Which player had a better year with the stick in 1997?
Joe Carter , 102 RBI
Jim Edmonds, 80 RBI
If you're a baseball writer, or a Phillies fan from Oakland, you'll take Carter's 102 runs driven in because the job of a batter is to knock in runs. Whenever you're in the company of baseball writers, get out the hip waders because you're in a big, steaming pile of buffalo poo.
It's not that Carter was a disaster for the Blue Jays that year. Oh wait, yes it is. In fact, with Carter's excerable .284 on base percentage, the BJs could have saved millions and produced more runs by replacing their aging slugger with whatever detritus was hanging around Triple-A. With just 40 walks and 12 double plays grounded into, Carter consumed 474 precious outs and graded out under AAA replacement level.
So how did he accumulate 102 RBI? Among those many occasions when his teammates filled up the bases for him, he smacked 55 extra base hits. Because RBIs are a team event -- you can't knock in a runner who's not there -- they don't reflect quality as much as opportunity.
Okay, hypothetical Oakland resident, I hear your objections: 1. You can knock in a runner who's not there with a home run. 2. RBIs show that you come through in the clutch.
Let me pause briefly on item #2 and simply say we've returned to the big pile of buffalo poo. Sabermetric studies comparing players of roughly equal production (on base plus slugging) but wildly differing RBI totals have found that RBI opportunities account for nearly the entire explanation and RBI efficiency explains somewhere between nothing and a negligible amount.
As for the self-made RBI -- the dinger -- even an anti-social, contrarian stathead geek will acknowledge that a home run is the double-fudge brownie ice cream, the Anne Hathaway, the royal flush, of every at bat. But we have other ways to account for it without subjecting the analysis of individual players to the bias of their teammates' success or failure. That's why my cat is named Tater, not Ribbie.
(As for Jim Edmonds, his .368/.500 performance added roughly four wins to the Angels even before accounting for the yawning chasm between his defense in the toughest outfield position versus Carter's weak glovework in the easiest. It would not be an exaggeration to say that Edmonds was twice the player Joe Carter was that year.)
The moral of the story is that we value RBIs because we count them, and we count RBIs mainly because we grew up counting them. But we grew up watching black and white TVs, listening to vinyl records and believing that we could feed the poor by taxing the rich into oblivion. It's time to update our understanding of the game.
18 January 2009
16 January 2009
How Many Rings: #3 In A Series
In his 13-year career as a utility infielder, Luis Sojo hit a rancid 29% below league average. Playing mostly in the Bronx, he averaged 198 generally futile at-bats a year while filling in ably in the field at 2B, SS and 3B.
But if Sojo decided to flash his World Series rings, he'd look like Richie Havens. His right hand would sport a ring for each finger.
So, was Sojo a great player? Was he superior to Ty Cobb, who never won a championship?
Put that way, it seems idiotic, yet this line of reasoning is regularly used (in all sports) to aggrandize or demean players whose career performance should otherwise speak for themselves. In baseball even more than in other sports, the rhetorical question "how many rings does he have?' is asinine. Team championships in an individual player's curriculum vitae may very well be the most overblown concept in sports.
No batter can occupy more than one of nine positions in the batting order. A shortstop can't contribute behind the plate, at the infield corners or in the outfield. A starting pitcher sits on the bench four out of every five days. A closer takes a siesta for eight-ninths of the contests he enters, and if he enters half of them over a season, that's a lot. In short, attributing a team's performance to one player is like predicting a hurricane because the air is warm.
For a long time, people credited Derek Jeter with having some special skill that led the Yankees to four World Series wins in five years. I'll tell you what special skill he had -- being on the Yankees! Having the good fortune to play alongside the best players is an excellent formula for winning. Since 2004, the quality of the players on the Yankees has declined and the results have been predictable. Jeter hasn't lost any hidden skill because he didn't have one in the first place.
The flip side of that is Mike Mussina. A great competitor for the Orioles, Moose joined the Yanks in '01, after their fourth title in five years. They never won another in his seven years of stellar pitching for NY. Did he bring negative mojo with him to the Bronx, or did the parade of defensively-challenged, over-the-hill sluggers and noodle-armed pitchers off career years stymie their aspirations?
I hope baseball writers with Hall of Fame votes, whose ranks now include a handful of more analytical Internet correspondents, will keep this in mind when weighing the relative merits of nominees. Whether a player's teams won or lost is of little relevance to his personal merit as a Major Leaguer. Either that or Luis Sojo deserves some consideration.
But if Sojo decided to flash his World Series rings, he'd look like Richie Havens. His right hand would sport a ring for each finger.
So, was Sojo a great player? Was he superior to Ty Cobb, who never won a championship?
Put that way, it seems idiotic, yet this line of reasoning is regularly used (in all sports) to aggrandize or demean players whose career performance should otherwise speak for themselves. In baseball even more than in other sports, the rhetorical question "how many rings does he have?' is asinine. Team championships in an individual player's curriculum vitae may very well be the most overblown concept in sports.
No batter can occupy more than one of nine positions in the batting order. A shortstop can't contribute behind the plate, at the infield corners or in the outfield. A starting pitcher sits on the bench four out of every five days. A closer takes a siesta for eight-ninths of the contests he enters, and if he enters half of them over a season, that's a lot. In short, attributing a team's performance to one player is like predicting a hurricane because the air is warm.
For a long time, people credited Derek Jeter with having some special skill that led the Yankees to four World Series wins in five years. I'll tell you what special skill he had -- being on the Yankees! Having the good fortune to play alongside the best players is an excellent formula for winning. Since 2004, the quality of the players on the Yankees has declined and the results have been predictable. Jeter hasn't lost any hidden skill because he didn't have one in the first place.
The flip side of that is Mike Mussina. A great competitor for the Orioles, Moose joined the Yanks in '01, after their fourth title in five years. They never won another in his seven years of stellar pitching for NY. Did he bring negative mojo with him to the Bronx, or did the parade of defensively-challenged, over-the-hill sluggers and noodle-armed pitchers off career years stymie their aspirations?
I hope baseball writers with Hall of Fame votes, whose ranks now include a handful of more analytical Internet correspondents, will keep this in mind when weighing the relative merits of nominees. Whether a player's teams won or lost is of little relevance to his personal merit as a Major Leaguer. Either that or Luis Sojo deserves some consideration.
07 January 2009
Choke On This: #2 In A Series
In 2002, Barry Bonds won his fifth MVP award with one of the greatest batting years of all time. He hit .370/.582/.799, earned a record 198 walks and smashed 46 home runs. He even stole 9 of 11 bases while leading the Giants to the World Series.
In a six game series, Bonds hit a paltry .125/.364/.188 with no home runs or RBIs. He made an error in the field. His team lost four of the six games. Is that because he's not clutch? Did he succumb to pressure? Did he fail to -- I love this one -- step up?
But wait. That wasn't his World Series; this stretch of games came at the end of April. Even in what might have been the greatest batting year of all time, Bonds had some stretches when he didn't hit real well. Sometimes you're the windshield; sometimes you're the bug.
No one would accuse Bonds of choking just because he endured a six-game skid in April. But shift that week to mid-October and all of a sudden we feel empowered to ascribe all kinds of personal characteristics to the batter. I suspect there are players who crack in the limelight, but we can't tell that by a couple of bad playoff rounds.
Early in Bonds' career, critics did brand him a choker. He hit .196 in his first four playoff series, all of which his team lost. That talk evaporated when he cracked eight home runs, walked 35 times and knocked in 18 runs in his next four series, leading the Giants to the World Series in '02. Apparently he started to catch his breath.
Some radical number crunchers argue the idea of clutch is complete hokum because all MLB players have excelled in key situations through all their years of playing ball. This strikes me as almost equally fatuous as the prevailing wisdom. With the chips on the line -- really on the line -- how can it not be possible that some athletes focus better while others lose their nerve? How can human psychology be a factor in every other endeavor in life except baseball?
Reggie Jackson and Alex Rodriguez are the exemplars of the theory of clutch. Reggie's attention seemed to ebb and flow during the long season, but come October he really did appear to dig in. Conversely, ARod doesn't just have a history of gagging, it's apparent that he's trying too hard. Ever since he signed the big contract with the Rangers, he's clearly been trying to please everyone. So far only Madonna is satisfied.
I guess that makes me a clutch Agnostic. I believe there are rare instances of players who are eager (or anxious) to have the game or season in their hands, but performance alone -- particularly over a handful of games or at bats -- provides very little evidence of it, and is almost always a function of something else.
By the way, on the subject of clutch, which of these players is the guy you want in October?
Player A .309/.377/.469, 16 SB/4 CS
Player B .316/.387/.458, 22 SB/6 CS
They look like almost exactly the same player, don't they? It's because they are. Player A is Derek Jeter in 123 games of postseason play. Player B is Derek Jeter in 1,985 games of his 14 year career. If you can see "clutch" in there, you have better eyesight than I have.
In a six game series, Bonds hit a paltry .125/.364/.188 with no home runs or RBIs. He made an error in the field. His team lost four of the six games. Is that because he's not clutch? Did he succumb to pressure? Did he fail to -- I love this one -- step up?
But wait. That wasn't his World Series; this stretch of games came at the end of April. Even in what might have been the greatest batting year of all time, Bonds had some stretches when he didn't hit real well. Sometimes you're the windshield; sometimes you're the bug.
No one would accuse Bonds of choking just because he endured a six-game skid in April. But shift that week to mid-October and all of a sudden we feel empowered to ascribe all kinds of personal characteristics to the batter. I suspect there are players who crack in the limelight, but we can't tell that by a couple of bad playoff rounds.
Early in Bonds' career, critics did brand him a choker. He hit .196 in his first four playoff series, all of which his team lost. That talk evaporated when he cracked eight home runs, walked 35 times and knocked in 18 runs in his next four series, leading the Giants to the World Series in '02. Apparently he started to catch his breath.
Some radical number crunchers argue the idea of clutch is complete hokum because all MLB players have excelled in key situations through all their years of playing ball. This strikes me as almost equally fatuous as the prevailing wisdom. With the chips on the line -- really on the line -- how can it not be possible that some athletes focus better while others lose their nerve? How can human psychology be a factor in every other endeavor in life except baseball?
Reggie Jackson and Alex Rodriguez are the exemplars of the theory of clutch. Reggie's attention seemed to ebb and flow during the long season, but come October he really did appear to dig in. Conversely, ARod doesn't just have a history of gagging, it's apparent that he's trying too hard. Ever since he signed the big contract with the Rangers, he's clearly been trying to please everyone. So far only Madonna is satisfied.
I guess that makes me a clutch Agnostic. I believe there are rare instances of players who are eager (or anxious) to have the game or season in their hands, but performance alone -- particularly over a handful of games or at bats -- provides very little evidence of it, and is almost always a function of something else.
By the way, on the subject of clutch, which of these players is the guy you want in October?
Player A .309/.377/.469, 16 SB/4 CS
Player B .316/.387/.458, 22 SB/6 CS
They look like almost exactly the same player, don't they? It's because they are. Player A is Derek Jeter in 123 games of postseason play. Player B is Derek Jeter in 1,985 games of his 14 year career. If you can see "clutch" in there, you have better eyesight than I have.
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