Garret Anderson, who yesterday announced his retirement after seventeen seasons, was perhaps foremost among the players with whom my problem never was. Anderson had a look and aspect of another era, a classy mustachioed era that may have only ever existed in the mind, and he hit a ton of doubles. I really liked the good Angels teams of the early 00s. They played a scrappy yet nimble, first-to-third style that stood in stark contrast to the fat- and steroid-fueled Moneyballedness that was all the rage elsewhere. And good for them. And for us, too: you can totally acknowledge that high batting averages can mask poor overall on-base ability (this was where Garret Anderson really excelled), and that bases have to be stolen at an extraordinarily high rate of success to be of any tangible net benefit to offensive production, and that playing for a single run by relying on the bunt is more often than not detrimental, and still want to see all of those things happen because they're awesome. The Angels were like that, and kind of still are. Go Angels.
KS
I can enjoy that style of play on a purely aesthetic level which I suppose appeals to my feminine side and its appreciation of delicate albeit occasionally stupid beauty. Meanwhile, my analytical masculine side rejects that style of play as superfluous and silly. Some days, I am a thoughtful woman and on other days I am but a pigheaded and violent man. What can I say? These are strange and terrible times and I am a complicated beast and these are just the way things have to be I suppose. There is a constant war for supremacy on the baseball diamond of my soul but that just means that the game will go on eternally, like some sort of Field of Dreams style freak show, only with less Kevin Costner but more James Earl Jones. What does this have to do with Garret Anderson? Perhaps nothing. Then again, maybe everything. Who's to say? Who indeed?
ReplyDeleteI for one would never try to say.
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