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MLB Payroll to Wins Ratio Reveals Surprises

We all know that spending money on free agents has ballooned the payroll of teams like the Yankees to astronomical levels.  The Yankees are often nicknamed the Yankee$ because of the amount of money they spend on their players.  They are far and away the biggest spender, with their payroll topping $201 million.  A distant second on the list is their crosstown rival, the Mets.  They come in at $149 million, more than $50 million or 25 percent less than the Yankees.

At the bottom of the list are the Florida Marlins and the San Diego Padres.  The Marlins entered the season with a $36 million payroll and the Padres had a $43 million payroll.  But the Padres just traded Jake Peavy, who made $11 million, so that drops their payroll to $32 million.

The Washington Post did an analysis of the cost per win of the teams in MLB.  You can crunch the numbers beyond what they did yourself if you want.  Just take the standings, and divide the payroll by the number of wins.

The teams with the best bang for the buck are the teams with the two lowest payrolls, the Marlins and the Padres.

But, if you crunch the numbers AFTER the Peavy trade, the Padres definitely climb to the top.  As of the date where the numbers were run, they had 43 wins and a payroll of $43 million.  Take out $11 million for Peavy, and add in the $400K that Clayton Richard makes.  That gets you down to $33 million, so the Padres are now spending $770K per win.

Not surprisingly, the Yankees spend the most per win, and the Mets are right behind them.  Each Yankee win costs $3.2 million.

To put that in perspective, if the Padres were to spend as much per win as the Yankees do, they'd be truly horrible, with 11 wins.  And the Marlins, who are right in the hunt, would have 12.

The Key to A Happy Life

                                          

Last Friday night, we needed a key to our house. Most, if not all of you, probably have such a key and could locate it in a matter of seconds. “Why,” you might say, astonished at such a ridiculous query, “it’s on my key ring in my purse! Where else would it be?” Those of you given to athletic feats of organization might also be able to cite the location of duplicate keys at the homes of trusted neighbors and friends, under a potted plant near the front porch, or hung neatly on some sort of pegboard or set of hooks, shining rigidly in the hopes of future deployment. Here, among the savages, there is no such certainty.

We needed a key because, for my son’s fourteenth birthday party, we elected to use my husband’s hotel “points” to get two rooms at a nearby Comfort Inn. One was for six boys to stay up all night playing Call of Duty, eating Cheetos, drinking Mountain Dew and calling girls on their cell phones. The other (adjoining, of course) gave us a base from which to monitor them through the connecting door and utter variations on “keep it down” approximately 7,000 times between 7:00PM and 11:00AM. Although we knew we could easily dispatch one adult back to the house to feed and walk our dogs, it occurred to us that we should probably lock the house between those visits. Again, those of you leading traditional lives are widening your eyes and thinking, “well of COURSE you have to lock your house! Don’t you lock it every time you leave?”

The answer is pretty much that we do not. When we moved into this house eleven years ago, the inspector told us that the beautiful, original 1912 front door with its gracious woodwork and central pane of glass would make it incredibly easy to break in. “Replace it,” he said, “or get a big dog.” I wanted the door, and I always want dogs, so the next time Rob left for a work trip I repaired immediately to the Humane Society where I adopted not only the dog I had seen in the newspaper and intended to add to the family, but the rambunctious beagle-terrier mix who seemed so improbably happy to see Sam and me looking through the bars of his cage. Problem solved: we had two dogs, one biggish and one small, both loud enough to scare the living daylights out of anyone foolish enough to attempt to burgle our house.

Between the dogs and the fact that all of our neighbors are undergraduates who are awake (and often outside smoking various things) at all hours, we felt fine with our policy of leaving the house unlocked when we went to the grocery store, or out to dinner. We didn’t travel much, as a family, and when we did leave for longer than twelve hours we had to hire someone to take care of the animals, and we gave that person a house key. Because at one time, we had some house keys. I had one on my key chain, Rob and Sam each had one, and several were disbursed to reliable pet-sitter types who either kept them between times, or left them in the mailbox for us so that we could return them to the neat row of hooks next to the door.

I don’t know what happened, it was some sort of incremental Loss of Key Consciousness, but by Friday, when it occurred to us that one dog was stone deaf and the other was likely to be sleeping under the covers upstairs when the intruder smashed the door in, there were no keys. My key had fallen off the gigantic key ring I carry, which features a bead, which unscrews to “open” the ring to admit new keys. Unfortunately, it unscrews at inopportune moments, and some time in November it disgorged everything but my work keys and my car key into a snow bank at the edge of the mall parking lot. I think. Sam’s key, along with his entire key ring was confiscated by his gym teacher because of his refusal to “dress out” for class, whatever that means. (If it were “dress up,” I would care, but “dressing out” sounds really aggressive and gym-teacherish). There were no keys on the hooks by the door. I started calling everyone to whom we had ever given a house key, realized that more than half of them now lived in other states, and gave up. Desperate, I even called my father who organizes his saw blades by diameter and his handkerchiefs by whiteness, and asked if we had ever given my parents a key. “You don’t have a key to your own house?” he asked, incredulous. “You won’t even be able to get copies made if you can’t find at least one.”

Defeated, slatternly, courting danger, we left the house unlocked, took the boys to an R –rated movie, and carted them off to terrorize small children at the hotel pool before eating toxic junk food. Around 11:30, as I lay on the King-sized bed watching “Criminal Minds,” Rob returned from the dog walking mission. As he took his coat off, I told him I was kind of worried about leaving the house open all night.

“Oh, it’s locked” he said as he picked through the melting ice and unwrapped a plastic cup. “I found a house key on my key ring. I didn’t think to look there.” 

That key is the seed, the hard, glittering embodiment of promise that some day, somehow, we will grow a new crop of keys, place them confidently, proudly cite their respective locations, and be Proactive towards life. After my nap.

If Doctor’s Were on Baseball Cards

I just went through the process of helping my wife select a doctor for her new medical plan. Choosing a doctor is a pretty serious business. After all, this is a person who may someday have to look at your hoo-hah in order to tell you what’s wrong with it.You don’t want to pick just anyone for that duty, I don’t care how many sheepskins are hanging on his or her office wall. I once went in for a surgery called a uvulopalatoplasty/ethmoidechtomy – a delightful little procedures where they jerk bits of you out through your nose, tear out your tonsils, adenoids and lop off your uvula – that dangling down bit at the back of your throat.

This was supposed to cure my sleep apnea and snoring.It did not.Be that as it may, before the surgery, a surgical nurse or some similar sort of data collector interviewed me. His job, it seemed, was to determine my physical and mental state prior to surgery. I was pretty okay about the thing. I liked Dr. Shea, the surgeon. He seemed competent enough and the surgery was an hour-long outpatient procedure.

Unfortunately, I chose this point in the process to quip.A word to folk going into surgery.You aren’t supposed to be funny. Hospital data collectors don’t understand why anyone would make pithy remarks before a surgical procedure. I think hospitals data collectors must have to undergo a funnyboneectomy or something before they get the job.“I think you guys should put all your surgeons,” I quipped, “On, like baseball cards or something. You know, list their batting averages for their surgeries. I’d really like to know how many people survive and how many they kill. Seasonal averages would be okay.”The hospital data collector had gone pale.“I just think it would help you to know how worried you should be, you know, like you might want to get your affairs in order and stuff,” I explained helpfully.

The hospital data collector scribbled furiously, then folded the data collection sheet and tucked it in my chart. “Excuse me,” he said and stepped out of the room.Well, being of a curious bent, I scooted over to the table and flipped open the chart. “Patient appears agitated,” the data collector had written at the bottom of the intake form.

Later the nurse returned to collect me and double-checked the chart.“Come with me,” she said casting an appraising eye over me. I followed meekly. She weighed me, then gave me a handful of pills, stretched me out on the gurney and slipped a mask over my face. I remember the anesthetist coming in and fiddling with some valves.“Count backwards from one hundred,” he commanded.“Sure,” I said light-heartedly. “One hun……………….” That’s all I remember till I woke with the curious sensation that someone had touched off a stick of dynamite in my head.I still think the baseball cards thing was a good idea.

Group Health, my wife’s HMO has a side by side comparison thing that gives you the physicians educational background, his philosophy of medical practice and a list of hobbies and pastimes (I like walking on the beach, playing the zither and am a fourth level Voodoo priestess).

Still, though it's nice to know some personal tidbits about your doc, there's nothing yet in the info pages about won/loss rates, saves, miraculous recoveries or how the doc feels about prescribing Valium, Oxycodone or medical marijuana, number of malpractice suits in the past year – useful things of that sort. It would certainly help us anxiety-ridden potential patients. A Surgical Batting Average (SBA) of 352 would mean something. I mean, hey, I've got to give the docs my cholesterol count. Fair's fair.