The New Ballgame: Understanding Baseball Statistics for the Casual Fan (9 page)

Dead balls and lively balls, expansion, integration, strike zones, rule changes,
ballpark variation-the array of these variables shows why it has been so
difficult to unearth the Holy Grail of statistics-a single number that will
measure a player's relative worth. It's not for lack of trying, as we will discuss
later in this book.

For now, keep this in mind:

In modern baseball encyclopedias and elsewhere, you may see statistics presented as "adjusted" stats-adjusted batting average, adjusted ERA,
adjusted OPS. These are statistics adjusted for the year in which they were
achieved, based on the norms of that year. Adjusted statistics tell us how different from average a player's numbers are. Adjusted statistics are especially
useful for comparing players from different eras.

Here's an example of how enlightening that can be.

Bill Terry, the last man to hit .400 in the National League, hit .401 in
1930, the year the entire NL hit .303. His average was 32% higher than the
norm.

Carl Yastrzemski (Yaz), whose .301 average in 1968 was the lowest
ever for a batting champion, hit 31 % higher than the American League norm of .230 that season, the Year of the Pitcher.

Terry: .401, 39 doubles, 15 triples, 23 homers, 57 walks, 1071 OPS

Yaz: .301, 32 doubles, 2 triples, 23 homers, 119 walks, 921 OPS

Terry and Yastrzemski's OPS-on-base plus slugging-numbers are
particularly noteworthy because they combine the effects of all the other statistics (batting average, walks, extra-base hits). As calculated in the ESPN
Baseball Encylopedia, Terry's adjusted OPS was 159, or 59% better than average for the 1930 NL.

Yaz' adjusted OPS was 168.

aseball has long enjoyed
the lowest-priced tickets of the
major team sports, but at today's prices
for parking, food and souvenirs, it's an
event, not a routine, for a family to attend a big-league game. With infrequent visitors outnumbering
the regulars at any given game,
team owners see themselves in the entertainment business as much as the
baseball business.

If you are a casual fan, you'll be surrounded by people like you. Those
oddballs-the fans who insist on coming to the park for the baseball-are easy
enough to spot. The tell-tale signs are especially evident between innings.

When the rest of the crowd is cheering for their favorite bratwurst in
the sausage race, the serious fans have heads down, updating the statistics on
their scorecards.

When the rest of the crowd is trying to guess which helmet is concealing the baseball in the scoreboard version of a shell game, the serious fans are
checking a different part of the scoreboard-the scores of out-of-town games.

When the rest of the crowd is trying to guess the gender of the improbably costumed mascot, the serious fans are trying to figure out the baseball trivia question of the day. Was it Rogers Hornsby, Stan Musial or Tony
Gwynn who led the National League in hitting six straight years? (Hornsby.)

When the rest of the crowd is singing "YMCA," the serious fans are
checking out the stats of the relief pitcher taking the mound.

If this makes the serious fan sound too, well, serious, remember that
these folks can be your best friends when the game is on. These are the fans
you can turn to when an umpire confuses you by sending a runner to the next
base without a pitch being thrown (balk), awards a batter first base on a pitch
he swung at and missed (catcher's interference), or calls a batter out even
though an infielder dropped a popup (infield fly rule). These are the fans who,
because they are keeping track of how many pitches have been thrown, can
explain why the manager just pinch hit for the starting pitcher who seemed to
be doing just fine.

So, if you enjoy group participation, go ahead-sing, laugh at the mascot's antics, and cheer for your favorite sausage. But if you'd also like to
enjoy the baseball more, there are a few fairly simple statistics that will help
you feel like one of the gang with the serious fans anticipating and secondguessing the strategy on the field.

The statistics are handy-you'll find them in bright lights on the giant
electronic scoreboard and possibly on a paper insert inside the glossy magazine sold as a game program. These statistics on display at the ballpark are
basic: the "primary statistics" familiar (at least in name, if not in significance)
to casual fans. For batters, these are the "Triple Crown" stats: home runs, runs
batted in, and batting average. For pitchers, these are wins, losses, and earned
run average. Add saves for relief pitchers.

Though steadily losing stature as a benchmark for evaluating a player's offensive skill, batting average has endured as the shorthand to describe a hitter's
productivity and general reputation.

For more than a century, dating to the days when home runs were rare
and walks were harder to come by than they are now, hitters have been labeled by their batting average. In the shorthand, "He's a .300 hitter" is high
praise, referring to the standard of excellence. A.270 hitter is merely reliable,
a .250 hitter is barely acceptable, and a .220 hitter has a short baseball life to
live. As for the batter who comes to the plate sporting a batting average beginning with .1, he'd better be a pitcher.

Since batting average really is a three-digit percentage (.321 means
getting a hit 32.1% of your at-bats), this stat is subject to wild fluctuations
early in the season, when a player has had few at-bats, but minor change
late in the season. By September, a player with 500-plus at-bats who gets a
hit typically will improve by two batting average points (e.g. .276 to .278),
while making an out will cost him one point.

The difference between a .300 hitter
and a .250 hitter is the difference between
an All-Star and a player on the way out. It
could make the difference in the championship hopes for his team. But for a full-time
player with 520 at-bats over the 26-week
major league season, the difference between
.250 and .300 is one hit per week-just one
more hit each 20 at-bats. This is why perhaps the best tribute to a batter, no matter the
score nor the importance of the day's game
to the standings, is simply: "He never wastes
an at-bat."

Every 10 home runs puts a hitter into a new
generalized category as a power hitter. Fewer than 10 homers for a regular player in a
162-game season indicates little to no power. Double figures make that player a threat
to hit one out of the park, and 20 makes that
player a legitimate home-run hitter. At 30,
the player is regarded as a true power hitter and at 40 an elite one. Fifty is
something special. Only five men in the history of the game have ever hit 60
(Babe Ruth, Roger Maris, Sammy Sosa, Mark McGwire and Barry Bonds).

However, we are currently in an era of specialized roles. Some hitters
play only against right-handed pitching; some only against left-handers. Oth ers fill in for better players. These part-time players have to be judged by ratio
rather than raw totals. When your team needs a home run, look for the man
who hits at least one home run for every 20 at-bats. In 2006, for instance,
Cincinnati's part-time catcher, David Ross, homered 21 times in 245 at-bats,
or about one in 12.

The last .400 hitter was Ted
Williams, who hit .406 in
1941. Since then, only two
batters have even hit .390.
Best-remembered is Kansas
City's George Brett, who
settled for .390 in 1980,
the first time his Royals
made it to the World Series.
In 1994, San Diego's Tony
Gwynn was hitting .394
when a players' strike in
August wiped out the rest of
the season.

Over his first six spectacular seasons, Albert Pujols has homered once
every 13.9 at-bats. Alex Rodriguez has homered at a rate of once every 14.6
at-bats for his career.

How awesome was Barry Bonds' record-setting 73 home runs in 2001?
That was one every 6.5 at-bats.

The only man ever to eclipse 60 home runs three times didn't even lead
his league in homers any of those seasons. When Sammy Sosa hit what
would have been a record-setting 66 home runs for the Chicago Cubs in
1998, St. Louis' Mark McGwire hit 70. The next year, Sosa hit 63 home
runs, but McGwire hit 65. Then in 2001, Sosa hit 64 homers, but San
Francisco's Barry Bonds set the new record with 73.

(Sosa did lead the National League in home runs twice, however-in
2000 when he hit 50 and in 2002 when he hit 49.)

Two of the greatest sluggers ever, Lou Gehrig and Jimmie Foxx, were
American League rival first basemen who entered the big leagues in
1925. They have something else in common: They each drove in 100
runs or more for 13 consecutive seasons, sharing the record.

Batting average gets the lip service. Home runs have the glamour. But among
players, RBI get the respect. The milestone that separates the special RBI
men from others is 100 for a season. Hack Wilson set the all-time record with
191 in 1930. No one has come within 25 of that since.