The first time Jorge Posada set foot on Yankee Stadium grass, there were questions as to whether Major League Baseball as an entity would survive, let alone a goofy-eared, converted-infielder’s catching career. Seventeen years later, attendance and broadcasting numbers climb every year and a beloved Yankee catcher with five rings and Hall of Fame credentials has exited the game a superstar.

Perhaps baseball’s toughest player–eschewing batting gloves in favor of pine tar and diplomacy in favor of a shove to the chest–Posada’s presence on a ballfield was immense. Though he often could be seen visibly reining in his emotions to talk a young pitcher through a wild spate or curling a lip sidelong at an umpire, the Yankees’ beloved catcher could calm an entire stadium with his familiar stride toward the mound in a Bronx heartbeat. With his attitude and with his mettle, Posada made fans nostalgic for the type of player they’d probably been too young to know: the hard-nosed, battle-tested warrior who would sacrifice anything just to win a game.

It will be impossible for me to fully honor Posada–an essential part of my Yankee memories since before I could vote–but I do look fondly on three memories, in particular:

October 13, 2001. The Shovel Pass: Coming off three consecutive world championships, the Yankees were the favorite heading into their ALDS matchup with the Oakland A’s. That was why it was so surprising when they found themselves on the brink of elimination down two games to none and riding a one-run lead into the bottom of the seventh inning. Mike Mussina, who had been especially sharp, surrendered a two-out double with a runner at first. When Shane Spencer slung the ball wide of first base, the notoriously slow Jeremy Giambi was sent from third. Inexplicably, and in what has now become an iconic play, Derek Jeter, who was backing up first, shoveled the ball to Posada, who alertly applied the tag to Giambi’s calf a split-second before his foot hit home plate. With the swipe of the glove, the game–and the Yankees’ season–was saved, at least for the time being.

I remember watching the game from our living room couch that October. I had spent the previous four championships watching almost every playoff inning with my father, who has always been my baseball buddy. I had come home from my first college semester to watch the ALDS with my family, and being able to watch that play, and see that kind of instant turnaround, created a wonderful memory I still talk about with my favorite fellow fan.

What is especially notable about Posada’s role in that memorable play was his quick reflexes in the face of what had been a career-nagging criticism about his ability to block the plate. Posada silenced the critics with the immediate tag, and cemented the play as one of the most game-changing–albeit quirkiest–in recent baseball memory.

October 16, 2003. The Aaron Boone Game: Quite possibly the most heart-pounding 11 innings I’ve ever seen, Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS featured a little bit of everything: nail-biting lead changes, thundering home runs, and an unlikely hero who ultimately saved the day. But before Aaron Boone’s wall-clearing winner and the new moniker he earned, there was a time when the Yankees looked to be headed to Florida…with their golf clubs. Fresh off David Ortiz’s rally-killing home run in the top of the eighth, the Yankees headed to their half of the inning down three with only six outs to burn. In drips and drabs, the Yankees quietly put runners on base, and then plated one, before Posada came to the plate to a quickly-stirring crowd and the tying runs on. In what would become only one of several cinematic moments that night, he popped a ball off the end of the bat that somehow landed behind second base and safely out of the reach of any fielder nearby. The Yankees tied the game, and Posada, who had been running all the way, raised his fists and yelled triumphantly as he touched second base. The rest, as they say, is improbable baseball history.

Although I’m sure I saw the double the first time around, I couldn’t remember any details about it until I saw a replay years later. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such a swell of emotion from a baseball game in my life, and the details had turned into a blur of high-fives and tears. The only image that’s imprinted on my mind from that night is Posada’s victorious cheer as he stood on second base like he’d claimed it. As far as the baseball fan experience goes, it doesn’t get a whole lot better than that.

May 16, 2006. The Marathon Comeback: It was one of those weird games whose trajectory couldn’t possible have been predicted at first pitch. The Yankees’, who were hampered by injuries and illness, sent Shawn Chacon to the mound opposite the illustrious John Koronka of the Texas Rangers. By the Yankees’ half of the second inning, it looked like a bullpen-and-scrub night, as the Rangers had mounted a 9-0 lead. But with virtually no bench, the Yankees were forced to stay in it and battle. And battle they did, scoring 11 runs over the next five innings, matching a franchise record for most runs made up in a game, and banging up their catcher in a homeplate collision. In true baseball fashion, the story wasn’t quite written, and the Rangers immediately scored a pair, trading runs over the next few innings before taking a one-run lead into the bottom of the ninth.

Sometimes baseball makes its fans feel as though they might be psychic, and that otherwise unremarkable Tuesday night was one of those times. The Stadium was alight with anticipation when Posada limped to the plate as the winning run, still swollen and bruised, and when his trademark slingshot home run landed in the right field seats, it felt like destiny. Watching Posada round the bases with his head down, as he always did, I thought it seemed fitting that their stalwart catcher would give resolution to what had been such a game of instability.

My tribute to Posada is humble, but I feel that it is the best I can do for such a prideful man. Everything Posada did, he did to honor the game. He played hard, he played clean, and he left his entire heart behind the plate. Thanks for the memories, #20, and remember the fans when you make your speech at Cooperstown.

Ross Ohlendorf has never been anyone’s bargaining chip. When the Yankees unloaded Randy Johnson in 2006, grateful to get his attitude and slipping skills off their hands, they were essentially forced to take whatever the Diamondbacks were willing to give them. What they got was a package of maybe-prospects and mediocre middle relief. Among the unproven, thrown in between a promising righty in Steven Jackson and slick-fielding Alberto Gonzalez, was Princeton graduate Ross Ohlendorf, an odd combination of size and finesse with an easy lightness to his delivery. With his brilliant mind (he graduated with a financial engineering degree and a 3.75 GPA) and his bulldog presence on the mound, Ohlendorf’s potential for greatness was an intimation that ran smack into a spate of bad luck before it could blossom.

After showing flashes of effectiveness when he debuted in September 2007, posting a 2.84 ERA and a 1.11 WHIP, Ohlendorf struggled on a weak 2008 pitching staff, losing his command and bloating his WHIP to a 1.75, with a 4.3 walk rate over nine. He became part of what was then seen as highway robbery when the Yankees traded the righty, along with inconsistent Jeff Karstens and then-number two position prospect, OF Jose Tabata, to the Pittsburgh Pirates, for Xavier Nady and Damaso Marte. At the time, analysts cried foul, citing the trade as yet another example of the Yankees managing to fleece baseball. Nady was an above-average outfielder with solid numbers coming off an above-average career incline and Marte was one of the game’s premier lefty relievers. But if baseball has taught us nothing else, it’s that the intended outcome cannot be assumed. In the years since the trade, Nady has undergone his second Tommy John surgery and bounced around baseball, and Marte has thrown a total of 31 regular-season innings since 2009. The great blockbuster the Yankees pulled off had essentially gone up in flames. Anything the Pirates got would simply be a bonus.

Out of the glare of New York, Ohlendorf put up a surprising and effective 2009 campaign. With a 3.92 ERA and a 1.23 WHIP, the new Pirates’ ace reined in his command, posting a career-low 2.7 walks per nine and putting together impressive outing after impressive outing. His fastball was riding the mid-high 90s, and his breaking balls were sharp. Unfortunately, the Pirates’ offense was the Pirates’ offense, and the 62-99 Bucs could only manage a .252 batting average and 636 runs scored for the young pitching staff. Ohlendorf’s record sat at just 11-10, despite the above-average performance. Ironically, the small-market atmosphere that may have contributed to his success also made for very poor run support. Still, the crisp pitching garnered plenty of attention, culminating in an impressive 8.0 inning effort that September against the St. Louis Cardinals that saw Ohlendorf strike out 11. Both he and the Pirates anticipated great things out of their ace going forward, and looked for a noteworthy performance in the coming year.

Unfortunately, Ohlendorf’s 2010 would end up being memorable for all the wrong reasons. His season could be considered one of the unluckiest in major league history, as his 4.07 ERA and 79 strikeouts over 108 innings resulted in only one win. According to Dejan Kovacevic, Ohlendorf’s 11 losses make him the first pitcher to have an ERA that low with so many losses and so few wins since 1993. But game outcome was only part of the problem: his play was sporadic, due to back spasms, and injuries to the head and leg also forced him to miss starts. Finally, in August, Ohlendorf was diagnosed with a strained lat muscle, slamming the door on his season for good.

Although Ohlendorf’s season was dismal in many ways, an arbitrator panel awarded him for service time and past performance with a $2.025 million paycheck. What that amounted to was $53,000 per inning pitched in 2011, as the injuries mounted and Ohlendorf’s effectiveness waned. Throughout 2011, the former ace suffered from back and shoulder problems, ultimately landing on the 60-day DL before returning for a final wheeze in September. In his nine starts, Ohlendorf allowed nine home runs, including three in his final game. Though his velocity returned slowly in September, his command was abysmal and his breaking pitches lacked bite, as hitters got on base 42% of the time. To the surprise of no one, the Pirates neglected to tender him a contract at the end of the 2011 season, and Ohlendorf remains unsigned.

All aspects of Ohlendorf and the Pirates’ organization can be parsed in the effort to understand what went wrong. The injury bug is nothing new, as the right-hander struggled in AAA to stay healthy. Yet his career trajectory was on the incline until the gears started coming loose. What is possible is that the pressure to override a poor offense could have caused unhealthy tweaks to his mechanics. His momentum and release are large and a bit jerky, easily prone to go out of line. If that’s the case, then a low-impact role on a solid ballclub with superb coaching could assist his comeback. A team like the Rangers or Rays might be a good fit. If he can stay healthy, Ohlendorf’s brilliant mind and dedicated work ethic (his family are longhorn cattle ranchers in Texas and he participated in an internship with the Department of Agriculture during the 2009 offseason) can carry him the rest of the way. With a caveat that large, most teams probably won’t take a flyer, especially since arbitration rules will prevent him from earning less than $1.8 million at the major league level in 2012. But if Ohlendorf can find a fit, and be given a chance, it’s possible that he could return to the form that once struck out 11 Cardinals on a September afternoon.

National Spotlight, Local Flavor is a new feature on Southpaw Yakker designed to highlight minor league legends, ballparks, and traditions. Let me know if your hometown has any favorites you think are noteworthy!

I’m extremely proud to be from the great city of Rochester, New York. Besides our nationally-renowned museums, art galleries, and theater, Rochester boasts excellent school districts, quick commutes, and outstanding colleges and universities. But, for me, I’d eschew all that just to keep the Red Wings playing baseball at Frontier Field.

Built for the long-tenured Red Wings in 1996, Frontier Field was erected near the Kodak building, in what is now an up-and-coming State Street neighborhood. Because the Red Wings were then the AAA team for the Baltimore Orioles, the brand-new ballpark was modeled after the Orioles’ beautiful Camden Yards, a brick-accented fixture of Baltimore heralded as one of the most visually-appealing venues in baseball.

Frontier Field has hosted concerts, tournaments, and multiple major league sporting events, in addition to the full-time Red Wings, who hold the distinction of being the only minor league franchise in professional sports to have occupied the same city continuously since the 19th century. The green-and-brick ballpark was the home of the 1997 Governor’s Cup (the International League World Series), which ended the inaugural season with a bang as local fans poured in to watch the Red Wings play for the championship.

In addition to serving as a pleasing addition to the Rochester skyline, Frontier Field offers a welcoming presence and clean, classically-modern aesthetics once inside. Local sports history graces the walls along the concourse with the Wall of Fame, and multiple concessions serve a variety of cuisines at game time, including a barbecue joint, classic Zweigles hots, and even a macaroni and cheese stand! Just before the left field wall is a full-service bar, with high-end drinks available, where I often drop off my less-sports-inclined friends before the first pitch. The atmosphere is pleasant and comfortable, even for the casual fan. From the family-friendly themed games to the allergy-safe concession stands, the effort of the city and franchise to create an attractive place for everyone to spend a summer evening is evident.

I try to attend at least 10 Reds Wings’ games a season, including several autograph sessions with former Major Leaguers. Because of the accessibility of a AAA franchise and the smaller scale of its ballparks, Frontier Field affords me the ability to get “up close and personal” with some of my favorite current and former players. The ballpark has a special place in family lore as the site of some of my most memorable ballplayer encounters, including the infamous “Ricky Ledee Melee,” when I chattered the poor Yankees’ outfielder’s ear off about why he should be on the 25-man roster. I’ve had the privilege of meeting legends such as Jimmy Key, Chris Chambliss, Ryne Sandberg, Jim Kaat, and new Diamondbacks’ ace Ian Kennedy. Some of my favorite conversations have been with fellow fans as we’ve waiting in line for autographs, including an old Detroit Tigers’ farmhand. But without needing to import stars, Red Wings’ fans are lucky enough to have a home-town favorite in former major leaguer and World Series-champion manager Joe Altobelli, who guided the Orioles to the trophy in 1983. Mr. Altobelli can be seen in Frontier Field almost nightly during the season, popping in and out of the radio broadcast booth, greeting lifelong fans and friends in the concourse, or waving humbly to the crowd during pre-game introductions. As baseball notables go, he’s one of the greats.

Because of the graciousness of the organization and the appeal of the venue, Frontier Field is my favorite place to interact with knowledgeable fans and baseball professionals while enjoying a great game of baseball. In fact, I experienced an exceptional swell of support for the Red Wings and their players while attending the first combined no-hitter in franchise history–an event I enjoyed with several thousand other fans. Even though the team has produced poor results over the past few years, with standout players needed at the major league level for the very resourceful Twins, the excitement buzzing through the crowd that night showed me that both baseball and Rochester pride are alive and well, even with so many other options on a weekend night. Frontier Field has been an excellent home for fostering exactly that kind of spirit.

In the fall of 2011, the Red Wings announced that they will serve as a part-time home field for the Scranton-Wilkes Barre Yankees for the 2012 season. I’ve already received a (very budget-friendly) ticket package and plan on attending as many games as my schedule (and/or my bosses) will allow. Frontier Field has become a concrete staple of my summers in beautiful Rochester; my weeks don’t seem complete without sliding through the turnstile and heading to my favorite section (207, in case you want to visit) with an Altobelli Deli sub in one hand, and Baseball America Prospect Handbook in the other. If you ever find yourself in my home city, consider taking in a ball game, and if you’re here already, what’s taking you so long?

Note: This is what happens when an English professor baseball fan raises a little girl.

As a language full of idiosyncrasies and idioms, English is also terribly charming; with playful expressions, figures of speech, and quirky word sounds, it can be as rewarding for the logophile as it is challenging for the unfamiliar. Part of its charm is the way words and phrases tend to cross over from their original intents to form the lexicon of something else altogether. In baseball, there is no shortage of those quirky sayings–the ones that would sound absurd in any other context. On the flip side, our current cultural concordance has borrowed more terms from America’s pastime than people probably realize.

In baseball, the batter digs in so he can face the ace, who is toeing the slab, who might be a fireballer, who throws the high cheese. Or a backdoor breaking ball. Or a slurvy hook. But he’d better watch out for that chin music! If the pitcher grooves a meatball or a cookie, the clean-up hitter could hit the sweet spot on the screws and leave the yard, or jack a long ball, or crush a moon shot, or a four-bagger, or a dinger. Of course, he could always sail a frozen rope that might end up a snow cone, or a shoestringer. But if the two-seamer paints the black, the hitter could be rung up and punched out, putting himself in line for the Golden Sombrero. He has a chance if he’s a Dirt Dog (as long as he stays over the Mendoza Line), though, and he might just slap a Baltimore Chop or tip a squibber or sting a worm-burner. If he can get down the line, and beat out a bang-bang play, he might just earn himself a ribbie. If not, at least he’s a great table setter. As long as he doesn’t get into a pickle.

But maybe he’s not a jock at all, or maybe he never made it out of D-III and ended up at a desk job. He can still knock a presentation out of the park, forcing his bosses to play hardball. Even if his ideas come out of left field, he can still be batting a thousand, hitting home runs, and knocking the cover off the ball at work. His colleagues like that steps up to the plate right off the bat and always goes for extra bases. Even if he’s not in the cat-bird seat, he’s usually still in the ballpark. His friends are always willing to go to bat for him because he doesn’t resort to bush-league measures. When he has to pinch-hit for a coworker, he always swings for the fences, even if he swings and misses, and he’s never off-base with his family’s needs. He is always on the ball and doesn’t even need a level playing field to compete with the screwballs in his life, even if they throw him curveballs. He always has his head in the game, even with two strikes against him. He comes through in the clutch, making great saves. Even when he’s out of his league, pretty soon it’s a whole new ball game.

With the ways in which baseball has integrated itself into pop culture and instant gratification society, it’s no wonder that its unique language has come along for the ride. People use baseball terms without even realizing, as baseball continues to add more turns of phrase to its lexicon. And now that this is coming down the home stretch, I’ll put down my own tools of ignorance, and let the crackerjack readers take a swing.

Please feel free to share with me your favorite baseball terms or sayings, on either side of the ball.

With the six-year, $60 million signing of RHP Yu Darvish Wednesday afternoon, the Texas Rangers have become the latest in a long line of Major League teams to be seduced by a Japanese superstar. More expensive, though with fewer potential human rights violations, the Darvish signing proves that the Asian baseball market is still as desirable as the one south of the border. In making the transition from Japanese superstar to Rangers curiosity, Darvish follows a long line of Japanese imports who attempted to cross over to MLB with varying degrees of success. Whether he can parlay his durability and efficiency into American fame should reveal itself sooner, rather than later, but what is guaranteed is that Major League Baseball has never seen an international star like Darvish.

The Rangers achieved a near-miracle in simply signing Darvish. From the time he capitvated US audiences in the 2009 World Baseball Classic, Darvish has drawn questions about his crossover potential, and the legendary ego has done very little to quell the rumors that didn’t serve to keep baseball in further suspense. For the uninitiated, Darvish is as much his own brand in Japan as Alex Rodriguez is in the US, if not more gratuitously self-indulgent. No, definitely more gratuitously self-indulgent. Before examining the psyche behind a man who would pose nude while attempting unsuccessfully to drink a glass of water, let’s examine what the Rangers arehoping to get from their new 25-year old ace (scouting report courtesy of Patrick Newman and compiled by Jonah Keri):

• A plus-four-seam fastball, sitting between 90-96 MPH
• Four different breaking pitches, including a 2-seam fastball that breaks down and in on righties, two different sliders, a Mariano-velocity cutter, and a slow, slurvy curveball.
• 220 pounds on a 6’5″ frame that will drive forward into the firmer MLB pitching mound and bear down on righties.
• A pedigree that includes international pitching experience in both the 2008 Olympics and the WBC, a 99-38 NPB record, and a 1.99 professional ERA.
• Both physical and psychological durability, with a plus-200-inning season and the constant glare of the media in his repertoire.

With athleticism that far surpasses his crossover predecessors (Hideki Irabu, he is not, may he rest in peace), and a kind of panache that would send Matsui running for the hills, Darvish’s comparisons to other crossover ballplayers only go so far. His sheer versatility and pitch offerings are arguably better than Matsuzaka’s, the most recent contemporary of his caliber (and salary), for example. But what truly sets Darvish apart is also the reason that his signing–and the figures he settled for–are so surprising. This is the what the Rangers are definitely getting from their new 25-year old media darling:

• An extensive modeling portfolio, including multiple nude shots in a mainstream Japanese magazine.
• A history of vacillating on playing in the Majors, at times threatening to quit baseball if he had to play in the US, and claiming to want to reach 200 wins in a Nippon uniform.
• A massive ego with a larger-than-life personality, including a highly-publicized divorce to a famous Japanese actress (who has posed scantily-clad in her own right) and a plenitude of rumors about quirks, demands, and indulgences worthy of, well, an American athlete.

With all this in mind, the fact that Darvish ended up in an MLB uniform for a relatively modest wage is a marvel in and of itself. But if Texas–she of the big hair and bigger guns–is ready for Darvish, I think he’ll find that the Rangers (and Major League Baseball) might see something just a little bit recognizable in Nippon’s cover boy. And even if the self-admiration and glossy hair doesn’t win them over, there’s a good chance that the kid can throw a hell of a fastball.

Okay, baseball. You’ve been really well-behaved these past few years. You’ve given us parity. You’ve given us one-game playoffs. You’ve given us a merciful reprieve from Joe Morgan. But I think you and I both know that there’s significant room for improvement. Now, I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a list of resolutions for you to ponder in the coming year, and it would make our relationship much stronger if you’d just follow these. I think that if you’ll just do some soul-searching, you’ll see that I only have your best interests at heart. We both want your attendance and television ratings to keep increasing, right? So just give these a quick gander, and I think you’ll be glad you did:

Stop making the All Star Game “count” and start rewarding the team with the better record home-field advantage. It’s uncomfortably depressing to see Joakim Soria or Adam Jones as the deciding factor in a game that will benefit some other team. As rightfully rewarding as All Star Game honors and heroics are for all players involved, invoking the World Series shouldn’t be a reason why. Let the players enjoy the moment and let the best regular-season team reap the home-field benefits without the injury risk a high-stakes ASG brings along. Losing Felix Hernandez or Jose Bautista for the season in the pursuit of an extra game in October for one of his divisional rivals would be a shame.

Start holding umpires accountable for bad calls. Instead of expanding instant replay, why not start fining or suspending umpires for egregiously-inaccurate calls? I’m not referring to those bang-bang force outs and caught stealings that require five different camera angles and slow-motion replays, or even those borderline on-the-black strikezone calls. But in the case of obvious trapped fly balls or fair balls a foot outside the chalk, or strike calls that hit the opposite batter’s box, unless umpires are held accountable for influencing the potential outcome of a game, they will continue to behave as though they hold all the cards, without repercussion. Umpires are meant to enforce the current MLB rule book, and players can be fined or suspended for failing to follow it. When umpires continue to be allowed to make poor calls, they are essentially circumventing the same rule book they are entrusted to protect. The shoddy calls in important games should end now.

Get Tim McCarver away from a microphone. I don’t care how many Ford Frick awards the guy wins. He can get a shiny new Hall of Fame plaque every year, for all I care, with interchangeable hats and real hair you can brush. But the man is a terrible announcer. First of all, he always sounds like he’s hovering around the back of the booth and shouting into the mic from there. I’m always surprised when the FOX booth ends up on a field camera and McCarverisn’t munching on a hot dog and wandering around, playing with the cough button and trying to log into his AOL account from the audio board. Then, when his voice actually comes through clearly, it’s doing one of three things: pointing out the obvious (Yes, Derek Jeter does have lot of hits.), making inaccurate observations (Ah, no, that’s not actually the first baseman in center field), or lamenting on how much better baseball was in his era. Fans deserve their national broadcasters to offer a well-rounded knowledge of where baseball currently stands, without sneering at even the most modest “advanced” statistic (and, really, OPS is hardly complicated). If we’re really shooting for the moon here, why not terminate your playoff contracts with TBS and FOX, and put baseball back in Bob Costas’s rightful hands? A girl can dream, can’t she?

Make the Miami Marlins change their uniforms back. I think this one’s self-explanatory.

Extend the divisional playoffs to a seven-game series, and chop two games off the regular season. It’s almost impossible to suss out the better team in a five-game series, where a first-round split automatically shifts home field advantage and momentum is fleeting. Additionally, a seven-game series showcases and challenges both teams’ entire rosters, forcing the manager to use the full complement of players and strategies. No longer will teams rely on their top-three starters, as they’ll be tested on the solidity of their whole rotation. The longer series, as seen in the league championship and World Series, will allow the fans and cities an opportunity to enjoy playoff baseball for at least two games, bringing in a little extra revenue, even with elimination. Those who complain that baseball is too long as it is should be appeased if the season is shortened to 160 games to accommodate the longer postseason. Hopefully, extending the first round of the playoffs would truly crown an accurate champion and the best team in baseball.

While we’re discussing the restructuring of the season, why not finally–finally–eliminate the unbalanced schedule. While this should be obvious to fans, apparently baseball would prefer to rake in a cut of the broadcasting profits and ticket sales than allow weaker teams in stronger divisions to have a fair shot. For every Central division team that can stay afloat by playing its comparatively equal rivals for a third of the season is a Blue Jay or Oriole team that will consistently find it difficult to rise in the standings after running into the Red Sox, Yankees, and Rays, time after time. If baseball wants true parity (which, admittedly, it has been achieving, slowly but surely), it will return to the standard, balanced schedule, and allow teams’ records to accurately reflect a season in which opponents have been evenly faced. If record determines home-field advantage, how can teams in separate divisions be compared, when their schedules are so vastly different?

For the love of God, preemptively ban Manny Ramirez from Major League Baseball. We all know that he’s going to test positive for the death knell third and final time if he’s signed with a team at any point in the future. He’s demonstrated, through his words and his actions, that he has very little respect for his teammates, his coaches, and the game itself. The fact that he retired in a hissy fit when faced with his own blatant disregard for the league’s rules should be enough to anticipate problems in the future. Oh, sure, the MLBPA would demand that the contract the league laid out regarding substance abuse by adhered to (silly legal requirements and all that) but that shouldn’t stop me from crying foul over their continued kowtowing to one of baseball’s most obnoxious personalities.

Thank you, baseball, for your prompt and thorough attention to these matters. I know it’s been hard to hear, but self-improvement is always difficult to swallow. I’m sure, in time, that you’ll come to realize I’ve only had your best interests at heart. I hope that we can continue in our close personal and professional relationship, and that there are no hard feelings. I’ll see you on February 12th! Except you, Marlins. I’m trying to save my eyesight.

In the interest of full disclosure, and because I want us to have an open, honest, blogger-reader relationship, I should probably let you know that I’m not an Jesus Montero fan. I know, I know, he was practically the second coming of you-know-who, the best hitter to come through the Yankees’ system since Bernie, a pure power hitter who would only get stronger, etc, etc, ad infinitum. I’ve been hearing this endless praise lavished on Montero from the time he was 18 and attending his first spring training, a near-infant toddling after Posada and hitting monster batting practice dingers. And I get it; I really do. His power is extremely impressive. Montero is a monster of a man, sweet and smooth through the zone, with a methodical follow-through. Young, too, for all that raw power. I joke about his wunderkind status among the fan base, but the scope of his offensive skill at such a young age is hardly something to yawn at. In his brief but memorable stint with the big club, Montero slugged .590 with four home runs in 69 plate appearances, including two in a barn-burner with the Orioles for his very first round-trippers.

But here’s the thing–and pay attention, because this is what made all the difference: Montero is not a good catcher. Not at all. I’ve seen him play, both in HD and in person, many times, and his defense is just as poor as advertised. He’s a swiss cheese backstop with a stunning lack of instinctive sense of where the play is taking place. For the Yankees, who could both afford a weak offensive catcher and the cost of a big-name DH, keeping Montero in pinstripes before the league caught on to his weaknesses made very little baseball sense. With Teixeira signed through 2016 and the risk of losing decent designated hitter numbers relatively low, Montero’s value to the Yankees became higher as the marquee of a trade package. Time to unload a very talented player with a very limited offering to address a very real weakness.

Oh, and here’s the other thing: Michael Pineda is very, very good. With the Mariners in 2011, Pineda struck out 173 in 171 innings, which shakes out to a 9.1 strikeouts/9 rate. He boasted a 3.74 ERA and a slim 1.099 WHIP. Lefties hit only .237 against him, and he didn’t pitch alarmingly on the road, posting relatively modest home-away splits. He’ll join a rotation featuring CC Sabathia and righties Ivan Nova, newly-acquired Hiroki Kuroda, and some combination of Hughes, Garcia, and Bronx pariah A.J. Burnett. From an anemic rotation that was still smarting from the loss of Andy Pettitte came a deep, solid complement of pitchers ready for a cutthroat AL East race. Pennants are not won or lost on 22 year-old maybe-sort of-catchers, but on reliable pitching and tight defense. Pineda, if healthy, looks to bring a new look to the Yankees rotation and, hopefully, anchor them toward October.

Ultimately, what the Montero trade does for the Yankees, besides giving them a promising young pitcher with a high strikeout rate and many more years under team control, is to finally land them a place for the young power hitter they’ve been grooming for five years. Gone is the uncertainty of how long Montero would need to mature into a big-league catcher, or how best to find him at-bats in a crowded lineup without wasting his blooming talent. Montero has served his purpose for the Yankees, and he’s taken his exciting swing and sheer power where he’ll have a greater opportunity to grow. My little Grinch heart wishes him well.

Baseball is chock-full of redemption stories. You want a feel-good story to take the Steroid Era taste out of your mouth and erase the image of Joe Maddon’s hair? You got it. Zach Greinke overcoming severe social anxiety to win a Cy Young? Check. Cliff Lee transforming himself into an elite pitcher after wallowing in mediocrity for years? Bingo. Rick Ankiel reinventing himself as a position player? Oh, wait. That still involves steroids. But there are plenty of heartwarming tales of triumph over tragedy (or really bad performance) to go around.

Of course, then, my favorite 2011 story is banal and unimpressive, by comparison. But if you’ve been paying attention, that should be no surprise. My favorite story involves a struggling middle reliever with an injury list as long as his much-used right arm who might just love baseball more than other player in the game.

Scott Proctor’s journey through professional baseball has hardly been a straight line. Much has been made of manager Joe Torre’s overuse of Proctor’s willingness to pitch and seemingly rubber arm during the pair’s tenure in New York and Los Angeles. The 207 appearances over three seasons–before Proctor finally copped to pitching through a serious elbow injury–are blamed for a spate of injuries following. Proctor signed with the Marlins after the 2008 season, but didn’t hit the regular season before the need for Tommy John surgery shut him down for the next year and a half. So worn was his famous right arm from constant game action and what Proctor now attributes, in part, to some poor lifestyle decisions, that the surgeon described his elbow ligament as “mush.” That unnecessarily graphic detail only serves to emphasize the dedication that has marked Proctor’s rocky career– to pitching, to his teams, and to the game.

There was once good reason for baseball to believe in Proctor: the 95-plus fastball and the willingness to go the distance made him an attractive draft pick and an appealing trade candidate when the Dodgers, the Yankees, and the Dodgers again, took a flyer on the right-hander. For his part, Proctor was unfailingly dedicated to personal excellence, increasingly becoming his biggest critic when the fastball didn’t locate or the velocity wasn’t there. His ultimate Deadspin moment–in an otherwise lethargic Yankee June–was an on-field equipment bonfire following several poor performances in a row in 2007. Coincidence or otherwise (I’ll vote the latter), the Yankees went on a tear following that series, coming back from 10 back of Boston to secure a playoff spot. Though Proctor was on the West Coast by the time October rolled around, his fire may have lit a figurative spark in an otherwise complacent team. Short of public displays of equipment destruction, baseball’s bloated contracts could learn a thing or two from Proctor’s passion for the game and his refusal to give up.

In many ways, like everything else in life, baseball is painfully unfair. Unless success is captured in a swiftly-closing moment, it can elude even the most gifted. Hard work is only rewarded as far as it will take a player on the field and sheer talent can be cut down in a Tommy John instant. In the case of Scott Proctor, neither determination nor skill were able to guarantee lasting success. But as disparate as baseball can be, it can offer a glut of second chances for the lucky few whose heart and soul have been poured into it the first time around. (Or whose fathers own a fistful of hardware. You know, parity and all)

For this fan, who likes to think she only feels alive from April through October, Proctor’s bumpy career, and subsequent return to major league action, has been as rewarding to root for as her own frustrating journalism struggle (and that’s intended to be a favorable comparison. Honestly!).

I’d kept an eye on Proctor’s progress since he left the Yankees, staying up late for the occasional west coast game and scanning the newswires every few weeks during the season to check on his recovery and road back through the Braves’ system. I looked at velocity and break point and did some armchair scouting, rooting for success and extended health for one of my favorite ballplayers of all time. So when the Yankees announced that they’d offered a minor league contract, I didn’t just get one text message letting me know; I got twenty. And when he made his return to Yankee Stadium, there couldn’t have been many people who cheered louder when he recorded his first strikeout.

There is something about Proctor’s love of the game that should resonate with every fan–hell, with every person who has ever felt an overwhelming drive to succeed. He represents every kid who spent Saturdays throwing a ball at a chalk strike zone on the side of the garage or mimed swinging for the fences with a metal Louisville Slugger and plastic tee. Through every grueling recovery process, gutted-out minor league outing, and tight slider that finally–finally–hits the black, Proctor has proven to baseball, to the fans, and hopefully to himself that he possesses the kind of sheer determination that most players lose by the time they first play under the lights. Wherever baseball takes him, and whatever he has left in his arm, Scott Proctor has already given a lifetime of heart to the best game in the world.

NB: As of January 2012, Scott has accepted a contract to play in South Korea. While we wait for him to return, please read all about his foundation, M.E’s Team, and consider donating to help make a difference in the life of a child.