In the first half of the 16th century, Renaissance polymath Nicolaus Copernicus published what was perhaps the most important idea in the history of man’s study of astronomy: the earth is not the center of the universe.  It wasn’t until Galileo (and his telescope) began popularizing Copernicus’ theories that they really became explosively controversial, but by then, no amount of biblical repudiation could stop the tidal wave of scientific revolution.  The earth was no different from the sun’s other satellites: we did not stand at the center of the universe.

This discovery was subsequently spun into what is now popularly referred to as the Copernican Principle.  One of the fundamental tenets of modern physics, it holds that there are no special viewpoints in the universe, especially where humans are concerned: neither earth nor man has any special, unique, or privileged vantage point from which to watch time unfold.  In 1993, John Richard Gott III – now a professor at Princeton – formally argued that the principle applied to instances where nothing about any entity is “known” to be certain.  Dubbing his idea the “Copernican Method,” he stated that for any observable thing, there is a 95% chance (for example) you are seeing it in the middle 95% of its lifetime, and not in the first or last 2.5% (1/40th) of its lifetime.  This effectively means that the future longevity is 39 times as long as its past longevity (since 1/40th has passed, 39/40ths remain):

(1/39) time past < time future < (39) time past (P = 95%)

Gott has popularized the method by successfully predicting the longevities of scores of politicians, broadway plays, and the like.  He’s even applied it to the existence of the human race, a concept now referred to as the “Doomsday argument.”  Bizarre though it sounds, it is a straightforward mathematical concept: everything has a lifespan, and it’s entirely likely that nothing about your point of observation is unique in any way.  If your theory requires that an observer has a priveleged place in the universe, well, it’s garbage.

The lot of us are, in a very natural sort of way, always observing this or that.  We’re surrounded by people and animals and buildings and governments and social institutions.  They all began at some point, and so too must they end.  This is a concept very much in keeping with the careers of baseball players.  Some may last one game, some may last over a thousand.  The majority of the current careers of baseball players will meet neither of these extreme criteria.  Some will, though.  There’s a lot that can end a player’s career way before its time.

Tim Lincecum has thrown 354 innings in his brilliant young career, a figure which would remain unremarkable were it not for the fact that he’s 24 years old and his average start is a seven inning, 106 pitch affair.  Baseball Prospectus’ Pitcher Abuse Points – a system which uses pitch counts to create a metric by which to measure how heavily a pitcher’s arm has been taxed – grades Lincecum as the most overworked pitcher in the majors, and it’s not even close: the second-place arm, C.C. Sabathia, has 40% fewer abuse points than Lincecum, and he’s got over double the Abuse Points of the third-place contestant, Roy Halladay.  In 30 starts this year, Lincecum has thrown over 100 pitches 24 times, a usage pattern which is remarkably insane given the pitcher’s age and importance to the rebuilding franchise.  The Giants are a 68-81 ballclub, and Bruce Bochy is throwing pitch counts out the window: his last start was a complete game shutout of the Padres in which he threw a staggering 138 pitches, the most by any Major League starter this year.  Bochy later said it was time to “let the leash off,” and that he didn’t want Lincecum’s lack of a complete game to weigh on the minds of Cy Young voters.  It was Lincecum’s 17th win and the Giants’ 67th; the young rightie lays claim to over a quarter of the team’s victories.

What does the Copernican Method say about Lincecum’s career?  Easy: before he’s out of the league, we can say with 95% certainty that he’ll throw between 10 and 14,976 more innings.  If there is nothing unique about this specific moment in his career, we can be pretty sure that he’ll prove the Copernican Method correct in the last two weeks of the 2008 season.  There’s two ways he’ll reveal to us that there was something off about our observation: either he’ll suffer some catastrophic injury by year’s end, or he’ll pitch about 76 more seasons.  Most fans would tell you that neither is terribly likely, and they’re right, philosophically and mathematically.  There’s a one in 40 chance that Lincecum’s arm doesn’t make it through the season.

One can’t help but worry about Bochy’s probing of those lower limits.  Last month, I mentioned that Tim Lincecum deserved, but probably wouldn’t get, serious Cy Young attention.  Since then, he’s been vicious and has forced his way not only into the argument, but into (in my opinion) the winner’s circle.  Webb’s got the 20 wins, but Lincecum’s got him by 70 strikeouts and a half-run in ERA.  He is the best pitcher in the National League, leads the majors in strikeouts, weighs 170 pounds, and right now is the most exciting pitcher in baseball.  Anyone who thinks otherwise is wrong.  His delivery is pure poetry.  Peering at the batter from over his left shoulder, he rocks on his left leg and fiendishly curls his lip before cocking back and unwhorling into a startlingly explosive stride that, according to a Tom Verducci article, is seven and a half feet in length.  When threatened in the wild, many species of animal will adopt bodily postures and behavior that make them appear far larger than they actually are: this is what Lincecum does on the mound, only he has the poison to back it up.  He is less pitcher and more wunderkind trebuchet, his hips and shoulders flying through his motion and exploding towards home plate; when George Plimpton wrote his infamous Sidd Finch piece, he had no idea that the real-life version of the pitcher he prophesied had been born the summer before in Bellevue, Washington.  Taught by his father to pitch at an early age, Lincecum doesn’t believe in icing his arm after starts and has kept the same basic mechanics since he was five years old.

If he pitched for a contender, especially someone in the East, he’d be a national phenomenon: as it is, there’s multitudinous serious East Coast baseball fans who couldn’t pick the kid from a lineup of college juniors under six feet tall.  He’s esoterically mesmerising enough to be name-dropped in Asher Roth songs. If you’ve somehow never seen him pitch, please, do yourself a favor and look him up.  Watch his highlights, check out a game on MLBTV.

Unless your name is Kevin Kennedy, you don’t get to be a coach in the majors by being massively stupid.  One would hope that Bochy has some understanding of what he’s doing when he lets Lincecum throw that many pitches in “meaningless” games.  It’s Bochy’s contention that Lincecum is such a freak of nature (amongst his athletic talents are the ability to walk on his hands and do standing backflips – no, seriously) that the gloves which handle normal young pitchers aren’t to be worn with him, that he’s the rare type of physical specimen around which the conventional laws of the human body cease being applicable.

“The chance to get a shutout is big for a pitcher. His nickname is The Freak. He’s never had any arm issues,” Bochy said. “There’s no question we’re going to give him a chance to get the shutout right there. But I’ll tell you now. He won’t get a chance to do it next time.”

Tim Lincecum is on the precipice of moving into National Treasure territory, and his season is one that deserves far more acknowledgement than it’s getting.  With any luck at all, he’ll have a healthy career (his father claims to throw in the high 80s, even in his fifties) that will last well into the next decade.  Bochy’s decision to let him throw 138 pitches in his last outing whipped up a very minor media tongue-clucking session, due mostly to the fact that a) no one really knows who he is and b) those who do know him think that maybe, just maybe, this kid’s unbreakable.  Maddux mixed with Martinez, a rubber-arm for the ages, a product of the finely-crafted methodologies of a diminutive family of heady pitchers.  Pay attention to Tim Lincecum, and for the love of the infield fly rule, hope that the little guy’s body delivers on his infinite promise.