Baseballhead:
Make 'Em Laugh

Michael Cox

Howdy, pod'ner! Welcome to Baseballhead, where we're still waiting for Tim Kurkjian to mention Edgar Martinez just once without also mentioning that "he sometimes takes batting practice with a batting doughnut on his bat!"

Whee-doggies, it's been a busy weekend!

The big story, as you well know, is that it's the 50th anniversary of Eddie Gaedel's debut as a St. Louis Brown. Gaedel was a midget signed by the legendary Bill Veeck to bat once and once only as a publicity stunt, because the wise Veeck understood Rule #28 of Entertainment: Midgets Are Funny.

Even today, when people remember the second Austin Powers movie, they completely block out the genius that was Fat Bastard in favor of the cheap jokes that accompanied Mini-Me ("Why don't you and the "laser" get a frickin' room?"). And how about Michael Jordan's new TV ads? I'd bet that the pitch meeting for those went something like this...

(Scene: an ad agency somewhere in LA)

JORDAN: You're not going to have people talking about my underwear again, are you?

AD MAN: Er...

JORDAN: Because I don't want no more people talking about my underwear.

AD MAN: Okay, Mike.

JORDAN: Especially guys. That's just nasty.

AD MAN: Alright, babe, message received. The idea is,...er,...how about a midget?

JORDAN: Hawww, hee heee heee, haw, haw, chortle! Heeeeeee haw haw haw, hawwwww! (Sharp intake of breath) Hooooooo!

AD MAN: Hee, hee.

JORDAN: A midget?? Uhh... Heeeee, hee, he heeeheeheeheeheeheehee!

AD MAN: Tissue?

JORDAN: Thanks.

Getting back to Gaedel, in his one appearance he walked, thus ending his major-league career with an OBP of 1.000. Veeck went on to run his innovative promotions in Chicago, then passed on the wacky gene to his son, Mike.

Unfortunately, Mike Veeck's career got off to a shaky start when he fell afoul of Rule #523 of Entertainment: Blowing Stuff Up in Front of Drunk, Rowdy Chicagoans is Just Asking for Trouble. He did recover, though, eventually buying the independent St. Paul Saints and getting a chance to establish his own Rule #8645: People Are Mildly Amused by Darryl Strawberry.

Item: The past weekend's Mariners-Yankees series was one of the most hyped of the season, calling it a "playoff preview" up until the M's took the series like almost every other they've played this season.

Sample about-face:

"Derek Jeter and the New York Yankees didn't take long to show the Seattle Mariners who the World Series champions are." -- Associated Press, after the Yankees took Friday's game 4-0.

"The Mariners know that they can't truly validate their remarkable season until October." -- AP again, this time after the Mariners' 10-2 Sunday victory.

The thing is, the Mariners should know that their season is valid whether or not they win a single postseason game, especially in the age of the wild card. The postseason is as much luck as skill, a fact with which the Yankees should be well acquainted. If not for two separate but identical fat Arthur Rhodes pitches to David Justice (the second of which even mollusks knew Justice was looking for) in last year's ALCS, the Yankees would not be the reigning World Champions.

No, as always, the regular season defines the best teams in baseball -- the postseason is an addendum. Since the wild card, only twice have the two teams with the best records in their respective leagues played each other in the World Series -- exactly the same number of times the Wild Card has shown up in the Fall "Classic." The Yankees had the ninth-best record in MLB last year before they parlayed six months of second-division-level play into another title.

And while I'm here, what's with this "reigning champions" crap? The Yankees are now last year's champions. Miss America reigns. She has duties to fulfill over the course of the entire year after her crowning. She'll even be there to crown the next Miss America. If the Yanks don't make it to the Series, half of 'em will be at Disney World and the other half will be eating a zesty coq au vin with their agent. They aren't touring impoverished nations as representatives of baseball. They aren't cutting the ribbons on new utility bill payment centers.

Why? Because their slate was wiped clean on April 1. They're now past world champs, just like the '97 Marlins, '48 Indians, and Connie Mack's 1930 Philadelphia A's. There isn't anything wrong with that, but the point is that the past isn't the present. If it was, I'd have some damn good stock tips for myself.

From the Knucklehead Desk: The good news is that Carl Everett will be punished for grabbing his crotch and spitting at Jamie Moyer last week. The bad news is that it won't be by the Red Sox. I would hate to be the children of Dan Duquette or CEO John Harrington, whose actions (or lack thereof) whenever Everett erupts make me wonder if they have even basic parenting skills. "Mr. Duquette, officer Durkee and I apprehended your son in the act of setting a nun on fire."

"I don't see the problem, officer."

Of course, Duquette has better things to do, like being rejected by any managerial candidate with a brain. Felipe Alou, who doesn't have much going these days, told reporters he turned the Sox down flat. Who knows who else was asked (although likely not Davey Johnson, due to the "must be easily manipulated by the GM" requirement that accompanies the Boston position).

But I digress. The best part of Everett's punishment is another sign that MLB headmaster Frank Robinson is beginning to get it right: Moyer was neither suspended nor fined for plunking Trot Nixon's best friend, likely because the pitch that hit Everett was almost a strike.

Mike Sweeney's ten-game penalty box stay for acting like a drunken fratboy was another good call, and Sweeney was intelligent to just serve the time and try to get it out of the way. An indication that Robinson still requires a marble or two: Tigers pitcher Jeff Weaver was fined for yelling at Sweeney, even though no one can reliably state exactly what it was he yelled.

Jayson Stark Memorial Useless Stat of the Week: With his dinger on Sunday, Sammy Sosa has now homered every August 19th since 1995. (Side note: in 1994 there was no August 19th.) Be sure to tune in here in exactly one year to see if he can keep this amazing streak alive!

Wrap Your Head Around This One™: Rey Ordoñez has been intentionally walked 13 times this year. That ranks 11th in all of MLB. More than Luis Gonzalez, who has personally touched more bases with his feet than almost any man on the planet. More than Jim Thome, who's wanted in eight states for murdering innocent baseballs. More than Larry Walker, Lance Berkman, and Juan Gonzalez combined.

Now, on the face of it, you might wonder (as I did) why any opposing manager would want to face the kind of ridicule that must come with intentionally walking a man whose current OPS is a mere .606. Well, as it turns out, there's a good reason -- Mets pitchers have a collective OPS of .183, and with Ordoñez a perpetual number-eight hitter, guess who always hits next? I'll admit I haven't looked too hard for another NL team that comes close to those abysmal depths of futility (even for pitchers), but after checking several I began to doubt I could find one.

If I were Rey (and I am glad I am not), I'd be threatening not to leave Steve Phillips' office until he traded me to Colorado (.526 pitchers' OPS), because the obvious reason for my hitting problems is a lack of protection, and not the previously suggested utter inability to hit.

From the Knucklehead Desk, Again: The music and effects operator in AAA Nashville was fired last week for playing Carl Douglas' "Kung Fu Fighting'' when a Korean opposing batter stepped up to the plate. Earlier he played David Bowie's "China Girl" for the same hitter.

Of course, in true DJ wannabe fashion, Brian Kirsch was unrepentant about his selection in music: "I don't know that that was any more offensive to him than anything else I've played for any of the other guys...My job was to push the envelope, unbalance the other team and entertain the crowd. I don't regret anything I did." Get a load of him -- he's a regular Howard Stern!

The job of a ballpark employee is not, I repeat, not to "push the envelope." If I could banish one team employee from every ballpark in America, without question it would be the ballpark DJ. Why is it that the only people on the face of the earth who sincerely believe that "Y.M.C.A." is still a crowd-pleaser are also the ones in control of the music? Sure, six-year-olds love to do the little dance, but then again, they like Barney. (Oh God, I hope I haven't given those morons an idea.)

One final thing Kirsch added to try and vindicate himself: "My wife is from Thailand."

In other words, in addition to having no sense of taste, he's saying that despite having an Asian spouse, he still sees nothing wrong about playing American songs about Chinese people as a Korean batter digs in?

This, my friend, is why I realized at the age of 19 that I didn't want to be a disc jockey after all.

about the author

Truth be told, Michael Cox finds it much easier to be a rock critic, primarily because it allows him to use such underutilized words as "maudlin" and "gormless." Explain that Lester Bangs' excuse was that he was always high at mc@strikethree.com.