Sarah Is Baseball

On passion, perseverance, and the person who reminds us why we love the game

I met Sarah Langs when she was just starting out at ESPN in 2016. It was immediately clear that she had a passion for baseball, but also clear was her ability to unearth unique insights into a game that we both clearly loved. In many ways, listening to her input during Baseball Tonight meetings reminded me of the feeling I had when I first read Jayson Stark’s Philadelphia Inquirer baseball column in college. It was baseball, yes, but it was more than baseball. It was what baseball does to make you smile.

In 2016, I started receiving her prep work to help us on the call for Wednesday Night Baseball or to provide insightful storylines for what was unfolding during the game. She was always quick to respond to any question and loved digging deep to find an answer. So many of us who are passionate about the game are passionate about the numbers—the way they provide context, the way they demand our attention to establish authenticity. When you challenge yourself to find the right stat, the rabbit hole you fall into leads to a world that compels you to stay awhile.

Sarah was building things from day one: data for graphics on SportsCenter, tidbits that distinguished two players who on the surface seemed to be doing the same job. Week after week, my inbox was full of Sarah’s work. As were the inboxes of many others on the team.

I learned early on that working at ESPN is not a sports job. It is a communications job. But I would add this: your communication is only as good as your research. Sarah made all of us better. She pushed us beyond the usual data points and into deeper narratives, whether we were building compelling cases in baseball’s court or crafting eloquent monologues about the designated hitter.

There were templates we came to rely on from ESPN’s team, but bit by bit, Sarah colored them in—with comments in the margins or her unfailing desire to add context in the body of an email. Usually with an exclamation point!

Then I watched her begin producing segments and shows—bit by bit. And I would step back and ask myself, “Wait, how old is she?” Because she already seemed like she had been doing this for a lifetime. The first time she emailed me about producing a segment was in 2017. She was 23.

It did not take long to realize that Sarah could sit in any of the chairs on our team—including mine—and do a great job. I understand the value that I bring having played the game at a high level, but being so close to it can cause you to miss certain nuances. The denial it takes to keep competing, the lack of self-awareness often required to perform—those necessary traits can also create blind spots. Sarah filled in those blanks, and she did it with a rare and genuine kindness.

I emphasize the word kindness because when we are one step removed from being on the field—whether as analysts who never played in the major leagues or as former players—it is easy to forget just how difficult the game really is at any given time. Research can reduce a player to a single statistic, as if that number captures their entire value. But Sarah has always wanted more than that. She looks for the stories—the person behind the performance, the meaning behind the moment. She loves the numbers, sure, but she leads with humility, awe and appreciation. Her focus is on the positive and the evidence. No judgement, just deep respect and love for the game.

Before long, I was getting emails from her across the ESPN universe: World Baseball Classic, SportsCenter, Baseball Tonight, Wednesday Night Baseball. But one message stood out. It came after she read an article I wrote in the New York Times about Jessica Mendoza.

To provide some context: I first worked formally with Jessica on a spring training game where she contributed some pre- and in-game content while I was in the booth. She had already done fantastic work on softball coverage, and I was blown away by her résumé—Stanford, two Olympic medals, one of the greatest hitters in softball history. It was obvious she was highly qualified to do anything in sports.

Then I saw the hate directed at her for doing the same work I was doing. I would not hesitate to say that she, and so many women like her, often outwork everyone else just to receive a basic level of respect—if they get that. The backlash was absurd and, to put it mildly, deeply offensive.

I was very upset about it. I worked with Jessica, and I could not understand how anyone could overlook her brilliance and relentless work ethic. It seemed obvious how talented she was. So, I wrote about it in the New York Times. At first, I worried there might be some blowback, or that I was overstepping, but once I spoke with her to better understand what she faced just to show up and do her job, I knew I had to write it. What I experienced as a result of what I wrote was minimal compared to what she endured. Still, I made sure to ask for her permission before I wrote anything, knowing that, as is often the case, she could become the target of retaliation because of my commentary.

Sarah emailed me the day the article was posted.

Subject line: NYT Article

I will keep the specific words of that message private. But I will say this: she wrote exactly what I needed to hear to know that I had done the right thing. Even though I could understand that this article I wrote really was not supposed to be about me, every word in her email mattered to me personally. It helped me feel that the piece was not just about calling out the hate directed at Jessica. It was about refusing to be a bystander in the face of ignorance and bigotry. And in that small act of doing something, it mattered to people in ways I had not realized. Those people were the ones who mattered, not the bitter noise coming from trolls on social media.

Keep in mind, Sarah and I had a professional rapport up to that point. I had no idea how closely she was following my other work given how busy she was keeping so many analysts and colleagues informed.

Since then, Sarah has become a good friend—a person I deeply admire and appreciate. It is rare to find someone who combines such brilliance with kindness. She is a person who changes the game.

There are generational baseball players who come around once every 30 to 50 years. They define their era. They are Ohtanic, Gibsonian, Robinson-esque, Ruthian. They are Clemente, in another form. The game continues to talk about them and to be influenced by them long after they are gone.

The same can be said of someone behind the scenes—someone who unites people, who deepens our love for the game. Someone who finds diamonds in data, the kind that can elevate both the best and the worst performers on any given day. Even fair criticism becomes compelling in her hands—like the stat I dug up that I know she would love: Nico Hoerner hitting .295 with a 0% barrel rate! You have to appreciate that kind of factoid!

When I found out about Sarah’s diagnosis, it followed an embarrassing moment during the All-Star break in LA. I was walking down the hotel hallway before heading to Dodger Stadium. From the other end of the hall, I saw what I thought was Jessica Mendoza walking next to a woman pushing another woman in a wheelchair.

As we got closer, I greeted Jessica. Then I turned and saw someone who looked a lot like Sarah Langs in the wheelchair. I was confused. Had she been in an accident? Why did I not know? I looked around for clues, but just ended up hugging everyone, and then thought, “Wait, maybe that wasn’t Sarah, and I just hugged two random people with Jessica.” Completely lost.

Later, I realized that Jessica was protecting Sarah’s privacy, waiting for Sarah to decide when and how to tell people. It took me a bit to figure it all out. I pieced things together during a playoff game in Cleveland when I saw Jon Sciambi recording something for Sarah while wearing an ALS shirt. That is when the devastation washed over me.

She texted me just before the news was about to be announced publicly. And true to form, she expressed how worried she was for startling me that day at the hotel. But I was relieved—it helped explain my implosion that day, which suddenly felt so trivial compared to what she was going through. And yet, she still thought of me first, without hesitation. She took responsibility for any lack of communication without needing to. That is Sarah.

Sarah is that generational talent who could do anything the game needs to tell its story. She is a preservationist, holding on to what makes this game endure. But more importantly, she is a keeper of what matters to the soul of baseball. That we must remember the past. That we should laugh at something small. That we should ride the unpredictable wave of the game with joy. That there is pure magic in what we do not control. We should get on that roller coaster with everything we have because we are not guaranteed another ride.

She is the humility of the game—reminding us that the players are on the field while the game does the rest. It writes its own story. Every game is different, with a different ending, and different actors. It crescendos, it mutes, it explodes, it disappoints, it returns, it deceives, it tests. And her favorite win probability graph is the perfect visual of that truth. A heartbeat, a living, breathing organism of competition and passion. Wheeeeeeeeee!

But the game also needs an even-handed artist—someone who strokes our nerves in the face of uncertainty, helping us to see the parallels in life and in love. Someone who reminds us to enjoy the ride, the setbacks, the vulnerability. To trust. To care. To be all-in.

Sarah is our steady hand. She personifies the spirit of why we love this game. She reminds us that we each have the power to shape it and carry it forward—not just through pitch clocks or instant replay, but through its humanity and the meaning we draw from our great game.

So on this day, I want to wish Sarah Langs a happy birthday—May 2, 1993. A great friend, a brilliant mind, and a person of compassion. She is the embodiment of baseball itself, no matter what her body is doing. She is the 108^th stitch on the baseball, tying us all together as we spin through this uncertain world. And I love knowing she is reading this and probably looking up the spin rate on StatCast!

And for that, I am thankful—for her reminders of what is important, for her @SlangsOnSports social media posts, where she can elevate Aaron Judge’s historic season one moment and be just as moved by a quiet act of kindness between a player and a fan—or a puppy.

And maybe most importantly, she reminds us to always smile while we are doing it.

Baseball is the best. And Sarah is baseball.

So I know her statistical mind would help me take this to its natural conclusion.

Sarah is the best.

With love,

Your friend and fellow baseball analyst,

Doug