A Walk through History with Jamie Moyer

Jamie Moyer, the venerable Philadelphia left-hander, beat Washington on Wednesday to post career win No. 240. Along the way, he left in his wake the player with the single greatest name in the colorful, often absurd history of baseball.
Come to think of it, the word “venerable” hardly does Moyer justice. The Venerable Bede, well, he was venerable. Jamie Moyer, he’s simply ridiculous.

The Venerable Bede, left, and The Ridiculous Jamie Moyer

Did Moyer really strike out Ted Williams when he was a callow rookie, leaving the infuriated Splendid Splinter ranting about his “grade-school” fastball and “sorority house” curveball? Is it true Moyer called Babe Ruth a “drunken, whoremongering fat-ass” in spring training in 1935?
No, those stories, like many of the legends that surround Moyer, are apocryphal. But he’s still pitching and winning games at age 45, and he’s doing it with natural gifts that wouldn’t overwhelm a high school coach in Peoria, Ill.
Since Moyer seems bent on pitching until dies of natural causes or spontaneously ascends to heaven in the Rapture, he’s a natural choice to serve as distinguished docent in our fledgling online baseball history museum.
Thus we bring you installment No. 1 of “A Walk through History with Jamie Moyer.”
Today we take a look at the man Moyer passed for good Wednesday, 239-game winner Mordecai Peter Centennial “Three-Finger” Brown.

239: MORDECAI PETER CENTENNIAL “THREE-FINGER” BROWN

More than just a name, Mr. Brown. But oh, what a name!
Mordecai! Peter! Centennial! Three-Finger! Brown!
(Editor’s note: There’s a character with a similar name who was an original contributor to this site. He is not related to the famous baseball pitcher. His whereabouts are unknown. Last we heard he was wrestling alligators in the swamps of Louisiana with his old pal, Rube Waddell. God bless him.)
The wonderful, majestic Mordecai Peter Centennial Three-Finger Brown was born in 1876 (thus the “Centennial”). In a name, he exposes one of the most depressing problems with baseball nowadays: Dull names. Uninspired, hackneyed nicknames.
A-Rod? ManRam? J-Roll?
Insipid, at best. Criminally lame, at worst.
The death of the family farm is partially to blame. Not many country boys refashion their God-given hands in a corn shredders and survive to become Hall of Fame pitchers anymore.
Perhaps more should, though. Mordecai’s misfortune became an unlikely blessing. Not only did he permanently alter his makeup in the corn grinder, but a subsequent hog-chasing accident added further uniquenesss to his pitching repetoire.
The unorthodox manner in which he was forced to grip the ball after sacrificing his index finger to the agricultural gods created an unusual amount of topsin and turned him into one of the game’s early “groundball pitchers.” Some say his curveball was a cross between a split-fingered fastball and a knuckleball. Most, like Ty Cobb, agreed it was difficult to hit.
“That old paw served me pretty well in its time,” Brown said. “It gave me a firmer grip on the ball, so I could spin it over the hump. It gave me a greater dip.”

No, not many mangled farm boys pitch in four World Series in five years anymore. Not many boys from anywhere pitch in the World Series wearing a Chicago Cubs uniform.
At least not since Three-Finger Brown left the stage.
Old Mordecai beat the Detroit Tigers in the decisive game of the 1907 World Series, then came back the following October and beat the Tigers twice as the Cubs won again. By now you probably know 1908 was the last time the Cubs won a World Series. Why, even the Philadelphia Phillies have managed to win one World Series since then.
The Cubs last World Series triumph would have been in 1907 had Mordecai not saved them in 1908. That and Merkle’s ill-starred boner. Brown came on in relief in the first inning to get the Cubs out of trouble before a frothing, overflowing crowd at the Polo Grounds and beat Christy Mathewson and the New York Giants in a virtual playoff in the final game of the 1908 season. That was the game that never would’ve been had it not been for Merkle’s Boner.
The less you know about that, the better.
Other fun facts about Mordecai: He hailed from Nyesville, Indiana, which is famous for, well, producing Mordecai Peter Centennial “Three-Finger” Brown.
He won, yes, 239 games. He lost 130. Had a 2.06 ERA.
Had he not given into the temptation to see just how sharp those knives in the shredder were, he would still have had a pretty sweet nickname. Mordecai “Miner” Brown worked in coal mines around Coxville, Ind., and played sandlot ball before hitting it big.
And finally, when he was Moyer’s age, Mordecai was running a filling station in Terre Haute, Ind.
Next: 240: Herb Pennock

The Little Engine that … Could they?

“I’ve been waiting four years for this moment. I’ve been waiting four years for this gold medal. It’s going to be special.” - U.S. Olympic basketball player Carmelo Anthony

Will the rest of the world lay down for Kobe Bryant and the American juggernaut in Beijing?

The once-invincible United States men’s basketball team arrived in China on Monday, and they promised the world it will be different this time around.
If you listened closely, you could hear the strains of that ill-fated cry of atonement so carelessly invented by the marketing department of the 1978 Philadelphia 76ers: “We owe you one.”
And so this $140 million assemblage of young men’s intentions and old men’s dreams sauntered into land of Confucius and the ancient Tao, of 7-and-a-half-foot Yao and Chairman Mao, brimming with optimism.
They’re the new Dirty Dozen, 12 multimillionaires with a chip on their collective shoulder.
So being, they’ve got all the makings of an epic underdog. Perhaps they will reprise the efforts of the 1980 U.S. hockey team, shock the world at the Wukesong Indoor Stadium and in so doing inaugurate a new golden age of USA hoops.
Do you believe in miracles?
But first they’ll need to survive the Group of Death. If they can somehow finish in the top four in a brutal pool that includes China, Angola, Greece, Germany and Spain, they’ll move on to the knockout stages.
I’ve got a sneaky suspicion they might be up to the challenge. Why?
They are 12 men molded into one selfless unit by that most beloved of all college basketball panjandrums, Duke’s Mike Krzyzewski.
They say that embarrassing bronze medal, the tragic fate which befell the Americans at Athens 2004, changed everything.
Not only did they not return home with their birthright – the gold the U.S. had won in 12 of 14 previous attempts and had stolen from them in Munich 1972 – but they suffered more defeats in Athens (three) than the American team had suffered in all previous Olympiads combined.
Then there was that sixth-place showing at the 2002 world championships, and another bronze at the 2006 worlds. That’s a motherload of payback.
Now the whole philosophy, culture and reality of USA Basketball has been born again. No more is the U.S. a mere collection of cocky superstars trying with varying degrees of success to get out of the way of their egos on the court.
No. This a team, a plucky unit that is greater than the sum of its middling parts.
With Kobe Bryant and Jason Kidd, LeBron James and Dwyane Wade, Carmelo Anthony and Chris Paul, Dwight Howard and Chris Bosh, this team is loaded with talented up-and-comers and blue-collar grinders who won’t be intimidated if they get into a quarterfinal slugfest with Latvia or Australia.
Yes, they’re talented, and they’ve got heart, but can these dreamers hang with the Spains, the Argentinas, the veritable colossi of the world basketball kingdom?
James thinks they have a chance.
“We don’t have a choice but to win,” the Cleveland Cavaliers’ journeyman said. “That’s what we’re here for. …
“We’re going over there expecting to win the gold.”
Oh, the brashness of youth! If they play their hearts out, keep their heads about them and remain naive to the imposing challenge before them, these kids just might pull it off.
And what a story that would be!
Stay tuned.

RIP (still) George McQuillan

Hey there, Georgie Boy,
Moulderin’ in the grave so quietly,
If you were only alive and well today
Your team could use you.
Hey there, Georgie Boy,
You’ve been dead for so long now,
Is it worse that watching your Phillies play?
Or is this impossible to say?

Poor George McQuillan lost his tenuous grip on history Sunday when Oakland Athletics reliever Brad Ziegler broke the major league record that he had held for 101 years.
McQuillan began his career in 1907 with the Phillies by throwing 25 scoreless innings. The following season he showed himself to be an innings eater of glorious magnitude, and, unlike Jowly Joe Blanton, a helluva pitcher. McQuillan, who turned 23 that May, went 23-17 with a 1.53 ERA, starting 42 games and throwing 359 innings.
One hundred years hence, the Phillies could sure use the 175-pound right-hander to shore up their tissue-paper pitching staff. Back then, they called him the “Giant Killer.” Apparently he got fat on the National League team from New York. Yes, they could use him now.
Not that there’s not precedent for such a move. On Aug. 20, 1915, the Phillies, who had traded McQuillan away five years previously, picked him up off waivers from the Pittsburgh Pirates for what nowadays is called the stretch run. He went 4-3 with a 2.12 ERA, and the Phillies won the pennant and appeared in their first World Series. McQuillan didn’t pitch in the series, and the Phillies lost to the Red Sox in five games.
Unfortunately, he’s been dead for 68 years.
All that’s ancient history, right? Ziegler, the new record holder with 27 shutout innings at the dawn of his career, was born 94 years after McQuillan came to life in the booming city of Brooklyn in 1885 – two years after the building of the namesake bridge.
Well, I know you Internet-savvy kids think 94 years is a long, long time, roughly equivalent to an ice age. But it’s fleeting. Gather ye rosebuds.
A blink of the geological eye, 94 years. Nothing. Four score and 14 years before McQuillan was born, well, it was 1791, George Washington was President of the United States, King George III was still getting mad props in England, and baseball was alive and kicking in the former colonies. That year in Pittsfield, Mass., an ordinance was passed banning the playing of the game within 80 yards of the new meeting house, apparently aimed at “the Preservation of the Windows.” That’s the earliest known reference to the national pastime, if the Google Thucydides can be trusted.
In another 94 years, it’ll be 2102, and the Phillies, if Philadelphia is not a nuclear moonscape, will be torturing their still-suffering fans.
Come back, Georgie Boy. Come back.

Lest we forget

  

Weep the Mets, weep the Mets,
On your belly and creep, you Mets!
Shield the kiddies and spare the wife,
A shame that’ll last to the end of life.
Yesterday the Mets were sockin’ the ball,
Now they’re tumbling, bumbling, an epic fall.
East side, West side, everybody’s getting down
On the M-E-T-S Mets,
Of New York town,
Of New York town.
 

   

Oh, the butcher and the baker and the people on the streets,
Are blue with rage, singing, To HELL WITH THE METS!
Oh, they’re hollerin’ and moanin’ and cryin’ in their seats,
A bitter chorus of betrayal: To HELL WITH THE METS!
All their hopes and dreams laid low,
Nobody thought they’d ever blow,
A seven-game lead with 17 to go,
Greatest chokers you’ll ever know,
The Mets of New York town!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Give ‘em a yell! Give ‘em the finger!
And let ‘em know the stain will always linger!
At least until next summer!
Come on and …

Weep the Mets, weep the Mets!
On your belly and creep, you Mets!
Boys and girls, always remember,
The season’s not over till September.
Today the Mets are sockin’ the ball,
But never forget ’07’s cruel fall!
East side, West side, everybody was ashamed
Of the M-E-T-S Mets,
Of New York town,
Of New York town.

All together now…

Meet the Mets, meet the Mets,
Step right up and greet the Mets.
Bring your kiddies, bring your wife,
Guaranteed to have the time of your life.
Because the Mets are really sockin’ the ball,
Knockin’ those home runs over the wall.
East side, West side, everybody’s coming down,
To meet the M-E-T-S Mets, of New York town.

Oh, the butcher and the baker and the people on the streets,
Where did they go? To MEET THE METS!
Oh, they’re hollerin’ and cheerin’ and they’re jumpin’ in their seats,
Where did they go? To MEET THE METS!
All the fans are true to the orange and blue,
So hurry up and come on down -
’cause we’ve got ourselves a ball club,
The Mets of New York town!

Give ‘em a yell! Give ‘em a hand!
And let ‘em know you’re rootin’ in the stands!
Come on and…

Meet the Mets, meet the Mets,
Step right up and greet the Mets.
Bring your kiddies, bring your wife,
Guaranteed to have the time of your life.
Because the Mets are really sockin’ the ball,
Knockin’ those home runs over the wall.
East side, West side, everybody’s coming down,
To meet the M-E-T-S Mets,
Of New York town,
Of New York town.

Surprise: WNBA game sparks fan interest

DeLisha was a good girl

Everybody knows

Paid two thousand dollars for Rick’s new suit of clothes

He was her man but he done her wrong

Detroit Shock assistant coach Rick Mahorn does the fox trot with Los Angeles Sparks assistant Laura Beeman, but girlfriend DeLisha Milton-Jones, right, is not impressed.

I always worry that sports reveal a lot more about me than I’d be comfortable admitting in even impolite company.

Like somewhere inside, not all that far down, I’m a scheming troglodyte who might be lobbying for Exxon-Mobil and voting Republican if only I would get in touch with my inner self.

Because, while I regularly wear one pink and one purple sock, change diapers and mouth leftist platitudes, I hate the WNBA.

Does this mean I’m a misogynist at heart?

Probably.

Exhibit 1-A: Tuesday’s melee/instant YouTube sensation that paired the Los Angeles Sparks and Detroit Shock of the WNBA (Women’s National Basketball Association).

I took one look at the above photograph, and my inner Neanderthal soared with a nasty, but pure, joy. If it could be represented outwardly, that joy would look a lot like the look of insidious glee that overtook the Grinch’s face when he hatched the nefarious plan to stop Christmas from coming to Whoville.

The notion of 175-pound Milton-Jones executing a flank attack on the must-be-close-to-300-pound Mahorn suffused my being with a greater happiness than that produced by Phillies scoring six runs in the ninth to stun the Mets.

And that’s sad.

Buzz Bissinger was right.

The blogosphere is crawling with small, mean-spirited, foul-mouthed wretches.

Fuckers like me.

Step 1

I admit I am powerless over my addiction.

My life has become unmanageable.

But I will beat this downward-spiraling, gutter-beckoning, life-destroying monster.

One step at a time.

I know there are other things, many wonderful things, going on in our world.

But I have excluded them from my heart, because I am a fanatic.

Many beautiful, uplifting things.

There is art. There is music. There is literature.

And current events. Blessed, unpredictable current events.

Brett Favre, please go away again, then come back again, and go away again again.

You leave me wanting more and less, all at once.

To Jimmy Kimmel and Sarah Silverman, I’m so sorry for your loss.

To Brad and Angelina, congratulations on your gains!

Welcome Knox Leon and Vivienne Marcheline!

I hear your voice, Mr. Bongo Fury.

So far behind, so much to make up for. So much life tossed into the garbage, unrecoverable.

Did you know we were still in Iraq?

Afghanistan?

Korea?

Cuba?

Texas?

And that “wardrobe malfunction” is still in currency?

Proof, once again, that there is a higher power.

Sanity, I hear you beckon.

I am on the road, taking one step at a time.

LOOK OUT BELOW!

Or, to mutilate a famous Satchel Paige aphorism: Don’t look up, something might be falling on you.

Is this a still photograph, or a visual metaphor of what the summer has in store for the Team of 10,000 losses?

Ah, the tools of ignorance.

What’s up, Carlos?

Hint: It’s not your batting average!

Is it a battery? A beer bottle? A bowling ball?

No! It’s a – gasp – baseball! Falling from above!

Somewhere, Gabby Street is ducking is head in shame. 

Carlos Ruiz is here on earth, going 1-for-4 on a Sunday afternoon in July and hiking his average to .204.

And fearing, justly, the indifferent cruelty of the heavens.

Requiem for Adam Eaton: He was the worst

This started out the first, and somehow ended up finishing last in a rather undistinguished Philadelphia Phillies pitching trilogy.

When I embarked upon this post, Adam Eaton was still a bona fide starting pitcher in the major leagues. Time, procrastination and some spectacularly inept pitching has robbed him of that honor.

But Adam Eaton was more than just a serial heartbreaker bent on derailing the Phillies’ flickering pennant hopes. Look at the poor son of a bitch. He has the body language of a man who spent a generation in a Soviet gulag.

It’s become part of his nature, the hat off the slumping head, the practiced mask of chagrin.

But the Phillies have taken Adam away from us. It seemed it would never happen, that no matter how many two-out, two-run doubles he gave up to feared sluggers like Randy Johnson, Adam Eaton would always have a place in the Phillies’ rotation.

And she should have.

Adam Eaton is a machine. At least he was, until the Phillies lost their collective minds and went in search of the new Adam Eaton, who goes by the name of Joe Blanton.

Adam Eaton was more than your garden-variety bad starting pitcher.

He was more than just the worst starting pitcher on his own team – no insignificant feat on a team that sent its opening day starter to the minors for an extended therapy session.

No, Adam Eaton’s more than that. Much more.

He distinguished himself in 49 starts for the Phillies since signing a three-year deal prior to the 2007 season. How distinguished?

Adam Eaton was the worst starter in all of the major leagues.

Since joining the Phillies, Eaton’s gone 13-18 with a 6.06 ERA. Without out the great statistical arsenal of the Elias Sports Bureau at our disposal, we can only say it’s likely that Eaton was the only full-time starter to post an ERA over 6.00 and have kept his job in that period.

Then came Black Friday, when the Phillies officially gave him his marching orders that will take him to the bullpen.

The worst starter in the majors.

Thirty teams, 150 starters.

The worst.

You have to do some work to claw your way to the bottom of that inglorious heap.

But being the worst starting pitcher in the majors is more than just malleable statistics. It takes heart, guile and selflessness.

But Adam put in the work. He took the ball every fifth day. He never malingered, never missed a turn.

He was routinely awful. And through it all, he never complained.

Adam Eaton had it all.

More often than not, his team was behind before the first inning was over. In six of his final seven starts, he allowed at least two runs in the first inning.

That’s enough, coupled with a 6.06 ERA in 49 starts, to earn him the title as The Worst Starter in the Majors.

Except he’s not a starter anymore. But he was. The worst.

Worse than Miguel Batista (20-22, 5.07 in 47 starts over the same period).

Worse even than Mark Hendrickson (11-15, 5.62, 34 starts).

And both of those fellas lost their full-time jobs while Eaton was still going out there every fifth day, reliable as the sunrise.

Now he’s gone.

After earning $11,826,131.16 in base salary for his 49 starts as a Philadelphia Phillie, Eaton has been disappeared to the oblivion of the bullpen.

A star has fallen in the Western sky. May it yet rise again, with ever-returning spring.

Lock up your wives and hide your tape recorders: Brett Myers has his swagger back

Dateline, Miami.

The Associated Press issued a chilling report Saturday that has ominous overtones for women and journalists everywhere.

The AP headline: Phils’ Myers regains swagger in minors

As a public service, we present archival video of Myers exuding his trademark swagger during a gentlemanly tete-a-tete with Philadelphia Inquirer reporter Sam Carchidi on Aug. 25 of last year:

After witnessing Myers in full-metal-bravado mode, you might find yourself wondering, how did the Philadelphia Phillies’ sultan of swagger regain the sense of invulnerability he’d so recently lost?

After racking up a 3-9 record and a 5.84 ERA in 17 excruciating starts and leading the majors with 24 home runs allowed, Myers was dispatched to the minors on July 1 to search high and low for a swagger commensurate with his $8.58 million per annum salary.

And in a three-city, three-league tour of nostalgic triumph worthy of a Leni Riefenstahl epic, Myers pulled off an unlikely hat trick: In the process of regaining his swagger, he managed to lose games in Triple-A, Double-A and Single-A.

Impressive by any standard, I’m sure you’ll agree. Brett certainly does.

“I had to get my swagger back,” told the AP reporter. “I felt like I accomplished that.”

Oh, Brett Allen Myers, how we’ve missed you.

When he left on his sojourn of self-rediscovery, he was the worst starting pitcher on a team with no shortage of candidates for the dubious role. That miscreant Adam Eaton (3-8, 5.71) took advantage of his absence and did his level worst to overtake him.

But after taking the Brett Myers challenge and getting shelled for 14 runs and 17 hits in two execrable starts, Eaton has been banished to the bullpen as a reward. He’s been placed by a portly mediocrity by the name of Joe Blanton.

Swagger or no swagger, it seems that Brett could face stiff competition in his quest to maintain his status as the worst starting pitcher on one of the shakiest, wackiest staffs in the major leagues.

Take Blanton, please. He’s compiled a nifty 5-12 record for an Oakland team that is 46-34 this season in games started by pitchers not named Joe Blanton. He has a 4.96 ERA. Better still, if you you subtract the interleague victory he picked up against the swooning Phils (which of course must’ve made him seem like Bob Gibson on a Ben & Jerry’s bender to the Philly brass), this is what Joe’s done this year: 4 wins, 12 losses, 5.18 ERA. Then there’s Kyle Kendrick, whose ERA soared to 4.87 after getting clubbed by the Marlins on Saturday

As for the reinvigorated Brett Myers, well, he’ll stroll into Shea Stadium next week with the old rock star swagger. How he strolls out is another question entirely.

“It’s good to see old faces you hadn’t seen in a while, and they tell you what’s wrong with you and how you used to be,” Myers said. “It opens your eyes a little bit, and you say, ‘What the heck have I become?’ “

What has he become? He said it was unprintable.

Well, you have to admire him for his honesty, if not his swagger.

And hopefully, that renewed swagger will be confined to the ballpark and there’ll be no further charges of domestic violence.

If you missed the first one, a little satire from a group that calls itself the Fearless Hyenas will get you up to speed:

And don’t look back, Brett, because there’s a new kid in town with a swagger all his own …