In the first at-bat of Monday’s game between the Yankees and the A’s, Carlos Rodón fooled Esteury Ruiz with a back foot slider. Ruiz tried to check his swing, and the ball actually hit him in the back foot. It was very much a borderline call, and first base umpire John Tumpane ruled that Ruiz held up and should therefore be awarded first base. Naturally, umpire antagonist extraordinaire Aaron Boone started complaining about the call and quickly earned a warning. Enjoyably for everyone involved, the television broadcast picked up the warning perfectly. “Hey, guess what,” shouted home plate umpire Hunter Wendelstedt. “You’re not yelling at me. I did what I was supposed to do and checked. I’m looking for him to get hit by the pitch. You got anything else to say, you’re gone. OK?” A chastened Boone raised his hand to signal that he understood. Moments later, he became the first manager in the history of the game to be ejected while examining his fingernails.

What happened, of course, is that a fan seated in the front row directly behind Boone yelled at Wendelstedt, who mistook the voice for Boone’s. Wendelstedt’s refusal to listen to either Boone or the many other people who tried to explain that the voice hadn’t come from the Yankee dugout at all is its own issue. So too is his farfetched post-game contention that he was reacting to a different voice entirely: “I heard something come from the far end of the dugout, had nothing to do with his area but he’s the manager of the Yankees. So he’s the one that had to go.” One of the last things Boone said before leaving the field was, “You guys are in trouble for this.” I suspect that he’s wrong, and for the same reason that Wendelstedt felt comfortable telling reporters a tale that could so easily be proven wrong: Umpires are rarely held accountable for these kinds of mistakes (at least not publicly). However, none of that is our topic for today. Our topic is something much more specific. I have a suspicion as to why Wendelstedt was instantly certain that Boone was the one who shouted. It’s not just that the fan shouted; it’s what he shouted.

Over seven years of watching Aaron Boone yelling at umpires, two things have always stood out to me. The first is that Aaron Boone loves to address the umpires by name. On Monday, the kerfuffle started when Boone yelled to Tumpane, “Hey! It’s a full swing, John!” Toward the end of the ordeal, he told Wendelstedt, “I’m not leaving, Hunter.” Here’s the thing about humans: Unless we’re either greeting someone, trying to get someone’s attention, or specifying which person we’re speaking to, we don’t actually say each other’s names very often. If you’re simply using someone’s name to get their attention, you put it at the front of the sentence, in order to make sure they hear the rest of what you say. Boone doesn’t do that nearly as often. He puts the umpire’s name at the end of the sentence, which is something you do in order to add more emphasis. If you watch footage of his ejections, you’ll hear him shout, “Bear down, Brennan,” at Brennan Miller, “Where’s that pitch, Sean?” to Sean Barber, “Jeez Lance,” to Lance Barrett, and plenty more. Maybe it comes from the fact that Boone has spent his entire life around the game and knows absolutely everyone. Or maybe at some point he took a Dale Carnegie class and learned that the sweetest thing a person can hear is the sound of their own name. Maybe this is just how he thinks schmoozing works. I removed curse words from some of these quotes, but the point remains. Boone loves to remind the umpires of their own names.

The second thing I’ve noticed is more important to my theory. Like any true coach, Boone is a teacher. He doesn’t just complain about the umpire’s calls. He couches his complaints as constructive criticism. He implores them to get better and he tells them that it’s not too late to improve. Not two weeks ago he told umpire John Bacon, “Come on, John. You’re better than that.” Boone employs classic coach-speak, telling them to get it together, to clean it up, to bear down; all of those vague, unhelpful bromides your high school coach used to hurl at you rather than offering actionable advice. “I need you to get better,” he’ll yell.

This is an innovative approach, especially when the target for all of this encouragement is an umpire. By berating the umpires under the guise of offering friendly advice, Boone has somehow found a way to be passive aggressive while shouting at the top of his lungs. It’s borderline gaslighting and it honestly might be a scientific breakthrough: caring so loudly that the object of your affection has you removed from the premises. Boone has literally gotten ejected for telling an umpire, “I’m just trying to help you.” He then got suspended for screaming at the same umpire from such close range that he ended up spitting on him, an action that is not traditionally considered helpful. I can’t tell if Boone saves this coach-speak specifically for umpires, or whether he’s been around the game so long that this is just how he speaks to everyone all day long. I can absolutely see him growing more and more exasperated as he waits for his coffee during the morning rush at Dunkin’ Donuts, then finally striding over and telling the poor kid behind the counter, “I need you to bear down, Derek. Right now.”

Like many motivators, Boone has a go-to rallying cry, a phrase intended to fire up his charges. That phrase is Let’s go, and as you might have noticed, he’s not alone in that. Let’s go is having a moment. Although it has been around for centuries, its status as a catch-all exclamation has grown explosively over the last few years. Luke Winkie documented the phenomenon for Slate back in June:

Clearly Let’s go has become a hinge point for the male vocabulary, a shortcut for all intragender communication. The term is utilitarian, flexible, and fundamentally meaningless; it’s another way to say, “Yes, a thing exists.” I first started noticing its encroachment about three years ago, when suddenly every sentence that came out of my mouth seemed to be punctuated in the exact same way. Did I engineer a deft maneuver in a board game? Let’s go. Did my girlfriend and I settle on a takeout order? Let’s go. Does the bloodwork look good? Let’s go.

As in the examples above, Let’s go is usually reserved for happy moments. That’s even more true in the realm of baseball. It’s the kind of thing you’re likely to see Sarah Langs, a beacon of baseball joy if there ever was one, tweeting to mark the occasion of the first game of the season.

But in keeping with the cynicism of his attempts to help the umpires become the best versions of themselves both on and off the field, Boone charges up this positive colloquialism with all the negative energy he can muster. He’s not the only coach to say this phrase, but he says it way more than anybody else. At this point, Let’s go (with or without the adornment of an f-bomb) is basically Aaron Boone’s catchphrase, especially when it comes to umpires. It didn’t take me long to assemble the clips below.

Knowing all this, take a moment to put yourself in the Hunter Wendelstedt’s extremely inflexible shoes. It’s Monday afternoon. You’re approximately eight seconds into the game and Aaron Boone is already chirping, because apparently the wood sage and sea salt aromatherapy candles in the Yankees clubhouse have not succeeded in calming him down even a little bit. Mere seconds after administering a warning, you hear a shout coming from the exact same spot. The fan’s voice wasn’t picked up by television microphones, but according to the lipreading of Jomboy, what he shouted was, “Let’s go, home plate!” (I’m not 100% convinced that’s what he said; he might have just shouted Go or, Yo, but both of those options are close enough that they could easily be confused for Let’s go.) As for the second part, addressing the home plate umpire as Home Plate is hilariously dumb. It reminds me of one of my favorite lines from Brooklyn Nine-Nine, spoken by the character Debbie Fogle. “I’ve never even had a nickname,” she says. Then she reconsiders, “I mean, I guess people do call me ‘Hey Lady.’”

So the fan shouted two things: One of them was absolutely something Boone would say, and the other was something Boone would never say. On the one hand, if there’s one thing Wendelstedt knows, it’s that Aaron Boone knows his name. Boone is more likely to address an umpire by their first, middle, and last names like a parent grounding their kid for cursing — “Harry Hunter Wendelstedt, I am very disappointed in you.” — than he is to address the home plate umpire as Home Plate. If he’d stopped to think about it, Wendelstedt would’ve realized that no one in the ballpark was less likely than Boone to address him by his position rather than his first name.

On the other hand, before he heard, “Home plate,” he heard Boone’s catchphrase. No wonder he thought it was him. And Wendelstedt isn’t exactly a stop-and-think-about-it kind of guy. He started winding up to toss Boone before the butthead in the front row got to the T in Plate, and he refused to let anything he learned over the next few hours change his mind. Besides, over his decades as an umpire, I’m sure Wendelstedt has been called Home Plate enough times that it’s basically his version of Hey Lady.

So that’s my theory. Boone got ejected because the fan yelled exactly the right thing to make the umpire think it was the manager. By having a catchphrase, Boone has made himself very easy to impersonate. Even if you call the umpire something the real manager would never call them — Home Plate; or Blue; or Hey Umpire Guy; or Excuse me, Mister Moustache Man — as long as you throw in a Let’s go (and maybe some profanity for good measure), you’re basically Aaron Boone.

This all started because I was staring at Jose Siri. I don’t think I’ve ever set out with the intention of staring at Jose Siri, but it ends up happening kind of a lot. He’s very watchable. He runs like the wind, if the wind had big muscles. He swings with a righteous fury, and on the rare occasions when he connects with the baseball, he threatens to reduce it to a smoking heap of carbonized yarn. He throws hard too, but not hard enough to wax poetic about it. A few weeks ago, I was researching tromps and whomps (you know, baseball stuff) when I noticed the emblem on Siri’s jersey. It wasn’t the entire Rays logo. It was just a tiny part of it meant to symbolize the whole. Jose Siri was wearing a metonym.

I started wondering about that yellow starburst design: where it came from, what it was supposed to be, and how long I’d been staring at it without actually seeing it. Despite the bright colors, Tampa Bay’s Columbia Blue alternates are the sparsest jerseys in baseball. No other team has a jersey whose front features a graphic with no characters whatsoever. Few teams in the history of the league have worn jerseys like that, and when they did, the graphics were much more representational than the asymmetrical sunburst shape that Tampa Bay uses to evoke a ray of sunshine. Over the past few weeks, I spoke to several people with knowledge of the intersection between art, graphic design, and baseball. I was also lucky enough to speak to two of the people who created the logo in the first place. As it turns out, that piece of the logo is called “the glint,” and it was born on a rooftop in New Jersey.

I first spoke to artist Graig Kreindler. He hadn’t noticed the jerseys either, and he gamely agreed to let me send him some pictures the moment before we got on the phone so that he could give me his reaction in real time. Kreindler loved the jerseys. “I had no idea that they’d gotten rid of the type altogether,” he said. “I love that idea of having your visual identity tied around something… that in this case is pretty abstract.” Kreindler specializes in gorgeously detailed paintings of baseball players and scenes, usually from previous eras. When I asked him whether he could think of anything comparable to the Rays jerseys, he brought up the Philadelphia Athletics of the 1920s, whose jerseys had an elephant on the breast, and who were apparently forbidden from smiling.

“Anything that makes me think of something vintage,” said Kreindler, “I’m all for it.” As a painter rather than a graphic designer, he was also acutely aware of how challenging this logo must have been to come up with. “I guess it’s kind of hard to make a shape —” he started, but then he cut himself off. “How do you illustrate rays of the sun?”

It’s a good point. After all, until a ray of sunshine hits something, it’s just a line. It’s hard to make that fun enough to put on a hat or a jersey. Still, there are plenty of wrong ways to answer the question. Just ask the Hagerstown Suns, who decided to lean into their name and ended up going full-on Raisin Bran.

MLB teams don’t just pick their own logos. The league has a carefully curated aesthetic, overseen by the internal MLB Design Services team. Some clubs have been around since the 19th century, and anything new needs to be of a piece with what came before, as well as with the league’s vision for the future. And there is more new design work than you might realize. Each season, there are a million things that require branding: the All-Star Game, the World Series, spring training, each round of the playoffs, the Home Run Derby, All-Star workout day, the Futures Game. Even the Winter Meetings get a new logo every year.

Long before Tampa Bay picked just a portion of its visual identity to focus on, it did the same thing with its name. From the franchise’s 1998 debut to 2007, the Devil Rays ran the worst record in baseball and finished last in the AL East nine times. When Stu Sternberg assumed full ownership of the team in 2005, it was in need of an exorcism. Whether or not it had anything to do with complaints from religious groups, Sternberg’s top-to-bottom reinvention of the franchise included a name change. Before the 2008 season, Tampa Bay dropped the word Devil and set out to rebrand around the idea of rays of sunshine. They were no longer fish; they were photons. (The devil can be hard to renounce, though. Rather than shell out for new uniforms, the team’s Appalachian League affiliate in Princeton, West Virginia, stayed the Devil Rays for an extra year.)

That history has colored how some people view the rebrand. Sarah Ingber is an artist who worked on the Too Far From Town project at Baseball Prospectus. When she looks at the new logo, her first association is a religious one: the Star of Bethlehem. However, she readily admits that the origin of the name change left her biased. “Devil Rays are a weird team name but cool animal,” she told me. “They can’t help their little head shapes. Justice for satanic nomenclature!”

Once the decision to cast out the devil had been made, MLB brought on FanBrandz, a sports branding agency run by Bill Frederick, to create the visual identity for the Rays. A team of four or five people worked on the project, with MLB vice president of design Anne Occi essentially acting as creative director. It was the first big project Maureen Raisch, a designer not long out of college, had worked on. “They really threw me in the deep end creatively, which was really exciting,” she said.

Raisch and Frederick explained that Sternberg, a Brooklyn native who grew up worshipping Sandy Koufax, had a very specific aesthetic in mind. “In the meetings, he really wanted the sophistication of the Yankees uniform,” said Frederick. “So that really drove the process.” The futuristic fonts and rainbow gradients of the Devil Rays were out. Navy blue was in. “Classic typography,” explained Raisch, “you want that in baseball. It’s right at home in the aesthetic of MLB.” However, she drew the line when there was talk of pinstripes. “Do not do it. You cannot,” she remembered thinking. “For God’s sake, you’re in the division with the Yankees!”

“I think that the glint came very, very late in the process,” said Frederick. “We had done quite a bit of exploration at that point.” His team had tried out concepts using sunbeams to create the leg of the R in Rays, or coming through the wordmark. “We had done some stuff that was very expressive, and it was determined that it really should become much more sophisticated.” Eventually, they hit on the winner. Said Raisch, “These classic baseball letter forms were going to be the thing. You kind of knew that.” That simpler design “needed that little special thing.” The idea for the glint arose during a meeting at MLB’s New York office in early January 2008. “We had this meeting, just up here on Park Ave,” said Raisch. “And something in this meeting sparked, where I go, “I know what we’re going to do.”

“We had played around a lot with it,” said Frederick. “And it just occurred to us at some point, and I think it was probably with Maureen. We said, ‘Well, what about what the sun does to the type?’ It actually reflects off the type, as opposed to trying to image sunbeams. And then Maureen basically took it on herself.”

Rather than simply draw a cartoon glint, Raisch preferred to work from real life. “I think it speaks to the way I approach creative work in sports,” she said. “I think everything should be kind of grounded in reality. Reality is what is familiar to the human eye, so you can’t fake it. Think of movies done with practical, in-camera effects. They’re the best, they hold up. Indiana Jones, from 1981, still looks great.”

Raisch went looking for gold lettering, the kind you’d get from a hardware store to put your street address on your front door. “So I go back home and all I could get is a [number] four. Like a mailbox, brass four.” She took it up to the roof of her Jersey City apartment and took pictures of the four catching the setting sun. “In my mind’s eye, it was more about maybe we bevel or give it a dimensionality, and you’d have this real hotspot. That was kind of the theory.”

Raisch still has the photos, which she showed to me. Wearing gloves to ward off the cold, she held the four by the base with a pair of needle-nose pliers. With a flaming sunset and shadowed Jersey City skyline as the background, the sun shines through the crook of the four, glancing off the corner and refracting into five beams of light. Another picture shows two images side by side, the glint coming off the four and the glint coming off the R in the finished Rays jersey. The two match almost perfectly.

“That’s how it was created,” said Raisch. “There’s my hand in a glove. I swear it’s my hand. That’s Jersey City also; not sunny Florida, you can tell.” The idea took off. Said Frederick, “I think it was very novel. It had a lot of energy. It was different, you know? It was special. And the team really embraced it, and we saw that aspect of the logo really gain traction very quickly after we introduced it. And the next thing you know we see it being used independently as its own graphic.”

He’s not wrong. The glint is absolutely everywhere. Glint-only hats were rolled out for spring training and batting practice in 2013. Since then, it has worked its way into every corner of the franchise. There are multiple variations of it on the team website. It’s on the mound and the outfield wall. The glint-only jerseys became the team’s spring training look in 2016 and the regular season alternates in 2022. “The jerseys themselves are awesome,” said Dan Abrams, the designer behind Athlete Logos. “I love the color combo and just having a graphic logo on the front chest like that.”

LJ Rader, the art history savant behind Art But Make It Sports, prefers the boldness of the original Devil Rays logo — after sending me a picture of Randy Arozarena in a throwback uniform, he wrote, “like, these slap so hard why would you ever not make this your branding” — but he did identify some touchstones for the glint. He first thought of it as a 21st century take on a Joan Miró star.

After chatting for a few more minutes, he sent an image of Edvard Munch’s “The Sun.” It was a picture he had taken at the recent Munch exhibit at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. That brought him to an ironic point about the heliocentric rebrand: The Rays play in Tropicana Field, arguably the gloomiest place in baseball.

Tampa Bay is well aware that some people adore its original Devil Rays look. This year, clubs were limited to four sets of uniforms. Rather than lose the glint or the throwbacks, the team jettisoned its road grays. (This proved wise, as it turns out that when exposed to so much as one drop of sweat, the new road grays take on the appearance of a drowned moth.) Predictably, some people are bothered by that decision. Chris Creamer, the founder and editor of SportsLogos.net, wants the team to pick a lane, rather than staying beholden to both its old and new identities. “If you are going to lean into the glint as the primary image of your brand, jump in with both feet,” he said. “Go with a yellow uniform. If this team is named after sun rays, the sun is yellow; let’s go yellow. Let’s really have fun with this.”

Still, the focus on the glint has only grown over time. Amazingly, the team didn’t alter the glint whatsoever when it decided to make it the focal point. When the glint is on its own, said Luke Hooper, who has designed many of the graphics here at FanGraphs, “you really notice how strange it is.” It would have been reasonable to rework it, given its new, more prominent role. But it still has the exact same dimensions, the little curve in the middle surrounded by all those sharp angles. The strangeness that gives it character really shines through.

Neither Frederick nor Raisch had any idea that the team would come to focus on the glint. “No,” said Raisch. “Absolutely delighted. I think they make foam glints. I think there are people with tattoos, if you want to Google this. I know during the playoffs, I found a guy with it shaved into the side of his head.” Said Frederick, “We didn’t know it was going to take on a life of its own to that degree. It was fun to watch, because all of a sudden, they really embraced it and started using it all over the place: in front of the stadium, in the entrance, and in the outfield cutting it in the grass. It was just turning up all over the place. It was really fun. They were able to find the most fun aspect of the identity.”

At this point, FanBrandz has worked on 28 All-Star Games and more than 15 World Series. Raisch spent 14 seasons designing for MLB and the NHL. In 2019, she left to become a senior designer for the NFL. In 2022, she became creative director for the National Women’s Soccer League, entrusted with shaping the aesthetic of the young league the same way Anne Occi did for MLB. “We’re creating an ethos at this league,” she said. “The Tampa Bay Rays glint is older than this league. And if you’re a 10-year-old league… you can actually really do different things that an NFL and a Major League Baseball, over 100-year-old brands, can’t do.”

The last thing I asked Raisch was whether she would go back and change anything about her work for the Rays if she could. She didn’t miss a beat, jumping into an idea she’d had for working the glint into the hats. Just as quickly, she caught herself, and relayed something she heard from a designer who worked on the NWSL’s new championship trophy: “There’s a fine line between simple and elegant, simple and classy, and simple and bland.” She went on, “So no, we wouldn’t do more with that. That is what makes a major league franchise feel on the level of a major league. They’re simple, they’re elegant, they’re poignant. They’re not overdone. So putting the glint there, I just corrected my 22-year-old wannabe thing that I would have wanted to do. Because it would have been too much on a TV. It would have junked it up.”

The Rays rebrand remains special to Raisch. She even wears their gear around New York City, occasionally drawing the ire of hometown fans. “I’ve had Yankee fans get nasty with me,” she said. Then she laughed. “And I’m like, ‘But do you like the glint though?’”

Last week, Andrew Golden of the Washington Post asked several Nationals pitchers where they focus their gaze as they prepare to pitch. They all seemed to have different answers. “When we go to the bullpen, that’s what we’re finding out,” said Robert Garcia. “It changes every pitch,” said MacKenzie Gore. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about where a person directs their attention, about how much control they really have over it, about things seen and unseen. That’s because for the past few months, something has been slowly creeping both into my field of view and into my consciousness.

During spring training, as I watched footage of pitchers and catchers working out, there was often something lurking off in the periphery. Although it was brightly colored, it didn’t draw attention to itself. It didn’t move at all. But once I started seeing it, I couldn’t unsee it. I couldn’t help looking for it, scrolling through the social media feeds of beat writers for evidence. Here’s a picture Newsday’s Tim Healy took a few weeks ago. Adrian Houser is pitching, and J.D. Martinez is standing in the batter’s box watching pitches. But someone else is lurking behind J.D. Martinez, watching him.

J.D. Martinez is standing in to track pitches during Adrian Houser’s bullpen session. pic.twitter.com/QR9X9Fu3F9

— Tim Healey (@timbhealey) March 23, 2024

That’s the Designated Hitter. It’s a dummy shaped like a batter. The idea is to set it up in the batter’s box so that pitchers can simulate facing an actual batter. The cord dangling from its elbow is intended to give pitchers a frame of reference for pitching inside. It turns out that just about the entire league uses it. I wasn’t trying to catalog every single team, but even so, I found Designated Hitters in the bullpens of the Astros, Brewers, Cardinals, Dodgers, Mariners, Marlins, Mets, Red Sox, Tigers, Twins, White Sox, and Yankees. Back in 2022, James Fegan captured video of multiple White Sox pitchers using the DH during side sessions.

It’s not just the majors, either. The Designated Hitter has permeated every level of the sport. It’s especially prominent at training facilities. If you’re a pitching nerd who pays attention to what’s going on at Tread or Driveline, you’ve almost certainly seen it in use. On particularly fun occasions, you’ll see it in use by way of high-speed cameras as MLB pitchers work on their repertoires. Chris Langin, Driveline’s Director of Pitching, published the clips below on Twitter (and graciously granted me permission to compile them in the video below).

Colby Morris has pitched in the minors and interned at Driveline, and he’s now an associate pitching analyst in the Giants system. Understandably, he can’t talk about the specific training methods the Giants use, but he’s a big fan of the Designated Hitter. “My personal philosophical opinion is pitchers should throw almost every pitch with one,” he told me. “I loved using it while playing to hold myself accountable and gain confidence throwing inside to hitters.”

The Designated Hitter is even more popular at the amateur level, especially college. In the pros, it’s somewhat rare to see one in action. Coaches or teammates will often stand in, whereas the dummy is saved for more specific exercises. College baseball and softball programs use it constantly. Some softball programs have taken to marking them up with red, yellow, and green tape, like a traffic light. The green goes at the chest and the knees, where you want to locate a pitch. The red goes thigh-high, where you very definitely don’t. College teams also have entirely too much fun with the dummy; I’ve seen players running relay races with it, using it as an air guitar, and even holding wedding ceremonies with it. Several have named theirs.

Quick snippet of @kaileywilliams0 & @skylarmacias44 being a brick wall behind the dish ? #BeAFreakinUnit pic.twitter.com/qEwFr0WHlD

— Aggie Softball Managers (@ManageThis12) September 16, 2021

You may have noticed that aside from the colors, every one of these dummies is exactly the same. They all have the same upright, but somehow still hunched-over batting stance. The Designated Hitter is the only game in town. I decided to find out where it came from and how it seemingly found its way into the bullpens of America. I also decided to answer other important questions, such as which current MLB player has the most similar stance to the Designated Hitter. Although there were many contenders, Oakland’s Lawrence Butler is the winner. All the dummy needs is a longer bat and an oven mitt in its back pocket.

Joe Murphy, a former catcher at the University of Rhode Island, started ProMounds in 2001. Murphy was a high school teacher and baseball coach in Massachusetts, and he wanted his pitchers to be able to throw off a real mound at the beginning of the season, when the cold weather forced them to practice indoors. He invented a portable, lightweight mound made of turf-covered foam, and it turned into a business when his fellow coaches started asking if they could buy their own. Murphy enlisted his parents and fellow teachers as the company started growing. The name changed to On Deck Sports when he started branching out into other kinds of field equipment and training aids. Eventually, it became Murphy’s full-time job, and On Deck started fitting out entire baseball and softball facilities.

Although On Deck Sports owns the Designated Hitter, it didn’t create it. Murphy first encountered it at a trade show, and bought it in 2010. Trade shows are the way to get your product in front of coaches who might be interested in buying them, but they can also be expensive and difficult to navigate. When Murphy started making mounds, he learned that if you’re only selling one product, even one that sells well, it’s hard to make the numbers work. “It costs quite a bit just to mobilize and travel the trade show space,” he said. “When you have one product it can be really difficult. When I met Jim, it was getting to that point for him.”

Jim Haller was a fireballing right-hander out of Creighton Prep in Omaha. The Dodgers took him ninth overall in the 1970 draft, but injuries derailed his career, starting with a collision at first base during fall instructs. In 1971, playing for Double-A Albuquerque, he got hit in the jaw by a ball during batting practice. On August 4 of that year, he threw 14 scoreless innings against Dallas Fort-Worth. He ended up with a no-decision thanks to future big-leaguer Tom Walker, who beat Albuquerque 1-0 with a 15-inning no-hitter. “My arm never recovered after that,” Haller told me. “My arm was dead. Nowadays, can you imagine a first-round draft pick going six innings?”

On September 25, 1974, Dr. Frank Jobe performed the first ever UCL reconstruction surgery on Tommy John. Earlier that morning, he operated on Haller, cleaning up his elbow and performing an ulnar nerve transposition surgery. “I gave him hell,” Haller joked. “I said, ‘I think you took something out of my arm and gave it to Tommy.’” Jim pitched through the 1975 season, but never made it past Triple-A. “When the Dodgers sent me down the road, there was good reason,” he said. “I couldn’t get anybody out.” The numbers tell a more complicated tale. He always walked a lot of batters, but over two seasons and 52 starts in Triple-A, Haller ran a 2.90 ERA. He eventually went into manufacturing, but stayed around the game. In the early 2000s, he was coaching for the independent Lincoln Saltdogs when he and his business partner, Steve Zawrotny, came up with the idea for the Designated Hitter together.

Murphy connected me with Haller, saying, “He tells a great story.” He wasn’t wrong. Haller is retired now, living 30 miles outside Omaha in a town of 80 people. He still trains pitchers, but only if he thinks they have a real shot. Our first conversation took place while Haller was driving to pick up a dresser, and he was incredibly engaging, launching into the story of the Designated Hitter the moment we finished saying hello. I was dealing with bronchitis at the time, so the conversation followed a halting roundabout: I would ask a question, Haller would answer with a story. Eventually he’d make a joke, and I would start laughing, only to end up dissolving into a coughing fit. Then I’d apologize, he would say not to worry about it, and I’d ask another question.

Said Haller, “I don’t know if Steve said or I said, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a hitter up there?’ But you can’t just put a hitter in pads and let him take shots.” It’s not hard to see why the idea struck them as a good one. As Murphy said, “When was the last time you pitched a game and no batter stood in? So why would you practice without it?” I told Haller that the DH would have solved one problem I had when I was younger: I never saw enough left-handed batters to feel comfortable pitching against them. He brought up a similar concern. “There’s guys that throw a breaking ball right at a hitter. Well, where do you aim a breaking ball if there’s no batter there?”

Zawrotny was also a pitcher, and he has been running a strength and conditioning company for baseball and softball players for over 20 years. Although he and Haller didn’t know it when they started working on the idea, there were already two similar products on the market. Luckily for them, both had serious design flaws. The first was called the Pitcher’s Pal. It was essentially a crash test dummy holding a bat, and while it was used by at least one MLB pitching coach, it never caught on. Murphy recalled that it was “very oversized and awkward,” but I wasn’t able to find any real information about it. I found much more information about a different Pitcher’s Pal, which was designed to help people who play horseshoes. It was basically a tire iron with a handle.

The second competitor was the Bullpen Buddy, an absolutely hilarious inflatable batter licensed by MLB. The Bullpen Buddy needed to have its feet filled with sand in order to stand up. To make it a switch-hitter, it featured a fascinating here’s-the-church, here’s-the-steeple grip on the bat, along with a removable head that mostly just wobbled around crazily. Also, the air valve was located on the back of its upper thigh, which meant that in order to blow it up you more or less had to press your face directly into its butt. On the positive side, it bore an uncanny resemblance to Anthony Rizzo.

Unlike Rizzo, however, the Bullpen Buddy wasn’t great at getting hit by pitches. It had a tendency to tip over, and the soft plastic was prone to bursting on impact. It doesn’t take a sports psychologist to realize that if you’re trying to instill confidence in a young pitcher who’s struggling with poor control, you probably shouldn’t make them throw to a batter who might, when hit with a wayward pitch, literally explode.

Haller and Zawrotny worked out the general idea for the design over texts and emails, and filed for a patent in February 2007. The Designated Hitter came in three sizes, for players of different ages. The final shape wasn’t drawn. Haller knew a player on the University of Nebraska baseball team and asked him to pose while the team was in Omaha for the College World Series. “I’ve got a buddy in Omaha that’s kind of a wizard with computers and photography,” he said. “We shined a light on [the player], and we had a shadow on the wall and we took a picture of that.”

Once they’d crafted the final design, Haller paid $20,000 to have a mold created. The DH is made of rotationally molded thermoplastic, so it’s hollow inside and weighs only seven pounds. It then gets bolted onto a base made of recycled rubber, the same kind you’d find on the bottom of an orange traffic delineator. That’s not an accident. “I used to steal those bases. I took those off the highway for about three months,” Haller said. “At construction sites, they would put traffic cones in those so they wouldn’t blow over, so then I tracked down the company that made them in California.”

Haller and Zawrotny got the first DH molded by a company in Iowa, bolted it onto one of the purloined bases, and brought it to work to test it. That is, Haller asked his pupils to throw at it as hard as they possibly could. “And it just worked spectacularly,” he said. “We had guys that threw hard. I would keep a pocket full of hundred-dollar bills, and I would say, ‘I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you can break it. I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you can knock it over.’” At first, the pitchers were throwing from the rubber, the full 60 feet, 6 inches away. When it turned out that the DH wouldn’t so much as budge, he let them start moving closer. “So I had guys standing five, 10 feet away from this thing, and you just couldn’t break it. We even had them do it with softballs too because of the bigger mass.” Take a moment to picture the scene: Haller with a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills in his pocket, a gaggle of pitchers buzzing around in front of a two-dimensional batter, waiting their turn to take a running start and fire a softball at its center of mass from point blank range. One by one, they muscle up and unload, only for the ball to fall harmlessly to the ground. One by one, they’re defeated by seven pounds of plastic.

In the years that Haller sold the DH, he could only recall one that broke, due to a defect. He and Zawrotny were also pleased to find that, as intended, the design’s flat shape and square corners minimized deflections that could injure a catcher, a concern that plagued the Pitcher’s Pal.

With the product proven, they got to work. Zawrotny was in Oklahoma, focusing more on marketing, while Haller was in Nebraska, assembling and shipping the DHs. They both visited trade shows to demonstrate it to coaches. Early on, pitching guru Tom House told Haller that the DH was worthless. His research indicated that pitchers don’t even see the batter while they’re pitching. The slight still rankles Haller, but the DH took off quickly. “Our original purchasers were high schools, local high schools here in the Omaha area. And Omaha, we’re a baseball area. The College World Series kind of makes us a baseball town. Steve went to trade shows in Texas and sold a bunch, but it was primarily high schools, and then the colleges caught on. And then I think we gave one to some big league club for spring training, and that took a while to catch on. But I honestly think players were demanding them, and that probably helped the sales.”

Luis Severino coming at you during a bullpen session pic.twitter.com/vKkLuQ345v

— Greg Joyce (@GJoyce9) February 15, 2023

Haller remembered one player in particular who loved the Designated Hitter early on, although he couldn’t come up with the player’s name. The player spent most of his career with the Cardinals, and then bounced from team to team for a few years. Each time, he’d make sure the new team’s bullpen had a DH. After struggling for another minute or two, Haller gave up on trying to remember the name, but an hour or two after we hung up, he called me back and shouted, “Isringhausen!” I laughed, then coughed.

Eventually, the demand became too much for Haller and Zawrotny, who were both coaching and training while managing the Designated Hitter. They sold it to On Deck in 2010. “When Murphy came to us and was interested in buying the entire product, Steve and I thought, This is too big for us. We’re not going to get the job done. So we sold it to Joe. I’m happy for him.” Haller is proud of what they accomplished: “I’ll look at somebody I respect in the big leagues, somebody’s mechanics I respect, and you’ll see the thing standing there.” However, that doesn’t mean he has no regrets about letting the DH go. “Steve and I, we came up with a winner,” he said. “I wish we could’ve cashed in on it.” They have since come up with other ideas, but nothing they’ve believed in strongly enough to pursue.

On Deck now manufactures the Designated Hitter at a factory in Georgia. The company adjusted the mold so that it comes in two pieces, bolting together at the hitter’s waist, which makes it easier to ship and transport. That’s the only significant change it made, and the DH is still more or less indestructible. “The breakage and the quality control around it,” Murphy said, “it’s so fractional that it’s not even measurable.” When I asked how many Designated Hitters were in bullpens across the country, he estimated that the number was in the tens of thousands.

When I asked Haller if there was anything he wishes he could go back and change about the product, he already had an answer ready: the name. “We thought we were clever as hell calling it the Designated Hitter,” he said. But they realized that the name made it sound like the opposite of what it was: a device to help hitters rather than pitchers. “It was too late, we had money sunk into it,” he said “And that wasn’t Steve’s fault. It was my fault.”

There’s no getting around the fact that the Designated Hitter is, in some ways, a deeply silly product. It’s not as silly as a decapitatable Anthony Rizzo, but there’s always going to be something funny about an indestructible two-dimensional batter. Sometimes the simplest solution to a problem is elegant, the single stroke that clears everything extraneous away. And sometimes the simplest solution strips the problem down to its essence, laying bare the absurdity of the entire exercise. The faceless, depth-less DH is somewhere in between, using the absolute minimum information possible to convey the idea of a batter. It’s not so much a designated hitter as a deconstructed hitter. The first time you notice it, you’re bound to think of Ricky Vaughn taking a dummy’s head clear off with an errant fastball in Major League. All the same, I was moved to hear the passion with which Murphy and Haller talked about it. The idea had been around for a long time; it was just waiting for people who cared enough to get it right. “I don’t know, man,” Haller said. “I’m not that smart, but we fell into one.”

Although I’ve focused on usage across Major League Baseball, that was never intended to be the main market for the Designated Hitter. From the very beginning, Haller and Zawrotny saw it as a teaching tool for young players. “Youth pitchers, they hit a kid, and they might not want to pitch anymore,” Haller said. “When you’re 10, 11 years old and you’ve got a guy hitting you, a lot of kids get scared to death and it ruins their whole baseball experience.” Haller is still very much a coach at heart, and he told me enthusiastically about the two pitchers in high school he’s currently training. Though he’s still a board member, Murphy recently sold the majority of On Deck Sports and went back to coaching. “We use it in our bullpen every day,” he said.

Speaking with Haller, it’s not hard to see how his own experiences as a pitcher led him to value the idea of a tool for practicing command and learning to pitch inside without fear of hitting a batter. Later in our conversation, I started asking him about his own experiences. When I told him I’d read that he once struck out Hall of Famer Dave Winfield four times in a row in an American Legion game, he joked, “I was so damn wild he just wanted to get the hell out of there.” He came back to that idea several times. “I didn’t know how to pitch,” he said. “I threw hard. I’m 6’6”, 225; I threw hard as hell. I’m there in Vero Beach, I’m around Don Sutton and Tommy John and Andy Messersmith, and they’re throwing seven, eight miles per hour less than me.” The Designated Hitter was created for kids like him, along with the kids who have to stand in against them. “These guys on little league teams are just bigger than their peers, so they don’t really learn the finer skills,” he said. “I felt bad for these kids. I was six feet tall in little league. Can you imagine these kids facing me?”

There are a couple records I love so much that I don’t actually listen to them very often. I know that sounds weird, but I’m afraid of losing what makes them special. I’ve gotten sick of records before, listened to them so often that they’ve completely lost their ability to surprise me and started feeling flat. Some music is too important to risk it. I don’t ever want to live in a world where I’m not completely dumbstruck by the opening chords of In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. That would be an unimaginable loss. So I only listen to it a couple times a year. I’m not a hoarder in other aspects my life, but this particular calculus seems worthwhile to me.

I tend to think a lot about the lasting power of music. I spent Sunday in a recording studio in New Jersey. To nobody’s surprise, I was the member of the band who was slowing down the mixing process to ask whether we could throw some tremolo on the lead guitar track, or turn down the reverb on the vocals in “Rat Czar.” (Technically, the song is called “Rat Czar Czar,” and it takes the form of a job posting. I wrote it when New York City announced that it was hiring a Rat Czar to eradicate the rats. I figured that the rats must also be hiring a Rat Czar Czar, whose job was to eradicate the Rat Czar.) I understand that no song is going to be perfect, but I just didn’t want to wish I could change it every time I heard it. I love live music, but to me personally, records are just that: the official record of a song. They’re forever. For that reason, I was all over it when Eric Nusbaum tweeted a question: How many times do you think the average Major League Baseball player has heard the song “Centerfield” by John Fogerty? Eric is the editor-in-chief of Seattle Met and the author of the fantastic book Stealing Home. Like a vulture, I immediately swooped in and asked Eric if I could steal his idea. Like a busy editor-in-chief of a magazine, he very graciously let me have it.

“Centerfield” is ubiquitous in baseball, and its digital handclap intro is also a ballpark staple. John Fogerty is a musical legend, the lead singer and songwriter of the iconic Creedence Clearwater Revival. The song is the title track off of his comeback 1985 solo album, and it was an immediate hit. He’s played it in center field at Dodger Stadium, and at the Hall of Fame induction ceremony in Cooperstown (on a baseball-shaped electric guitar that was very definitely plugged into absolutely nothing). I’ve heard it at big league ballparks, and I remember hearing it over the press box speakers during regionals when I was 9 years old. “Centerfield” has been able to stick around for so long because it walks a very fine line. It’s kitschy, but not tiresome. It’s catchy, but it’s not gouge-your-eyes-out-because-that’s-the-only-way-it’ll-ever-leave-your-head catchy. It’s too innocuous to reach the heights of CCR’s best work, but that also makes it very appropriate for a public setting. For the most part, people don’t groan when they hear it; if they notice it at all, they just get nostalgic for the ballpark.

Naturally, there’s no actual way to answer this question precisely. It’s a Fermi problem, which means that the best we can do is make a good estimate. As Caroline Chen wrote in The New York Times Magazine, “The goal here isn’t knowing the exact number but rather being able to estimate the right order of magnitude using nothing but common sense.” Now that I’ve stolen the question from Eric, it’s time to try solving it. As I was finishing this article up yesterday, I circled back with Eric and asked him if he had a guess: he went with 600. JJ Cooper, editor-in-chief of Baseball America, made an extremely thoughtful estimate and came up with 1,000, but that was only for American-born players.

My estimate is made up of a bunch of sub-estimates. I tried to approximate how many games the average player spent at each level of baseball, from little league up to the majors. Then I estimated what percentage of games the song was actually played in. I started with data from our major and minor league leaderboards and pulled in data from various sources along the way. I also consulted with some of my more knowledgeable colleagues in order to come up with estimates for how often the song is played at each level of baseball. What follows are just my best guesses. I encourage you to use the comments section at the bottom to quibble with my estimates, to make your own, or just to get in some savage burns about my musical taste, if that happens to be your thing.

Major Leagues

In 2023, 1,457 players saw time in the majors. According to my rough calculations, they had to that point averaged 4.83 big league seasons. The average team plays 28.13 spring training games, 162 regular season games, and 1.25 playoff games, for a total of 191.38. I’m not knocking off any games to account for the short 2020 season, because this is a theoretical exercise, and because I’m so sick of factoring that into all my non-theoretical research.

“Centerfield” is played before every game in both Seattle and Atlanta. That represents 6.67% of all regular season games, and it’s also the reason Eric thought to ask this question in the first place. He brought his kids to a Mariners game, and the song came on while the Guardians were taking batting practice. Although it’s not an every-game staple in the other 28 parks, it definitely gets played a fair amount of the time, whether during batting practice, between innings, or in other mid-game pauses. I’ll estimate that it’s played at 12% of all big league games.

4.83 seasons x 191.38 games x 12% of games = 110.9

Minor Leagues

I calculated 4.45 seasons in the minors for the average player. The length of the minor league seasons varies by level, but between spring training, the regular season, playoffs, and fall leagues, I estimate 80 games per player each year.

I also estimate that “Centerfield” gets played a lot more often in the minors than it does in the majors. By design, the minor league experience is sillier and kitschier than the major league experience. Eric Longenhagen told me, “There are definitely affiliates in the minors who play that song every night, and their guys hear it 80 times a year. It’s played in every game at Scottsdale Stadium during Fall League.” I’m going with 40% of the time. As Eric said, “All you need is a person of a certain age on the Aux cord.”

4.45 seasons x 85 game x 40% of games = 142.4

College

According to Spotrac’s MLB college tracker, there are 566 active players who attended college, so we’ll call that 39% of all players. Nearly all MLB players who went to college played there for three years, and last year’s College World Series participants averaged 56.5 total games. We’ll bump it up to 70, because MLB-bound players were probably good enough to get invited to play in summer leagues like the Cape Cod League.

I estimate that “Centerfield” is played at 42% of college games, slightly higher than in the minors. I was going to put it at 40%, but Michael Baumann, our resident college baseball expert, thought the number was likely a bit higher. Baumann also had a surprisingly generous opinion of the song. He acknowledged that he’s heard it too many times and that it’s one of Fogerty’s minor works — it ain’t no “Fortunate Son” — but it doesn’t drive him up the wall either. “Which is no small feat for a song about sports,” he said. “Given the choice between spending eternity in a hell in which ‘Centerfield’ is the only music and listening to ‘The Hockey Song’ by Stompin’ Tom Connors even once all the way through, I’d pick the former and not think twice.” I had actually never heard of “The Hockey Song” until Baumann mentioned it, and after I finish writing this sentence, I’m going to look it up on YouTube and give it a try.

And I’m back. Holy God. I made it 12 seconds before I had to stop.

39% of players x 3 seasons x 70 games x 42% of games = 34.4

International Players

From this point on, we’re in the realm of high school and little league ball. That means we need to start drawing a distinction between American-born players and international players. I just can’t imagine that kids in the Dominican Republic or Venezuela are hearing much John Fogerty. For the last several years, MLB.com has published the percentage of international players on opening day rosters. It has stayed right around 28.5%. We’ll assume those international players heard the song twice at some point or another before arriving in the states.

28.5% of players x 2 = 0.6

High School and Travel Ball

First, we’re starting with the 71.5% of American-born players. According to Baseball America’s rankings, the top 50 high school teams averaged 32.74 games in 2023. Presumably, players who were good enough to end up as big leaguers also attended some showcases and played travel or American Legion ball, so we’ll bump it up to 52 games. We’ll also estimate 3.5 varsity seasons. After all, these are future big leaguers; most of them were probably insufferably cool four-year starters in high school.

I’m estimating that “Centerfield” is only played at 10% of high school games. Eric Nusbaum’s high school played it before every game, but most high schools either don’t have a PA at their field, don’t play music at their games, or just specifically choose not to play novelty songs from the 1980s at their games. Some of us didn’t even have a baseball field in high school.

71.5% of players x 3.5 years x 52 games x 10% = 13.0

Little Leagues

For our purposes, little league runs from ages 9 to 15, as it’s unlikely there’s themed music playing during coach-pitch games of 8-year-olds. (Note: This is for all little leagues and not just Little League, because plenty of kids play in Cal Ripken or the various other youth leagues that are not affiliated with Little League International.) For those seven years, we’ll estimate 25 games played. That’s a long little league season, but consider the fact that most future-MLB players probably made it to the all-star tournaments that can extend the season for weeks.

I’m estimating that 8% of little league games featured “Centerfield.” I’m sure that some leagues play music all the time and that “Centerfield” is a staple for them. However, in general, most little league games don’t feature music until you get to those all-star tournaments.

71.5% of players x 7 years x 25 games x 8% = 10

Everywhere Else

There are plenty of other places a player could hear the song. Those who listen to classic rock or country could hear it on the radio somewhat regularly. Besides, among the 1,500 MLB players, hasn’t there got to be just one Fogerty superfan who finds “Centerfield” at the very top of his Spotify Wrapped every season? I say there is, and for facial hair reasons, I’ll go ahead and assume that it’s Andrew Chafin. However, there’s no way there’s more than one MLB player who’s listening to this song that frequently by choice. They just hear it too often at work.

The song has also been in plenty of movies and TV shows. Most recently, it soundtracked a particularly memorable scene in Ted Lasso. I estimate the average player has encountered the song in a non-baseball context 10 times.

Some American-born players probably heard it during practices and events. They certainly heard it when they were growing up and attending professional games as a fan. Combining all of these edge cases, I estimate they’ve heard it 32.9 times.

And that’s all our variables. Here’s one last table that adds up all our estimates.

Well, there’s our answer. According to these estimates, the average major league player has heard “Centerfield” 354.2 times. If we just limit ourselves to American-born players, that number grows to 418.3.

I suspect that number will feel way too low for many people. If you grew up hearing this song at every single little league, high school, or big league game, your guess was probably closer to the 600 or 1,000 that Eric and JJ went with. I’m sure there are some big leaguers who have heard it that many times (not to mention Andrew Chafin, whose number might well be in the millions). But we also need to balance them out with the American-born players who rarely heard it and the international players who might not have heard it at all until they arrived in the United States.

Of course, there’s an even trickier question waiting for us: How many times do you think the average player has actively noticed that they were hearing this song? For those of us who go to the ballpark with any frequency at all, it quickly starts to blend in with the rest of the ballpark noise. For someone who spends their life at the ballpark, that probably happens much faster. I don’t even know how we would go about estimating the answer to that question, so we’re stuck with the first one. Regardless, however you feel about my estimate or about “Centerfield” itself, I’m sure we can agree on one thing: It’s a whole lot better than “The Hockey Song.”

Many thanks to Eric Nusbaum, without whom this article wouldn’t exist, and JJ Cooper, without whom it would be much worse.

For more than a decade now, the Dodgers have reigned over Major League Baseball through a combination of top-end talent and robust depth. Versatile role players like Enrique Hernández and Chris Taylor have complemented stars like Clayton Kershaw, Corey Seager, and Mookie Betts, while excellent scouting and player development departments have meant that the team has never had to scrounge for spare parts. That mix has usually kept Los Angeles clear of our Replacement-Level Killers series. This season, however, the Dodgers have a giant hole: the entire outfield. Dodgers outfielders have accrued -0.5 WAR, tied with the Phillies for dead last in baseball. Next time someone tells you to imagine trading Mookie Betts, take a moment to feel sorry for the Los Angeles outfielders, which didn’t even get to trade Betts to the infield; they just gave him away without getting so much as a Jeter Downs in return. Let’s take a look at what’s going on out there, courtesy of our the shiny new splits on our leaderboard.

Well, that’s simple enough. The offense has been terrible, the defense has been not great, and Mookie Betts is a shortstop now. Before we go any further, it is time for me to shout the word April a few times. The stats above are based on just 239 plate appearances. Lots of things are going to change. In fact, one thing has already changed: On Tuesday, the Dodgers called up prospect Andy Pages and started him in center (presumably because they hacked the FanGraphs Slack and knew I was writing about their outfield needs). He knocked an RBI single on his first pitch.

That said, it’s not too early to look at what’s going on and ask some questions. First of all, Jason Heyward is on the IL with lower back tightness. He hasn’t played since March 30, which means the Dodgers have only gotten to run out their preferred outfield lineup five times. According to Dave Roberts, Heyward’s injury is not improving enough for there to be a firm timetable on his return. Following the injury, the Dodgers claimed Taylor Trammell off waivers from the Mariners, but have only given him six plate appearances. With Heyward gone, Teoscar Hernández has been the everyday right fielder. James Outman and Enrique Hernández have platooned in center. Chris Taylor has started in left, with Enrique Hernández also getting a few starts there against righties. With none of that working, Roberts said on Tuesday that Pages will likely see significant playing time against both righties and lefties.

This seems like the right place to acknowledge how confusing the landscape is in terms of names. There are two Hernándezes, a first-name Taylor and a last-name Taylor, and an Outman who is suddenly living up to his name after all.

Let’s start with the good. Teoscar Hernández is crushing it right now. After a down year in Seattle — possibly the result of having trouble seeing the ball at T-Mobile Park — Hernández signed a one-year deal in January, and is off to a running start. However, it’s early and he has a .314 xwOBA, which would be his worst mark since 2019. So far, Hernández is chasing much less, making a lot more contact, and not sacrificing any contact quality. He may not stay lucky forever, but those underlying numbers are encouraging.

In 2023, James Outman put up a four-win rookie season by doing what we nerds so often ask of hitters: making the most of his hard contact by pulling the ball in the air. As a result, he launched 23 homers and ran a great barrel rate despite below-average contact quality and lots of strikeouts. That also made him a likely regression candidate. Despite a 118 wRC+, he ran a DRC+ of 84. The D stands for Deserved, and this season, his DRC+ is 81. However, it’s way too early to assume that Outman can’t replicate his 2024 performance or find ways to get better in his sophomore campaign. So far this season, he’s hitting the ball a bit harder and his contact rate has improved from infinitesimally small to merely microscopic. Outman isn’t going to run a .242 BABIP all year, and it’s too early to panic about him. However, he needs a platoon partner, and right now, he really doesn’t have one.

Chris Taylor isn’t going to keep running a hilariously low .069 BABIP or a not at all funny -25 wRC+. Even over a short sample size, those are astoundingly unlucky numbers. He’s been extremely aggressive on pitches in the strike zone. That should be a good thing, but he’s made contact with them just 67.7% of the time, leading to a 42.9% strikeout rate. Because he’s walking and striking out like Joey Gallo, Taylor has put only 18 balls in play. That’s a tiny sample size, so it’s too early to do anything more than note that his contact quality has been dreadful. Taylor is coming off a 104 wRC+ in 2023, and he’s only been below 100 once in the last eight seasons.

Enrique Hernández hit his first homer of the season Tuesday night. Maybe the Dodgers can help him find his swing; after all, he hit much better following the trade that sent him from Boston to Los Angeles in 2023. But please understand how big a reclamation project that would be. From 2022 to 2024, Hernández has run a 72 wRC+, making him the sixth-worst hitter in all of baseball (minimum 700 PAs). The players below him could all be more or less described as defensive specialists; they’ve all put up positive WAR totals thanks to good defensive marks (with the exception of Martín Maldonado, whose defensive value is invisible to defensive metrics and quite possibly visible only to MLB managers). But Hernández has been worth -8.9 runs in the field, and -0.9 WAR overall, making the seventh-worst position player overall. That’s not just a replacement-level killer. His ugly defensive numbers at shortstop in 2023 were eye-opening, and if he doesn’t have the glove for center or the bat for left, that’s a big problem.

Lastly, there’s Pages (pronounced PA-hez), who was called up Tuesday. The 23-year-old Cuban missed most of the 2023 season due to surgery to repair a torn labrum in his right shoulder, but he’s already hit five homers at Triple-A this season. We have him ranked seventh in the Dodgers system. MLB Pipeline has him ranked higher: third in the system and 96th overall. After discussing Outman and Teoscar Hernández, Pages’ profile might sound familiar. His swing is designed to generate lift, allowing him to do plenty of damage even though he doesn’t boast tons of raw power. Like Outman and Hernández, that also means he’s going to strike out quite a bit. He started in center on Wednesday and has played there some in the minors, but he’s destined for a corner spot long-term, with a big arm that makes right field most likely.

Pages brings one more thing that the Los Angeles outfield sorely needs: youth. Until the arrival of Pages, Outman was the baby, but he’ll turn 27 in a week. Prorated by plate appearances, Dodgers outfielders are 30.5 years old, making them the third-oldest outfield in baseball. The oldest players are also the ones with the biggest question marks. Can Heyward stay healthy, and if he does, can he repeat his 2023 breakout? Are Taylor and Enrique Hernández still useful pieces at this stage of their careers? The overall strength of their roster means that the Dodgers can likely coast to the playoffs even if they keep getting absolutely nothing from their outfield, but that’s not usually how they operate.

He just ran right into it.
The ball was coming. He chopped his steps to time it up.
And then he just ran right into it anyway
Like a child so focused on when to jump into a game of Double Dutch
That they forget the part where they have to actually jump.
It hit him in the shin, in both shins, bounced off toward the photographers’ well
And the inning was just over.

He’s going to have a bump for a while.
And a baseball right to the shinbone really hurts, even a weakly hit one
That ends the inning and makes everyone wonder what the hell you were thinking.
It sticks around forever and hurts far longer than it ought to.
Those high sanitary socks are no protection at all. They’re nearly nothing.
I remember peeling off my uniform after a particularly sunny game
And finding sunburns in a tiny checkerboard pattern on my calf.

If you didn’t know there were two outs, you’d think
It was a brilliant piece of baserunning.
Bottom six, Jose Altuve leading off second. Runners on first and second.
Bregman chops one to third and Altuve takes a bruise on the shin like a hero
Rather than allow the Blue Jays to turn a double play.
But there are two outs. Jose Altuve is positively — I don’t know what.
I got interrupted as I was writing that line and now I have no idea what
I was going to say that Jose Altuve positively was.

It didn’t actually cost the team very much. If the ball doesn’t hit him,
Then Clement scoops it up for a rushed but easy force out.
The inning’s over either way. Why not run some very literal interference?
Let it slip between your legs and maybe Ernie will do the same.

It’s just that he looked for all the world like he was planning something big,
The way he slowed down to get the timing right,
Spread his arms for balance, kicked his heels up as he ran:
Like he was going to leap dramatically over the bouncing ball;
Like he was going to tumble around it in a diving summersault
That somehow ended up with him hugging the bag safely;
Like he was going to convince the ball to skip between his ankles;
Like he was going to pirouette with such dazzling beauty as it whispered by
That the infielders would be too moved to pay it any mind whatsoever.
And then he just ran into it.

“That is amazing,” says Buck Martinez. “A player of his stature
Somehow lost sight of the baseball.” And, well, that’s pretty funny.
When he gets picked off third two innings later,
Killing his second two-on, two-out situation of the night,
It’s less forgivable, especially for a giant of his tiny stature,
But it’s also much easier to understand.

In the sixth inning, it’s unclear what exactly he’s trying to do,
And that’s why my first thought is to crank up the poetry machine
Where there’s no limit to what can be true at the same time.
Real events can be caused by endless permutations of factors
But those inputs always have to add up to a hundred percent,
Whereas on the page any possibility you raise can be
Equally valid: a hundred hundred-percent-true explanations.

Okay, that’s not true. My first thought is that he looks like Raccoon Mario
From Super Mario Bros. 3, sprinting with his hands out, ready to fly.
I just wish I knew for sure whether his plan failed
Or whether he never actually tried it out in the first place,
Whether all that preamble was ever post-ambled at all.

I was sick the entire month of March. I’m still coughing constantly at times,
Constantly clearing my throat although I have nothing to say.
A few nights ago I made a note to look up the mechanics of throat clearing,
the two-part how of the inhaled ah- and the exhaled -hem.
I tried to look it up, but I couldn’t find anything.

Back when the Orioles signed Craig Kimbrel in December, Michael Baumann wrote something that has been rattling around my brain ever since: “But there are pitchers you need to get you through the regular season, and then there are pitchers who can win in the playoffs. And there is less overlap between the two than you might think.” Michael’s got a point. These days, there are super teams, super terrible teams, and fewer teams than ever in between. A league-average starting pitcher will do just fine most of the time. They’ll beat up on the White Sox and get beat up on by the Dodgers, and the universe will remain balanced. But if you ask a pitching staff without any true standouts to spend a whole playoff series silencing a lineup that starts off Acuña-Albies-Riley-Olson, you’re going to end up scooping them off the mound with a shovel.

This isn’t just the age of stratification; it’s also the age of the arm injury. Last year, both the Dodgers and Braves featured rotations that were among the best in baseball on paper, but real-life injuries proved to be their kryptonite. That’s why the hot new trend among super teams is rotational depth. Here’s what Ben Clemens said when the Braves traded for Chris Sale a few weeks after the Kimbrel deal: “If you’re looking at it exclusively through the lens of how Atlanta will line up in the 2024 playoffs, adding Sale starts to make more sense. I don’t think it’s reasonable to expect a full season out of him. The Braves are surely aware of that, though, and they have plenty of fifth starter types to fill in for him in the regular season.” Over at Baseball Prospectus, Craig Goldstein had the exact same thought: “the Braves are looking to have Sale healthy and effective at the right time of year, how much he misses on the way there is unlikely to matter much to them.” Read the rest of this entry »

A popup is an automatic out. In 2023, popups had a batting average of just .014, so if we round up, we can say honestly that 99% of them were completely worthless. If you see the ball leave the bat headed straight up in the air, the outcome is essentially predetermined. No other batted ball carries less intrigue. Groundballs may be pariahs in the era of the launch angle revolution, but their .261 batting average meant they were 18 times more likely than popups to end up as hits. Knowing all that, you could be excused for thinking that the popup is the most boring possible way for the ball to be put in play. But I’m going to let you in on something: The popup is secretly the most exciting play in baseball.

You see, what popups lack in suspense, they make up for in drama. That’s because the popup is the play most likely to end up with any and all of the players on the field screaming. Now, in most contexts, screaming isn’t necessarily something you look forward to. Personally, my day-to-day life contains exactly zero screaming, and I prefer to keep it that way. In any given situation, I tend to think of somebody yelling at me as the absolute worst-case scenario. However, the screaming that happens during a popup is fun. No one is screaming to hurt anyone else. Players may scream out of anger, but they also scream in order to be helpful and to keep their teammates safe. When the ball has been popped up, screaming is cooperation. Screaming is friendship. Screaming is love.

As we embark on the 2024 season, it’s best to think of popups like tragic operas. Everyone walks into the theater knowing that things will end badly for the protagonist. They’re not there to find out what will happen, they’re there to be moved by how it happens. Although the end is sad, there is great beauty to be found in the death and shrieking. With that, let’s review the different reasons that players might end up screaming their heads off when the ball gets lifted into the air. I watched every single televised popup that happened during spring training, and then I made supercuts so that we could break them down together. I also included a few choice screams from recent seasons.

Whenever the ball is popped up, it is the solemn duty of every ballplayer to shout “Up!” as loud as humanly possible. This is the law, and it was hammered into me so hard when I was in high school that it became an involuntary response. I’m now 40 years old. I play recreational softball. And still, I cannot help screaming every time someone pops the ball up. No one else does this. It is embarrassing and I am unable to stop. It is less embarrassing when big leaguers do it.

In theory, the goal of this particular scream is to help the catcher. The catcher is busy trying not just to catch the pitch, but to frame it while also managing all of the other responsibilities that come with the position. Unlike everyone else on the field, a ball popped straight up immediately leaves the catcher’s line of sight. Screaming, “Up!” lets them know the location of the ball and warns them that they might have to make a play on it. Occasionally, you can see that catchers really do need the help. They’re capable of looking very confused indeed.

For that reason, and also because they are themselves forbidden from catching popups, pitchers have also been trained to point to the ball when it’s popped up. It is not helpful, but it is, once again, the law. It must be extraordinarily infantilizing for the pitcher, normally the source of all the action, to be reduced to a helpless citizen of Metropolis, shouting, “Look, up in the sky!” I imagine it also feels quite futile, since, throughout the entire history of baseball, exactly zero popups have ever been caught because the pitcher’s index finger helped a fielder locate the ball.

Once it has been established that the ball is, in fact, up, it’s time to decide who will have the honor of catching it. This is determined by way of the democratic process of — you guessed it — even more screaming, just as the founding fathers intended. In theory, there are certain places where one fielder has the right of way, but in practice, the rules are simple: Whoever screams the loudest and the latest gets the ball. The generally accepted parlance is, “I got it.” As Junior Caminero makes clear in the first clip below, “Mía, mía, mía” works just as well for Spanish speakers.

It really is important for the fielders to declare whether or not they’ve got it. To you, it may just sound like grown men shouting at each other, but in baseball, that’s known as communication. If your team fails to communicate, then something like this could happen.

But that’s still not the worst-case scenario. The worst-case scenario is an outfield collision, and it happens all too frequently. Usually, there’s nothing funny about ballfield collisions, but they can have their moments. For example, the legendary band Yo La Tengo got their name from center fielder Richie Ashburn’s futile attempt to avoid outfield collisions with shortstop Elio Chacon when the two played together for the Mets in the early ’60s. Seamus Kerney tells the story in Ashburn’s SABR bio:

The story revolved around the antics of the Spanish-speaking shortstop for the Mets, Elio Chacon, and his penchant for frequent near-collisions with outfielders. This was especially true with Ashburn on short fly balls to center field. Ashburn realized that Chacon did not understand the English warning: “I have it,” so he went to a bilingual Mets player and was told that Chacon would understand the warning in Spanish, yo la tengo; that it meant the fly ball was the center fielder’s to catch. Soon enough a short fly ball was hit and a back-pedaling Chacon veered off, following Ashburn’s admonition in Spanish. What was unexpected was that onrushing, English-only left fielder Frank Thomas completely flattened Ashburn. After pulling his center fielder from the ground, Thomas asked him “What’s a Yellow Tango?”

Sometimes the issue is not who will get the ball, but whether the fielder can get to it safely. If the ball is being buffeted by the wind and your head is craned skyward to track it into foul territory, it can be hard to mind your surroundings. That’s where your teammates can come in, telling you whether or not you have the space to safely make the catch without running into the wall. The preferred verbiage is “Got room! Got room!” Strangely, nobody yells much of anything when you don’t have room. It doesn’t make a ton of sense, as that’s the situation when you’d really need help to keep from crashing into the wall. In theory, nobody should need to be told that they’ve got room. They should just keep going after the ball until they hear a teammate say, “Stop running or you’ll die!”

There’s one more player who can get in on the screaming action, and that’s the batter. In this case, there is no altruistic reason for screaming. It’s just pure catharsis, a way to vent the rage from your body before you explode. Let it out, Jason Heyward. Let it out.

Of course, the players aren’t the only ones who can scream. I have a friend who is physically incapable of going to concert without shouting something at the band between songs. Maybe it’s a joke, or maybe it’s just a big, loud Woooo! There is something inside of him that simply cannot survive those few seconds of silence. For baseball fans with the same condition, the odd interstice when everyone in the stadium is waiting for the ball to finally remember that it’s earthbound is the perfect moment to grab some attention. Usually, they’ll shout that it is in fact they who have got it, but it’s also a time to shine for people blessed with great whistles or anyone who simply loves screaming. In my favorite of the clips that follow, someone who is presumably not familiar with the terminology of the game very clearly tells the fielder, “You’re gonna fumble it.”

In addition to the joy of screaming, popups give you a chance to enjoy the choreography of a baseball game. Because it’s never immediately clear where the ball will land and who will end up with it, the broadcast cuts to the widest shot they have, way up behind home plate. In this rare glimpse of the entire field, you can see all of the infielders, and sometimes all nine fielders, as they move together. There’s beauty in it, and it truly lets you see the way in which defense requires all nine players.

One of my favorite moments comes in the instant before they cut to that camera. It’s vanishingly brief, and it can only take place if a right-handed batter fouls a pitch from a right-handed pitcher down the first base line. When that happens, the pitcher, catcher, and hitter will all move together, following the ball toward first base. First their heads snap up, and then their bodies follow in sort of a synchronized drift. It’s like they’re zombies who suddenly catch the scent of brains wafting over from the south.

That’s the last supercut I’ve got, but before I leave you, I’d like to share with you my dream of the perfect popup. It’s the popup where everyone in the stadium screams: players, fans, umpires, announcers, ushers, even the possums (assuming the game is being played in Oakland). I crunched a lot of tape looking for the perfect popup. I never found it, but I know that it’s out there somewhere.

The perfect popup starts with a pitcher unleashing both the baseball and a max effort grunt. With a mighty cut, the batter sends the ball straight up into the stratosphere, and the catcher, pitcher, and infielders instantly scream the word, “Up!” in perfect unison. The batter barks the F-word in fury, smashing the bat over a beefy thigh. The umpires shout, “Infield fly, batter’s out!” Thunderclouds boom. A swirling thermal pushes the ball hither and yon in the sky, and as it passes over each fielder in turn, each one shouts, “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” At first the fans shout gaily that they’ve got it too, but as the ball travels ever skyward in open defiance of gravity, their playful shouts turn into panicked screams. They rend their garments. The batter, no longer jogging half-heartedly toward first, furiously churns around the bases. The ball keeps rising. “Cold beer here,” screams a vendor, completely oblivious to the apocalypse unfolding around him. “Yes, oh God yes,” howls the play-by-play announcer. And then, just like that, the ball decides to start falling. The thunderclouds dissipate. The fans meekly put back on the clothes they’d ripped from their bodies in terror. The third baseman drifts toward the dugout, and after reassurances that he’s got room, he settles under the ball, says once more that he’s got it, and secures it safely in his glove. The batter dives headfirst into home. God weeps.

Earlier today we published the positional power rankings for center field. For the first time since 2013, and for just the third time in the history of the positional power rankings, the Angels are not in the top spot. To put this changing of the guard in perspective, I went back and read all of the entries about Mike Trout and the Angels. This article is not a eulogy. Instead, we are here today to commemorate his greatness. It’s a retrospective of sorts, both of Trout’s peak and our coverage of it, but I would remind you that he’s not yet reached the compiling phase of his Hall of Fame career. In fact, among center fielders, only Aaron Judge is projected for a higher wRC+ than Trout this season. The Angels still rank fourth, despite the fact that Trout is projected to play less center field and more DH this season because Shohei Ohtani is no longer on the team. Trout is only 32, and it would hardly be surprising if he returns to the 160ish wRC+ that both we and the projections have come to expect.

Besides, praising Trout is one of main the reasons I’m writing here at all. I started reading FanGraphs religiously sometime between 2014 and 2016. I had a lot of free time at work, and I spent pretty much all of it doing what you’re doing right now. At some point, we switched from a cubicle farm to an open office. Concerned that everyone would be able to see my computer screen, I remember wondering whether I’d have to quit, or whether I’d be able to devise some way to hide the fact that, rather than working, I was just reading the same green website all day. I never did figure out how to hide it, but it turned out that nobody seemed to mind much. What I loved most of all, what turned me into a moderately knowledgeable baseball person, was reading about Mike Trout.

I know that many people, the sainted Sam Miller chief among them, have done incredible writing about Trout elsewhere. But to me personally, Trout is the player whose career is most tightly intertwined with the story of this site. His ascent as an all-around superstar, along with the agita surrounding the race for the 2013 AL MVP, made him the poster boy for advanced metrics in general and WAR in particular. Here was a player whose greatness was visible, but whose contributions in every facet of the game added up to more than the eye could see and way more than the Triple Crown stats could tell you. And here was a website full of great writers who couldn’t wait to show you — with graphs and GIFs and gags — how to appreciate that greatness and recognize it for yourself. Could Trout end up with the most WAR ever? Could he be as valuable to the Angels as LeBron James was to his team? How much was his production actually worth? How the hell did he hit a home run on this pitch? Or this pitch? Where would he rank according to a brand new stat?

Sometimes my wife does this thing that I love: We’ll just be sitting on the couch making each other laugh, and she’ll stop and say, “We’re so happy.” It’s true. We are so happy. But it’s also obvious enough that you might think there’s no reason to say it. You’d be wrong. We’re not going to be newlyweds forever, and it really is important to appreciate just how good we have it. In 2014, August Fagerstrom expressed that sentiment in the first of what turned into a series of check-ins about Trout’s place in history: “You might be tired of hearing or reading about Mike Trout, but you really shouldn’t be. Don’t take this one for granted… enough can’t be said about him.” A writer’s job is to ask interesting questions. Trout’s greatness has been such that for 12 years now, those questions have often been about the exact same topic. Somehow, the writers here have done an incredible job of finding creative ways to make sure we appreciate it, of fighting what Justin Klugh called “the normalization of Mike Trout’s massive talent.” If David Appelman were to collect the best articles about Trout from the past 10 years and publish them in a book, I’d buy the hell out of it. They changed my life. In fact, here’s one of the very first things I ever wrote for FanGraphs, just a few months before I’d get my first chance at actual baseball writing. Please ignore the superfluous comma.

All of this writing was and still is necessary because Trout has been so good for so long that it can be hard to wrap your arms around his greatness. Julio Rodríguez is a megastar with a mega-contract who finally displaced Trout by starting his career with back-to-back seasons worth 5-plus WAR at ages 21 and 22. But Trout, a year younger than Rodríguez in his rookie season, started out with back-to-back 10-win campaigns, excluding his 40-game cup of coffee as in 2011, his age-19 season. Over each of their first two full seasons, Trout was worth nine more WAR than Rodríguez! He averaged 8.9 WAR during his first eight seasons, then he put up 2.5 WAR in 2020, the equivalent of 6.8 WAR in a full season. In 2019, Angels center fielders were projected 9.2 WAR, more than double our projection for the Brewers, the no. 2 team at the position. That was the median projection, and the Halos fell short only because Trout missed nearly 30 games. It’s bonkers, and again, that’s just the peak. As recently as 2022, he put up 6.0 WAR in 119 games. Last season, the miserable slog that got him dethroned, he still put up the 11th-most WAR among all center fielders despite playing just 82 games, and if you look only at value accrued while playing center, he moves up to seventh, with 3.1 WAR in 79 games. From the very beginning, putting Trout’s career into a comprehensible context has required a healthy dose of ingenuity from our writers. It’s like a diagram of a skyscraper; you need that tiny picture of a human at the bottom just to remind you of what normal human scale looks like.

Speaking of scale, Trout has consistently destroyed the graphs that started appearing with the positional power rankings in 2014. He was blowing the curve not for a high school math class, but for the very best baseball players in the world. Year after year, his bar on the far the left dwarfed every other center fielder in baseball until, gradually, it didn’t.

The positional power rankings started in 2012, just in time for a certain toolsy center fielder to be name-checked as “the uber-prospect Mike Trout.” He was also projected for 100 PAs in left field. The ZiPS projections for Peter Bourjos and Vernon Wells were a little too rosy, but uber-prospect or not, no one could have been prepared for the .326/.399/.564 slash line that Trout put up in his rookie season. As you can tell from the tables, things were a little rough and ready back then. Fun fact: This table also represents the lowest ranking the Angels have ever had in center field.

By 2013, both the projections and the authors of the rankings were ready to crown Trout. On his own, he was projected for 6.8 WAR, nearly a full win above Andrew McCutchen’s Pirates in first place. However, Trout was still projected to spend most of his time in left in order to make room for Bourjos in center. “He’s a star even if his performance figures to take a slight step back following one of the best rookie seasons we’ll ever see,” wrote Mike Axisa. Over in left field, where a partial season from Trout was enough to lift the Angels into second place, Michael Barr called Trout, “The statistical community consensus AL MVP and real-world runner up,” but cautioned that, “it would probably be foolish to project a repeat of one of the greatest offensive performances in recent history.” He was right: Trout wouldn’t repeat his performance; he’d be even better.

In 2014, Jason Collette started his introduction by explaining why the graph looked so weird: “If you’ve been looking at the scale of these charts and wondering why we set the top end of the range to +9 when the best team is usually closer to +6, here’s your answer. Stupid Mike Trout.” He then called Trout, “the best player at his position, nee [sic], the game,” which will never not make me laugh. In 2015, Craig Edwards repeated what by that point had become a refrain: “Mike Trout is the best player in baseball, and it is not particularly close.” In 2016, Trout was simply “the best in the world.” (Also, let’s briefly remember Trout’s projected backups in those seasons: JB Shuck, Collin Cowgill, Craig Gentry, and Rafael Ortega!)

That’s when the player capsules about Trout started changing a bit. By 2017, it wasn’t enough just to acknowledge Trout’s greatness. Some poetry was necessary. “There is no one at his level,” wrote Dave Cameron. “There is no one near his level. There is no one on a level that can see Trout’s level from their level.” Just a year later, Trout had been so good for so long that it was assumed. His dominance had reached its hipster phase, and it was time for some snark. “Just in case you hadn’t thought about it enough recently,” wrote Jeff Sullivan, “Mike Trout is good.” In 2019, Dan Szymborski saved his snark for the question of whether the Angels would ever actually put a winning team around Trout: “It’s not the steak’s fault if someone puts ketchup on it.” Craig Edwards got topical in 2020: “He also wears a mask around others because it is known to prevent the spread of the coronavirus. He truly is an MVP.”

The big shift came in 2021. That was the first time an author considered the possibility that some young star might actually overtake Trout on the rankings. Brendan Gawlowski named five candidates: Luis Robert Jr., Ramón Laureano, Trent Grisham, Kyle Lewis, and Cristian Pache. None of them has topped Trout yet, and when push came to shove, Gawlowski wrote, “One of these years, he’ll slow down but if 2021 is the season, the projections will be as surprised and disappointed as anyone.” By 2022, Ben Clemens gave voice to the reality depicted in the bar graph: “He’s still the king… But after a decade on top, Trout’s hold on the No. 1 spot has loosened.” Ben noted that although the bat was still there, Trout’s issues were durability and defense.

That brings us to 2023, when Michael Baumann went so far as to invite another center fielder into the top tier, calling Trout and Rodríguez “the two clear best center fielders in baseball, and writing, “If anyone were to displace Trout as the premier center fielder in the game, Rodríguez is the most likely candidate.” That day, so long in coming, is finally here.

I can’t tell you how much fun it was to write this article. It was also difficult, because the authors here — one of whom works in the front office of the team that finally wrested the top spot from the Angels — have written so, so many fun things about Mike Trout. I spent hours getting lost in them when I should have been writing. Below are links to every year of the center field positional power rankings, as well as the left field entries from 2012 and 2013. I’d also encourage you to simply explore the blog roll of articles about Trout. Scroll around and click on anything with a title that sounds fun. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, and I’m sure we’ll keep writing fun things about Trout for a long time to come.

2012 (CF) – 2012 (LF) – 2013 (CF) – 2013 (LF) – 2014 – 2015 – 2016 – 2017 – 2018 – 2019 – 2020 – 2021 – 2022 – 2023 – 2024

Earlier today, Leo Morgenstern examined the state of left field. Now we turn our attention to those who roam center.

Well, it’s finally happened. The picture at the top of this page is not an accident. For the first time since 2013, the Angels no longer sit at the top of the center field positional power rankings. Mike Trout has officially been dethroned. It’s not just that Julio Rodríguez has usurped Trout’s role as the High King of All Center Field. Trout isn’t even in the top three. This occasion is momentous enough that I’ve devoted a separate article to Trout’s decade-long reign, but our purposes here, let’s take a look at what this shift says about the state of center field in 2024. Read the rest of this entry »