moneyball — how can you not be romantic about baseball?

As the Yankees have once more made it to the post-season — they are currently battling for the pennant in the American League Division Series — a recent viewing of Moneyball, starring Brad Pitt, seems extremely appropriate. As a die-hard born-and-bred Yankees fan I might not be expected to be the major audience for this film, but Moneyball isn't just a condemnation of the "sport of millionaires." The Yankees do come in for a lot of finger-pointing, as a prime example of a major league team that also has major league bucks at their disposal to fill their rosters with the best players that money can buy. The Boston Red Sox also gets mentioned quite a bit. But Moneyball isn't just about the money. It's about a new way of looking at baseball.

Pitt plays Billy Beane, general manger for the Oakland Athletics. He's divorced, with a young daughter he'd like to spend more time with, if he wasn't always on the road. He's also haunted by his lackluster career in major league baseball — he never lived up to his promise as a player, and seems determined to bring the A's the success he never had. The movie begins with the A's losing the pennant in 2001 to the Yankees — they came so close to making it to the World Series. But close doesn't cut it in baseball. To add insult to injury, three of their best players, and also free agents — Jason Giambi, Jason Isringhausen, and Johnny Damon — are also immediately scooped up by bigger teams, the Yankees, the Cardinals, and the Red Sox, respectively.

Based on journalist Michael Lewis’s 2003 book, Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game, the film chronicles how Beane tried to reassemble his team from the ashes. It's clear to Beane that the old way of doing business won't work, except to keep them at the bottom of the barrel. He isn't sure exactly what to do instead, but he knows he can't keep listening to the old-school, old guy scouts talking up the few players that they can afford.

"There are rich teams, and there are poor teams. Then there's 50 feet of crap. And then there's us."

He isn't sure, that is, until he meets Peter Brant (a character standing in for Paul DePodesta, who didn't want to lend his name to the film, but since everyone knows that the character of Brant is basically DePodesta, why bother playing coy?), played by Jonah Hill, in his best work to-date. A Yale grad who majored in economics, Brant helps Beane use statistics (sabermetrics) to find players that are overlooked because they lack marquee value, but have one thing in common — they get on base — a lot.

"Your goal shouldn't be to buy players. Your goal should be to buy wins. In order buy wins, you need to buy runs."

One of the most interesting aspects of Moneyball is how it takes the audience behind-the-scenes, not just into the locker room, but into Beane's office, and frequently, into his head. The camera closes-in on Pitt, so close you can practically count his eyelashes, watching him, waiting for his cork to pop. And it frequently does, as flashbacks to his time on a variety of teams shows — Billy Beane had a temper and like McEnroe, frequently let it rip. Director Bennett Miller effortlessly moves between scenes on and off the field, from Beane's athletic past to his present.

Beane's short fuse also fuels his ambition and business tactics. One of the best scenes in the film has him dancing between phone calls with other major league teams, negotiating a trade of players, with Brant feeding him names as he flips back and forth effortlessly from one manager of a team to the other.

What is really intriguing as one watches Moneyball is the realization that it is a sports movie that isn't only about winning. It doesn't follow the tried-and-true underdog-comes-from-behind narrative. Beane wants to change the way the game is put together before it is even played. He knows how unlikely it is that his team will ever be on a level playing field, but he wants to at least give his team a chance to play with the big boys. And he did. The trouble is that after the A's put their stats technique into practice and had a miraculous (for them) year in 2002, the rest of major league baseball followed their lead and put their analytics into practice, including the Boston Red Sox, who also still had the bigger bankroll. Some things in baseball changed, but some things didn't.

But as Billy Beane says, towards the end of the film, "How can you not be romantic about baseball?" The A's may never be able to assemble a team with the sorts of players whose individual salaries exceed the A's entire payroll. But they are still going to play baseball. With all of the numbers involved, the game is still played by people. Baseball evokes passion and emotion, from the fans, the owners, the managers, the players. Moneyball is romantic about baseball, which is great.

the baseball: stunts, scandals, and secrets beneath the stitches

Article first published as Book Review: The Baseball: Stunts, Scandals, and Secrets Beneath the Stitches by Zack Hample on Blogcritics.

If you didn't know what a juiced baseball was before picking up The Baseball: Stunts, Scandals, and Secrets Beneath the Stitches by Zack Hample, you sure will by the time you finish it. Famous ballhawk Zack Hample recounts loads of fun facts and figures about the baseball. The actual ball, not just the sport, in case you were confused about the title. Hample may go on a bit too long about the ins and outs of the history of the manufacture of the balls, down to weight in fractional ounces. But there are so many fun stories interspersed throughout that you can excuse his obsessive need to share the almost moment-by-moment evolution of the major league baseball.

I found quite interesting that the baseball, taken for granted by most fans, except in their desire for a souvenir, has been a constant source of controversy in relation to how games are scored and players are performing. With all the steroids scandals in recent years it was interesting to learn that similar scandals have always plagued the sport — many centered on the actual ball and if it was up to standards.

Hample takes the reader inside the Rawlings Costa Rican baseball production factory — apparently a  top-secret operation. He also relates the interesting story of Albert Spalding, a pitcher in the early days of the baseball (1871), who retired from the sport in 1878 to build his business in sporting goods. He was a ruthless businessman and pretty much created a monopoly to produce the balls and other sporting equipment. The Spalding company bought out every major competitor, including Rawlings. But the contract to produce major league baseballs was transferred suddenly to rival Rawlings in 1976. Why? Was Spalding still involved somehow in baseball production? Hample doesn't tell us, which is odd, considering his ability to cram in so many facts and figures elsewhere in the book, and especially since he got us interested in mid-nineteenth century business practices and the history of the company in the first place.

But there are plenty of other fun stories, such as Pete Rose and the "rabbit" ball. For the 1978 All-Star Game Rose had his National League teammates use Japanese baseballs during batting practice (they'e smaller than major league balls, so travel farther) and the hapless American Leaguers watched as their rivals whacked them out of the park. The American League players couldn't understand why their batting practice was so lackluster in comparison (Rose and his comrades had removed all the Japanese baseballs after their practice.) The psych-out trick must have worked because the National League won the game, 7-3.

Baseball is a sport that inspires passion — players for the sport, fans for their teams, but also passion towards the minutia, the statistics. There are many who are fascinated by the science of baseball. Hample is definitely one of those people thrilled by the details and crazy lore of baseball and baseballs. And he's not alone. Stunts like dropping baseballs out of airplanes, blimps, and off the Washington Monument, all to see if a player could catch them — and this was before players wore gloves — have been going on since the late 1800s.

Another interesting story he recounts is about baseball mud — actual mud that is collected and rubbed onto every major league baseball, to make the ball's surface better for pitchers, have less glare and provide better contact for batters ... mud from some undisclosed creek in New Jersey — who knew?

Hample is best known for his ability to snag a ball at a game. He has caught more than 4,600 major league baseballs and is happy to help others get started doing the same. The second part of the book focuses on his tips for walking home from a major league game with at least one baseball. Many of his tips are just common sense, like getting to the park early for batting practice, as you'll have a better chance snagging a ball in an empty-ish stadium. And be the last to leave, same reasoning. Sort of the opposite of party etiquette, but you're there to get a free baseball, not drink tea. Some of his strategies seem a little crazy — spending the game on your feet, running from seating section to section in potential pursuit of a fly foul ball or home run, based on whether the hitter is a right- or left-handed batter. Odds are, left field is your best bet, if you're planning on watching the game on the run. Not my idea of a good time, but maybe that's me. I come from a family of longtime Yankees fans and when we go to a ballgame we're there to watch it — some of us maybe even to keep score. Also, when I was a kid and attended my brother's first little league game I happened to be standing in the perfect spot behind the batting cage for a foul pop-up to hit me on the top of my head. I wasn't injured, just embarrassed, but when I see a ball heading for the stands my tendency is to still cover my head, letting all the ballhawks make their leaps and stretches for the souvenir ball.

But whether you intend to put Hample's ball-snagging techniques to the test or not, The Baseball is an entertaining read. He stretched my credibility with his homemade ball-scooper — until he showed his step-by-step photos to making your very own from some string, a mitt, and a sharpie. Don't believe me? Check out page 224. It's not that it seems impossible to make a baseball-grabbing tool, just a little nutty that he would go ahead and use it at a major league ballpark. But that's how you get over 4,600 souvenir baseballs and counting.

saturday afternoon baseball

Today we went to see the Florida Marlins play the Atlanta Braves.



As a dyed-in the-wool Yankees fan, it was hard at first to think of going to a ballgame with no Yankees involved, but it turned out that there were some appearances by ex-Yanks . . .



The kid had a great time, documenting the impending rain clouds.



Maybe not so great a time after the rain actually showed up . . .



The Marlins almost blew a 6-0 lead by letting the Braves tie it up and walking home two runs. All looked bleak as the game headed into extra innings and then got bleaker after one player got beaned by a foul ball while on deck. But two hits later the Marlins finally won the game. Such high drama—it was almost like a Yankee game after all.

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not just an inheritance, but a birthright

At 7:57 PM ET this evening the Yankees will, I hope, take the field for the game that will sew up the World Series. If they don't, they will have one more shot, as my daughter tried to reassure me on Monday, "It's OK if the Phillies win, Mommy, because the Yankees still have another chance." I applaud her positive outlook, but I will have to reinforce at some point that it is never OK if the (insert other team's name here) win. This is the Yankees. My team since birth and beyond.

Saturdays at my house growing up were a late breakfast/lunch (basically when my dad got up and went out to get eggs, bacon or sausage, and hard rolls—he always shopped for each day, not for the week ahead) and the inevitable ball-game on television. My brother and I would be playing outside or in our rooms, and whenever we would breeze through our dad would tell us what Thurman Munson or Catfish Hunter or Bobbie Murcer were up to and who was winning. Most of the time it wasn't the Yankees. I learned to keep score at a young age and different baseball card flipping games that my dad must have mastered in his childhood in the Bronx. The Yankees were his team, and by extension ours, too. We lived in New Jersey, still close enough to drive up for a special day at Yankee Stadium. We never got any sports items from shopping at the Ocean County Mall. We attended Ball Day, Hat Day, Bat Day. I wish I still had my Roy White baseball bat...

It's easy to hate the Yankees, because they represent the whole New York attitude of being the center of the universe. They have all that money and talent at their disposal. But no one gets madder at the Yanks than a true fan, who watches in exasperation as Alex Rodriguez (I will not call him A-Rod anymore) fans that last pitch for a strikeout, or Jorge Posada drops that ball as someone slides into home plate. I can still hear my dad's voice calling them "bums" or his generation's A-Rod (used descriptively, not specifically), Reggie Jackson, who when he struck out or committed some equally heinous non-winning act, earned the moniker along with the rest of his team, "a spoiled bunch of millionaires."

As my wise-beyond-her-years little girl seems to know, there will be another game, if not tomorrow—next season—so a true fan forgives the bobbles and errors and sheer inability to get on base and comes back for more.

But I'd prefer that they win tonight. C'mon Yanks.

rumble in da bronx

I've been going (or been taken) to Yankee Stadium since I was a kid.

All sorts of memories.

Of a streaker who disrupted a game.

Of some ticket snafu which, after my dad said he was a newspaperman, got us down into the clubhouse where we got to meet a player and get the autographs of ball players not playing the first game of the double-header (Thurman Munson!)

Bat day, hat day, ball day.

Seeing them at Shea when the stadium was being renovated.

In college, taking the subway up to the Bronx - it took FOREVER.

Seeing them in Florida at a Spring training game. Seeing them on the road, in D.C., Baltimore.

Some of the coolest players ever.

Roy White. Thurman. Bobby Murcer. Ron Guidry. Catfish Hunter. Reggie Jackson, Dave Winfield, Paul O'Neill.

Hearing my dad talk about the stars of his day.

DiMaggio. Rizzuto.

The Yankees are more than just a team to my family and me. It's part of our background. Our Noo Yawk roots.

I just hope they can preserve the white trim.