The Game Isn't Played On Paper But. . . So What?

Let's consider even further the topic of my last post. The one about Nomah. Although Nomar's comments that there's no stat yet that measures heart explicitly was a critique of a particular shortcoming of statistics (viz. that they are incapable of measuring "heart"--whatever that is) what he really meant to "prove" was that, as the tired saying goes, "the game isn't played on paper."

This is an argument that takes any number of forms. Sometimes you'll hear a manager say, after a tough loss, that his team was the better team. . . on paper. Then he'll follow it up by acknowledging, sadly, that, "the game isn't played on paper." Or in the offseason, two fans will be discussing a key loss of a primadonna superstar with big numbers, and after one points out how devastating those lost runs will be to the team, the other will point out that his loss might be a net gain. After all, "the game isn't played on paper."

But the context the phrase is used most often is in decrying statistical analysis. Recently, Red Sox left fielder nee center fielder Jacoby Ellsbury (and his stats-minded general manager Theo Epstein) bristled at the idea that a stat called UZR claimed him to be one of the worst defensive players in baseball. The game, it turned out, wasn't played on paper. The paper, it turned out, was wrong about Ellsbury. On paper he had little range. But on the field he was speedy and rangy. How could those two facts exist within the same reality. Ellsbury, adhering to a sort of phenomenological imperative concluded that they could not. The game isn't played on paper!

I'm willing to acknowledge that the game isn't played on paper. And I mean that not just in the literal sense, but also in the intended sense. I would acknowledge (and I would suspect that a lot of SABRmetricians would acknowledge) that there are a number of very real things in the game of baseball that can't be measured. For instance, UZR--which measures, if I'm not mistaken, a player's ability to play defensively within a certain range (and beyond) as it relates to how the average defensive player at that position is able to play within that range (and beyond)--doesn't take into account whether the fielders around that fielder impinge on a player's ability (or need) to go outside a certain range to make a play. Clutch stats are always difficult to evaluate because clutch situations are difficult to define (for instance, the statistic close and late is almost entirely worthless, in my opinion--but I hope to talk about that at a later date). And so on.

But my argument would be: so what? This disjunction is being positioned as a new development in the game of baseball. As if this schism between the visually observed and the secondhand-reported is a "new problem" to the game of baseball. I would argue that not only is it anything but "new" but it also in no sense a "problem."

Look at it this way. If you're like me (that is to say, in your mid-to-late-twenties) and you're at all a "student" of the game of baseball (probably less a "student" and more someone who burns 95% of his free-time following a game) you are well aware that in the opinion of the majority of People Who Are Older and Wiser that 95% of what makes the game great came before you set foot on God's Green. Further, since MLB is particularly tight-fisted with rebroadcast rights (don't even bother looking for clips on YouTube) and since much of baseball history exists before television even existed, it's nearly impossible for you to have seen any footage of Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Willie Mays, et al "not playing the game on paper." So what's left? Written record.

I'll take it even further. Even with baseball today, the average fan is left with very little but paper. With semi-prohibitive ticket pricing and MLB's lousy out-of-market broadcast distribution, it's very difficult to see everyone play every game ever. I'll confess (at the risk of sounding like a bad fan) that before the White Sox acquired Jake Peavy, I'd only seen him pitch a handful of games. And those, mostly at bars. Hell, even after the White Sox acquired him, living in Arkansas, to have seen him pitch for the White Sox I'd have had to pray that the White Sox games on WGN happened to be games he pitched in if I hadn't ponied up the $40 a month for the Extra Innings package.

I'm not saying this to complain (or at least, not just to complain) but rather to point out a reality of baseball--that even the biggest fans spend most of our time experiencing baseball in print. Not live at the ballpark. Not on TV. Not listening to the radio. But in print. We, as baseball fans, have a rich tradition of elegeant sportswriting, box score searching, and yes--statistical computation (what is ERA if not a relatively complex statistical device to measure effectiveness?). This does not mean we completely understand the game. I mean, we understand it better as the years pass and the collective consciousness grows bigger. But the game is not complete "on paper." But what people like Nomar need to keep in mind is that for most people (and not just stat nerds), the game "on the field" is not the last word. It is not what baseball is to many fans, and even to those to whom it is, there are times when baseball slips into words--and even numbers. ".300", "56", "300", et cetera.

When this happens, this is not a failure of a fan to understand the game. This is the fan and his understanding of the game seeping through. The two things work in concert. And maybe that's what Nomar is saying--don't forget the heart when looking at stats. But maybe it's not. And if it's not I want to clarify for all of us: "On paper" is not, of course, where baseball's played. But "On paper" is and was and will always be where baseball's read.