Mark Teixeira sure knows how to get under guys’ skin. Sometimes it mandates hollering at them after being hit by a pitch. Sometimes it’s more or less just standing around near second base.
It’s rivalry week in New York, , and Teixeira got things off to a rollicking start yesterday by homering against Mets starter Steven Matz in the second inning, then yelling at him after the lefty plunked him in his next at-bat.
Of far more interest was what happened in the seventh, when Mets reliever Hansel Robles got a little nutty about Teixeira’s presence at second base, overtly accusing the bemused Yankee of stealing signs.
First things first. Matz got off to a rocky start, having already given up three runs on five hits and a walk when Teixeira came up with two outs in the second inning and two men on base. The slugger quickly added three more runs to Matz’s line with an opposite-field homer into the right-field bleachers.
Matz remained in the game and quickly settled down, retiring the next eight hitters he faced … until Teixeria came up again, at which point he hit him in the shin. The hitter was incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding!” he screamed toward the mound, inspiring both dugouts to empty despite no moves being made to fight. (Teixeira shouted all the way to first base, drawing an escort from Mets catcher Rene Rivera, but the exchange was so relatively tame that the relievers only half-heartedly filtered from the bullpens, wandering barely past the warning track before heading back in. Watch it all here.)
Although Teixeira didn’t address it directly, Matz’s rookie status likely played into the first baseman’s response. Speaking with the YES Network after the game, Teixeira called him “a good kid” while saying “when you miss a pitch that bad right after I hit a home run, you’re going to get a reaction.” Matz himself addressed the issue, saying in a New York Post report that, “Me being a rookie I can understand why he was mad.’’
The evening’s headliner, however, was Teixeira’s seventh-inning exchange with Robles. The reliever, having given up a single, a double and two walks among the first six batters he faced, was pitching to Starlin Castro with the bases loaded, Teixeira on second, with two outs in the seventh, when he came a bit unhinged.
Whatever Teixeira was doing as a baserunner was taken by Robles, and possibly Rivera, to be signaling the catcher’s signs and/or location to Castro. The pitcher glared toward second, telling Teixeira precisely what was on his mind. In response, Teixeria made an effort to live up to the accusations, mock-signaling the plate by overtly touching different parts of his face.
Castro reached on an RBI infield single, and Robles was removed. As the pitcher returned to the dugout, he had a cross-field conversation with Teixeria (by that time standing at third), about his suspicions. Guilty or not, Teixeria’s response was perfect: a smile and a point to his own helmet, indicating his presence in Robles’ head.
“That’s not the way you play baseball,” Robles said afterward in an MLB.com report. “You have to play baseball as a man.”
In that, Robles is wildly mistaken. Stealing signs is, and has long been, an accepted part of the game. The reliever was within his rights to call out Teixeira for any perceived indiscretions, but that’s pretty much where it had to stop. At that point, it’s up to Teixeira to knock off whatever it was he was doing (he denied the accusation in a New York Times report, saying only that “I was breathing”). Even more importantly, it’s up to the Mets to change their signs (a simple task, even mid-inning). Most of all it’s up to Robles to move right along with the task at hand, retiring the hitter.
That’s not what happened. Teixeira, seeing the discord, pounced. Just as Gaylord Perry had great success making people think he was throwing a spitter, even when he was not throwing a spitter—especially when he was not throwing a spitter—because Teixeira got Robles to think about sign stealing, he managed to distract him at least somewhat from pitching to Castro.
Afterward, Teixeira denied stealing signs, but was on the mark with the rest of his analysis.
“I’ve never gotten inside of someone’s head just by standing there,” he said. “That’s a talent, I guess. Listen, if you think I have your signs, just change them. That’s part of the game. I try not to do it a lot. I don’t like it, trying to steal signs. If you think I have them, then change the signs. Don’t try to challenge me to a duel.”
That pretty much sums it up. The next pitcher, Josh Edgin, walked Teixeira home, and the Yankees won, 9-5. The teams meet tonight for the final time this season. Teixeira’s misdeeds, if they existed, do not merit further response unless they continue unabated. With the way things went yesterday, however, who knows?
And we’re back to discussions about timing.
Two weeks ago, talk concerned the Rangers’ extended wait to retaliate against Jose Bautista. Saturday, it was Mets starter Noah Syndergaard.
Much of the conversation had to do with whether Syndergaard deserved to be ejected for throwing a pitch behind Chase Utley. The pitch, a fastball, flew so wide that Utley didn’t even flinch to try to avoid it. It was almost certainly a response to Utley’s devastating takeout of Ruben Tejada during last season’s playoffs. Also, it was entirely harmless, though plate ump Adam Hamari—who had clearly been prepped on preceding events—failed to see it that way.
Other parts of the conversation had to do with Utley’s handling of things. After finishing the at-bat against reliever Logan Verrett by striking out, he offered the best response possible—he homered twice, including a grand slam, in what became a 9-1 victory at Citi Field.
Which brings us back to timing. Saturday was the fifth meeting between the teams this year, and the eighth overall (counting the postseason) since Utley broke Tejada’s leg. This leaves us with an overarching question: why now?
Utley was omitted from the lineup for Game 3 of the NLDS, the one following the mishap, and New York pitchers opted against taking their frustrations out on other Dodgers. He pinch-hit in the deciding Game 5, but that was a one-run playoff game, which trumped any thoughts of retaliation.
This year’s meetings looked like this:
- May 9: Utley gets two at-bats, both with the Mets trying to protect a 4-2 lead.
- May 10: Every one of Utley’s four at-bats comes with the game tied.
- May 11: Utley comes up four times, with the game tied or New York leading by no more than two runs.
- May 12: Utley bats in the first inning with the game tied; in the second inning with the Dodgers leading, 4-0 (and hits a solo homer); and in the fifth and seventh innings with the Dodgers leading 5-0.
- May 27: All of Utley’s at-bats come with the Mets holding no more than a three-run lead, until the eighth, when he hits in a 5-1 game (and strikes out).
- May 28: Syndergaard drills him.
So what happened? If the Mets were inclined to retaliate, the obvious situations would have been on May 12 and one at-bat on May 27. There’s little chance that Terry Collins would order such a thing from on high (he’s already gone on the record against perpetuation of grudge matches), so deductive reasoning says that the pitchers Utley faced—Bartolo Colon and Sean Gilmartin in the former game, Jerry Blevins in the latter—simply had no stomach for this type of confrontation.
Deductive reasoning also says that Syndergaard probably did.
Still, there’s no getting around the duration between Utley’s perceived offense and Syndergaard’s response. The pitcher himself probably acknowledged as much with his weapon of choice—a non-contact fastball so far off its mark that Utley would have had a tough time throwing himself into it to earn an HBP.
In other words: perfect. Message sent, no harm done.
Except that Hamari refused to play along. Usually, we’re stuck with clueless umpires whose lack of boning up on prior history between teams leads to some tense moments. This was the opposite of that. Had Hamari taken even a moment to consider the events as they happened, he would have leveled a warning and both sides would have likely considered things even.
Chalk this one up as a win for the Dodgers, both literally and figuratively.
When Newsday reported yesterday that the Royals were still harboring a grudge over Noah Syndergaard’s first-pitch fastball in Game 3 of last year’s World Series, it struck an awkward tone. The teams meet on opening day, and rumors that the Mets have something in store for their opponents (Syndergaard is scheduled to start the second game of the series) raised more questions than it answered.
It’s not that teams and players don’t have long memories, or that they aren’t willing to wait weeks, months and, in some situations, years for retribution. (In his final season as a pitcher—indeed, in his final game—Bob Gibson was unable to retaliate against Pete LaCock for the perceived slight of having hit a grand slam against him. So he waited 15 years until they met in an old-timers’ game, then drilled him in the back.)
The thing about the Royals allegedly being angry, though, is that Syndergaard didn’t do anything wrong.
As a power pitcher, it is his right to establish tone, and the inside fastball is a valid weapon in any pitcher’s arsenal. With his first pitch of the game, the right-hander threw head-high at 98 mph to Alcides Escobar, one of Kansas City’s hottest hitters and a first-pitch swinger.
Thing is, the pitch didn’t come close to hitting Escobar. It didn’t even cross the line of the batter’s box. When catcher Travis d’Arnaud reached up to catch it, his glove shot straight into the sky, not toward the hitter.
And it worked. Escobar, shaken, struck out.
There’s no reason for the Royals to like this kind of tactic, but neither can they decry it as worthy of retaliation. (It’s their option to feed Syndergaard some of the same, but if that was the endgame there was little reason not to do it at the time.)
So why, one might ask, would the Royals still be holding on to it all these months later? The answer, at least according to K.C. manager Ned Yost, is, they’re not.
“Our retribution,” he said in the Kansas City Star, “was winning the World Series.”
Similar sentiments were echoed around the clubhouse.
Edinson Volquez: “There’s nothing wrong with what he did last year.”
Former Met Dillon Gee: “I’ve been here all spring, and I don’t think I’ve really heard anybody even bring up the Mets.”
The best reason to believe the Royals is because the report that sparked the controversy was so unbelievable in the first place. Newsday’s Marc Carig cited “multiple industry sources” as the basis of his report, whatever that means, but on its face the story was little more than shit stirring on a slow news day.
In this regard, Yost is already on his game, offering more pointed insight than any journalist could offer.
“Some buffoon writes something,” he said, “and you guys are gonna jump like little monkeys in a cage for a peanut.”
Noah Syndergaard started Game 3 of the World Series by going up and in to leadoff hitter Alcides Escobar. The Royals grew irate. Syndergaard later described it as trying to set tone. The Royals decried the action as misguided headhunting. Syndergaard said that anybody who has a problem with it “can meet me 60 feet, six inches away.”
Syndergaard was correct in his justification … and wrong in his execution.
It is a pitcher’s prerogative to prevent hitters from getting comfortable in the batter’s box. His primary tool in this regard is the ability to move their feet with inside fastballs, preventing them from diving over the plate for outside stuff on later occasions. Nolan Ryan was a master at this. It worked out pretty well for him.
To judge by Game 3, however, Syndergaard is not that guy. He accomplished his goal of establishing a presence against the hottest leadoff hitter on the planet—a guy known for swinging at first pitches—and then completely failed to maintain it. Escobar struck out, but came back an inning later and singled to center field. The two hitters behind him in the first inning doubled and singled. The Royals scored once in the first and twice in the second. If intimidation was Syndergaard’s endgame, it was a pretty bad night.
Which is understandable. Anybody who throws as hard as Syndergaard must be wary of the implications of missing too far inside. That fear even hampered Ryan for a time, and he had to overcome it to reassert his dominance.
It’s not difficult to see the allure of intimidation. Syndergaard’s first pitch (which, contrary to reactions on the KC bench, did not come close to hitting the batter; watch the whole thing here) set Alcides up perfectly for two straight curveballs—the first of which froze him for a called strike, the second of which he fouled off. That, in turn, set him up for a fourth-pitch four-seamer at 99 mph, which Escobar had no hope of catching up with for strike three.
That was it for Syndergaard’s intimidation. So why were the Royals so upset?
Ballplayers tend to look at aggressive tactics, be they inside pitches or assertive slides, through a similar lens. Players who thrive on ferocious play, for whom it is a regular part of their approach, are granted more leeway in this regard than guys who break it out only when it suits them. It’s one explanation for why so few batters ever charged Ryan; they may have been scared of him, but they also knew that pitching inside was how he operated, and that nothing they could do in response would change that.
Syndergaard’s pitch caught the Royals by surprise. Only when such tactics are no longer startling will an opponent ever accept them as anything approaching standard practice.
Even as many tenets of baseball’s Code slip into the ether—witness the preponderance of bat flips and home plate scrums and Twitter-driven talk about no-hitters in progress—the quick pitch endures. The pitcher, having received a go-ahead from the plate umpire, hurriedly delivers ball to plate in hopes of surprising a batter who is not yet settled.
Batters do not like this. Neither does Larry Bowa.
On Tuesday, Mets reliever Hansel Robles quick pitched Darin Ruf, who, while technically in the batter’s box hadn’t yet settled in to await the delivery. Umpire Dan Bellino waved off the pitch, but Bowa, Philadelphia’s bench coach, exploded from the dugout, as did outfielder Jeff Franceour. (Ruf himself didn’t seem even mildly perturbed.)
Bowa stormed the field, directing his ire toward Mets first baseman Daniel Murphy—screaming “Fuck you” repeatedly and pointing toward his ribs as if to show Murphy where he’d soon be hit by a pitch. Murphy had tossed his bat after homering on Monday, but Bowa later denied that had anything to do with his rant.
“When you’re in the box, and the first thing you do is you check your stance, and your head’s down and you look up and the ball’s right here, someone’s going to get hurt,” said Bowa in a Newsday report. “And if it hits somebody in the face, they could get killed.”
The nonsense about Ruf’s life being endangered aside, Bowa did bring up an interesting point: Is it ever okay to quick pitch a guy? The Mets, according to the New York Post, “have been employing the tactic with some regularity.”
The quick pitch is against the written rules—8.05e, which says that “A quick pitch is an illegal pitch. Umpires will judge a quick pitch as one delivered before the batter is reasonably set in the batter’s box. With runners on base the penalty is a balk; with no runners on base, it is a ball. The quick pitch is dangerous and should not be permitted.”
The quick pitch—even those that meet criteria allowed by the rule book—is also against the Code. Baseball’s unwritten rules were established to maintain respect and fair play, and attacking an opponent while he’s unprepared is certainly not that. Wednesday came and went, however, with neither Murphy, nor anyone else from the Mets, getting plunked. Mets manager Terry Collins addressed Murphy’s bat flip by saying that he—along with the rest of baseball’s mainstream—no longer even notices such things. “You see it everywhere—I mean you see it everywhere,” he said in a NJ.com report. “And you see stars doing it. So I shrugged it off. Dan Murphy, that’s not even part of his makeup. He hit a homer and he took one second and tossed the bat aside. He didn’t really flip it up in the air or anything drastic.”
I love Bowa for his old-school sensibilities, but Collins is in the right on this one. Focusing on Murphy after a quick-pitch that he had nothing to do with, then decrying the pitch as potentially fatal, then denying that Murphy’s bat flip was unrelated to his anger does little more than paint Bowa as the crank he is. Visually threatening Murphy with physical violence makes the old coach seem unhinged. Sometimes acting the crank can make Bowa loveable. This time it just makes him wrong.
So Noah Syndergaard thought he’d grab a between-meals bite during a Mets scrimmage in Florida. David Wright and Bobby Parnell thought better, tossing his food into the trash and pointing him back toward the dugout.
A big deal, this refusal to let rookies eat during games in which they’re not even participating? More of the hazing upon which society has so firmly turned? Hardly. As a rookie, Syndergaard has a lot of baseball to learn, and, as the Mets vets so ably demonstrated, he’s not going to learn much of it indoors with his nose in a plate of baked beans. On their own the young pitcher’s actions are hardly offensive, but Wright and Parnell have taken the admirable tack of setting tone in the clubhouse, making it clear to young players and veterans alike that full effort is more than just a suggestion. That includes paying attention during games; one never knows what one might pick up.
It’s a throwback move. Ron Fairly told his own story about coming up with the Dodgers: “You had to show Pee Wee [Reese] you wanted to play this game of baseball—show him how badly you wanted to play. Pee Wee said he’d take a guy of lesser ability who really wants to play than a guy with a lot of ability who doesn’t give it a good effort all the time. Pee Wee was the captain, the one that controlled that, and if he ignored you, the other players would ignore you.”
Show you want it. It’s the least any veteran should ask.