If one thing above and beyond his pitching ability marked Dennis Eckersley’s career, it was accountability. Surrender a game-ending bomb to a Dodger batter who was lucky he didn’t need to swing from a wheelchair in the first game of a World Series? Eckersley didn’t shrink. Nobody said baseball was simple. Dennis the Menace would have called that person a liar.
Michael Morse has more than a few reasons for pride in his baseball career. And a few reasons to look back in amusement. Now he may have a reason to look back in dismay, at least to Memorial Day, when a teammate launched a brawl that may cost him his career.
Nobody including Morse says its anyone’s fault but his, when he poured in from first base to join his mates and collided with pitcher Jeff Samardzija, a pregnant pause after Hunter Strickland was stupid enough to drill Bryce Harper on the right hip with malice aforethought, over a two-and-a-half-year-old home run.
Has any fall from grace in the past two or three years been as profound and sad as Pablo Sandoval’s? Maybe this year’s collapse of his former Giants qualifies. Maybe.
The Red Sox have designated Kung Fu Panda for assignment—while he was already down on the farm at Pawtucket rehabbing after an inner ear infection sidelined him earlier this month. The team activated him, then designated him.
So. Aaron Judge lived up to his notices in the Home Run Derby Monday, inspiring speculation on whether he’ll take Max Scherzer over the fence in the All-Star Game tonight. (My call: Don’t bet against it too heavily.) At long last the All-Star Game isn’t going to determine World Series home field advantage. But I find myself transfixed on a remarkable article at FiveThirtyEight whose sub-headline is more arresting than the main one: “Cal Ripken made too many All-Star teams, Keith Hernandez not enough.”
At the current rate, the Cubs may spend the final half of this season hearing one after another whisper, sometimes elevated to a shout, saying, “Ahhhh, wait till last year!” Team president Theo Epstein isn’t willing, however. And Sunday afternoon may have made him even more resolute.
If you predicted entering spring training that the Houston Astros would be a) the team to beat, and b) next to impossible to beat, they would have wrapped you in a straitjacket and sent you on a one-way trip to the Delta Quadrant. But when not rubbing its eyes over the Astros’ 1986 Mets-like ownership of the game thus far, baseball spent the first half of 2017 wondering about certain rule changes actual or to be, wondering whether the baseballs themselves were given shots of rocket fuel (total Show home runs in May and June: 2,161; or, one homer plus per game of Lou Gehrig’s former consecutive-games played streak), and wondering whether the unwritten rules needed to be overthrown post haste.
Freshly-deceased Anthony Young, hapless Mets pitcher, showed grace under the harrowing pressure of a record-breaking losing streak and in refusing to let the inoperable brain tumour that killed him last week knock him down. Now another New York baseball legend shows his own grace under the pressure of insidious brain disease.
And, unlike some of the reaction he got when he published the book that changed his and baseball’s life irrevocably, there won’t be many wisecracks about former Yankee, Pilots, Astros, and Braves pitcher Jim Bouton’s brain making for a good dog’s breakfast.