Fight Night at the Bingo Parlor
Not continued at all from last week, or the week prior.
I couldn't believe the woman had punched me. But there it was, blood dripping down my cheek, on to my bingo chips, scattered on the floor beneath me. It wasn't an overzealous call, because she was standing over me, menacing me. Her little poof of blue rinsed hair wobbled precariously atop her head, which seemed to be shaking with rage... or victory, I couldn't tell you which.
I'm a notorious bad judge of someone's emotional state, when I'm observing it from the floor. I don't have scientific data to back it up, but I would put the odds of me ever getting a read right from that position at none. I have never gotten it right.
Of course, going with my gut over empirical data I could crunch and present and use to put myself in a strong position to argue a point was what got me into trouble in the first place.
You see, she was what people like to call these days a sabremetrician. She'd read Moneyball. She played Strat-o-matic baseball in the 70s and 80s (heck, so did I, it's not a condemnation). She still filled out scorecards for every game she watched, on the television or otherwise. She took those scorecards and inputted them into a computer program after the game was over so she had a comprehensive database after the season was over to crunch. She sent letters to Theo Epstein and the guys, advising them on who she thought would be a good buy or trade over someone else.
And I, I had the gall to suggest that I still thought Jim Rice should have made the Hall of Fame on the first vote he was eligible.
Those sabermetricians have a deadly right hook. Based on my small empirical sample of one.
disclaimer:
Go pick up Further Fenway Fiction from your local bookshop.
And if you've seen the notes in the Boston Globe, you've missed that one, but we've got more coming up... soon.
Yes, you can meet, well, not me, per se, but somebody. Possibly me. Who knows? It'll make it a fun, serendipitous-like experience!
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