By Mitch Nathanson, Historical Columnist 

When I was six I got a Strat-O-Matic baseball game for my birthday.  This was 1972 and, my luck, the one I received came with a starter set of 1971 Expos cards.  Imagine the fevered delight of any six-year-old when he discovers he’ll have the thrill of managing from his basement the likes of Boots Day and John Boccabella for the foreseeable future. 

I can’t remember who the other team was that accompanied the Montreal cards; all I can recall is sitting in my basement watching these Expos strike out, pop out, and ground out with stunning alacrity.  In the real world, the Phillies were sending to the plate the likes of Denny Doyle, John Bateman, and Roger Freed so from where I sat, my Strat-O-Matic experience was alarmingly true-to-life.  This was baseball, I thought.  Real baseball.  And I was not merely playing it but orchestrating it.

Just as in real baseball, Strat-O-Matic offered insight if you took the time to look hard enough.  Those ’71 Expos were terrible but the more I played the more I saw the value of a player like Ron Fairly.  Rusty Staub was the unquestioned star of that club but Fairly’s card was fantastic; he seemed to get on base all the time and was maybe the toughest out in their lineup.  Ron Hunt was another player I learned to appreciate through his Strat-O-Matic card.  Soon I was batting them first and second every game even though the real-world Expos not only moved them around the order but sometimes didn’t play them at all.  Idiots, I’d say to myself.  I know better.

Strat-O-Matic begat Statis-Pro Baseball (where I discovered the deceptive magic of Paul O’Neill years before the Yankees would), which begat Rotisserie Baseball, which begat the sabermetric boom that we’re presently in the midst of.  In the process we’re all more in the know now than we have ever been before.  In short, we’re all management now, or at least we think we are. 

In the old days, when ballclubs traveled by train and sportswriters wrote breathlessly about them, we like to think that players were mythologized beyond belief – “godded-up” as critics of that era describe how they were written about.  And they were.  But along with that came a perspective that was clearly in management’s camp.  The writers of that era were working on the owners’ dole and weren’t about to do anything to screw that up.  So fans were offered a sweetened-up version of the game; one that gave them their heroes but also beat home the idea that these heroes were lucky to be there and ought not to rock the boat.  Fans, seeing the game through the eyes of management as conveyed to them by the sportswriters they read every morning, understood this implicitly.  In the process, the Yankees won seemingly every year, a few other teams tried, most didn’t, but everybody ended up comfortably in the black each October.

That perspective starting changing in the ‘60s, such that by the ‘70s and ‘80s fans were identifying more with the players than the people who paid them.  The owners were exploiting them no matter how much money this one or that one made, the players were the game, and the best ones were worth whatever it cost, were the budding narratives.  It’s no surprise that as this mindset emerged, the Players Association grew stronger and more powerful.  And in the process, baseball became more competitive.  Heroes may have become passé but stars ruled and in this star-laden era, a wider swath of clubs participated in a World Series than ever before.  And along the way clubs made more money than ever, although they were forced to spend more in order to do so.

Games like Strat-O-Matic and Statis Pro pushed back against the rising player-centered narrative, albeit inadvertently.  And fantasy baseball and sabermetrics crushed it into the dirt.  Today we’re back, if not quite where we started – baseball gods reside only in heaven nowadays – but pretty damn close.  Once again we see the game through management’s eyes, tinkering with our rosters here, looking for underappreciated value there, mixing this with that to see what might happen.  The players exist primarily as assets or liabilities; widgets of one sort or another, to be plugged in here or there, or nowhere if we might save a dollar or two in the process.

Which explains why players such as Mookie Betts, Kris Bryant, and Francisco Lindor are on the trading block right now.  All of these players are popular in their home cities, in the prime of their careers – 26 or 27 years of age – and on clubs seemingly built to contend next season.  Yet they very well might be moved.  Forty years ago fans in Boston, Chicago and Cleveland would be screaming bloody murder.  Today they calmly talk about “acquiring assets,” “cost certainty,” and “maintaining payroll flexibility” in giving management not merely a pass but a hearty pat on the back for reducing the likelihood that their hometown club will be able to compete for the postseason in 2020. 

Today’s fan not only sides with management, in his eyes he IS management. 

The brainwashing is nearly complete.  Baseball is not only run by bean counters; its most ardent supporters consider themselves kindred spirits.  To the astonishment of just about everybody, the accountants won.  Who knew they were even playing?

It would be one thing if there was solid evidence that the type of thinking now being sanctioned by armchair GM’s predictably worked, but for every club like the Astros (who, in any event, may very well have gotten where they are as much by old fashioned sign-stealing as new-age player development metrics) there are a large handful like the Pirates and Marlins, who sell and sell and sell while chanting breathlessly and vaguely about a future that each season seems to be another year further off on the horizon.  Now it’s not only the Have-Not’s who are doing the selling but the Have’s as well.  And still the armchair GM’s cheer.

The means have become the end.  For too many clubs the goal now is cost-control.  Achieve that and call the season a success irrespective of the results on the field.  To this, amazingly, the crowd roars. 

We’re all in our basements now, rolling the dice, flipping the cards, running the numbers.  The real games are on TV upstairs.  But the living room’s empty. 

"Sticking to Sports" is Not Just Wrong, It's Impossible

By Mitch Nathanson, Historical Columnist 

The demise of Deadspin has me thinking: who will be the Phillies’ fourth starter next season? 

Not really.  It has me wondering where I’ll go to get the snarky, biting, tough insight I always looked forward to every time I clicked on over to the site.  There are fewer and fewer options, it seems, for information and opinion from outside the protective bubble that is “Sportsworld.”  Sportsworld is a weird place.  Odd rules apply where some things are talked about incessantly while others aren’t spoken of at all.  The identity of the Phillies’ fourth starter is fair game in Sportsworld; pretty much anything having to do with the weird and insular world of John Middleton isn’t.  More weirdly, discussing the personal lives of athletes is usually kosher in Sportsworld, which makes identifying the boundaries of fair and foul play within the bubble particularly difficult.  In Sportsworld, cellphone videos of players behaving badly is considered journalism but the same writers who write breathlessly about recalcitrant wide receivers refer to club owners as “Mister” while putting away their note pads and taking their seat on the team plane. 

Which was where Deadspin came in.  Deadspin didn’t respect Sportsworld’s boundaries.  Everything was on the table over there.  Most of it, because it was a sports site after all, touched pretty heavily on sports but every once in a while something would be tangential or not even come within a football field of it.  No matter, Deadspin would post it if its editors deemed it newsworthy.  And that’s what made it great. 

Now it’s gone and we’re told that it’s gone because its editorial staff refused management’s mandate to “stick to sports.”  On the surface, “sticking to sports” might seem like a good idea for a website that, without question, revolved around sports, but it’s the looming presence of Sportsworld that makes such a pronouncement ridiculous and not a little bit insane.  Sticking to sports is why, until it was replaced in 2008, Jackie Robinson’s Hall of Fame plaque didn’t contain any mention of the fact that he broke baseball’s color barrier in 1947.  Sticking to sports is why people like Washington Redskins owner Dan Snyder and Houston Astros owner Jim Crane are permitted to own franchises at all.  And, hey, sticking to sports is why there is still, in 2019, a professional sports team that goes by the name “Redskins.”

And let’s be real – even sticking to sports isn’t really sticking to sports.  In the midst of the Colin Kaepernick debate, public address announcers across Major League Baseball and other sports began instructing fans to not only stand for the National Anthem, but, if they were veterans, to salute as well.  Within the bubble of Sportsworld, such an instruction can very well be seen as politically neutral.  Outside of it, the mandate looks like something else altogether.  Sports talk radio likewise is “just sports” only if viewed from within the Sportsworld bubble.  Outside of it, listeners are subjected to a barrage of middle-aged white guys calling in to complain about Donovan McNabb, Terrell Owens, Jimmy Rollins, Maikel Franco, Joel Embiid – take your pick -- not playing the game “the right way” according to the insular worldview of the pale demographic that apparently has Angelo Cataldi’s number on speed dial.  The suspicion that many of these same callers own red hats that don’t sport the Phillies logo isn’t one I can’t easily dismiss.  On the surface they’re talking about sports.  It’s the subtext that matters, though.  A subtext that can’t be broached if we’re all herded back into the “stick to sports” lane.

By the way, if we’re “sticking to sports,” how does Odubel Herrera’s personal life fit within that mandate?  Why should it matter what he did in Atlantic City to get himself suspended?  Shouldn’t we simply care that he’s out for the season and leave it at that?  Of course, it’s absurd to leave it at that.  More to the point, it’s IMPOSSIBLE to leave it at that.  Context matters.  And oftentimes, the context extends far beyond the foul lines.  Sportsworld would proclaim that, obviously, Herrara’s actions at the Golden Nugget last May are relevant and fair game, which makes sense.  But then, out of the other side of its mouth, it proclaims that Jim Crane's business dealings at Eagle Global Logistics – the company that provided him the wealth to purchase the Astros -- are out of bounds, which makes no sense at all.

In the end, sites like Deadspin didn’t have a chance.  The funhouse mirror that is Sportsworld always wins.  It has too much money, too much power, too much influence not to.  But it sure was exhilarating to watch these underdogs not only take on the champ but deliver more than a few staggering blows. 

R.I.P. Deadspin.  No matter what you thought of it, remember this: anything that pissed Dan Snyder off as much as Deadspin did couldn’t possibly have been bad.


If These Four are on the Phillies Managerial Radar, They Need a New Radar

By Mitch Nathanson, Historical Columnist 

If the rumors are true, then be afraid.

Be very afraid.

If the Phillies are, in fact, considering Dusty Baker, Joe Girardi, Buck Showalter and – are you kidding me? —Mike Scioscia to be their manager next year, it’s over.  Really, really, over.  Over.  Did I say it’s over? 

John Middleton dipped his toe in the analytics pool a couple of years ago and apparently felt the water to be a bit too chilly to his liking.  So he canned Gabe Kapler, neutered Matt Klentak, and, at least insofar as these four candidates suggest, decided to return to the soothing waters of the 1970s, where baseball managers spit and cursed, determined who would play by who they believed looked like a ballplayer, and -- like a blind man behind the wheel of a car -- navigated by feel.  Welcome to your 2020 Phillies.

Obviously, Kapler was a disaster as a manager and Klentak hasn’t proven himself deserving of much deference at least based on the decisions we can trace to him, so it’s not as if Middleton should be faulted for stepping in and trying to right the ship.  It’s just that these four managerial candidates, themselves, suggest that Middleton is itching to take his listing ship and submerge it completely, down into the icy depths where it’s going to take James Cameron to ever find it again.

I’m not sure Middleton understands this but analytics isn’t something one simply does or doesn’t do.  If the information is out there only a fool, or Larry Bowa, would ignore it.  The problem with the Klentak-era Phils thus far is that they haven’t been smart enough in understanding and implementing the massive amount of data that’s at their fingertips.  Data that the four teams still playing are utilizing brilliantly right now. 

For example, if one is determined, as Kapler was, to manage one’s pitching staff as though every game were the seventh game of the World Series, one’s staff better be deep enough to handle the amount of regular work the 11th and 12th men on the staff were inevitably going to get.  Klentak, however, didn’t provide Kapler with such a staff and what weapons he did provide soon wound up on the injured list, leaving Kapler with a bullpen that looked like something that would have trouble getting outs in Reading.  Still, Kapler entrusted game after game to the likes of Juan Nicasio, Ranger Suarez, and five other guys I’ve already forgotten.  That’s not using analytics, that’s being flat-out stupid.  So is throwing Vince Velasquez out there every fifth day in the futile hope that he’d magically transform into a pitcher who resembled somebody other than Vince Velasquez. And so is removing Aaron Nola in the fifth inning of a ballgame for no better reason than you think that a flowchart tells you to do so.

So blaming the last two years on “analytics,” pronouncing the entire affair a complete and utter failure, and ditching it altogether to consider a candidate such as Mike Scioscia, who takes to analytics the way boys take to showering after gym class, is a disservice to the way the game is being played -- quite successfully -- today.  Baker, Girardi and Showalter aren’t perhaps as allergic to the information out there today as is Scioscia but none of them appear to have much of a mind to take that information and put it to its best possible use.  In short, none of these four are a step forward.  And Scioscia is a plunge into the deep end. 

Kapler’s problem, and maybe Klentak’s as well, was that while he was amenable to the numbers, he didn’t appear to know what to do with them.  By themselves, numbers are just that -- numbers.  They don’t dictate anything.  It’s only a nimble mind that can determine how to make sense of them and use them to win actual baseball games.  Yes, the numbers show that batting averages today are typically higher the second and third time a starter goes through the order but what to make of that information is where the rubber meets the road.  Do those numbers mandate, as Kapler blithely assumed, that starting pitchers needed to be yanked ever earlier, thereby ensuring copious innings in crucial situations by the bottom rungs of his pitching staff – those players who spend their careers floating between the bigs and the minors?  Or might they suggest that the Aaron Nolas and Zach Eflins of the organization needed to work harder to vary their approaches early in games so they’d still have some surprises up their sleeves come the later innings?  One could look at these numbers in countless different ways.  One way would result in our seeing more of Nola and Eflin pitching in key spots in late innings; another would result in our seeing way too much of Suarez and Nicasio. 

As it turned out, Kapler wasn’t capable of the type of analytic thinking that might make the Phillies better.  Maybe Klentak isn’t either.  But this doesn’t mean that the answer is Mike Scioscia.  Or Dusty Baker.  Or Joe Girardi.  Or Buck Showalter. 

The only way out of the mess the Phillies find themselves in right now is by using their brains to find a manager who knows how to use his.  The Phillies need to think better, think different.  Sadly, it appears as if John Middleton has decided they're better off not thinking at all.



By Mitch Nathanson, Historical Columnist 

So the big question out there with regard to the recent dismantling of Sports Illustrated is What Does It All Mean?  Of course, if we’re looking at this thing cosmically, Deadspin’s Ray Ratto is, as per his usual, right on the nose: “The gutting of Sports Illustrated was pointless, needlessly cruel, stupid and thoroughly corporate. It is what we do now—from an agrarian society to an industrial one to an informational one and now to the strip-it-down-resealable-parts one. Hurray for progress! See you in hell!”

Hard to argue with that.  The downsizing of SI isn’t really all that different than the corporate downsizing of pretty much everything else we read about nearly every day.  It’s soul crushing and makes you question the tenets of capitalism, yes, but it’s not all that unusual.  Let’s face it – corporate America sucks. It’s a bottomless pit of greed, narcissism, short-sightedness, and stupidity.  And those are its better attributes.

But that’s not what I want to talk about today.

I’m more interested in what the gutting of SI tells us, if anything, about how we watch, understand, and digest sports in the twenty-first century.  And here, I think, it tells us more about ourselves than we’d care to admit.

In order to understand why SI was ripped to shreds the other day, it’s important to understand why it was vulnerable to the soulless corporate sphincters in the first place.  And here’s where we see that, really, it was us – the American sports fans – who put the magazine in the position it found itself in the other day, not some black-hatted corporate raider.

In short, the corporate world didn’t kill SI, we did.

We did because we stopped caring so much about what it was that SI did every week.  Above all else, SI venerated the American athlete. Whether it was a snarky Frank Deford piece, a meditative Gary Smith piece, or something silly by Rick Reilly, SI was almost always about the athlete first and foremost. 

SI may have come along at a time – the mid-1950s -- when the old guard sports journalism was dying out, when those who “godded-up” the athletes they covered were giving way to those who wrote about them as human beings, but in its way, SI grabbed the mantle of the old guard, dusted it off, and carried through to the end of the twentieth century.  On the surface, a Deford piece might not have looked all that much like something Grantland Rice would have written decades earlier, but underneath they were cut from similar cloth.  Both Deford and Rice were in awe of the athletes they covered.  And that awe translated to the page.  After devouring your weekly helping of SI, you couldn’t help but see the athletes profiled within its pages as larger than before that week’s issue hit your mailbox.

By the late 1990s, however, we stopped caring so much about the athletes we were watching.  Rotisserie baseball and then fantasy football were starting to become a thing and countless numbers of us played one or the other or both.  And when we played them we cared less about the players themselves than about the number of points they’d earn us in a particular game.  Around the same time, sabermetrics started to take flight, allowing us to see the players yet again as amalgams of numbers rather than mythic gods or even everyday people we not only could relate to but care about.  What did it matter what Barry Bonds was like off the field when he could help us win our fantasy league?  And who cared how Bonds compared to players who came before him like Willie Mays or Ted Williams?  All that really mattered, metrically, was how he compared to others in the game right now. 

None of this happened overnight.  Rather, like a leaky faucet, this drip, drip, drip persisted for years until, by the day of SI’s dismantling, there was a pool of dirty water underneath the sink.  Of course it’s true that Deford passed away in 2017 and Gary Smith retired from sportswriting in 2013, but there’s no shortage of other writers who could conceivably fill their shoes, giving us writing that fleshed out as human beings the athletes we watch on TV and on our phones if only there was a public appetite for this sort of writing.

However, there isn’t.  At least not as much of one as there used to be.  So, sure, blame corporate America for this, I’m not going to stop you.  Hell, don’t look to me to stand up for that segment of the world.  But also look in the mirror.  Who really killed Sports Illustrated?  You did.  I did.  We all did.

I cancelled my SI subscription in 2004.  When did you cancel yours?


By Mitch Nathanson, Historical Columnist 

In a span of about a day earlier this week, baseball readers who follow such things were treated to what amounted to a succinct and well-argued summation of the existential box baseball finds itself trapped inside these days.  With the start of another football season, the chorus of chants proclaiming the superiority of the NFL have revved-up again and baseball, along with its dwindling cadre of hardcore fans, is once more wondering not only how the hell the game wound up in this box but how the once national pastime can ever get out of it.

On Monday morning, baseball’s uber nerd, Travis Sawchik, dropped his latest Vulcan mind meld with MLB’s front office statheads in the form of a (really) lengthy piece on Nate Silver’s FiveThirtyEight site, asking: Do We Even Need Minor League Baseball?  Sawchik went on to make numerous smart and, in their way, unassailable points arguing that, as a developmental tool, minor league baseball is practically worthless.  Better, he argues, to eliminate it and focus each club’s scant resources on developing ballplayers in centralized training centers, lasering in on the better prospects and discarding the lesser ones.  Of course, the Astros comprise Ground Zero in his argument:

“After the 2017 season, [the Astros] reduced their affiliate count from nine to seven clubs. The Astros believed they could become a more efficient producer of talent with fewer farm clubs.  ‘For the baseball people, it was a feeling that it was better to concentrate the coaching resources. We were trying to support a bunch of players that had a less than one percent chance of making the major leagues,’ said an ex-Astros official.”

Sawchik’s arguments are based on pure efficiency – the minor leagues are a colossal waste of a club’s time and money.  Eliminate them, Sawchik argues, along with the thousands of minor league games played in small cities and towns across America, as a means of producing better big league talent at a lower cost. 

The following afternoon, Albert Burneko filed his reply brief on Deadspin, which was...pure Deadspin.  Snarky and punchy, Burneko clearly doesn’t give a crap about efficiency.  He just loves going to minor league games.  Why?  Because they’re inexpensive and fun.  Killing them to further enrich the sainted few who run baseball in the names of efficiency and sabermetrics is acid in the eyeballs to a fan like Burneko.  Maybe You Just Like Watching Baseball Games was the title of his piece, which tells you pretty much all you need to know about where he’s coming from and where he’s going. 

“Who exactly is minor-league baseball for?,” Burneko asks.  “The 30 big-league clubs use it as a developmental system for their young prospects, of course. Is the fact that tens of millions of people choose to buy tickets to watch affordable baseball games incidental to that, or is it the other way around?”  Baseball exists simply to exist, Burneko believes.  Reducing the number of games, or the number of people who can access the games, runs contrary to the very reason there are baseball stadiums at all.  “Professional baseball is a spectator sport that exists so that people can enjoy watching it,” he writes.  And, of course, he’s right.  He’s just as right as Sawchik.

Which is precisely how and why baseball finds itself where it is right now.  Trapped in the middle of an argument between the economists and the fans.  Pushed and pulled this way and that, in an effort to be all things to all people, baseball has somehow managed to make itself unpalatable to nearly every constituency – it isn’t nearly efficient, analytical, technical enough for the economists but it’s way too sabermetric for the (admittedly older) fan, who came to the game initially as a tonic for the type of cold, heartless analysis he was subjected to all day at the office.  Now, more and more, he’s finding it whenever he turns on a game or reads about it afterwards. 

In a way, Sawchik’s article, itself, is a distillation of baseball as we know it today.  It’s complicated, complex, fascinating in the details, but way, way too long.  You’d learn a lot if you made it to the end but you'll probably check out at some point beforehand.  After all, you've got to get to bed at some point and this isn’t world peace he’s writing about.  And in the end, his point is sort of absurd – improving baseball by playing less baseball.  Sure, it might be efficient but why not go all the way and eliminate all of the games at every level?  Simply run an algorithm each October and hand out the hardware. Imagine how efficient that would be.

Burneko’s article is more like the baseball you grew up with.  It’s sort of messy, profound in some places, profane in others.  You’d enjoy reading his rant while downing a cold one, or five, but most of it probably wouldn’t stick.  It’s a brushback pitch aimed right at Sawchik’s chin.  Above all else, Burneko wants Sawchik to know that he owns the plate; if Sawchik insists on digging in like he did in his piece, he’s gonna get drilled.  It’s old school all the way.  It too, though, borders on the absurd – contrary to Burneko’s romantic portrait of it, minor league baseball, as baseball, is typically horrible.  Not even a carnival act at this point, today it’s little more than a sideshow to the main attraction, which, more often than should be legally permissible, might be dogs racing around the outfield between innings with monkey jockeys aboard.

Baseball’s dilemma is how to satisfy both constituencies – the nerdists who see baseball as the ultimate laboratory, and the purists who see it as the purest form of entertainment on Earth.  As of now it’s doing little more than pissing off both of them.  Which is why most televisions in America last Sunday were tuned into Week One of the NFL season, while baseball’s playoff push entered its final weeks with half empty stadiums and ratings weaker than a ballpark cocktail. 


By Mitch Nathanson, Historical Columnist 

The last 24 hours haven’t been the best for the concept of free speech.  Moments after smacking a game-winning home run last night, Sean Rodriguez smacked that portion of the Phillie fan base with the temerity to boo him beforehand.  Those fans “seem[] pretty entitled,” he whined to the press. “You’re just making yourself look pretty bad as an individual, as a person, as a fan.”  Rodriguez was mired in a 1-21 slump before his game winner and is currently slashing .214/.316/.393.

This morning the Washington Post reported that New York Times columnist Bret Stephens took after a George Washington University professor who called him a bedbug in a tweet that generated all of nine “likes.”  Nobody cared, apparently, other than Stephens, who emailed the professor and essentially said “say it to my face, why dontcha.”  Stephens also cc’d the school’s provost in what seems to have been an attempt to bully and intimidate the professor.  To repeat, in case anybody missed it, the professor’s sin was a silly joke wherein he called Stephens a bedbug.  Not funny, perhaps, but nothing worse than that.

I had my own “Bret Stephens moment” last summer when I tweeted out to my empire of 91 followers a query wherein I wondered why Stephens just looked so different on television recently than I had remembered him.  Stephens has always struck me as something of a phony – something of a right wing bomb thrower when protected first by the Wall Street Journal’s masthead and then the Times’s, but a gentle, reasonable-seeming soul when parading himself on MSNBC, where the sometimes asinine remarks he prides himself on in his columns would no doubt receive immediate pushback from the other panelists.  His visage struck me, at least at the time, as emblematic of his personality, so I commented on it: "Is it me or has Bret Stephens gotten some face work recently? The guy looks younger each time he's on TV. Hair plugs, perhaps? Something's going on, though."  The post was in jest (I have no idea if he’d ever had any work done and, anyway, I think that in my twisted way I was actually paying him a compliment, at least on the surface) but, at least I hoped, suggestive of the idea that the guy we see on MSNBC is a less-than-authentic talking head who bears no resemblance to the guy we read in print.

Within an hour I was stunned to find an email from Stephens sitting in my in-box.  No, he wrote, he never had any cosmetic surgery.  In fact, he stressed, “I have no idea what hair plugs even are.”  Overlooking my suspicion that he was, at least in part, lying (who doesn’t know what hair plugs are?) was the oddity of his replying to my tweet at all. Why would he care?  How would he even know that I had tweeted anything in the first place?  Only an incredibly fragile person would search his name over and over, several times each day, to find the dandelions in the weeds that were my, and later the GWU prof’s, tweets. 

Or maybe it’s something more than that.  Maybe Stephens’s pique arose from the notion that someone other than Bret Stephens was making use of the public square.  He was the national columnist, he was the network talking head, his voice mattered.  Mine, not so much.  Or at all.

Sean Rodriguez’s comments last night struck the same chord.  He was the Major League ballplayer.  He was the guy on the field, in the spotlight.  His was the voice that counted.  The nobodies in the stands booing him?  Not only shouldn’t they boo, they didn’t deserve a voice at all.  Oh, they could cheer if they liked.  Otherwise, they should just shut up and watch.

Problem is, that’s not the way it works.  The public square is, well, public.  Some, like Stephens and Rodriguez, speak from a platform that’s permanently affixed; others have to shout from the crowd, when something in particular moves them to speak and be heard.  But they’re entitled to the air just as much as anybody else. 

I don’t know Bret Stephens but I have to assume that he’s sent a lot of emails like the ones he sent me and the GWU prof.  All of them attempts to tamp down what he considers dissonant, mocking voices.  Speech – banal as it may be – that he believes diminishes him as the public arbiter of what’s right and wrong with America.  Rodriguez, too, seemed to be taken aback when the ticketholders in the public square that is Citizens Bank Park let him know what they thought of him and his slash line. 

 Free speech doesn’t work the way Stephens and Rodriguez think it does.  We don’t elect, appoint or anoint anybody to speak in our place in the public square.  Of course, Stephens and Rodriguez can say whatever it is they like.  But so can everybody else.

The public square is big.  It’s got enough room for everyone.  Nobody, not even a New York Times columnist or a Major League ballplayer, gets to clear it at their whim.  No matter how badly it bruises their fragile egos. 

Hey Bret, hey Sean:  BOOOOOOO.


By Mitch Nathanson, Historical Columnist 

One of the more interesting aspects of the dust-up between the design firm Harrison-Erickson (H/E) and the Phillies over the copyright to the Phillie Phanatic is that H/E really, really, really does not want to win it.  It finds itself in an odd position for a litigant -- if it loses it loses, obviously, but if it wins it loses as well.  And setting aside the legal issues pursuant to the minutiae of copyright law that may or may not be in its favor, it is this cold reality that puts the Phillies in the driver's seat in this dispute.

Assuming that the Phillies dig their heels in and litigate this to the very end, what does H/E stand to win should a court find that it does, in fact, own the copyright to the Phanatic and therefore has the right to make him a "free agent," as its letter to the Phillies has threatened?  As far as I can tell, it wins nothing more than a bag of smelly green fur and a pair of oversized boots which might have a street value of a few thousand dollars at best.  It cannot win the right to call that bag of fur the "Phillie Phanatic" because the Phillies unquestionably own the right to their name.  It cannot win the right to dress the fur in its familiar Phillies cap and jersey because, here again, the Phillies own the right to those as well.  All H/E wins, in the end, is the bag of fur, which becomes anonymous and meaningless absent its connections to ballclub it has traditionally been associated with.  And, oh yeah, the boots.

Of course, H/E might offer up that bag of fur to any of the other 29 other Major League clubs to use as ballpark entertainment much as the Phanatic has been used in Philadelphia since 1978.  But it's hard to see why anyone would pay a premium for this particular bag of fur.  Sports mascots have been around for decades and it's not difficult for any club to order up whatever sort of costume it desires.  There isn't any additional attraction to outfitting this particular costume in, say, a Dodgers uniform and rebranding it the "Dodger Dandy," or whatever their marketing team comes up with.  In the end, there's nothing special about the fur once the physical elements of the costume have been severed from the Phillies.  Once the Phillie Phanatic dies, there is no way to resurrect him as something else without fatally damaging the brand. 

H/E knows this, of course.  It knows that there's nothing special, per se, about the green outfit it designed.  In fact, H/E designed several sports mascots after it created the Phanatic and none of them approached the success achieved by the Phillie Phanatic.  As for why that is, it very likely has to do with the work the Phillies invested in transforming the outfit into a bona fide character, with a personality even perpetually jaded Philadelphians would not only accept but embrace as one of their own. 

H/E also created Youppi! for the Expos and while it has survived (it now trolls Canadians games) it is little more than an orange costume with a sweaty man inside, available for pictures with little children.  It is harmless and anonymous, as is pretty much every mascot that patrols the stands throughout major and minor league baseball (which has no shortage of furry green ones, it should be noted). The Phanatic, on the other hand, is Philadelphia through and through.  This is why fans here have embraced him like they have.  Take the Philadelphia out of the Phanatic and there's nothing left.

So if H/E knows all of this, why has it threatened to, in effect, kill the Phillie Phanatic? 

Money.  No surprise there, but quick money, in the form of an early settlement.  H/E is betting that the fear of losing the rights to the Phanatic will scare the Phillies to the bargaining table.  And this bet is probably a good one.  The Phils have a lot to lose should H/E prevail in the courts and sever the Phanatic from the franchise.  So the Phillies will pay up.

The thing is, though, H/E loses big as well should it win.  Which means both sides are fully incentivized to settle and to settle quickly.  Which is what will ultimately happen.  Given the weakness of its bargaining position, however, H/E is in line for a much smaller settlement than I'm guessing it thinks it's going to get. 

The Phils will undoubtedly blink and offer H/E a bundle of cash to make this go away rather than fighting to the end.  But so will H/E because it can't afford not to blink.  It simply cannot afford to win this case in the courts because to win is to lose.  And lose big, once its legal fees are counted up. 

Long live the Phillie Phanatic. 


By Mitch Nathanson, Historical Columnist 

Following up on yesterday’s blockbuster news of a lawsuit between the Phillies and the design firm Harrison/Erickson, Inc. (H/E) over who ultimately owns the rights to the Phillie Phanatic, here’s how things got where they are and how they most likely will pan out. 

First, it’s important to take note of who is suing whom.  Even though it’s H/E who is threatening to make the Phanatic a “free agent,” it’s the Phillies who have filed the suit seeking judicial recognition of their ownership rights to the Phanatic– a “declaratory judgment” asking the court to declare the Phillies the sole owners of the Phanatic so as to prevent H/E from acting on its threat.  In essence, this is a peremptory move on the Phillies’ part to prevent H/E from suing the Phillies later on.

Interestingly, the Phillies filed this lawsuit in the 2nd Circuit (encompassing New York) rather than the 3rd Circuit (encompassing Philadelphia).  This might be because H/E operates out of Brooklyn but it might also be because the 2nd Circuit has a reputation of being less copyright-friendly than the 3rd circuit.  And it will be the determination of whether H/E's copyright on the Phanatic is valid that would decide the case should it ever be fully litigated.  Most likely both factors played into the Phillies' decision to file in New York. 

With regard to the merits of the case, things begin to get a bit murkier, although it appears as if the Phillies have the upper hand here, absent some new information provided by H/E’s attorneys if and when they file their answer to the Phillies’ complaint.  “If and when” are important caveats here because of the likelihood that the parties reach some sort of agreement prior to this happening.  If they don’t, H/E’s answer should be an interesting read.

Without delving too deeply into the weeds, the controversy involves the application of Title 17, section 203 of the U.S. Copyright Act, which states, in relevant part: “Termination of the [copyright] grant may be effected at any time during a period of five years beginning at the end of thirty-five years from the date of execution of the grant…”  H/E contends that it owns the copyright of the Phanatic and that its assignment of its copyright to the Phillies in 1984 expires this year.  In fact, H/E did register the copyright with the United States Copyright Office on May 4, 1979.  So far, so good.  But here’s where the weeds get thick.

In fact, they become nearly impenetrable due to of the photograph of the Phanatic H/E appended to its application for copyright protection.  The photograph was not merely of the outfit, which H/E claimed to have designed, but of the outfit as worn.  In short, rather than simply present the materials it designed in its application, H/E presented a combination of its materials and the animating effect of the materials, thus blending the work product of H/E and the work product of the Phillies, who employed Dave Raymond to animate the costume (it’s unclear if Raymond is the individual inside the costume photograph attached to H/E’s copyright application). 

Further, because (the Phillies allege) a “costume” could not be copyrighted in any case (at least back in 1979), H/E categorized the Phanatic instead as an “artistic sculpture,” which was subject to copyright, describing the Phanatic in the application as “a shaggy creature wearing tennis shoes, tights, & a baseball shirt while carrying pennant.”  The problem with the categorization of the Phanatic as an “artistic sculpture” (at least according to the Phillies) is that there was legal precedent holding that, generally speaking, a sculpture “implies a relatively firm form representing a particular concept.”  The Phanatic, however, is not a firm form and is merely a pile of fabric that measures a few inches high until a human being puts it on, when it grows to over six feet in height and several feet in diameter.  Accordingly, at least so claim the Phillies, H/E obtained its copyright fraudulently and, as such, have no rights to assert it over them.

In fact, the issue of whether a costume can in fact be subject to copyright is complex -- more complex than the Phillies allege it to be.  Just yesterday the 3rd Circuit handed down a decision in a case involving a Rastafarian banana costume that held that indeed a costume could be subject to copyright.  And the Supreme Court in 2017 has likewise suggested that the issue isn't as cut-and-dried as the Phillies complaint makes it out to be.

However, in 1979 and in the 2nd Circuit (where, remember, the Phillies have chosen to file their lawsuit), the issue seemed to be a bit more clear.  The prevailing law at that time in that circuit held that costumes were not subject to copyright.  The Phillies allege that H/E was aware of this and committed a fraud upon the copyright office when it took pains to present the Phanatic outfit as something other than what it was -- a costume. 

There are other issues to be sorted out as well.  The Phillies claim that they helped to design the costume itself, with Bill Giles making specific recommendations regarding the costume/artistic sculpture.  At one point during the design process, the Phillies’ complaint alleges that Giles rejected an early rendering of the Phanatic, insisting that it be fatter and have a larger nose.  The Phillies also contributed some of the materials for the outfit, supplying the Phanatic’s cap, jersey and “other material” to the final product.  As such, the Phillies allege that even if the Phanatic were an “artistic sculpture,” H/E could not be the sole copyright holder as the creation of the Phanatic was a joint venture. 

In addition, there are trademark issues that further complicate the rights of H/E to the Phanatic.  The Phillies have registered at least eight separate trademarks related to the Phanatic over the years, implicating the niceties of trademark law, of which the reader will mercifully be spared here.  In short, H/E’s road to victory here would be difficult, although perhaps not impossible.

Villanova Law professor and intellectual property expert Michael Risch calls the dispute “a complex situation that will take some time to work out…. Copyright gives the original author the right to terminate an assignment after a certain number of years. But there are exceptions. If it’s a work made for hire, then the corporation is the initial owner, and there’s no assignment to terminate. If there was joint authorship (as the Phillies claim), then there’s nothing to terminate (or at the very least, there may be dueling ownership where each gets to use it). If there have been changes since the very first design, those won’t terminate, so the differences between the original and the current must be contemplated (this was a big issue in termination of Superman rights, as the original had no cape and couldn’t fly). And if there are trademark rights, then use of the copyright may be complicated to the extent that they confuse users into thinking the Phillies are involved. So, there’s a lot to think about here.”

In the end, Risch predicts that the two sides will reach a settlement rather than litigate further.  There is simply too much for each side to lose to pursue this to the bitter end.  From H/E’s perspective, fighting all the way to a verdict would be expensive and the facts, at least as the Phillies have put them forth in their complaint, don’t seem to be in H/E's favor.  Rejecting a settlement now might leave H/E with nothing other than an enormous legal bill once the verdict has been rendered. 

The Phils, as well, have a lot to lose here even if all the facts are as they allege (which they probably aren’t).  The Phils not only have millions of dollars invested in the Phanatic, the character is in many ways the backbone of the organization’s identity.  The Phillie Phanatic’s image dominates the club’s marketing, Citizen Bank Park, even the tickets (at least back when they had them).  Players come and go but, since 1978, the Phanatic has been a Phillie for life.  Or so we’ve all assumed.  To take even a small chance that they may lose him by forcing this case to a verdict is too much of a chance for an organization that is well aware that the only Phillie perpetually immune to the boo birds is the Phanatic. 

It’s in both parties’ interest to settle this dispute and settle it early.  If they don’t, however, the progression of this litigation will be fascinating to follow. 

Nick Pivetta Destined to Be Remembered As the Phillie You Forget

By Mitch Nathanson, Historical Columnist 

Interesting article in the Inky the other day, pontificating on the future role of Nick Pivetta.  Once considered a prime candidate to fill the role of starter, now considered for a role in the bullpen, his ultimate role remains unsettled.  But I think I know what it will be.

Nick Pivetta has all the makings of the sort of guy you’re most likely going to forget when you look back years later trying to recall the nightmare rotations the Phillies of the late teens put together.  You’ll no doubt remember Aaron Nola because he’ll be quickly recalled as the only one who actually resembled a legitimate Major League starter during this era.  In his way, he’s the Steve Carlton of the current group, although Carlton’s 346.1 innings pitched in 1972 renders any comparison to Nola, whose goal is to reach 200 innings every season, somewhat ridiculous.  Regardless.  Somebody has to be the Carlton of this group and nobody else is even in the stratosphere.  So you’ll remember Nola.  No question.

You’ll also probably remember Jake Arrieta because he was a significant free agent bust and just flat-out looks funny in his uniform.  You can always tell when Arrieta is on the mound.  Nothing seems to fit correctly, everything’s just a bit off.  And he’s usually out of the game by the fifth inning after yelling something stupid at someone who only did what he was being paid to do when a flat frisbee sails right over the heart of the strike zone.  You won’t forget Arrieta.

Vince Velasquez will likewise stand out because he’s been singularly horrid during his tenure here, after tantalizing us with an otherworldly start back in April of 2016.  After shutting out the Padres while striking out 16 we all thought we had something.  And we did.  We had a really crappy pitcher who took forever to make it past the fourth inning save that one fantastic start.  It will be difficult to forget someone who was as painful to watch as Velasquez.

And you’ll remember Zach Eflin for no other reason than because his name reminds you of Zac Efron.  You won’t remember him for any other reason but so what?  You’ll remember him nevertheless.

Which leaves Pivetta.  Why would anybody ever remember Nick Pivetta?  He wasn’t a high draft choice and he didn’t come here with any sort of fanfare – he was the penance the Phils were compelled to suffer in exchange for the Nationals’ taking Jonathan Papelbon off their hands – so he wasn’t on anyone’s radar.  And outside of one hot stretch at Lehigh Valley, he was an invisible man on the minor league circuit.  And then there’s the name – Nick Pivetta.  Who remembers a Nick Pivetta?  Everybody went to high school with a Nick Pivetta.  And nobody remembers that guy, either.

For as long as there has been baseball, there has been a guy on every team, usually a pitcher, you can’t remember.  From the Phillies of the ‘80s, Bruce Ruffin is the guy you struggle to recall.  He was sometimes a starter, sometimes a reliever, but always forgettable.  Don Carman might very well have been that guy but for the fact that Harry Kalas so loved rolling his name around his mouth before expelling it that you can't forget Don Carman. 

Going even further back, to the ‘70s, I think that guy was Ron Schueler.  I say “I think” because if I knew for sure then he wouldn’t be that guy then, would he?  But, yeah, I’m pretty sure he was.  He won a few games, lost a few more, and never distinguished himself in any way.  Baseball Reference tells me he played for eight seasons, which is seven more than I remember him playing.  But I do remember that the mid-70s Phils had Carlton, Jim Lonborg, Wayne Twitchell, Tommy Underwood, Jim Kaat, Larry Christenson and somebody else in their rotation.  That somebody else was Ron Schueler. 

Today’s somebody else is Nick Pivetta.  He’s not the worst and he’s not the best.  He’s just there.  And on a team that’s going nowhere, just being there is as good as not being there at all when it comes to one’s legacy.  He’s the guy you’re going to forget merely because he’s not as awful as Vince Velasquez.  10, 15 years from now you’ll be talking Phillies with your friends and the late teens’ Phils will come up.  You’ll of course remember Bryce Harper because he’ll still be there.  Pinch-hitting at $23 million per annum.  And you’ll remember Hoskins and Realmuto, and at least one of your friends will call out “Maikel Franco!” and you’ll go “Yes!” 

Then the discussion will turn to the rotation and you’ll all name Nola and, with some effort, the others.  But then there will be one spot left and nobody will be able to nail it.  It’ll be on the tip of your collective tongues but still just beyond reach.  Finally, you'll give up and one of you will Google the Phillies’ 2019 rotation.  “Nick Pivetta,” will pop up.  “Oh, yeah,” you’ll all go.  “That guy.”  There’ll be a moment of quiet contemplation and then one of you will go, “Jesus.  Nick Pivetta.” 

Then you’ll all start talking about something else.


By Mitch Nathanson, Historical Columnist 

With the Dodgers in town, no better time to dredge up the most disastrous moment in Phillies history.  Which is saying something, because this franchise has been involved in more disasters than Godzilla. 

You can have your Mitch Williams/Joe Carter moment in the ’93 World Series, or your epic collapse in September 1964, I’ll take the Black Friday playoff debacle against the Dodgers any day.  October 7th, 1977 was the single worst day in Phillies history.  And I’ll prove it.

Depending on your age, you’ll no doubt have your favorite.  And rest assured, the Phillies have a meltdown that suits your needs no matter how old you are.  They’re that accommodating.  Sort of like a family board game – agita from the Phillies is for kids of all ages: from 8 to 80.  No joke – Eight-year-old Phillie fans probably had their stomachs turned for the first time just a few days ago, when Hector Neris ruined their fireworks night by blowing Saturday’s game against the Nats.  But that’s kids’ stuff. 

Let’s talk about the true contenders: 1964, 1993, and Black Friday, 1977.  The 1964 ten-game late-September collapse that cost the Phillies the pennant is generally considered the worst moment in franchise history but, really, it was little more than a ballclub coming down to Earth after soaring to wildly unexpected heights for a few months.  The Phillies had been a terrible club for years, bottoming out in 1961 when they managed to nauseate the few fans they had left by losing a big-league record 23 straight games on their way to 107 losses and a finish that fell a scant 46 games off the pace. 

They then decided to put together something resembling a Major League team for a change.  Finally willing to sign and promote nonwhite talent, the club, under the direction of GM John Quinn, became respectable.  And when Dick Allen showed up in September 1963, they looked to be a bit more than that.  Combined with Johnny Callison and Jim Bunning, Allen’s Phils surprised everyone by taking control of the National League out of the chute and hanging on until the last couple of weeks.  Yes, it was heartbreaking when they finally collapsed but, really, few thought they were anything special going into the season.  Respectable, yes.  Good, maybe.  But special?  No way.  And the years that followed confirmed such suspicions.  That group never seriously contended again.

The 1993 Phils weren’t all that different.  In ’92 they finished last and they had been mediocre for nearly a decade by that point.  They caught fire in ’93 and this time made it all the way to the World Series before a spent Mitch Williams offered up the gopher ball that ended the season.  I’ll admit that I nearly put my foot through my flimsy apartment wall as Carter’s ball arced its way over the fence but after the hurt came the realization that the season overall had been a blessing and a blast.  True, it didn’t end well but nobody would have traded the raucous fun of the preceding six months for anything. 

Black Friday was different.  Oh, man, was it different.  The ’77 Phils were a juggernaut.  In an era that included Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine, the Reggie Jackson-led Bronx Bombers, and even the Big Blue Wrecking Crew of the mid-70s Dodgers, the Phillies were better.  They may not have had a better starting lineup than the Reds, or even the Yanks, but they were deeper than any team in baseball that season.  Yet, in the end, they had nothing to show for it.

Looking back with four decades worth of perspective, it’s clear that the ‘70s were a transitional era in baseball.  The starting pitcher was still dominant but bullpens were just beginning to be thought of as something more than receptacles for washout pitchers who couldn’t cut it in the rotation.  As a result, pitching staffs, as a whole, were deeper than they ever had been – or are now, what with the role of the dominant starter largely diminished in today’s game.  The Phils had a 10-man staff that was stacked with both dominant starters as well as relievers.  Steve Carlton won the Cy Young Award that year, Larry Christenson won 19 games, Jim Lonborg had won 18 in ’76 and was still effective, and Jim Kaat – a borderline Hall of Famer – was the fourth man in the rotation.  The bullpen included four relievers who later, when the term came into vogue, would have been considered closers – Tug McGraw, Ron Reed, Warren Brusstar, and Gene Garber.  No other team in baseball had a pitching staff nearly as deep.

Because in '70s baseball the starter was still sacrosanct, though, pitching staffs had yet to expand to the 12-man staffs we see today.  Which meant that the benches were deep.  And without question, the Phils’ was the deepest.  The other night Gabe Kapler had one legitimate move off his bench – Jay Bruce – and when he used it too early he had no bullets left when he needed them most.  In ’77, manager Danny Ozark could call on either Bake McBride (.339) or Jay Johnstone (.284), depending on which of the two wasn't starting in right that evening, Tim McCarver (.320), Davey Johnson (.321), and Tommy Hutton (.309) as bats off the bench.  He also had Jerry Martin, Barry Foote and Terry Harmon for defensive purposes.  In short, he had bullets.  A seemingly unlimited stockpile of them.  The NRA would have been proud.

The ’77 Phils won 101 games and were much better from top to bottom than a very good Dodgers club.  Unlike in ’64 and ’93, nearly everybody thought the Phils were the team to beat in the National League, if not all of baseball.  Hell, a few people even considered the ’76 squad to be, if not better than, at least nearly as good as the Reds club that beat them in the ’76 NLCS and which is generally considered one of the greatest of all time.  And nobody thought the ’76 Phils were better than the ’77 version.

So when the 63,719 fans rocked the Vet to its foundation and unnerved Dodgers pitcher Burt Hooton to the point where he became unable to throw strikes that Friday afternoon in Game 3 of the ’77 NLCS, things were as they should be.  The Dodgers were good, the Phillies were great.  This was our Big Red Machine.  Our Big Burgundy Machine, perhaps. 

The game was a two-and-a-half-hour celebration of everything Phillies fans knew about themselves and their ballclub.  A vindication of sorts.  We were better then they were.  It didn’t even matter who “they” were.  Pick any team.  Our guys were better.  We knew that for roughly 150 minutes.

Then the ninth inning began with Ozark forgetting to use one of his defensive bullets.  Jerry Martin remained on the bench as a confused Greg Luzinski ran out to left after inquiring as to why he was going out there.  After the first two outs it didn’t seem to matter that Ozark had broken with his season-long protocol.  Then came the ten minutes that undid everything.  The ten minutes that left not only a club but an entire city wondering what the hell had just happened.  Black Friday shook both the Phils and their fanbase to their cores.  Neither would ever believe quite the same way again. 

I won’t go into the details.  Frank Fitzpatrick wrote a great article on the specifics of the debacle just a few weeks ago; I wrote an entire book about it (The Fall of the 1977 Phillies); others have memorialized it as well.  No matter which take on it you read, though, the ending is always the same.  In Black Friday, Phillies fans experienced a true baseball nightmare.  Up was down, down was up, the Dodgers won, the Phillies were on the brink of another playoff elimination.  Unlike in ’64 or ’93, the best team lost, and in the worst possible way. 

Testament to the quality of that Phillies club was that it won the East the next year despite the scar.  Then folded again against the Dodgers.  Yes, the Phils finally won it all in 1980 but if you remember that -- and you’re being honest with yourself -- you know that the feeling you got when McGraw struck out Willie Wilson in the ninth inning of Game Six of the World Series was not quite elation but exhausted relief. 

Black Friday was the reason for that muted response.  Elation was simply beyond the grasp of those who had suffered in their souls just three years earlier.