“Shout, shout, let it all out/These are the things I can do without
Come on/I’m talking to you, Come on”
--Shout, Tears for Fears (Songs From the Big Chair, 1985)
Another Storm on the Horizon
I need to warn you. You should be warned. My head hurts. I’m about to start writing, and I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know how it’s going to end. Normally, I have an outline, I have a structure. But not today. Not now.
Okay. I have to apologize. I should be better than this. I should rise above. But... I’m human. Sometimes, I can’t help myself. Sometimes, life gets the better of me. I start thinking about the idiots and the fools and the stupid people running around in this world. And they start to make me angry. They make me practically blind with rage. I don’t know what to do about it. When I’m good, I fight it off. I ignore it. I move on. But when I’m weak, I give in. Even though I know it’s a bad idea, I give in. And the fact that I am writing this essay means I was weak. The fact that you are reading these words right now means that I gave in.
This is not the piece I planned on running this week. I had another, different essay ready to go. It was relatively interesting, it looked a lot like my previous work. You would have recognized it. It was familiar. It was written and structured and there were themes and transitions. It was titled Broken: The Home-Run King. I was going to email it to our trusty administrator, Pat, and we would have posted it. It would have been fine. No harm done. We’ll probably run it next week.
Then I made a mistake. I started reading the Sunday paper. I was flipping through the sports section from the weekend edition of the Boston Globe. And I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I shook my head. And I started writing this essay.
Like I said when I started: I’m sorry. You deserve better than this. I deserve better than this. The world deserves better than this. But unfortunately, this world is a strange and imperfect place full of mysteries beyond my comprehension. I constantly find myself walking through this world full of incredulity trying to make sense of the chaos and confusion that bombards me. Some days, I come up with answers. Today, all I’ve got is this essay.
Let’s do this.
The Dangers of Reading Recklessly
Jean-Paul Sartre was a writer, an existentialist, and a philosopher. I’m not Wikipedia, so I won’t give you the exhaustive summary of his life. I trust you. I know that you can look it up on your own. In his play No Exit, Sartre wrote “L’enfer, c’est les autres.” Translated, it means “Hell is other people.” He knew what he was talking about.
On Sunday, September 7, 2008, Nick Cafardo wrote a column for the Boston Globe titled Mets Aren’t Looking Behind. About halfway through his piece, he mentions that, with about 85% of the season over, he wanted to know the front-runners for the AL and NL Most Valuable Players. “It doesn't hurt to ask the folks who vote on the award what they're thinking,” Cafardo wrote. So he put together a “poll of prominent baseball writers.” He asked twelve men who vote on the award for their choice on the 2008 National League Most Valuable Player. Finishing first with seven of the twelve votes was Albert Pujols. Finishing second, with two votes, was CC Sabathia, and finishing tied for third (with Brandon Webb and Ryan Howard) with one vote, was Manny Ramirez.
Manny freakin’ Ramirez?
I… I was stunned. Stunned. I mean, do you know what it means to list Manny Ramirez as your first choice as the 2008 National League Most Valuable Player? Do you know what kind of mental gymnastics you have to perform in order to justify that answer?
Cafardo, writing for the Globe didn’t even comment on the selection. He didn’t discuss the sheer audacious absurdity of it. He just jotted it down like it was a perfectly normal, perfectly sane choice, then he moved on to other business.
Look, some of those other votes are pretty questionable as it stands. Two votes for Sabathia? A vote for Ryan Howard? Those are bad. Those are not good votes. Those votes really don’t reflect well on the sportswriters who cast them. It really damages their credibility. Ryan Howard has 17 win shares right now. That’s fourth on his own team, behind Pat Burrell among others. So the advanced metrics are not kind to him. And his more traditional metrics ain’t so hot either. He’s batting .235 with a .326 OBP and 183 strike-outs in 536 at bats while playing a position at low end of the defensive spectrum for a team that’s second in their own division. I mean, what the hell? You looked at every single player in the National League and you came up with Ryan Howard? Really? Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t punch you in the face?
So good. Now I’m warmed up. Now I’m properly riled. And we can, I dunno, discuss the idea that Manny Ramirez is the one, true MVP of the National League. Yeah. Okay.
Let’s look at some stats, shall we? Manny has played 34 games in the National League. Thirty-four. You know, there are people who say that K-Rod shouldn’t get any AL MVP votes because his contributions are limited in comparison to other candidates. He’s appeared in 66 games. He’s appeared in twice as many games for the Angels as Manny has for the Dodgers. And K-Rod’s a closer! I believe that a position player can’t be the NL MVP if he plays less games than a closer. I think that’s a rule. I’m pretty sure that Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis wrote that into the rulebook back in the twenties, before closers were invented.
Manny has 11 win shares for the Dodgers. That puts him seventh on his own team. I don’t care what Justin Morneau tells you, it is statistically impossible to be the most valuable player in the league when you are the seventh most valuable player on your own team. A partial list of National Leaguers with more than Manny’s 11 win shares includes Chris Snyder, Yunel Escobar, Edwin Encarnacion, Jorge Cantu, Ty Wiggington, Rickie Weeks, Jayson Werth, and Jody Gerut. You should probably read that list of names again, because it’s quite awesome in its underwhelming mediocrity. Manny has had less value in the National League than Ty Wiggington – and I positively dare you to suggest handing the 2008 NL Most Valuable Player trophy to Ty Wiggington.
Let’s look at a couple more stats. Manny has 48 hits for his new team. Forty-eight. He’s scored 23 runs. He has 34 runs batted in. If I told you about a left fielder (an atrocious left fielder by the way), who didn’t always hustle (he’s been timed to first base in around six seconds, or about the same time it takes an arthritic walrus to make it down there), who played 34 games, had 48 hits, scored 23 runs, and knocked in 34 RBIs, would that sound like the NL MVP or some guy that you ship off to the Nippon Ham Fighters for cash considerations?
His 48 hits have him tied for 159th in the National League. He’s got fewer hits that Omar Quintanilla (50 hits, tied for 154th in the league), Chris Gomez (50 hits, tied for 154th), and Martin Prado (55 hits, 152nd in the league.) Manny is a staggering 16 hits behind the immortal Emmanuel Burriss. Burriss has 64 hits at the moment and he’s such a dominant offensive force that I did not know he existed until I started doing the research for this essay.
Here’s the deal. Somewhere, out there, we have a man who is paid to write about baseball for a living. Somewhere, out there, this man who votes for the highest honor in the National League was asked to name the most worthy candidate for the 2008 season. And instead of naming Albert Pujols, or Lance Berkman, or Hanley Ramirez, or Chase Utley, or David Wright, or Chipper Jones, or anyone else worth voting for, he decided to choose a guy who can’t field, doesn’t run, and has played a total of 34 games in the league.
(Newsflash: even if you added in Manny’s stats from his time in Boston, he still hasn’t had as good a year as Lance Berkman. Truly, it boggles the mind.)
To top it all off – and I know that this is piling on, but what the hell, we’ve started down this dark, depressing road so we might as well go full speed ahead into the heart of madness – it hasn’t even been a world-shattering 34 games. Over a four year period between 2001-2004, Barry Bonds played 573 games for the Giants. His lowest on-base percentage and his lowest slugging percentage in any of those four years is still higher than Manny’s on-base percentage or slugging percentage in these 34 games. If you take the worst full season of Bonds in a four-year stretch, it’s still superior to Manny’s 34-game hot streak. That’s how unspectacular these 34 games have been.
Ladies and gentlemen, Manuel Aristides Ramirez – your 2008 National League MVP…
There are Consequences to our Words
Last week, I posted a piece called Five Minutes Inside the Mind of Scott Boras. And near the end of the essay, I raised some questions. I wrote:
“Listen, I want to ask those guys a question. This is what makes you mad? This is what makes you angry? This is the target of righteous indignation? Not Rwanda, or Chechnya, or Bosnia? Not Starvation, or Poverty, or Racism? Really? You guys are getting worked up over an agent asking a cheap, greedy owner for more money? Do you think maybe you’ve missed the point? Do you think maybe you’re off the mark? Because, if so, you might want to take a second to look yourself in the mirror. Frankly, you might want to think about the things that are truly important in life. I strongly suggest you pick another cause.”
I thought that was a pretty good passage. I thought those were powerful words. I was bewildered by all the outrage directed at Scott Boras, all the outrage directed at such a frivolous situation.
And now, I find that I am asking those questions again. But this time, I am asking them of myself. Unreal. How did this happen? How could I spend last week mocking all the people who got angry at a sports agent asking for money, but the very next week start ranting and raving over a random anonymous sportswriter’s NL MVP vote. It’s so contradictory. It’s so damn hypocritical. And I know that it’s terribly counter-productive. What the hell am I getting worked up over? Why do I even care? Practice what you preach, man. Gotta practice what you preach. Last week, I was advising people to keep things in perspective, not to blow things out of proportion. This week, I’ve lost all perspective and I’ve blown things completely out of proportion. Good work. Nice job there on my part. Well done.
I should just learn to let go. This life would be so much easier if I could just learn to let some things go.
Poor Boy Looks so Lost, Brother, Won’t You Lend a Hand?
I am realizing something more and more clearly as I get older. There is a distinct separation between my rational life, and my emotional one. Most of time, they co-exist peacefully. But sometimes, they clash like angry mountain goats, colliding on a distant rocky bluff. And even though I am aware of this essential conflict, I am not strong enough to untangle it. Most of the time, I am helpless in its wake.
A recent example of this came from my essay on Nick Esasky. See, I’ve got this philosophy. It’s pretty simple, but it works for me. I try to be conscientious of the readers, the people who look at my work, the folks who leave me a note when they’re done. I’ve read every message that’s been addressed to me, and I’ve written a response in every instance. Well, after I wrote Broken: The Slugger, a reader named ‘Shrewd Honus’ left a comment that said: “The problem with this article is that it is 5% Nick Esasky, 95% Roel Torres. That's not a good ratio. If you're going to do something like that, say so right up front. I was expecting, and hoping, to hear a lot more about Nick Esasky.”
When I read that, I was okay with the idea that Shrewd Honus didn’t enjoy the essay. And I was okay with the fact that he didn’t like the ratio of personal reflection to baseball content. I get that. It makes sense. That seems like a legitimate and valid complaint. I’m not a traditional baseball writer. I don’t compose conventional baseball essays. That seems like a common observation on my writing – that there’s too much personal material and not enough baseball analysis. My style can be an acquired taste, and not everyone’s going to like it. So that was fine.
What upset me was his suggestion that I had tricked him. That I was misleading. That I had been deceptive. If you're going to do something like that, say so right up front. The comment really threw me because, if anything, I had been striving to be painfully honest in my writing, in some cases to my personal detriment. Self-deprecating, self-critical, I often took a harsh assessment of my own life. I figured, I couldn’t always be insightful. But honest? I knew that I could always be honest. That, I could control.
So the criticism got to me. I mean, “Say so right up front?” From the very first piece I posted here I thought I made it pretty obvious that I was going to write about myself. I never felt like I had been hiding my intentions. In my initial essay, I wrote: “Instead, here I plan on writing about broken things. Broken players, broken games, broken teams. Guys like Herb Score. Like Pete Reiser. Like John Rocker or Brien Taylor or Toe Nash or Nick Esasky. Vessels for our hope that got a little lost along the way. I’m going to write about them because deep down, I’m broken – just like them. And my hope is that by writing about these things, I can lessen the pain, and the hurt won’t be so bad. Maybe I can take steps towards feeling better again. Start feeling more complete. Start feeling whole.”
And when Bill James introduced me to his readers, the very first words he wrote were: “We are introducing another new writer today, who is Roel Torres. Roel’s writing is very personal, so it doesn’t really seem to be necessary to introduce him beyond that.”
Those were the very first words about me on the site. “Roel’s writing is very personal.” That was the introduction. Say so right up front? How much more up front do you need?
But of course, this was my emotional side talking. The part of me that was impetuous and impulsive. The side that was quick to act but slow to think. Not the rational side. The irrational one.
I mean, in my rational mind, I got it. There was a good chance that the Nick Esasky piece was the first essay of mine Shrewd Honus had ever read. He probably hadn’t read the Bill James intro. He probably hadn’t read my earlier essays. It was his first taste of my writing. There was a little culture shock, he was disappointed, and he left a quick note in the comments section. It all seemed perfectly reasonable. He felt tricked. Bait and switch. Which makes sense. I mean, have you read my work? Can you really blame the guy?
But despite that, I still spent three days debating Shrewd Honus in my head. Three days. I kept thinking of all the things I wanted to say to him. I lost sleep over it. I showed up for work exhausted and unhappy. I did not want to be seen as a guy who deceived the readers. I did not want to be known as the guy who tricked people and lied to them. I kept thinking about how unfair his criticism was, how uninformed. How many essays do I need to write before you realize my writing is personal? How many signs should we give you before you catch on?
And even as it was happening, even as I stared at the digital reading on the clock flashing one in the morning, then two in the morning, I kept asking myself: What the hell are you doing? Why are you getting so upset over this? Get... Some… Sleep...
One sentence. All it took was one reader to leave one comment where I focused on one sentence, and suddenly I was a complete and total wreck. Just like that.
Every time I write something on Bill James Online, there are hundreds and hundreds of strangers reading it. I know this, because there’s a counter on the bottom of the page that tells me that information. And not all of them are going to enjoy my writing. I know this, too. Because you can’t make everyone happy. And because I write a lot about myself, sometimes at the expense of talking about baseball. And if someone feels like I deceived them, like I misled them, like I promised them an essay about Nick Esasky and tricked them into reading about my life, I should probably learn not to take it too hard. Learn not to take it personally. Because life it too short. And I think I might be wasting it, like some sad, delusional modern-day Quixote, imagining dragons that aren’t there, tilting at all the wrong windmills as the days continue to pass me by…
The Anger and the Darkness
“Everybody's got a secret, sonny
Something that they just can't face
Some folks spend their whole lives trying to keep it
They carry it with them every step that they take
’Til some day they just cut it loose
Cut it loose or let it drag 'em down”
--Darkness on the Edge of Town, Bruce Springsteen (1978)
Anger is a strong emotion. It can wash over you like a flash flood, drowning out all your senses before you have a second to breathe. Why do people get angry at Scott Boras? Why do people get angry at MVP voters? Why do writers get upset over reader comments? I believe the answer is, it’s easy to get angry at anything and everything. We are always on the edge, on the verge. The world is full of antagonism. There is no shortage of it.
And because of that, the trick might be, how long are you going to stay angry? How long do you carry your rage? How long do you hold it inside and let it burn? Will you let it wear you out? Will you let it grind you down?
Or will you find a way to do something constructive with it? Maybe put your frustrations into words. Write them down, set them on a page. Publish them, post them online. Get them out of your system and share them with the world. No matter how petty and flawed you end up looking during the process.
This essay makes me look petty.
This essay makes me look flawed.
Oh, yes. It surely does.
Look, I’m an imperfect creature. I’m a work in progress. I know this. Some days, I’m a complete mess. I walk this planet, a loose collection of complex and contradictory notions. I don’t think I’m alone in this. We all have our share of virtues and shortcomings. I get angry at the wrong things. Then I lack sympathy when other people get angry at the wrong things. It’s a little ugly. I’m not too sure what to do about it. Grow as a human being, I guess. Become more enlightened. I don’t know. It’s worth a shot. All we can do is try.
So if you’re one of the people out there who gets mad at Scott Boras – I get it now. I was dismissive. I was quick to judge. I can see how that might make you angry. Last week, I missed it. This week, I see it. I’m sorry.
And if you’re the anonymous “prominent sportswriter” who told Nick Cafardo that Manny Ramirez is the 2008 National League MVP, well, that’s fine. It is. It really is. They asked you to vote for an award, but they never bothered to define the criteria. That’s not your fault. That’s the system’s fault. I can’t blame you for that. Vote for the guy you want. Hell, I voted for myself as high school prom king back in 1991. Seems fair.
And finally, Shrewd Honus, if you click on this post, I should probably warn you that the ratio for this essay is about 5% Manny Ramirez and 95% Roel Torres. So you might want to go ahead and skip reading it. We’ll probably both be better off in the end...
If you have any thoughts you want to share, I would love to hear from you. I can be contacted at roeltorres@post.harvard.edu. Thank you.