🔗 I Want To Focus On My Salad by Drew Magary

What a great power it is to make another person feel loved. There’s a world out there that you and I have little control over. America, in particular, is a problem I can never solve. But in my home, and in yours, there is another world. Smaller. More manageable. You can accomplish things in this world. You can change lives, even. It’s in this world where you’ll find true love, true progress, and true hope. Also, a good dinner.

Of the many Willie Mays tributes I read through today I, unsurprisingly, thought Ray Ratto’s at Defector was the best. 

Willie Mays, who died Tuesday at the richly merited old age of 93, was baseball itself, more than anyone else ever connected with the game. Not just the best player, which he was. Not just the most joyful great player, which he also was. Not only the most extravagantly gifted of all the five-tool players that played during the richest era in the game’s history, although he absolutely was that as well. He was baseball, period, full stop. 

Born in 1984, I never had the pleasure of watching Willie Mays play. As a lifelong, die-hard fan of the Pittsburgh Pirates, if given the opportunity to watch any player from the past I would choose Roberto Clemente. But there’s no doubt that Willie Mays would be the undisputed top choice among players who did not play for the Pirates. 

Here’s Ratto again. 

Mays was there at the moment when talent replaced race as the sport’s prime directive, when even the most recalcitrant segregationist owners finally found the time and financial inclination to teach their scouts color blindness; when the sport finally became what it could be, Willie Mays was something very like the living fulfillment of that promise.

Excited about this collaboration between Keanu Reeves and–of all people–China Miéville as covered in Wired. The books sounds great (though I refrained from reading anything past the spoiler warning), but I was most interested in the little glimpses into Miéville’s life and process.

Some highlights include this startlingly insightful theory about what defines “nerd culture.”

And, though 51, he still plays with toys. At one point I awkwardly gestured at this, and he told me, “I have a theory. One of the things that tends to distinguish nerds and their interests is, broadly speaking, that they have fidelity to their loves in a way that other people don’t. I don’t mean other people are unfaithful in a flibbertigibbety way, but! The stuff I was into when I was 4 is still the stuff I’m into. From as early as I can remember, it was sea monsters. Aliens …”

Further, I think Miéville perfectly summed up my own personal tastes in fiction over the last few years. What he’s interested in writing about is a direct analog to what I’ve found myself interested in reading (which includes Miéville¹ but also, in my opinion, other contemporary authors like Jeff VanderMeer and Ray Nayler).

He doesn’t write science fiction because he’s a communist or because he wants to bring about the revolution. Instead, he thinks of himself as pursuing “difference” within and across his books: “Alterity. That’s where my heart beats.”

This “alterity” is something that, since reading this article, I realized I’ve been seeking and finding in my favorite literature going back years. When I think of my favorite novels from McCarthy, DeLillo, and Faulkner, this “alterity” and the ways that affects the characters and plot is at the forefront of what I most enjoyed.

Read this article at Defector the other day and came away completely blown away by the whole idea of “reminiscence therapy.”

There’s light-centered therapy or music therapy [. . .] art therapy, which becomes ideal for some patients who might become more reluctant to talk as the disease progresses [. . .] But there’s also something called reminiscence therapy. The idea is that by recalling past events, usually those associated with happy times, dementia patients can be more cheerful and sociable. The phrase used a lot is “come out of their shells.”

Turns out, some enterprising folks associated with the Society for a American Baseball Research (SABR) are leveraging this tool to help dementia patients through the kinds of conversations that pretty much any baseball fan enjoys: ‘remembering some guys’¹.

The idea and the events have become so popular that they’ve now got a formal partnership with the Alzheimer’s Association. There’s even a site set up with resources to help start chapters in your area (https://sabrbaseballmemories.org/). Pretty cool stuff.

A shocking look at the inner workings at Boeing from Maureen Tkacic at The American Prospect.

Nine days after the stock reached its high of $440, a brand-new 737 MAX dove into the ground near Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, at nearly 800 miles per hour, killing 157 people on board, thanks to a shockingly dumb software program that had programmed the jets to nose-dive in response to the input from a single angle-of-attack sensor.

What will it take for corporations like this to start putting something–anything! safety! literal lives!–ahead of stock price?

Luke O’Neil has a way of putting his finger right on that thing about music or literature or whatever that’s so hard to pin down for so many of us. This is something I’ve been thinking about a lot as I’ve been back into reading so much more and have remembered again the way that the right song or album can completely turn a bad day good. From his newsletter today:

This probably applies to all of you – people in possession of human souls who have at least on occasion felt the divine in a work of art – but everything I write myself and everything I love to read or listen to or watch has one bedrock foundation to it which is this:

Oh my god I am alive right now and you are alive right now and someday we will not be but for the duration of this we are both stupidly and beautifully alive.

Please bear witness to my humanity and take some small portion of it for yourself.

From Defector’s Ray Ratto’s December 4th article “The 49ers Are Big Dom Now”:

But in whomping the Eagles and briefly incapacitating quarterback Jalen Hurts in to [sic] process, they also invoked the wrath of the Eagles' security chief, Big Dom DiSandro, a a restaurant refrigerator with ears who looks like he gets a royalty check every time someone says, “Philadelphia.”

Also from Ratto, in his “100 Wins Doesn’t Buy What It Used To”:

All playoffs must have a theme, no matter how flimsy–at least until a champion is crowned and everyone involved is promoted to Super Genius (trademark Wile E. Coyote). This postseason has its theme already: Because division winners are dropping like flies, the regular season has been reduced to six months of garbage and the character of baseball is destroyed. . .

The regular season doesn’t matter when you’re looking to define enduring excellence. This year was just its logical extreme–when 404 regular-season victories (Atlanta, Los Angeles, Baltimore, Tampa Bay) translated into one total victory in October. . . The mighty have sucked and the modest have been running the vacuum.

No sport has changed itself in the last decade more than baseball, and it will continue to do so in search of a younger generation that is abandoning sports in general as a viewing vehicle because all sports suck when watched on a phone. Increasingly expanded playoffs are just part of the price that must be paid in search of that dollar that can never be obtained. If this helps, think of the new format as a plunging neckline as established most assuredly by those trollops in Philadelphia. This isn’t the regular season being diminished, it’s just sexing up a game that used to be played in flannel.

One more Ratto, from “All Glory To The Beam":

Your time-honored allegiances are destroyed, and you are now Children of the Incarnate Beam.

I think that last one really captures what I love so much about reading Ray Ratto. No other writer made my laugh as consistently in 2023. It’s just a throwaway line in an intro about the wonderful story that was the Sacramento Kings, but it’s awesome.

Now for some non-Ratto sports quotes.

Many, many excellent quotes in Cody Stavenhagen’s run-down of Jim Leyland stories at The Athletic, published on the eve of Leyland’s induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Forgive me for quoting extensively, but this was probably my favorite article of the year in terms of the amount sheer joy received from its reading.

The man who met [Kirk] Gibson at the airport was the mustachioed 33-year old manager of the Class A Lakeland Tigers. Almost as soon as Gibson settled into the passenger seat, the manager about half his size starting tearing into him. “Gibson, you’re not s—!” the skipper said, and he was just getting going. “I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care how much they’re f—- paying you. You’re gonna be at the park at 8 every morning. You’re gonna get to work.”

The guy to call [for Leyland stories], outfielder Andy Van Slyke told [writer David O’Brien], was bench player Gary Varsho. “That was Jim’s voodoo doll,” Van Slyke said. Varsho had stories, all right. The first one he told was of the day he was traded to the Pirates in 1991. He was sitting at his new locker in the clubhouse when Leyland ran out of the manager’s office in his underwear. The coaching staff’s March Madness pool had been decided. “He’s got $20 and $50 bills hanging on his jockstrap,” Varsho told O’Brien. “He’s bouncing around saying, ‘Who won the basketball pool? Who won the pool, Varsh?’ I said, ‘Oh my god, this is our manager.'”

Here’s how Leyland tells the story of the day the Tigers signed him in 1964. Their scout came to the door in Perrysburg. Leyland’s father answered. “Mr. Leyland, we would like to sign your sogn for $1,000,” the scout said. “Sir,” Leyland’s father replied, “we don’t have that kind of money.”

A good Leyland tirade, Brandon Inge once said, could go 10 minutes. “He’d walk down the hallway still yelling, but you could hear his voice fading out down the hall. And then you’d hear him coming back and his voice getting louder. Everybody would go, ‘Sit back down. Here he comes again.'” Ryan Dempster tells a version in which Leyland came and went five times, then said, “I’m going to go into my office and have a whiskey and a cigar. If I come out in this locker room and there’s anybody sitting here when I come out, I’m calling the cops and having you arrested for impersonating a major league f–ing baseball player.”

[Sean] Casey had been traded from the Pirates to the Tigers the previous year. His first day with Detroit, Leyland pulled Casey into his office with assistant coaches Gene Lamont and Lloyd McClendon. Leyland went over some basics, then Lamont gave Casey a crash course on the team’s signs. At one point, Leyland interjected. “If you get on base, I don’t want you looking to third at Gen-o,” he told the slow-footed veteran. “I want you looking in the dugout. I want you to look at me. If I come to the top step of the dugout and we catch eyes, as soon as we catch eyes, if I jump up and never come back down, that means I want you to steal.”

Another of my favorite articles of the year was Drew Magary’s “Now That I Think About It, The Unwritten Rules of Baseball Are Actually Cool”, also at Defector.

I have complained about umps for the majority of my lifetime, to the point where the idea of replacing them with computers genuinely excited me. But sometime this fall, I realized that it’s the stupidity of baseball that makes it fun. I love seeing managers bump chests with umps. I love ejections. I love seeing batters give the home plate ump a dirty look after a bullshit called third strike. I live for the DRAMA.

And you know what? I even like all of the unwritten rules shit, too. That’s right. When I saw Adolis Garcia get beaned by Bryan Abreu in Game 5 of the ALCS, I was fucking riveted. Abreu plunked Garcia for having the temerity to spike his bat–also way cool–after homering off of Justin Verlander in his previous at-bat. Did tempers flare? Buddy, you know they did. Benches cleared. Stocky relievers came pouring out of the bullpens. Everyone got all up in everyone else’s business. I had stood against MLB’s bro code for so long that my opinion on it had become automatic: it was bad. All of the written rules should be written down. No one player should feel slighted because, in his mind and perhaps his alone, some other player lacked proper ethics.

But do I really want, like, a fucking discipline committee to legislate all this shit? The NFL already makes rules for everything. Do I want another sport to be like that? I don’t. We can keep the pitch clock, but otherwise, I’m all for anything that, justified or not, stokes visceral hatred between two teams and encourages frontier justice. I want more fake fights, more real fights, more beanings, more imaginary strike zones, more arguments, and more bases pulled out of the ground and thrown in anger. All of that is fun. All of that is baseball.

This year’s award for “Article Written Specifically to Align with Brett’s Personal Tastes and Interests” goes to Grant Brisbee, Rustin Dodd and Stephen Nesbitt of The Athletic in their August 21 entry entitled “MLB Power Rankings: Mariners, Dodgers see some gains; We make a team-themed ’90s playlist”, which included the following gem from Dodd.

Chicago White Sox

Record: 49-75 Last Power Ranking: 27

Track: “Undone (The Sweater Song)” by Weezer

There’s a history of clothing coming to pieces in Chicago. Not only that, Rivers Cuomo’s lyrics from this classic on Weezer’s debut album feel especially apt: “Oh no, it go, it gone, bye-bye.” In fact, as I type those lyrics, I feel like those lines could be repurposed into the greatest home run call in baseball history.

Let’s set the scene: It’s September in Chicago. Royals are in town for a series on the South Side. Dylan Cease throws a fastball to Bobby Witt Jr., who demolishes it to deep left. “Oh no,” Jason Benetti says, solemnly. “It go. It gone. Bye-bye.”

Steven Goldman at Baseball Prospectus wrote a fantastic article about baseball’s Opening Day with “Opening Day is Your Last Chance”.

As one who has struggled to control his weight for much of his life, I understand the potentiality and the pressure of Opening Day. When I was a child, every summer my parents would load me, my younger sister, and up to three cats into a mid-sized sedan and drive across America for more than a month, arriving home the night before my personal Opening Day, the first day of school–except for those years when something went wrong and we didn’t make it back in time. . .

Opening Day is your last chance. The first day is the last day. Initial impressions are often final impressions, and once your season has begun it’s usually too late.

Today, in his Welcome to Hell World newsletter, Luke O’Neil posted an impressive roundup of “musicians and music writers and other friends” takes on the top five Weezer songs of all time. I was not asked to participate because a) I am not a musician, b) I am not a music writer, and c) I am not a friend of Luke O’Neil’s (which, if this particular newsletter post is any indication, is a shame). But, never one to shy away from sharing my Weezer opinions with anyone who would listen (either willingly or unwillingly), I decided not to let that stop me from putting together my own contribution.

I started this list with about 20 songs that I consider my all-time favorites. From there, I tried to eliminate first the ones that I hold in such high esteem for purely or at least mostly sentimental reasons. I’ll write some of those up as honorable mentions later. So, in sticking to the prompt, here are what I consider to be the five best Weezer songs of all time.

5 - The Christmas Song This is kind of a stand-in for a whole mini-era of songs that Weezer released during their hiatus between Pinkerton and the Green album, but I think it’s the best of the bunch. I got super into Weezer at kind of an awkward time… I got extremely into the Blue album right after Pinkerton was released (I’d of course heard the singles but got the CD for Christmas ‘97 and fell completely in love. I got into Pinkerton then at some point maybe a year after, but by the time I was completely obsessed with Weezer, they’d already been through the failure of that sophomore album and Matt had already left the band and they had kind of disappeared. As it happens, this was also around the time that I had my first access to the internet at home. This opened up a whole world of lore building and mythologizing around my new (and first) favorite band. The message boards were on fire with speculation about whether they would return and discussions of what was so great about the first two albums, etc. Weezer included an amazing cover of Velouria on the Pixies tribute album in 1999, then, in the summer of 2000, some demos and live recordings (collectively known as the “Summer Songs of 2000” started showing up on those message boards (“Too Late to Try” is the first I remember hearing, which was in my original list of 20, but didn’t make the final cut). It was an extremely exciting time in Weezer fandom as we realized then that there would be more new music from Weezer, but the recordings weren’t the best quality, and while it was thrilling to have new music, none of these songs really hold up or stand out in the overall Weezer catalog. But The Christmas Song, released at the end of 2000 for KROQ’s annual Christmas compilation, does stand up against the very best of Weezer¹.

4 - Jamie Incredible song. I picked it up on the DGC Rarities, Vol. 1 CD where I was first introduced to Teenage Fanclub. Like The Christmas Song, this is the chosen representative of a group of songs, in this case the Blue- and Pink-era B-sides. If this were a list of the 20 best Weezer songs, all of the B-sides from the Blue and Pink eras would be on the list, but since it’s just five, Jamie is my favorite of the bunch, at least today.

3 - My Name is Jonas I can’t think of an opener that’s better than this one. The perfect song to open my favorite album of all-time. The awesome finger-picked acoustic intro (shoutout to Jason Cropper for appearing in 2/5 songs on my top 5!), the build up to “THE WORKERS ARE GOING HOME” and the harmonica sneaking in there. What a song. And I don’t think there’s anything else quite like this one in the whole Weezer catalog.

2 - El Scorcho Lyrics are pretty uncomfortable in retrospect (Pinkerton, in general), but that chorus is just perfect and so so singable. This is driving in my first car – a powder blue 1986 Chevy Celebrity – singing at the top of my lungs.

1 - Holiday / Only in Dreams I cheated! BUT, it’s really the way these two fit together that I love so much. The end of Holiday–“Let’s go away, let’s go away in a heartbeat…"–into that bass line of Only In Dreams is probably my favorite minute-or-so stretch of music I’ve ever heard. Just as the blue album has a perfect opening, it’s got the perfect closing.

From Hamilton Nolan:

But when you think about it a little it becomes clear that the people who fancy themselves as the captains of the ship are actually the wood-eating shipworms who are consuming the thing from inside until it sinks.

Yesterday, Commissioner Rob Manfred held a press conference following the MLB’s owners meetings. This has, of course, been covered pretty thoroughly by the usual baseball writers and I continue to grow more appalled every time I read a new iteration of that coverage.

First, Keith Olbermann worked it into the sports segment of his daily Countdown podcast, in between his latest takes on the Trump indictment. This, I found fitting because, while Rob Manfred has certainly not done as much damage to something so important as the United States of America as has Trump, he continually forces the comparison (at least in my mind) with his repeated smugness and apparent disdain for the people he claims to serve. And, while he has not accounted for any real or imagined damage to the nation (that I am aware of, anyway), every time Manfred speaks publicly I again feel that same feeling in the pit of my stomach that I felt throughout Trump’s presidency and that I again feel every time a new revelation comes to light outlining the myriad and despicable ways he abused the power of that office: a mixture of disgust at watching something I love so much being destroyed from the inside by someone who claims to be helping and a powerlessness to do anything to make it stop.

That said, there is one clear difference between Manfred and Trump, and that is the cause of the hopelessness part of the feeling I described. With Trump, that hopelessness was caused by the fact that so many folks around me–including many, many people who I otherwise hold (or held) in high esteem or who were, for all intents and purposes, normal insofar as I consider myself relatively normal–were seemingly participating in a version of reality that was altogether different from mine. This person, who was repeatedly saying the most vile, ignorant things imaginable and repeatedly proving himself to be unfit for the both the office of president and for life in civilized society, was somehow appealing to these folks. I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand that appeal (and every plausible explanation is too simple and depressing to dwell on for too long). And that inability (or unwillingness) to understand led to that hopelessness. If I had so misunderstood so many of my friends and colleagues, how could I hope to convince them that my way of seeing the world was in fact the correct one? If we we’re essentially experiencing different realities and speaking different metaphorical languages, what hope was there of finding a common ground or of making sure things were better the next time around?

With Manfred, that hopelessness is entirely different. All the normal people in my life–friends and family, colleagues, baseball writers, etc.–think this guy sucks. From baseball fans, at least, it’s nearly universal agreement and this guy is an awful person hell bent on making baseball worse. So, it’s nice to feel like I’m experiencing the same reality as my peers, but it’s no help when the commissioner of baseball is not elected by my (or really anyone else’s) peers; his power is not awarded by us normals, but by the owners, and the owners have a lot more in common with Trump than with any “normal” people by any definition. But I’ve got the same chance of wresting control of baseball from the owners as I do of ever understanding Trump’s appeal to so many.

Anyway, the second recap of these Manfred comments that got me wound up enough to write a blog post was the incomparable Craig Calcaterra at his excellent Cup of Coffee substack. I’m going include a lengthy excerpt because Craig says it all so well.

Evan Drellich of The Athletic faithfully transcribed the Q&A with the press. I’ve been writing about baseball and the crappy men who run it for a long time now and even I was shocked by just how horrible Manfred came off.

Here he is talking about how Major League Baseball, which Manfred claims prefers teams to not move, has come around to being OK with the Athletics moving:

I feel sorry for the fans in Oakland. I do not like this outcome, I understand why they feel the way they do. I think that the real question is, what is it that Oakland was prepared to do? There is no Oakland offer, OK? They never got to a point where they had a plan to build a stadium at any site. And it’s not just John Fisher. You don’t build a stadium based on the club activity alone. The community has to provide support and you know, at some point, you come to the realization, it’s just not going to happen.

This is objectively false. There was an all-but-done deal with Oakland to build a stadium at Howard Terminal. It was a hell of a lot closer to being done than anything in Las Vegas at the time. The A’s broke off negotiations with Oakland, however, not because they weren’t getting an offer on a stadium deal but because one was imminent, it was quite clearly going to be a much better offer than anything Las Vegas was offering, and would’ve, in fact, been much better than what the A’s eventually got in terms of public money to be spent and out-of-pocket expectations for John Fisher. It’s an offer that, once official, would’ve been very hard for the A’s to turn down and still leave town, that’s for sure.

The problem was that if Oakland’s offer was hanging out there, waiting for the A’s to accept or reject it, it would screw up Fisher and Kaval’s “Oakland doesn’t want us here" rebop that, in their minds, justifies the move. And yeah, the fact is that they, and Major League Baseball, want the A’s to be in Las Vegas, not Oakland, full stop. They want the close associations with the gambling industry, they want the glitz and glamor that comes with it, they think they have an opportunity to make massive amounts of money by virtue of corporate partnerships, and I suspect Fisher and Kaval themselves believe they will stand to benefit far more personally from the relocation than they would if the A’s stayed in Oakland. It’s their business, of course, and if they want to make decisions like that they can make decisions like that. They just didn’t want to say it out loud and now they’re weaving lies in order to trash Oakland and rewrite history to cover for it. It’s a horrible look.

Manfred was then asked if he was aware of Oakland fans’ “reverse boycott” on Tuesday night, when fans showed up to protest the team’s imminent move to Las Vegas and show their support. See if you can detect the shitty sarcasm:

It was great. It’s great to see what is, this year, almost an average Major League Baseball crowd in the facility for one night. That’s a great thing.

If you’re the Commissioner of Major League Baseball and you’re finding yourself giving quotes gleefully shitting on passionate baseball fans who were desperately trying to keep their team in town, you may want to ask yourself what in the actual fuck your problem is. Tuesday night’s showing in Oakland was one of the coolest and most inspirational fan moments in recent memory. It was a genuine show of love and support on the part of baseball fans who, despite likely knowing the gesture would be futile, wanted to express their love for their team. And then in wades Manfred with this shitty and backhanded wisecrack. I’d call him a turd in the punchbowl, but I have too much respect for turds to tar them with such a disparaging association.

Manfred was then asked about whether he sees it as his job to help baseball owners get public funding for stadiums. He kinda dodged for a moment but then said “it is in fact good business to have a public-private partnership to get those facilities built.” This was the followup question and answer:

How do you reconcile that there’s a large volume of academic studies that say these stadium subsidies do not produce positive benefit?

I love academics, they’re great. I think, take the areas where baseball stadiums have been built, OK? Look at what was around Truist Park before that was built. Look at the area around Nationals Park before it was built. I lived in that city. You know, academics can say whatever they want. I think the reality tells you something else.

Rob Manfred is not a dumb man and he knows better than this. He knows what the studies say and that just because there are shiny new buildings near a ballpark that it does not mean that public subsidies have created a net benefit. Indeed, he has hired bought-and-paid-for-experts to try to combat those studies when it suits him and he’s never been able to do so convincingly. The fact is that Rob Manfred is simply an asshole who has contempt for everyone except the 30 men who pay his salary so he has no trouble whatsoever spouting anti-intellectual claptrap like this which he knows to be false. Doing so helps him get past a question he doesn’t want to answer and ingratiates him to his employers, so he does it.

Manfred was then asked if he thinks Oakland fans will or should support the A’s once they move.

I hope so. I hope that they stay baseball fans, whatever they decide to affiliate with. Again, I’ll say it again: the piece of this particular series of events that’s the most disturbing to me is the idea of fans that have supported the team losing a team. We hate that idea.

Yeah, he hates it so much that a mere three minutes prior he was making fun of A’s fans for showing up and supporting their team. So you know it’s a totally genuine sentiment.

No matter how hard Manfred tries to be ambassadorial — and he tries less these days than he used to when he first got the job — he’s actually a petty and unpleasant little man. It comes through fairly often, but it’s been a minute since he packed this much slimy, disingenuous crap into one public appearance. It was a truly bravura performance.

Rob Manfred is a bad guy all around. Many in the game knew that already, but it’s remarkable how little he tried to hide it yesterday.