October is the only month of the year when all four major American professional sports cross paths in live, non-exhibition action. The NFL is in full swing, the NHL and NBA seasons are in their infancies, and the MLB playoffs unfold, often dramatically. As far as the calendar is concerned, October is the nexus of the sports universe.
This confluence makes October a great time to examine the tournaments through which these four altars of fandom determine their champions. The hockey postseason inspires wealthy professionals to grow lumberjackian facial hair and otherwise disengaged media to vaguely praise the uniqueness of "playoff hockey." Basketball's playoffs serve as platforms for stars to shine. The NFL playoffs find a way to somehow escalate the intensity of a league where every week in every city is already a "must-win." And yet baseball carries an elegant mystique the others are rarely afforded. Mr. Octobers are crowned and "clutchness" is the ultimate currency, awarded only to those who perform in the most important situations (the myth of clutch is another fight for another day).
But behind this lore, the baseball playoffs are a glorified lottery. Consider Tampa Bay. The Rays compiled thousands of at-bats and innings pitched during 162 games, winning more than any other team in the American League. Yet by going 2-3 in a five game stretch, the Rays' season came to an abrupt end. Those three losses against Texas represent a proportion of baseball less than 1.9% of the regular season. In the NFL, that's just over a quarter of football. Is it possible to lose a football game in 18 minutes? Perhaps, but outside of "The Longest Yard," a football team's fate is never officially sealed, by rule, in those 18 minutes the way the Rays' was in three games.
To some, this high stake coin flip is maddening (I imagine you can place nearly all baseball front office people in this category). The playoffs are the realm of the micro-result, the gray area of statistical irrelevance that drives even the mildly numerically inclined to surrender. This is the period where a few at-bats outweigh an otherwise underwhelming career. Myths of "clutch performance" are spun from the very minimum of evidence. So far in 2010, this is the kingdom of Cody Ross.
For comparison, consider your own job. If we assume you work five out of every seven days (no holidays, no vacation, you workaholic), that's about 261 days. Cody Ross, on the other hand, compiled 604 plate appearances in 2009 (for whatever reason, I could not find a definitive number of PAs for his 2010 regular season, but 604 represents a typical number for a regular position player). His 8 plate appearance tear from his home run off of Derek Lowe in Game 4 of the NLDS through his home run off of Roy Oswalt in Game 2 of the NLCS, while undisputedly impressive, represents only 1.3% of a season's worth of play. In your work week, that's less than three and a half days. Would your boss overlook more than 257 undistinguished days of mediocrity for a shortened week of brilliance?
None of this is to say Ross' performance is anything less than spectacular. But inevitably, this micro-sample will become the basis of hyperbole. Columnists will search for "deeper" meaning. After all, Ross was cast aside from the Marlins on waivers, and as countless reports suggest, the Giants only nabbed him to prevent the Padres from picking up the outfielder. Maybe this disrespect motivated Ross to become red hot at the ideal time, some will write. Maybe Ross is a late bloomer who needed this dose of postseason atmosphere to realize potential, others will insist. And when Ross' contract comes up for discussion, you can bet his agent might expend a little breath those eight plate appearances.
More likely, though, this is dumb, blind luck. Oh, not Ross' ability to hit anything and everything three distinguished major league pitchers threw. That took years of work, blessed genetics, and lots and lots of repetitions. Not just anyone in the world could have ripped off the three games Ross did. But anyone in baseball could have.
And that's what the baseball postseason is all about. Over 162 games, the Albert Pujolses and A-Rods will eventually get the best of their competitors, just as casinos eventually erode players' chip stacks. Even the smallest edges, over enough time, win out. But playoff baseball isn't about countless repetitions. The postseason is about one roll of the dice, one check-raise on a semi-bluff.
And when historically anonymous players like Cody Ross hit the jackpot, it should just remind us all how important every pitch in October is.
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