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Dr. D loves words and concepts that:
- Are far too rich to draw a consensus among postgrad students
- Are far too clear to be disagreed upon by 5-year-olds
The word "masterpiece" is frequently an inkblot test. In our arguing over whether a given piece of literature qualifies, usually we reveal more about ourselves than the work itself. This applies to pitching, also.
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Strictly speaking, a "masterpiece" is a work of craftsmanship that demonstrates such a complete command of skill that it would immediately gain the craftsman entrance into a guild.
In Norman Rockwell's piece, above, he deploys the metaphor of the train track to capture the father's reflection on lost years, and the son's optimism toward years yet in front of him. The father sags under the weight of the world, while the boy cares little about his dog's extrasensory fear of what is about to occur. The boy's hands are tightly withheld from the simple touch that would ease his dog's misery.
But the gap is not in selflessness; it is in wisdom. Nothing can, or should, be done about such a gap. What does the coloring of the clothes say about each person's level of wisdom?
The father does not have the strength to light his cigarette; he has only one thing left in the world he can do for his son, to flag down the train and send the boy out of his life. The father will loyally and dutifully accomplish this task, with no thanks expected or even possible.
The painting broke the hearts and spirits of many of Rockwell's critics, one of whom (Peter Schjteldal) said "Rockwell is terrific. It has become too tedious to pretend that he isn't."
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In terms of sheer craftsmanship, is it possible to do more with Iwakuma's stuff than he does with it?
Iwakuma's victory over the Twins, Monday was nothing less than a masterpiece. Pitch after pitch was a transcendent experience - an experience in which one loses sense of time passing. If Monday's game was not the state-of-the-art as it pertains to pitching craftsmanship, point us to a game that is.
McClendon said, after visiting in the 7th, that Iwakuma had earned the right to determine his own fate. If you ask me, that is authentic leadership on McClendon's part. Iwakuma is a 21st-century samurai; he received permission from his shogun to administer the killing blow. He delivered it, with a delicately-placed slash that dropped just below the strike zone, catching his opponent in a subtly-aggressive two strike lunge.
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In terms of inspiration, what I enjoy most about Iwakuma's performances is the pitchability. On Monday, he used the "samurai staredown" to again and again --- > sense the intentions of his enemies, and lock them up with called strikes either bold or evasive.
When Iwakuma is feeling good, as IceX foresaw that he soon would be, he balances on that leg as if savoring the imminent amputation of his opponent's sword-arm. The cross-cultural struggle is a sight to behold, isn't it?
We often discussed this samurai spirit with respect to Ichiro, the hard-core philosophy that sees the hard, sharp, fair battle as a moral duty. We are not talking about "ethics" here. Ethics, in baseball, is for a batter not to step on the mound when crossing the infield back to the dugout. When you have a 4-year-old, you will try to teach her not to lie and steal. They can learn honor and duty, in part, by watching Hisashi Iwakuma.
One time an opera fan asked Dr. D what he saw in grown men chasing a little ball around a field. Dr. D asked him in return, what he saw in grown men pulling catgut across metal strings.
Also, Felix-Iwakuma go against the A's and Angels before and after the All-Star Break. Anybody else starting to get the feeling that these guys can go up against anybody?
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