The outsider’s advantage: Freedom to ditch the old ways and embrace new solutions for a sport’s problems
By Jayson Jenks
One day in the early 1940s, a newspaper story caught the eye of a curious 20-something named Allan Roth. Roth worked for a Montreal tie-and-belt manufacturer, but in his free time he loved baseball, statistics and the cold, unbiased facts they revealed. So when he read that a major-league manager had benched one of his left-handed hitters against a left-handed pitcher— an accepted practice in baseball — he wanted to know more.
Roth dug up the player’s splits, and what he discovered surprised him: The player actually performed better against lefties than righties, so not only should his manager not have benched him that day, he should never bench him against lefties.
The reason Roth found the answer was because he had the curiosity to ask the question. And the reason he asked the question in the first place was because he was unburdened by baseball’s conventions. In other words, Roth was an outsider, and that was an advantage.
In David Epstein’s new book, “Range: Why Generalists Triumph in a Specialized World,” he lays out what he calls “the outsider’s advantage” — the idea that people from outside traditional systems often find creative, innovative solutions.
There are reasons for that. Outsiders see problems differently. They aren’t limited by rigid training or the way things have always been done. Driven by curiosity, they are free to explore ideas with an open mind, to dissect old issues in new ways. Their input and insight can be invaluable, and yet they are often viewed with skepticism, if not dismissed entirely by those on the inside. This happens time and again, not just in sports but in any workplace or field of interest. The gatekeepers determine who gets access, and the people who challenge conventional thinking are usually left on the outside, peeking in through little holes in the walls.
In the world of sports, there is no more influential outsider than Bill James, the father of analytics who revolutionized baseball. In the 1970s, James worked as an English teacher and at a food-packing plant in Kansas. But he loved baseball, and in his free time, he took long-held assumptions about the game, then dug until he resurfaced with objective, sometimes shocking answers.
In 1977, he printed his first “Baseball Abstract.” In 1981, he was profiled in Sports Illustrated — but only after the magazine held the story for a year because editors were skeptical of James and his ideas. And in 2002 the Red Sox hired him as an adviser, a position from which he recently retired with four World Series rings.
“There’s no question that being an outsider was crucial to my career,” James wrote in an email. “If you work inside the system, you have mentors, you have teachers, and you’re taught how to think about the game. If some of it is wrong, you’ll never see from the inside. You can only see it from the outside.”
James may be the most celebrated example, but he
once called Allan Roth, the first full-time statistician hired by a baseball team, “the guy who began it all.” In 1941, Roth convinced Montreal Canadiens coach Dick Irvin to let him chart his team’s home games. But Roth liked baseball more than hockey, and he thought the numbers-rich sport gave him a better chance to make a difference. So in 1944, he pitched a new kind of job to the one person on the inside who seemed progressive enough to listen:
Branch Rickey.
There was no one in baseball like Rickey, the president of the Brooklyn Dodgers. He loved, Dodgers broadcaster Vin Scully wrote in 1992 in the New York Times, to “muse over probabilities and possibilities.” Reporters and peers often labeled Rickey a genius, and he was, but his real genius lay in his willingness to explore wild frontiers, to embrace new and sometimes crazy ideas.
“Rickey is a peculiar fellow,” a reporter wrote in 1914, “but that’s probably the most important trait on his road to success.”
Among his crazier ideas, he believed it was important to teach players how to slide, so he talked of building a bowling alley for them to slide down. But it was his willingness to be mocked and ridiculed that led Rickey to his more practical (and successful) innovations.
Bothered by the number of rain delays one season, Rickey experimented with a new “scientific soil powder” that was supposed to quickly dry infield dirt. He believed statistics measuring errors and RBIs were flawed, so he devised his own mathematical model to evaluate players, a primitive step toward analytics. At times, he was mocked as a “theorist,” and while he could be hyper-sensitive and combative with critics, he retained the confidence to plow on, a trait that led him to sign Jackie Robinson and punch through baseball’s color barrier in 1947.
“The words ‘genius’ and ‘great’ are thrown around loosely in these pages,” wrote Larry Merchant, the future boxing commentator, in the Philadelphia Daily News. “Branch Rickey was the real thing. He was a genius because in a highly competitive milieu he was 360 feet ahead of everybody because he had a creative mind. He was great because he had the courage of his innovations.”
In the 1920s, Rickey was in charge of the St. Louis Cardinals. He knew he couldn’t compete for players with the bulging wallets of big-market clubs in New York and Chicago. So he bought up minor-league teams, affiliated them with the Cardinals and created a pipeline for young, cheap talent that powered the Cardinals to three World Series titles between 1926 and 1934.
Just like that, he had invented the farm system — an innovation that changed baseball forever.
“I doubt there is a smarter man in baseball than Branch Rickey,” Billy Evans, the general manager of the Cleveland Indians, said in 1934. “He is the Sherlock Holmes and the Doctor Watson of the baseball fraternity.”
Roth knew all about Rickey’s reputation. He also knew it was one thing to be an outsider with an interesting idea and another thing to find an insider to take that idea seriously.
In the spring of 1944, he traveled more than 300 miles from Montreal to Bear Mountain, N.Y., where the Dodgers were holding spring training. For weeks Roth hung around with one objective: to convince Rickey that his statistical analysis could help the Dodgers. Roth finally met with Rickey and his wife in the dining room of the Bear Mountain Inn, overlooking the Hudson River. It was a semi-disaster. Rickey was constantly interrupted by reporters, coaches and players, all demanding his attention.
“I saw that I was talking to myself,” Roth recalled. “I wasn’t getting to first base.”
Over coffee and dessert, a frustrated Roth bluntly told Rickey he wasn’t giving him a “fair hearing.” “What do you want?” Rickey asked.
“Ten minutes of your undivided attention, sir.”
Rickey agreed. He was intrigued enough that he asked Roth to put his ideas on paper. Roth went back to his room and, on hotel stationary that night, wrote up a four-page proposal. He said he wanted to track and hunt for tendencies: How did batter X perform against lefties and righties? How did pitcher Y perform at night or during the day?
According to an
article by Andy McCue in the Baseball Research Journal, Rickey agreed to meet with Roth again. He still wasn’t sold. Then he asked Roth for his views on RBIs. Roth told him he didn’t think they were revealing unless they were “correlated with the chances to drive them in.”
Roth got the job.