Publisher's Weekly-Rezension
Plenty of baseball books focus on sabermetrics and the application of statistical analysis to evaluate players. Far fewer are dedicated to such player intangibles as hustle, leadership, professionalism and passion-character traits that elevate teams yet are impossible to quantify. Wheeler (who has collaborated with Hank Aaron and Mike Piazza on their autobiographies) explores how intangibles matter by tracking the Cincinnati Reds' transformation from a struggling team, revolving around selfish superstars Ken Griffey Jr. and Adam Dunn, to champions of the National League Central Division in two out of three seasons. Wheeler attributes that success to the arrivals of Joey Votto and Scott Rolen, less renowned but more team-focused players. He uses the acronym TEAMSHIP (toughness, execution, accountability, moxie, supportiveness, history, intensity, and passion) to define his target "intangibles." Not surprisingly, Derek Jeter is the subject of an entire chapter, and the Atlanta Braves, Tampa Bay Rays, Philadelphia Phillies, and Baltimore Orioles receive nearly as much attention as the Reds. Despite long-winded passages and an overemphasis on validating his premise, there's no denying Wheeler's found fertile ground here with a thoughtful companion to Michael Lewis' Moneyball. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Kirkus-Rezension
Sportswriter Wheelerco-author of memoirs by Hank Aaron and Mike Piazza, among othersmakes the case that baseball statistics should be examined in tandem with the intangibles of a player's character when assembling a winning team. The author does not reject the approach of Moneyball, but he does claim it requires supplementing. A former Cincinnati journalist, Wheeler focuses on the Cincinnati Reds more than any other team, but he provides examples of players with excellent character and less-desirable character from across Major League Baseball. In the author's view, Derek Jeter, the recently retired shortstop for the New York Yankees, is exemplary: a player who leads through the example of physical dedication as well as verbal leadership among his teammates. MLB players must stick together in close quarters through a 162-game season, which means far more intense interactions than in other professional sports. When a team's stars fail to mesh well with other players on the field and in the clubhouse, that team might fail to claim the championships it has the talent to win. In the case of the Reds, Wheeler demonstrates how the additions of stars Ken Griffey Jr. and Adam Dunn backfired, while signing relative unknowns such as Joey Votto paid dividends. In addition to analyzing the characters of players, the author delves into the psyches of managers, general managers, and other team decision-makers, explaining how various philosophies about taking character into account have produced wildly varying results. Never does Wheeler make the case that the character factor on a team guarantees success, but he is convinced that signing players who mesh well significantly improves the odds of winning. His examples tend to become repetitious after he has stated his theme numerous times, and his writing style is often overly cute, with too much wordplay. However, the author is always clear and readable. A good book for baseball fans who already know, or think they know, about the specific players named. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist-Rezension
Maybe it's only appropriate that a book about baseball intangibles should be so uncertain in its focus, but Wheeler still offers a strong counterbalance to the culture of sabermetrics that has all but kidnapped Major League Baseball. Derek Jeter, who retired after last season, epitomizes the player who brings to field and clubhouse the intangibles that Wheeler most values toughness, execution, accountability, moxie, supportiveness, history, intensity, and passion though Wheeler profiles a number of other players, active or retired, who also delivered these qualities, such as Scott Rolen, Chase Utley, and David Eckstein. Oddly, or perhaps conveniently since he lives outside of Cincinnati, Wheeler focuses inordinately on the Reds, whose recent successes don't compare to those of, say, the Giants, Red Sox, or Cards. Still, there's more than enough substance here to nourish MLB fans.--Moores, Alan Copyright 2015 Booklist
Library Journal-Rezension
We have all heard certain baseball players described as possessing all of the intangibles. But what are these characteristics? Wheeler, coauthor of several baseball books such as Long Shot and Sixty Feet, Six Inches, tries to pin down these elusive qualities. He examines teams built not according to the popular trend in advanced statistics but at least equally according to team chemistry and the concomitant abstract qualities of team members. His anecdotal accounts of what makes up the intangibles revolve around stars such as Derek Jeter but also less-famous players such as David Eckstein, Kevin Millar, and Jonny Gomes. Describing them, the author repeatedly returns to such phrases as "sacrifices his batting average to advance runners in any way possible," "always hustles," "is always prepared," "offers encouragement to teammates who are struggling and calls out slackers," etc. VERDICT There are no quantitative methods for proving the nature of intangibles, but fans who are growing tired of the Moneyball trend in baseball will appreciate Wheeler's account of the place of heart, drive, hard work, and team-first attitude in the national pastime.-Jim Burns, formerly with Jacksonville P.L., FL © Copyright 2015. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Auszüge
Intangiball INTRODUCTION IT WAS DURING THE SUMMER of 2008 that I became a baseball fan again. The old newspaper I'd written for, the doomed Cincinnati Post, had bowed out on the final day of the year before, and while its demise put a crimp in my prospects, it did liberate my rooting interest, which was no longer muted by objectivity's shushing index finger. At the same time, our twentysomething daughter was between jobs and hanging at home for a little while--long enough, anyway, to catch some ball games on the basic cable package. She was relatively new to that diversion, and while she was not caught up in the statistical subplots that captivate so many modern-age fans, her enchantment soon became keen enough to take her to the ballpark on a frequent basis. She would also, when necessary, receive automated updates by text messages. Mostly, she got a kick out of the characters--the good-natured grief that Jay Bruce took from the veterans, the eloquent facemaking of Johnny Cueto, the squatty switch-hitting of Javy Valentin, the Mountielike manhood of Joey Votto, Laynce Nix's resemblance to a komodo dragon, and so on. My wife, whose interest in the games had traditionally taken her up to bedtime but never postponed it, began to linger longer in the late innings. Baseball became, for the first time, a family thing. Watching it in that light, unencumbered by twenty inches of editorial burden to follow, was downright pleasant. The local team had something to do with that. For the better part of a decade, the Reds had slogged to the beat of their big-swinging sluggers, Adam Dunn and Ken Griffey, Jr., successful, likable fellows who had the misfortune of outranking the rest of the clubhouse. Dunn, a six-foot-six, self-deprecating country boy, wielded a humor so potent that less accomplished players didn't want it hurled in their direction. Meanwhile, to many of the rank and file, Griffey had once been the poster on the wall next to the bed. The two of them, with no such intention, established the tone in Cincinnati's clubhouse, and while it was not disagreeable, neither was it particularly inspiring. Griffey's failing legs had filched his former sizzle, and Dunn's passion, while not entirely absent, was concealed somewhere between the edge of his deadpan and the preponderance of his 285 pounds. Both players struck out a lot with men on base, of which there was a shortage to start with. The club had losing records for eight straight seasons. As theater, it wasn't much. When first Griffey and then Dunn were traded for younger players late in the 2008 season, the Reds began to morph. The floor recognized Votto and Bruce. The clearing of the shadows revealed the sparkle in Brandon Phillips's smile. Pitchers prospered. And through it all there escaped a teamwide enthusiasm--even an efficiency--that was simply nice to see. The new crew made you look. All the while, the organization, for the first time in a generation, was raising highly regarded players on its farm clubs in substantial numbers, and there was a compelling constant among the prospects. Almost to a kid, they were diamond rats. They were backers-up of throws and runners-out of ground balls, hard-trying athletes whose want-its and work ethics were all a partisan could ask for. They had me. Sensitized in such a way, I began to notice, as the 2009 season approached, short and lengthy articles about a subtle change in the way Major-League franchises were fashioning their rosters. One column, written by Buster Olney of espn.com , observed that "increasingly, it seems, makeup is regarded as a pivotal factor on whether a player is acquired or dumped--and this might be part of a broader evolution in Major League Baseball." Olney quoted a manager and a club official about the benefits of removing smug, downbeat individuals from their teams and constructing teams, instead, out of players willing to pull hard in the same direction. Another story, posted on Insidethebook.com , went so far as to assign a dollar value to a player's leadership qualities. It did so by noting that the San Diego Padres had signed weathered outfielder Cliff Floyd for $750,000, in spite of the fact that Floyd, diminished by his battle scars, was expected to play very little and offered nothing more, statistically, than would a minimum-salary rookie who could be had for $400,000. San Diego general manager Kevin Towers acknowledged that Floyd had been acquired mostly for his intangibles, and it required only a short reach to conclude that the Padres had paid an extra $350,000 for those. The previous year, Floyd had been a valued member of the Tampa Bay Rays, who had soared to the American League championship by virtue of a remade roster emphasizing, in addition to defense, a team-first mentality. Under the progressive stewardship of manager Joe Maddon and general manager Andrew Friedman, the Rays set up their breakout season with gutsy personnel decisions, trading a pair of supremely talented young outfielders, Delmon Young and Elijah Dukes, in part for their exchange rates and in part because of their demeanors, which were perceived as detrimental to the esprit de clubhouse. When all was said and redone, the Rays, coming off three straight last-place finishes, and in spite of a payroll that left them financially dwarfed by such division rivals as the Red Sox and Yankees, had assembled a team that mussed the hair and reddened the faces of the redoubtable AL East. Hardly coincidentally, they had, at the same time, become an outfit that Maddon could do his thing with. "We believed that we stayed pretty much status quo talentwise," he observed in retrospect, "but there was a quantum leap in regard to personality, character, and interaction inside the clubhouse. I'd like to believe that teams are looking more at character these days in making their decisions." Of course, it wasn't as simple or idealistic as all that. The Rays were required to flash some killer glove work. A skillful new starting pitcher, Matt Garza, needed a shove from his catcher, a long talk from Maddon, and a visit with the club psychologist. A gifted young outfielder, B. J. Upton, was handed a benching for lack of hustle. As it happened, Charlie Manuel, the manager of the Philadelphia Phillies--the team that ultimately would defeat the Rays in the World Series--made similar moves during the course of the season, twice sitting down Jimmy Rollins for conduct unbecoming an All-Star shortstop. Old school, it seemed, was back in session. The development of the Phillies was not as sudden as Tampa Bay's and, designwise, not as tangibly intangible, but forensics revealed the same chemical traces at the scenes. There was a heartening circumstance here: The game and some of its more traditional admirers had come together at a crossing of common interests. Pluck, soundness, and winning spirit had, at last, in this advanced and exhaustively quantified stage of the sport's evolution, been acknowledged, even embraced, as strategically vital. The day--or the season, as it were--had been won by the respectful, enthusiastic observance of the so-called little things. I can't speak for every baseball watcher out there, but I can affirm that here in the hills and humidity of Cincinnati, where the professional game got its start and Pete Rose is still revered in spite of it all, the folks like players who like to play, who like to play right. Not entirely or deliberately but methodically, since the end-of-day sports shows became so tediously preoccupied with long flies arcing over pinched-in fences . . . since steroids stepped up to the plate . . . the sport had rendered increasingly rare the Roses, the Cobbs, the Jackie Robinsons (as if they're plural), the Pepper Martins, the Phil Rizzutos, the Luis Aparicios, and the gritty grinders of lesser stripe but fundamental excellence and irreproachable heart. Maybe the steroid scandal was like a stock-market correction. Maybe baseball's bloated muscles simply burst. Maybe the great game so indulged its excesses, so distorted the natural order, that it just had to crash. One manager, in Olney's column, remarked that we were witnessing a major change in the game, right before our eyes. Might the national pastime have, perhaps unwittingly, but in its own interest, rediscovered its innate, endearing essence? Could this be a purification that we were witnessing, a renaissance of the noblest, winningest qualities that sports can bring to public attention? As a captivated fan once again, I was compelled to look into that. Excerpted from Intangiball: The Subtle Things That Win Baseball Games by Lonnie Wheeler All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.