One down, two to go, for the Bronx Bombers. I’m not sure what good I did to deserve this, or what deal I’ll have to make with what devil going forward, but if I’ve got to pull some upside-down version of Joe Hardy shenanigans I’m prepared. File it under worth it because last night was like ambrosia on TV.
TV. Ha. That thing that lets me watch the baseball picture. I’m hooked for at least one more day.
Honestly I’m starting to hate the fact that the Yankees won their series against Boston last week, as it’s caused me nothing but grief since. I haven’t given up yet though. Winning three straight games ain’t gonna be easy, but it ain’t impossible either.
When I finally give up and call it fall, at least I’ll have a couple of winning teams to follow. My local NFL team–that would be the Washington Commanders–put together an improbable come-from-behind win yesterday, placing them just a game out of first in the NFC East. And the college to which I have no affiliation but an affinity for its football team? Don’t look now, but the University of Notre Dame is back to 16th in the nation, winners of three in a row.
See, it is possible.
A Thursday Night Football classic is great, a Yankees playoff win is even better, and a random mid-week day off (thank you, Yom Kippur) tops them both , but today on Math and Musings Franklin and I are talking about the greatest thing fall has to offer: fall festivals.
From corn mazes to apple cider donuts, nobody does it better than Cox Farms, and Franklin and I are giving them 15 minutes of free advertising today.
And into cyberspace for eternity.
You’re welcome.
There’s a reason why the baseball lords but the Yankees and Red Sox in primetime.
They do play great games.
And even though last night’s contest between the team of my youth–that would be the New York Yankees–and the rivals of my youth–that would be the Boston Red Sox–didn’t work out exactly as I’d planned, well, at least the baseball lords (a.k.a. the suits who schedule these things) know to keep putting these games when working stiffs can watch them.
The thing about baseball is, you play every day, so there’s always another game tomorrow.
Unless you’re the Yankees and you can’t pull out a win.
Because this time there’d be no tomorrow.
Hope to see ya Thursday, team!
Whoever said wake me up when September ends must have been talking about the Major League Baseball season, no?
With 162 games down we now enter the postseason, which technically starts in September and ends (possibly) in November.
That’s a lot of postseason.
No complaints though.
There were so many great storylines this year it’s hard to pick a favorite, but I’ll give it a try.
Kyle Schwarber finally had a good season.
Yeah, he was a World Series hero, had made a couple All-Star teams, and even got MVP votes a few years, but in 10 Major League seasons prior to this year Kyle Schwarber’s career WAR was 15.3.
(I know, I know, mine was zero over that same span–actually infinitely negative–but this guy makes $20 million a year.)
This year Schwarber played in 161 games, had 340 total bases, hit 56 home runs, and drove in 132. That’s good no matter how old school or advanced your metrics are.
I still think he’s wildly overrated, but the postseason is where legends are made, and he’s been a beast in the postseason since his rookie year.
He’s got only one ring though, and that was in 2016.
Phillies NLDS Game One is Saturday.
On today’s episode of Math and Musings Franklin and I celebrate all things fall.
There’s a lot to celebrate, and you better believe it’s pretty damn fabulous.
Plus an old favorite: trivia.
Enjoy.
Last week Dodgers star pitcher Clayton Kershaw announced he would retire at the end of the season, his 18th in the big leagues.
A season in which he’s 10 and 2, by the way.
Kershaw’s accomplishments on the mound are a bit mind boggling. He’s led the league in multiple categories multiple times, from traditional stats like wins and ERA to modern stats like WAR and FIP. Most impressive, probably, is the most old-school stat of all: his entire career has been in Dodger Blue.
Five years ago I noted the following: that Clayton Kershaw might end his career with the highest winning percentage of all time. His winning “percentage” (yeah, yeah, not really a percentage) at the end of the 2020 season was .697, just ahead of all-time leader Whitey Ford. I noted that everyone tails off at the end of his career–if Ford had retired three years earlier he would have ended at .710, not .690–so we’d have to see with Kersh.
Right now he’s sitting at .698.
Yes, his winning percentage the final five years of his career was higher than it was the first 13.
That’s incredible. And he’s added two World Series rings since that post as well. (Sure, the second one was mostly honorary, but that first one he carried the team on his back.)
Clayton Kershaw will go down as one of the greatest pitchers of all time, no question a first-ballot Hall of Famer. True, he was never a favorite of mine, as he played for a rival, but still you’ve got to tip your cap to someone did it so well for so long. And I suppose I can forgive that he’s about to kill not one but two of my favorite stats. (Breaking the Ford record is one thing, but ruining the great symmetry that .690 was also Babe Ruth’s slugging percentage? Only a legend is allowed that one.) And my God that curveball he can still snap at age 37. It’s the equivalent of watching a Ken Griffey Junior home run swing.
The only question now is, will it be two World Series rings or three?
Two weeks ago I’d never heard of Charlie Kirk. Literally never. I had no idea who he was.
In the days since his death my entire news feed is stories, not so much about Kirk, but about the various comments “people” have made regarding said death. In general the storyline goes something like this: person posts that A.) they’re happy that he died, or B.) somehow he had it coming. And then others either applaud this or the original poster receives backlash.
This is what passes for “news” these days.
See opening sentence for how I feel about Charlie Kirk. I at least know that he wasn’t a murderer or a war criminal or anything like that. Yeah, “people” were probably happy when Hitler died; this is a little different.
Nobody deserves to be murdered. Come on, “people.”
Today on Math and Musings Franklin and I discuss our recent trip to central Virginia. In addition to realizing that a Trump third term may not be out of the question, we visit the University of Virginia, the Blue Ridge Tunnel, and our most American stop of all, Buc-ee’s.
It’s been two months, but I think now I’ve finally wrapped my brain around exactly what happened to me the night of July 16, 2025. Both times I experienced it.
Allow me to explain.
The morning of July 16, 2025, I left my hotel in Kyoto, Japan, headed for the airport in Kansai, about an hour and a half away. Interestingly enough, during my cab ride I was listening to a baseball game occurring in the United States. On July 15. Live.
It was the MLB All-Star game, actually, which ended with a home run swing-off.
All of those details were totally normal compared with what was about to occur.
We arrived at the airport several hours before our flight from Kansai to San Francisco.
(Kansai International Airport, by the way, sits on a man-made island in Osaka Bay. Another uninteresting detail unrelated to the story.)
Our flight was set to depart at 4:55 p.m. local time. It did. And we arrived in San Francisco about 11 in the morning. That morning. Like, earlier in the day from when we left. This was still July 16. From our perspective it was a red-eye flight, but in actuality it was a reverse red-eye, landing earlier in same day.
And here’s where it gets weird.
Our flight from San Francisco to D.C. was your standard leave at 1:00 or so and arrive at 9:00 or so. It’s really not as long as you think because you’re crossing a few time zones. Five hours in the air, three-hour time difference: eight hours total.
Except our “1:00” flight out of San Francisco was delayed. And delayed. And delayed by every excuse airline personnel could conjure.
“Bad weather.” Runway congestion. Overworked unionized flight crews.
Food delivery running late. Food delivery arrives but is the wrong temperature.
Idiot pilot scrapes the plane against the jet bridge while backing up.
Yeah, that one actually happened and we had to get a whole new plane.
Finally we’re set to leave, and now it’s late in the evening.
Still on July 16, by the way.
Except now it’s a red-eye flight, for real this time, as we won’t land in D.C. until the morning of July 17.
And that’s how I took a red-eye flight two nights in a row.
Two nights in a row… that actually were… the same night, twice in a row.
And nothing else ever seemed strange to me for the rest of my life.