There’s one particular baseball play that I don’t get: First and third (or
bases loaded) and two outs, ground ball hit to a middle infielder who throws
to his double-play partner for a force at second base. Most of the time,
you’ll see the runner slide into the bag, and the times he doesn’t, it’s
because he’s nowhere near it when the play is made.
Why?
Sliding has two purposes: avoiding a tag and decelerating into a base you
can’t legally overrun. While the above fits the latter category, it’s a
situation where the cost of deceleration is greater than the penalty for
overunning the bag. If a runner instead chose to sprint through second base
and keep heading for third, he might be safe–I don’t know, let’s say one time
in 20, but I think it would be more than that–but every time he was
safe, a run would score, with the runner likely being out in a tag play on
his way to third base.
I suppose you could argue that the runner slides in case the middle infielders
botch the play, but I don’t buy that, because an error gets made there about
as often as I eat tofu. It seems to me that teams are “giving up”
here, where a more aggressive approach–running through the bag and making the
turn–could steal a few runs a season. This wouldn’t apply all the time; some
plays are going to be close enough to warrant a slide, and on others the
runner isn’t close enough to bother. But on maybe 40% to 50% of these plays, a
meek slide into second base reduces the chance that the run will score for no
reason other than politeness.
Is there something I’m missing, a rule dating from the days of John McGraw’s
Orioles that disallows this practice? Or is it something from the Big Bob
Book of Unwritten Rules, with its pages and pages of crayon drawings?
Baseball Prospectus: Where in the rulebook does it say?
a) Tie goes to the runner.
Jim Evans: It doesn’t. It states that a runner is out IF the defensive team tags him or his base BEFORE he reaches it. The implication is if the tag doesn’t occur first (not at the same time or after), the runner would be safe.
BP: b) A check swing is a strike if the batter breaks his wrists.
JE: The wrists are never mentioned in the rulebook. A swinging strike is based solely on the umpire’s judgment of whether or not the batter committed to the pitch. Check swings are very difficult calls. Base umpires are often able to make more accurate decisions on check swings because their attention can be focused solely on the bat since they are not obligated to call the pitch.
BP: c) The hands are part of the bat.
JE: This is another misconception. The hands are NOT part of the bat. If a pitched ball hits the hands and the batter did not attempt to swing, it is a hit batsman. If a pitched ball hits the hands as he swings, it is a strike and the ball is dead. Reference: Rule 2.00 Strike (e.)
Michael Wolverton looks at caught stealing rates, Clay Davenport clears up a debate, and Will Carroll wants more meaningful discussion of drug abuse in baseball. Plus other bits and bites.
The baseball season has reached its adolescence. Oh sure, there are the still the occasional temper tantrums, the delusions of grandeur, the fashion faux pas. But the season has been around for long enough that we can’t totally dismiss it, even when it mouths off without reason or, convinced of its own invincibility, it pushes its limits a bit too far.
The PECOTA system wasn’t originally designed to update its forecasts in real time, but through some creative mathematics we can adapt it to that purpose. In particular, we can evaluate its projections by means of a something called a binomial distribution (geek alert: if you’re uninterested in the math here, the proper sequence of keystrokes is Alt+E+F+”Blalock”). The binomial distribution is a way to test the probability that a particular outcome will result in a particular number of trials when we know the underlying probability of an event. For example, the probability of a “true” .300 hitter getting six or more hits in a sequence of 15 at bats is around 27.8 percent. (The binomial distribution’s cousin, the Poisson distribution, has a cooler name but is less mathematically robust).
A couple of important objections are going to be raised here. First, the binomial distribution is designed to test outcomes in cases in which there are mutually exclusive definitions of success and failure–for example, “hit” and “out,” or “Emmy Nomination” and “WB Network.” The measures of offensive performance that we tend to favor don’t readily meet that criterion. Second, the binomial distribution assumes that we know the intrinsic probability of an event occurring, as we would with a dice roll or coin flip. But we never really know what a baseball player’s underlying ability is–we’re left to make a best guess based on his results, presumably coming closer to the mark as the sample size increases.
The first problem has an intriguing, if mathematically sketchy solution in the form of Equivalent Average, which is scaled to take on roughly the same distribution as batting average, even though it accounts for all major components of offensive performance. So, we could test the probability of a “true” .300 EqA hitter putting up an EqA of .400 in 15 plate appearances by assuming that this is equivalent to six successes (40%) in 15 trials. Since I haven’t heard any objections, let’s roll with it.
Last week, I wrote about what baseball can do to improve the selection of owners. This week, I want to focus on the game’s structure. Frankly it’s a column that, if I thought I could get away with it, would consist of six words: Stop trying to be the NFL.
Since 1994, when the game went to three divisions in each league and began allowing non-division winners into the playoffs, MLB has moved inexorably toward becoming Just Another Sports League. While the game’s administrators like to defend the changes by invoking the need to appeal to young people and a broad audience of sports fans, the fact is that every single move has been reactionary, every one has eliminated a point of differentiation between MLB and the other three major sports, and none of them have shown any level of insight beyond: “How can we get more TV money right now?”
Believe it or not–and for people who know me, this will come as a shock–I spent most of Tuesday speechless. At an hour much too early for me to be up, and not having had near enough coffee (or alcohol), I was squeezed into the back seat of an Indy Car today and taken around the track. I can’t begin to describe the experience, but suffice it to say that I came away with a new respect for what athletes these drivers are, how much courage–or stupidity–they have, and the fact that I really, really want to buy one of those when I win the lottery! If you have a couple hundred bucks lying around and you’re near a track when the IRL comes through, I can’t recommend this highly enough. Never mind that Robin Miller of ESPN made fun of me all afternoon, reminding me that I only went 180 or so–racing was a blast.
The Mets need to blow up the team and start over. The Rockies swing through the NL East in a key two-week stretch. The Orioles could turn over 1/5 of the roster and improve based on their Triple-A talent. Plus notes on Mike Piazza, Shawn Chacon, and the Baltimore rotation.
There are few things in this world that confound me more than our obsession with other people’s opinions.
Honestly, why is it that we spend so much time caring if Martin Sheen is anti-war, Dennis Miller is pro-war, or if Leonardo DiCaprio is pro-hazlenut? So what if a reliever having a somewhat surprisingly good year is uncomfortable with guys who like other guys, in a different way. Big deal.
I’m referring, of course, to last week’s comments in the The Denver Post from Rockies pitcher Todd Jones, which read: “I wouldn’t want a gay guy being around me. It’s got nothing to do with me being scared. That’s the problem: All these people say he’s got all these rights. Yeah, he’s got rights or whatever, but he shouldn’t walk around proud. It’s like he’s rubbing it in our face. ‘See me, hear me roar.’ We’re not trying to be close-minded, but then again, why be confrontational when you don’t really have to be?”
Once again, I spent my day at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Due to rain and wind, we weren’t able to go out on the track, but we did discover that I will be the one in the car tomorrow morning. We’ll go out at around 200 mph and I’m as scared as I am excited. I’ve seen major league fastballs before, and standing in the pits watching Tora Takagi fly by me at 229 mph was every bit as awe-inspiring. The car rushes down the long straight, sucking up air, whooshes by with 800 horsepower screaming, and then vanishes into a tunnel they call a turn. They’re going to strap me into one of those tomorrow. I’m not sure if I wouldn’t rather face Roger Clemens when he’s cross-eyed and angry.
The Red Sox channel the spirit of Jerry Remy to shake off their sloth-like ways, the Reds ask who’s on third, and the Padres would be nuts to convert Oliver Perez to closer. Plus more news and notes from Boston, Cincy, and San Diego.
Welcome to the third and final instalment of my look at the meaningfulness of the first few dozen games of a team season. (Go back and review Parts 1 and 2 here. There will be a test later.) This final article looks to merge a team’s starting record with its established performance over the past few years, to come up with a formula that most accurately projects its final record based on the available data. Warning: If you thought Part 2 was laden with too many equations, you’re not going to like Part 3 any better.
I ended Part 2 with a projection that the Royals, based on their 17-5 start, are projected to finish with about 97 wins. The folly with that logic should be self-evident, but let me share some evidence with you to make the point a little more clear.
When the Royals’ record reached 13-3, my inner circle of fellow Royals fans finally got serious about questioning whether such a strong start really meant anything in light of the team’s 100-loss season in 2002. I decided to look for comparable teams throughout history that had gotten off to a similar start. Using my database of all teams from 1930 to 1999, I found a total of 75 teams that started the season either 12-4, 13-3, or 14-2. Sixty-three of those teams, or 84%, finished above .500. As a group, they finished with a .545 winning percentage.
But it’s not all roses. Because I then whittled down that group to look only at those teams that had played less than .420 ball the previous season, which corresponds to a 68-94 record or worse.
Last night, the White Sox lost their 10th game in 14 tries, dropping a rain-shortened 5-1 decision to the Mariners. In addition to lowering their record to 15-16, by scoring just one run their runs-per-game fell to a meager 4.2, placing them 12th in the American League (and 10th in Equivalent Average).
Why do the White Sox suck at the plate? This team was third in the league in runs scored last year, and they return essentially the same cast of characters. I expected them to have one of the better offenses in the league, thanks in part to a full season of Joe Crede at third base, and the arrival of Miguel Olivo behind the plate. Those two players, in fact, have been part of the problem; Crede is hitting .235/.259/.353 and Olivo, splitting the catching duties down the middle with Sandy Alomar Jr., is at .222/.236/.389. Mix in the failure of Aaron Rowand to be an adequate stopgap in center field (.133/.300/.167 in 60 at-bats before his demotion), and you can see that the White Sox infusion of youth has failed badly.
A.J. Burnett doesn’t think Jeff Torborg and Brad Arnsberg had anything to do with his injury. Mark Prior doesn’t think he should back down when facing Barry Bonds or anyone else. Todd Jones just doesn’t think.
The Yankees’ minor-league cupboard is nearly bare, but Drew Henson isn’t part of the solution. The Marlins play rotation Yahtzee after Burnett and Redman go down. Plus the Pirates’ offense continues to struggle sans Giles et avec Lofton.
By the time you read this, it’s possible that I’ll be moving faster than a heater from Roger Clemens or Kerry Wood, faster than Mark Prior or Randy Johnson, or even faster than a Jamie Moyer plus a Doug Jones. How is this possible? In my duties covering the Indianapolis 500 for ESPN 950, I’ll be the backup “driver” for one of the two-seat Indy Cars that are set to take select journalists around the fabled track. I’m still hoping Greg Rakestraw gets the shot he deserves, but after standing on the “yard of bricks” at the start/finish line today, I would be lying to say I didn’t want the chance to go around at speed.
Watching those cars fly by at twice the speed of a Billy Wagner fastball–with some to spare–is truly one of the most amazing things I’ve seen. Here’s a couple of links of what I might just be doing tomorrow. Let’s just hope the next UTK isn’t “Will Carroll smashed into the SAFER barrier at 200 mph, fracturing every bone in his body.” There’s a lot of things I don’t have in common with Jason Priestley and some of them, I’d like to keep that way.
The Angels won’t have as big a hole to fill with Darrin Erstad out as they think, the Orioles could actually benefit from Segui and Cordova going on the shelf, Jody Gerut and Gerald Laird get well-earned opportunities, while Jermaine Clark doesn’t.