Monday, June 14, 2021


Shameless overkill by SI: par for the course.
The question lurking behind the "sticky" pitching situation in MLB '21 is more about injury than it is about cheating (a subject that has haunted those overheated media minds for the better part of a quarter-century). 

Make no mistake: pitchers are cheating. However, what they are doing--as was also the case with those viperous villains from Houston--is actually not helping them as much as folks believe. Added RPM (an overblown stat, since it purports to measure something that has an actual duration in fractions of a second...) is in no way a panacea for pitching success: those hurlers who pursue such a path sacrifice location for movement, only to discover that some pitches just don't move. Hence a rising group of pitchers who give up more homers per hit than in any time in baseball history.

More pertinent to the ongoing fracas about the state of the game--where the age of analytics has pushed hard to join what has become the ongoing American pastime: wall-to-wall distortion--is the fact that a full season's worth of games is being attempted in the aftermath of a world health crisis, which in 2020 limited the baseball season to just 60 games. We have now passed that threshold in 2021, and a breakout of pitcher performance data is suggesting that cracks are forming in the early-season ability to keep batting averages at historically low levels.

Now a "crackdown" on illegal substances, which seems to be getting handled with baseball's utterly bizarre version of kid gloves, may soon be trumpeted as the cause for what looks like a partial meltdown of pitching performance. But other factors are at least as likely for the decline in effectiveness that we've been seeing over the first half of June. For one, injuries and the substitution of inexperienced and ineffective pitchers. For another, some amount of adjustment by hitters that is starting to replenish one of the most depleted commodities in baseball over the past several years: the single.

A look at the monthly ERA figures for teams in both leagues--first in aggregate, then broken out by starters and relievers, shows that the "cracks" to which we allude are, in fact, large fissures in the American League. 

No fewer than nine AL teams have an aggregate ERA over five for the first half of June: the contrast with the number of teams showing such high ERA figures in April and May is stark. (It's even happening to the Yankees and the Red Sox...)

As you'll see, these figures are far less pronounced in the NL, at least thus far. While several AL teams are showing a dramatic and sudden reversal of form in June, most of the NL teams struggling this month are ones who've been doing so all year long (the D-backs, Reds, Rockies and Pirates). Only the Cardinals are showing a sudden reversal of form.

Of course, the interesting thing is that none of the fourteen teams whose team ERAs are ballooning in June is currently in the crosshairs of the frantic exposé that SI and others are fourth-gearing into what is already a highly fraught national conversation about the not-so-grand old game.

So many issues are competing for attention in baseball's malaise that it is becoming genuinely hard to tell the players without a scorecard--or an annotated list of the axes they are grinding (sometimes more than one, simultaneously--more on that in several future installments). Baseball may be escaping one of the slings amidst the flying arrows--that run scoring is anemic. But the problems that the game faces are not solved--and they are not successfully swept under the rug--by a boost in run scoring toward "historically average" levels (another distortion of the facts, led by two highly voluble sabermetricians, who spend most of their time on Twitter engaging in glib misdirection).

No, it's the shape of offense and the attendant rituals that have built up around this bloated variant of baseball that is attenuating the game on the field. For now, though, let's stay on course with the direction that pitching is going now that the year is moving into what promises to be a long, hot summer. 

As you can see, starting pitching is decaying in quality in both leagues. (Some of this is due to the fact that certain teams--the Twins, the Royals, and the four NL suspects mentioned earlier--are getting even worse; but 21 of baseball's thirty teams have an elevated starting pitcher ERA in June.)

Batting average is rising, but there is a seesaw effect in the game right now that has to do with differences in ballparks: thus far in June, it's been a month where the more hitter-hospitable parks have been in play. That will change over the next couple of weeks, so we'll have to check back with the final June numbers to see how it plays out.

Relief pitcher performance is showing a pattern that is much more mixed: NL teams are showing an overall improvement in June, while AL relievers are following their starters into a pronounced funk. If such a pace continues, we might wind up with one of the more pronounced performance differences between the leagues in quite some time (and it won't simply be due to the fact that the NL went back to having pitchers bat, either: that's another canard from that Tango Love Pie™ perpetual deflection machine). 

While the Rays are currently gaining ground on their AL opponents due to the continuation of a stellar run from their bullpen, there are three teams in the NL that are receiving similarly inspired work this month: the Giants (whose press corps has been bemoaning the pen as a weak link since Opening Day); the Cubs (using their bullpen as a primary way to stay in the see-saw race in the NL Central); and the Brewers, who've been waiting for a highly touted relief corps to snap back into shape in order to hold off the Cubs and the now-fading Cardinals.

Injuries are likely to dominate the ultimate outcome of 2021's embattled baseball season, as opposed to the so-called "new steroids" that are hardly the cause (and barely the symptom) of baseball's ongoing hiccup. A saving grace of such uncertainty is that there appear to be no behemoth aggregations lumbering around in either league in '21--no '17 Astros, '18 Red Sox, or '20 Dodgers--a fact that might keep several seemingly unlikely contenders in the chase all the way into the homestretch, an occurrence that would help redeem at least some of what continues to plague a game that has been modeled, Moneyballed, and moralized into the fetal position over a five-year span of ignominy. It is little comfort that baseball has been matched during this by a nation gorging itself on distortion, innuendo, and arrogant self-loathing. As Adam Marsland so eloquently sang, what the world (and baseball) needs now is a good deus ex machina. As we await such an unpredictable prospect, let's say to one another what Bacall said to Bogie in Dark Passage: "Close your eyes, and cross your fingers."

Thursday, April 22, 2021


The "must pitch to three batters" rule that has been implemented as part of Rob Manfred's desire to speed up the game created a certain amount of consternation when the decision was made to make it permanent. 

(Cue the obligatory line about death and taxes here...) 

It was another one of those rule changes made in a vacuum, without any meaningful data analysis--an occurrence not so shocking in the days of yore (remember the 1962 strike zone change, the game's General Custer moment) but strikingly out of character in the age of Big Data.

Some suggested that a key component of the manager's toolkit was being stripped from them, that this was a bridge too far (yada yada--what the hell, let's throw in a "yabba dabba do" too, just to stay in practice), and that a time-honored baseball strategy was being tossed to the wolves for the sake of a measure that would, at best, shave off three percent from the game's ever-lengthening duration.

OF course, the question of just what constitutes "time-honored" is one of those elusive, elastic concepts that baseball likes to reference even as it is shredding its own history at a rate approaching the game's ongoing avalanche of charred elbow ligaments. But thanks to the heroic data parsing practiced by the folks at Forman et fils (you know it as, we can actually look at the phenomenon of the one-batter pitching appearance as it has evolved over all that "time-honored" time.

Well, at least back to 1905, anyway, which is the current limit of play-by-play data. And when we do that (the table above), we see that it took quite a bit of time to get to the type of rampant use of one-batter pitching appearances to which we've become so unconsciously accustomed. (It also took quite a bit of time to amass 47,286 one-batter pitcher appearances...)

The numbers in red show the movement upward (whenever the total number of such appearances represented a new record). The decade totals at the right show the major jumps for one-batter pitching appearances occurring in the 1960s and the 1990s, with the trends going into a kind of steady state increase in the first two decades of our current see-saw century.

Now don't be fooled by that drastic drop in 2020--remember that we only had a 60-game schedule last year (for some reason or another). To see how much the "must pitch to three batters" rule affected the number of one-batter appearances (which can still happen, of course: the rule's "out clause"--heh, heh--is that it evaporates once the inning ends...more on this shortly), we need to recast this data into the number of appearances per team per year.

Which we have done with the table on the right. When the data is adjusted to take into account the number of teams in MLB over the years, and we prorate 2020 to a full season, we see that the employment rate of one-batter pitching appearances (22.9) dropped a bit less than 50% from MLB's average in the previous decade (40.2).

So--as we note in the title of this blog entry--the one-batter reliever (sometimes referred to by that lamentably juvenile sobriquet "the LOOGY") is not following the carrier pigeon into extinction.

Now just why is this the case? Because, as noted above, the loophole in the rule referencing the "end of an inning" still permits managers to roll the dice with the "face one batter" scenario at certain points--with two outs, mostly; but also with one out and men on, where the pitcher can plausibly have a shot at inducing a double play.

All of that, too, can be measured--but we really don't want to write a long blog entry on this today--too much work to do on our sequel to "The Flintstones" movie, tentatively entitled "Yabba Dabba Do 2"--so we'll conclude with data at least as granular as those stone wheels Fred and Barney used to make spin back in the neolithic age. There's a lot of wonderful, arcane data to be had in this nether region, and we'll get to it eventually. But just know now that the one-batter pitching appearance is still alive and reasonably well, as our last diagram for the day will demonstrate.

This is the daily log of one-batter pitching appearances thus far in 2021. We have exactly three weeks worth of data to work with--and as you can see, there have been a total of 74 such appearances thus far. These remain daily occurrences (only this past Sunday--4/18, to be exact--did teams manage to go through an entire slate of games without the tactic being employed). 

Of course, it is now impossible to employ the one-batter pitching appearance tactic more than once in an inning, as was once the case (Bruce Bochy, former manager of the San Francisco Giants, one of the most prolific practitioners of this tactic, once employed it four times in a single inning). But it remains a popular and relatively prolific practice nonetheless--and successful, too: note the boxes with the extra thick lines, which show us the games where the one-batter pitcher wound up with a decision in the game. The black double box represents a win for the one-batter pitcher in question; the red double box represents a loss. That's right: the reliever record for (the small subset of) games in which one-batter pitchers get the decision is 4-1. (And at some later point we will show you that this is actually not a small sample size fluke...)

There were 205 one-batter pitching appearances in April 2019. Right now we are on pace for 104 of these in April 2021. So the rough estimate we saw early, that the rule change has caused a 50% drop (as opposed to the 100% that some alarmist--they know who they are!--were suggesting), seems to be on target. Only Texas, Detroit and those phabulous Phillies are--thus far, at least--attempting to go the way of the saber-toothed tiger. Come on in, guys: the one-batter tactic is still as wet and wild as ever...

Wednesday, March 31, 2021


Given the omnivorous direction that baseball is taking as it becomes both a home run derby and a cattle call for a bunch of hulking men formerly called relief pitchers, it is probably fitting that the 2021 season opens tomorrow on April Fools' Day. 

As all that gets underway amidst many lingering uncertainties (including whether or not the Hall of Fame can take a cue from "Georgia Peach" Brian Kemp and suppress enough votes to keep Dick Allen out of the Hall of Fame indefinitely...) we thought the best way to get into the spirit of things would be to take a look at just how recent this "home run hypertrophy" really is.

One wonders how far the ball would've traveled if
"Slamming Sidney" had leaned into one...

And, as you'll see, it really is quite recent, much in the way that racism joined with fascism in America in what ought to be a suicide pact but for now is still working on divesting itself of its lingering sympathy for the devil. It doesn't appear that baseball is anywhere near that precipice yet--it will probably find a cliff of its own from which to hurl itself a bit later in this coming decade...

But enough of all this (typically) cheery talk. Let's get to the numbers, shall we, after which we can all be really depressed! In 2019, the Yankees set a staggering record that might not get broken until--well, maybe this August. They hit 74 home runs in a single month! [As an assist to the impossibly cheerful Sarah Langs, the good-will ambassador of the long ball, the progression of the "most HRs in a month" record is as follows: 1947 Giants, 55 (July); 1987 Orioles, 58 (May), tied by the 1999 Mariners (June); 2019 Mariners, 60 (April); 2019 Yankees, 74 (August).]

This led to...well, you already know what this (has) led to--research, followed by remorse and regret. As Sidney Greenstreet (should have) said, "We need to know what we need to know"--and, as the table below shows you, we needed to know that teams have hit 50 or more HRs in a month a total of 85 times in MLB history. 

The distribution of these 50+ HR months is likely to give (at least some of you) pause. For what the chart depicts is the fact that of these 85 50+ HR months, 71 of them have occurred since 1995. That's 84% of the total occurrences in just the past 25 years.

And it gets worse. In tandem with Trumpism, what we've taken to calling "mastoid homeritis" manifested itself as an acute symptom in 2017, took a breather in the backstretch the following year, and returned in full virulence in 2019, providing a premonitory pandemic of 50+ HR seasons the likes of which had not been seen since the Dark Ages. 18 incidences of "bubonic tateraphasia" were noted in 2019, where flying bats became so rabidly prevalent that they jumped the shark and started a worldwide scourge.

Clearly, of course, this phenomenon has been building since the mid-90s, but seemed to have been held in check as late as 2016. Since then, however, there have been 33 such incidences, a total comprising nearly 40% of all known occurrences of "amyotrophic launch angle sclerosis." [Note that the first incidence of ALAS occurs the year before Lou Gehrig's tragic ALS diagnosis--a coincidence? Our pseudo-scientific raised eyebrow is frozen in place...]

Of course, some of you (including the unbelievably chipper Ms. Langs) want to know more about the contours of all this, convinced that by wearing those paltry (but pesky) masks you will not be infected by a contagion that would have made Abelard swear off Eloise (literally) for life. So we donned our hospital greens, took the obligatory big day of losses at the track fueling the betting habits of Vince Edwards (also known as the "neurosurgeon of nags") and compiled some details that you may find morbidly fascinating.

We looked at which month the 50+ "bug" took hold. Since the chart for that is lengthier than the amount of comic material we can possibly invent to fill up the required space to display it, we summarize before punting on third down: the most favored month for 50+ HR incidences is August, with 27 (nearly one-third of the full sample). The rest of the months are virtually identical: September (which includes regular season games in October) has 14, May and July each have 13, June has 12. April has only six, but this makes sense because baseball wasn't always brazen enough to start its season on April Fools' Day.

So the other chart we will actually display here (and that is running along the right side at this very moment!) relates to the reference in our titles, as you'll see shortly. What you are looking at is a breakout of 50+ HR months by team, which is compiled by decade beginning in the 1930s (recall that the first 50+ HR month occurred in 1938, and was accomplished by--that's right--Lou Gehrig's Yankees).

And so you won't be surprised to discover that those Bronx Bombers have the most such months, with an even dozen. You will probably follow us in an eyebrow-raise about the #2 team: those ever-mischievous Twins, who set a record of their own by having five 50+ HR months in the same season in 2019. 

Trailing the Yanks and Twins are three teams (Braves, Orioles, Dodgers) who each have six. The Dodgers and Twins have the most incidences in the past eleven years: six.

This chart shows the major culprits (or carriers, if you want to stay "clinical" about it) in bringing about this pandemic of Mister Potato Head baseball in the past quarter-century. And keep in mind that while 2020 had only five such incidences of 50+ HR months, they only had two months to work with. Unless someone has surreptitiously loosened the seams on the baseball while we were sweating out the winter of Trumpublican discontent, we're likely to see at least a dozen such incidences in 2021 (barring any interruptions in play, of course.)

Note also that this has been a predominantly American League phenomenon, as the breakout at the bottom of the chart makes clear.

And finally--why is the "50 Homer A Month" club void in five states? Well, there are six teams who've yet to have a 50+ HR month. Reading from the top of the table: Diamondbacks, Tigers, Royals, Marlins, Phillies, and Pirates. So the club cannot "incorporate" in five states: Arizona, Michigan, Missouri, Florida and Pennsylvania. (How about that? Four swing states, and the "purported home" of Josh Hawley.) Let's let the homer suppression begin in those beleaguered locations, shall we?

Wednesday, January 27, 2021


Class of 1984: George
Orwell approved...
These will be brief--we promise. We'll start with the Hall of Fame: it was a weak year for new potential candidates, with roughly 3% of the votes cast for that group. Weak but not historically weak: that would be years like 1976 or 1984, where no votes were cast for new candidates. 

Such lulls often propel candidates already under scrutiny over the top and into the Hall: 1984 was an example of that, with the vacuum of the new bringing Harmon Killebrew, Don Drysdale and Luis Aparicio over the induction line, and paving the way for Hoyt Wilhelm to make the leap in 1985. (A fifth player, Nellie Fox, nearing the tail end of his eligibility, just missed, topping out at 74% in 1986.)

No over-and-in for anyone in '21, however. Three controversial candidates--Curt Schilling, Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds--barely had the needle move from the previous year and will have their final BBWAA reckoning in '22. That permitted leaps for viable candidates such as Scott Rolen and Todd Helton, subtle-but-worthy candidates like Billy Wagner and Gary Sheffield (somehow not now as controversial as Manny Ramirez...), and cult phenomena such as Andruw Jones

Due to the logjam of candidates in 2014-19, Rolen, Sheffield, Wagner and Jones are all bidding to jump from 7-12% first-year voter support all the way to Cooperstown, something done only in the primordial days of the HOF ballot process. Our best guess is that Rolen, Helton and Wagner will make it, while Sheffield and Jones will not.

Our semi-clandestine hope is that Tim Hudson, who just barely stayed on the ballot (5.2%) in his first year, will find someone inside the baseball putsch to champion him. All Hudson did was win ballgames: he and Carl Mays are the only two pitchers with 200+ wins and a .600+ WPCT who are not in the Hall. That may seem absurdly "old school" to the "too cool" folks who continue to ram defective "advanced metrics" down people's throats, but Hudson has a number of other attributes to buttress his case: he just needs the right PR. If he were to somehow make the leap, he will have done so from the lowest first-year vote percentage in modern history.

Now on to a no-doubt first-ballot  "inner circle" Hall of Famer: let's call him
Mister Aaron
(in honor of Mister Tibbs). He's no longer first in the consolidated player listings (reliever Dave Aardsma now occupies that slot) but his passing a few days ago at age 86 brought back a multitude of memories that aren't reconcilable with today's longball longueurs. In 1966, when Aaron's team moved to Atlanta, no one expected the steady slugger to challenge Babe Ruth's home run record. 

But with a finishing kick at a phase in his career (ages 36-39) that no one had ever approached to that point, Aaron pushed his way past age (and racial prejudice) to put himself in position to overtake the game's most storied slugger. He hit 159 HRs over those four years (1970-73)--16 more than Ruth, 43 more than Ted Williams, and 73 more than Willie Mays. (Barry Bonds now holds the record, with 209--though some consider that tainted.)

#713, hit September 29, 1973,
off Jerry Reuss
The finishing kick reached its glorious apex during the last two months of the 1973 season, a phenomenon that we've not seen discussed anywhere else. At the start of '73, Aaron was channeling those stultifying Three "True" Outcomes, posting a surreal slash line of .125/.300/.411 for April. (That's still surreal, even in our funhouse mirror age.) He had a fine May, regressed in June, and on July 6th he was still hitting just .231. From that point on to the end of the season, Aaron then proceeded to hit .392, with 19 HR in 205 plate appearances, slugging .789 (!) and posting a 1.263 OPS. Four years before Star Wars, Henry Aaron was a Force unto himself.

In a time before easy access to up-to-the-minute occurrences, Aaron's incredible run over the last three months of 1973 was beyond electrifying. Eddie Mathews, his manager and long-time teammate, was scrupulous about resting Aaron, who played in only 120 games en route to a 40-homer season at age 39; and as he moved ever closer to the Babe's mark, there were folks who were annoyed when he wasn't in the lineup during September--when he was less than ten homers back. During this stretch, however, he reminded us that he was a truly great hitter and not just a slugger. On the second-to-last day of the season, he hit #713 and the world hung on every pitch the next day, when Aaron faced off against Houston Astros lefty Dave Roberts (not the Dodgers' current manager).

Aaron went 3-for-4 and raised his season average to .301, but they were all singles and the world would have to (that's right) wait 'til next year for the stirring finish to a tale worthy of Homer (no pun intended). As Watergate simmered its way to a boil, Hank Aaron was the hottest hitter you've even seen--and if you were lucky enough to see it, you will never forget it. Thank you, Mister Aaron, and may infinite flights of angels sing you to a most well-deserved rest. 

Monday, December 7, 2020


Alas, Dick Allen's passing (earlier today, at age 78) will not be the final act of cruelty imposed upon America in 2020, but it will be as emblematic as any that have occurred in this Year of the Plague.

The Hall of Fame will doubtless rectify its egregious long-standing moral and analytical error and induct Dick sometime next year, but the damage has been done. As with Ron Santo--the player we suggested long, long ago who should have been inducted along with Dick as one of the greatest possible "healing moments" in baseball history--the creaky mavens of privileged idiocy have once again managed to find a way to avert their gaze from an unconscionable injustice.

In Dick's case, of course, the miscreants at the Hall (and the toadies they employ to do their execrable bidding) went out of their way to bar the could call it "voter suppression" and--as some like to say, glibly--"be in the ballpark." Not only did they give him a leering lap-dance in 2014, leaving him just one vote short of induction, they then changed the voting schedule to ensure the greatest possible length of time between elections in which he was eligible.

That brought us to 2020. And, of course, with a pandemic underway, the Hall decided it was really more aligned with football than baseball and punted again, postponing this year's Veterans Committee vote even though other voting functions related to baseball were able to conduct their efforts without undue difficulty.

Nothing overt,  of course: just the drip, drip, drip of a kind of cultural water torture that now appears to be the focal point of a nation incapable of reconciling with anything that happened in le decade maudit: the 1960s. A decade of black hope and black anger, and backlash against black anger that, six decades later, is still shamefully being used to further undermine a nation leveraged by its own greed and self-absorption.

To his immense credit, Dick Allen moved beyond the traumas that surrounded his baseball career. He knew that he'd conjured the furies around himself, simply by being his own man. Controversy would always surround him, so he mastered a Zen-like repose when it came to the Hall of Fame. Ironically, "pandemic ball" might have been the perfect environment for him--less access to reporters and fans, and more of an opportunity to focus on the Tao of baseball.

But then much of Dick's insolent charm might never have surfaced. When he is not whitewashing Bill James for his reprehensible perspective on black anger that he scurrilously projected on Dick Allen, Joe Posnanski is able to remind us of how clever and quotable Dick was, despite carrying the burden of what we once injudiciously termed "the angry Negro problem." Perhaps white folks are scared witless by the prospect of African-American unrest because deep down they know that it is entirely justifiable, and their need to deny this is strong enough for them to vote for racists and fascists with a kind of glassy-eyed impunity.

Dick's acts of defiance were not violent, they were creative. He would create an overwrought reaction simply by tracing the word "no" in the dirt next to first base. His absences, through injury or ill-fated injunction, were always larger than life: he provoked great wit in those who sought to disparage him, and instead revealed his immense magnitude (example: the 1969 jibe about men landing on the moon and finding Dick Allen there). 

He'd merely followed the trajectory of his own moon-shots, of course. And he played just as hard as he hit the ball, which resulted in injuries that wore him down and caused him to turn further inward. Three times he tried to come back too soon (1970, 1973, 1976): the first two of these episodes, which resulted in additional time off the field, cemented him in the minds of many as a malingerer. His career was less than it might have been, but what there was of it was still magnificent; but nothing Dick Allen achieved would ever be good enough for those who'd typecast him and looked for ways to justify ostracizing him from the Hall of Fame.

So--here we are. Dick has died, but Dick lives on. He will always be a living embodiment of baseball as a lightning rod for the hopes of an entire people, searching for an authentic identity--terms that are now so cynically castigated in the current theatre of American cruelty. There have been some interesting characters since Allen walked away from baseball who have captured a fragment of Dick's sly swagger: Jose Canseco, Albert Belle, Manny Ramirez, Gary Sheffield. But they don't possess the eternal cultural resonance that Dick learned, over time, to wear lightly, in the hope that it might eventually be a path for healing. 

The Hall of Fame is, again, a Hall of Shame. Surely they will induct Dick soon, adding one more bedpost notch in the ongoing nadir of American hypocrisy. It is up to us to transcend all that, and transcend the disease that is crippling America. Let's do it for Dick: nothing would make him happier to know that a troubled nation could learn how to heal by following the path of a man marching to a different drummer. 

Monday, November 16, 2020


 The future of baseball is predicated, of course, on the United States surviving (and thus having expelled from the White House) the nation's ironic, cataclysmic Anti-Christ. We (yes, it's back to "we" for this post...) remain cautiously optimistic, thus we will suggest how to save baseball from its own bestial force of reason with a series of changes that go beyond our fateful yet fanciful "190-foot rule." 

Not that we expect much (if any) of it to happen as we are about to lay it out, but everyone is entitled to his/her fantasy so long as they don't try to impose it on others.

What will baseball in 2024 need (aside from the 190-foot rule, of course)? An infusion of cash. Since there is a chance for another "altered" season in '21, things could actually start to get a little tight. That cash can easily come from expansion, and the view here is that 2024 is the year to add two teams. 

Our choices for those two teams: Montreal and Charlotte. The reason for this will become clear immediately, particularly if you refer back to the title of this post ("four leagues").

Yes, four leagues. We need a bigger change, something signaling that the game is actually moving into the twenty-first century.

The leagues are geographic in structure. We propose that they look like this:

EASTERN LEAGUE: Red Sox, Yankees, Mets, Phillies, Blue Jays, Pirates, Orioles, Montreal.

SOUTHERN LEAGUE: Braves, Rays, Marlins, Astros, Rangers, Nationals, Reds, Charlotte.

MIDWEST LEAGUE: Royals, Twins, Cardinals, Cubs, White Sox, Brewers, Indians, Tigers.

WESTERN LEAGUE: Dodgers, Giants, A's, Padres, Angels, Mariners, Rockies, Diamondbacks.

We'll get to how the post-season works shortly. The eight-team league will combine with interleague play in a way that will allow a few geographical rivalries to continue. (Most of the game's long-term rivalries, such as Yankees-Red Sox, Cubs-Cardinals, Dodgers-Giants, are retained in the redistribution of teams into the four leagues.) Each team plays 18 games against its seven league rivals, which covers 126 games. Each team will then play a home/away series with six other teams, probably two from each of the three other leagues, which adds another 36 games, bringing us back to a 162-game schedule.

We're not interested in divisional play with an eight-team league structure. It's more sporting to have eight team leagues, which brings the twenty-first century back to a variation of the game's original formulation. In that way, baseball retains one of its key elements: a sense of the past embedded in the present and future.

The top three finishers in each league advance to the post-season. But wait: there is a wrinkle here, another idea from a different context in the past that needs to be implemented to create some responsiveness to uncertainties and anomalies that could crop up in the league standings. Consider: it's possible for one league to have teams finishing fourth or fifth that have better overall season records than the teams finishing third in their league. We should accommodate any such team(s) who find themselves in such a situation. 

We're thinking of the long-lost "fairness doctrine" that used to provide some checks/balances on American media. While we're not holding our breath for a return of that in the next four years, we can at least incorporate a variant of it somewhere in our public life. Baseball is probably the least unlikely choice. 

So, the initial round, which may or may not happen depending on how orderly the order of finish is within leagues, could be called the "fairness round," but (as Jim Bouton would say if he were here) that "sounds horseshit" so we'll just stick with the "wild card round." Here are how the rounds work in this setup:

Wild card/"fairness" round: Any fourth/fifth place finishers with better season records than third place finishers in other leagues will play a one-game sudden death advancement game, opponents to be determined at random. This gets us a slate of "third place" teams for the next round.

First round: 3rd place teams (or winners from a wild card round) will play best-of-3 series against the second place finishers. (If a fourth place team plays and beats a second-place team, the third place team gets the home field advantage.) Note that this round will be assigned at random, and will not be based on playing within leagues: this will have an interesting possible ramification at the end of the process.

By the way, we should note that all of the rounds up to but not including the World Series will be played at a neutral site. 

Second round, aka the "division series": First round winners play the 1st place teams in a best-of-5 series.

Third round, aka the "championship": The four surviving teams from the second round play best-of-7 series.

Fourth round, aka the World Series: played in the home parks of the participants. We leave it open as to whether the series is best-of-7, or best-of-9 as it was briefly in the 1920s.

Note that such a structure brings us into a twenty-first century scenario (similar to a more fanciful, free-wheeling version of this scenario that we proposed back in the 1995 Big Bad Baseball Annual) where the World Series opponents would be teams from the same league. Let's be honest, all you East Coasters out there: would it not blow your mind if the Yankees and the Red Sox were actually to meet in the World Series? We thought so. 

We had a few other ideas for the post-season, such as creating an post-season slot for the team that has the best record in interleague play (remember, 36 games, so it's more of a presence than ever before) if it isn't already in the playoffs (if applicable). That would add a "wild card vs. wild card" opening salvo á la what we currently have with the second wild card team.

There are a few other matters that need to disposed of before we can put all of this into action. First, we have to decide what to do about the designated hitter. The proposal here is to rotate the DH through the leagues on a yearly basis, probably in this order of application: Eastern, Midwest, Southern, Western. When a league is the DH league, all of its games are DH games, including interleague games at home. But interleague games between the unassigned leagues will not use the DH. Intraleague games in unassigned leagues will add some spice to the application of the rule by flipping a coin before each game: heads, they play using the DH; tails, they play without it. Such an approach will allow the DH to exist in all leagues, but in varying degrees/amounts, which should satisfy all constituencies.

Second--and tying in with part one of this post--we have a proposal for how to incorporate the "190-foot rule" into the game. (The rule has been featured here on a number of occasions, including the next post down in our blog sequence.) Our plan would be to rotate it through the leagues over an eight-year period and let public opinion carry the day. We would begin in the Western League for purely selfish reasons: we live in the West and we don't want to have to travel very far to see this rule in action! It would be in play for two years there, then moved to the Midwest League for two years, followed by a stint in the Southern League, and then finally to the East Coast (where they make too many decisions for the rest of the country as it is).

There is more to such a reform, of course, than just the 190-foot rule. Since ballpark dimensions are now highly fixed by postmodern stadium design, additional measures to curb HRs will be needed to reorient things so that the teams in the 2024 Western League will be participating in what we might call the "ball-in-play league." This involves a variation of the approach adopted by the Los Angeles Dodgers when they first moved west; forced to play in a football stadium with a 250-foot left field foul line, they erected a 40-foot screen to curtail home runs. (One shudders to think what the homer count would've been had they not done so...)

So teams in the Western League will be asked to do the same thing from the foul poles to the power alleys, in order to curtail HRs. The target result is a reduction of HRs by 35%, which would take things from 1.28 HR/G (the MLB average in 2020) down to roughly .90--a figure that, unimaginably, is the mid-point between the HR/G average in 2013 and 2014. (As we've all learned the hard way, four years can create a lot of havoc.)

Such a change would likely drive doubles up to a per-game average at or near a major league record (1.93, set in 1930). The shape of XBH in the Western League would likely be at serious odds with those in the other leagues (for example: 1.93 2B/0.44 3B/.90 HR in the Western League; 1.59 2B/0.15 3B/1.25 HR elsewhere). The differences in style of play will be immediately apparent.

Of course, underlying issues with offensive strategy may still need adjustment. As Brock Hanke points out, a total change in style of play cannot occur until hitters, hitting coaches and the various appendages of what we like to call "analytical amuck" address the radical approaches implemented over the past five years and its relationship to the 25+% uptick in strikeouts over the past decade. Putting balls in play will increase batting average--and despite the ongoing groupthink suffocation about the meaninglessness of BA, the chart at right makes it clear that, all else being roughly equal, teams with higher BA score more runs. (Strikeouts are not quite so linear in their behavior, but Hanke's general notion is only mitigated by this, and not refuted.)

We noted in the previous post that a shift in analytic thinking needs to occur, and such a need is becoming more desperate as time goes on. The shift from applying actions to theories that push baseball further into the invidious "Three True Outcomes" clusterf*ck (there is no other word that will really do, folks...) to applying controls that can stabilize run scoring without the type of extreme performance shape that has manifested itself from 2017 on is barely on the horizon line of those who either run the game or participate in the increasing "embedded discourse" that is providing justification for the existence of teams that hit under .220 for an entire season.

Indeed, the most under-reported fact of the 2020 season (of course, much was going on in and around baseball to assist in keeping the news under wraps...) is that so many teams hit in the vicinity of the so-called Mendoza Line. The 1972 Texas Rangers were last team to reside in this area, an event that was at least partly responsible for the introduction of the DH rule in the American League the following year. All of the various ups/downs in offensive levels that had occurred in the nearly half a century since then had never managed to produce a team that cracked the Bottom 20 in team batting average.

As the table at right demonstrates, all that changed in 2020. No less than five teams smashed their way onto the list, including four teams that pinballed their way into the top (er, bottom...) ten. We still have eight teams from the low point of the deadball era (1908-10) on the list, and there are still seven teams from the "second deadball era" (1963-72) residing in the mire. They've been joined, however, by five teams from 2020 whose best excuse is that a somewhat colder-than-usual September took the wind out of their sails and influenced their numbers more because of the length of the season.

We'll find out about this trend for sure over the next couple of years, but we would caution you if you decide to bet against it. We've crossed a threshold here, and while HRs will doubtless remain all too plentiful, many of the other type of hits will continue to wither away before our eyes. For the Rangers, they have some rueful symmetry in play, with their first team in Dallas and their most recent season being tied for fifth worst team BA. That's an achievement that a franchise can truly hang its ten-gallon hat on, n'est-ce pas? Backing away from the populist hegemony of those "Three True Outcomes" may be as difficult as tamping down the neo-fascist insurgency, but what makes it that much more unsettling is realizing that the folks tearing at the fabric of baseball are clearly supposed to be able to know better. What we present here is a path through the forest: it is still an open question as to whether anyone will decide to change direction and see where it can take us. As we like to say at this point: stay tuned.

Tuesday, November 10, 2020


For years now, folks have crossed to the other side of the street (and some have even run down alleys á la Dr. Richard Kimble in a claiming race vs. the insane Lt. Gerard...) whenever the subject of my 190-foot rule would rear its ugly head. The ultimate denial of the idea that is destined to save baseball in spite of itself is manifested in a conspiracy of silence that even those who still nod at me as I take a wild-eyed morning walk with two desperately straining dachshunds (yes, even they are trying to escape my infernal penumbra...) are desperate to cling to as they swallow hard and quicken their pace. (One fellow even flagged down an Uber without using his phone... a sign of serious desperation.)

So apparently the 190-foot rule actually applies to me--and not, as I'd been mistakenly believing for all these years, to a nifty innovation that can both heal all wounds and wound all heels as we try to at least make something work the way it should in this cockeyed caravan we call America. (Why baseball? Why not?) I would claim to be bloodied but unbowed, but such a cliché is particularly meaningless since folks are running away before they can even take a swing at that's respect!

Of course, at this moment in time, as COVID rates are rising even faster than the HR/G averages (no mean feat, by the way...) a 190-foot rule is only good sense, but perhaps as you read this third graf of bemused complaint you are wondering just what the hell I am babbling about. Basically, it's all about triples and how to get more of them.

Which was why, as I wrote up a blueprint for baseball in 2024, I was startled when Bill James, who has morphed into a fearsomely formidable Twitterer over the past several years, finally got around to a burning question that touches upon the need for triples (a need that is fully as desperate as the need for folks to flee my presence--mostly on land, but I did see a guy positively wracked with fear racing away from me in a power boat the other day...)

Ahem...yes, the need for triples. You've all known it, but there's been a conspiracy of silence about that, too. Bill (who is 74.47% worse at keeping his big yap shut than I am, which actually strains all but the most sensitive measurement systems) finally decided to poll his Twitter tribe about triples. You can see his question over at the left. The results might surprise you, but more likely it will resonate with you. 

So...given this blog's extravagant, intransigent proselytizing for the three-base hit and how to save them from the slow extinction that the post-neo age of quant quackery is slowly imposing, it's now apparent that more than two-thirds of you have actually been running toward me--even if you were doing it by way of asynchronous orbit. As with most complicated relationships (Kimble and Gerard, Keynes and Hayek, Kim Kardashian and her brassiere collection), you just didn't know that the person you were shunning and defiling was actually your soulmate. After all, remember what William Carlos Williams said. (You say you can't remember? Remind me to remind you...) want triples. (Say this with a Yiddish accent to get into the proper mood.) We got 'em...guaranteed. It's simple, even though it's yours truly at his most cheekily convoluted (or, as he so often says: is that vice-versa?). March down the left field foul line (we've had enough of right field to last a lifetime, thank you...) until you are 190 feet away from home plate. Draw a looping line across the field until you reach the other foul line. This is the line that sets up the way we triple the number of triples in the game.

Before the game begins, the managers and umps exchange lineups and pleasantries. In our newfangled game that brings back a forgotten old favorite (the folks in the 1890s took triples for granted...) they also decide which half-inning each team will have to take the field with their centerfielder tucked inside that 190-foot line without benefit of any other outfield shifting. 

What does that do? It creates a great deal of additional open space for balls in play to land safely in regions where they will make it much more likely that the batter will get three bases on a long hit than only two. 

Of course you also have to either deaden the ball or erect screens in front of the bleachers from the foul poles to the power alleys to cut down on the obscene number of home runs, because the current shape of extra-base hits per game (1.54 2B-0.12 3B-1.38 HR) is an abomination only slightly less catastrophic than climate change. I'm figuring that such a rule, even applied to each team for just one half-inning, in conjunction with HR-retarding outfield screens, will alter the shape of extra-bases per game to something like 1.76 2B-0.44 3B-0.88 HR.

You might notice something in that projected shape...note that there would be twice as many HRs as triples, and twice as many doubles as HRs. That is the "golden ratio" that the "statistical social engineers" of baseball should attempt to impose upon the game's "extra-base shape." 

Why can't we just fix the ball, you ask? Because we will have a death valley for offense when a deadened ball reduces HRs. It's clear that the ball was juiced after pitcher adjustments in 2013-14 brought run scoring levels in the league back toward 1960s levels. That, along with "launch angle" and a singularly unimaginative emphasis on relief pitchers with meagre repertoires, has given us the two-dimensional game that fans are starting to run away from as if the game--well, if the game had transformed into your favorite social pariah...

What about larger ballparks? A non-starter...look at the parks that have been built. Like much in post-postmodern America, they have less than the bare minimum of flexibility built into their workings. There is simply no way to alter the ballparks to achieve larger outfields.

But you can shrink the number of outfielders to create a different path to the same thing (which, come to think of it, could be the motto for America). You don't have to do it in every inning, of course--that would be too much of a good thing (and you know what that can lead to...) 

A "190-foot" rule just might put Owen "Chief"
Wilson's triples record (36) within reach..

To finish with how the rule is implemented: after those lineups and pleasantries, the head ump pulls out a six-sided die, similar to the ones that send you home from Vegas with a seriously thin wallet. It has some combination of these four numerals on it: 3, 4, 5, 6. He hands it to the visiting manager or his factotum, who rolls it. Let's say a "5" comes up. That means that the visitors will have to conform to the 190-foot rule and move their centerfielder into "short field" position in the bottom of the fifth. Remember, in this inning they cannot move an infielder into the outfield.

Then the home team rolls the die again. Let's say they roll a "4." That means that they will have to conform to the 190-foot rule in the top of the fourth, when they are in the field. 

Probabilities suggest that, via this rule, there will be an additional triple hit by one of the teams in every other ballgame. That will roughly "triple the number of triples" that are hit. 

And the innings in which the rule is in force will produce a kind of anticipation in the ballpark that is as palpable as it unique. These half-innings will have a completely different dynamic: a new randomness and variability will be generated that will keep both the teams and the fans on their toes. 

Remember, 68% of those who responded to James' Twitter poll said they'd rather see a triple than a home run. Clearly this number has risen significantly in recent times--one doubts that such a poll would be tilted in such a way during a period in baseball history that wasn't so egregiously saturated with homers. But it signals that my idea is not quite so outlandish or out of touch as all of you folks still crossing the street to avoid me might first think. I don't care if I remain a social pariah just so long as I save baseball from its own torpor. 

Oh, yes--there's something in the title of this post about "four leagues," isn't there? We'll get back to that. But if you think this is crazy, just wait--all of you will be flagging down Ubers without a phone. 

Friday, September 4, 2020


Tom Seaver, who passed away earlier this week at age 75, is as iconic to the team he should have played for his entire career (the New York Mets) as Babe Ruth was to the Yankees. 

Ruth joined a good team in 1920 and helped it win seven pennants over fifteen years; Tom joined a team that lost 100+ games in five of its first six seasons and led it to a World Championship in its eighth year of existence. 

While there are greater pitchers in the history of the game (and you are free to supply your own names), Seaver is in the top ten--and he is a close second to Greg Maddux for being the most intelligent man to toe a pitching rubber. 

Rather than follow those who've already eulogized him as a pitcher and a human being, we'll spend some time here looking at Seaver's glorious beginnings with the Mets, using our favorite starting pitcher evaluation tool--the Quality Matrix (QMAX) to track his evolution from a highly effective 22-year old rookie to a Hall of Fame-level pitcher at age 24 (in that magical, mystical year of 1969).

We'll take a little time with the first chart to remind those of you who've been away from QMAX (and/or from this blog) just how the system works. Simply put, it uses hit prevention and walk prevention to create a performance matrix that classifies starting pitcher performance using each game as a separate unit. The best games (to the top and left of the QMAX matrix diagram) are the ones where pitchers prevent the most hits, walks--and, to a somewhat more variable extent, total bases (the system was enhanced once more detailed starting pitcher data became available thanks to Retrosheet). 

Note that these matrix regions do not use runs allowed in any way to make these evaluations. (Unlike, for example, Bill James' Game Scores.) Instead, the system concatenates all of the starts that meet the criteria for inclusion in each of the 49 performance slots in the matrix) and calculates the statistical data for each separately. The key data collected for the purposes of QMAX is the won-loss records for these matrix slots: by applying these to each individual pitcher's dataset, QMAX computes a probabilistic winning percentage for each pitcher. We call that the QMAX winning percentage, or QWP.

You'll see the extra data that is compiled from QMAX shortly; let's revisit the ranges on the QMAX matrix diagram using Seaver's 1967 performance grid as a guide to how the system works. Remembering that the upper left area of the chart is the region where the best games in hit/walk prevention occur, note the green box covering cells 1,1-2,2. This is what we've termed the "elite square," because pitchers win 88% of the games that fall in this region, while their teams win 79%. The greatest pitchers have their starts in this region with the greatest frequency. Seaver's total (eight) and percentage of total starts (8/34, or 24%) on his QMAX chart in 1967 (above left) is good but not great. 

The method is set up so that the "4" region spreading horizontally across the chart represents the starts where hit prevention is almost always equal to the number of innings pitched in any given start. (There are a few exceptions to this now that total bases and the ratio of total bases/hits is factored in, but it doesn't affect the modeling enough to perturb the results.) The yellow region surrounding the "elite square" is the area where pitchers and teams win more than 50% of the time, and was dubbed the "success square" (even though the 4, 4 cell is not part of this area and thus the region is not really a square). The 6 and 7 region shown in orange is the "hit hard" region: only the games at the far left of each row are games in which pitchers can still have a viable chance to win games, since they are often limiting walks and total bases. Seaver's percentage in the 6-7 region is 15% (5/34): again, very good, but not great. The eight starts in the "5" region, though, are somewhat high.

The ranges on the chart that are tabulated into percentages are thus: the "success square" (which incorporates the "elite square" to give a total positive percentage; the "elite square" (showing the propensity for best possible hit/walk prevention in each start; the "hit hard" region (how vulnerable to games with poor stuff and/or command); the "top hit prevention" region (the 1-2 rows on the matrix chart) which show how frequently batters find the pitcher especially difficult to hit; the "power precipice" (the box from 1,4-2,7) where pitchers who are not good at walk prevention may still prevail due to their ability to suppress hits; the "Tommy John" region (the box from 4,1-7,2) named after the man who frequently could allow more hits than innings pitched but still win games due to superior walk prevention).

These can all be collated into a table that shows what we call the "QMAX range data." (Or, sometimes, called "region data.") It provides a sense of performance shape in addition to value. Of course you can also average the individual scores (cell locations) for each start made by a pitcher in a season, which can then be compared to the league average. The lower a pitcher's average is, the better. For Seaver in 1967, his basic QMAX averages are 3.53 "S" and 2.65 "C." Again, these are good but not great numbers. The QMAX range data summary for Seaver's first three seasons show how he improved incrementally over his first three years in the big leagues. The combined QMAX score of 6.18 in 1967 has improved to 5.04 (remember, lower is better) in 1969. 

The "S" and "C " components show us that Seaver improved his hit prevention and walk prevention in '68, which improved his other range data percentages as well, shown by increases in "elite square percentage" and in games with excellent walk prevention--as measured in the "C1" percentage state (a column near the center of the table above). 

In another year, his 5.14 combined QMAX score would produce a higher QWP than .641; but 1968 was the year of the pitcher, and increased overall hit/walk prevention (and, of course, lower run scoring) decreases the value of these top games--pitchers and teams win fewer of them under such conditions--and this knocks down Seaver's QWP as a result. 

In 1969, hit/walk prevention values (and run scoring levels) increased, and the mound was lowered 5-6 inches in height. This seemed to affect Seaver in the early going, as his QMAX values declined (remember, higher is worse) to around the levels of his rookie year. In mid-May he began a streak of twelve starts that represented his best sustained performance rate to date (2.75 "S" and 2.17 "C" from May 21 to July 14). This included his near-perfect game on July 9, where he set down the first 25 Cub batters he faced before settling for a one-hit, 11-K shutout (a game that, yes, grades out in the 1,1 cell on the QMAX matrix chart).

The Mets had closed to within four games of the Cubs at this point, but Seaver's next three weeks were the roughest portion of the '69 season and coincided with a fade by the Mets such that they were 10 games back of the Cubs in mid-August. Seaver's QMAX score of 4.2 "S" and "3.2" C over those five starts included two "hit hard" games, created some concern for the health of his arm, and caused many to conclude that the Mets were not really ready to chase down the Cubs in the newly formed NL East.

But Seaver not only returned to form with his start on August 16, he began a streak of ten outings that are arguably as fine a streak as ever seen (a statement that includes extended hot streaks from such estimable names as Maddux, Sandy Koufax, Bob Gibson, and Pedro Martinez). 

In those ten games, Seaver threw five (5) 1,1 games, was in the "elite square" eight times (80%--as opposed to a league average of 14%), and produced a surreal .911 QWP. (His won-loss record over those ten starts is just about what you'd expect: 9-0.) 

Tom's "S" and "C" scores for these games: an otherworldly 1.4 "S" and 2.1 "C." Together with his left-handed counterpart, Jerry Koosman (2.4 "S" and 2.5 "C"), he carried the Mets into first place when the team was missing its best hitter (Cleon Jones--a topic we've covered in a previous post) for two weeks during the September stretch drive. That set the stage for the most unexpected outcome in the World Series in more than half a century.

That incredible finishing kick lifted Seaver's overall totals for 1969 into the realm of greatness, as he wound up with a .700 QWP for the year, with just under half his starts falling in the "elite square." His level of dominance as a power pitcher, as measured in his "top hit prevention" percentages (the ratio of total starts that grade out in the "1" and "2" rows of the QMAX matrix chart) increased from 35% in 1967 to 60% in 1969.

All in all, 1969 was the year that set up Tom Seaver for his Hall of Fame career that followed. We'll return with a look at the next six years of his career shortly, via the lens of QMAX. 

Thank you for your greatness both on and off the field, Mr. Tom Terrific--and rest in peace.

Sunday, August 16, 2020


Golden Ages are never what they're cracked up to be, for two reasons. First, those who tout them, even assiduous students of history with iron-clad methodologies, are either slaves to hierarchy or have a hidden agenda. Second, no one seems capable of determining that they are, in fact, living in such an exalted era during the time in which it occurs.

Or if they do proclaim a Golden Age in the present moment, we are strongly cautioned to return to reason number one: Ye Olde Hidden Agenda. That's why some folks (no names here: we'll let you find them on your own...) will proclaim that we are living in a Golden Age of home runs. But such things are not supposed to be, nor can they be, in reality, things that go on interminably. We've had a so-called Golden Age of homers since around 1994, give or take a lull in the early years of the last decade, when what we really are having is an extended pandemic of long balls that have finally begun to take their toll on baseball's version of an ecosystem.

And in that protracted, unyielding and ultimately insufferable and stultifying onslaught of homers, there was a true Golden Age that came into being unappreciated and virtually unseen. It took shape in the offensive explosion of the 1990s, flying under the radar as offense in general reached levels not seen in sixty years. But oddly--and somewhat gloriously--it sustained itself after the peak of that run-scoring explosion had passed. 

It was the Golden Age of doubles, the two-base hit--the Middle Way in the shape of offense. As the chart at right demonstrates, it was the longest and most consistent level of high achievement in the history of the game. And it passed us by after close to two decades of silent, unheeded existence.

The earlier peak levels for the two-base hit were much spikier, as the chart also shows us. The American League reached what we might call "Golden Age" territory first, shortly after the start of the live ball era in 1920, with the National League following suit in the run-up to 1930, the biggest offensive season in history for nearly seven decades.

But the NL falls off quickly from that pace, and despite another peak from the AL in 1936 we see the first Golden Age of doubles dissipate. Two-base hits become significantly less abundant for forty years, driven down by the game's first systemic uptick in homers, followed by the overcorrections imposed on offense in the sixties. A slow but steady uptick begins in the mid-1970s; doubles manage to hold their own through the roller-coaster ride for home runs as the 1980s play out. And so they are primed for a big jump when conditions for offense burst back into existence in 1993--with that Golden Age of doubles taking hold in both leagues shortly thereafter. It was a double-barreled Golden Age, as the chart demonstrates: it represented a uniform offensive strategy employed across both the AL and the NL.

We can look at this in another way--one that depicts the emphasis on hitting doubles as brought into play over the history of the game. The two tables displayed here show the number of teams hitting 300+ doubles in a season: the first table shows the raw number of teams in each year who meet or exceed that standard. From looking at the 2B/G chart, you'll not be surprised to see what is a nearly forty-year gap in teams hitting 300+ 2B's in a season (from 1941 to 1978). And the Golden Age of doubles as measured this way can be seen in the 1996-2009 time frame.

We can see it in a similar but possibly revealing formulation in the second chart (below right), which measures the percentage of possible teams hitting 300+ 2B's in a season across all these years. In 1996-97, teams approach the percentages achieved in the 1930-32 peak (30+% of all possible teams); they match it in 1998-99; and they take it to an unprecedented new level in 2000. They pretty much sustain that rate until 2008, whereupon the percentage of possible teams subsides. The 2010s are still stronger than any other time except for the 1930s, but the Golden Age is over. 

Of the 283 incidences of teams hitting 300+ 2B's, 222 of them (78%) have occurred since 1996; 173 of those (78% of that subset, and 61% of all such teams over baseball history) happened from 1996-2009. And it happened right under our noses. 

Of course, no team will come anywhere within a hemisphere of 300 2B's in 2020. But the chart at top shows an unprecedented drop in 2B/G occurring this year--not quite a stock market crash, but what folks in the financial world like to call a "correction." Is it a one-season blip, or has the emphasis on homers finally reached a tipping point for other forms of offense? We won't know the answer to that for awhile, but what we do know is that the Golden Age of doubles is not coming back anytime soon.