Any Expectations

Writing about the minor leagues, for me, takes a blend of unimpeded optimism tempered like eggs with the bitter honesty of realism.

Take, for example, a 23 year old second baseman who (as of this second) has one more home run than year on this earth. He's walking 11.9% of the time, and striking out 22.1%, the latter of which is not insignificant, but appears much nicer when placed next to the K% (30%!) of his teammates. He has moderately decent defense at second base. The 24 homers and .254 BA look okay, and promotable, and even supportable, except that these numbers are coming out of class-A Hickory.

Rambling On.

This past week, I've been struggling with a pretty serious case of writer's block. None of my loosely thrown together processes have worked, at all, and I end up staring at the same sentence over and over, before wearily hitting delete, again.

The Narrative

It's no secret that I have an affection for what some would call unconventional pitching. Sidearmers, submariners, guys that somehow throw 95 when they look like they're pushing the ball out of their hand, all these guys have a permanent spot in my baseball-loving heart.

The writer that I am loves them because of the narrative. A lot of these guys aren't prospects at any time in their career, for various reasons, many of them starting with the letter "v" and ending "elocity," and I root for the underdog. I want them to pitch in a three-tiered stadium at least once, and I want them to get guys out when the conventional wisdom says they can't, and of most importance to a writer, I want them to continue to give me a narrative.

Bits (1)

-My brain is too scattered and shaky to actually create a full post around one topic. Hence, bits.

-I don't recall deliberately watching a single of second of hockey before the belated start of this last season. I'd always been a baseball fan, and college football and basketball snuck up on me the way that winning seasons tend to do, but hockey? The Stars, Dallas' local team, were last relevant (to my knowledge) when I was 8, and though Modano, the name, has a sticking place in my sports memory, I'd never really thought that I would find myself ever watching overtime hockey hoping neither team would score. Now? Overtime for the third straight game would just be awesome.

Single-Tiered Stadiums and Three-Legged Races

Half-way through the second inning of what would turn out to be a wholly unexceptional game for the big league club a few days ago, I came to a realization. Not a completely unsurprising realization, but a defining one nevertheless.

My name is Kate Morrison, and I'm a minor league addict.