Archive for the 'Observations' Category

Too Young to Go Scouting

Atlanta Braves outfielder Jason Heyward is hitting darn near .300/.400/.600 through his first 40 games in the Major Leagues, and he won’t be able to buy himself an adult beverage until August 9. From what I’ve seen, he is an aggressive line-drive hitter with a phenomenal ability to hit the ball on the screws.

Here is an interesting story about how the Braves got him with their first pick of the 2007 Draft – after 13 other teams had passed on him.

I was sitting in the War Room of one of those 13 teams, and I wouldn’t use the words “passed up” to describe what happened. Of course, Heyward’s name came up in the weeks and months before the Draft, but our regional scouts’ and cross-checker’s comments were very similar to what Carroll Rogers reports in the story:

…Heyward walked 43 times in less than 100 plate appearances his senior year [of high school].

“I never saw him swing the bat until the third or fourth game I went to,” [Braves Scouting Director Roy] Clark said of Heyward’s senior season. “They just didn’t pitch to him. Even though area scouts might like him a lot, the cross-checkers and the scouting directors come in and they would get frustrated.”

Sure enough, we went through our video and had frame after frame of Heyward taking pitches. Our cross-checker relayed what the area scout had told him about Heyward’s ability, and of course the cross-checker was able to talk about Heyward’s body and athleticism. In the end, however, we had better information on other players and Heyward’s name fell off the list of possible players to take with our first pick.

Truth be told, several position players had similar stories that spring, and I’m sure that it happens every spring. High school coaches who want to win aren’t going to have their high school pitchers throw to the men playing among boys, and the fact that Barry Bonds was walking hundreds of times a season in the Major Leagues only a few years ago only strengthens the rhetoric behind the walk as a defensive weapon.

Rogers hints that there may have been something more sinister going on to keep clubs from getting a good look at Heyward and gently points a finger in the direction of Atlanta’s front office.

There are stories of phantom bad medical reports on pitcher Adam Wainwright and a fax circulated saying [Jeff] Francoeur wanted a $4 million signing bonus. In Heyward’s case, Clark was supposedly in cahoots with [Heyward's] high school coach to throw bad batting practice so other scouts couldn’t get a good look.

——–

“Roy will tell the story where, he laughs about it now, he’d be at the games in the spring and he’d go up to scouting directors and go, ‘Man, too bad he doesn’t take the bat off his shoulder more,”‘ [Baseball America editor Jim] Callis said. “They really worked it.”

How delicious! A bit of the old-fashioned smoke-and-mirrors that still has a place in modern scouting. All told, the story of how the Braves got Heyward with the 14th pick is a story of diligence and savvy the likes of which any good scout ought to have.

The Marlins, for their part, weren’t fooled – at least, area scout Brian Bridges wasn’t. He had his eye on Heyward and compared his swing to that of Willie McCovey – very high praise for a ballplayer at any level. What’s more, the Marlins had the 12th pick in the Draft and stood in perfect position to snatch the high-hanging fruit away from the Braves.

But just before the draft, Bridges learned the Marlins were going another route, blaming Heyward’s “signability.” The Marlins took high school third baseman Matt Dominguez out of California instead. They ultimately paid him $1.8 million, more than Heyward’s $1.7 million bonus with the Braves.

While Clark and Goetz were high-fiving in an elated Braves draft room after the Marlins passed on Heyward, Bridges was shaken.

“It was the sickest I’ve ever been as a scout,” he said.

Looks like there may have been some faux faxes going around about Heyward’s contract demands.

Sneakiness and cunning are all well and good in baseball, but there is a distasteful underside to this story that shows up in the middle of the article:

…Heyward was different; the Braves started tracking him at age 11.

[Al] Goetz, then a part-time scout for the Braves, was coaching his son’s team at the East Cobb Baseball complex in Marietta when he first got a glimpse of Heyward.

“I thought he was a coach,” Goetz said of Heyward, already pushing 6 feet. “I called (Braves scout) Rob English, and I said, ‘I know it’s crazy, but there’s an 11-year-old that we need to keep an eye on.”‘

I sincerely hope that this remark was made in as much privacy as was possible and that Heyward had no notion of Goetz’ thoughts at the time. Scouting kids younger than 16 makes my stomach turn. Baseball is supposed to be fun all the way up through high school, and having professionals stand around salivating at players who can’t even drive yet does not sit well with me.

With the international signing age set at 16, there is no way around scouting players younger than that. If your club wants to sign a 16-year-old out of the Dominican Republic or Taiwan, it needs a history on the boy.

This disturbs me on such a deep level because, on a slightly shallower level, I am not in favor of giving kids millions of dollars before any work is done. That doesn’t teach them anything about the way the rest of the world works, and, unless the money is dealt with smartly, doesn’t leave players in a good position in the very likely case that they fail to live up to expectations.

To do this to boys at an even younger age is inexcusable to me. The big, bad machine of MLB isn’t going to change this system or stop doing this, but that doesn’t mean that I have to participate directly. I was asked last year to go look at a pair of Japanese junior high boys, and I refused on those grounds.

It was the sickest I’d ever been as a scout.

The kid in the middle has above average hands, and the one on the left has plus determination. The kid on the right looks a bit stiff and doesn't project well as an outfielder.

The kid in the middle has above average hands, and the one on the left has plus determination. The kid on the right looks a bit stiff and doesn't project well as an outfielder.

More Mistakes

Johan Santana gave up ten runs in less than 4 innings of work on Sunday Night Baseball. Jamie Moyer picked up the win despite giving up 5 runs.

The real news here is that I was able to watch this broadcast online without seeing the score (or the score by innings!) beforehand, and I could have watched it live if I wanted to. I couldn’t have done either of those things in 2005. Or 2007. My friends here laugh at my belated amazement, because apparently MLB.com figured these things out last year. What can I say, I had my head stuck in the Nippon Pro Baseball League.

The website offers premium users such as yours truly the option of watching the home or away broadcast for each game. Unless the game is broadcast by ESPN. Then you have to watch the ESPN broadcast.

Fine, said I, I wanted to catch up on MLB action and see Jamie Moy-yer* pitch to Luis Castiyy-yo and oppose Johan Santana. The game got off to an exciting start with David Wright hitting a three-run bomb off of Moy-yer after fouling off a 3-2 changeup out of the strike zone.

*Serious question: How did Jon Miller rise to the top with the obnoxious way he pronounces names? I mean, it was funny when he was the only guy who insisted on a pseudo-correct rendering of “Perez,” but he seems to rest a little too long on the LL in “Castillo” and it bothers me. I probably wouldn’t win that debate with a native speaker of Spanish, but when did Jamie Moyer change his last name to “Moller” and start pronouncing it in Spanish?

Santana came out and gave up a couple home runs of his own. The first was on an 0-2 pitch, and I have to hand it to Joe Morgan and Orel Hershiser, neither of them uttered the words “cardinal sin” or “mistake” in their analysis of the event. Santana made a good 0-2 pitch and Placido Polanco jumped on it with a short stroke and hit it out of the yard. Stuff like that happens, it’s baseball.

Hershiser: . . . [Santana] goes high and in 0-2, now, this is not a mistake other than maybe the ‘width,’ maybe get it in a little bit more, just doesn’t get it in enough. Polanco did a nice job [hitting the ball] . . .

Morgan: Actually, that choice of pitch surprises me . . . Polanco’s a good high ball hitter . . .

Would you look at that? Finally, some levelheaded analysis that gives both batter and pitcher credit for being fantastic baseball players. Good pitch, good batting, good baseball, good analysis. I felt all warm inside after hearing that exchange between Hershiser and Morgan, and then watching the game continue to unfold without them belaboring the point.

Two batters later, Santana made a great pitch to Ryan Howard, a low changeup on the outside corner, and Howard belted it into the seats. It was such a good pitch that even Joe Morgan could not poo-poo it:

Morgan: [Howard] hit a changeup out of the park, and it was not a bad changeup! It was away, coulda been a little lower, I guess . . .

That “I guess” made me smile. Joe said that right after the viewers got a slo-mo view of the K-Zone right after Santana had finished with his paintbrush, and then we got a side view of the pitch coming in at the top of Howard’s kneecaps. Can’t ask for much more than that, and I would argue that that was a fine pitch even if Santana was trying to go out of the strike zone with it. Howard is as strong as an ox, but he’ll swing and miss or hit something weakly on that same pitch 30 more times before he hits it well again.

So, we saw a pitcher make his pitch and get done in by home runs twice in the same inning, and I think that the announcing reflected that rather well. I was ready to give Hershiser and Morgan the night off for their excellent commentary (but not Miller, because Moy-yer was still on the mound) until Santana gave up two more home runs, including a grand slam, in the fourth inning.

Hershiser let the m-word slip when he and Morgan were reviewing the worst start of Santana’s career eleven short outs after it began. Morgan was tentative about admonishing Santana for those first two home runs and his comments contained the flavor of the telling “I guess” from the first inning.

When are we going to get past “mistakes”? Using that word for a pitch hardly constitutes analysis; it has become a knee-jerk reaction to the result of the play and the result only. I am embarrassed when I hear the word “mistake” bandied about by scouts; we are supposed to consider the results in proportion to the process and the tools. Humans play this game, and humans make mistakes to the extent that a certain number of them need to be allowed and need not be discussed.

Back to announcing – do we hear about mistakes when Jamie Moy-yer floats a curve ball right down the pipe for strike one? Or when Chase Utley hits a frozen rope right to where Luis Castiyy-yo is standing, and it just goes down as a ‘nuther 1/3 in the book? Only if the batter hits that get-me-over curve for extra bases, and only if Castiyy-yo isn’t standing right in that spot to save the day.

What I don’t want lost here is that hitters also have to do their job when these “mistakes” come up there on a silver platter. It is never a given that a certain hitter will get an extra-base hit on a certain “mistake” pitch because it is so difficult to hit a baseball well when it is being thrown at you in varying locations in a range of 69-99 miles per hour. A hitter could know what “mistake” is coming and the odds would still be in the pitcher’s favor. The pitcher has seven guys and an acre of land behind him.

I am calling for announcers to have the stones to give players credit for what they do well. Part of what makes baseball so intriguing is the fact that you can do a great job and get beat, and that sometimes you can win by getting away with poor execution. It’s so much like life in that respect.

And people in real life who laud the positive results of poor execution, or who chastise others who couldn’t get the best results out of superior execution for reasons out of their control, are fools.

Starving Kids in Michigan

The National Resources Defense Council says we should make an effort to “Eat Local.” The overall tone of the website aside, I think there’s some merit to that idea.

When I first came to Japan, I decried the fact that the selection at the grocery store was basically limited to whatever was in season – I wanted watermelons in February, dammit! I mistakenly thought that, since it’s warm in California, everything is in season there all the time. I never looked at the labels on the produce and saw that we get tons of stuff from Chile, China, and maybe even Chad.

<em>Now THAT is a February watermelon!</em>

Now THAT is a February watermelon!

Now, Japan is no saint when it comes to eating locally like the folks at NRDC say we should. According to this 2008 article in the Japan times, their total food self-sufficiency rate was 39% by volume in 2006. That means that the whole country produced enough food to cover what 4 out of 10 people actually ate.

That leaves two options – starve, or eat those soybeans from China. For some Japanese who buy into occasional reports (and some sensationalism) about tainted Chinese imports, that’s a tougher choice than it appears to be.

One thing that I find similar between the United States and Japan is that it’s easy to look at the price of produce and end up grabbing the imported stuff because it’s cheaper (without noticing the label). I can’t claim to remember the difference in the States because it’s been awhile, but the difference between Japanese and foreign produce is pronounced. My anecdotal evidence includes 80 to 100% markups on Japanese broccoli, garlic, and soybeans, and I will probably dig up a lot more if I care to when I move closer to the biggest port in the country (and, by extension, farther away from domestic farms).

However, it is pretty easy to avoid buying the more exotic fruits or things that are out of season because they are laughably expensive, bananas aside. Hothouse watermelons are more than double the cost of my beloved February watermelons in California, oranges from Australia are always unreasonably priced, and even domestic apples get ridiculous (and less delicious) in the summer time.

Kochi dwellers are fortunate to be able to buy local across the board, and chances are that if the fruit or vegetable is not grown in Kochi itself, it’s grown somewhere else on Shikoku Island. Sure, it means passing on pineapple now and then, but this is definitely a very easy place to eat local.

Other places in the world, not so much. The NRDC offers this nifty seasonal chart for every United State during periods throughout the year. As you probably guessed, Southern Californians wouldn’t have to change too much to eat local. Why, even in early February, the list reads like so:

artichokes, asparagus, avocado, beets, blood oranges, broccoli, brussels sprouts, cabbage, carrots, cauliflower, celery, chard, collards, dates (Medjool), grapefruit, green onion, green peas, kale, kohlrabi, kumquats, lemons, lettuce, mushroom, mustard, navel oranges, passion fruit, spinach, strawberries, tangelos, tangerines, turnips

Yeah, we could make that work. Just don’t ask us to drink local . . .

You can look at a summary of the full year for any state, and the picture is bleak in some of them. North Dakota only gets cabbage and gourds from early October to late December, nothing at all from then to early April, and then cabbage again until late June. No thank you.

And check out what Michigan gets to eat in the wintertime . . . poor schmucks.

If they get tired of those, they could always go to New York and eat some art.

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Thanks to atlanticseeds.com.au for the watermelon image.

Out With the Cold, In With the Brew

This past Christmas and New Year were my first ever in Japan, and they have a chance to be my last. I had my suspicions about how it would be, but I was never the type of kid to just listen when Mom said, “the cookie sheet is hot, I just took it out of the oven,” so I had to see for myself.

Very few Japanese get Christmas Day off of work, and if they do, it is not related to Christmas itself, it is part of their New Year holiday. I would say that almost all Japanese are aware of Christmas, but it is of very little cultural significance to them. Still, Santa Claus, candy canes, and reindeer are widely recognized and the general idea of a season of giving is understood.

<em>Santa Claus on the outside of the Asahi Royal Hotel</em>

Santa Claus on the outside of the Asahi Royal Hotel

Christmas Eve and/or Christmas Day are for young couples. Christmas dinners and Christmas cake are standard fare, and motels enjoy one of their busiest 24-hour periods of the year. It’s a great time to propose for marriage, or to finally get around to officially asking your date to be your girlfriend or boyfriend, a maddeningly adolescent procedure that is, nonetheless, a vital part of how things are done here.

I went a-wassailing on Christmas Eve and noticed an inordinate amount of couples looking their best strolling around town. The Asahi Royal Hotel cleverly lit its windows up in a rather creepy Santa shape, and a white Christmas tree stood in Kochi Central Park. Otherwise, there was not much special going on and I headed home early.

Christmas Day was just another Friday, but I wanted to make it special, so I biked out to the Awa Coastline, one of my favorite spots in Kochi. The main highway bends away from the coast and heads for inland hills, leaving a single ribbon of road hugging steep mountains that plunge into the ocean. Pine trees jut out of the side of the cliffs, and their fragrance mixed with the smell and sound of the sea offers a rare blend of Big Bear and Huntington Beach that is all at once delicious, relaxing, and inspiring.

<em>Awa Coastline Road</em>

Awa Coastline Road


<em>Awa Coastline - Big Bear meets Huntington Beach</em>

Awa Coastline - Big Bear meets Huntington Beach

I pass through several canopy-like tunnels on the way to my customary rest stop. Flat, concrete roofs over the road are supported by evenly-spaced cement pillars on the ocean side of the road, creating a nifty zoetrope effect when I zip through them on my bicycle. I’m usually not a fan of manmade structures getting in the way of natural views, but the sound of the waves is amplified because it bounces off the cliff walls and the roofs of these tunnels, and the quick disappearing and reappearing of the scenery stimulates my mind as it attempts to fill in the blanks and get the whole picture.

<em>A zoetrope tunnel on Awa Coastline Road</em>

A zoetrope tunnel on Awa Coastline Road

At the rest stop, I climbed over the guardrail on the ocean side and let my feet dangle over the precipice, fifty feet above the rocky shore. The sun shone in a cloudless sky as I ate (and chucked) bananas and ponkans, and it felt like a 75-degree California Christmas.

Once back in Kochi City, I edited a translation project and sent it on its way, and then finished filling out my New Year cards, Japan’s version of Christmas cards which are delivered on New Year’s Day. Businesses and families alike send them out to almost everyone they know, and cards bought through the post office have lottery numbers printed on them for the big drawing in late January. I won a sheet of stamps last year, but I have a feeling that the big cash prize is going to land on me in 2010.

After dropping off the cards at the post office just before the deadline, I raced over to the hospital to visit a buddy of mine who was laid up with a right leg fresh off of ACL surgery. This is an outpatient surgery in the United States; the doctor who did mine in 2003 said he can easily do four ACL surgeries in one day, and some variations of the surgery have the patients hobbling out of the hospital on their own. We’re in Japan, though, and surgeons and doctors here try to keep patients in the hospital as long as possible, so this poor fellow was trapped until New Year’s. I gave him some of my mom’s Christmas fudge and a rented copy of Rear Window.

Then, I was off to a restaurant opening on the main drag downtown. A dozen or so people, foreign and Japanese, showed up to help start the history of Kazuya Restaurant, and old Kazuya fixed us some turkeys, pizzas, and salads to help us celebrate Christmas.

Finally, I made my way home just in time to Skype my family as they were beginning Christmas morning on Pacific Time. They put a laptop computer in my usual spot, and I “sat” there in the living room like a computer-god and watched everyone exchange presents, laugh, and moon the camera. It was easily the best part of a very long day.

Not a whole lot happened between Christmas and New Year’s. Japan experiences a lull in business as everyone has their thoughts on the time off around New Year’s Day, but I did manage to get a sizeable translation project before everything shut down for the holiday.

New Year’s Day in Japan is similar to Christmas in the United States. People flock to their hometowns to spend time with their extended families, and many businesses shut down, and I’m told that even supermarkets and gas stations were closed through January 3rd up until just a few years ago.

I hit the sack early on New Year’s Eve in order to get up in time to see the first sunrise of the year, which bears the same amount of significance to Japanese as the stroke of midnight does to young Americans. A few women and I hiked up a mountain at 5:30 a.m. and brewed tea and complained about the cold until the sun came out.

Daily exercise music and instructions are still broadcast on the radio every day at 6:30 a.m., and on some of my early morning rides, I’ve seen old folks doing it and ridden past factories where all of the workers are stretching to the music together. Somebody had a radio on the top of Mt. Washio on New Year’s morning, and everyone joined in while I struggled to keep my sides from splitting.

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When the sun finally peeked out and illuminated the sky first in red, then in yellow, we raised our arms and shouted, “Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!” in hopes of ringing in a Happy New Year. I turned and looked at the crowd and was surprised that the mountaintop population had grown from 15 or so when we arrived to about 100.

We drove out to a public lodge perched atop one of the mountains on the dangerous but beautiful Yokonami Skyline and took our first hot spring bath of 2010. I was stunned that such a wonderful view and relative seclusion and peace were available for only five bucks. The “famous” backwater hot springs that charge ten and up for inferior facilities ought to be ashamed.

<em>View of the Pacific from Kokumin Shukusha Tosa outdoor baths</em>

View of the Pacific from Kokumin Shukusha Tosa outdoor baths

The first temple visit followed, and while that’s a pretty significant item on the Japanese New Year Checklist, it was just like any other temple visit, but with a much larger crowd. I paid 50 yen to a machine for a New Year fortune and drew “Big Luck,” so you might want to place your bets on this dog for 2010.

No sooner did I arrive home than did my former school’s principal show up to take me out to his countryside house for a traditional Japanese New Year celebration. He, his wife, and their grown son commute from deep in the mountains to Kochi City every day for work, and their 24-year-old daughter flew the coop for the fast life and hip-hop culture in Osaka, but they were all present and accounted for on New Year’s Day. The principal’s parents also ate and drank with us throughout the afternoon.

We arrived at the house to find a low table jam-packed with countless different kinds of sushi, fruit platters, traditional New Year foods, beer, and sake. In the past, the women of the house cooked enough food for three days and almost all of the food was cold. Now, many families buy ready-made platters at the supermarket, and almost all of the food is still cold. I’ll say what many Japanese will readily admit – that New Year’s food leaves much to be desired.

Still, there were some interesting dishes. I ate kuromame, the first sweetened beans I have ever liked, ozoni, a soup with mochi and other stuff in it, and kazunoko, yellow fish eggs smashed together, molded into a long, narrow shape, and marinated. To turn down kazunoko is to poo-poo future fertility, so I closed my eyes and choked one down. Num-num, Happy New Year.

Kochi people love to drink, and the principal and his family are no different. We raised glass after glass of beer and sake, and even the principal’s 80-year-old mother joined in the festivities. I rinsed and repeated at another teacher’s house on January 2.

Japanese New Year is a time for families to gather and catch up on what’s going on in each other’s lives. It’s a lot of sitting and talking and drinking, and many people, young and old, find it rather boring. I wasn’t bored this year because everything was brand-new, but I know that I was intruding on those families a bit and that further Japanese New Years will not have much appeal if I don’t have a Japanese family of my own.

Looking back a few days later, of course I would have rather been in California with my family, but I had passed up on four previous opportunities to experience a Japanese New Year and decided to take the chance this time. I’m glad that I did and personally consider it a unique way to start 2010.

Hope it’s as Big Lucky for you as it’s going to be for me!

<em>A New Year's sunset</em>

A New Year's sunset

Mistakes Kill Me

Check it out! My first Mailbag entry!

Pete writes:

Question for you regarding pitchers and their ability or non-ability to hit their “spots”. When a pitcher, such as last night when Hughes was pitching to Guerrero and had him looking like a 2nd grader swinging a wet noodle, throws at a 45 foot curveball for a swinging strike do you throw him another CB to get rid of him or waste a pitch up and in to his zone? We know what happened, Hughes missed down the d@ck and Vlad as his does hits a weak GB up the middle for a hit to extend the inning. Was that pitch a mistake because he missed his “spot”???? What is the percentage of mistake pitches that are made during a MLB game. Someone here has the opinion that it is somewhere in the 85% range of mistake pitches during an MLB game. I am very curious to read your take on this.
Thank you!
Pete

And, from Pops:

Bob,

Dan Koosed is my Assistant GM here at the Flyers. We debate baseball a fair amount and have been discussing the bad umpiring on the last few games as have you.

I made mention about the infamous “mistake” pitch and it boiled down to me claiming that a pitcher only really hits his “spot” perhaps as low as 15% of the time. I mean really throws the ball exactly where he intends it to go!

Not talking balls and strikes here, I am talking I threw the dang thing on the mark I set in my brain.

So the question is to the wise Bob Sanchez, what percentage of the time do you think this occurs? That th pitcher could actually say I meant to hit that spot?

Can’t wait for your answer. No money on it. . . yet.

XXOO

Readers comin’ out of the woodwork! I love it! If I didn’t know better, I’d think Pete and Pops are trying to settle a bet through Bob Sanchez’ BS. Bring it on!

Pops, tough question that doesn’t have a scientific answer as far as I know! Some smart folks have studied it and written about it on the Internet, and there still isn’t a way to get into another human being’s head and know for sure what he wanted to do.

Yet that is what analysts and scouts are asked to do. You can rely on the catcher’s target and what you know about the pitcher and the pitch sequences, but I don’t think anybody is any more or less clued in than the hitter, and if we’ve done this right, most of us remember what it’s like to be a hitter!

I’m cycling through the memories of the hundreds of pitching performances I’ve seen over the last four years and settling on numbers that seem right, so please pardon the lack of scientific evidence here.

A lot depends on how you define a “spot,” and of course the pitcher’s objective (within the objective of getting the guy in the batter’s box out) changes with every succeeding pitch. On a 3-0 count, for example, you want to throw a strike that doesn’t get hit 10,000 miles assuming the batter would swing and you’re not trying to walk him. Your “spot” would be pretty big, then, in that case.

I think a Major League starting pitcher with poor command on any given day will still hit his spot with 30 out of 100 pitches. Of course, he probably won’t get to 100, but I think 30% is the least you can expect from a professional starter at the highest level on the planet.

A starter who is dealin’ will be somewhere between 50% and 70% for me. Here, the fact that he is having a great day works in his favor. You can bet the hitters are talking about the location of his stuff, and they may not be expecting anything good to hit. Let’s say a pitcher misses his spots and walks a guy or gives up a double, well that’s no matter, he’s on fire with his command and will get the next guy. That’s my best explanation as to how a guy can be dominant and still “miss” 40% of the time.

Pitches over the middle of the plate are easier to hit hard than pitches elsewhere, for the most part. However, hitting is so difficult that even if the pitcher “leaves one over the middle,” it’s not the end of the world. Watch the HR round of BP and see how guys ooh and aah when the batter hits three in a row out of the yard. Or 28 HR in one round of the Derby? Just amazing.

The best hitters hit the tobacco juice out of pitches over the middle when they get them, but if every “miss” left the park or eluded the eight gloves out there, we’d have guys hitting .450 with 130 HR. Yes, hitters get good pitches to hit that often.

Pete, let’s get to your question for one example of a “mistake.” As you mentioned, Hughes’ target on that pitch was up an in out of the strike zone, a tough pitch for Vlad to do anything with except hit on the ground between the shortstop and third baseman as we’ve seen him do countless times. That may have been why Jeter seemed to be a step or two closer to third base.

Hughes ended up throwing the ball right down the c@ck, as you put it, and Vlad hit a weak grounder up the middle that got “pasta-diving Jeter!” My head sunk when he hit that ball, as yours probably did, because it didn’t seem to have enough juice to get through the infield in that first instant. The replay showing the reaction on the bench was exactly the same. The guys stayed down and exploded when it got through; they didn’t get up on their toes on the crack of the bat and then jump up in a separate motion as could be expected if Vlad had hit a rod.

Telling, isn’t it? Here’s a “mistake,” and it’s not hit well. Hughes missed his target, that is undeniable. But so did Vlad! Unbelievable! Unacceptable? Imperfect execution on both ends, but not what I would call mistakes. Asking Hughes to thread the needle or Vlad to hit everything in a certain zone on the screws every time is asking too much.

I’ve asked around and heard the “mistake pitch” attributed to Tom Glavine, who called one of his own pitches a mistake after a game in the 1990s. It spread like wildfire and morphed into what we know today, the casual comment made by commentators about pitches that went wrong based on the results.

People feel smart when they can point out where someone else messed up, and I think that announcers and fans alike don’t consider what they are doing when they criticize these elite athletes. They can say, “The Twins can’t make these mistakes and expect to beat the Yankees,” or “You know you can’t make pitches like that to Vlad,” around the water cooler and feel like baseball geniuses. Disrespectful, negative, and derogatory, each and every one.

What “mistake” hounds miss, I think, is that the pitcher-batter matchup is not a Scantron test with one side automatically executing something based on the human input on the other. It’s two human beings facing each other in a battle of wits and skill, and the success rate is perfect enough from either side that it makes the battle fun to watch. Again, and again, and again.

Thank you, gentlemen, for reading and asking.

From Rocking Chairs to Extinction

There is a problem with the way we watch baseball games, or perhaps more accurately, with the way baseball games are provided for our eyes and ears to enjoy. The picture has never been clearer, the camera angles never better, the sound never sharper, and the graphics never more informative, but the taste of it gets more and more sour with each passing postseason.

Countless replays and K-Zones have made it incredibly easy for fans to be armchair umpires, which is interesting because some accounts have the umpires themselves in rocking chairs twenty feet behind home plate in the 19th century. We are able to see every pitch and every tag from a myriad of angles at varying stages of slow motion whether we want to or not, and I imagine that many of us take a perverse pleasure in doing someone’s job better than he can do it from the safety of our homes and offices.

The two or three talking heads assigned to overanalyze each postseason baseball game jump into the fray as well, declaring calls good or bad based on these replays. Notice that they reserve judgment until the replays show what is without a doubt the right call, that their tongues cluck only after the ball has settled on one side of the white line or the other, or that they offer congratulations for a consistent strike zone only after the points are plotted and the yellow streak is painted on the rectangle.

To be fair, there have been some badly missed calls this offseason, some that leave me shaking my head and feeling awful for the men in blue. I try to make my call when they make their call, to form my opinion in the moment just like they must, but I cannot close my eyes when the replays come. The admonishment from the press box makes my stomach turn, but in these cases, the fact remains that the umpires were wrong.

This is not a good thing. Umpire errors are not as much a part of the game as the curve ball and the seventh inning stretch. We should not tolerate such incompetence, especially since we now have the technology to correct these mistakes.

There are two systems at work here. One is archaic and relies on human resources. It is expensive and frustrating and rarely goes a day without making someone upset at a malfunction, real or perceived. The worst feature of this system is that it will correct an error by itself only very rarely; everyone in the game must live with whatever the system produces and continue on with life.

The second, newer system has not been officially implemented yet, but we can see it at work on our TVs and our favorite stats websites. It will almost always tell us the right call with complete impartiality, offer us an infinite number of looks at every single play, and, perhaps best of all, never argue and never ask for a vacation.

The two systems do not work in harmony, rather creating a cacophony, a polytonal opus comprised of smug second-guessing, embarrassing replays, and superfluous graphics that have to strain to show us their meaning. It is difficult to watch baseball with these two systems warring against each other and MLB standing by doing nothing about all of the noise.

Something needs to happen before the first pitch of the 2010 season. I see two alternatives.

1) MLB, the umpire’s union, and the networks agree not to show instant replays. Ever. Umpires’ responsibilities remain intact.

2) MLB strips umpire responsibilities down to tag plays and rule interpretations and leaves fair/foul, ball/strike, force plays and home run/not home run to the hardware. The game is ruled by computers that give instant, indisputable decisions.

The first option would make watching baseball so much more beautiful but is also so unlikely to happen. Of course people want to know what the right call was. Of course people want to see that bang-bang play again and again, if anything to distance themselves as far as possible from having to actually watch the game and make a decision for themselves.

I could live with umpire errors if we weren’t constantly reminded of their frequency and degree. I could accept the human element if game analysis and reporting were approached with more humanity. This last gripe extends to coverage of the players and managers as well; second-guessing has gotten so harsh and so negative lately that it’s a wonder that any of these “journalists” are still allowed within thirty-nine feet of the clubhouse.

The first option might spur a decline in the number of useless graphics and in-your-face pseudo-analysis. Who cares how far Bobby Abreu is standing off first base when he takes his lead, don’t the producers understand that the naked eye can tell us enough? Why do I need to know that a Yankees key to victory is for A-Rod to “continue past struggles” or that “Figgins’ bat needs to wake-up” for the Angels to have a chance? (No kidding on those last ones, I wonder if we can show replays and ostracize the producer that those gems sneaked past)

When is the last time you watched a baseball game at any level without an electronic scoreboard? It’s amazing how rich a baseball experience can be when you actually have to pay attention to the score, the count, and how many outs there are. Maybe ditching umpire-bashing replays could help steer the mad, mad baseball media machine back in that direction.

The second option takes care of the incorrect calls, speeds up the games, and almost completely eliminates arguments and ejections. It would take some capital to develop the perfect strike zone machine and install it in all 30 ballparks, but fair/foul is basically already being done with line judging in tennis, and I’m sure that geniuses can come up with some system for force plays where they rig the bases and the infielders’ shoes with sensors that could pick up stimuli and make the correct decision.

The Yes or No calls in baseball are easy enough for a machine to make on the spot, nearly as fast as a human being (way faster in the case of certain guys behind the plate). My primitive mind can’t imagine a computer system advanced enough to get tag plays right with any kind of speed, and it even takes human umpires some time to see the whole play and make those calls. We could keep four umpires around for tag plays, balks, and for interpreting rules.

I’m ready to do away with umpires calling balls and strikes, fair and foul, home run and not-home run, and force plays. We have the technology to do it and it is dangled in front of us on the television, there for any yahoo with a blog or a sports column or a microphone in front of his mouth to use it to pontificate about umpires “bearing down out there” and taking accountability for their performance.

Those in favor of keeping umpires around are trying to honor the history of baseball, but mocking umpires with instant replay and loudmouthed analysis is degrading and is getting old fast. Keeping both systems in place as they are is a disgrace and an embarrassment to the umpires and to the game of baseball and requires urgent attention.

After posting this and sleeping on it, I realize that I strayed a bit with my comments about negative commentary regarding the umpires’ calls. I don’t think that the live announcers have been all that brutal about the missed calls, and I haven’t seen anything in writing that really goes after the umpires.

I think that everyone probably understands that attacking the calls after the fact is egregious second-guessing and is quite cowardly. However, I’ll stand by my feelings that media coverage of the players and managers is far too negative and smug. Everything is a “mistake” or a “awful decision” and these people have no business using the words and tones that they do to describe these plays because they are so far away from the action.

Some idiot game recap reporter at ESPN assaulted Maicer Izturis’ attempt at a double play in the 13th inning of Game 2 of the ALCS by calling it a “TERR-R-R-ible throw,” which, though partly true, was annoying because of the way he said it. The screen showed the barf-inducing Yankees dogpile and then cut to the box score, where the announcer decided to harp on Izturis again, saying, “…and the Yankees take Game 2 on Izturis’ HORR-R-R-R-ible decision…” The man should be fired and ESPN ashamed at that excuse for coverage.

What happens now? Are we going to ditch replays or sack the umpires? I’m afraid that we’ll get some lukewarm, middle-of-the-road alternative and that MLB will do one more thing to compromise the quality of its product.

Customer Responsibility: Epilogue

First, a review from Customer Responsibility:

My favorite Italian restaurant in Kochi, Trattoria Felice, folded up at the end of December but ten days after the makeshift forget-the-year party I arranged for my school.

It was run by one Japanese man, Mr. Felice, whose lone waitress was stunningly beautiful and pretended to be very interested in me – and I didn’t even have to tip her!

I had passed Trattoria Felice several times before and was drawn in by the Ace of Base blasting from the boom box at the bottom of the stairs…

After two or three more visits, Mr. Felice informed me of an all-you-can eat deal that he featured: an open-menu, 90-minute free-for-all for $25…we ordered dish after dish, pizza after pizza, and Mr. Felice made them all in earnest, each one savory and succulent.

This was the good stuff in an extremely personal setting made by an honestly good guy. Don’t even get me started on the gorgeous waitstaff. Nights at Trattoria Felice were part of the magic of Kochi.

I don’t know why Trattoria Felice went down. Maybe Mr. Felice won the lottery and took off to Brazil. Maybe he got tired of cooking such perfect food and needed to be challenged doing something else. Maybe he succumbed to slumping sales unrelated to his fabulous, loss-leading smorgasbord.

I need to find out what happened to Mr. Felice…and I need his waitress’ phone number in case she breaks up with her boyfriend.

I’ve taken a holiday – told the translation brokers that I am unavailable, left the baseball folks to do their thing in the city, and set aside three days to be lazy and comfortable. Of course, there’s no better time to clean house or catch up on scouting reports and videos, but afternoon naps and consecutive episodes of CSI on surfthechannel.com abound amidst the trickle of work.

I headed to the mall to get some clothes repaired and stock up on supplies, and a beautiful jewelry store clerk caught my eye as I passed on the way to the tailor’s booth. She was thanking a customer with her smooth, strangely familiar voice. I stopped and turned around to get a better look, and my heart skipped a beat as I identified the waitress from long-lost Trattoria Felice!

Her perfect, distinguished face still shone behind the makeup she had to wear at this jewelry store, and though she was wearing a drab navy blue skirt, vest, and blouse uniform, it wasn’t difficult for me to imagine the chemistry-hot babe in jeans that made Mr. Felice’s fantastic food taste even better.

I told her that I had visited City Hall, the Prefectural Tax Office, and the Department of Health and Sanitation and called the building’s landlord to try and find out what in the world had happened to Mr. Felice. She said that she too was shocked by the move but that Mr. Felice had decided to close his doors long before he actually did it.

Mr. Felice did not win the lottery. He did not get snapped up by an eccentric Argentinian businessman who needed a new personal chef. He did not take his earnings and run off to Tokyo with his waitress’ boyfriend to start a venture business, leaving her behind with the Trattoria Felice cookbook and all but sealing her fate as the future Mrs. Mac.

Mr. Felice took a job as a supermarket produce supervisor. “He got a job,” the jewelry store clerk said in a way that a parent might say their young adult son or daughter got a job. A real job.

The pressure on young people, especially men, to get a real job is very heavy in this country. It affects young boys with baseball talent, many of whom see trying their luck in organized professional baseball as a dangerous risk and opt for the more secure industrial leagues. I’m sure that Mr. Felice had compelling reasons not to continue operating Trattoria Felice, but given the jewelry store clerk’s explanation of his explanation, I suspect that some of this pressure was present in his decision.

Still, he was short-handed and didn’t charge enough for his work, and it pains me to think that that contributed to his decision to move on. The world has gained a supermarket produce supervisor and lost an amazing Italian chef. I suppose that some doors close when others open.

Portrait of a Rocket Fighter

This is a piece about a painting of a man looking at a painting. Unfortunately, I can’t reproduce the image here, I can only tell you about it and the man who painted it.

His shoulders face the painting propped up on an easel next to the back wall of his studio. It is as if you have walked in and caught him in a moment of reflection. He is looking at you, but his attention is still on the painting.

He is wearing his room slippers; he is quite comfortable. His right arm is draped over the back of a simple chair, his left hand rests on his knee, cupped as though he is holding a ball or preparing to play the piano beautifully.

A white apron hangs from his neck, and it is stained with paint on the bottom. A palette sits on the table in the foreground, but there is no brush. It is evident that he was just sitting in his studio, studying the painting before him. A mannequin hides in the shadow of the easel.

The painting with which he is so enraptured is one of himself at age sixteen. It is 1945, and he is dressed in his earthen Japanese Navy fatigues. His shoulders are thrown back and his hands are on his hips; it is a confident pose. Heavy white gloves make his hands seem quite large in proportion to the rest of his body. The young man’s lips are pursed and his eyes look down at the painter. There is no fear in the boy’s face and there is perhaps a slight hint of duty.

The painter has the same pursed lips and his shoulders too are rolled back. His head is cocked to the side to acknowledge your intrusion into his studio. There is no trace of apology, regret, or pain on his face; his expression is simply one of acceptance. It is as if he is saying to you, “there I was.”

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Fumio Takemura was a member of the Special Attack Force, different but not completely dissimilar to the familiar kamikaze fighters. He was part of a troop that was to fly a new kind of Zero Plane called a “Rocket Fighter” in Japanese.

“The planes weren’t designed to be able to land,” Takemura recalled. “There was no landing gear, just a wooden sled on the bottom, and that made it very rough if the pilot did indeed decide to land.”

The Rocket Fighters burned what little fuel they carried quite quickly, within six minutes of taking off, in order to reach the altitude of the bulkier Allied fighter planes in a fraction of the time. From there, the assignment was to glide around the Allied aircraft, get off as many shots as possible, and if there was an opportunity, to plunge the Rocket Fighter into an enemy plane.

“Kamikaze pilots who returned were castigated and tortured,” Takemura said. “Our orders weren’t so strict, but we wouldn’t have been expected to return.”

Takemura and his troop practiced their techniques using hang gliders in the mountains of distant Nagano Prefecture. They built the camp from scratch, clearing boulders away from the top of a mountain rise, sleeping in tents, and making do without toilets or showers.

“We’d pass the time at night killing the crab lice we all had all over our bodies,” he recalled with nary a shudder. “No showers. Nothing to do. It was kinda fun after awhile.”

Takemura was to depart on “permanent deployment” in the summer of 1945, and would have done so if the Rocket Fighter’s test flights had met expectations in early July. Mitsubishi developed three Rocket Fighters, but one of the first test flights ended with the death of its pilot.

With the release of the final version of the Rocket Fighter pushed back until September, the Japanese Navy never got the chance to deploy its new weapon before the country surrendered to the Allied Forces in August 1945.

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Takemura painted this work when he was 60 years old. Kanreki, or the “turning of the calendar,” is the Japanese idea that life begins anew at age 60. Traditionally, working men retire and work on hobbies and projects that have eluded them during their forty years of six- and seven-day work weeks. It is a time to reflect, assess, and explore.

“I didn’t talk much about [the war] before my kanreki,” Takemura mused. “It was then that I decided that our stories needed to be told.”

His studio is full of picture books and model airplanes, and the resemblance to the American servicemen of that era with regard to the history of the war is striking.

Around the family dinner table, with his two daughters and their teenage children present, he recounted war tales that the women never heard when they were young. It sparked memories of talking with my grandfather, who saw action over Europe, over games of gin with my father and him in the final years of his life.

“Young people don’t know about what happened, they just don’t know,” Takemura grunted, offering a rare glimpse at his crusty side. “We’ve got to make these stories last.”

He talked of the fire-bombing of Kochi, a town that even then didn’t make it onto the map except as the small capital of the countryside prefecture. Many people, he said, fled to the Kagami River, thinking that they could escape the flames by being in the water. The oil and explosive materials inside the fire bombs floated to the surface of the river and fried them alive.

He mentioned the techniques that villagers in each of the coastal towns practiced in case the Allied troops attempted a ground attack. Each port had boats loaded with explosives ready to go out and meet Allied ships. Some civilians were given oxygen tanks and told to wait under water for smaller passenger boats to come by during an amphibian landing. They were to spring up, shoot their oxygen tanks, and blow themselves up in addition to the enemy.

He spoke of the network of tunnels and makeshift forts that still remain in the mountains of Kochi, there for additional civilian defense against an Allied invasion. Locals gave up valuable land for rice in order to build mounds of dirt, hollow them out, and park planes inside, keeping them out of sight from above.

All of this made my American high school textbook seem like it paid Japan lip service for its role in World War II. I had no inkling of fire-bombing outside of the big cities, no perception of the degree of the threat that armed civilians would have posed in a land battle, no idea that any of this spread all the way to one of the farthest corners of the country, Kochi, still Japan’s best-kept secret.

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Takemura talks seriously about his experience in the armed forces, but there is a hint of the huge smile that is always on his face when he talks about art or his family. It lights up the room whenever he enters, but dims just a bit when he speaks of the war.

Japan had been militant and imperialistic for Takemura’s entire life, teaching him that America and the Allied Forces were enemies of Japan. Suddenly, Japan was on the defense.

“They told us that our way of life would end if we lost,” Takemura recalled grimly. “We did not want Japan to become America.”

Takemura spent time training and imagining his death for the glory of his country and, on the surface, committed himself to that idea with mere weeks to go until its execution.

Then it all ended. He went back home to a broken and devastated Kochi.

“I was so relieved when it was over,” Takemura said with his trademark smile. “Just making it back to Kochi was enough for me.”

He loved to paint, and the war stole years away from his development. In his words, “wartime had no place for painting.” He sketched all of the different planes he saw during training. He painted while working as a civil servant first at the prefectural government office, then as an officer of the arts in Kochi City.

He was nearly thirty when one of his paintings was recognized and awarded for the first time, and he kept at his craft until he became the artist that everyone knows today.

Fifty years later, he has a three-story studio crammed full of paintings of old men playing Japanese chess, coastal scenes, and people and places from around Europe from his many tours there. He still teaches art classes and is active in Kochi’s art community.

The delay in the Rocket Fighter’s development and the end of World War II gave Takemura a virtually limitless bonus: the rest of his life, 64 years and counting. He bounces around from place to place, smiling, teaching, doing what he loves, and taking care of his family, whom he has kept close in Kochi. Is there any other way to live?

What’s My Line?

I’ll say that I’m great at remembering what time it is when I make a phone call to a different time zone. I’ve got a little mechanism and it works well for me.

News, on the other hand, continues to baffle me. I know that there are no more press deadlines and that stuff happens when it happens and gets reported as soon as it happens, but I grew up believing that news refreshed itself every day when I woke up. That sense is going to continue to be difficult to shake.

I can never get my head around exactly when things happened. I read the news that Walter Cronkite died today. That is, I learned the news today. I don’t know that he died today or yesterday. It’s not really important, but since he was a news guy, it made me think about the incessant hiccup in my brain relating to news and when it happened.

I never saw Walter Cronkite on the air as he retired before I was born. I YouTubed him and wasn’t really impressed. I’m not trying to say that the guy didn’t do a great job, just that, as a young dude in current times, I don’t buy the “most trusted man in America” bit. I can imagine why and how people of a different time would think that, but think it’s unrealistic now.

In the older, grainier images, Cronkite looked like Walt Disney and I decided that it would be fun to check out what Walt might have on YouTube.

This is very slow and simple, but I was immensely entertained and couldn’t keep this under my hat. Say goodbye to your afternoon (morning? night?):

YouTube Preview Image

Mac Fat

My family avoids going to the doctor. I’d like to say that it’s because we avoid getting sick, but those days come for us just like they do for everyone else. However, whether those days are Mondays, Wednesdays, or Saturdays has little bearing on what we do: we go ahead with what was on our schedule and eat our apples and keep the doctor away.

The school nurse has been pestering me to go get a checkup since the beginning of the school year in April. I snaked by without getting one in 2008, and I parried her numerous inquiries and attacks as best I could until she finally broke through.

She knows I like to sit at my desk doing non-school work and take off for the golf range on Wednesdays (when I have no classes to teach), and while I’m sure many other teachers and staff members know about it, nobody has ever said anything about it to me. She threatened to make it a topic of conversation and I want to keep my Wednesdays free, so I went to the hospital and took a physical last week.

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I’ve only had one physical in the States that I can remember, and it happened when I was 16 and set to go to work in the shop for my pop. I had to run in place, fill up a cup, and turn my head and cough a couple of times. No big deal.

It was pretty much the same thing at the Japanese hospital, but I got a shock when they went to measure my waist.

Nurse: OK, 34-and-a-half inches, you’re a little fat, aren’tcha?

Me: (in English) Excuse me?!?

Nurse: You’re over 33. You’re fat.

They’ve got this thing here, metabolic syndrome*, and according to them if you’re a guy and your waist is greater than 33 inches, you have it. Height and bone structure have absolutely nothing to do with it, it’s simply Male + 34.5 inches = “Metabo”.

*Apparently we have it, too. I had never heard of it before everyone started saying it about the fat guy in KCTC.

I asked about females out of curiosity, and they get 35 inches before they’re called metabos. Brilliant. The five-foot phenoms running around town have to be bigger around than I am to be considered fat.

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The hearing test came around, and I tried the old but chuckle-worthy deaf joke:

Nurse: OK, time for your hearing test.

Me: Eh?

Nurse: (dumbed-down Japanese) Time go to check your ears, you know, how well you can hear?

Me: (hand to ear) What?

Nurse: Follow me. We’re going to the hearing test room.

Me: What, not even a titter?

Nurse: What are you talking about?

Me: It’s a joke! You say, ‘it’s time to take a hearing test’ and I say, ‘eh?’ and show you that my hearing sucks.

Nurse: (stone face) . . .

Me: Oh, come on! You just called me fat! I’m just trying to get a rise out of you.

Nurse: (not havin’ it) . . .

Not all of my jokes fell flat that day. In between the various tests and interrogation sessions, I had to wait in the lobby with a bunch of other patients, most of whom were also there for physicals.

A middle-aged non-metabo lady was telling me about raising her oldest daughter at the same time that her sister was raising her oldest son. The babies were born three months apart and both mothers worked soon after giving birth (Japan now allows up to one year of maternity leave, but the labor law hadn’t yet kicked in at the time the women had their kids).

They cooperated and leaned on the grandmother, and it all sounded like a nice story until she told me that they used to freeze their breast milk and exchange babies for suckling sometimes. I probably just don’t get it yet, but I found that baby swap strange, and at the very least it was too much information for me.

However, I was downtrodden about the deaf joke and spied an opportunity to put a good one up on the board. I recalled a friend of mine once saying that he wanted a Mother’s Milk energy bar when, of course, he was referring to a Tiger’s Milk energy bar. You can bet that my buddies and I will never let him forget that.

I’d never had the occasion to put the two together in Japanese, but there it was at the end of the breast milk story. I tried it out and got the laugh I was looking for. Strangely enough, they’re closer in pronunciation in Japanese than they are in English.

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Some of the questions the doctors asked me were interesting. They asked how fast I eat, and I couldn’t give them an answer. I wolf down my food when there’s nobody around, but I’m usually the last one done at the dinner table or in a restaurant because I don’t stop talking.

They asked if I walk faster or slower than other people my age and I got a stern look when I laughed at the question. They seemed puzzled when I answered that I never go to sleep within two hours after eating, but have snacks and ice cream almost every night before bed. I told them that I thought I still had a few years left before I had to start feeling guilty about my ice cream habit. Not even a snicker. They were a tough crowd.

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When all was said and done, the hospital staff turned me loose with a clean bill of health pending the blood tests. I’m hale and healthy, if a little metabo.

I wonder what they’ll say about my cholesterol if they think a 34-inch waist is fat. I get a full blood analysis on a postcard in the mail after every time I give blood, and it always shows that I have very low cholesterol.

Of course, they’re testing my blood before I go back to the recovery room and load it up with cookies, crackers, and juice that I’m sure I’m consuming faster than people my age.