Ours is not a vocation that inspires much sympathy. Though many of us are more intellectually fit for a gig within the lower rungs of the custodial sciences, we get to think and write about baseball for a living. We appreciate this every second of every minute of every day.
That said, there's sure not a whole lot to write about during spring training. Eager though we may be to dive into the season's plot lines and potential pratfalls, little of import happens in the weeks before April games that matter.
The Yankees are pitting four guys against one another in a mannered derby for the fifth-starter slot? The Reds are choosing between three candidates for their pinch-hitting vacancy? Whoa. The future of the sporting world may well hinge on such clashes among immortals.
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| Be prepared to hear how well Johan Santana's arm is doing this spring. (AP) |
Unfortunately, y'all have gotten wise to our stalling tactics, heaping deserved scorn upon any writer who suckles at the "player X arrived in Florida/Arizona in the best shape of his career" teat. Happily, a new generation of obvious storylines have sprung up in its wake. So, with only 22 diversion-free days of spring training left on the calendar, I present to you the 10 valedictorians of the 2010 Spring Training Cliché class.
New-era cliché 1: "He's ahead of schedule in his recovery from elbow surgery/removal of bone spurs from ankle/appendicitis/rickets/Lohan Lung."
What this means: "He's precisely on schedule with his recovery from elbow surgery/removal of bone spurs from ankle/appendicitis/rickets/Lohan Lung, the effects of which were overstated so as to make the player look committed and aggressive in his rehab."
How to recognize: It begins with a straightforward description of the player's intense workout regimen, which naturally commences long before reporters arrive at the field (it is left unsaid whether the early hour speaks more to his work ethic or to his unhappiness at home). The piece includes quotes from the player's trainer (impressed) and a teammate (also impressed, though he says so using smaller words), plus an extended rhapsody over "the beads of sweat that dot his forehead following a series of wind sprints in the outfield."
Candidates: Johan Santana ("his arm is fine and the Mets' team doctors totally didn't get their medical degrees from the University of Guam"), Mark DeRosa ("his wrist is fine and his character remains as upstanding as that of Morgan Freeman or the Dalai Lama"), Carlos Quentin ("his wrist and foot are fine, and he looks forward to using both in 2010").
New-era cliché 2: "In the wake of last season's struggles and his testy relationship with the media, he has the organization wondering how he will respond to the heightened level of scrutiny."
What this means: "He is so emotionally frail that his teammates, manager, life coach and rabbi doubt his ability to absorb the psychological aftershocks of a sprained toe and a lawsuit filed by a female bartender."
How to recognize: It features an exhaustive re-recounting of the controversies, attempting to put a revisionist gloss on the player's problems but instead just recasting them as "he said/she said/Bobby Valentine said" garble. In the body of the story, the player insists that he has been misunderstood, that his words have been taken out of context, that the bartender was actually hitting on him and that everybody knows he's allergic to Jagermeister, dude. The piece ends on a cautionary note, warning that similar conduct in 2010 could lead to more stern warnings.
Candidates: Miguel Cabrera ("in five short months, he has undergone a complete metamorphosis as a human being. Whereas he once was lost, now he is found. Truly."), Milton Bradley ("do not taunt Happy Fun Ball").
New-era cliché 3: "He's been so productive for so long, but this fine sunny morning finds him on the wrong side of 30."
What this means: "TIM-BER!"
How to recognize: We meet the subject as he convenes with some of his younger teammates, who razz him playfully about the specks of grey in his whiskers, the soft sag of his gut and his old-man gait. As he jabs back at them, he pronounces "Flo Rida" like the state rather than the rapper, spurring much giggly mirth. It is then noted that the player was a rookie when his youngest teammate was finger-painting and eating dirt. This sets the writer on a dreamy tangent about the immutability of time and cultural touchstones, or something.
Candidates: Johnny Damon ("he and rookie center fielder Austin Jackson are separated by 90 feet on the field, but two generations and $82 million off it"), Torii Hunter ("all those sprints into the center field wall have left him achy and choleric. Oh, and it's so drafty in the clubhouse!").
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| Did Travis Hafner discover the elusive hitch in his swing during a video session? (AP) |
What this means: "The cable was down and Blockbuster was out of A Very Wayans Bros. Christmas, so he watched old highlights and pronounced himself cured."
How to recognize: After a sober statistical recap of the previous season's failures, the story will chronicle the "eureka!" moment that sent the hitter into self-analytical mode. If there was no such moment, the story will fabricate one, in which the player just happens to run into his high school manager. After that, we'll hear from the hitting coach, whose continued employment hinges on the player's return to form; he will say lots of things about the necessity of "shifting his weight" and "driving his hips through the zone." Don't miss the cameo appearance by the team video coordinator, usually in some menial-peon capacity (delivering tapes or coffee, etc.).
Candidates: Travis Hafner ("he was putting his left foot in, when he should've been putting his left foot out and shaking it all about"), Magglio Ordonez ("he has replaced last season's see-the-ball-miss-the-ball approach with one that emphasizes actual contact").
New-era cliché 5: "The roster makeup reflects the front office's newfound appreciation for statistical analysis."
What this means: "Now basing its decisions on non-imaginary data, the team has chosen to employ good players instead of bad ones."
How to recognize: By its multiple references to mothers' basements, fathers' attics and sisters' above-ground pools. It's crowned by the triumphantly clever headline, like "The geek shall inherit the earth." The writer's photo alongside it features a white male with thinning hair and a drawn countenance.
Candidates: Dayton Moore ("he seems to understand the concept of 'on-base percentage' in theory, if not in practice"), Drayton McLane ("he came across a dog-eared copy of Moneyball at an estate sale and passed it along to Ed Wade, who placed it behind Eat, Pray, Love in his reading queue").
New-era cliché 6: "He sorted out his issues with management during a closed-door meeting, and all sides have promised a clean slate going forward."
What this means: "Nothing has been resolved and Stockholm Syndrome is very real. Just look at his eyes. He's blinking 'S.O.S.' in Morse code."
How to recognize: After a brief statement of purpose -- "dim Player X won't lollygag down the line on routine grounders and salty Manager Y won't say not-nice things about the moral fiber of his maternal forbears" -- all parties to the dispute, especially the player's agent, rehash the "there's nothing to see here, please disperse" line. The Kumbaya tone, however, is obliterated by an anonymous quote, likely from the player's agent, demanding respect in the form of please/thank you/you're welcome and a contract extension. The piece ends on a cliffhanging note no less harrowing than the one that concluded the most recent episode of Lost, with a solemn intonation that "only time will tell."
Candidates: Howie Kendrick ("he found the accommodations in West Gabib during last season's 'tude-related demotion less than satisfying, so he'll turn over any number of new leaves to avoid a repeat. Hell, he'll even rake them. Please don't send him back to Palookaville. Please."), Delmon Young ("his ump-bumping and manager-vexing ways are behind him now that he's in the best shape of his ca... I mean, now that he has, uh, recommitted himself").
New-era cliché 7: "He sat around the clubhouse deep into the afternoon, listening in awe as the visiting veteran legend told story after story from his illustrious career."
What this means: Either "he enjoys interpersonal communication with individuals who share his interests" or "he mistakenly believes that spending time with old people fulfills his court-mandated community service."
How to recognize: In most cases not involving Jamie Moyer, baseball scribes are older than the players they cover. Hence the auteur will break out his prose to characterize any interaction in which a younger-generation lad shows respect to an older one -- whether holding a door or posing an easy question, like "how many outs do you get in the sixth inning?" to make the old guy feel needed. Look out for worshipful nods to elderly relatives, long-tenured clubhouse attendants and Johnny Pesky.
Candidates: Joba Chamberlain ("upon seeing Yogi Berra shuffle his way out of the dugout, Chamberlain squealed with delight and practically dove for a camera phone"), Jimmy Rollins ("he is a people person, which is to say that he is a person who likes people").
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| There might be a few articles on closer Carlos Marmol's attempt to fix his wild tendencies. (Getty Images) |
What this means: "He still doesn't know where the hell the ball is going, but at least he knows what he doesn't know."
How to recognize: From its opening-blast description of the pitcher on the mound, firing sinkers that rise and fastballs that kiss the rim of the upper deck. Don't miss the segment in which the pitcher pantomimes his throwing motion in front of a mirror, because there's no mechanical illness that a little navel-gazing can't cure.
Candidates: Carlos Marmol ("his teammates have convinced the gullible Marmol that a cherub loses its rosy hue whenever he issues a first-batter walk"), A.J. Burnett ("he's throwing a change-up now and has entered couples therapy with Jorge Posada").
New-era cliché 9: "While his teammates joust on the Xbox or hoot their way through the latest Maxim, he sits by himself in a quiet corner, polishing off the day's New York Times crossword puzzle with apparent ease."
What this means: "Holy God -- this guy is smarter than me, too? That's almost unfair."
How to recognize: After the de rigueur shout-out to the player's high-end education, the story will marvel over his articulation of the first 'r' in "February" and his ability to identify more than two sitting Supreme Court justices. A far less swift teammate will weigh in with an assessment of the player's smartitudinousness ("a lot of the time he's saying stuff, and I'm all, like, 'What?'"). The player's post-career plans, even if they only involve hitting the rubber-chicken circuit and napping, will be presented as if they rival Google in inventiveness.
Candidates: Ross Ohlendorf ("this tall, Princeton-schooled, recent Department of Agriculture intern amazes with his grasp of current events"), Brad Ausmus ("this medium-height, Dartmouth-schooled throwback dazzles with his comprehension of U.S. history"), Manny Ramirez ("we're fairly certain that Manny can read.")
New-era cliché 10: "As he enters his fourth spring as a pro, he is intent on making the leap from successful regular to year-in-year-out All-Star."
What this means: "He has just hired a publicist and/or started dating a Duff sister."
How to recognize: By its opening anecdote, in which the player finds himself recognized for the very first time at the mall or the periodontist's office. This, we'll be told, surprised him and made him reevaluate a range of his past behaviors (belching in public, throwing snowballs at cop cars, etc.). In addition to multiple uses of the phrase "the weight of expectations," prepare for a thorough description of the charity work that the player totally didn't want anybody to know about.
Candidates: Josh Johnson ("he is armed with a new contract and a throwing motion that's 35 percent less cataclysmically violent than before!"), Adam Jones ("Keeping up with the Joneses won't be easy in 2010!").
