I can’t stop over-analyzing. I’ve accepted this. I’m in my backyard in the a.m. with a coffee and 11 bird feeders, and I’m still doing it: clocking movement, reading body language, deciphering patterns, assigning grades. At some point, the baseball brain and the bird brain merged into one thing, and this is the result.
30 teams, 30 birds that are in my backyard. Scored on the 20–80 scale, not as a power ranking of birds or franchises, but as a measure of fit. How cleanly does the bird match the team? Visually, behaviorally, spiritually, and sometimes stupidly. Some of these are obvious. Some required a little deeper scouting and a few squirrel incidents. Let me know what you think!
The list starts with the 80 grades. Enjoy.
New York Mets — Rock Pigeon — 80
City survivor and subway-platform tough. Has eaten things off the ground that would end other birds and shown up the next day looking for more. Ugly-beautiful in the way that only New York produces, a look that shouldn’t work and absolutely does, and you can’t explain it to anyone who hasn’t stood on a subway platform at 11 pm watching one eat an entire slice of pizza with complete confidence. The rock pigeon does not need your sympathy. It does not need your admiration. It has survived everything this city has thrown at it, and it will survive whatever comes next, and it will do it loudly and badly and perfectly, and that’s the Mets, and that’s always been the Mets.
New York Yankees — Canada Goose — 80
Loud. Territorial. Fully convinced that every public space belongs to it by birthright and prior history. Blocks traffic. Ruins the mood. Wins the argument by existing and does not care if you like it. Has been here longer than you and will be here after you leave, and knows this and has structured its entire personality around this fact. The Canada goose does not ask permission. It does not make room. It looks at your yard, your parking lot, your waterfront park, your carefully maintained outfield grass, and sees one thing: mine. You already knew this. Everyone already knew this. The 80 is just a formality.
Athletics — Mourning Dove — 80
Soft. Dumb. Confused. Always under the feeder while better birds eat, not because it can’t fly, but because somewhere along the line, the people in charge of the bird decided the feeder was too expensive, and the seeds weren’t a priority, and maybe the whole yard needed to be reconsidered from a real estate perspective. The mourning dove doesn’t fight. Doesn’t compete. Just sits there making a sound that is technically a song and functionally a sigh, in a city that deserved so much better than what it got, watching the feeder get smaller every year while the people who own the feeder count the money they saved on seeds. The bird did not choose this. The bird never wanted this. The bird would like you to know one thing. #FJF
Philadelphia Phillies — American Crow — 80
Smart. Loud. Social in the way that a bar fight is social. More than willing to steal your food, your peace, your afternoon, and your sense that things were going fine before it showed up. Travels with backup, always, because the crow understood early that the yard is more fun when everyone is involved in the confrontation. Has been studied by scientists who keep being surprised by how intelligent it is, which is exactly what happens when you underestimate Philadelphia. The crow does not hold grudges. It just remembers everything forever and acts accordingly. There is a difference. The crow knows the difference. Philadelphia knows the difference.
Houston Astros — Cowbird — 80
Doesn’t build its own nest. Lays its eggs in other birds’ nests, lets someone else raise the offspring, and thrives anyway. Behaviorally questionable. Spiritually complicated. Legally, in certain jurisdictions, during certain investigations - worth looking into. The cowbird is not villainous in the way a hawk is villainous. It’s villainous in the way a spreadsheet is villainous. Quietly. Systematically. With excellent results that make you deeply uncomfortable, the more you understand how they happened. The 80 is not a compliment. The 80 is just accuracy.
Baltimore Orioles — Baltimore Oriole — 80
It’s the bird. It’s literally the bird. Bright, distinct, back in the good branches after years of sitting in the wrong tree. Young, loud, colorful, and too correct to overthink. Some comps require work. This one required a field guide and a pulse. The only way this scores lower than 80 is if you’re wrong about baseball, birds, or both.
St. Louis Cardinals — Northern Cardinal — 80
Classic. Red. Clean. Traditional. Always at the feeder, always has been, always will be, and fully aware of all three of those things. The northern cardinal does not need an introduction. Your grandmother knows this bird. Your grandmother’s grandmother knew this bird. It showed up one day looking perfect and has never once reconsidered its aesthetic or its approach or its opinion of itself, which is an incredible way to move through a yard and an even more incredible way to run a baseball franchise for a hundred and fifty years. The cardinal did not invent the feeder. It just acts like it did. Every single day. Without apology. You have to respect it even when you don’t want to, which is exactly how St. Louis planned it. The chickadee, for the record, has more flags in the neighborhood. The cardinal has more rings. Both birds know this. Only one of them brings it up constantly, and it’s not the chickadee.
Toronto Blue Jays — Blue Jay — 80
It’s the bird. It’s literally the bird, again, except this one is Canadian and therefore arrives at the feeder slightly more politely before immediately taking everything. Smart, loud, blue, athletic, and extremely pleased with itself in a way that is charming for about forty-five seconds before you realize it has been doing this the entire time and had a plan the whole time, and the politeness was load-bearing. The blue jay is the most American-looking bird that technically lives in Canada, plays in a dome, and will defend its territory with a focused aggression that catches you off guard every time because of the politeness thing. Has a nest that makes other birds’ nests look like they don’t know what they are doing, which other birds have noticed. Beautiful bird. Real tools. Zero subtlety. Says sorry after the stolen base. Means it. Does it again.
Chicago Cubs — Black-Capped Chickadee — 75
Everybody knows this bird. Everybody likes this bird. It shows up in the cold, makes noise bigger than its body, and has somehow convinced an entire region that it’s the most important thing at the feeder. It’s not the scariest bird in the yard. It’s not the biggest. But half the neighborhood has a chickadee flag on their porch, and the other half grew up with one and can’t explain why they still care. That’s the Cubs. That’s always been the Cubs.
Cleveland Guardians — White-Breasted Nuthatch — 75
Does everything upside down and still makes it work. Walks down the trunk headfirst like that’s normal, like physics is a suggestion, like the other birds just haven’t figured it out yet. Small body, clean fundamentals, complete refusal to play the game the way everyone else plays it. There is something deeply Cleveland about a bird that found a different angle and just committed to it forever. You watch it long enough, and you stop thinking it’s weird. You start thinking everyone else is doing it wrong.
Los Angeles Angels — American Goldfinch — 75
Pretty. Bright. Can be marketable. Looks incredible in sunlight and looks incredible on a poster, and has somehow spent years at the feeder without ever taking it over. The goldfinch is not a bad bird; nobody is saying that. It’s just a bird that should probably have more to show for how good it looks. At some point, the beauty becomes the story instead of what the beauty was supposed to lead to, and you’re left watching a very attractive bird do very average things in a very expensive yard while the owner makes increasingly creative announcements about next year.
Los Angeles Dodgers — Cedar Waxwing — 75
Sleek. Polished. Arrives in formation like it planned the whole thing, which it did, because it always does. Every feather is where it’s supposed to be. No wasted motion. No visible effort. The cedar waxwing looks like it came out of a development system with perfect lighting, a full analytics department, and a travel budget that would make other birds physically ill. It is a beautiful bird. It is an efficient bird. It is the bird that makes you feel slightly worse about your own yard just by being in it.
Tampa Bay Rays — Chimney Swift — 75
Fast. Weird. Efficient. Lives in spaces other birds ignore because other birds can afford not to. The chimney swift does not land normally. Does not build normally. Does not have a permanent address in any traditional sense, which last year was less metaphor and more literal — the swift spent an entire season flying around looking for a chimney that would have it, while bigger birds sat comfortably in stadiums that cost more than the swift’s entire operation, including the players, the staff, and the concept of the franchise itself. Somehow keeps outmaneuvering birds with three times the wingspan and twenty times the payroll. The chimney swift is not supposed to work, but it works almost every year. It just can’t tell you where it’s going to work from yet because that conversation is still ongoing, and the city council has questions.
Arizona Diamondbacks — Northern Flicker — 70
Speckled. Twitchy. Operates better on the ground than you’d expect from something with wings. Has markings that look like a front office designed them by committee, and yet, it works. The flicker doesn’t look like a predator. Doesn’t carry itself like one. But spend enough time watching, and you realize it’s been eating the whole time. That’s a Diamondbacks bird. That seems like a 70.
Atlanta Braves — Broad-Winged Hawk — 70
Doesn’t waste energy. Doesn’t need to. Circles high, reads the yard, and when it moves, it’s already over. This is a system bird- not a chaos hunter, not a desperation dive, just an organization that built something and let it run. The broad-winged hawk doesn’t show off. It just keeps eating while other birds argue about the feeder. Atlanta energy. Completely.
Boston Red Sox — House Sparrow — 70
Old city bird. Brick and gutters and noise and crumbs and fights and history. Not elegant. Not rare. Not going anywhere. The house sparrow has been in this neighborhood longer than the neighborhood has had a name, and it will be here after every other bird has relocated for a better market. It doesn’t need your admiration. It has your address. That’s Boston. That’s always been Boston.
Chicago White Sox — European Starling — 70
Black and white chaos. Can look sleek for exactly one second before becoming a parking lot disaster. Arrived from somewhere else, took over anyway, and has spent every year since being loud about it in a way that makes you respect it slightly against your will. Glossy when the light hits right. Inexplicable when it doesn’t. Nobody planned for the starling to be here, and yet here it is, running the south side of the feeder and daring you to say something about it.
Colorado Rockies — Dark-Eyed Junco — 70
Slate-gray, cold-weather, mountain-adjacent, and always showing up like altitude is a personality. Belongs in elevation and thin air and winter light, which is a beautiful way to exist and an incredibly difficult way to build a bullpen. The junco is a fine bird. Nobody is disputing that. It just never quite gets as high as you think it will, which, if you have watched Colorado baseball for any length of time, is a sentence you have thought before using completely different words.
Milwaukee Brewers — Northern House Wren — 70
Small backyard maniac with a voice that has absolutely no business being that loud. Nests anywhere. Gutters, sheds, old boots, a broken birdhouse from 2007 that nobody got around to fixing. Does not require ideal conditions. Does not require your approval. Finds a corner of the yard that bigger birds ignored and turns it into a home-field situation that is suddenly very difficult to play in. The wren is not supposed to be this annoying to deal with. That’s exactly what makes it work.
San Diego Padres — Common Grackle — 70
Flashy. Weird-eyed. Strutting around the yard like it knows people are watching, which it does, because it checked. The grackle is theatrical in a way that is either extremely fun or extremely exhausting, depending on where you’re standing and how long the show has been going. Loud presence. Iridescent when the light hits. With some brown and gold, with just enough villain energy to make the whole thing interesting, and just enough chaos to make you wonder if the villain energy is a choice or a condition. San Diego has been figuring this out in real time, and the grackle respects that because the grackle is also figuring this out in real time.
Texas Rangers — Red-Winged Blackbird — 70
Fencepost sheriff. Red shoulder patches. Loud, aggressive, territorial, and willing to attack anything bigger that enters its airspace just on principle. Won the whole thing recently. Has the energy of a bird that knows exactly what it is and where it stands and is not interested in your opinion about either. Builds its nest in a brand new stadium that I guess is technically impressive and spiritually beige. A yard that looks great on paper and feels like a waiting room in person, carefully designed to host baseball and avoid personality. The red-winged blackbird will celebrate certain things in that yard and not others, a selective hospitality that the bird has never fully explained and the yard has never pushed back on. Also, briefly sold a hat that suggested something that the bird’s marketing department did not fully think through before releasing it to the public, which the bird would prefer you not bring up, which is exactly why we’re bringing it up. Still a 70. The shoulder patches are real. The stadium doesn’t feel like it.
Washington Nationals — American Robin — 70
The default American spring bird. Shows up optimistic every year, like the season is going to be different this time, which is either charming or delusional depending on your relationship with hope and your familiarity with the standings. Used to live in Montreal, which was fine, until it wasn’t, and now it lives in a city where every June a group of birds in red and a group of birds in blue play a baseball game against each other that everyone agrees is friendly, and nobody fully believes is friendly. The robin does not just watch. The robin scores. Leads the whole yard in runs this season, which makes sense because the robin has been quietly laying more eggs than anybody noticed, and when you lay that many eggs, eventually something hatches, and when enough things hatch, you lead the league. The American robin is also a federally protected bird, which in Washington means it has more job security than most of the people watching it. And, yes, that is a Montreal Expos jersey. I like the contradiction.
Cincinnati Reds — Red-Bellied Woodpecker — 65
Loud. Forceful. Red-marked and built for impact. This is not a subtle bird. When it gets going, everybody in the yard hears it- the neighbors hear it, the dog hears it, people three houses down hear it, and look up. It doesn’t sneak, it announces. The red-bellied woodpecker has one mode, and that mode is impact, which is a perfectly reasonable way to play baseball in a river city that has been doing this since before most franchises existed.
Detroit Tigers — House Finch — 65
Familiar. Streaky. Shows more color than expected when the light is right. Not fully menacing yet, the markings suggest something is coming, but the yard isn’t always convinced. The house finch has been through some things. You can tell. There’s life in the feathers again, and the song is getting louder, and everyone watching the feeder is doing that thing where they don’t want to get too emotional too early because they’ve been here before. The 65 is not an insult. The 65 is hopeful with paperwork.
Kansas City Royals — Hummingbird — 65
Tiny engine. Fast-twitch everything. Shows up in bursts, flashes something beautiful, and is gone before you fully process what you saw. Has a crown-like shimmer when the light hits it right, which makes you stop whatever you were doing and just watch for a second. Small but never soft — the hummingbird will fight anything that gets near its feeder and has the highlight reel to prove it. Kansas City has been that bird. Kansas City will be that bird again. The window is small. The wings never stop.
Miami Marlins — Mallard — 65
Water bird. Florida-coded. Sometimes colorful, often just floating there while strange things happen around it. The mallard is not an aggressive presence at the feeder. It is a presence at the pond, near the pond, adjacent to the pond, committed to pond energy in a way that suggests the pond is the whole plan. Occasionally sharper than expected. Has won some things. You look it up, and you’re surprised every time. Then it goes back to floating, and you forget again, and the cycle continues, and that’s Miami, and that’s fine. Nobody is doing anything about it.
Pittsburgh Pirates — Great Horned Owl — 65
Big-eyed, nocturnal, black-and-gold menace perched above a river city waiting for mistakes. Has the silhouette of something serious. Has the reputation of something serious. Spends long stretches just staring into the dark from a high branch, completely still, in a way that could be patience or could be something else entirely, and you’re not always sure which one it is, and neither are they. The great horned owl is a legitimately impressive bird that has not always done legitimately impressive things with its impressiveness. Pittsburgh understands this conversation. Pittsburgh has been having this conversation for a while now. Maybe the road is brighter ahead?
San Francisco Giants — Hairy Woodpecker — 60
Bigger and sturdier than the bird everyone confuses it with, which matters to the hairy woodpecker more than it should. It has real thump, and has a real backbone. Has history carved into the bark going back far enough that the tree itself remembers. And yet. The yard has changed. The ball carries differently now, or doesn’t, depending on the wind off the bay and the ghost of a left fielder who was doing inconceivable things. The hairy woodpecker recently hired someone who has never managed a professional nest to run the whole operation, is quietly making a list of every bird it just signed and reconsidering, and is operating in conditions where the ball simply does not leave the yard the way it does everywhere else unless you are a specific, era-defining, chemically complicated bird who no longer lives here. The bones are good. The plan is unclear. The wind is always blowing in.
Minnesota Twins — Gray Catbird — 60
Hard to pin down. Makes noise from somewhere just out of sight, which is either mysterious or frustrating, depending on how long you’ve been standing there trying to find it. Has a weird rhythm and an odd voice and is more interesting than it first appears, which is a generous thing to say and also completely true and also somehow never quite enough. The catbird is not underrated exactly. It’s more like — correctly rated in a way that feels like an insult. Minnesota has been there. Minnesota knows that feeling. Minnesota is fine.
Seattle Mariners — Downy Woodpecker — 60 Small. Persistent. Has been pecking at the same spot for so long that the tree has opinions about it. Doesn’t overwhelm anybody at first glance. It’s not the biggest bird, not the loudest bird, not the bird that makes you put down your coffee and grab the binoculars immediately. But it keeps working. Every day. Same spot. Same motion. Building toward something that feels like it’s almost there, has felt like it’s almost there for longer than is comfortable to say out loud, and yet here it is again, pecking, persistent, patient in a way that is either admirable or heartbreaking, and Seattle has never fully decided which one, and neither have we. The downy woodpecker, for what it’s worth, has done the math and believes that if it can just win 54 percent of its remaining pecks, it’s right there. The downy woodpecker has been doing this math for years. The math keeps checking out. The postseason does not normally, but only recently.
A Note On The Grades
The 20–80 scale measures fit. Not quality or championship probability. Not how much your team spent in the offseason or how you feel about the pitch-clock or whether your closer has a good SO - BB percentage. It’s how cleanly the bird matches the franchise in ways that are difficult to explain to a normal person at a normal dinner party. This type of thing lives here, in Substack.
Some of these grades are going to make you scratch your head. That’s correct. Some of them are going to make you feel seen in a way that is slightly uncomfortable. That’s also correct. A few of them are going to make you want to argue with a stranger about ornithology, which is a sentence that might have never been written before in baseball writing, and yet here we are.
I watch birds, and I watch baseball. At some point, the two things stopped being separate hobbies and became one continuous act of paying too much attention to things that are happening outside. I have no regrets. The feeders are full, and I have thirty grades that are final.
Come on in. The yard is open, and the birds are already here.
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Absolute genius
#FJF