How to Keep Score

By: Patrick Dubuque

Learn the number of each position: 1 for pitcher, 2 for catcher, 3 for first baseman, and so on. Groundball putouts are written in the order of who touched the ball: 4-3, 9-2. Flyballs have an F in front, like F8. Unassisted putouts have a U afterward, like 3U, I think.

Strikeouts are marked as K. Strikeouts looking are backward Ks. Strikeouts on bad calls by the umpire are also backwards Ks, but written in lighter pencil.

When someone asks you if you are keeping score, be honest. Tell them yes, you are keeping score. When they make that look, half puzzlement, half concern, never vocalized: do not answer. If they persist, tell them you are doing it because it is your last game, because you are dying.

Base hits are denoted with 1B, 2B, 3B, or HR, with a line marking the runner’s path around the bases. If the runner scores, darken the entire diamond. This is cathartic.

Use your best penmanship. You have time.

Write the details of the game in the margins: the date, time, place, the temperature and the attendance and the names of the umpires. These are unimportant details, and therefore vital details. No one lives in the day-to-day; in the day-to-day, they die. Only in the pointless, the ceremonial, and the reflective is anyone alive.

When a defender makes an excellent play, use an exclamation mark, but do so sparingly.

Never forget that your scorecard will never fully replicate the game you are scoring. The details–the angle of the pitcher’s delivery, the way the center fielder flashed his glove before making an easy catch, the timber and hunger of the crowd or the color of the skyline or your own fears–will not translate. No language can. That is not your job.

If your scorecard includes them, do not mark balls and strikes. Allow yourself to exist in the pauses.

Don’t use pen. Use pencil or, preferably, charcoal. If you’re feeling contemplative, score the game without looking at the card at all, but instead by letting the pencil travel on its own, through your subconscious. If the result resembles your father, call him. Tell him how the game went.

What Jarrod Dyson Looked Like During His Diving Catch

By: Meg Rowley

On Monday night, Jarrod Dyson made a diving catch to rob Khris Davis of a hit. In real time, this was one fluid display of athleticism. He had done this before. The whole thing took five seconds. He was Jarrod Dyson, Center Fielder. His identity was cohesive. He was himself and also his job. But when we break those five seconds down into their constituent parts, the play, along with Jarrod, fractures; he becomes many more things.

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Yovani Gallardo throws his 85th pitch. Jarrod Dyson is: an example of object permanence; waiting; on the warning track; unseen.

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Jarrod ranges. Jarrod Dyson is: comically far away; part of a triangle; between two men with much longer hair; rushing.

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Jarrod catches the ball. Jarrod Dyson is: a very fast person; on a knee; not humbled; Ben Gamel’s friend; a rebuke of years of Mariners’ outfield defense; still quite small for a professional athlete.

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Jarrod holds onto the ball. Jarrod Dyson is: a turtle; a drunk man on an icy street; catching a squirrelly baby who won’t stay on the changing table; grabbing your beer; in motion.

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Jarrod is playing baseball? Jarrod Dyson is: a triangle; an acrobat; bent at all his joints; playing baseball; no really, playing baseball!

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Jarrod stands in the field. Jarrod Dyson is: A hero; someone who stuck the landing; defiant; pleased it worked; less worried about his at-bats.

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Jarrod subjects himself to technology. Jarrod Dyson is: a metaphor for these weeks of ours. It’s only Wednesday! It’s only Wednesday? In which direction are we moving?

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Jarrod stretches. Jarrod Dyson is: a dad. A 31-almost-32-year-old dad who took a tumble and needs to stretch it out. Pop, pop, pop, all down the spine. He’s fine.

Jarrod Dyson made a diving catch to rob Khris Davis of a hit. He is a centerfielder. Also, he contains multitudes.

Thank you for reading

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I always keep score at games on a legal pad.

Last year in ATL, there were some college-kid girls sitting behind my friends and me. After an inning ended, I got up, put my legal pad and went to the bathroom. One of the girls leaned over and asked my friend what I was writing, and he said, "He's keeping score."

This perplexed her, and she paused for a moment before pointing at the stadium scoreboard and asking what was, to her, the obvious question: "But there's a big scoreboard right there?"
"Yes, but he's translating it into Spanish, Japanese and Korean for his blog."

"Yes, but if it isn't backed up, it might be lost forever."

"Yes, but his Master's thesis involves figuring out the deeper meaning."

"Not that kind of score, it's his ratings of all of the college girls sitting nearby."
I'm wondering how many people do this, but when I keep score I mark where the ball was hit. Looping curve for a fly ball, squiggle line for a ground ball, straight line for a line drive?
Sort of - I use FS and FD for short and deep flies, Fo for flies in foul territory, and similar codes for slow or especially hard grounders. Plus L for a line drive as opposed to a loftier fly, and P for a popup.
I score using a different color pen for each spot in the lineup (plus one for PH). It doesn't come up all the time, but occasionally it helps distinguish during which later at-bat things involving baserunners happened.

I've also skipped having a section to track the count, I just code across the bottom so I can see the order in which the pitches happened. C-called; S-swinging; B-ball; F-foul.
I love this article. I love the way you guys, and girls, write. It's funny, yet explanatory, but doesn't either tałk over your head or dumb it down. It's baseball talk for prospect loving people with senses of humor. And it makes my life more enjoying. Thank you and keep it up. And long live Sixto Sanchez