On Conviction

As WTP turns 4, we pay homage

Warning Track Power turns 4 today. By my rough calculations, that’s 21 in internet blog years. Let’s all raise a glass together.

The first story hit inboxes on December 31, 2020. I can remember agonizing over every word as I read, re-read, and revised late into the night. I’m pretty sure I asked a friend or two to give the final draft a quick look (thank you, Corey). The truth is that the story was good to go before I belabored any of it.

It comes down to conviction.

Do you know what happens when a pitcher throws a fastball without conviction? Ask the fan in the second deck of the right field bleachers who just caught the ball.

In 2011, I saw left-handed reliever Aaron Loup pitch for Phoenix in the Arizona Fall League. There was something about him I liked, though I couldn’t quite pin it down. I couldn’t adequately articulate why I liked him. He was a gut-feel guy for me.

In retrospect, it should have been easy enough: His low-three-quarters arm slot made him an uneasy at-bat for lefties. Mix in adequate strike-throwing ability, and you’ve at least got a chance.

A couple years later, while Loup was enjoying success as a member of the Blue Jays bullpen, it became clear that I had lacked the confidence — the conviction — to write him up as a valuable big-league arm.

Loup last appeared in a game in September 2023, more than 11 years after his Major League debut. He went from Toronto to Philly to San Diego to Tampa to the Mets and finally to Anaheim. He appeared in the 2020 World Series with the Rays. He achieved 10 years of Major League Service, a feat accomplished by fewer than 10 percent who ever play the game. He threw with conviction.

Theodore Roosevelt is most often credited with saying: “In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.”

I think of Aaron Loup more often that I would have ever expected. He made me appreciate that I’d rather be wrong than silent. His career serves as a reminder to trust in what I’m doing, even on days when I don’t have my best stuff. Sometimes you just need to hit send.

Past The Halfway Mark

We experienced the Baseball Solstice last week, and I, for one, didn’t know it. The halfway point between the final out of the World Series and the first pitch of the first Spring Training game is now behind us. The offseason feels like it gets shorter every year, though that’s more of an observation than a complaint.

I’ve been bridging the gap with “The Last Manager,” the forthcoming biography on Earl Weaver, written by John W. Miller. The research is thorough, the stories are lively, and I’m jealous that all of you will have the chance to read it for the first time this March. I rarely re-read books, but this Weaver bio will be an exception.

I’m speaking to Miller in the new year, and I look forward to publishing a full review soon.

Rickey

For a couple summers, when my friends and I were about 7 or 8, we wore novelty plastic batting helmets as fashion statements. Similar helmets today can usually be found upside down, containing ballpark nachos. Our headwear of the ’80s was definitely nothing you wanted to eat out of. It included an adjustable inner ring for a snug fit and a warning adorning the underside of the brim, clearly stating that it was not a protective cap.

The green and gold Oakland A’s helmet was my favorite. At my request, a babysitter, who would entertain my sister and me with her decorative paint pens, inscribed 35 on the back of it. When I wore that replica helmet, I was Rickey Henderson.

Rickey was one of the first superstars I ever watched. His rookie card was the holy grail for my friends and me during our peak collecting years. Rickey was immortal in my mind.

The game of baseball is better because Rickey played it.

My New Year’s Wish For You

In May, Barry Axelrod — friend, confidante, and counsel to many — passed away unexpectedly. I wrote about him at the time, and I missed him most immediately after the final out of a wild Padres game — and there were many this summer.

Over the past several months, I’ve had the chance to remember him with many others who were in his orbit. His passing created a spiritual void that will never be filled. Barry instilled a belief that anything was possible. He always saw the potential in creative ideas and gently added to them through his own wisdom. His support made everything feel within reach.

I wish all of you that power and promise — that anything is possible — in 2025.