The science of sports is like the science of anything else. It includes two basic things.
The first is scientific measurement—the hard data. Data which indicates, transparently, the reality of what occurs in a framework or context which makes sense, a context useful in understanding the data itself.
The second is whatever wishes to hide measurement, hide the science—distort the objective view in order to advance whatever human agenda or secret motive happens to come into play. This second aspect of scientific measurement involves a frame only in the sense that the intent is to leave out important information from the frame.
The first thing is what scientists do—they measure. More than anything else, science is measurement.
Velocity, temperature, percentages—how often does something happen and to what degree? That’s it in a nutshell.
But measurement also includes context: velocity of what, a velocity compared to what? Frequency—in terms of what? 99% of science is observable measurement which reflects the reality of whatever is being measured in the most complete manner possible. It has nothing to do with opinion, judgment, experience, credentials, or expertise. Data and its completeness is all. If a scientist is not urgently advancing these two things: data and completeness, something is wrong.
The second thing, obviously, is contrary to science—but it is often accomplished by scientists—because human activity is not solely based on science, and never will be. There are plenty of overriding reasons why transparent, factual information is not desired, and is not forthcoming. When we consider anything scientific, we must also take into account the whole (scientific) picture, which may be non-scientific or even anti-scientific: either neglectful or careless when it comes to science, or rationally anti-scientific (dishonest) on purpose. It often profits us not to be scientific.
Sports is most obviously scientific—in its devotion to statistics.
Mathematical and scientific minds, as well as artistic ones (art matches measurement and science to varying degrees) are drawn to spectator sports; the nerd, as well as the jock, have an interest in what is both competitive and measurable.
How good am I? I am this good: I scored 5 touchdowns. I struck out 20 batters. The nerd and jock both joy in this kind of measurement and science. Pride measured is extra special—measurement, even if it’s dubious measurement, swells it.
Unlike life, sports is full of immediate, understandable, and precise measurement, and this is why it is interesting to so many. The clock annoys and interrupts life—we consider its impact on us cruel, vague, and random. But the clock in sports is part of the thrill. In sports, the simplest of measurements is sexy.
Because science inevitably deals with data which is complex, the more scientifically minded sports fan will demand more nuance in scientific sports measurement: you ran for 5 touchdowns—but why? Did the linemen who pushed the defense out of the way not deserve much of the credit? The defense hardly touched you because of the big guys who blocked for you. Or you threw for 5 touchdowns: but your swift and elusive receivers were wide open and your blockers gave you plenty of time to throw.
Measuring the number of times a runner crosses the goal line is simple. Measuring how many meaningful blocks were made—by a particular lineman on a particular march down the field—is impossible. Measuring “how open” a receiver was when a quarterback completed a touchdown—and why—is impossible.
Well, perhaps such measurement is possible, but it is so difficult, it is never measured.
What should we measure? This is as important as the measurements we actually look at.
Statistics are limited by how they are able to measure the overall performance of a sport involving complex moves by many individuals.
And to limit the data is to limit, or even eliminate, the science.
“I scored 5 touchdowns” becomes math, not science.
If the context—everything which happens on the football field—is not seen or measured completely, then science cannot be said to be present. Measurement demands complete measurement. Science demands complete science.
If complete data is not available, scientific certainty fades into the background, even as crude types of certainty remain fixated in people’s minds: “X scored 5 touchdowns!”
The owner of a football team may prefer not to have stats for blockers—otherwise he may be forced to pay them as much money as the star running back.
Most of the original NFL teams were funded by gambling winnings. Gamblers are notorious for wishing certain pieces of information be suppressed. Here, then, is their “science.”
There is always motivation—somewhere—not to be scientific. Not to truly measure. Not to see the whole picture.
Or sometimes it’s just too complex and we don’t want to bother with it. But let’s leave aside this reason for now and assume the best measurement is always the true one.
To succeed in the game itself, what is hidden is key.
Stealing signs in baseball or football immediately comes to mind. (There is also the remarkable example of the tennis champion who noticed a player he did not fare well against telegraphing where his serve was going by the brief, unconscious movement of his tongue just before he served.)
Sport does not routinely measure cheating. There is an obvious reason why this is so. It would defeat the game’s entire legitimacy in the fans’ eyes if such a thing were routinely or officially measured.
Cheating, by its very, nature, avoids measurement—even though cheating itself, to succeed, must, in itself be scientific.
There is a science which defeats science.
And this truth lies at the heart of all criminality—and is the reason why a successful criminal must be regarded as a successful scientist—in every sense of that word. Science concerns data, not morals.
One doesn’t need to be a true scientist to ask interesting scientific questions, or make important advances within smaller regions of the whole.
Ultimate data—that which includes measurement of all data, both seen and unseen (including data deliberately hidden by a few)—is moral, in the sense that truth is associated with justice, but this is not how we define science—the scientist (who we normally think of as a specialist) almost never studies the whole picture.
A good scientist is understood to look at whatever needs to be looked at—but who knows “what needs to be looked at” in the whole universe? Are there any true scientists, then? Maybe a few: Plato, da Vinci, Leibnitz, Newton, Franklin, Einstein.
Most baseball fans are familiar with the Moneyball revolution in baseball—the short of it is this: using statistical observations hidden from standard statistical reporting, a poor team (the Oakland A’s) was able to assemble successful teams for less money. The science of Moneyball was superior to the first-hand, observational science of actual baseball scouts—statistics (measurement) was able to see what the eye could not. Data (measurement) can be more significant and nuanced than the naked eye.
Moneyball largely consisted of the following insight: filling your lineup with guys who walk a lot will tax opposing pitchers more than guys who swing a lot—this involves a physical aspect of the game—a pitcher throwing a lot of pitches—indirectly reflected by statistics. It isn’t just the numbers, but how you think about them. True, without the numbers, without the raw measurement, one would be lost. The numbers are there for you to see—walks equal bases exactly as different types of hits do, but since a hit is a hit and a walk is only a walk, the hits largely received more attention. Another thing about hits and pitching which Moneyball discovered: a safe hit is one of the most important statistics in baseball. What was never measured, however, was what percentage of balls merely put into play become hits—and this measurement led to a startling statistical insight as to how effective a pitcher is. Measuring how often a pitcher allows the batter to make contact turned out to be a far more meaningful stat than runs allowed—since luck plays a large part in how many struck balls turn into safe hits, and safe hits lead to how many runs a pitcher allows—perhaps the most important statistic, traditionally, for a pitcher.
I’m not aware of a Moneyball equivalent in football—statistical insights to revolutionize how we see and measure football—now America’s most popular game.
This is probably because football is not “read” or understood in statistics the way baseball is. Football is a tangled up team sport and no stats truly reflect individual, scout-able excellence—except for perhaps how fast a player runs the 40 yard dash. There’s a single number that matters in football—number of super bowl rings. This is not a scientific number, however—because all sorts of factors and all sorts of players figure into winning a single game.
What is scientific is that dynasties—no matter what the sport—are as necessary as star players for interest and ratings. Great players must be manufactured, as well as great teams, for any team sport to have any lasting success. In spectator sports, hierarchy and royalty are all. The NFL must have dynasties—privileged teams to love and hate.
Football, as something scientifically measured, does feature roughly the same amount of statistics (raw data) as baseball.
There is a divide, however, between stats (raw numbers) and myth (greatest game, greatest catch) and football, more than baseball, relies more on myth than numbers. Baseball represents a lot of things to a lot of people and is very heavy on the myth side of things, as well, but baseball is ultimately more about “Babe Ruth’s 60 home runs” where football is more about the following, which I found on the internet:
Years after he finished playing in Baltimore, the late Johnny Unitas is still remembered and idolized for what he did on the football field. Perhaps the most unbreakable record in professional football is Unitas’s record of 47 consecutive games with a touchdown pass. Some people feel that record is living on borrowed time, and yet, even the most prolific passers like Dan Marino and Peyton Manning have yet to take it down. Unitas deserves every accolade he gets and then some as one of the league’s all-time great quarterbacks. Unitas was the winning quarterback in the so-called “Greatest Game Ever Played,” the 1958 NFL championship against the New York Giants, quarterbacked a successful title defense in 1959, then defeated the Dallas Cowboys in Super Bowl V.
Most of Unitas’s records have now been broken with the advent of rule changes that favor offensive production, but Unitas pioneered such mainstays as the so-called “two-minute drill” that are still used today. Unitas is without question a top-three or top-five quarterback in NFL history, and there is a strong case for him to be as high as he is here.
Unitas and the Baltimore Colts began play at 2 p.m. every Sunday, which was unique to Baltimore: The Colts wanted to make sure that everyone who wanted to had time to go to church before the game started. So the saying went that for Colts fans, the day started with God, and the day ended with God, just in a different form the second time—as he wore No. 19.
In baseball, hits, walks and strikeouts per inning give a very good indication of a pitcher’s effectiveness. Two-thirds of those numbers (walks, strikeouts) are pretty much controlled by how the pitcher throws over a certain amount of innings.
The stats for a quarterback fit neatly into a QB rating.
The QB rating combines the percentage of completions, yards, TDs, and interceptions—a very simple calculation based on 4 numbers, but which has more to do with hidden factors than it does with the quarterback. All the quarterback’s numbers (complete passes, yards thrown, touchdowns, and interceptions) involve a host of other players (both on offense and defense) not to mention the game plan of the offensive coach and the defensive game plan of the defensive coach.
Here’s a big problem with myth and numbers in football.
Johnny Unitas has a lifetime QB rating of 78.2. This rating is dismal in today’s rankings. Just to pick a few quarterbacks at random who have little mythic weight: Carson Palmer: 87.9. Matt Schaub: 91.1. Trent Green: 86.0.
This is like Babe Ruth without big home run totals. Johnny U. is a myth without numbers.
The reputations of Ruth and Unitas both involve rule changes—which radically alter reality as well as statistics.
Ruth benefited by major league baseball altering the ball—the “dead ball era” ended with Ruth himself, as 10 home runs once led the league–and Ruth suddenly hit 60. Based on this stat alone, a myth was born.
After the Black Sox Scandal of 1919, the sacred game of baseball needed a diversion—1920 (coincidence?) marked the end of the dead ball era, when Ruth began to put up big numbers.
Football also changed the way the game is played—but more gradually. Football was once more like a wrestling match—and a nasty one. Players trying to catch a pass could be paralyzed or crippled. Passing was risky, and “establishing the run” was a necessary game-length strategy. The old, “great” quarterbacks played meat-grinder football, often in the mud, and this is why their QB ratings are quite pitiful, despite their heroic status.
Terry Bradshaw won 4 super bowls in the 1970s with the Pittsburgh Steelers (known for abusing steroids during that era) putting him in a very elite class.
Yet Bradshaw’s career QB rating is 70.9 and he threw a total of 212 TDs—and almost as many interceptions—210. Today, a QB who throws as many interceptions as TDs is considered a failure.
Ironically, Tom Brady, considered the greatest QB of all, benefited from a rule change just as Babe Ruth did, and it may be cynically observed that just as the Black Sox Scandal in baseball was conveniently over-shadowed by Ruth’s glorious exploits, Tom Brady, GOAT, was the perfect distraction for an NFL scandal—Brady’s own team, the Patriots, was hounded by accusations of cheating in the scandal known as Spygate.
Rules making it easier to pass the ball in the NFL were applied gradually, and as late as 2002—the Patriots’ defense stopped “The Greatest Show on Turf” (mud no longer a factor in the NFL by then) by breaking the arms of the Rams’ receivers as the Pats won their very first Super Bowl, with Tom Brady, who threw for just 145 yards and 1 TD, winning the MVP award. The Pats made it to the Super Bowl when Brady, who was sacked and fumbled late in a playoff game that year, ending all chances to win the game against the Raiders, got another chance, due to a bizarre NFL rule which reversed the season-ending play. Because of how the Rams’ passing game was assaulted by New England, rules protecting the passing game were put into place the very next year. Passing now became easier to do and more important than ever.
Here are the season numbers Tom Brady put up in the 2007 season, with investigators closing in on Spygate that very year.
For comparison, recall Terry Bradshaw, a 4 time SB winner’s lifetime numbers: 212 TDs, 210 Int.
Tom Brady’s numbers in 2007, the year of Spygate: 50 TD and 8 Int. QB rating 117.2
In 2003, a season in which Pats won the super bowl, Brady’s QB rating was 85.9.
In 2006, Brady’s QB rating was 87.9—typical for him, until everything changed in 2007.
The NFL in 2007, in the wake of scandal, found its Babe Ruth.
An interesting thing to consider is that a season for a quarterback is almost the same as a game for a baseball pitcher, in terms of throws.
Average pitchers can throw no-hitters.
QB Milt Plum, in 1960, when QBs had an average QB rating of about 60, earned a 110.4 QB rating.
Is there a scientist who desires to find out why?
Y.A.Tittle, a famous QB (1948-1964) whose number was retired with the New York Giants and won an NFL MVP in 1963, threw more interceptions than TDs. His QB rating? 73.6.
Another famous New York quarterback, “Broadway Joe” Namath, whose one super bowl victory made him forever famous, and opened the door for the then-inferior AFL to join the NFL (a very profitable merger—the heavily favored Colts appeared to throw the game) had a career QB rating of 65.5.
A new set of statistics is required in football to reflect what actually happens on the field.
Here’s a much-needed stat: how much time is the QB given to throw? This is measurable, but if we don’t see this, we have no way to truly judge a QB. A QB who has 4 seconds is a superstar compared to a QB who has 3 seconds before he is hit. One second is everything. This can lead to a 30 point spread—yet this is not part of football’s statistical lexicon.
And here’s a more important one. There are no football stats for ref calls.
Ref calls (including bad calls or missed calls) can easily generate up to half the yardage (or more) in a football game.
This alone makes football stats highly incomplete, and therefore, one could argue, unscientific and meaningless.
American political history is a mosaic of conspiracies—optimists insist they are “theories” only. American football, rife with questionable ref calls, parallels American history—fans can only watch and wonder how much is a conspiracy theory—and how much the fix is in.
If there is any doubt that ref calls matter, we only need to glance at an NBC sports story from about 10 years ago.
The headline: Four Years Later, Bill Leavy Apologizes to Seahawks
[NFL referee Bill] Leavy said in reference to his infamous performance in Pittsburgh’s 21-10 win over the Seahawks in Super Bowl XL “…I impacted the game and as an official you never want to do that.”
Here are comments under the article from passionate football fans, ranked from least to most scientific.
1) There are always bad calls. Sometimes I hate the refs, sometimes i love them. It all balances out in the end.
This is not science. “It all balances out in the end” is wishing.
2) I can’t believe the Seahawk fans are big babies.
Since divided loyalty is a reality of sports (like politics) every accusation (even truthful ones) will be passionately countered.
3) I laugh every time I hear this stuff…
To some, this is amusing. They can afford to laugh, because bad calls in the NFL may not be reviewed.
4) Darrell Jackson pushed off clear as day. How can you say that was a questionable call?
NFL rules are so ambiguous that a call can go anyway a ref (or the NFL, a private entity) wants. This is the main point most fans miss.
5) Seahawks need the refs to allow holding on passing plays to even keep the game close…
More evidence that refs decide games—simply by not making holding calls. A counter-thesis (in favor of Pittsburgh) which also implies the refs impacted the game.
6) Not A Seahawks or a Steelers fan… but Seattle was screwed royally. The fix was clearly in and the holier than thou NFL is just as corrupt as the NBA. Furthermore, Mr. Goodell and Mr. Stern are both of a similar mindset… “we’ll” decide who “we” want to be champs and if that means getting a few calls “wrong” during the big game, then so be it.
This is how many fans see sports—but it doesn’t stop them from watching.
7) Lots of bad calls in the Steelers v. Cards super bowl that favored Shitsburgh too… hmmm
6 championships* 4 thanks to steroids and 2 thanks to the refs.
hmmm is always a sign that a little science is happening.
8) The facts are these: The official who called Jackson for the penalty -negating a touchdown- was born and raised in Pittsburgh.
Ben Rothswhatever didn’t get in the end zone. That was obvious on the replay, but Leavy still allowed it.
Darrell Jackson caught a pass at the end of the first half where he got one foot in bounds and the other foot hit the goal line cone. If a running back touches a cone with the ball, it’s a touchdown. In this case they ruled it an incomplete pass. The NFL changed the rule the next season to specify that one foot + cone = touchdown.
The ‘holding’ call on Sean Locklear, negating a completion ot the 2 yard line; it’s clear on the replay that Leavy was reaching for his flag BEFORE LOCKLEAR EVEN TOUCHED THE STEALER HE SUPPOSEDLY HELD ILLEGALLY. John Madden even comments on this during the replay.
Sports Illustrated never even printed a Seahawks Super Bowl Champion edition before the game; only a Steelers one.
$400 million dollars bet on the Steelers came into Las Vegas the Friday before the game from ‘East Coast betters’ – according to an ESPN report.
And lastly, the retiring Paul Tagliabue got to hand the Vince Lombardi trophy to his best friend in the league, Dan Rooney.
But no, the game wasn’t fixed. How could that happen? Bill Leavy just made some mistakes.
Right.
This is the most scientific post on the NBC article—in which the referee admits to making mistakes in favor of Pittsburgh. This fan comment speculates on what happened on and off the field. Obviously, a play by play analysis of the game is necessary, and that’s not possible here.
The point here is not to declare the game was fixed.
Fans will always wonder. That’s as scientific as it gets.
Science, without loyalty or optimism, needs to cast its eye in every possible direction.
As we enjoy the game.
And worship our gods.