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By Root 444 0

’s name on the lineup card, where Scott Hatteberg’s should have been. It was a shame for Hatteberg, I thought. Here he’s been performing these valuable and rather selfless services to the Oakland A’s offense, and the one game the world will watch, he isn’t allowed to play. Art explained to Billy that Hatteberg had never faced Kansas City’s ace, Paul Byrd. Mabry, on the other hand, not only had hit Byrd hard but claimed to be able to see him tipping his pitches—that is, Mabry could guess what Byrd was about to throw. Billy now says he deferred to Art’s judgment, as if deferring to Art’s judgment comes naturally to him. Mabry promptly made Art Howe look like a genius. He’d driven in one run with a single up the middle in the six-run first inning—and helped to chase Byrd from the game. Then, in the second inning, he’d whacked a solo home run.

With the score 11–0, and Tim Hudson still carving up the Royals lineup, the absence of Scott Hatteberg from the lineup is a distant memory. Billy Beane is right to feel his usual self: the odds of something going wrong are ridiculously small. He calls his daughter Casey, now twelve years old, and still living in Southern California.

“Hey Casey, you watching the game?”

Pause.

“American Idol? You’re watching American Idol??”

Casey is watching American Idol.

He tells Casey the news—the team is winning big, a nation of baseball fans is watching—teases her a bit, and lets her go.

Billy Beane should always be so calm during his team’s games. If he believes what he claims to believe—that the game can be reduced to a social science; that it is simply a matter of figuring out the odds, and exploiting the laws of probability; that baseball players follow strikingly predictable patterns—then there is no point in being anything but calm. To get worked up over plays, or even games, is as unproductive as a casino manager worrying over the outcomes of individual pulls of the slot machines. Billy as good as makes this point now by pointing at the TV, where Eric Chavez, having just made a difficult defensive play look routine, sheepishly starts kicking the dirt in front of him. “He’s almost afraid to acknowledge how good he really is,” says Billy. “And here’s the thing. He’s twenty-four years old. You know if he’s here now”—he holds his hand at his chest—“he’ll wind up here”—he raises his hand over his head. “You could make a case that Chavvy is the most naturally gifted player in the game.”

I ask him to make the case, and, in his current, detached mood, he’s more than happy to. Up eleven–zip against a sorry club, he’s reveling in the objective, scientific spirit.

“Age is such a critical factor in evaluating guys,” he says, then plucks the Oakland A’s media guide off Art Howe’s bookshelf. “Here. Chavvy is twenty–four. The season isn’t over. He’s got 31 homers, 28 doubles, 55 walks, a .283 batting average, and a .353 on-base percentage. Who do you want to compare him to?”

“Jason Giambi,” I say.

“All right,” as he pulls out the New York Yankees media guide. “But I know the answer to this already, because I already did it.” He finds Giambi’s career statistics. “When Jason was twenty-four years old, he spent half the year in Edmonton—on a Triple-A team. In the half he was in the big leagues he hit 6 homers, drew 28 walks, and hit .256. Who else?”

“Barry Bonds,” I say. Across the Bay, Bonds is making the argument every night that he is the finest hitter who ever played the game.

“That’s hard,” he says. “Bonds has reached that level where even talent can’t take you. But okay, let’s take Bonds.” He grabs the San Francisco Giants media guide. “I know what it’s going to show because I did this with him, too. Bonds was born in 1964. In 1988, he hit .283, with 24 homers, 72 walks, and 30 doubles. That gives you some idea of how good Chavvy is.”

“Who else?” he asks. But before I can think of anyone else, he says, “Let’s try A-Rod [Alex Rodriguez]. No one had a quicker start than A-Rod.” He pulls the Texas Rangers media guide. “A-Rod was 24 in 1999. In 1999, he hit .285, with 25 doubles, 42 homers, and