The Futility Infielder

This one just writes itself...

Item 1 (Wednesday, December 25): Yankees assessed luxury tax of $11.82 million, based on their $184.5 million payroll. They are the only one of 30 teams to exceed the $117 million threshold set by the most recent Collective Bargaining Agreement. The threshold will rise to $120 million in 2004, as will the Yanks' tax rate (22.5 percent, up from 17.5) when they exceed it.

Item 2 (Thursday, December 26): Yankees assessed revenue sharing payment of $48.8 million, the highest in the majors, of course. For some reason, the news about which team will receive the most hasn't been trumpeted in the same manner. That would be the Milwaukee Brewers, the team commissioner Bud Selig doesn't own. The Brewers will receive an estimated $18 million against a $40.6 million payroll, despite which the team has decided to reduce its 2004 payroll to $30 million. Oh, and according to professor of economics Andrew Zimbalist, who wrote an article in the New York Times last week (see previous link, now at Sports Business News), the Brewers have shown an operating profit of $20.24 million in their three years in Miller Park. No wonder the politicians of Wisconsin want to audit the team's books.

Item 3 (Saturday, December 28): Yankee owner George Steinbrenner faints at a memorial service for legendary Cleveland Browns quarterback Otto Graham. In a slow week, this qualifies as front page news in both city tabloids.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Give me an owner willing to spend money to buy a winner over one who tries to hide the money and cry poor any day of the year. Give me an owner, even one as boorish as Steinbrenner, willing to stand in the fire of public opinion for his decisions over a faceless corporation any day of the year. Give me an owner willing to charge me face value for a ticket to one of the premier attractions in all of sports over one which scalps its own best tickets. As Selena Roberts wrote in the Times:

Without a healthy George for three decades, superstars, has-beens and raw projects would not have had anyone to inflate their salaries to a point where the union can cry collusion when owners fall below the bar Steinbrenner sets. Sometimes, the Boss will even bid against himself to provide an economic boost for malcontents like Kenny Lofton.

So, feel better, Boss. Your loyal partner, D. Fehr.

Without a robust Steinbrenner on the prowl, the Red Sox would not be as motivated to turn to a Luke Skywalker wannabe like Theo Epstein as a means of defeating the dark forces they despise. Recently, Schilling used Boston's desperation as leverage to land his wish list.

So, get well, George. Your happy nemesis, Curt.

Without a vital Boss at the helm of the Yankee dynasty, how would Murdoch's Fox TV have created a ratings point from a Marlins World Series if Florida hadn't had a foil like Steinbrenner? Now, more coupon-clipping teams than ever can live the same small-market dream with the revenue wealth Steinbrenner has to share.

So, take care, George. Your ego equal, Rupert.

Without a hearty Steinbrenner to create an off-season diversion, baseball would be mired in unsavory topics like drug testing, THG and home run asterisks. Instead, those annoying subjects were quickly pushed aside because of an American League East shopping spree inspired by the Yankees.

So, speedy recovery, George. Milwaukee's public enemy, Commissioner Bud Selig.

Truly, every baseball fan should join in, sign a card, send a letter or bake some cookies. Some might successfully argue that the Boss with the shopaholic tendencies has snuffed out baseball, but without Steinbrenner in the daily mix, who would give the sport life?

He is the necessary evil in the empire.

Get well soon, George. Baseball needs you far more than it needs ass-clowns like Selig.

• • •

Speaking of Otto Graham, while you're sitting around watching football over the next few weeks -- the only time of year I ever pay attention to the sport since this site's inception -- raise a glass to the man who showed America that the forward pass was the best thing since sliced bread, thus making football watchable. And while you're at it, raise another glass to the late Sid Gillman, the architect of the modern passing game, who himself passed last January 3. Air Coryell and the West Coast Offense were outgrowths of his philosophy. Where have you gone, John Jefferson?

• • •

More time for punchlines: Peter Gammons is in a band called the Fabulous Penetrations on an album which will also feature the musical talents of Theo Epstein, Scott Spiezio, and Jack McDowell. Draw lots among yourself to see who gets to shoot me first before I have to listen, because I swear that if anybody on Baseball Tonight starts plugging this shit I am going to Dial M on somebody's ass.

• • •

And now to a couple of good blogs I've been meaning to point out for awhile... one is Dick Allen's Baseball Blog which despite the nominal resemblence to the former star, is more general in focus. This particular Rich Allen (as he also bills himself) lives in Ireland and keeps his blog with three other pals. Though he writes about his namesake once in awhile, Rich has lately been working on studying whether hitters' batting average on balls in play correlates with their groundball/flyball ratio. He hasn't reached any conclusions yet, but it's interesting stuff nonetheless.

The other is El Lefty Malo, a mostly Giants-themed blog done by Alex Lash, a man who holds a special spot in my personal pantheon. Back in college, Alex served as my mentor not once but twice. First he was the supervisor of the late, lamented East Campus Dining Center, a dark and grimy burger mecca on the far reaches of the Brown University campus. The best lesson Alex imparted when training me for that same post was to never let go control of the stereo during my shift, lest I be forced to listen to somebody else's music. I think he also taught me that 8 minutes on the clock rounded up to 15, and that it was acceptable to stand there with a blank timecard test-punching until the magical mark was reached so long as you discreetly got rid of the test card. No wonder the ECDC (pronounced "Eck-Deck") closed before my senior year.

Second and more importantly, Alex was an editor of good clean fun, the campus' official weekly entertainment paper. He brought me onboard to write about music -- I think my first review was of Neil Young's Ragged Glory -- and generously praised my nascent writing efforts. At the end of my first year doing that, he appointed me Music Editor. Back then I wanted to be the next Lester Bangs, a condition which took about seven years to find a cure for. Now I just want to be... some cross between Red Smith, Bill James, Rob Neyer, Roger Angell, Roger Kahn, Jim Bouton, and Jules Tygiel, or something like that (nah, actually I just want to be the next Jay Jaffe, noted writer).

Alex, who's now a professional journalist, found my blog over a year ago and emailed me out of the blue, and he recently came out of the woodwork again to say holá. Named after an "ancient Mexican baseball insult" dating back to his days as a high-school pitcher, and self-described as "craftily working the outside corner," his blog has been going strong since September, sometimes in conjunction with a friend. Alex has been keeping a close eye on money lately, whether it's the Giants payroll, non-tendered players, or the Cardinals new privately-financed stadium deal. Check him out.

• • •

Anybody in the New York City area who's a regular to the Internet baseball world should make an effort to hit the Baseball Primer meetup on Monday, January 5, 2004. It's in my neighborhood, fortunately, at Waikiki Wally's Tiki Bar & Hawaiian Restaurant, 101 E. 2nd St., so I'll be there -- if not with bells on, then at least my replica Seattle Pilots jersey. There are other meetups on the same day around the country; follow the link above or check Primer to find out where yours is.

• • •

I'm pleased to announce to all concerned that my right shoulder, which underwent surgery six weeks ago, has been slowly healing. Those of you who saw me (or a one-armed bandit bearing my name) at the Winter Meetings in New Orleans should know that I've shed my sling and have begun physical therapy. Still, progress is slow, glacially slow. On a day-to-day basis it's hard to see any improvement, but on a week-to-week basis, I know that my range of motion has impoved and I've stopped taking pain medication. It's a start.

Yesterday I went out and bought a 3-foot dowel for use with my home exercises. The first thing I did when I brought it home was to grip the end of it, right hand over left, tap the outside corner of some imaginary home plate, twirl the stick a few times, à la Willie Stargell, and then swing it slowly, as if in instant replay. I wasn't smacking a game-winning homer in this fantasy, just lining a sharp single up the middle. What can I say? I've got realistic goals right now.