You might have seen this earlier today:

Here's Courtney's own fawning-but-meaningful tribute to the Sports Guy's literary achievement:

One of my favorite Espn men is doing a book signing today. Bill Simmons, he is their MOST talented sports writer. I am a big fan of his and have heard he may be a fan of mine. I have some DVDs that I am going to bring him. A little gift for him. I want to buy some of his books and have him autograph them. I thought they would be good gifts for my brother and dad. What do you guys think from a guy's point of view? Is this a good gift? I thought so; I am going to take pics with him also. Can't wait! This is why I need to go get my nails fixed. I can't show up looking busted! Lol.

I was so nervous standing in line. I had butterflies in my stomach. I wanted to make sure he liked my gifts that I brought. He was so happy to see me. He hugged me and rubbed up against my titties. My pussy was so wet! I wanted to do him right there!! He was so sweet as he asked me who my favorite sports teams are. I can't wait to read his book. I bought four total!!

Or... he made the culture cum to him.

****

Thanks for your continued support of Deadspin. Barry P rocks the party that rocks the body electric or something in a little while.

Daulerio will never admit this, and I probably shouldn't, but on January 23, 2003, we, along with fellow Black Table editor Eric Gillin, a Boston guy, stayed up to watch the debut of "The Jimmy Kimmel Show." We did this solely because Bill Simmons was a writer for the show. I'm not sure what we were expecting to see: Late-night talk shows aren't in the habit of giving guest appearances to lower-tier writers in their first episodes. (The show was a mess: This is back when they were openly drinking on set, and it was chaos. I think at one point, Kimmel tried to deep fat fry a ventriloquist dummy while "guest" Adam Corolla plaintively attempted to remind a piss-drunk Kimmel that "YOU ARE ON TELEVISION RIGHT NOW.") But it felt important somehow. A television show smart enough to hire Bill Simmons to write for them, well, that was something we couldn't miss. We felt like we knew him.

It's easy to forget this now, now that sports blogs are everywhere, now that Simmons is as much of an establishment figure as Chris Berman, now that the man produces his own television show, but back when he first came to ESPN, in 2001, he seemed like a revolutionary figure. I remember working in a doctor's office in May 2001 and reading his Is Roger Clemens the Antichrist? column. (I was not familiar with his Boston Sports Guy work.) I couldn't believe someone was getting away with this. Today, phrases like "kicked in the gonads," "this was the musical equivalent of U2 asking for a contract extension from their record company on the heels of "Zooropa" and "Pop")" and "looking like he was auditioning for the 'Chris Farley Story'" are familiar Simmons tropes: Everyone writes like that now. But not in 2001. In 2001, Skip Bayless was the "hip" columnist at Page 2. The other column I vividly remember from the period was Simmons' guide to the Atlanta Gold Club trial, which featured graphic descriptions of Patrick Ewing receiving oral sex from two women and this immortal aside:

During [Andruw] Jones's susbsequent testimony, the prosecutor asked which of the women Jones had sex with, and Jones answered, "Both of them," adding, "to tell you the truth, I wouldn't remember one of their faces right now." One of my personal favorite quotes from the trial.

What Simmons was doing was so different from what anyone else was doing that it didn't even seem to be the same medium. They were letting him do this? (Eventually, they would stop, somewhat: That Gold Club column got a solid scrubbing from ESPN back in 2007.) Other sportswriters hated Simmons immediately, ostensibly because of those tired Doesn't Sit In The Press Box arguments, but mostly because he was connecting with people, he was proving that the empty Verse Chorus Verse of the inverted pyramid and Fire The Manager! wasn't going to cut it anymore. Simmons was talking about sports the way people actually talked about sports. It's no wonder he was so disliked by the insiders and so embraced — tentatively at first, like a viral meme that spread, have you seen this guy? — by the masses. He gave hope for a lot of people — including, yeah, me, and Daulerio, and Gillin — that maybe the landscape for this shit, maybe it existed.

That turned, of course. It always does. Eventually the obsessives began carping — I think the Red Sox winning the World Series in 2004 was when the minor Bill Simmons Is A Douche! movement began — and the mainstream folks, unable to deny his success any longer, began meeting him halfway, featuring him above everyone else on the site and encouraging their own writers to impersonate him. (That Rick Reilly sits next to Simmons on ESPN.com's front page today is wonderfully surreal: No one's reputation as Sports Wit suffered more from Simmons' ascendance than Reilly. He morphed from Jim Murray to Henny Youngman, seemingly in a matter of weeks.) Sports blogs blew up, including this one, sites that put the Establishment (whatever that was) in their crosshairs and started firing, ultimately blasting in every possible direction, no matter what got hit. Inevitably, Simmons would become a target. He was the biggest name — to us, anyway. But even in those attacks, sometimes justified, sometimes not, there was always a little bit held back. After all, everyone still read Simmons: No matter how many Karate Kid and Teen Wolf references there were, you still always read him. You still took him seriously, even if it were to trash him. Nobody does that with Jay Mariotti, or Bayless, or Reilly. (Honestly, when's the last time you seriously read anything by those guys?) They're easily dismissed. They've been mailing in their work for a decade. No one has ever accused Simmons of that.

A large part of Simmons' appeal has always been that sense that you knew him, that somehow you were invested in his success. Malcolm Gladwell and Chuck Klosterman will sell more books in their lifetime than Simmons, but people don't wait in lines spanning around the block just to have them sign their book like they do for Simmons. (A search for photos of Simmons brings up hundreds of shots of him posing with fans.) People want to know what his wife's like — type "Bill Simmons" into Google, and the second hit is "Bill Simmons wife," and the fourth is "Bill Simmons wife picture" — and what his kids are like and whether he's different in Los Angeles than he was in Boston. This is all absurd, of course. The guy types into a computer at a coffee shop all day. But it's what fans have always done with Simmons, even those who purport to hate him. Simmons turned into an indie rock band from the early '90s. "He's hanging out with Jimmy Kimmel and Matt Damon now? SELLOUT!" We treated Simmons like he was a guy from our neighborhood who made it big, like it was important that he remember the little people who got him there. In a way, he kind of was.

Now there he is, atop the New York Times Bestseller list, as establishment a pedestal as one can imagine. Simmons did something incredibly rare, particularly in our fractured, niche media world: He made the culture come to him. His triumph is his own, but, in a strange way, it feels like a victory for all of us. The sports culture needed changing, and Simmons is walking evidence that it can, and did. Somewhere out there, there's a college student with a viewpoint different than everyone else, and he/she will show up and change everything too, exposing Simmons (and the rest of us) the way he did to Reilly. That'll happen again. Thank heavens. Good ideas win out. Perseverance and new perspectives break through. The old rots and washes away. Sometimes the good guys win.

(Photo via this outstanding Flickr set.)

In the third installment, Simmons talks about his future book projects. One idea seems like a goldmine:

Of course. It's so much more fun than writing columns - not having deadlines, being able to swear, making fun of announcers, and working on the same section for a week until you get it right. I loved it. I want the Book of Basketball to do well if only so I can shop an absolutely ridiculous topic for my next book: like, a book about basketball cards, or an unauthorized biography of A.J. Daulerio. Something that would make a publisher say, "That's an absolutely terrible idea, but his last one was a best-seller, so we can't say no, and maybe he could pull this off." I want to get to the stage professionally where you can get paid a lot of money for a loony idea that has like a 2.3 percent chance of working. I was always jealous of those people.

Although, the more I'm thinking about it, an unauthorized Daulerio autobiography is not a bad idea ...

I don't know. Is there a market for 12-page novels?

An Interview With Bill Simmons [NYMag.com/The "Sports" Section]

ALDS
Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim over Boston Red Sox in five.
New York Yankees over Minnesota Twins in four.

NLDS
Philadelphia Phillies over Colorado Rockies in four.
Los Angeles Dodgers over St. Louis Cardinals in five.

LCS
New York Yankees over Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim in six.
Los Angeles Dodgers over Philadelphia Phillies in six.

World Series
New York Yankees over Los Angeles Dodgers in seven.

Here are facts about the Cardinals' first game this season, a 6-4 loss to the Pittsburgh Pirates.

**** The cleanup hitter was shortstop Khalil Greene, who might be a lesbian.
**** The third baseman was Brian Barden, who won the Rookie of the Month award for April and now plays catch with his daughter.
**** The left fielder was Chris Duncan, who had disc replacement surgery on his spine. By the July, the Cardinals were so eager to get rid of him that were willing to trade him for the least popular Red Sox player in recent history and totally infuriate the team's pitching coach.
**** The closer was Jason Motte, who gave four runs in the ninth inning to cost his team the opener.

To be a fan of any sports team involves an endless amount of rationalization and compartmentalizing. On July 2, 2009, the Cardinals were tied for first place, and I could not have cared less about Julio Lugo, Matt Holliday, Mark DeRosa and John Smoltz. I hoped the Cardinals could go get themselves some help to surround Albert Pujols' historic season and the career years from Chris Carpenter and Adam Wainwright, but that was only a theoretical notion, a plea for a deus ex machina to come and save us, to vanquish the looming Cubs dragon.

And then the reinforcements came, and suddenly, the nearly 34 years I've spent obsessing over the St. Louis Cardinals — making them the centerpiece of every human interaction, every event on the social calendar, every moment of walking around and breathing — coalesced in these new fellows. I've watched at least 130 Cardinals games this season, and you get to know the new guys. I can impersonate perfectly Holliday's little leg kick he uses to generate power, I can pinpoint exactly why DeRosa plays third base like the second baseman he is, I can recognize Lugo's absurdly scrawny arms from 500 yards away, and I can tell the exact parameters of Smoltz's epic bald spot. These guys, in the span of two months, have become members of my family.

Yet it still feels a little untoward. The Cardinals do not have a long history of mercenaries — ignoring, conveniently, that pretty much every baseball player is a mercenary by nature — and it feels a little like cheating, in the same way that the surreal lottery ticket of Jeff Weaver that came up in 2006 felt like cheating. (Seriously, his ERA that postseason was 2.42 in five absurdly stressful starts against the best lineups in baseball. It is unfathomable that that happened.) It is possible, probably even likely, that Holliday, DeRosa and Smoltz will all be playing for other teams next year (or, in Smoltz's case, golfing). We are making one run with them, and then we will send them on their way, a one-night stand that pops up every few months or so, the kind you nod to briefly, a nod both of you hope nobody noticed. There are no overarching storylines, no 24 years between titles, no long-suffering superstars making one last lap for that elusive ring. This is a moth-ridden quilt with temporary patches. The Cardinals will be a good team next year, and for a few years after that, perhaps even in perpetuity. But this Holliday/DeRosa/Smoltz business is a one-shot deal. How much did you root for Karl Malone and Gary Payton when they made their desperate attempt at a title. More to the point: How much did Lakers fans care? I love cheering for Matt Holliday; I even, stupidly, bought a Holliday 15 jersey. But I'm aware I won't get much use out of it. We're renting him.

That is to say: A championship always means something different to fans than it does to a team. If the Cardinals win the World Series this year, it'll be a joy to be shared with my fellow Cardinals fans, with my family, with all the souls who followed the ups-and-downs of a Frankenstein monster of a team, one that put it all together for one crazy August and was mostly listless (outside of Pujols, Wainwright and Carpenter, of course) the rest of the way. It'll be something we'll always remember. It'll be something that changes us forever. For Holliday, Smoltz and the crew, they'll have spent three months the best possible way one can spend three months, and they'll have made themselves a helluva lot more money. That's great.

But I think our way, the way fans do it, is way better.

One of the stranger conceits in the coverage of sports is the fallacy that past performance is indicative of future returns. It makes the least sense in college sports. People will write, "Illinois seems to have Missouri's number" (obviously I'm speaking of basketball, not football) as if what happened six years ago, with entire different players, coaching staff and circumstances, could possibly be relevant. As if someone looks at a member of the opposing team and says, "Holy shit, we always struggle with teams wearing black. Oh no!"

The Red Sox, Anaheim's first-round opponent, seem to Have The Angels' Number, which mainly means Angels fans are pretty goddamned sick of seeing the Red Sox every October. The Angels look better than the Sox this year in a random, flip-a-damned-coin five-game series, but they looked better last year in a random, flip-a-damned-coin five-game series. Unfortunate head-to-head dominance on this seems to affect fans psyches' more than it does the players'.

The Angels are a large-market team that somehow strikes the world as a small market team, and the fans react accordingly. (I particularly loved this Bud Selig is rigging the series for the Sox and ratings! fanpost at Halos Heaven.) Anaheim actually has a larger payroll than the Dodgers do, but I suspect none of you think of it that way. Maybe it's Anaheim. It's a lot freaking farther from Los Angeles that I realized. It's also one of those unfortunate ballparks in large metropolitan areas where you can't find anywhere to have a damned beer before the game.

For years, the Angels had a reputation, because they had a bunch of free swingers and because they were in the same division as Billy Beane's A's, for being an almost anti-Moneyball team, a team that won because of a great manager, "playing the game the right way" and an inordinate amount of luck. Well, this year, they had their Happy Gilmore "Happy learned how to putt! Uh-oh!" moment: They learned how to walk and get on base. The lowest on-base percentage in their lineup belongs to Vlad Guerrero. They also run like crazy, perfect against a team like the Red Sox, whose catchers should seriously consider throwing left handed because, well, yaneverknow. This team really is different. This team should beat the Red Sox.

But lots of things should happen in the postseason that don't. If the Angels lose to the Red Sox, it won't necessarily mean they just Can't Beat Boston. And it won't mean the Angels aren't better either. Sometimes shit just happens. Now, you will go to sleep. Or I will put you to sleep. Check out the name tag. You're in my world now, grandma.

The Red Sox clinched their postseason berth at 1 a.m. on September 30. They'd just lost to the Blue Jays and had to wait for the Rangers to lose their West Coast game until they could "celebrate." It was not exactly a wild bash. Here is how the Red Sox went crazy:

"Once the Red Sox lost, there was a bizarre feeling in the clubhouse. Some players packed up and went home, while others milled around and watched the Rangers-Angels game on television. Ortiz said he would go out to a local establishment and then return to Fenway if the Rangers gave him reason to celebrate. Rookie reliever Daniel Bard went to his apartment across the street to have a late-night dinner, but he was prepared to return and enjoy the clinching moment with his teammates."

It has been that sort of season for the Red Sox. They have chugged along, winning enough to outlast an uninspiring group of wild-card challengers, never really making the Yankees sweat, as uninspiring as a 95-win season can possibly be. Almost every Red Sox fan I talk to is far from optimistic about the postseason. It just doesn't have that feel, one told me.

This is a unique luxury for Red Sox fans, this notion that this year's team isn't the team, one that no other team's fans can possibly understand. (And after a year off from the postseason, that includes the Yankees.) It's a privilege to make the playoffs, a rarity, and that Pink Hat Nation generally seems more exhausted by his season than invigorated speaks to just how far they've come since 2004, since Johnny Damon was bearded, since that incredibly brief time in human history where the rest of the nation found the Red Sox likable. It doesn't have that feel. Please.

That is to say: Bah! The mad rugby scrum that is the baseball postseason has no time or patience for protestations of what is RIGHT and what is POSSIBLE. Certainly — here comes the Cardinals reference! — there are other teams than the 2006 version of the Cardinals that I would have desired to win the big pennant-spiky trophy. That didn't stop me from losing my shit when they pulled it off. The tsunami can strike anyone at any time. If the Red Sox beat the Angels and make the ALCS, who will even remember the regular season? Who will even remember it by ALDS Game Two?

I'm about to write something that will make you nauseous, so I apologize in advance. But: Doesn't this decade deserve another Yankees-Red Sox ALCS? Isn't that where all this is going? This has been the decade of Tiger Woods, of Lance Armstrong, of Tom Brady, of Favre of Favre of Favre, the decade in which we recognized brilliance, and then we recognized it again, and then we bashed it against the wall and pushed it in everyone's faces over and over and over and over. This has been the decade of overkill, the This Is The Greatest Super Bowl Ever and This Is The Greatest Gunslinger Ever and This Is The Greatest Rivalry Ever. It wouldn't be right to end this decade with a modest Twins-Angels ALCS. The Yankees-Red Sox rivalry transmogrified into the pulsating, tentacled mega-monster this decade, and it changed everything. It caused the sports networks to ignore any team west of the northeast corridor. It raised baseball salaries to unimaginable levels. It inspired everyone to start using steroids, and then pretend like they were stopping. It has dwarfed everything else in baseball over the last 10 years. None of us has been able to escape it. It has been the one part of baseball that resembles football. It is not humble and welcoming. It is loud and exclusionary. It is AROD AND JETER VERSUS PAPI AND MANNY TONIGHT ON FOXXXXXXX!!!!! It is exceptionalism and imperialism and everything that makes you want to throw your television across the room.

That all happened this decade. Doesn't it have to end that way? Could it possibly end any other?

See? Told you you'd get sick.

I was out drinking with Daulerio and Craggs last weekend, and the topic of Matthew Berry came up. (I think we were talking about Tucker Max or something, lord knows why.) I like Matthew Berry, I suppose, but I think his yuckity-yuck style just isn't pitched to my sensibilities. That is to say: I am a nerd. I'm more of an Eric Karabell guy. I prefer dorky facts presented mostly straight, dorkily. I'm not much of a party guy, I'm not all that much fun at all, really.

I'd drunk enough that night that I started thinking maybe you can divide all male sports fans into either the Berry camp or the Karabell camp. Craggs is a Karabell guy too. Daulerio, as you'd probably guess, isn't. Bill Simmons is a Berry guy. Rob Neyer is a Karabell guy. Stuart Scott is a Berry guy. John Clayton is a Karabell guy. You can make an argument that there's a third type of sports fan, the self-serious keeper of the moral center of sports, your Bob Costas, your Joe Buck, but I don't think those people exist outside of the world of sports media. I've never met anyone who truly believes in the soul of sports that doesn't actually work inside it. I'm talking about normal people. You're all Berrys, or you're all Karabells. (If you want to play the full Deadspin staffer game, Drew's a Berry, Dash is a Karabell, and so are Sussman and Kogod. If you dig into the past, Clay Travis was a Berry, and Rick Chandler was a Karabell.)

Those two paragraphs, probably more than a third of this "team preview," exist so that I can introduce my theory that the Rockies are the Eric Karabell of this postseason. (If you're wondering — and I'm sure you are! — the Angels and the Twins/Tigers are also Karabells, and everyone else: Berry.) They are a quiet, unassuming, just-the-facts team that does nothing spectacularly but does everything right. The rotation does not blow you away, the lineup does not blow you away, the bullpen does not blow you away. They are above average everywhere. We do not tend to value that. The typical let's match up these two teams head-to-head! previews that people put together will inevitably show the Rockies lacking. Someone will have better hitting. Someone will have better pitching. But few will have the steady combination of both. Those are the teams that often win, the ones that don't fluctuate wildly.

Of course, the teams that often win in the postseason are the ones that just get lucky and hot out of nowhere, which is why predicting outcomes don't make any sense, why it makes more sense to stay low-key and avoid bold proclamations. (More Karabell!) The Rockies are no longer a faith-based business, and all told, they probably never were (who knew USA Today had so much influence?) but they're still likable enough, in their affable, oh-here-we-are-out-here-in-the-Mountain-time-zone-don't-mind-us way. (You have to love that almost the entire team is homegrown.) The Rockies have been blessed by the magic humidor, the ball-sucking device that took away the team's identity but allowed them to play, and win, by the same rules the rest of us have to play with. If the Rockies make the World Series this season, they will be only the second National League team to reach the Series twice this decade (other than the Cardinals; the Phillies are going for this as well). No one would have expected this as recently as early September 2007. They're not in a pinball machine anymore. They play earthly ball now. Thank heavens.

My father was complaining to me the other day about the increasing probability that Matt Holliday is not going to be playing for the Cardinals next season. He was dismayed by the likelihood that he'll be at Fenway next year, or in the Bronx, or even in Anaheim. "He should love it here," he said. "It shouldn't be all about the money." As a well-behaved Midwestern boy from a military family, I am loathe to disagree with my father, but hey, Cardinals fans lamenting losing Holliday: Talk to the Rockies. If we lived in the perfect world of baseball finance that's never really existed, Holliday would be leading the Rockies' charge, not along for the ride in St. Louis. But then again, that'd be a little too flashy, methinks, a little too boldfaced name. That'd make the Rockies a Berry rather than a Karabell. I like the Rockies as a Karabell. I like Todd Helton and Huston Street and all those guys you never stay up to watch. I like these guys.

Oh, and by the way: May I be the latest to remind you that thanks to the plate that was never touched and the tag that was never made, the 2007 regular season never actually ended. Which is a relief. My fantasy team was terrible that year.

The 2009 New York Yankees are the first team I've ever spent any time in the clubhouse of — assuming that you will not allow me to count the 1993 Big Twelve Champion Mattoon Green Wave — and I'm not sure I've learned much about the players who dress in it, other than the facts that Joba Chamberlain has a Megan Fox-esque tattoo full of indecipherable words I suspect he wouldn't understand anyway, and that Nick Swisher has a picture of Cody Ransom in his locker. People always talk about clubhouse tension, but none of that would ever filter out to a point that the sad masses of notebookers would ever notice it. Not that they don't try, regardless.

This was the season that the Yankees' undignified lurch toward their past dominance actually worked, a cosmic confluence of circumstances that allowed them to sign the best three free agents and have them, lo and behold, to turn out to be pretty damned good. Of all the signings, Mark Teixeira was probably the most steadying. The literal opposite of a diva, he's a robot, a smiling semi-vacant switch-hitting machine, a man so lacking in personality that his at-bat song is "I Wanna Rock" by Twisted Sister. You can almost see the gears whirring and creaking in his brain. I do, in fact, like rock. Particularly Daughtry. What song would be express this feeling? How do I say, 'Boy, I sure could use some rocking right now.' That man doesn't even think in exclamation points. The last few years, the Yankees have needed players they never have to worry about. Mark Teixeira is the living embodiment of Someone Who Requires No More Thought. This is not a criticism of Teixeira. It is what makes him valuable. Well, that, at the .948 OPS.

More than Derek Jeter, more than Mariano Rivera, more than anyone else, the 2009 Yankees have taken the character of Teixeira, a relentless, robotic, blandly devastating instrument of destruction. Jeter, having one of his better years and mentioned by some as a possible MVP candidate, is actually eighth in his own lineup in slugging. Seven different guys hit at least 22 home runs, nine hit 13. Much of this is the new stadium, which sure did transfer from Luxury Suites homer-happy embarrassment to Home of Champions! awfully fast. But that stadium is going to be hosting a lot of games over the next few weeks. It plays to their strengths perfectly. And it's a lot louder than the old place. It really is. Place feels like college football sometimes.

At the beginning of the season, there was hope that this would be the year the Yankees' greed and inflated self-importance would finally be deflated, prey to age, PEDs, karma, Matt Taibbi's typically overexcited fingers. And there was something fitting about it, a gluttonous empire finally taken down by choking on its own bullshit. But, alas, that wasn't the Yankees; that was the Cowboys. I leave it up to you to decide whose downfall would be more satisfying. True life doesn't conform to Macbeth. Sometimes the most powerful win. Sometimes you don't even hate them for it. But usually, you do.

After the Cardinals won the World Series, the scene around Busch Stadium was what it would look like after a zombie apocalypse if all the zombies were actually puppies who exhaled nitrous. It was unabashed chaos, the landscape littered with googly-eyed Midwesterners, running into walls, lying around the ground kicking their feet in the air, climbing the Stan Musial statue outside, taking off their shirts and waving them in the air, as if beckoning for a rescue they hope never actually comes. A big happy bomb had gone off. It was our Woodstock. It was a glee riot.

In March 2007, five months after that night, I wrote on this site that I didn't want the baseball season to begin. This was the opposite of the way I had been raised, the way I am wired. I am the guy who will watch a meaningless Mets-Nationals game on Sunday afternoon rather than a Browns-Bengals game. Baseball is all that I care about. And I didn't want the season to begin. I wanted that game to last forever. I knew the Cardinals were a weak team in 2007, just like, all told, they were in 2006. I knew they wouldn't win again. I wasn't ready for someone else to take their turn. (That it turned out to be the darned Red Sox made it worse, and better.)

When the Phillies won the World Series last year, A.J. Daulerio, editor of this site, vanished for a few days. (I remember receiving emails from people in Philly at the time. "We think we just saw him at the Locust Bar!") Something about your team winning the World Series makes all the usual rules and regulations vanish. (To be fair, Daulerio generally comports himself, in his daily life, as if the usual rules and regulations do not apply, so I'm surprised anybody noticed the difference.) You are a giddy screaming mess for at least a week afterward. It feels like the logical end of something. It feels like the end of baseball.

As I wrote back in 2007, "anybody who says the first title just makes you hungrier is full of it." It is to the Phillies' credit that they have rejected this notion; they are going for it this year, all in, as if they didn't win last year at all. Cliff Lee, Pedro Martinez, Ben Francisco ... the Phillies are trying to fill in all possible gaps. I have no doubt that if Roger Clemens had any interest in coming in to be the closer sometime in late July, the Phillies would have at least considered it. They have the bloodlust of a team that has never won a title before. In the past, it would have looked desperate. Now it just looks like piling on. Good for them.

Still, it's bizarre to think that the lone repeat champions this decade would come from Philadelphia, doesn't it? (By the way, Philadelphia fans don't receive nearly enough credit for avoiding the Boston plague, immediately turning into our-shit-don't-stink self-important spoiled brats after winning a long-awaited title. They're pretty much the same miserable fucks they've always been, and you have to salute them for that.) From this angle, the Phillies look to have the ideal postseason team: Strong rotation, massive power, enough speed, little unimportant depth. They'd have to be the favorites, right?

But yes, oh yes, Mr. Lidge, the one guy who didn't get the memo that this year meant as much as last year, the one guy not playing along. It was inevitable, really, that Lidge, haunted Lidge, would turn back into the sadsack of Pujols-at-Enron-2005, body slumped over, bewildered that this could be happening to him. Even when he was so dominant last year, we all knew a reckoning was coming. We couldn't have known it would be this. But we know it could not last. He is more human than the rest of them. He is still hungover.

This could be one of the the last runs for these guys, you know. The two youngest guys in their starting lineup are Shane Victorino, 28, and Ryan Howard, 29. Chase Utley is going to be freaking 31 in December. Teams age fast. You have to grab what you can, while you can. Sometimes if you forget that you've won one, you might just win two. The Phillies' place in history is secure. That they don't think that's enough is impressive, and rare. Good for them.

Until the Dodgers did right by the denizens of eastern Missouri, southern Illinois and parts of Arkansas, Tennessee, Oklahoma and Kentucky by sweeping the Chicago Cubs out of the playoffs last season, the franchise, one of baseball's signature pieces of china, had not won a postseason series in 20 years, when Kirk Gibson was limping around the bases and Jack Buck's eyes were making him incredulous. This was so long ago that Dennis Miller, long-haired, sane and sufferable back then, in the anchor's desk at "Saturday Night Live," made a joke about it on the air five minutes after it happened. This is a very long time.

Los Angeles has been through a lot since then, race riots, O.J., mudslides, blackouts, David Lynch giving weather reports on the radio, Kobe, but they've never quite had the Dodgers at the center of the conversation the way they supposed they always should be. The Dodgers have been Vin Scully, plodding away alone every night like a national treasure encased in a snow globe, and they have been derivative would-be Lakers. The team never really adjusted, never really came down from the Gibson-Tommy Lasorda Dodgers, and they moped around with would-be replacements, your Jim Tracys, your Grady Littles, a brief flirtation with a by-then-obviously-crazy Davey Johnson. This team played Eric Karros at first base for 10 years. Eric Karros is a fine player, but if he is your signature attraction, your beacon in the storm, one can argue that you have chosen to have no soul at all. One can argue that you are killing time.

The Dodgers realized around 2004 that it was time to rip out the guts and start over, and they turned in a direction that couldn't possibly have fit in with their inherent character, hiring "Moneyball" cast member Paul DePodesta — the nerd, the Demitri Martin — to remake the team in Billy Beane's image. DePodesta made a few mistakes, the "fuck off you better believe I'm in charge" Brad Penny trade, and never understood that even though he had been asked to reinvent Think Blue, he hadn't, not really. He thought he was Conan O'Brien; the Dodgers secretly wanted Bob Hope; he turned out to be "Late World With Zach Galifianakis" on VH-1, ahead of his time, sure, but still unwilling to bend enough to understand what he'd been hired to do in the first place. He was born to be a doomed folk hero, a sitcom a small number of fans are rabid about but one that inspires most of us to shrug our shoulders and wonder what all the fuss was about. The best thing one can say about Paul "Google Boy" DePodesta is that his tale was the first time smart people picked up their paper and realized, "Hey ... Bill Plaschke is an idiot. I had no idea."

What DePodesta really did, though, was pave the way for Joe Torre and Manny Ramirez, the guy who made the Dodgers realize their true personality is like its city itself: Transplants tired of the anger planet elsewhere, heading to the sunshine and the convertibles and they "hey, man, will you read my screenplay?" All the gorgeous vacancy of Los Angeles that makes the rest of us despise the place while understanding, deep down, that we'd all be happier, probably, if we lived there. Torre gave the Dodgers class, Ramirez gave them drama and spectacle, and, ta-da, the Dodgers were the Dodgers again. Hell, Kirk Gibson's really a Tiger, deep down. The Dodgers are happy to take your disgruntled and tired, give them a tan and polish 'em up.

The ultimate irony of the Dodgers' success this year is that they're based in the principles DePodesta championed, and was run out of town for: This team gets on base like crazy. The lineup didn't turn out to be as deep in 2009 as everyone had been hoping — Russell Martin fell off a cliff, and we shouldn't have expected all that much from Rafael Furcal in the first place — but it is relentless, sort of a Yankees lite, like Torre now, really, hanging around, hanging in, looking up and saying, "hey, doggone it, look at that, we ended up here again." The rotation succeeds because of the bullpen; you just have to hang on, Wolf, Billingsley, Kershaw, and the geniuses at the end will take care of the rest. The Dodgers are not exciting, and if if weren't for Manny, they'd be a bunch of blandly efficient gods chugging to first base, waiting for you to figure out which one is Ethier and which one is Kemp and which one is Loney. Everyone will talk about Manny all October, but he's a name, not a number. You get a sense that no one in the clubhouse dislikes him, but no one talks to him much either.

Amusingly enough, the Dodgers have become a hot "overrated" pick this postseason, reminding people of the Cubs of last year, proficient in all ways and excellent in none, coasting on a stressless regular season with a foundation easily cracked in October. I am not so sure. The Dodgers are a young team disguised as one making a last lap around the track. They lull you into submission. You feel confident, you see Randy Wolf, you pshaw and then you look up and you're down 5-3 in the seventh, and when that happens against the Dodgers, in their stadium (where they won 50 games this year), you've already lost. Sleep on the Dodgers at their peril. They still haven't figured out a personality outside of interchangeable kids and transplants, but isn't that what Los Angeles has always been about anyway? Forget about it, Jack. It's Mannywood.

In early 2001, I was middling through a job at Thomson Financial Media as managing editor of "Health Care Finance" magazine. It was a quarterly publication, which meant plenty of downtime. It was during these extended lulls, reading MediaBistro, that I stumbled upon the ongoing unemployment saga of one William F. Leitch and his "Life As A Loser" series. MB did an item about one of Will's columns, "He Hate Me", where young William spoke of his time as a media news aggregator for Brill's All-Star Newspaper, a mindless, Romenesko rip-off site-job that had absurdly garnered him an anonymous email stalker named Grady Olivier, who would pepper Will's email box with brilliant daily reminders of Will's consistent awfulness:

....We'll begin today with your overreliance on the colon. Please provide a compelling rationale/rationalization for your need to use one every third sentence. Also, why did you hyphenate "front line" in the pull to the Ian Fisher piece? "A pair," as in the Levin bit, would properly take the third person singular. You misspelled "government" in the Pomfret lead, you melon-headed motherfucker. There's also the issue of your questionable comma usage in your intro to Mr. Hiaasen's piece of February 28...Please resign your tenure as early as possible, making sure to apologize to Mr. Brill for your gross stupidity when collecting your severance.

I was hooked. At that time, I think I was more drawn to Grady Olivier's well-crafted insults than the overwrought, meandering columns of this weirdo Midwestern rube who seemed to complain about everything -– mind you in a genuinely, folksy, likable manner -– but I came around. I began reading his column at Ironminds every week, then began to rely on them, and then became obsessed. I'd also, thanks to Will, started writing my own columns for Ironminds. But soon after my interest kicked in to high gear, Will up and quit Ironminds. (Will's successor at Ironminds was a fella named Rick Chandler.)

After Will left Ironminds, he dropped out from the writing world because, in his mind, it wasn't getting him anywhere, regardless of his hundreds of loyal fans who read him. He was broke, and he wanted to grow up. We had a mutual friend, Aileen Gallagher, and after about three months of not hearing about what Will was up to, she finally told me that he was now working at a doctor's office in midtown, answering phones, and "trying to be a human being again." That was the party line from Will that she was parroting for him.

"He's not writing at all? " I asked.

"No, he's taking a long break," she said.

This gave me an idea: Why not help Will get back into writing and offer him a freelance job for Health Care Finance magazine? I did, and after about a week of considering it, Will emailed me back and said he'd do it. He'd call me later that day to discuss the details of the story and he was grateful for the opportunity to make extra money anyway he could. We were off.

Now, up until then, I'd only had one 45-second conversation with Will at a mutual friend's birthday party, where I complimented him on his column, and he blew me off with the courteous disdain of a rock star being propositioned by an overweight groupie. So, when he called me at the office that day, I was taken aback by his freewheeling stammer and how overly polite he was to me on the phone.

"Mr. Dah-lorio, this is Will Leitch…." (Will has, to this day, still never once pronounced my name correctly. It's DAH-LAIR-I-O. Thanks for asking.)

From there we set deadlines for August - a month from then - a pay rate, and the expectations. Will assured me that even though the subject matter wasn't interesting, "he never missed deadlines." About a week after our initial conversation, I received another phone call from Will, who was, again, overly polite, and kept referring to me as "sir," but he got to his point rather quickly.

"What exactly am I writing about again?"

To be fair, the story about hospitals outsourcing some of their help to foreign workers via H1B visas was cumbersome, and it was more telling about how boring the job was than how irresponsible and disinterested he was. I explained to him exactly what he needed to do, who he needed to call, and forwarded him every article I found that wasn't loaded with municipal bond financial terms that even I had yet to fully grasp.

He said he understood, assured me that this would make it 10 times easier and once he finished all the research, "the writing would be the easy part."

I know, I thought. I trust you. You're Will Leitch, for God's sake.

Another couple of weeks went by and Will had finally turned in a draft. Writing-wise, it was fine. However, it was still written like one of his columns, the "Hey, I'm writing about something I know nothing about – so let's make this fun!" variety.

I enjoyed it. My editor did not. He would need to do a re-write. This is when the editor-writer relationship between Will and me became bizarre. Communicating with Will the day the second draft was due became complicated by the fact that, for some reason, his email account at the doctor's office was not working. I knew this because I began receiving strange emails from names I did not recognize -– MIchael-something -– was the most common one.

"Hey, it's Leitch… email is down. I'll be using this account for a while."

Somewhere along the line, the "Michael" email went down too. I found this out because I'd received an email from Will's girlfriend at the time, a woman I'd never met, much less communicated with, informing me that she would be giving me updates on the story's progress the rest of the day. She was also overly formal.

"Mr. Daulerio: I'm Will's girlfriend. Will wanted me to let you know that he's having email trouble but would get in a draft at the end of the day…"

Of course, this was odd, but it was humorous. I responded to her joking that she should reconsider the relationship since he can't seem to keep his crap together. I didn't expect a response, but I got one anyway - a 500-word, all-caps screed which said I was absolutely right to think she deserved better.

"HE'S A FUCKING LITTLE BOY, " she said and "IF HE JUST FINISHED HIS NOVEL, MAYBE HE COULD AFFORD TO BUY BEDSHEETS." She went on to say how pathetic his work ethic was and that she was tired of "PICKING UP THE SLACK."

"HE'S NEVER EVEN TAKEN ME OUT TO DINNER. NOT ONCE!"

I wanted to pull Will off of this story because it seemed this was more of a headache than it was worth. Fan or not, I had to keep my job. But Will called, sincerely apologized for the melodrama, and said he'd turn in a draft as soon as he could, once things settled down a bit. Weeks went by, again, and there was little or no progress on the story-front, but Will and I had become friends during the whole ordeal. So, at least that had worked out. Then, one gorgeous September morning, Will decided it was time to get serious about the H1B visa story. He'd been reinvigorated and was ready to tackle the reporting head-on and stop messing around. His timing for such a revelation could not have been more impeccable:

From: Will Leitch [mailto:williamfleitch@yahoo.com]

Sent: Tuesday, September 11, 2001 9:05 AM

To: Daulerio, Albert

Subject:

Listen, you're going to have that story all polished up and ready for you first thing tomorrow morning. I apologize for the delay. Getting back on top of things now.

I'd like to say that after this incident, this is when Will woke up, got his shit together and proceeded to take off on a comet-like trajectory toward writing stardom. It was not. Most of his friends in New York have seen him, in his late 20s, live for weeks on pocket change and subsist on a steady diet of "free apples at work" and old pizza that would make even the most destitute of college freshmen pity him. He once went five years without purchasing a new pair of shoes. He insisted that, even though the soles of the ones he wore every single day could be peeled back to the heels, they were perfectly fine. (Some days, it would sound like he was wearing scuba flippers.) He has lived in basically every far-flung borough in New York City, chasing cheaper rent and still blissfully, ignorantly chasing a dream.

Do not for one minute think that Will's job at New York magazine was given to him because of his Deadspin success - he was hired in spite of it. He works tirelessly at his craft. He takes pride in every piece he does, regardless of pay rate or circulation size. And, of course, he never misses deadlines.

Oh and that ex-girlfriend? Yes, she was mercilessly cruel. She treated Will horribly and made him acutely aware of his shortcomings and imperfections. She made him him feel constantly paranoid about his place in the world. She made him feel like an ugly, loathsome human being.

But that still didn't stop me from drunkenly hooking up with her one night soon after they broke up. Sorry, dude. She was kinda hot.

"Hi, I'm sure you'll be inundated with this tonight, but Michael Kay was talking about the Yankees' writers at the start of the 7th inning of tonight's game, and they showed a wide shot of the various beat/newspaper/etc. writers. Of course, the one writer they focused on in particular for his own shot was your own Will Leitch. For what it's worth, here's a screengrab. Thanks." (Kevin L.)

"Apologies (especially if this isn't a tip or 'news'), here's a pic without my lamp in the background. Will sure does look surly, though. Thanks again." (Kevin L.)

"Top of the seventh in the Yanks/Rays game and the YES camera guys are doing the thousand monkeys shot of the press box. They pick the emeritus to represent the horde. I'm guessing this'll now get glanced over in the game coverage tomorrow morning and that you've received this picture about a dozen times. Just thought it was worth getting on the record." (Matthew L.)

"Michael kay and john flaherty discussing how writers have come a long way since typewriters and word processors and the camera panned to this lovely gentleman and his beautiful mac, thought it was worth a picture and a tip." (bigricks)

"They showed will when talking about 'real' sportwriters working the game. He has nice seats close to the exit I guess. I'm sure someone has a better shot but that's him." (Patrick)

"YES Network cameo." (Kevin B.)

"holy shit, they just showed will on the yankees game, writing on his macbook from the press box. it had to be him. 9:09 pm, start of the 7th. please make this front page." (Eric M., photo by knickedge123)

...hey! This guy!

$100 says he did it on the Jumbotron at Busch Stadium.

It's usually because they're just so absurd or really lack even the most tenuous of news angles to give them the go-ahead. Other times it's because they're just absolute horseshit. But every Friday until we get sick of running them, we'll present to you some of these not-so-shiny gems. All items should be treated as [Sic'd]. Enjoy...

Citizen Journalism At Its Finest

A. Has anyone actually SEEN Mark Sanchez's birth certificate? If I am not mistaken, Sanchez is a Mexican name. And have you seen the way he scrambles? Is it possible he honed these skills evading the US Border Patrol? All I'm saying is that someone should at least look into it...and perhaps we should save QB jobs in the National Football League for those who are, you know, US nationals.

B. This morning while fetching some bagels for my family, I was passed on the street by Will Leitch, a famous sports blogger (see attached photo). He was wearing a Cardinals #47 Ludwick t-shirt and maroon shorts. He was sweaty and surprisingly small.

Just thought you'd like to know!

DH

KEEP UP THE SUCK

It's really hard to ignore how much worse the site has become with you in charge. I'm a Philly guy myself and I do(?)/did like when you would write in occasionally when Leitch was running the ship, but since you took over the site has simply sunk to mediocrity. I could care less about the comments - what bothers me is how often you just link to other stories on other sites rather than have original Deadspin stuff. That's the lazy way out. Craggs journalism is hardly journalism. In fact, it's not, and what he writes usually just sucks. The only good thing I've seen in the last, I don't know, four months, was the homage to the Mets season yesterday.

This email won't do anything, I know that. The site won't change, it'll just continue to get worse and worse, but I couldn't take it any longer. I had to voice my opinion via email.

My suggestion - put Drew in charge. When he writes I actually laugh, and it seems like he tries. He won't just link to another site. Also the FJM guys. They gave a damn. You should take some notes, but until then, keep up the suck.

That's His Prerogative

You never talked to the parents of the 120 folks who want to stay and become young men and leaders. You talk to "former" players who dont like to work and left the program. Cmon Mr Cragg how bias can you be? You corner two young freshman during media day and of course they are going to say that they work all day long...this is nothing more than a smear campaign and you know it! Get the facts before you write stuff like this. Talk to your fellow journalist and see what they are saying about Rosenberg's article. Presents fact Mr Craggs.

Bobby Brown

This Person Does Not Want Drew In Charge

Drew Magary is 20% more gay than your average sportswriter.

Fuck you. You fat ugly piece of shit. I know what you look like and I speak on behalf of every Niner fan when I wish you a slow and painful death. You self righteous asshole, how dare you write about the 49ers. You are dog shit and you don't deserve to write about the 49ers. I'm sorry you had to live through the 80's and 90's and watch the best team in football. Jerry Rice, Joe Montana, Bill Walsh, Ronnie Lott, your fat ass doesn't deserve to hold their sweaty jock straps, and this team will be back. Fuck you. You sit behind a desk and think that you can write whatever you please. You better watch your back Drew Magary, your personal information is on the web for anyone with half a brain to hack and find out where you live. You are a fat, angry slob. FUCK YOU. if you ever write about the 49ers again you will be sorry.

Asshole.

-49er Faithful

No Hitting, FYI

AJ,

Bringing Craggs on was genius but it seems this Blazer Girl is the
Foxy Brown to your Reservoir Dogs. Please do not condone the voice of
blond sorority girls that have sports knowledge based off what they
hear off Sportscenter and Rome is Burning. You are ruining Deadspin
with this girl. Sorry dude. I was a big fan of yours but Jesus
Christ, did you end up at a Red Bull promotion and fell in live with
some cute girl that had half a pulse on sports?

I know i have no credence as I attempted to send you a video of a bud
of mine pissing himself in a pair of Depends, but Jesus Christ, if
Leitch pooped the bed with the idea of going on Costas Now, you are
entering the same said bed with explosive diarrhea.

I have faith that you will make the right decision. (I.e. hit it and quit it.)

Matt T.

Dallas, Tx

Yeah, You Guys Suck Too

What the fuck happened to the comments on this site? They used to be funny and entertaining, now it just seems like you have a bunch of little politically correct, crybaby pussies trying to drop life lessons on me. Every time I I read the comments on the site, I feel like I'm in the middle of a debate, with a bunch of socialist nerds, in a political science class. You have a bunch of people, who's opinions I could give two shits about, telling me why it's so wrong that some big black man knocked out a douchey looking white guy for talking shit after a football game. That is funny. That is in the word's of Kenny Banyan "Gold". Why take something so good and ruin it by talking about how disgusting nature of someone's actions. If I wanted that I would go read that yinzer Jay Mariotti's blog.

Example:

Image of Black Hammer White Lightning Black Hammer White Lightning
10:42 AM

"But isn't part of you a little bit pleased that he wiped that fucking smirk off Byron Hout's face?"

Not at all, Dash. How exactly did Hout "start it" when Blount was talking shit all week leading up to the game. As soon as he got a little of it back, he got all punchy.
Reply

I find more enjoyment from reading the comments of an article on foxnews than deadspin. You need to strip all these pansies' commenting privelages and encourage more participation from ppl like Gourmet Spud. It's bad enougg I'm wasting my company's money reading comments about sports, but at least try and help me waste their money reading something that makes me laugh.

Impotently,
Former avid reader of Deadspin comment section

No, Thank You. I Guess.

Random rednecks. Thank you facebook

This Song Has The Potential To Be Huge

I Want to Fuck Your Face Until You Sneeze Pud Snot

(INTRO)

(WANKY GUITAR)

(DRUM FILL)

(CYMBAL CRASH)

Oh, how I want to penetrate your mouth with my wang...
so you'll have a throatful of of scrotum meringue
I'll smack that dirty mouth with my thunder snake skin,
and maybe if you're good...(BEAT)i'll stick it under your chin.

(WANKY GUITAR)

Yeah, you herpe'd faggot, I'm gonna blow the love fog in,
drop my balls in some yolk, let's get to homo egg noggin'
Cover your back with my squishy thick man spray,
punch your mother in the face, then fuck her on a stingray

Pre Chorus:

You're flying blind, your eyes are filled with spunk,
You want my love you have to worship dago junk.

CHORUS:

Iiiiiiii....gonna fuck you, fuck you, fuck you fuck you in the face
fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you in the face.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you in the face.

The pud snot's rockin', let's join the gang rape.

Tha't's all i got right now. I envision this sounding a little like Tin Machine.

The Baseball Prospectus book is the staple of every March — I try to find someplace warm and read it cover to cover, like a novel — and in August, it's the Football Outsiders Almanac. The Football Outsiders' crew's takes are sometimes ridiculous — they love the Rams this year, for some reason — but always well-researched, smart and compelling. I find it the perfect way to prepare for the season; reading makes me feel like I know what I'm talking about, when I really, really don't. It's indispensable. Buy it.

I talked to FO editor-in-chief Aaron Schatz about the book, about the woes of the book publishing industry, the non-split with Baseball Prospecuts (the book is self-published this year, for the first time, and you can't get it in bookstores) and why he's so down on my Buzzsaw.

So what happened with Baseball Prospectus? You're still a part? Or no? Why's the book self-published? Was there some sort of fight? What happened?

We're fine with Baseball Prospectus, actually. Football Outsiders has always been a separate company, so there's no "divorce" or anything like that. We had a deal with them to produce a football book provided
they had a contract with a publisher, but their publisher, Plume, made the decision to no longer publish Prospectus books in sports other than baseball. By the time Plume made this decision, it was too late
for us to go with another publisher. In addition, once we had to do the book on our own anyway, it made sense not to pay for the promotional value of the name "Prospectus." But we are still friends with those guys, we still link to their site and they link to ours, Will Carroll is still writing for both sites, and I want to see them succeed. I especially want Basketball Prospectus to succeed because I think Kevin Pelton is a really good guy.

We have other publishers who are interested in the 2010 book, so we'll have to decide if we go back to standard publishing or do it this way again. Self-publishing gave us an extra five weeks or so to finish the
book, we didn't need to have it done until the end of June, and that was just HUGE from a sanity perspective. My wife is perfectly happy if I never go back to a schedule where the book is due by Memorial Day.

Football Outsiders has had a few staff changes of late too. (I remember when my college pal Michael David Smith wrote for you all the time.) Has this whole process been different than you were expecting when it started kicking in? How has it progressed?

Heh. Well, I started the site as a side gig when I had another job, and the only other people working on it were some of my old fraternity brothers. So yeah, this is a bit different than what I expected six years ago. The site has grown fairly organically, which has led to some of our infamous server issues, but it's also kept me from growing eyes that were far too big for my own stomach, if that makes any sense. I didn't ever want FO to grow too fast and then crash and burn. It's cool that some of our writers have gone on to bigger and better things. I mean, MDS had written on the Web before FO, but it was his work with FO that hooked him up with AOL and gave him the opportunity to do this for a living now, even though that means he can't work for us anymore. I wish more people could work for FO full-time, but that would probably entail taking almost all the content on the site to a subscription model, and I'm just not ready to do that right now. So for now, it's just me and Bill Barnwell.

I've always wondered if you'd start seeing Football Outsiders people working in the NFL the way you see old Prospectus people working in baseball. That doesn't seem to have happened yet, but you see little changes seeping in, most notably with Jim Schwartz, the new coach of the Lions and first real head coach to embrace advanced statistical principles. You've worked with him in the past, right? Is he a referendum on what you guys, and others, do?

Yes, I've worked with Jim in the past, and I hope to work with him in the future as well. I do want to say I would hate to have anything regarding the Detroit Lions become a referendum on what FO does. The
fact is, while FO people aren't working in the league, there are plenty of people in the league who do the kind of statistical analysis that we do. Historically, empirical thinking has always been far better accepted in the football world than in the baseball world. Many more of the management people in football have come from the business world rather than from the playing field. The most statistically oriented organizations in the NFL are probably New England, Philadelphia, and San Francisco. Things have not gone well for the 49ers, obviously, but I think the Patriots and Eagles have been fairly successful over the last few years. So as far as I'm concerned, stat analysis has already proven itself. Eventually, there will be people working in front offices who grew up reading FO. They're already there, it's just that right now they are at the intern level. One of those guys will be running a team in ten years.

The other thing I should point out is that when I started Football Outsiders, the goal was never the better management of NFL teams. It was always the better coverage of NFL teams by the media. The guys in the NFL front offices are smarter than fans give them credit for, and certainly they're smarter than those guys in the booth on Sunday babbling on about how the team is 8-1 when running back X runs for 100 yards. I'm here to improve analysis of the NFL, to make fans feel like they are a) more knowledgeable and b) more entertained. If teams read our work and apply that to managing their franchises, that's pretty
neat, but I'll always see myself as a writer first and foremost.

How mad will you get if I ask you about Kevin Jones? (Note: FO has been predicting stardom for Kevin Jones since he was three years old. It hasn't happened.)

Not that mad. Guys who look good as rookies fall in their faces as second-year players. It happens. All the signs that caused us to project him for such a great second season are still signs that players will improve in their second seasons. If we had a player now with the same stats that Jones had as a rookie, we would probably make a similar projection. Kevin Jones carried the ball 241 times for 1,133 yards, 4.70 yards per carry. Terrell Davis as a rookie carried the ball 237 times for 1,117 yards, 4.71 yards per carry.

To this year's book: I'm not upset that you think my Buzzsaw will flop, because you have figures and research behind it, rather than emotion. (Unlike me.) But don't you think there are certainly things that can't be predicted from past performance? No matter what happened during the regular season, can't you tell SOMETHING about how that team will do from that playoff run?

Sure, there are things that can't be predicted from past performance. That's why we do "mean win projections" based on running the season 10,000 different ways, rather than just saying "Arizona is going to go 5-11." The book says OAKLAND has a two percent chance of winning 11 or more games, for crying out loud. All kinds of strange, unexpected stuff happens in the NFL. On the other hand, when it comes to sitting down and writing the chapters, and doing things like fantasy football projections, we concentrate on what is likely, not what is possible.

I wish I wasn't predicting such a bummer season for the Buzzsaw. I was really annoyed when the projections came out, because the Arizona projection is based on a lot of little things rather than one or two big trends that could be easily explained. I didn't want the Arizona projection to be SO different from conventional wisdom, and I played around with the projection system constantly to try to figure out what variables I was possibly missing that might explain why Arizona should be expected to have another winning season. But there was no way to improve the Arizona projection without making the whole projection system much, much less accurate overall. So we go with what we've got.

The fact is, there just isn't a lot of history of teams that massively improve in the playoffs carrying things over to the next regular season. The 2007-2008 Giants are a big exception, which is what makes them so remarkable. The 2002 Patriots missed the playoffs. So did the 2004 Panthers and the 1981 Raiders.

You seem to imply you think the Rams will win the NFC West this season in the book. A few things have happened since your deadline. Do you still think they're underrated?

Well, first of all, I don't think we imply the Rams will win the NFC West. I think we're pretty clear that we think that Seattle will win the NFC West. The Rams' mean projection in the book is for 8.2 wins, compared to Seattle at 9.9 wins.

I'm concerned about the Rams' early injuries — I mean, without Donnie Avery that team really has an unknown group of receivers, and the idea of Kyle Boller at quarterback gives me hives — but the trends that we identify in the book are still there. The strongest trend in identifying "surprise" teams is still drafting an offensive lineman in the first dozen picks, like last year's Dolphins and the 2007 Browns. This is still a team that is likely to be much healthier and nowhere near as bad in the red zone [as last year]. The NFC West didn't suddenly get any better over the last few weeks — Seattle's dealing with even worse injury issues.

We know that every year some team that has been losing for a couple seasons will come out of nowhere to have a winning season. Everyone wants to figure out how to predict that team, and we're no different. We looked closely to try to figure out what trends pointed to a team about to break out. What we're saying is that St. Louis is the most likely team to do that this year — more likely than Buffalo or Oakland or San Francisco or Detroit or whoever else. We're not guaranteeing a playoff spot or anything. Given how much the Rams sucked last year, they could improve significantly on both sides of the ball and still end up 7-9.

You guys make a very convincing argument that the Broncos are going to be horrible this year. Is there a way for guys to account for 32-year-old maniacs who desperately want to be Bill Belichick?

Wait, is that supposed to be a good thing that leads to wins?

Did you guys ever do any Arena League statistics? Actually, now that I"m thinking about it: Don't you think some enterprising UFL coach could make a name for himself by using FO principles? Like, why not, ya know? It's the UFL.

No, we've never done anything with Arena or CFL. I've thought about doing UFL. It would likely be easy with just four teams playing what, six games each? I'm happy to talk to any UFL coach who wants to speak with me, and we've considered the possibility of a weekly UFL column covering that league, maybe looking at what players might be able to move up to the NFL (or, more likely, move back to the NFL).

In the book, you say if Brett Favre comes back, he's roughly the equivalent of Sage Rosenfels anyway, so it doesn't alter much. Does Michael Vick on Philadelphia change any calculations?

No, he's a backup. Unless Donovan McNabb gets hurt, he isn't going to matter much. Vick's return is more of a news story, whereas Favre's return is more of a sports story, if that makes any sense...

Which movie are you more likely to see: Moneyball, or The Blind Side?

Moneyball, because Demitri Martin is supposed to play Paul DePodesta, and I love me some Demitri Martin.

Note: After this interview, Schatz read Drew's Buzzsaw screed yesterday, in which Drew said, "Schatz was upset the Eagles lost the NFC title game because they failed to prove his metrics correct. But the reason you look to compile interesting stats isn't so that your predictions come true and you look like some big swinging dick. That's Mariotti shit." Schatz had this response:

First of all, I never, ever said I found the Pittsburgh Steelers lackluster in any way. NEVER. Do not besmirch my reputation with Steelers fans! The Cardinals fans are allowed to hate me, but I say lots of good things about the Steelers.

Second, the problem I had last year was not the Cardinals, per se. It was the Cardinals after the 2007 Giants after the 2006 Colts, and so on. It was the trend where the regular season seems to becoming less and less important. It's not about proving my numbers right and it isn't about hating Arizona or wanting Philadelphia to win. Of course the numbers will be wrong sometimes. They just shouldn't be wrong every year, because that would indicate that the regular season is totally pointless, and then the NFL has become hockey. Do we really want the NFL to become hockey?

Barbaro. Final tally: 76 percent.

Yep: He finally made it. Now we don't have to nominate him every year. Somewhere, Rick Chandler, who was the spearhead of the Barbaro story in the first place, is smiling. Congratulations, ya old horse. Once, and for all: Affirmed.

Anyway, congratulations to all Hall of Famers. To recap, here are the current members of the Deadspin Hall of Fame, with their year of election:

2006
Carl Monday
Kyle Orton
Clinton Portis
Run You Stupid Fucking Dinosaur, Run
Renee Thomas And Angela Keathley
Viking Sex Boat
You're With Me, Leather

2007
Ned

2008
Buzz Bissinger
Will Leitch
Isiah Thomas
Marques Slocum's Fuck Lion

2009
Barbaro
Charles Barkley

Way to go, all. See you next year.

(Plaque by "Law And Order" star Jim Cooke.)

Charles Barkley. Final tally: 88 percent.

Eighty-eight percent is actually the highest percentage anyone has ever notched in Hall of Fame voting. Who would possibly doubt that he'll be the governor of Earth someday?

(Plaque by the dripping Jim Cooke.)

To remind, here are the vote totals for Barbaro in the first three years of Deadspin Hall of Fame voting:

2006: 31.1 percent.
2007: 74.6 percent.
2008: 73.7 percent.

So close, so far. Will he get his Joe Gordon on this year?

You decide. Seventy five percent is the threshold for induction. Vote below: Polls will be open through the weekend.

Fortunately ... as of now, Stephon is still with us, losing his mind and both entertaining and unsettling us in the process. So we can keep the fun going!

Just watch this snippet again. And that's just a SNIPPET. Marbury would have been a potential nominee had he never heard of Ustream. Now? I think Daulerio should offer him a job.

But is it it enough to get him in the Hall of Fame? Seventy five percent is the threshold for induction. Vote below: Polls will be open through the weekend.