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Even before analytics baseball has always been a numbers game. Not the kind that requires spreadsheets and algorithms, but the kind where a handful of digits become shorthand for a life’s work. Say 60 or 714 and the mind drifts automatically to immortality. Mention 56, .406, or 511 and you don’t even need to attach the names. Numbers in this sport have a way of sticking to players like pine tar. Some careers are defined by one unforgettable line on a stat sheet. For Elroy “Ro

Randy Jones never threw a pitch that frightened a radar gun, but he built a career that could humble even the most electrified arms of his era. He grew up in southern California, a left-hander whose fastball wasn’t exactly the sort of thing scouts sprinted to see twice. What he did have—and what would eventually make him one of the great artisans of 1970s pitching—was a stubborn belief that there were other ways to get hitters out. When he talked about it, even decades later,

If you grew up watching Mets games on Channel 9, or if you were the kind of kid who memorized the backs of baseball cards the way other...