The Futility Infielder

I don't pretend to know a hell of a lot about the Major League Baseball amateur draft, which is happening today. I don't really follow college baseball, I don't subscribe to Baseball America, I don't hang out at the local sandlot looking for the next superstar. And chances are, neither do you, which is one of the reasons why MLB's draft is a very understated affair compared to that of the NFL or the NBA. The bulk of these guys are years away from contributing at the major-league level, which means most of us who are keeping track of the home team and our fantasy teams and our HACKING MASS picks have very little room in our heads for the name of some 18-year-old kid who might not make it past Rancho Cucamonga before blowing his elbow out.

But the draft has been on my mind lately, primarily because I recently read Michael Lewis' Moneyball. Lewis spends a big chunk of the book focusing on the Oakland A's draft strategy and Billy Beane's attempts to revolutionize it. Under Beane, the A's strategy is to rely more on performance and statistical analysis than traditional scouting methods, and to focus on college players over high-schoolers because their performance data is more reliable. The A's took college players with their first 24 picks last year, waiting until the 19th round before picking a high-schooler (readers of Moneyball will recall that the A's had seven first-round picks due to letting Jason Giambi, Jason Isringhausen, and Johnny Damon depart as free-agents).

Beane's tactics are a novel way to counteract the A's financial situation -- they can't afford to be wrong about those five-tool players who everybody else is chasing after, players who might turn out to be the next Roberto Clemente if they could only learn the strike zone. Hell, they can't afford the bonuses most of those five-tool players' agents are asking. So they go after players who have the one tool they can afford -- the abiltiy to hit. That's not to say Beane's strategy would work for every team, or that baseball would be as interesting a game if his methods were adopted. A team with more money can afford to take a risk on a high-school pitcher or a speedy, free-swinging outfielder with a gun for an arm, even if it only means using that player to bamboozle a wide-eyed GM out of some bullpen help at the trade deadline ("Mr. Bowden, Brian Cashman is on the line again...").

For most teams, the draft is still something of a crapshoot, even as high as the overall #1 pick. The historical record of number ones is a spotty one. Since the beginning of the draft in 1965, none of the players chosen first has gone onto induction in the Hall of Fame. Hell, some of them --1966 pick Steve Chilcutt (Mets), 1991 pick Brien Taylor (Yankees) -- never made the bigs. Others scarcely made a dent; does anybody remember Danny Goodwin ('71 and '75), Al Chambers ('79), or Shawn Abner ('84)? Many went on to be servicable but hardly star-spangled major-leaguers: Rick Monday ('65), Tim Foli ('68), Mike Ivie ('70), Bill Almon ('74), Shawon Dunston ('82), Tim Belcher ('83), B.J. Surhoff ('85). Well, Monday was kind of star-spangled, come to think of it.

One man has had some extraordinary success drafting first. Roger Jongewaard, Vice President of Scouting & Player Development for the Seattle Mariners, can lay claim to what more than likely will be the first overall #1s to reach the Hall of Fame in Ken Griffey, Jr. ('87) and Alex Rodriguez ('93). Prior to that dazzling duo, Jongewaard, while working for the Mets, made another #1 pick you might recognize: Darryl Strawberry (1980; he also drafted Billy Beane at #23 the same year). ESPN's Alan Schwartz has an interesting look at Jongewaard's career. Suffice it to say, he's not crying himself to sleep about having missed out on Mike Harkey and Darren Dreifort.

One thing is for sure: gone are the days when a team would draft a pitcher #1 and then rush him to the majors just for show. David Clyde, picked first by the Texas Rangers in 1973, lived that dizzying saga in a matter of a few weeks. Chosen ahead of Robin Yount and Dave Winfield, Clyde won his first start at the tender age of 18 years, two months and five days old (he beat Jim Kaat). The phenom stuck around the majors as much for his ability to draw crowds as for his pitching promise, but he went on to win only 17 more games in the bigs due to arm problems and mismanagement (those Rangers were a three-ring circus; see Mike Shropshire's hilarious, unsung classic Seasons in Hell for the details). Clyde was gone from the majors at 24, and done at 27. ESPN's Jeff Merron has a lengthy piece devoted to the Clyde saga (thanks to Adam Hardt for passing on the link).