A FreaKy Baseball Alien Sent to Earth to Bring Us Joy

 Guys? We need to talk about Jacob deGrom. There’s something really wrong going on here, and I’m not just talking about unnatural capitalization.

Last night, deGrom pitched a complete-game, two-hit shutout for the Mets. He struck out 15, walked no one, and even got a couple of hits and an RBI himself. One of the two hits he surrendered actually bounced off the centerfielder’s glove as he tried to catch it, and could easily have been called an error, but so be it. The game is already being talked about as one of the greatest non-no-hitter pitching performances of all time. After last night’s game, deGrom currently has the all-time lowest earned run average in Mets’ history (i.e., lower than Tom Seaver). He also set the record for most strikeouts through the first four games of a season.

deGrom is obviously an elite pitcher: Rookie of the year in 2014, back-to-back Cy Young award winner in 2018 and 2019. An overpowering pitching performance, therefore, is not terribly surprising. What is inexplicable, though, is the fact that deGrom has gotten better and better with every passing season. In his rookie year, at the age of 26, his average fastball was around 95 miles an hour—nice, but nothing to write home about. This velocity, though, has gotten higher and higher every season since, until now, at the age of 32, he regularly hits 100-101 miles an hour on his fastball.

This is something that just doesn’t happen. Pitchers in their thirties LOSE velocity. That’s nature. They don’t keep getting stronger. At this rate, deGrom will be throwing 200 miles an hour at age 50. 

It’s worth noting that, prior to the 2018 season, deGrom was known as much for his wild hair as his fastball.

Given the reverse-Samson achievements since then, one wonders if deGrom spent some time down at a crossroads somewhere, and if there’s some demon with a sack full of New-York-Met hair and a promissory note for a soul, to be collected at some point after a Hall-of-Fame enshrinement in around the year 2062.

Talking ‘bout the Weather

President Biden has proposed major new rules and regulations to drastically reduce climate emissions in the US. Unsurprisingly, Republicans oppose this legislation. Senator Turtle (R-KY) complains that China produced more emissions than the US, and so this legislation would harm America while doing nothing to really solve the problem of global warming.  This confuses me: I thought Republicans denied that global warming was a thing.  I guess it's only a thing when caused by China.

The critics who point out that meaningful action on climate change will be difficult if not impossible unless big polluters like China get on board are not wrong: This is a worldwide problem that calls for worldwide action.  But claiming that the US shouldn't do anything unless China and India and other big polluters do is inane.  We can only control what we do.  We can urge other countries to follow suit, but only by taking action ourselves can we have any moral authority to make these demands.

More to the point, saying the US shouldn't do anything to mitigate climate change unless China agrees to the same type of actions, is analogous to a person saying that he knows that smoking and lack of exercise and poor eating habits are going to kill him, but since his neighbor also has bad habits, he refuses to change his behavior.

Life in the Fast Lane

One of the less-remarked upon effects of the Covid-19 pandemic must be the demise of the speed limit.  Driving California freeways feels like nothing so much as tearing down the Autobahn--or so I imagine: I've never actually driven on the Autobahn.  I don't even know what the Autobahn is! Sometimes I just put letters together and see what happens.

Anyway.

But seriously, folks, I routinely find myself hitting 80+ on the highway, and I don't even feel it--don't even notice it until I happen to glance at the speedometer--primarily because, no matter how fast I'm going, cars routinely blow by me on either side.  I might as well be driving an Amish buggy instead of my actual car (an Amish Prius--which is like a regular Prius, but with a large family and weird facial hair).

In the early days of the pandemic, this disregard for speed limits made a certain sense.  The roads were comparatively empty. I once made it to work from Solipsist Central--about a ten mile drive--in about 47 seconds.  Now, however, traffic is just SO February 2020.  But people--including me, apparently--failed to get the memo.

I suppose increased average traffic speed wouldn't be the WORST thing to come out of the pandemic.  Once we all have places to go again, might as well get there quickly.

Before I Forget

My mind is going.  Or maybe it's gone.

How many times has this happened to you: You're at work--

(Digression: Whatever "at" means these days.  Home? Office?  Home office?  Zoom meetings in your car on your way to Starbucks?

[Digression digression: We've just been informed that Starbucks is foisting something called a "Honey Oat Milk Latte" on people.  As if Pumpkin Spice weren't bad enough!  When will the madness stop?!? End of Digression Digression]

This is the age of work-from-anywhere, which is really not an improvement on anything, as it means no place is universally considered not-work. End of Digression)

--and you're being productive, and you're finishing up that well-crafted email and are about to hit "Send," and you suddenly remember something important that you need to do next, so as soon as you fire off that email you open up your files and. . . 

And what was I doing? I literally just had it.  And now it's gone.

Sure, you say, that's why you need to write things down.  And, believe me, I know that. I DO write things down.  I have a To-do list Word file open at all times to add things to. And when those Really Important Things cross my mind, I generally add them to the list.  I even cross them off (well, delete them)  as they get done.  But sometimes, you're in the flow of one task, and you're almost at the end thereof, when the RIT pops up, and you don't want to break the flow to jump to the to-do list, and SURELY--

(Digression: Don't call me Surely. EOD)

--you can hold on to this RIT for the twenty seconds it will take you to complete Task A before you jump to Task B (the RIT).  

But, you can't.

Couldn't have been that important, right? (He says, as he hears the wailing and moaning and teeth-gnashing of the person he's left to die because he failed to complete the RIT.)

I know I'm getting older, and the fact that the last year-plus has essentially been the same day repeated ad infinitum with only the occasional missing rabbit or white-nationalist riot to break the monotony, but this can't really be the new normal can it?  We've got to have at least enough mental capacity left to be able to remember things from one minute to the next, right?

. . . 

Wait, what was I saying?

Unsatisfactory Relief

The verdict came back quickly--something like ten hours of deliberations for this latest "trial of the century." Guilty on all three counts: Second degree murder, third degree murder, manslaughter. Certainly the right verdict, and seemingly obvious, but the degree of relief that I'm feeling indicates just how troubled our society is.

For the sake of posterity--in case someone stumbles upon this blog in some distant future when recent events have faded into obscurity--the facts of the case: In late May 2020, at the height of the Covid-19 pandemic (or one of the heights, anyway), in Minneapolis, Minnesota, police responded to a call about a man passing a counterfeit $20 bill at a convenience store.  Police subdued the suspect, George Floyd, and laid him face down on the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back.  One of the cops, Derek Chauvin, knelt on Floyd's neck for over nine minutes, despite Floyd's protestations that he couldn't breathe and his pleas for his mother.  A crowd of onlookers gathered during these minutes, recording Chauvin on their phones and begging him to get off of Floyd.  Three other police officers warned the crowd back but did nothing to intervene on behalf of Floyd.  Chauvin kept kneeling on Floyd's neck, even after Floyd fell silent.  Floyd was soon pronounced dead.

The evidence against Chauvin was overwhelming.  Obvious.  Of course, he had caused Floyd's death.  Of course his behavior was unjustified by any conceivable "threat" posed by the handcuffed, prone, and thoroughly subdued George Floyd--who really never seemed to pose any threat throughout the entire encounter. Multiple medical professionals testified that Chauvin's actions had caused Floyd's death, and multiple police professionals testified that Chauvin's actions were unjustified by any police procedures. The trial lasted about three weeks, with virtually no defense presented.  The prosecution eviscerated the defense.  In the last lines of its closing argument--words that should live forever in the annals of legal history--prosecutor Jerry Blackwell said, "Mr. Floyd died because his heart was too big. You heard that testimony. . . And the truth of the matter is that the reason George Floyd is dead is because Mr. Chauvin's heart was too small."

And then, after less than ten hours of deliberation, the jury returned its verdict.  The speed—combined with common sense—certainly suggested a guilty verdict.  And yet memories of the Rodney King verdict and any number of other miscarriages of justice in the face of blatant police brutality and racism gave pause as we waited to hear the verdict.  And therein lies the problem: The fact that we are so relieved by what should be an obvious result shows how damaged we are as a society.

It's reminiscent of last year's presidential elections, when we were all holding our breath to see if the one candidate who had received seven-plus million more votes than the other candidate would be declared the winner (after the previous presidential election when the loser had only received about three-million more votes than the winner).  This is a democracy?

A police officer casually murders an unarmed, incapacitated man in front of numerous witnesses, and we need to keep our fingers crossed that he's found guilty.  This is a society of law?

"Chauvin Guilty" is a good headline.  But there's no celebration here.  Just a recognition of how far we need to go.

Still Can’t Use Your Hands, Right?

A group of the biggest, most successful European "football" (by which they mean soccer) clubs (by which they mean teams) have banded together to form their own league (by which they mean league), separate and apart from the Champions League, which is, we deduce, where they have normally played.  Raising the deep, thought-provoking question: Do we care?

Probably not.

Not only because this is soccer, which is at best a boring and at worst an imaginary sport (see our earlier posts on the topic).  But also because we haven't been able to find anyone to explain to us what, exactly, this means.  So, the clubs that were in League A will now be in League B, but they'll still play each other.  This sounds like the equivalent of saying, for example, the baseball teams in the National League West and the American League Central will now form their own league.  Clearly, this would be a major shake-up of the Major League Baseball universe, but ultimately, you would still have baseball players playing baseball against other baseball players, right?

Right?  No, seriously, we're asking.

Presumably this is all related to money, and the players and club owners figure they can make more money by organizing themselves differently,.  From what we can tell, exactly no one other than the teams involved is happy about this move.  Indeed, the soccer governing body UEFA--

(Digression: Does one pronounce that U-E-F-A or "Youeefa"?  If the latter, that would be a good name for a pet monkey. If the former, it's not even a good name for a soccer governing body. End of Digression)

--has gone so far as to threaten the players on the breakaway teams--which include such powerhouses as Real Madrid, Juventus, and the Devonshire Woolkettles (OK, we might have made up one of those)--with being banned from participation in the World Cup.  Which will really show those players when the World Cup is held without the best players from the best teams! A ratings bonanza in the making! On the plus side, under those circumstances, the US will actually have a chance!

So bottom line, we are fully in support of this development about which we understand nothing and care less. Thank you for your kind attention.

UPDATE: All the clubs that were going to form the Super League have officially decided not to bother. We can’t help but think that our indifference was a precipitating factor in their decision. You’re welcome, World. You’re welcome.

In Which We Discover a Random Ouchie

Do you ever find random injuries? Like, you’re unconsciously rubbing your finger, and then you suddenly realize that rubbing your finger hurts, and you look down and notice that the reason it hurts is that there’s a large, pulsing red gash on this finger.  The gash, however, is not the disturbing part.  The disturbing part is that you cannot remember how or when this gash occurred.  

Sure, one can always blame the cat—strictly speaking, blaming a cat is always a statistically sound strategy for virtually anything that goes wrong anywhere in the world, equally applicable whether one even owns a cat or not. But still, when blaming the cat, one should possess some clear memory of the cat’s assault. When something has happened serious enough to leave a mark, shouldn’t it be somewhat memorable?