THE MYSTERIES OF THE GYROBALL are illuminated by the Slate's Explainer, including the pitch's shared traits with the equally enigmatic googly:

Whether it has a sharp break or a big dip, some major leaguers and pitching coaches have dismissed the gyro as merely a variation on the cut fastball. The gyro has also been compared to a cricket pitch called the googly, which is also thrown with sidespin.

It's unclear whether Matsuzaka actually throws a gyroball. He's been evasive in interviews, saying that he might have thrown the pitch "sometimes accidentally." Carroll believes he saw Matsuzaka throw a few gyroballs during this year's World Baseball Classic. According to Himeno, at least two other Japanese pitchers use the pitch.

Hope the pitcher – and the pitch – are worth it.

LIFE'S ROUGH WHEN YOU'RE DEAD, especially if you've made a few enemies here and there – like, family. Hopefully, when I'm happy and buried, I won't leave a legacy of bitter, wounded people who post comments like these to my online memorial:

Some of the snubs are blunt. “Everyone gets their due,” a former client writes of an embezzling accountant. Or, “I sincerely hope the Lord has more mercy on him than he had on me during my years reporting to him at the Welfare Department.”

Others are subtler: “She never took the time to meet me, but I understand she was a wonderful grandmother to her other grandchildren.”

“Reading the obit, he sounds like he was a great father,” says another, which is signed, “His son Peter.”

Hayes Ferguson, the company’s chief operating officer, said, “Most often it’s cases of Sue posting that he was the love of my life and then we check and the wife’s name is Mary.”

No rest for the wicked, I suppose.

IT'S NOT YET WINTER, but ticket prices are frozen and it's chillier than normal at Fenway. Limping out of last season and looking ahead to the third season since that happy day, it's clear that little of the magic lingers. Along with having to endure a parade of turncoat idiots, missed aces, front office shenanigans, oppressive media regimes, squandered promise, and unfulfilled potential, we've also had to witness the St. Louis Cardinals win a World Series, which managed to stir up some kind of vague, deeply repressed disappointment – an unsettling flashback from a twisted, parallel dimension.

So when the Sox announce that an unprecedented number of ticket prices will remain unchanged for 2007, it's not just a team acknowledging that a day at the ballpark shouldn't require a second mortgage. It's also a franchise beginning to recognize the limits of the goodwill they earned from a grateful fan base. (Note: I refuse to refer to the fans as "Red Sox Nation" since the organization has managed to mutate that once noble term into a marketing ick-fest, as well.)

But then again, whenever ownership needs to bolster fan sympathies – and open fan wallets – there's always plan B. Or more accurately, plan NY. In the Boston Globe article, Larry Lucchino says, "Our challenge is to protect those lower prices for fans and families on a tight budget while still improving revenue. We still must compete with those with much deeper pockets, and we still must continue to make improvements to Fenway Park." He simultaneously acknowledges the financial limits of "regular" fans while also invoking our hatred for the Yankees as if it was a money-making incantation: "Abacadabra! If you still want to beat the Yankees, then sit your butt in those seats, stuff another Fenway Frank in your mouth and don't complain about how much it all costs."

In the end, the decision to freeze a majority of the ticket prices is a small gesture. (After all, the "lower prices" Lucchino says he wants to "protect" still help make Fenway the most expensive ballpark in all of Major League Baseball.) And clearly, the overall vibe on Yawkey Way is still one of desperation. This upcoming season could be the first in this ownership's reign where interest in the hometown team actually drops off. No more victory tours for The Trophy. Even fewer familiar faces to remind us of past glories.

Is this the last shot for the once infallible management to bring back the magic? Is this the year when the fans who were swept up by the euphoria of 2004 finally begin to stray? (Of course, the lingering anxiety for me is the possibility of discovering that my own interest could wane, as well. No one likes to feel passion fade away. . . . )

Sure, leaves are still falling, football's in full swing, and Mirabelli's on his sofa testing free agency in preparation for his next emergency police escort. But the stove is stoked with coals and you can already smell the grass at Fort Myers — it's just that the odor is a little different this time around. And all we can do is save our pennies for a seat at the park and see what fortunes the spring brings.

MY GIANT ONLINE MEDIA EMPIRE is kinda freaking me out. I've just added an iLike profile to go along with my Friendster page, my MySpace page, my Amazon.com wish list, my Netflix Friends profile, my homepage, my other homepage, my blog, my old Monster.com resume, my old HotJobs resume, my old Creative Hotlist resume, and whatever else Google can dig up. It's all out there for the world to see. And like the guy at The Sneeze, I don't even know why I signed up for half of these things in the first place. Maybe I should get myself a good alias. Because at the same time that I'm glomming onto every web template within clicking distance, I'm also terribly concerned about my privacy. Can you overexpose yourself and still have no one know who you are? Has the Internet turned us all into megalomaniacal, self-absorbed, social networking, paranoid cyber-stalkers? Or is it just me?