Hello. While on paternity leave, I kept a journal about baseball and my daughter, who is not named Derek Jr., but who will henceforth be referred to as Derek Jr. You can read all of the entries here.

May 9
We have a delightful new tradition in our apartment called Family Nap. When Derek Jr. goes down to sleep in the middle of the day, my wife and I do the same. The whole family naps. It’s a Family Nap. We really need it today. I didn’t get much sleep during the early shift, then at 6:30 AM, I handed Derek Jr. off to my wife, who didn’t get all that much more sleep than I did because she was up twice pumping. Something in your body rebels at going to bed — not as a nap, but as a regular part of your sleep — as the sun is rising. I wake up three hours later and Derek Jr. is already down for her first nap of the day, so my wife encourages me to try for a little more sleep. I give it my best shot, but when I get back into bed, something is wrong with my equilibrium. Every time I close my eyes, it feels like I’m rocking in the rocking chair. It strikes me as a worrisome development.

In the afternoon, Derek Jr. blows out two diapers as violently as anyone has ever blown out a diaper — she’s a hurricane; they’re the roof of the Trop. At some point in the last couple weeks, I wrote down a note for this journal that says, “Blowing out a diaper is like a ringing double.” However, after checking with some friends, it turns out that I didn’t actually know what the definition of a ringing double was. Maybe I’ll write about that later and leave the shredded diapers out of it.

The blowouts have depleted our supply of onesies. We’re down to our last one, a tie-dye number of indeterminate origin. Hurricane Derek Jr. doesn’t seem to mind it, and after all her hard work, she decides she’s earned some sleep. As she drifts off in my arms, my wife and I make the momentous decision to follow suit. It’s a genuinely exciting prospect. When I said earlier that Family Nap was a tradition, I may have been overstating things a bit. It’s more of a vision at this point. It’s a dream of a better future.

When you have a baby, people tell you all the time that you have to sleep when the baby sleeps. That’s what they say: “You have to sleep when the baby sleeps.” And they’re right. You have to sleep when the baby sleeps. But you also have to do the laundry. And the dishes. And you have to boil water for formula and sterilize the baby bottles and pacifiers. You have to cook and eat and shower and go to the pharmacy and get groceries, and wow, we’re way behind on thank-you notes, and pay the bills, when’s the last time you shaved, and get on the phone to dispute another denial from Goddamned UnitedHealthcare, and try to do at least a bare minimum of tidying up if only so that you don’t feel like you live in a Babies “R” Us that just got hit by a tornado, and then, after all that, maybe, just maybe, you can unwind by taking a nice, calming, deep breat – nope, the baby is awake and crying. Deep breaths will have to wait.

Today, though, we’re doing it. I transfer Derek Jr. to the crib, we get a load of laundry going, and, whispering so as not to wake the baby, my wife starts a chant: “Fam-ly Nap! Fam-ly Nap! Fam-ly Nap!” I suppose this one shouldn’t technically count because we’re not all going to sleep in the same room, but the spirit of Family Nap blazes in our hearts. I sleep in Derek Jr.’s room so that if she wakes up early and needs attention, my wife can keep sleeping. It’s a good call. Derek Jr. got around 20 minutes of sleep in my arms, but she only gets about 20 or 30 more in the crib, so the family portion of Family Nap is very short. I lift her out of the crib, rock her back to sleep, and pull up the Angels-Blue Jays game on my phone with the volume turned all the way down.

It’s the bottom of the second inning, and I’m just in time to catch a rarity: back-to-back infield singles very nearly hit to the same spot. I tend to think infield singles don’t get enough credit for all the excitement they provide. During an infield single, the entire infield buzzes with action. The batter is sprinting to first as hard as they can, the fielder is getting everything they possibly can on the throw, and the first baseman is stretching as far as their meaty legs will allow. But those are just the main characters. The action around them spins on: The catcher hauls it up the line in full gear to back up the play, the other fielders rotate over to cover their own bags, the umpire gets in position to make the call, the outfielders (occasionally) back up the play. And with the whole infield awhirl, it usually comes down to a bang-bang play at first, at which point the stadium explodes with opinions because everybody is 100% sure they know whether the runner was safe or out.

The first infield single does not exactly prove my point. Daulton Varsho chops one up the middle, about 10 feet to the right of second base. Second baseman Vaughn Grissom is shifted over towards first base for the pull-happy Varsho, so he has to race to his right. Varsho isn’t a burner, but he’s fast enough and he has a head start by virtue of his left-handed swing, so Grissom has to attempt a more difficult play, a sliding catch that will allow him to pop up, plant hard, and fire toward first with a lot on the throw. But he botches the catch part, and as it turns out, that was a load-bearing part of the plan. I don’t mean to make it sound like Grissom really messed up here. He didn’t have the luxury of reading the ball and picking a convenient intercept point; he just had to run to the spot, and he got stuck with a tricky in-between hop. That makes the play more difficult than it looks. Still, in an earlier time, the play probably would’ve gone down as an error.

Righty Ernie Clement is up next, so Grissom is playing about 15 feet farther over toward his right than he was for Varsho. Unfortunately for him, Clement hits a worm-burner about 15 feet farther to Grissom’s right than Varsho’s ball was. This one skids off the third base side of the mound, and once again Grissom races over for a sliding stop. He gloves the ball and glances toward second base to force Varsho out, but shortstop Zach Neto was playing deep in the hole and Varsho is going to beat him to the bag. Playing to pull has really hurt the Angels this inning. Grissom gets his left knee under him, pops up, and digs deep, turning his body into a trebuchet in order to get as much as he can on the long throw to first, but it’s not enough. Clement stomps on the bag with the ball still a yard away – I’m sorry; as we’re playing in Rogers Centre, I should have said a meter – his arms spread wide. He’s not all that sure that he actually beat the throw, though. As he chops his steps to slow down, he looks toward the umpire and lowers the angle of his arms slightly. It’s the body language version of replacing the exclamation point after his original “Safe!” signal with a question mark:

More importantly, Dylan Cease is still letting the hair grow. He’s no longer Drabecking. Comparisons are honestly failing me. He’s got so much hair and his mustache is so very thick. I can’t decide whether he looks more like he’s in some sort of 1970s disguise, like he’s an extra from the fight scene in Anchorman, or like he’s one of Alexandre Dumas’ musketeers:

I missed the first inning, when Trey Yesavage struck out Mike Trout on a splitter. But I get to see him whiff Trout again in the third, and it’s cold-blooded. Trout came into the game ranked in the top 10 in WAR and wRC+, but Yesavage has him in a blender. The first pitch is a splitter on the outside edge for a called strike. The second is a fastball six inches lower, right on the corner of the zone, and Trout fouls it off for strike two. The third pitch is a slider six inches below that one, dropping down and out of the zone for a swinging strike three. Called strike, foul, whiff. Three perfect pitches in three perfect spots. It’s ruthlessly efficient, maybe the most impressive thing I’ve seen this season (aside from Cease’s hair):

At that point, Derek Jr. has been asleep for awhile, so I figure maybe I can deposit her back in the crib. She’ll get some more sleep, and I’ll head into the family room and watch the game on an actual television screen for once. We’re taking big swings today. My read of the situation is that her sleep is in a tenuous place. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep her asleep during re-swaddling and resettlement in the crib, so I try something I’ve never tried before: I just put her in the crib with no swaddle. I don’t even pull the tie-dyed onesie back down over her belly. I just get her in the crib, still asleep, her limbs splayed willy-nilly. I don’t think she’s going to sleep that much longer anyway, so what’s the worst that could happen?

Approximately two seconds after I get the game up on the TV, I find out. I glance over at the monitor, and her crib looks like it’s full of thrashing eels. Her pacifier has fallen out, waking her up, and with no swaddle to keep her calm and motionless, she’s kicking her legs and waving her arms at warp speed. She looks like she has about eight limbs and they’re moving so fast you could make a smoothie in the crib. I’ve never seen anything like it. It would be mesmerizing if it weren’t my job to keep her from turning into a tiny human blender. I pick her up and soothe her, then bring her out to watch the game. We take in a couple more minutes before my wife wakes up. Family Nap is officially dead, and it’s time to feed Derek Jr. and start the cycle all over again.

Hello. While on paternity leave, I kept a journal about baseball and my daughter, who is not named Derek Jr., but who will henceforth be referred to as Derek Jr. You can read all of the entries here.

May 8
I’ve spent so much time writing about burping here that I feel I owe some context to anyone who hasn’t spent much time feeding babies. I’m sure you know the basics of the exercise. You raise the baby to your shoulder and pat them on the back until they burp or spit up. Voilà: You have burped a baby. That’s not wrong, but I never really understood the whys and wherefores until the last couple weeks.

Before I get into it, I feel like I should apologize. I’ve always been staunchly opposed to public discourse about bodily functions. When I was a kid, I tended to define myself in opposition to my older brother, and that was his thing. I was a voracious reader; he could burp the alphabet. I mimicked Ken Griffey Jr.’s stance and Cal Ripken Jr.’s sidearm throwing motion; he learned to spit like a big leaguer. Now, of course, my life is sometimes exclusively focused on bodily fluids and diaper drama and coaxing monster burps out of the sweetest little baby you ever saw, then exclaiming “Oh-ho-ho!” and congratulating her on their grandeur. Somehow, I have turned into the guy who texts this to his wife:

So. Babies are born with immature digestive systems. Everything is difficult. They choke easily, things often don’t sit right in their stomachs, they get the hiccups constantly, and they tend to go to the bathroom while they’re eating. All of these issues are distracting and uncomfortable. In order to avoid pouring more milk on those already dicey situations, evolution developed a simple fail-safe: If something’s wrong, the baby just won’t swallow the milk. Sometimes they’ll stop pulling it into their mouth in the first place, but even if they’re ravenous and they’re sucking aggressively, they’ll then just let it pour right out of their mouths and down their round faces.

When you’re feeding a baby, you have to listen carefully for the adorable little piglet grunts that indicate that they’re swallowing. You learn to appreciate the nuances of those teeny-tiny gasps and grunts and harrumphs, all of which tell you whether and how well they’re getting the milk down. When a baby is eating successfully, it should sound a bit like a Rich Hill start — wait, no, that’s way too intense — rather, it should sound like Rich Hill having a gentle game of catch. Here’s an audio recording of Derek Jr. during a particularly aggressive mealtime. It’s…a lot:

You can hear her grunting and swallowing and gulping for air. You can hear the wind whistling through the vent in the bottle. At one point, you can hear the milk tumbling down into her stomach. And if you listen really closely, you can hear my wife and me trying not to giggle so loudly at her ferocity that we ruin the recording.

When you’re feeding a baby, you’re listening and you’re constantly keeping an eye out for milk pooling at the corner of their mouth or dribbling down their chin. Whenever you sense that the milk is no longer flowing into the tummy, it’s burp time. A nice, big burp will resolve whatever buildup of gas is causing their distress, or at the very least, give them some time to reset themselves and get ready to resume the meal. Essentially, there’s something in the way, and your job is to shake it loose.

You put the bottle down, lift the baby by the armpits and sling them over your shoulder, and pound them on their tiny back as hard as your conscience will allow. (No matter how hard that may be, it’s be a butterfly kiss compared to the thwacks of the nurses at the hospital, who could slap a burp out of a cinder block.) You rock back and forth, because aligning the alimentary canal so that it’s leaning slightly forward can encourage a burp. You alternate between patting on the back and rubbing firmly from the lumbar region up toward the shoulders. (It’s unclear to me whether this actually induces a burp, but it seems like it would feel nice, and that makes you feel better about all the back whacking.) You walk around and bounce the baby on your shoulder as you go. I sometimes do a little shuttle run across the apartment, or put on a song and dance around just for fun.

As you do all this, you can’t help but verbally encourage the baby to burp. Often, the baby is very hungry and therefore very upset that you’re interrupting their (unsuccessful) alimentation, so you end up simultaneously whacking them on the back, explaining why you’re denying them food, and pleading for a burp. I often find myself emphasizing the transactional nature of the relationship like a kid attempting to prize away a friend’s prize rookie card. “Look, you and I both know what you want, and we both know there’s only one way to get it,” I’ll cajole. “If you can think of another way to get food in your belly, by all means, have at it. You scratch my back, I’ll stop whaling on yours.”

Eventually you’re rewarded with a big burp, which is your signal that the baby is ready to eat again. The burps always come suddenly, which means they often elicit from you a cry of surprise and joy, at which point you congratulate the baby like she just won the Super Bowl. I used to despise the very idea of wasting my precious attention on something as crass as burping. Now here I am 30 years later, telling my daughter how proud I am every time she emits a window-rattling burp.

Bottle feeding tends to require much more burping than breastfeeding. [Note from the future: We have also discovered that Derek Jr. needs significantly fewer burps if we feed her bottles that are closer to room temperature rather than from the fridge. She doesn’t mind the cold bottles, but she has a lot more trouble with them. We’re still learning here.] As a result, I’ve spent more time burping Derek Jr. than my wife has. I’m more comfortable with it. Compounding that is the fact that burping can be more challenging when you’re breastfeeding. My wife likes to have a whole pillow situation set up around her, along with her water bottle (because breastfeeding dehydrates you) and her phone to track how long Derek Jr. is eating. That’s no big deal for standard issue burps, but if you need to stand up and dance around the apartment to dislodge a particularly stubborn one, you have to reconfigure the whole nest when you sit back down. I’m desperate to find ways to lighten the huge load my wife is bearing as she recovers from the physical trauma of the birth, deals with massive postpartum hormone shifts, and gives over so much of her time to nursing and pumping, so I often volunteer to jump in and do the burping in order to preserve the nest. I’m now the designated burper.

Once the baby is finished eating, she’s usually adorably drowsy, but you can’t put her down to sleep right away. She needs time to process all the milk she just ingested, which means staying at least somewhat upright. If you put her on her back right away, she’ll be extremely uncomfortable. Even if she does fall asleep that way, she’ll likely get the hiccups or spit up, which is both scary and uncomfortable. The spit-up will run down her cheek and spread in a wet circle on the sheets beneath her face.

When things go well, burping leads right into this upright period, and she’s sleepy putty in your hands. She’s adorable and calm, and your job is to sit there and admire this warm little bundle who has dropped into your life. It’s a special time, and I feel certain that it’s what I will remember most about these last several weeks. It’s also the time when I’ve done most of the writing in this journal and the reason that so much of what I’ve written has been so lovey-dovey. If you were sitting with your drowsy baby’s warm body pressed against your chest and your cheek, you’d be mawkish too.

I tend to give Derek Jr. 20 or 25 minutes to digest, during which time I sing or play music or hold my phone out of her line of sight and watch baseball. It’s nearly four in the morning right now, long after all the games are over, so in between songs, I’m watching highlights of Jacob Misiorowski mowing down the Yankees. He struck out 11 while throwing harder than any starter has ever thrown. I wish I’d seen the whole game, because I’m genuinely curious about how Les Miz is progressing as a pitcher. PitcherList gave his location a B- tonight and Stuff+ gave it a 141, both the best grades he’s gotten all year. That’s exciting. When you’re sitting 101 mph with the fastball and — good Lord — 96 with the slider, B- command should work out just fine. The curveball is the pitch that jumps out the most, because there’s just no way for a hitter to be ready for such an extreme change of pace:

The most important thing I glean from the highlights, though, is that Misiorowski is still locked in a fierce battle against his own hat. The topic for today is shaking things loose, and it definitely applies to him. Watch him closely and you’ll notice that he has to adjust his hat after every single pitch. Clad in the new Brewers City Connects — with “Wisco” across the chest in script, they look more than anything like a product placement for a chain of off-brand gas stations — he still sports the stiffest brim in the league. I swear you could use that thing as a ruler.

Speaking of rulers, the 6-foot-7 Misiorowski is long and narrow everywhere, including his head. The hat doesn’t quite reach his ears. No wonder the thing never gets broken in; he’s barely even wearing it! This is actually something I noticed last year, when Eric Longenhagen posted slow motion footage of Misiorowski’s delivery. Combine a significant head whack with the fact that the stiff hat is basically resting atop his dome like a yarmulke, and you’ve got a recipe for a hat that bounces all over the place every time Misiorowski throws:



Hello. While on paternity leave, I kept a journal about baseball and my daughter, who is not named Derek Jr., but who will henceforth be referred to as Derek Jr. You can read all of the entries here.

May 7
In my brief glimpses of baseball today, I watched Oneil Cruz work a walk off Paul Sewald in Arizona, as well as the final three outs of the Mets’ loss to the Rockies. Cruz really worked the walk, which was fun to see. It was an eight-pitch plate appearance. Sewald missed well inside with the first pitch. Ahead in the count, Cruz was sitting fastball, so when Sewald located a sweeper in the bottom part of the zone, he took it for a strike without batting an eye. Then Sewald made a huge mistake, leaving a sweeper in the dead center of the zone. But Cruz was again looking for a fastball, and this time, he thought he saw it. He unleashed a mighty cut, so far in front of the ball that he didn’t even bother trying to slow his swing down in order to salvage some kind of contact.

The count was 1-2 and the rest seemed academic. Cruz came into the game with a 34% strikeout rate. So did Sewald. Put it all together, and – forgive me if my math is a little fuzzy here – this situation seemed like it would end in a strikeout approximately 240% of the time. But Cruz managed to lay off a backdoor sweeper that missed the corner by an inch or so. It was the one really great take of the plate appearance. Two-two. Sewald got him to chase a fastball way upstairs (and way upstairs on Oneil Cruz means up near the press box), but Cruz just barely got a piece. Sewald missed wide with another slider to make the count full, and then Cruz got another little piece of another high fastball, this one located perfectly at the top of the zone. It was the best swing of the plate appearance, and when Sewald missed well wide on the third 3-2 pitch, Cruz had really earned his way to first. He doesn’t have the greatest eye in the world – three of these balls were very easy takes, and one of his swings was on a ball nearly a foot above the zone – but what more can you ask than a patient approach early on, one good take, one good foul, and an aggressive swing when he thinks he sees his pitch?

In Colorado, Antonio Senzatela did his best to make a 6-2 game interesting, walking the leadoff batter and allowing a bloop single to the second hitter. Then he settled down, striking out Francisco Alvarez on four pitches and MJ Melendez on three, before inducing a weak popout from Vidal Bruján. Melendez is now down to a 79 wRC+ on the season and Bruján has a career wRC+ of 54. These cannot be the hitters the Mets want coming to the plate in big situations, but that’s not my main focus as I watch the inning unfold. My main focus is on the girl in the pink puffer jacket behind the right-handed batter’s box, and her focus is on trying to figure out how to wipe her hands with a napkin:

Baseball really does have something for everyone. Truthfully, though, I’m vamping here. None of this is what I need to talk to you about. I mean, sure, I enjoy watching Oneil Cruz do just about anything, and it’s always fun to watch somebody learn about the magic of napkins, but we need to talk about something more important.

It’s two in the morning and I’m feeding my daughter. I’m typing this on my phone with one hand because I just noticed that her pajamas feature squat, heavy-set little mice playing musical instruments in some sort of mouse marching band. I think they’re wearing berets, because, I think, they’re French mice. They’re lined up in twos and threes playing a tuba or a trumpet or a drum or a tambourine. One even seems to be playing a lute, and now that I’m looking closely, I see a triangle, maracas, an accordion, and one mouse who just seems to be doing gymnastics. These mice are definitely French. But what gets me is that there’s one mouse playing a saxophone. That, my friends, is a bridge too far:

If you want me to believe there’s a mouse playing a tiny trumpet, making a tiny embouchure with its tiny little mouse snout, and tootling out a trebly “When the Saints Go Marching In,” then sure, what the hell, I can hang in there with you. I can even swallow the idea of a mouse playing the lute with its weird mouse paws. But I refuse to believe that mice are playing reed instruments. Do you know how hard it is to play the saxophone? And who is making these microscopic reeds? You want me to believe that the mouse is carefully wetting the reed just the right amount before clamping it back into place and launching into the solo from “Born to Run?” I’m out! You have officially lost me. This world you’ve created is structurally unsound, and it will collapse under its own obscene weight:

At the beginning of each procession is a mouse holding what is almost certainly a banner, but there’s a 10% chance that it is not a banner and is, in fact, a giant, crooked scythe. I like that possibility better. This isn’t a marching band after all. This is Death coming to bear his next victim to the mouse netherworld. And in the Mouse World, Death is dressed like a mime and accompanied by his friend Gary, who is going through a messy divorce right now and really having a time of it. One night, a gruff mouse driving a beat-up van unceremoniously dumped a huge pile of bric-a-brac from what was formerly a joint storage unit in Gary’s driveway, and as he picked through the wreckage of his freshly-shuttered past life, Gary uncovered the alto sax he used to play in high school. Gary couldn’t afford a convertible or a hair transplant, so he threw himself into his rusty old sax with everything he had, then convinced his buddy Death that maybe the journey to the afterlife deserved the class and dignity of some smooth jazz. It is not going well.

Derek Jr. is very much asleep now, so please excuse me while I deposit her and her mouse army in the crib and try for a bit more sleep. Thank you for reading FanGraphs.

Hello. While on paternity leave, I kept a journal about baseball and my daughter, who is not named Derek Jr., but who will henceforth be referred to as Derek Jr. You can read all of the entries here.

May 6
The exhaustion has finally hit.

This might sound odd, but I was never all that worried about the exhaustion. I‘ve suffered from insomnia since I was 18, and it has darkened every corner of my adult life. My first job out of college was as a marketing assistant at a law firm. Once, after a particularly rough stretch of sleepless nights, an associate came into my office (a closet that I shared with a janitor) to assign me some work. After one look at my ravaged face, a knowing grin spread across his. He clearly had more fun than I did when he was 23, and he assumed that I’d been out all night partying. “I remember those days,” he said wistfully. Imagining the debauchery that could have left me so haggard was bringing him so much joy that I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. Not only had I not gone out and painted the town red last night, I had gone to bed before the sun had even gone down, hoping that if I stayed in bed for 12 hours, maybe I could scrape together eight hours of sleep in bits and pieces. Needless to say, it hadn’t worked.

All of this is to say that the exhaustion is crushing, but I feel like I’m about as accustomed to it as you can get. Earlier this year, after I suffered a particularly rough night, my wife would sometimes say, “We need to figure out your sleep before the baby comes.” I disagreed. I figured that I’d be so very tired that it wouldn’t matter. I’d travel so far into that undiscovered country that even the exhaustion wouldn’t be able to tag along, and I’d just pass out whenever the opportunity presented itself. That’s pretty much what happened — for the first month anyway. Read the rest of this entry »

Hello. While on paternity leave, I kept a journal about baseball and my daughter, who is not named Derek Jr., but who will henceforth be referred to as Derek Jr. You can read all of the entries here.

May 1
During the undocumented morass of the first two weeks of Derek Jr.’s life, my computer died. Allow me rephrase that: We murdered my computer. At some point one delirious night, I sat on the ottoman in our living room only to jump up in shock with sodden, clingy pants. The ottoman was sopping wet. We never figured out how it got that way. That’s a decent metaphor for the experience of having a brand new baby. A piece of furniture was totally soaked – I mean 100% saturated; it must have contained half a gallon of water – and we literally had no idea how it got that way. We still don’t. Later that night, my computer wouldn’t turn on, and I put two and two together. It must have been sitting on the ottoman at some point. It must be dead now. The Apple store confirmed it. The computer was dead. Cause of death: Drowning.

It was lucky that the computer died at a time when I didn’t have to work, but it was still a catastrophic situation. The technician at the store was not at all sanguine about my chances of recovering the contents of the computer, and one of the many things that I had neglected in the frenzy of getting ready for a baby was backing up my hard drive. I had just offloaded onto that hard drive roughly 90% of the pictures from my camera roll in order to make room for baby pictures. I’d be losing a million health insurance forms from the pregnancy and God knows how many other important documents. The one that hurt the most, though, is that I had dozens and dozens of songs in various stages of completion. I have been working on a bunch of records at once, and I have a ton of older, unreleased songs and projects sitting around and waiting for the right situation. It was painful to even think about the sheer tonnage of lyrics, chords, artwork, voice memos, demos, and fully-recorded songs trapped on my pickled computer.

It took three weeks and three different computer shops, but I found out yesterday that the data has been recovered! It’s saved! Are there any baseball songs among the masses that just found salvation? Why don’t you ask this demo that I recorded in 2016 and which I was probably saving for a compilation of outtakes:

I head in to Manhattan to pick up an external hard drive containing my recovered data. The technician at the store is watching the Yankees pregame show on his computer. We chat about the AL East as he waits for someone from the backroom to bring out the hard drive. The Yankees are looking unbeatable in a division that’s looking much worse than expected, and Ben Rice and Cam Schlittler look like they’re going to be pinstripe-clad stars for a long time. But the party’s almost over. The owner of the shop walks out of the backroom instead. He tries to keep it under wraps because there’s a customer present, but he’s clearly furious that his employee is watching sports on the job. I wish I could’ve done something to keep this guy from getting in trouble, but it all happened so fast.

Regardless, it’s a huge day. It’s officially May, so we’re finally allowed to go crazy over what’s been going on, and a lot has been going on. Yordan Alvarez leads all position players in WAR. Maybe this will be the year he finally puts together a healthy season and snags an MVP, but the Astros, already nine games below .500, could cost him that shot. Rookie shortstops Kevin McGonigle and JJ Wetherholt are second and third. Rice and Elly De La Cruz, two young players who are hugely exciting for hugely different reasons, are fourth and fifth. Perhaps most improbable of all, Mike Trout is looking like Mike Trout again in sixth place.

To celebrate the miracle of the hard drive, here’s one more song that got saved. It’s from a new children’s album that I was really, really hoping to have finished before Derek Jr. arrived. I didn’t quite make it, and God knows when I’ll get to finish it now that she’s here. It’s really frustrating. I think this batch of songs contains some of the most fun stuff I’ve ever written, and it’s going to sit around for months at the very least, just waiting either for me to finally record the last few songs or for another computer disaster. Anyway, this is the one my wife likes best:

May 2
I should start by explaining that I am already close to broken before Derek Jr. wakes. I haven’t gotten much sleep recently. It has been a rough day. And night. She hasn’t slept as much as she needs to. At one point, I change her diaper five times in one hour. She’s ravenously hungry, so hungry that at one point we give in and feed her more than her stomach can handle. It’s a rookie mistake and it goes exactly how you’d expect. She finally goes to sleep, only to wake up a short time later because she’s spit up in her crib.

She goes down again, but awakes at 11:30 PM screaming for food. I change her diaper and haul her writhing body to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle from the fridge. The only game still going is the Mets and the Angels in Anaheim. We catch the top of the seventh as she eats (with interruptions for two more diaper changes, naturally). The Angels are up 3-1 thanks to a dominant performance from Reid Detmers, and Kurt Suzuki handles the situation like the old-school catcher he is. He rides the hot hand and leaves his ace out there for the seventh. (I guess Reid Detmers is an ace now. Maybe?) It’s a rookie mistake and it goes exactly how you’d expect. Double, single, sac fly. Another single and the game is tied. Two more singles and the bases are loaded. Suzuki finally decides that maybe Detmers isn’t his ace after all.

That’s all I remember, but Sam Bachman apparently wriggled out of the jam with a groundout and a strikeout, and the Angels eventually walked it off in the 10th on a single from Oswald Peraza. Presumably, Derek Jr. and I got some sleep somewhere in there too.

As is so often the case, I don’t have pictures of the hard times in the dead of night when my only companions are Derek Jr. and the pressing awareness of all the sleep that’s slowly slipping away. It’s too dark for pictures, and besides, no matter what camera settings I use, the pressing awareness of disappearing sleep doesn’t show up in photos. What I do have is pictures from the daytime, when everything is light and breezy:

Hello. While on paternity leave, I kept a journal about baseball and my daughter, who is not named Derek Jr., but who will henceforth be referred to as Derek Jr. You can read all of the entries here.

April 25
Sometimes my daughter will be sleeping peacefully in my arms looking for all the world like God’s one perfect creation, and then she’ll crack her eyelids open for a moment, and during that moment, through the tiny crack, I can just barely make out her eyeballs rolling all the way back in her head like she’s possessed by a demon. It’s so disturbing. I swear it’s like I’m watching her soul being ripped from her body. When I mention this to my wife, she tells me that she finds the eye thing adorable.

Kyle Backhus closed out an 8-5, extra-inning win for the Phillies today. He didn’t get the save, though, because the score was 8-4 when he entered the game. Backhus is an extremely fun player and not just because of the name. He’s fun to watch. He’s a classic lefty sidearmer and he accentuates that by setting up angled toward first base, presumably to add some crossfire deception to his delivery. As you’d expect from a sidearmer, he’s a sinker-slider guy with an east-west movement profile and the occasional changeup. That sweeping slider looks great on TV, but unfortunately, it just doesn’t sweep eastward as much as you’d expect it to. It needs to end up in Philly, but it only makes it as far as Pittsburgh, a deficiency that’s likely the reason his ERA starts with a four instead of a three.

More importantly, Baseball Reference doesn’t list a single nickname for Backhus, which seems borderline impossible because, you see, his name is Kyle Backhus. Somebody whose brain is functioning at something approaching full capacity, please get on this. Kyle Backhus deserves a cool nickname.

April 26
Lest yesterday’s entry impart the mistaken impression that I’m unwilling or unable to generate a sobriquet, behold a list of nicknames by which I have addressed my daughter while changing her diaper:

• Big Dumper
• Little Dumper
• My Sweet Lady
• Mini Pooper
• Winnie Pooper
• Farty McCry
• Milky Cabrera
• Kody Funderburk
• Kody Thunderburp
• Why are you smiling like that
• Oh God please don’t not now
• No no no no
• Jesus it’s everywhere
• Well I guess it’s bathtime
• Dr. Pooper
• C. Trent Goes-in-Pants

April 27
Transcript of my wife changing Derek Jr.’s diaper:

“I can’t believe I have to do this.”

“Oh my God.”

“It’s not that bad… but it’s not that good.”

“The relief she feels.”

“My God, her legs are so fat.”

“Derek Jr., I’m so proud of you.”

“It wasn’t that big. It was just very… everywhere.”

“She’s thrilled right now. I’ve never seen her happier.”

April 29
It’s 3:30 PM and I just put Derek Jr. down for a nap and turned on the Twins-Mariners game. Royce Lewis is up for the Twins in the bottom of the seventh, and Byron Buxton has edged so far away from the on-deck circle to get a better look at pitcher Eduard Bazardo that he’s very nearly directly behind home plate. No one seems to notice, but he’s apparently been doing this all game long. During the fourth inning, Buxton was practicing his snow shoveling back there.

I guess that’s what happens when you spend your whole career in Minnesota. It doesn’t help Buxton all that much. He grounds into a fielder’s choice and the Mariners pull Bazardo.

We just got back from the one month pediatrician visit. It was smooth sailing, and the percentile charts confirm what we’d been feeling: Derek Jr. is growing like crazy. “The only thing I want to ask,” says the pediatrician, “is whether she’s starting making eye contact with you.” The question catches me off guard. It’s true. Just in the last couple days, she’d started looking me right in the eye while I fed her. I’d registered it, but I’m so focused on just surviving right that I hadn’t stopped to think about the fact that this was an entirely new development. Our baby now looks right into our eyes. It’s nuts that I didn’t think about this before the doctor asked. I am literally writing a journal about all of the things I notice about this baby! Turns out she’s right on schedule. She gets a clean bill of health, and we’re informed that she’s now allowed to sleep uninterrupted for up to seven hours if she can manage it. What a world that would be.

April 30
April is almost over and things are getting real. In the baseball world that means consequences for managers. Alex Cora and Rob Thomson just lost their jobs after ugly starts. Carlos Mendoza must be waking up in a cold sweat a couple times a night. Things are getting real in our house, too, and that means a few things. First, it means that we’re getting to understand Derek Jr. better. We’re better at knowing how and how much to feed her, which turns into better sleep and a happier baby. It seems like so much of my job right now is picking up on cues, reading her face and her sounds and her body language. We’re figuring out what bothers her — bright lights, how hard the changing pad is against the back of her head, laying supine too soon after eating, it’s a long list — and what soothes her.

Things are also getting real in the sense that Derek Jr. is growing. Rapidly. All of a sudden, her newborn clothes no longer fit. And when I say all of a sudden, I mean that it literally happened two days ago. Three days ago they fit; yesterday they didn’t. She’s now onto the next size up. The past two mornings, we went through her clothes, holding up onesie after onesie — some of which she wore only a few days ago! — and laughing at how absurd it would be to try to squeeze her into them now. Some clothes she never even had time to wear once. Sadly, we have no unworn baby shoes to give away, because — and if you should run into Ernest Hemingway, please tell him this — babies aren’t supposed to wear shoes, buddy. Shoes can hinder the development of their feet. Your six-word story is structurally flawed, Mr. Nobel Laureate. On the bright side, it does mean that Derek Jr. is now big enough to wear this killer onesie that David Appelman sent.

Derek Jr. is already so different from the baby we met at the hospital, and she will never be that baby again. When she was first born, she was such a monkey. She hooted and clung to my wife with her long, spindly limbs. Now she’s a little bowling ball, and I’m sure she’ll be something else soon enough. In the afternoon, I settle her down for a nap. We’re old pros at this now. It goes like clockwork, except the larger onesie we put on her isn’t very flexible, so it makes her upset when it goes over her head. We probably won’t use this one again. Another lesson learned: Stretchy clothes make everybody’s life easier.

I turn on the Twins-Mariners game, but I struggle to get into it. Two years ago, an absurd series of events led me to fall in love with the Twins. I wrote an article about Edouard Julian and recorded a song to go with it. The song found its way into the locker room, and so did I. I met players and coaches, played the song while sitting next to Julien, got a sincerely moving embrace from Twins fans, and learned about the unbelievably fantastic Minnesota State Fair. (Seriously, everybody out there, you have to go to the Minnesota State Fair. It’s the best.) It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and I knew that it would make me a Twins fan for life. But after last summer’s fire sale, nearly everybody I interacted with, from the GM to the coaches to the players, has moved elsewhere. I still love the Twins, but it’s different. They’re no longer the team I fell in love with, and it happened so fast.

While we’re likening the Twins to my daughter, I should mention that actually I lobbied to name her the opposite of Twins. I was mostly joking, but I wanted to name her Singleton, which is a word I learned from the form we had to fill out before each sonogram. You had to check the box next to either Singleton, Twins, or Triplets. It’s such a delightful word. I love the way it scans. Every time we went to the imaging place, I’d make my pitch for Singleton, and every time, my wife would confirm that her preference for a normal, human name still held sway. Then I’d use the coffee machine in the waiting room to make a decaf coffee, which is the thing I miss most about working in an office by far. I don’t need the coffee, even. I just like to hear the machine kachunk its way through the process. Without fail, the sonogram technician would call my wife’s name the moment I pressed brew, so I’d end up scurrying down the hall trying to catch up with them without moving so fast that I sloshed hot almost coffee down my wrist.

Then we’d get a peek at Derek Jr., tensing every muscle in our bodies at the beginning, then unclenching in stairstep fashion as the technician informed us, one anatomical feature at a time, that everything looked fine. It was worth the apprehension, of course, because we got to see the baby. My wife called the sonograms FaceTiming the baby. They print out pictures for you, too, and not just one like you see in the movies, but lots of pictures at every sonogram. Whole body pictures, pictures of her adorable little feet, and even ghoulish pictures of the beginnings of her face. Our refrigerator is still covered in them. God, we loved that blurry baby-esque phantasm. At some point, we’ll have to move those printouts over to a memory box and start covering the fridge in pictures where she doesn’t look like a poltergeist. But not yet.

Hello. While on paternity leave, I kept a journal about baseball and my daughter, who is not named Derek Jr., but who will henceforth be referred to as Derek Jr. This is the third installment of that series. You can read all of the entries here.

April 19
So we have this app on our phones where we track baby things. At our first doctor’s visit, the only things the pediatrician specifically told us to do were to feed Derek Jr. every three hours and to keep an eye on how many times a day she was peeing. That’s enough to make sure she’s not hungry or dehydrated. But several people recommended this app, and now we’re neck deep in it.

We track when Derek Jr. pees. We track when she poops. We track when she boths. We track when and what and how much and how long we feed her. A few days ago, we started tracking her sleep too. You wouldn’t believe what other information the app wants; it has a color palette to choose from for each time your baby goes to the bathroom. I am not sure I like all this. (To be clear, I am very sure that I don’t like the part where the app wants to know what color the baby’s poop is. That’s between her and her god, the Diaper Genie.) We’re new parents. All we do is think about the baby and, specifically, worry about the baby. Now we can feed our anxiety with something that presents itself as hard data. The app has totals and averages and graphs and charts. It all looks very certain and official. It could very reasonably be called inFantGraphs. Read the rest of this entry »

Hello. While on paternity leave, I kept a journal about baseball and my daughter, who is not named Derek Jr., but who will henceforth be referred to as Derek Jr. This is the second installment of that series. You can read all of the entries here.

April 17

Like any new parents, my wife and I spend a lot of time staring at our baby and talking about how beautiful she is. Of course we do. Evolution has programmed us to be completely overwhelmed by the baby’s beauty so that we don’t leave her on the doorstep of the nearest convent when we get fed up with the wailing and the sleepless nights and the relentless, unceasing, never-ending pooping. It has worked. We are ensorcelled. Derek Jr.’s future is wimple-free. But I’m starting to think it has hit my wife harder.

I say this because she has started to insist that Derek Jr. is “an objectively beautiful baby.” Objectively beautiful. You’re familiar with beauty, right? The thing that is, famously, in the eye of the beholder? Apparently one beholder knows better. It’s not enough that she thinks the baby is beautiful, and that everyone tells her all day long how beautiful the baby is. She now needs it to be proven empirically.

I used the word “insist” earlier because I have been pushing back ever so slightly on this one. I spend a whole lot of time analyzing players or trends, and it requires rooting out biases and confounding variables. Call me crazy, but I’m picking up on a possible conflict of interest here. I’m not prepared to get in a fight over this, but I have gently pointed out that the fact that my wife is throwing around the word “objectively” here is — objectively — hilarious. Read the rest of this entry »

Hello. While on paternity leave, I kept a journal about baseball and my daughter, who is not named Derek Jr., but who will henceforth be referred to as Derek Jr. This is the first installment of that series. The introduction can be found here.

April 13
It’s somewhere around 9:30 PM and Derek Jr. is asleep. I am, briefly, watching baseball for the first time since she was born two weeks ago. The Mets and Dodgers are in the eighth inning. The main thing I notice is Joey Gerber’s delivery. I’ve never heard of Gerber before, but my daughter is wearing a Gerber brand onesie, and I sincerely hope he’s the heir to that particular fortune. His leg kick is a joy to behold:

It would be a grave understatement to say that Gerber has a high-energy delivery. Brendan Gawlowski called him funky. Eric Longenhagen said he had an “odd, chicken wing arm action.” I’m inclined to go with Ricky Conti, who called the delivery “violent, with tons of effort and recoil.” When you think of a pitcher’s leg kick, you think of, say, Justin Verlander smoothly raising his knee up toward his chest, his lower leg pointed straight down toward the rubber. Even Juan Marichal’s legendary leg kick started roughly the same way. He raised his knee, and at first, his lower leg merely came along for the ride. What made the leg kick famous was that Marichal’s foot just kept on rising long past the point where other pitchers’ stopped. He reared way back, intimidating the batter with the bottom of his spikes, and catapulted down the mound, the ultimate tall-and-fall delivery. Read the rest of this entry »

Hello. I have missed you. I have been on paternity leave for the past two months because — and I’m told this is the most common reason people go on paternity leave — my wife and I had a baby. Mostly, my wife had the baby while I said things like “You’re doing great,” and “I’m so proud of you,” and “Hey look, a baby,” but this is very much a team sport. Our free agent acquisition arrived loaded with tools like spiky hair, world-weary eyes, and a trapezoidal mouth with a cute little dimple just beneath it, but she’s a little short on big league experience. We’ll have to coach her up.

So now we have this baby girl. It’s unclear whether she’s a bouncing baby girl — we haven’t dropped her yet — but she certainly seems healthy enough. I’m looking at her right now. She’s sleeping in her crib all swaddled up like a salami. She is, as babies tend to be, adorable. She is also — and again I’m informed that this is standard — somewhat labor intensive.

While laboring over this novel life-form for the past two months, I have watched precious little baseball. I have done precious little anything other than care for my wife and child (or, as I am still getting used to calling it, my family). As a result, I am wildly underinformed about the latest developments in my field of expertise. The stray missives that reached my ears often left me with more questions than answers. Did somebody Monstars the NL East? Are we sure this is the same Ildemaro Vargas? When did all these bodies get so loose? Read the rest of this entry »