought just the chicken fried rice. Racists. Oh yeah, and Beth had them put jalapenos on our chicken and pineapple pizza at lunch, and that was pretty good, too.

A Good Friday

Udaipur

Today was a day of lasts. The last “real” day of vacation. The last palace. The last real Indian meal. The last butterscotch ice cream. The last cricket conversation with a native. And the last time I let somebody stick colored powder on the back of my head.

Today marked the start of Holi, which, as I understand it, is an ancient Hindu holiday whose purpose is to throw colored powder on Daniel Lauve. As we were walking through the streets of Udaipur we saw elephants walking through the streets and people putting colors on other people’s foreheads. I didn’t want any stuff being thrown on me, so I tried to avoid the guy who was sticking people. Apparently he was going to get me whether I wanted color on me or not, because he was still trying to put his fingers on my forehead even after I refused. I tried ducking underneath his hands, and he ended up getting me on the back of my head. Now there’s three fingerprints on the back of my head—it looks like the guy thought my head was a bowling ball. And I’ve got pink on my shorts and shirt because the powder is really fine and falls all over the place.

The city palace was nice. It could have used some better organization of the human beings going through the place, though. First off, our tour guide almost got us into a fight. He was already assigned to a group of Germans and then he picked us up, offering us some kind of group rate if he could take both of us around. The Germans got really upset at him and started yelling at him before storming off in a huff. A couple of them made faces at us, but they were really pissed at the guide. If I could talk to them, I’d tell them that he wasn’t worth making a fuss over. He kept getting crossways with other tour groups, which really was more a function of the fact that the path people took through the palace had people constantly running into each other.

For tonight’s sunset we went out to an old palace that has a great view of the city and the mountains that surrounded us on all sides. The view was amazing, and it was a great place just to sit around and hang out for a couple hours. Waiting for the sunset for a couple hours sounds kind of boring, but the two times we’ve been able to do that (here and the Taj Mahal) we’ve had some good conversation and a nice respite from the streets. And it doesn’t hurt to be surrounded by some of the greatest scenery in the whole world.

Dinner was another family style Indian meal out on the lake. We ate at a restaurant that had little alcoves that offered us a great view of the fireworks that were being shot off to celebrate Holi. I had my last butterscotch ice cream, which is something I’m going to miss. Jason joined us this time, and we had a great little meal eating without chairs at this short table.

The food of the day was the mixed vegetable dish we had for dinner. I wasn’t eating meat, so I made do with the veggie items, which was just fine. I also helped myself to a bunch of naan. Naan is pretty addictive in and of itself, but on the Rajasthan leg of the trip I’ve discovered cheese naan and butter naan, which I could eat a ton of.

License to Cow

Jodhpur/Udaipur

We were all wondering what to expect when we got to Udaipur. The last stop on our Rajasthan tour, it is usually characterized by the sun setting over a beautiful lake, but we had heard that the lake, the centerpiece of the town, had dried up. A couple disappointing monsoon seasons had left the lake extremely shallow, and we were told to temper our expectations.

The drive into Udaipur was filled with its share of bumpy roads as usual, but the last kilometer or so of the drive was completely unexpected. Our hotel was right along the “lake” and in the middle of a giant cluster of buildings, and we took a road that was barely wide enough to fit a single car. So when another car came the opposite direction, we were barely able to squeeze through.

The lake ended up being almost completely dry, but that’s okay. It was fun to see what’s happening with the dry expanse that used to be underwater. There were children playing cricket, people digging, and, of course, cows. That was remarkable to me—this area is potentially the most valuable property in town (the hotel that is supposed to be surrounded by water has 1500 rupee dinners and I’m sure the rooms are similarly expensive), but instead it’s just a well-placed commons. I know the town wants the lake back so that Udaipur can regain its picturesque quality, but I’m not going to be praying for rain. I kind of like the idea of children playing cricket on Udaipur’s dried-up tourist utopia.

Our first Udaipur sunset was spent on the city’s rooftops. Udaipur has all these great buildings that are a three or four stories tall and have restaurants or bars on their rooftops. Many of them show Octopussy every night at 7:00 p.m., since part of the James Bond film was filmed here. We had drinks on one rooftop and then had dinner and watched the sunset from another. We had a nice family-style meal that was a good survey of Indian food (it’s sad how little Indian food I’ve eaten in the last couple days). During the meal one of the elephants that was roaming down in the lake area let out an incredibly loud noise that made everyone take notice. On the way out I saw a sitar player and asked him if he knew “Boris the Spider” (for old time’s sake).

The food of the day could have been anything from our dinner tonight. I thought the chilli (that’s how they spell it) butter chicken was especially good.

Sports and Music, India Style

Jodhpur

On our way up to Mehrangarh Fort, somebody commented on how Jodhpur, the blue city, isn’t really all that blue at all. We found out otherwise once we got up to the fort—apparently all the houses have blue paint on only the sides facing the fort, so while you won’t see too much blue throughout the town you’ll see nothing but blue when you’re looking down on the city.

On our way out for the afternoon, I got out the cricket bat and ball and walked out on the lawn with Lili to play a little. As soon as our drivers saw what we were up to, they wanted in, too. We were in an area surrounded by hotel windows, so I told them to go easy, but apparently they weren’t listening. As soon as one got the ball in his hands, he was firing it as the batsman from about twenty feet away, usually sending it through the shrubs and out into the parking lot. I got a chance to throw at one of our drivers, and I got him to swing and miss. Unfortunately, he lost his grip on the bat and flung it all the way to a wall, where some of the bottom of it chipped off. I’m kind of pissed, but I guess it serves as proof that I’ve played cricket with a real, honest-to-goodness Indian.

Jodhpur is the Florida of India—it’s where autorickshaws go to retire. Everywhere else the rickshaws are small, cheap, and spry, but in Jodhpur they’re big, ornate, and slow. They really are sort of like Cadillacs compared to the other rickshaws we’ve seen. You don’t get the feeling that they’re going anywhere with a purpose; they’re just sort of running out their final kilometers in style.

We had dinner at the Taj Hotel. Justin, who must be trying to drop a crore in Jodhpur, was once again spending money like it was going out of style. He must have spent about a thousand on his prawns. But the best part of the dinner, even better than Justin’s prawns, was the sitar player who sat and played right next to us.

As soon as I saw a guy climbing onto the platform next to us with a sitar (he had a partner who played the tabla), I was giddy. I immediately asked him if he knew the Beatles. He said yes, and I requested “Within You Without You”. He said he didn’t know that one. I asked if he knew “Norwegian Wood” (the Beatles’ first sitar song), and he said he could play that one. Well, he could sort of play that one. All he did was play the first line over and over, with his own stylistic interludes to transition in between. I would have liked to have heard the whole thing, but what he played was really great.

After getting one request played, I started getting a little bolder. I requested “Boris the Spider,” which elicited a confused look, not only from the sitar player but from the people at my table, and later on I requested “Moon River” and “Mack the Knife”. He didn’t come close to knowing any of those. Justin requested John Denver and “Purple Rain,” and not only did he get shot down by the sitar man, but he also got his requesting privileges revoked by the rest of the table.

What the guy was able to play was half disappointing and half enjoyable. Sick of trying to guess what he could play, I asked him what he knew besides the Beatles, and he said he liked the Eagles. So he played “Hotel California,” which was again mega-truncated. He made what I think was an attempt at playing the Spanish guitar intro and then went right into the chorus, which he played over and over. The only other Western standard was Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” which I’m sorry to say he say he knew all the way through. So apparently there’s an inverse relationship between how good a song is and how much he knows of it. Except for songs that are actually from India. The indigenous songs he played were fantastic, I thought. He was able to play them with a greater richness than the Western songs (which makes sense—they were probably written for the sitar) and the songs themselves were very good. I don’t know that Indian music qualifies as “catchy,” but these songs definitely had pleasing melodies and were great just to be exposed to.

Professor Konana said that it would be easy getting around India because the people here speak English. Yeah, they speak English (most of the ones we interact with, anyway), but they don’t know English. I had the following conversation with a waiter recently:

“Do you have Fanta?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll have a Fanta...”

“We don’t have Fanta.”

Several people have had similar experiences. I’m not sure “yes” means what they think it does. They will often say things to acknowledge that they’re listening to you, and these things aren’t intended to be an answer to your question.

The food of the day was my main course at the Taj Hotel. After a disappointing French onion soup, they brought me something that might as well have been served for breakfast at Pete’s Place in Fayetteville, Arkansas. I forget what Indian description they gave it, but it was essentially hash browns (real hash browns) covered in cream gravy, mushrooms, and carrot slivers.