By Tony in Hitchin

League 4

League 7

11:51, Eng 296-7 Mills beats Anderson all ends up outside off, before Jim slices through gully for a dooblay. Quiet at Trent Bridge so far - the stands are filling up nicely, but there are papers to read and first-drink decisions to be made.

I appreciate that paragraph possibly makes about as much sense to most of you as it would if written in Spanish, but to an Englishman it says a great deal. Ah, the mysteries of some sporting terms.

It comes from the BBC’s blog of a recent cricket match between England and New Zealand. As you probably know, cricket is pretty big in these parts. However, shortly after England beat Australia in an historic 5-match series back in 2005, the ‘powers-that-be’ decided to broadcast all of England’s matches exclusively on cable - a decision that prevents a large number of people from watching the national team. So, we have the radio commentary - legendary stuff it is, too - and blogs, such as the BBC’s, to which one turns every few minutes … while the boss is looking the other way.

A quick translation: England are batting, and at 11:51 in the morning (on the second of five days) have, so far, scored 296 runs for the loss of 7 wickets; Mills is the bowler and James Anderson is the batsman; “beats all ends up” is the cricketing equivalent of a pitcher throwing a curveball for a strike; “off” is the off stump, the one furthest from the batsman’s legs; Trent Bridge is the name of the ground at which the game is being played, cricket taking place at a ground rather than in a stadium; “gully” is a position on the field; and a “doublay” is a slang term for two runs scored. You may be none the wiser at this point, but I bet a few of you were wondering.

(As an aside, it has always amused me that in baseball the positions taken up by those in the field are self-explanatory, with the possible exception of shortstop, while in cricket a fielder might be at extra cover, long on, fine leg, square leg or silly point. Those are real positions, I promise you.)

However, it’s the rest of the paragraph that made me chuckle, wondering, as I did, how it might read to, dare I say, a foreigner.

Going to a Test Match - the proper name for an international match - is a special day out. Play begins at 11:00 in the morning and lasts for two hours before the teams take a 40-minute lunch break at 1:00 PM. Play resumes after lunch for another two hours, until the action stops for tea, a 20-minute break, before a final two-hour session, such that play ends at 6:00 PM.

And the spectators - for we are spectators and not fans - take our lunch when the players do, wolfing down the sandwiches and savouries that we’ve brought along or splashing out for something from one of the numerous eateries that offer everything from burgers to sushi. We take tea when the players do, naturally. And all day long, most of us read newspapers - reports and analyses of the previous day’s play, the latest political and business news, and everything else in between.

Cricket is played at a leisurely pace, the peace and quiet interrupted only by the sound of willow (the wood from which bats are made) on leather (the ball), the cries of anguish as a catch is dropped, and the applause of the crowd in appreciation of a good shot by the batsman or an athletic stop by one of the fielders. Rarely is the term “a ripple of applause” more appropriate than when applied to cricket. Everyone in the world should attend a Test Match: it is a unique experience, I promise you.

But the language of the game can baffle anyone who doesn’t follow cricket. It’s the same for the average Englishman when confronted by a report of a recent Pirates-Cardinals clash or a box score.  Occasionally, a journalist from this side of the pond will attempt to explain baseball, or some element of it, to an audience that, for the most part, has heard of only Babe Ruth but couldn’t pick him out at an identity parade.

I read the articles critically, disappointed that they’re “dumbed down” while reluctantly accepting the reasons for the game’s minutiae being so simplistically explained or, even worse, glossed over. The beauty that we each find in our favorite sport can be lost in translation, as I may already have unwittingly proved.

Sometimes a friend will thrust the sports section of the International Herald Tribune or USA Today at me seeking an interpretation of a paragraph or a box score that, while aesthetically pleasing, is written in a code that, for them, only an Enigma machine could crack. I explain the zeroes on the top line (the Padres being on the road) and the numbers below it, the numbers at the end of each line and the pitchers’ lines; the friend smiles, grateful, but no wiser than he was before I started to talk, and struggles to think of a question that will assure me that he’s been listening.

With a smirk of which an 8-year old upon hearing a dirty word would be proud, my friend notices the initials “BS” against one of the pitchers’ names and asks whether that means that the pitcher in question is not very good. How does one begin to explain the concept of a blown save? All manner of questions are bound to arise: What’s a save? Why is the save “blown”? I begin to reply knowing that both of us are going to regret this conversation.

But this tale does teach us something: it’s that saves and holds are dumb statistics, and we as fantasy players should slap ourselves on the side of our head for not questioning the wisdom of having saves as a category in our various leagues. For years, we’ve simply accepted that it’s wins and ERA and WHIP and K’s … and saves. That’s the industry norm, your typical vanilla 5×5 league. And it’s silly.

I mean, how many times have you groaned as your team - your team! - scores an otherwise fairly meaningless run in the bottom of the eighth, extending its lead to four runs and thus denying your closer the chance of a save. “Well, I do want us to win, of course,” you reply, “but why can’t my guy get the save as well? That’d be perfect.”

Yes, it would, but you know full well that life isn’t perfect. And that’s confirmed about ten minutes later, when your closer, who came into the game in a non-save situation, is replaced, the lead down to two runs and the bases loaded. Your team may still win the game, but you’re thinking about your fantasy team by now.

The criteria for a save seem fairly arbitrary to me, and the fact that managers frequently use them to determine whether to bring in his closer has always infuriated me. The set-up guy, your Scot Shields, your Carlos Marmol, strikes out the three power hitters, so that the closer, the guy who makes the big bucks in many cases, can take care of the light-hitting rightfielder, the catcher, and the shortstop who everyone knows is in there because of his glove not his bat. But the proof that the criteria are ridiculous is the criteria for a blown save, which make no sense at all in some cases.

For instance, the Angels-A’s on June 30th … A’s leading by one run in the bottom of the sixth. With the tying run on second, Keith Foulke comes into the game, promptly gives up a double and a home run and the A’s now trail by 2 runs, 5-3, before Foulke escapes without further damage. The Angels go on to win the game, 6-3, with three pitchers, each, working one scoreless inning for the Angels.  Two pitchers, each, went one inning for the A’s, one of whom gave up that sixth run. Of the three Angels pitchers, two were credited with a hold and one with a save.  The last two A’s pitchers were not credited with anything, and Foulke got the loss … and a blown save.

Wait! A blown save? I ask you: what are the chances that, if he’d gotten the last two outs in the sixth inning without giving up a run, Keith Foulke would have gone on to earn the save? Absolutely no chance in the modern game, none at all, less than that even. So, while Foulke can’t realistically earn a save, he can get a blown save? That strikes me as completely illogical and, frankly, unfair.

Take a step back for a moment and remember that Foulke came into the game with his team leading by a run. Now, if we imagine that Foulke got the last two outs of the sixth inning without difficulty, thus preserving the lead for the A’s, and then came out of the game, what would he have earned? A hold, of course - everyone knows that.

And so, my question is this: why isn’t Foulke credited with a blown hold? It would, after all, make a lot more sense than a blown save.  But then, if saves and holds are dumb, why on earth would I want to introduce the blown hold? I think that, just for once, two wrongs just might make a ‘right’.