190. Baseball Pain (11). Pain by the Number.

 

Who will have bragging rights to suffering in 1964?  It's a race.  At the moment, the morning of September 28, Philadelphia fans are way ahead.  They have lost seven straight and each loss, each failing batter, each weakening pitcher, viewed against a scoreboard showing the unfailing advance of the Reds (nine straight) and Cardinals (five straight), has stabbed them with increasing pain.  It has gone on for a week — ever since Chico Ruiz stole home.

They, in 1964, felt it; we, in 2013, can put numbers to it.  The pain any failure — in the field, on the mound, or at the plate — gives a fan depends on how much it can do to his team's chances of winning the pennant.  We now know (from http://www.coolstandings.com/baseball_standings.asp) that Philadelphia's chances (POFF) have dropped from 96.3% to 19.0% in the course of seven games.  We can see exactly how much difference each game makes.  We can also see (www.baseball-reference.com/) exactly how much difference each play makes in the game.  We are ready to put a gauge on the poor fellow sitting in Veteran's Stadium.

Say it's September 26.  He has just seen second baseman Tony Taylor drop the throw that would have gotten one out and maybe two.  The play dial (LI) shows 5.63 units of pain.  The game dial (∆POFF) shows 17.1 units.  We have a number, 22.73, that we can use to compare the pain he feels at this moment with the pain his brother in Cincinnati will feel at his moments of suffering.  On a graph of the whole week we can see his maximum pain and, in the area under the curve, we can see his total pain.  We can see how both compare with the pain in Cincinnati — or in any major league park since 1903.  Whatever hell our subjects are in, mathematically we are in a paradise.

And today we are looking down on a first-place team that, after a day to rest following its late-night celebration at the airport, is about to begin a three-game series with a so-so team, the Pittsburgh Pirates, facing Bob Friend (won 12, lost 18) in the opener.  The game will change their probability of winning the pennant by 21.5 percent.  Game anxiety is a lot higher than it was (1.8) when the fans settled down to watch them start the season against the Colt .45's.  And the pain felt after a play or misplay then?  Never higher than 4.23'

OK, here we go, first inning, Rose singles.  Count on Pete.  Go right at 'em.  (Rose will go 3 for 5 in this game.)  Ruiz bunts him to second.  Pinson singles and we've got Robinson, our big man, coming up with two on and one out.  Here we go.  Get to Friend early.   Robinson grounds into a double play.  Oh, pain.  How much?  Gauge shows 23.4. 

Robinson comes up again with two on and one out in the third.  He'll do it this time.  He flies to right.  Pain a little greater.  (23.7 — it's later in the game.)

Then in the sixth inning, for the first time, anxiety on the defensive side.  A brute force pitching performance, that's what it looked like we had.  Billy McCool, no brute, no Bob Gibson, just our Billy, had stepped in and shut out the Pirates.  One hit they had, over five.  Now an opening single.  Followed by a single.   A test for our rookie.  He throws a wild pitch!  Men on second and third with nobody out in a nothing to nothing game that clearly was going to be a squeaker.  Can't imagine a tougher test for a twenty-year-old.

OK, the infield draws in. (So, at the price of bad coverage, they can hold the runner at third.)  I imagine that Deron Johnson, the only English-fluent veteran in the infield, has come over from first base to talk to him, to steady him.  He goes back and McCool is alone.

All a fan can see, with his anxiety near 24, is two straight batters grounding to the shortstop, with the runners forced to hold at third while he gets the out at first.  All he knows, of the important things, is that McCool didn't pitch wild or walk anybody.  (Hits?  Good hitting can get them, whatever the pitcher does.)  But the fan saw enough to see character.  "Guts!  Billy's got 'em.  Our Billy."

So the fan goes into his half of the sixth feeling the pleasure of relieved anxiety.   And a glow of anticipation.  A run now and the Pirates, defenders of the whole pack of pursuers, have just nine more outs.  Mr. Guts gets 'em and those guys are in big trouble.

But no soap.  We produce a fly ball, a strikeout, and a popup.  In the seventh we get one two-out single.  Off Bob Friend.  He's good but he's not this good.  While Billy is back blowing the Pirates away.  Then in the last of the eighth Robinson opens with a double and the glow lights the park.  Deron Johnson, our clean-up man (who would knock in 130 runs the next year), flies to center.  A downer but here's Johnny Edwards.  Line drive to left with a ticket on it: "single."  Robinson takes off for home, carrying the winner but Bob Bailey races in, makes a shoestring catch, and fires the ball to second, doubling Robinson.  Ah jeez.

In the ninth Roberto Clemente and Bill Mazeroski break into McCool for two runs.  You could feel it coming.  And you knew we weren't going to be able to do anything about it.  Which we weren't. 

Meanwhile, over in Philadelphia, the fans were listening to the Cardinals push the Phils further and further away from the now necessary counter miracle.  Entering the game with a 9.5% POFF their ∆ was only 5.9 (there's not much room down here) and their anxiety index during the game got no higher than 8.86.  Since that is also an index of subsequent pain (when the anxiety is realized — i.e., when your worries come true) we can see that Cincinnati is gaining very rapidly on the suffering front.