Phillies’ fans were in fine form at “The Bank” on Saturday night, whistling derisively every time that Tim Lincecum came to the plate (“you forgot your skateboard”), picking away at the gaggle of orange and black clad fans grouped along the third base line (“is that the color of your panties?), and hooting the Phillie Phanatic’s pantomime of a ’60s hit (“Are You Going To San Francisco?”), that featured the disrobing of a Giants-clad hookah toker. But the Phillies’ faithful could not reverse the final score (a 4-3 Gigante squeaker) made possible by Lincecum’s steady seven inning performance, Cody Ross’s two home runs, and Brian Wilson’s five-up-four-down blow-it-by-em save. It must have been a humbling experience for the Broad Street Bombasts: by the bottom of the 8th, even the most feverish Phillie follower had to admit that in the battle of Bullies vs. Hippies, the scales had tipped decisively in favor of the pantywaists. “My God. You know, we’ve just got to bench Jimmy Rollins. He can’t hit anything. Charlie’s gotta sit him down.”

After the game, San Francisco ace Lincecum made light of the whistling that greeted his every plate appearance. The hooting wolf whistles (“you sure are pretty, Timmy”) from the City of Brotherly Catcalls didn’t bother him, he said. “I was thinking, ‘I must have a nice butt, or something,’” he laughed, then added: “Those Phillies fans must like something about me. I took it as a joke.” Well, maybe: but for Lincecum to say that he “must have a nice butt” would be Fightin’ Words in South Philly — where such jokes are made very privately. If. At. All. The hand-lettered made-in-the-kitchen signs (Wanna Smoke?”) that greeted Lincecum’s appearance seemed less than welcoming (“Hippy Trash”), in keeping with Philly fandom’s habit of picking fights simply for the sake of it: “Fix Your Teeth,” one said; while another (just a few rows over), evinced the struggle its author had with creativity: “You Stink!”

In truth, while the made-for-TV pitcher’s duel ended up being something less-than, it was Roy (“Doctober”) Halladay who struggled, while Lincecum proved more than capable (113 pitches, 71 for strikes). Halladay’s thigh-high fastballs didn’t impress Marlin import Cody Ross, a former rodeo cowpoke who planted two of them unceremoniously in the left field stands. And Halladay struggled in the 6th, giving up a double to the roundly booed Pat Burrell, a former Philly whose career has been revitalized by his steady play for Bochy’s Bashers. Burrell’s double angered Halladay, who complained that his third pitch on an 0-2 count should have been a strike. But Halladay wasn’t alone in his complaints, as the strike zone shrank as the game went on, so much so that a similar get-em-across offering from Lincecum to Jayson Werth resulted in an unnecessary two run shot. But that’s all that Philadelphia would get, as Brian “Beach Boy” Wilson (97 on the gun) set down five Ashburns on four strikeouts for the save.

The Wisdom Of Section 131 — Philadelphia Edition: There were dozens (but only dozens) of San Francisco hats at Citizens Bank Park, but only one “Curly W” from Washington. The appearance of the “W” brought puzzled looks and a few jabbing comments: “You’re kidding, right?” There was a suspicious squint and then a shrug: “Don’t worry pal, you guys’ll get here. You got that Strasburg guy and I hear you have a beautiful ball park.” Two rows up, and just behind the Giants dugout, a Philly fan (his Spiderman tattoos covered biceps the size of tires) reached out after the game, then stopped: “Am I shaking the hand of a Giants’ fan?” No, no. “Well, good,” he said. “And anyway. That was a heck-of-a-game.” So give them this: Philadelphia’s faithful know baseball. Between the 1st and 9th innings no one left for chili dogs or beers, but stayed riveted in their seats, snapping their white rally towels like a bunch of kids . . .

Philadelphia fandoms’ brutish approach might be a bit overdone, but the constant catcalls brought ushers down into the stands in the 6th, eyeing the environment like weathermen gauging an approaching storm. They herded the Giants’ faithful into the section’s first two rows, away from any offending comments. When a Phanatic (clad in a #26 Chase Utley jersey) seemed on the verge of picking a fight with a Giants fan sporting a large #27 on his back (Juan Marichal’s old number) — “Hey, number 27, sit down . . . do yourself a favor and just sit down . . .” — a Philly’s fan turned ominously in his seat and slowly shook his head, warning the offender. He got the message . . . Meanwhile, up under the stands in the middle of the game, a group of plainclothesman broke up a three-way fight, clapping the offenders in handcuffs, which brought a whining protest. “C’mon officer, Doc is pitching. Can’t you arrest me after the game?”

"Hey, number 27, do yourself a favor and just sit down . . ."

There’s no predicting these things: C.C. Sabathia was supposed to be unstoppable last night versus the Rangers, the feisty Twinkies were supposed to throw fear into the line-up of the Empire, the Braves — energized by their retiring manager — were picked to give the Giants fits. That’s not what happened. C.C. struggled (but the Yankees rallied, and won), the feisty Twins went silently into the New York night and Bobby Cox could not, did not, save his team from an early NLDS exit. Which is only to confirm that there is nothing so certain in baseball as uncertainty, nothing so sure as that someone whom you’ve never heard of will become a series hero while the great ones will look, very often, just average. All that’s true, very true. And yet, tonight’s Citizens Bank match-up between Philly Roy ‘Doc” Halliday and San Francisco’s Tim Lincecum might be the closest thing that baseball has had to a perfect pitching match-up in this century, barring even the heart-thumping Greg Maddux-Randy Johnson tilt of 2001.

The Arizona-Atlanta match-up of 2001 is worth remembering. The Braves came into the 2001 series the favorites, boasting a class-of-baseball rotation led by Maddux, gamer Tommy Glavine and veteran innings eater John Burkett. But the difference, the pundits believed, was a line-up anchored by savvy backstop Javy Lopez and all-world long-ball artist Chipper Jones — then just 29 and at the peak of his production. The Diamondbacks responded with a twosome that was every bit as fearsome as the Maddux-Glavine duo: Randy Johnson was on his way to the Hall of Fame, while Curt Schilling (at 22-6) looked unbeatable. But the heart of the D-Backs line-up was filled with 30-somethings — Tony Womack, Luis Gonzalez, Matt Williams, Steve Finley and an aging and gimpy Mark Grace, then 37. There wasn’t an under-30 player in Arizona’s front nine, making them the odds-on favorites to head to the pines when the dust settled.

Then, as now, pitching proved to the be the difference — but not exactly in the way that everyone had predicted. The phenomenal duel-to-be of Game 1 turned out to be just that, with Johnson and Maddux mixing it up pitch-for-pitch. Maddux pitched brilliantly, but not brilliantly enough, giving up six hits and two runs and taking the loss. Randy Johnson was simply better, throwing a nine inning three-hit eleven strike out complete game. A masterpiece. The game went to the veteran over-30s, as pepperpot Craig Counsell and steady Luis Gonzalez dinked and dunked doubles and singles in a kind of baseball water torture. One run was all that Johnson needed — Reggie Sanders and Luis Gonzalez gave him two, scoring Counsell twice. The Braves could be satisfied, though barely, that their own big gun (Chipper Jones) looked solid, accounting for two of their team’s three hits. But it didn’t matter.

If the current Philadelphia-San Francisco series follows form, then tonight’s game — like the Atlanta-Arizona match-up of 2001 — will be memorable for what it tells us about the staying power of its center-stage ace. But the game will not determine who goes on to face the Yankees or Rangers in the World Series. That decision will be made in game three and four by a second-tier ace (like Roy Oswalt or Matt Cain), whose steady presence and lock-down middle-game brilliance (like that of Curt Schilling against the Braves in 2001) will allow the front-of-the-rotation hurler a second shot at a second win. Here’s how it happened in 2001. After Randy Johnson’s stunning out-of-the-gate brilliance (and with the series knotted at 1), Curt Schilling gave Arizona a leg-up with a nine inning performance in Game 3. Atlanta wasn’t worried — they had Maddux for Game 4. But Maddux was less than stellar, giving up four runs in three innings.

Suddenly faced with elimination in game five, and running out of pitching options, Bobby Cox rushed Tom Glavine back to the mound against Randy Johnson in Game 5 to stop the bleeding. Glavine was game: while pitching on short rest, he felt he could dominate the over-30 Arizona line-up. Still, this was a gamble — the Maddux-Glavine duo were matched perfectly to give the Braves their best mound presence with just the right rest. But Bobby’s gamble failed. Randy Johnson, pitching in his usual spot behind two other starters, dominated the Braves, winning his second game — and turning in a memorable (and even historic) post-season victory: seven innings, seven hits and his second series win. And so it is: we justly and properly remember the Atlanta-Arizona series for Randy Johnson’s two win brilliance, but the real difference was Schilling — whose nose-in-the-dirt performance gave Johnson the rest he needed, and made his win possible.

The Atlanta-Arizona model could well hold true for what we will see in Philadelphia tonight: an ace performance from an ace pitcher like Roy Halladay or Tim Lincecum. But the real test for these teams will come later this week, when Philly sends Cole Hamels to the mound against Matt Cain. If either manager — Charlie or Bruce — are then forced to throw Halladay or Lincecum out of their normal rotation spot (as Bobby Cox — in 2001 — inserted Glavine on short rest to salvage a single game and keep Atlanta’s hopes alive), then this series will be over. Predictions? On paper, Philly has the edge. It will be hard for San Francisco to match-up against the fearsome threesome of Halladay, Oswalt and Hamels. But don’t bet against San Francisco. Tim Lincecum could just as easily be the Randy Johnson of 2009 — or, more importantly, Matt Cain could be San Francisco’s Curt Schilling.

Nats pitcher Jordan Zimmermann must be some kind of throwback: he’s from a part of the country – central Wisconsin – that doesn’t usually produce major league pitchers (or major league anythings) and he’s vowed that, once the season is over, he’ll head back home: “where there’s not that much to do.” That’s for sure. Stevens Point, where Zimmermann went to college, is quintessentially small town America, a paper mill town of some 25,000 on the Wisconsin River that is, oddly, currently under water — and that suffers through winters that make what happens in northern Russia look tame.

Zimmermann’s most recent successful outing (a six inning three hitter), the Nats hope, is a sign that the young righty is about to arrive in the big leagues in a big way. That would be a boon for “the Point” – which brags about its college baseball team, the (ah . . .) “Pointers,” which has Zimmermann’s pic prominently displayed on their home page. And why not? Zimmermann is the biggest thing to happen to Central Wisconsin since the immortal Addie Joss migrated from bump-in-the-road Woodland (where his father was a cheese maker) to the Cleveland Naps (predecessors to the Indians — but you knew that), where he compiled the second best ERA in MLB history. Oh, and hurled his way into the Hall of Fame.

Joss was an interesting guy: a 6-3 beanpole with a rising fastball, a 12-6 curve and what he called “a slow pitch” –- essentially a change-up. Joss was a real-deal Roy Hobbs, throwing pitches through tires and taking on traveling pros and striking them out in fields where stalks of corn had once stood. On October 2, 1908 Joss pitched his best game – a perfecto against another great, the Pale Hose’s Eddie Walsh. It was the first of two perfect games that Joss would pitch, both against the White Sox, the only time that has been done in baseball history.

Sadly, the Joss story does not have a happy ending –- the career of the Woodland, Wisconsin native was cut short when he was diagnosed with tubercular meningitis and his death, at the age of 31 shocked the baseball world. The first All Star game was played in his memory, with the proceeds dedicated to helping his family. Of course, fans of J-Zimm wince at such comparisons (considering the Joss legacy), but outside of being natives of northern Wisconsin, the two have this in common – a rising fastball, a good hook (perhaps j-Zimm should give up his very average slider) and a “slow pitch.” Nats fans can only hope that the two are alike in one other way: in 1907, at the age of 27, Joss had 27 wins to lead all of baseball.

Well, we can hope.

Long about the first week in August, Atlanta manager Bobby Cox was getting ready to do his victory lap through the National League — a celebration of not only his last year in baseball, but the success of his Atlanta Braves. There was, of course, a cautionary note: Cox is not only much too smart to count his chickens (or pennants), the Braves also had two months remaining before the end of the season. So, while the Phillies were struggling (the story of Raul Ibanez — who captured headlines in ’09 — was not a story in 2010), the Atlanta Braves were hardly a lock. While the Phillies had had their problems with injuries, with poor hitting (Jason Werth simply did not look like, well, Jason Werth) and with indifferent pitching, their acquisition of Roy Oswalt showed just how serious they took their own problems, and how willing they were to resolve them. So Bobby pressed — urging his team on to a series of tough road wins in mid-August (over Houston, the Trolleys and the Nationals), so that by early September it seemed (seemed!) as if the Tomahawks had innoculated themselves against a late-season Phillies’ run.

And then it happened. On August 25, the Braves blew a seemingly insurmountable lead against the (who else) Colorado Rockies and went on to lose the game against the Heltons, 12-10. It was something like (if not exactly like) having a black cat run in front of your dugout — or watching an usher deny seating for a goat. Braves fans locked into the loss as if sensing that somehow, and in some intangible way, the Braves’ season was about to change. “I’m speechless right now, and couldn’t describe what happened this afternoon even if I wanted to,” the blogger on Talking Chop opined. Worse yet, the disheartening loss marked a three game sweep at the hands of the Purples, who were intent on making a run of their own. True, the Braves fought back with decisive wins against the Marlins and Mets (perfecting their pitching, blowing out successive 9 run games) — but at the same time they were doing that, the Phillies were making a move of their own. By September 1, the Phillies were right there, breathing down the necks of the first place Braves. And the Braves felt the pressure.

It’s not, mind you, that the Braves played badly, it’s just that they weren’t playing as well as they had in June or July, when they seemed to dominate every opponent. In retrospect, it seems as if August 25 was the turning point: that one “tipping point” in a 162 game season where a team loses its momentum while another (in this case, the Ponies) finally finds its groove. “Why hello thar, 2nd Place!” Talking Chop headlined on September 7, just two weeks after the deflating loss to Colorado. But the game that put them in second place, a 5-0 drubbing at the hands of the lowly Ahoys (a terrible, awful “miserable” defeat), confirmed the worst fears of the Atlanta faithful — they would have to play catch-up against one of the most feared late-season teams in the National League.

It’s not that the Braves don’t have a chance. They do. And a good one: if they don’t take the N.L. East, they can still capture the Wild Card though, obviously, they’ll have to play better than they have the last two weeks. Still, they’re only a half game ahead of the Padres in the me-too standings. But the numbers are demanding, and torturous: the Braves will not only have to play well against the Mets (their three games series starts tonight), they’ll have to play well during the all-important three game tilt against the Phillies, which starts Monday. There is one caveat: both series are on the road, where the Braves have twice as many losses as wins, and where they have dropped seven of their last nine. Which is what makes the pending six game set against the Mets and Phillies so important — and dramatic. Their trump card? We may not like him, even a little bit, but Braves fans will tell you with that look of absolute confidence: when all else fails, they always have Bobby Cox.

Del Crandall’s Sayonara Slam: On September 10, 1881 (that’s 129 years ago yesterday), the Troy Trojans beat the Worcester Brown Stockings (or Ruby Legs, as they were also known) by a score of 8-7. The teams (let alone the game) remain unremarkable in baseball history (the Trojans and Brown Stockings were only in the National League for a few years each), except that — at least so far as anyone can tell — the game’s last frame was marked by a baseball rarity called a “Sayonara Slam.” A “Sayonara Slam” is not simply a home run that ends the game (nor is it simply “a Japanese home run”), but a blast that comes in the bottom of the ninth with two outs and the bases loaded. On September 10 of 1881, the first Sayonara Slam in major league history (so far as we know) was registered when Hall of Famer Roger Conner (a lifetime batting average of .316) came to bat for the Trojans with two outs in the 9th. With the bases loaded and the Trojans trailing 7-4, Conner (the leading home run hitter of the 19th century), parked the baseball beyond the centerfield fence — and the Trojans won, 8-7.

Let’s be clear: while it’s not known when or how the term Sayonara Slam first came into use, its most proper definition is of a player who bats in the last inning with the bases loaded, two out, with his team down by three runs — and hits a grand slam home run to win the game. Oddly, the last recorded “Sayonara Slam” (to say a hit is a “Sayonara grand slam” is redundant, don’tchaknow), took place in Japan on July 18 of this year, when the Yokahama BayStars victimized the Yomiuri Giants in the bottom of the 9th with a “gyaku-ten sayonara” — a game ending grand slam home run (and get this: former Nats’ wannabe Termel Sledge, playing for the BayStars, hit a home run to bring his team within three). It doesn’t appear that regular stats are kept of Sayonara Slams (or, at least, I can’t find it), but we know that the Phillies’ Bo Diaz hit one against the Mets on April 13, 1983 — which, according to an entry in his biography, was only the 11th in baseball history. The Diaz blast won the game for the Phillies, 10-9.

Perhaps the most memorable Sayonara Slam came on September 11, 1958 — when Milwaukee Braves tough guy Del Crandall came to the plate with the bases loaded against the no account Phillies, who were then mired in a century long slump. Milwaukee had entered the final frame of the first game of a doubleheader at County Stadium behind 4-0, with their hopes of a win fading fast. Which was a surprise, because Milwaukee ace Lew Burdette had pitched a tight game, giving up only a few hits to the Ponies. Even so, the scoreboard at Milwaukee County Stadium told the tale. With Milwaukee in the pennant race, the game was seen as key to the Braves’ hopes for another appearance in the World Series. With nobody out in the final half-frame, Milwaukee bopper Johnny Logan tripled before Eddie Mathews fouled out, but Logan scored from third. Score: 4-1. Henry Aaron then reached on a single, George Crowe made an out, but the next two batters — Chuck Tanner and Bennie Taylor — were able to reach base on wounded duck hits. The bases were loaded with two out when Crandall came to the plate. The savvy backstop worked the count to 3-2, but then launched his grand slam into the bleachers in left field: it was a perfect (a classic) three-and-two, two outs, bases loaded “Sayonara Slam.” Final Score: Braves 5, Phillies 4.

Crandall is an interesting story. The California native wasn’t a great hitter, but Hank Aaron called him “a hell of a defensive catcher.” He might have been the best defensive catcher of his time: he won four gold gloves, made eight All Star appearances, and appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated (which did not seem to harm his career). He hit home runs for Milwaukee in their two World Series’ appearances — in 1957 and 1958. Crandall became somewhat of a legend for being a tough talking no-nonsense player . On the first batter of the first game he caught for the Braves (who were then in Boston) he was ejected by umpire Jocko Conlan for questioning Conlan’s called balls on the first two pitches from the Braves’ pitcher. Conlan came out from behind Crandall, stooped over the plate with his brush, and then looked Crandall in the eye. “Ain’t no busher gonna come up here and tell me how to call a game,” he told him. Crandall eyed Conlan and shook his head. “You can shove your ‘busher,’” he said. And Conlan tossed him.

We can spend all day talking about Roberto Clemente’s legacy (that he was a humanitarian, the first Hispanic elected to the Hall of Fame, that his life ended providing aid to the people of Nicaragua), but we should not forget his extraordinary baseball numbers. In many ways his career was a paradox. Popular opinion views him as a power hitter, primarily because of his powerful swing, completed after his patented left-leg buckle (his leg hung and hung in the air, cocked like a gun, until slap . . .). In truth, Clemente was known among his fellow players as a slash and drive non-powerhouse, his feet digging circles in the batter’s box as he hit the ball into the gaps. He led the N.L in hits in two separate years and won four batting titles. His power? Well, frankly — he had some, but not a lot. Rather, he decided that he would be better off acclimating himself to the ugly facts of Pittsburgh’s just as ugly and more than spacious Forbes Field (I remember it as a gussied up and ready-to-burn barn), that played more like the Roman Colosseum than a mid-city diamond. You could hit gappers at Forbes, so Clemente did. He hit 29 dingers in 1966, the peak of his career.

So  . . . okay. Clemente couldn’t hit the long ball that well, but at least he was fast. Really fast. Right? Well, actually . . . no.  Clemente’s stolen base totals in a career spanning 18 seasons are below average for his time; in fact, they’re way below average. He never stole more than 12 in any one season. Which is nothing to brag about. But here’s the paradox. While Clemente wasn’t Maury Wills, he was probably the best player of his era in going from home to third, or first to third, or first to home. He was absolutely single-minded in hitting the ball to the gaps and then racing the throw to the bag. There are libraries full of videos of Clemente (take a look at this — arms akimbo and pumping) legging a single into a double, or a double into a triple. He won the 1971 World Series MVP (he hit .414 and smacked a home run in the seventh game) almost solely on the basis of his running, what can almost be described as his sheer desire to end up on third. He drove the Orioles crazy.

It was this, his ability to drive the ball into the gaps (and, of course, his twelve Gold Gloves — oh, and his legendary pinpoint throws to third from right field), that made his reputation. He led the National League in triples once, but came close nearly a dozen other times. He was Clemente “the gapper,” with a special all-out work ethic that allowed him to hit over .300 in twelve of his eighteen years (with a lifetime batting average of .317), stroking over 150 hits per year at the same rate in 2400-plus games. He was among the best, ever: there are 27 members of the 3000 hits club, a grouping that may (arguably) be as important — and as elite — as the 500 home runs club (of which there are, count ‘em, 25 members). As important? There’s good reason to argue that 3000 hits is actually less attainable than 500 home runs — the last major leaguer to reach that lofty mark was Craig Biggio, three years ago. Which is only to point out that, in the era of Mays and Mantle and Aaron (an era of long ball hitters), Roberto Clemente stood out as the quintessential all-out play-until-you-drop slasher. It’s what made him a legend in Pittsburgh. It’s what put him in the Hall of Fame.

So here’s the question: how can the Washington Nationals — so toothless against an also-ran and struggling team like the Chicago Cubs — play so well against the St. Louis doom-machine Cardinals? It could be (of course) that the Nats simply play better against stiffer competition (a notion belied by their record against good teams), or it could be (as it seemed on Saturday night) that the team was just due. Whatever the reason, the Washington Nationals finally broke loose against the St. Louis Cardinals on Saturday, plating fourteen runs on sixteen hits, to clobber the Cardinals, who seem suddenly mediocre against struggling teams. The difference on Saturday was Adam Dunn. The left handed swinging behemoth, mired in a month-long slump, provided the impetus for the Nats to break out of their doldrums: Dunn was 2-3 with five RBIs, hitting a towering fly in the 5th for his 32nd home run. “I hit the home run really good,” Dunn said after the win. “I just knew the ball was really high. At this park, you really never know.”

But Dunn was not the only one on fire on Saturday. Michael Morse also had a hot hand, going 4-4 and scoring two runs, while Adam Kennedy, Roger Bernadina, Ryan Zimmerman and Ivan Rodriguez had two hits each. Over the last two games, the Nationals (whose offense has been positively anemic through much of August) have scored 25 runs on 25 hits, a symmetry rarely equaled through the last five months. While the Nationals might seem to have little to play for (they are nearly 20 games out in the race for the N.L. East Division crown), the same cannot be said of the Cardinals — who need every win they can get to keep pace with the surging Cincinnati Reds, who retain a four game lead over the Cardinals in the N.L. Central. The Cardinals are now faced with a chilling end-of-August reality: unless they start playing better against teams like the Nationals, they will cap a very good season without a shot at the playoffs. For the final game of this four game series, the Nationals will send John Lannan against Albert Pujols & Company on Sunday at Nationals Park.

Scoring The Nationals: Each game — and every year — provides its own scoring rarities. Two occurred on Saturday night that I have never seen before, or scored before. While “keeping a book” is always a challenge, the application of little-known rules to in-game situations can be discomforting. When Ian Desmond was called out for running outside the baseline in the third inning (how often, really, do you see that?) MASN play-by-play host Bob Carpenter helped me along: “That’s scored 3u,” he said — first base putout, unassisted. But the play demanded an asterisk — an outside-the-tradition personal tic that I use to note a rarity (some scorers use an asterisk to denoted a stellar defensive play, I prefer an exclamation point). There was a second asterisk (it’s important to limit their use) that I used in Saturday’s game. It came in the 8th inning, when Nyjer Morgan was called out at home plate (or, more pertinently, behind it), after being touched by a Nationals’ player. Once again Carpenter helped: “That scored 2u,” he said.

The problem with using an asterisk is that it always demands an explanation: which I give in a sentence at the bottom of my score sheet. The July 9 Strasburg beauty against the Giants (6 innings, 3 hits, 1 ER), for instance, included this asterisk in the first inning: “Cain throws it into the ground.” The asterisk was enough for me to recall a memorable moment in the 2010 season — when Giants’ pitcher Matt Cain lost his grip on the ball, which led to Roger Bernadina scoring the Nationals’ first run from second base. The official scoring, I claim, provided only a limited (and even puzzling) explanation that doesn’t really tell the story: “E: Cain (1, pickoff).” There are some events, however, that drive me back to paging through the best best resource on scoring, Paul Dickson’s “The Joy of Keeping Score” (it ought to be called “The Agony of Keeping Score”) which includes one scorer’s “WW” notation — “wasn’t watching.” That happens.

Of course, and as Dickson himself will readily admit, there are some events that happen on the field that simply can’t be scored — though they are fascinating. For instance: I was mightily confused with an event in Philadelphia, when Phillies catcher Carlos Ruiz was stopped by umpires from visiting the mound after heading into the clubhouse for a new glove. Why was he stopped and sent back behind the plate? Why, why, why, why, why? I didn’t get it, and the announcers seemed as puzzled — finally just dropping the subject. The puzzle was finally answered (after much thought) by a family member (here he is) who provided this explanation: “If the catcher goes into the clubhouse and then emerges from the dugout to go to the mound, it constitutes a visit,” he said. “The umpires told him — and he decided against it.” Fascinating — and correct. But it has to be remembered; it can’t be scored.

(above: Adam Dunn photo by AP/Susan Walsh; below: Philadelphia Athletics manager Connie Mack used his scorecard to give signals)