What would baseball be without Barry Bonds? Ken Burns seems to think that extended sections of the 10th Inning should belong to him and his father, who personally thanks Mark Reynolds every day of his afterlife as he no longer stands as the biggest whiff threat in baseball history.
Well, here we go... the perjury trial is for real. The man with 73 home runs in a season and 762 for his career is officially facing 5 counts against him (instead of 11).
He still says that he's innocent, but so does Roger Clemens, and we all know how that's working out for him. So for Bonds, the big day is March 1st, which is when he gets arraigned for perjury. Greg Anderson, his former trainer and bestest buddy who never testified against him, will most likely get more contempt of court charges for continued refusal to talk (we have to wonder how much money that is translating to in thank yous from Barry). That said, Jason Giambi and more unknown former major leaguers are going to state that Anderson hooked them up with steroids in the same way it's alleged that Anderson gave Bonds the Clear and the Cream.
For Clemens, his next date with destiny is March 14th when his subpoena for the notes from the House committee that investigated Andy Pettite, Brian McNamee, Chuck Knoblauch, and Jose Canseco (because where there is juice, there is the Typhoid Mary of Steroids) is analyzed for whether they'll give up the documents or not.
Nevertheless, the issue here isn't whether these guys are guilty. Let's be honest, guilty or not, their entire careers are trash. Neither guy is taking his accumulation of some of the greatest numbers ever into Cooperstown. Neither guy is ever going to truly accrue fans or love - despite the fact that Roger was still able to find time to joke about throwing a broken bat at Mike Piazza when he performed for charity. In this, I'm just curious who thinks that inviting Roger to raise money is really the way they want to go with an event of this status, but with that said, I'm sure it got a couple of chuckles and guffaws.
So alas, the 2 biggest names in the Mitchell Commission hearing are going to be facing justice - even if it's only to show them that they can't fight authority because as John Cougar Mellencamp once sang, "Authority always wins." In the end, the 2 of them will go down like the Titanic and without the chance of getting saved that rescued Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle from their baseball exorcisms. There is no life preserver like the one that was thrown to Ty Cobb, Tris Speaker, and Smoky Joe Wood. It's over.
There's no nostalgic love like that for Pete Rose and Joe Jackson. It's done.
And that's what's at issue here. Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds have done nothing to make people love them. Jeff Pearlman's Love Me Hate Me Barry Bonds and American Icon by Teri Thompson and others truly sum up how ugly and loath-able these once great athletes are. The lies and deceptions of Barry Bonds and his myriad of lives that don't remember what each other did while quietly countering his villainy with charity. The betrayal of Roger's wife and best friend to save his records in light of the accusations that were leveled at him.
And while these guys fight for their lives and their backsides not to be made entertainment in the federal prison system, there is something out there that wonders what will became of baseball and the rest of the accused steroids users in baseball. Who else is on the list of anonymous players from 2004? Who else will be named when the witch hunt continues? Who will the next test failure be? Do we really want to know?
I really have to say that I don't.
There needs to be at least a few good memories left of all that is good and pure of the game that I love.
Showing posts with label Cooperstown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cooperstown. Show all posts
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Ron Santo
When I was younger, I always thought that my dad's father died of yellow fever. I don't remember what actually killed him, but I was told later that it wasn't yellow fever. In much the same way of being confused by what I thought I heard, I always thought that my dad's favorite player when he was a kid was Ron Santo, but it was actually Richie Ashburn. I didn't learn the truth until I talked to my dad after Ron Santo died on December 3rd.
Interestingly enough, the Cubs have declared that my dad's birthday, his 64th, will be the celebration of Ron Santo's life and the new statue that will be displayed outside of Wrigley Field for this 3rd base great.
Santo and his 342 home runs and lifetime .277 average over 15 seasons (9 on all-star teams), were never enough for the Hall of Fame, but true fans know. Santo was a true fan of the Cubs, the team he became famous while playing on. He celebrated their trials and tribulations as a player and announcer and always seemed to believe that the Cubs would end their drought and the Curse of the Billy Goat, the stupidest curse in history, would be over.
All the same, heart problems, cancer, and losing both of his legs to diabetes took their toll on this baseball great first.
On August 10th, Chicago will play a low key game that very few people will care about. They're taking on the Nationals, and neither team will be fighting for playoff glory. It will just be another August game, but to the Wrigley Field and a few sportscasters and some die hard fans, we will take notice of a man who was truly great.
We're not asking for special favors like being let into a McDonald's in the wee hours of the morning to use the bathroom, which results in the temporary firing of an employee who gives into his star status.
We're not talking about a man who had questionable relationships outside of marriage and must wear a scarlet S on his chest as he tells neighbors where he lives in order to avoid jail time. Even football players fear the pokey. I know that I would.
We're not talking about a man who profiteers off of making animals fight each other to the inevitable death of one of them, but who deserves a presidential thank you to the coach who took his "chances" on hiring him again, despite the fact that there was nothing to lose in hiring a former all pro quarterback.
And we're not talking about how an entire town remembered his greatness because it led them to 2 Superbowl victories and moves them towards a third victory despite the fact that the only reason he's not in the slammer is because the evidence against him couldn't differentiate consensual violent sex and rape.
But Ron Santo is not Adrian Peterson, Lawrence Taylor, Michael Vick, or Ben Roethlisberger. He's just a baseball player from a different generation. He's not the kind of person that leaves the average person star struck. He's just a man and a great gamer from a different era who still inspires enough respect to be immortalized for all who care to find out the back story of a statue that will one day join other Chicago Cubs statues of Harry Caray, Ernie Banks, and Billy Williams - note that Ryne Sandberg isn't even on this list.
Somewhere is reverence for truth, justice, and the American way.
That's why baseball will always be the national pastime.
Interestingly enough, the Cubs have declared that my dad's birthday, his 64th, will be the celebration of Ron Santo's life and the new statue that will be displayed outside of Wrigley Field for this 3rd base great.
Santo and his 342 home runs and lifetime .277 average over 15 seasons (9 on all-star teams), were never enough for the Hall of Fame, but true fans know. Santo was a true fan of the Cubs, the team he became famous while playing on. He celebrated their trials and tribulations as a player and announcer and always seemed to believe that the Cubs would end their drought and the Curse of the Billy Goat, the stupidest curse in history, would be over.
All the same, heart problems, cancer, and losing both of his legs to diabetes took their toll on this baseball great first.
On August 10th, Chicago will play a low key game that very few people will care about. They're taking on the Nationals, and neither team will be fighting for playoff glory. It will just be another August game, but to the Wrigley Field and a few sportscasters and some die hard fans, we will take notice of a man who was truly great.
We're not asking for special favors like being let into a McDonald's in the wee hours of the morning to use the bathroom, which results in the temporary firing of an employee who gives into his star status.
We're not talking about a man who had questionable relationships outside of marriage and must wear a scarlet S on his chest as he tells neighbors where he lives in order to avoid jail time. Even football players fear the pokey. I know that I would.
We're not talking about a man who profiteers off of making animals fight each other to the inevitable death of one of them, but who deserves a presidential thank you to the coach who took his "chances" on hiring him again, despite the fact that there was nothing to lose in hiring a former all pro quarterback.
And we're not talking about how an entire town remembered his greatness because it led them to 2 Superbowl victories and moves them towards a third victory despite the fact that the only reason he's not in the slammer is because the evidence against him couldn't differentiate consensual violent sex and rape.
But Ron Santo is not Adrian Peterson, Lawrence Taylor, Michael Vick, or Ben Roethlisberger. He's just a baseball player from a different generation. He's not the kind of person that leaves the average person star struck. He's just a man and a great gamer from a different era who still inspires enough respect to be immortalized for all who care to find out the back story of a statue that will one day join other Chicago Cubs statues of Harry Caray, Ernie Banks, and Billy Williams - note that Ryne Sandberg isn't even on this list.
Somewhere is reverence for truth, justice, and the American way.
That's why baseball will always be the national pastime.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Addie Joss
The first time I saw Almost Famous, I was with my ex-girlfriend what feels like a million years and a million lifetimes ago. I don't remember thinking much of it at the time, but I came to love it shortly after she left. It wasn't pining over her. I can really only think of 2 incidents of pining over her in the time that she left - the first time was the first time that she was gone and it was just myself and her cat Tornado. She left us both. She had to have him, and she seemed happy to tag along into my life, but then when she got there, we realized that we were from different worlds. At that minute, it was just myself and the cat and it felt bizarre and depressing to be in that spot. Eventually, I had her take the cat, which she begrudgingly did.
The second time, I was in the midst of the depressed summer of 2002 after we broke up in April and I had too much time with my loneliness, and I went to drop off mail that had arrived for her at the apartment that we shared, but that was now only mine. In all the things the things that she did and didn't do in that time, it took me to change her addresses for her by returning stuff to the sender and posting the right address to forward things to. That time, I suggested we get together to talk, but we never did, which was a good thing. She got her mail, just like she got a box of stuff that was once hers. I always thought that she would come back for her Christmas stuff, but that was just wishful thinking. Our only Christmas together was miserable. In the end, I gave it to the woman who oversaw the apartments for her kid and threw away what she would never want. It seemed so wasteful at the time, but alas, sometimes, it's for the best.
In the movie Almost Famous, Elton John sings "Tiny Dancer," which is one of the greatest songs ever. At the time in March of 2001, I can remember listening to it and liking it, but I didn't really claim it as one of my own until it played at the right moment of my life - hiking back from Delicate Arch in Utah. It was in the same fateful walk that Elf Power's "When the Red King Comes" played. They were both mine. I never think of the ex girlfriend or things belonging to her other than Dave Matthews and The Barenaked Ladies, which I can differentiate from her in that other than when I consciously force myself to, I never think of her. There's no reason to. We never had anything much in common and our greatest moments were things that I've pretty much done with other people or that weren't that memorable to begin with - at least in the way that almost 9 years makes a person forget what happened.
However, I do think back to Almost Famous because I love the quote that is at the end where William Miller, the Cameron Crowe character asks Russell Hammond what he likes about rock music. The answer is "to begin with everything."
I think that I could answer the same thing about baseball. Everything. The game never disappoints me. If Aaron Boone hits a home run over the Green Monster in extra innings and I'm up until the wee hours hoping that the Red Sox make it to the World Series in 2003, then it's just a moment in communal misery that still says, "we'll get them next year."
If I choose to go to bed after the Arizona Diamondbacks can't score in the 8th inning of Game 7 of the 2001 World Series and it looks like the Yankees will 4-peat, then I can wake up happy when I see ESPN's headline that a bloop single wins and it's instant jubilation and the need to make Yankees fans suffer.
For me, baseball is everything... the trajectory of a long fly ball to deep center field in the St. Louis night. August 30, 1998, marks a change in everything that I am and that I will be. It signals that I have come to the promised land, and I have seen my burning bush. My heart is not hardened, but it is actually made light because I have been shown direction in life by the plague of locusts (well, Mormon crickets) that have descended on the desert north of Fallon, Nevada. From North Nutgrass, Stillwater Reservoir, Foxtail Lake and all of the other water that lies east of Route 95 heading south into Nevada's heartland, they swarm and die against my windshield and the hood of my Ford Escort. Uncle Tupelo's music plays after I refuel my car with gasoline and my body with Coke and iced animal cookies. Good stuff. I am to teach. I am to go about my journey and become something more.
For 12 plus years, I have prepared and done just that. Every time that I think it's time to get out, something rescues me and keeps me moving forward. Every time that I think it's not going to work out, something keeps me moving forward. Like much of my life, I have proceeded forward in spite of my mistakes and the turmoil of life, but I have kept going.
In reading about my baseball heroes, I see tales of lives that were destroyed and ended before they could fully realize what they might have been. I have seen great careers cut short of being the greatest. Bob Feller and Ted Williams gave the early parts of their career to military service for their country. Christy Mathewson did as well, but his was to an earlier war, but all the same, he trained and swallowed mustard gas. He was never the same. Roberto Clemente hit his 3,000th hit and died in a fiery airplane crash trying to get relief supplies to Nicaragua. Jackie Robinson gave his life to the stress and turmoil of integrating the Major Leagues with the players of the Negro Leagues so no more African Americans would have to lose out to what might have been. And Addie Joss died of spinal meningitis not 3 years after pitching a perfect game and a no-hitter. He was 31. He could have been great.
So many people could have.
And yes, they are immortalized in hallowed grounds on Lake Oswego. I can see them there. I can remember their lives and what could have been.
I sit here now and think of what could have been in my life. Where once I taught high school kids, I moved on to college students and adult education. I said that I would never go back, but here I am now, ready to go back and be great again, to feel the things that I once loved about this all over again. To feel the mix of history, literature, and writing all come together into something special for me and to make them something special in students as I once did. To feel comfortable in my skin and my classroom. To exorcise the demons of failure once and for all.
It's time to think that my life is ready to be.
If I have baseball to thank for that, then all the better for the ghosts of the past are still powerful and still have much to teach us.
The second time, I was in the midst of the depressed summer of 2002 after we broke up in April and I had too much time with my loneliness, and I went to drop off mail that had arrived for her at the apartment that we shared, but that was now only mine. In all the things the things that she did and didn't do in that time, it took me to change her addresses for her by returning stuff to the sender and posting the right address to forward things to. That time, I suggested we get together to talk, but we never did, which was a good thing. She got her mail, just like she got a box of stuff that was once hers. I always thought that she would come back for her Christmas stuff, but that was just wishful thinking. Our only Christmas together was miserable. In the end, I gave it to the woman who oversaw the apartments for her kid and threw away what she would never want. It seemed so wasteful at the time, but alas, sometimes, it's for the best.
In the movie Almost Famous, Elton John sings "Tiny Dancer," which is one of the greatest songs ever. At the time in March of 2001, I can remember listening to it and liking it, but I didn't really claim it as one of my own until it played at the right moment of my life - hiking back from Delicate Arch in Utah. It was in the same fateful walk that Elf Power's "When the Red King Comes" played. They were both mine. I never think of the ex girlfriend or things belonging to her other than Dave Matthews and The Barenaked Ladies, which I can differentiate from her in that other than when I consciously force myself to, I never think of her. There's no reason to. We never had anything much in common and our greatest moments were things that I've pretty much done with other people or that weren't that memorable to begin with - at least in the way that almost 9 years makes a person forget what happened.
However, I do think back to Almost Famous because I love the quote that is at the end where William Miller, the Cameron Crowe character asks Russell Hammond what he likes about rock music. The answer is "to begin with everything."
I think that I could answer the same thing about baseball. Everything. The game never disappoints me. If Aaron Boone hits a home run over the Green Monster in extra innings and I'm up until the wee hours hoping that the Red Sox make it to the World Series in 2003, then it's just a moment in communal misery that still says, "we'll get them next year."
If I choose to go to bed after the Arizona Diamondbacks can't score in the 8th inning of Game 7 of the 2001 World Series and it looks like the Yankees will 4-peat, then I can wake up happy when I see ESPN's headline that a bloop single wins and it's instant jubilation and the need to make Yankees fans suffer.
For me, baseball is everything... the trajectory of a long fly ball to deep center field in the St. Louis night. August 30, 1998, marks a change in everything that I am and that I will be. It signals that I have come to the promised land, and I have seen my burning bush. My heart is not hardened, but it is actually made light because I have been shown direction in life by the plague of locusts (well, Mormon crickets) that have descended on the desert north of Fallon, Nevada. From North Nutgrass, Stillwater Reservoir, Foxtail Lake and all of the other water that lies east of Route 95 heading south into Nevada's heartland, they swarm and die against my windshield and the hood of my Ford Escort. Uncle Tupelo's music plays after I refuel my car with gasoline and my body with Coke and iced animal cookies. Good stuff. I am to teach. I am to go about my journey and become something more.
For 12 plus years, I have prepared and done just that. Every time that I think it's time to get out, something rescues me and keeps me moving forward. Every time that I think it's not going to work out, something keeps me moving forward. Like much of my life, I have proceeded forward in spite of my mistakes and the turmoil of life, but I have kept going.
In reading about my baseball heroes, I see tales of lives that were destroyed and ended before they could fully realize what they might have been. I have seen great careers cut short of being the greatest. Bob Feller and Ted Williams gave the early parts of their career to military service for their country. Christy Mathewson did as well, but his was to an earlier war, but all the same, he trained and swallowed mustard gas. He was never the same. Roberto Clemente hit his 3,000th hit and died in a fiery airplane crash trying to get relief supplies to Nicaragua. Jackie Robinson gave his life to the stress and turmoil of integrating the Major Leagues with the players of the Negro Leagues so no more African Americans would have to lose out to what might have been. And Addie Joss died of spinal meningitis not 3 years after pitching a perfect game and a no-hitter. He was 31. He could have been great.
So many people could have.
And yes, they are immortalized in hallowed grounds on Lake Oswego. I can see them there. I can remember their lives and what could have been.
I sit here now and think of what could have been in my life. Where once I taught high school kids, I moved on to college students and adult education. I said that I would never go back, but here I am now, ready to go back and be great again, to feel the things that I once loved about this all over again. To feel the mix of history, literature, and writing all come together into something special for me and to make them something special in students as I once did. To feel comfortable in my skin and my classroom. To exorcise the demons of failure once and for all.
It's time to think that my life is ready to be.
If I have baseball to thank for that, then all the better for the ghosts of the past are still powerful and still have much to teach us.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Trevor Hoffman
Oh, how the once mighty have fallen and left the game. Carrie Fisher began Star Wars as an ear muff hair cut having sweet little princess with a bad attitude standing up to the greatest villain in the galaxy. When it was over, she was wearing the metal bikini and kicking ass as a Jedi Knight, her real father and mother having been revealed. In between, she hooked up with Harrison Ford's Han Solo and found true love on Endor beside the Ewoks and Wookies.
Now, she's 75 pounds heavier and the new face of Jennie Craig.
And that's what life is. I've put 75 extra pounds on my frame too, and like Carrie, I dream about the future as I contemplate the gym that I will go to later today. That's life. Making up for the things that went wrong and moving to the future.
I can imagine that Trevor Hoffman feels much the same way as he goes into retirement. Sure, there are 601 saves to his total, but I have to say the same thing many baseball columnists have said - saves are over-rated. It's not like Rollie Fingers coming in for half of a game in the middle of a game. It's not Hoyt Willhelm's knuckle ball being called in to end Roger Maris's dreams.
In 6 years of post season appearances, Hoffman has 4 saves and a 3.46 ERA. That's not clutch. It's like Casey McGehee, his teammate said, “Sometimes he appears to be Superman. Hoffy’s human, too.” However, McGehee was defending his teammate who was imploding during the beginning of his final season.
Yet, this is the guy that crapped the bed for the Padres in 07 - blowing a 3-run lead in the 13th inning to send the Rockies - not the Padres - to the playoffs. Clutch.
"Hells Bells" to the pitching mound, he had to do something to make the pros after failing as a shortstop, consistently over-throwing first base, and he did well for the most part. In 5 All Star Games, he let up 6 runs. Slamming the door shut. In 1998, he let up a big fly to Scott Brosius and made Tony Gwynn angry since he was going to go to his retirement with no ring. He was already upset - remember, the moonshot off the upper deck from a guy who only ever hit 135 home runs in 3,141 successful hits.
I'll be honest... every time I saw Hoffman in a big game, it was as if he was folding like it was laundry day in my house. Not good at all. If you look through my past posts, you'll see how much I've downplayed relievers. Take a few good years from your young closer with a fierce attitude and don't pay big unless he can do multiple innings saves in the playoffs with a sub 1.00 WHIP and a 0.00 ERA (or damn near close to it). Other than that, these modern closers better be coming in and shutting the door.
I tell my wife often that when we have a kid, we'll be teaching him to throw left-handed since there is big money for a situational southpaw reliever. Now, more than ever, I believe that (barring the fact that he can't get even bigger money to be a left-handed starter).
Something about this post being done 2 days after the announcement says anti-climactic in the same way that most of his career does. Sure, the number is impressive, but numbers aren't everything. Quality not quantity. More is not better.
That said, good luck with the future Trevor, you're definitely a gamer... you're just not worthy of Cooperstown.
Now, she's 75 pounds heavier and the new face of Jennie Craig.
And that's what life is. I've put 75 extra pounds on my frame too, and like Carrie, I dream about the future as I contemplate the gym that I will go to later today. That's life. Making up for the things that went wrong and moving to the future.
I can imagine that Trevor Hoffman feels much the same way as he goes into retirement. Sure, there are 601 saves to his total, but I have to say the same thing many baseball columnists have said - saves are over-rated. It's not like Rollie Fingers coming in for half of a game in the middle of a game. It's not Hoyt Willhelm's knuckle ball being called in to end Roger Maris's dreams.
In 6 years of post season appearances, Hoffman has 4 saves and a 3.46 ERA. That's not clutch. It's like Casey McGehee, his teammate said, “Sometimes he appears to be Superman. Hoffy’s human, too.” However, McGehee was defending his teammate who was imploding during the beginning of his final season.
Yet, this is the guy that crapped the bed for the Padres in 07 - blowing a 3-run lead in the 13th inning to send the Rockies - not the Padres - to the playoffs. Clutch.
"Hells Bells" to the pitching mound, he had to do something to make the pros after failing as a shortstop, consistently over-throwing first base, and he did well for the most part. In 5 All Star Games, he let up 6 runs. Slamming the door shut. In 1998, he let up a big fly to Scott Brosius and made Tony Gwynn angry since he was going to go to his retirement with no ring. He was already upset - remember, the moonshot off the upper deck from a guy who only ever hit 135 home runs in 3,141 successful hits.
I'll be honest... every time I saw Hoffman in a big game, it was as if he was folding like it was laundry day in my house. Not good at all. If you look through my past posts, you'll see how much I've downplayed relievers. Take a few good years from your young closer with a fierce attitude and don't pay big unless he can do multiple innings saves in the playoffs with a sub 1.00 WHIP and a 0.00 ERA (or damn near close to it). Other than that, these modern closers better be coming in and shutting the door.
I tell my wife often that when we have a kid, we'll be teaching him to throw left-handed since there is big money for a situational southpaw reliever. Now, more than ever, I believe that (barring the fact that he can't get even bigger money to be a left-handed starter).
Something about this post being done 2 days after the announcement says anti-climactic in the same way that most of his career does. Sure, the number is impressive, but numbers aren't everything. Quality not quantity. More is not better.
That said, good luck with the future Trevor, you're definitely a gamer... you're just not worthy of Cooperstown.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Stephen Clark
In 1933, Lake Oswego's neighboring town, Cooperstown, became the genesis of a grand idea - Stephen Clark realized that baseball needed a Hall of Fame to save the town, and his idea for a museum to house artifacts and memories, a nostalgia of a time that should never be forgotten was brought to life and in in 1936, the inaugural class of Walter Johnson, Ty Cobb, Honus Wagner, Christy Mathewson, and Babe Ruth were put into the Hall of Fame for all future generations to pay homage to. The next year, Nap Lajoie, Cy Young, Grover Alexander, and Tris Speaker joined the initial four members and brought owners and managers like Ban Johnson, John McGraw, Connie Mack, and Morgan Bulkeley to the fold.
In looking down the list of all those who made the Hall of Fame in its early years, there were many great players who did amazing things. By about 1945-46, some of the names are pulled from the deepest recesses of baseball history, but in dusted off tobacco cards, their images come alive again to show that they were the founders of the game that made it possible for all others.
In looking at the salaries of the modern baseball players who prove that with one good year, especially a good year in a contract year, they can go anywhere, it's hard to see general managers and owners and fans getting bang for their bucks.
Sure, Alex Rodriguez and hiss $33 million per SHOULD make the Hall of Fame - save for the pesky steroids trouble he had, but will Carlos Lee and his $19 mill per? Let's keep this trend going and ask about John Lackey, AJ Burnett, Magglio Ordonez, Barry Zito, Aramis Ramirez, Todd Helton, John Lackey, Carlos Zambrano, Alfonso Soriano, Carlos Beltran, and Mark Teixara? And one could also ask about Johan Santana and CC Sabathia, he of the Taft-like figure, but perhaps they will go somewhere with the bright lights of the Big Apple shining on their careers - if they can stay consistent and win, especially on the bigger post season stages.
Perusing the top 20 salaries by year, only Ichiro and Derek Jeter are locks. At this point, Jeter could probably rob a bank and be forgiven due to his having been involved in the (most over-rated) play of all time that saw Jeremy Giambi's steroid addled self thrown out at home for failing to slide, but I digress...
If Manny Ramirez did steroids, what's to say that Ryan Howard won't be found guilty or some future generation will punish whiff masters for failing to connect with the ball more often, if only to make a ground out and advance runners?
Who's a safe bet? Miguel Cabrera? Torii Hunter? It would be easy to shift them to the same list of not quites as previously mentioned, but such is the game of baseball in 2011.
And while I've said it before and I'll say it again that players should take what they're being offered, is giving the money to really good players INSTEAD OF great players the answer? Should the whole thing be based on hope?
If so, then Carlos Gonzalez is in a great place for both himself and his team. $80million for 7 years is very affordable in a world where total salary packages are pushing towards $150million plus rapidly and that's not even getting into the waste of cash that is Alex Rodriguez's $264million salary. In a downturn of his career and coming off a steroids revelation, is this smart money? And barring steroids allegations, the long term high money package deals look relatively safer for the top players, but still... Mike Mussina? Carlos Delgado? Gary Sheffield?
Jeff Bagwell?
Which brings us to the Hall of Fame vote at 1pm today. For a man who made the All Star team 4 times from 1991-2005 and accumulated 449 supposedly "steroids free" home runs (the strength of his vote, if one is casting for him) and a near .300 lifetime batting average (which eclipses Dave Kingman's 442 and .236 respectively), are we really to believe that just because a person wins Rookie of the Year and 1 MVP award, he is worthy of Cooperstown?
And perhaps we'll see today.
Personally, I think Larry Walker's 383 home runs and .313 batting average and the idea of what could have been, even though he played at Coors Field is a hell of a lot better, but that's just me. I know that he will be nowhere close.
I also know that Roberto, "the Spitter," Alomar should sit out for another year, but alas, that's just me, too. The good folks at ESPN are giving him a 94% favorable rate in his 2nd year (out of 18 voters) and Walker only has 1 vote. However, it should be noted, Mark McGwire has 7 votes, still only half of the needed vote to get through the doors, but for his honesty and the bad advice that he took from his lawyers, we can look at his career for what it is.
Someday soon, the Hall of Fame will need to address steroids users in its wing of honor. This won't be next year because the highlight of the voting will be guys like Dustin Hermanson and Carl "Dinosaur" Everett. There will literally be nobody to vote for. Really. Don't believe me? Look it up.
But in 2013, Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, and Mike Piazza will join Mark McGwire in the vote getting. We're not even including drunken lout David Wells in that category, but should he really be getting votes either if we're talking about doing things with honor? I mean, he's not Doc Ellis, but still... next year is not going to be pretty.
So who will tip the scales this year?
Bert Blyleven in his millionth year? Jack Morris? Barry Larkin? Dale Murphy? Lee Smith?
Will the voters respect DH Edgar Martinez?
Will Tim Raines be remembered for his stolen bases or that they were done headfirst to avoid smashing the cocaine vials that he kept in his back pocket?
Will Rafael Palmeiro be believed for his stern denial of using steroids before or after the fact he was busted?
Will Barry Larkin still be seen as great in a day and age when short stops hit for power and presitge?
Will anyone remember the 80s enough to remember Alan Trammel?
Will Fred McGriff's 2 years leading the league in home runs to end up with 493 in a career that ran from 1986 to 2004, only to be derailed by the fact that nobody wanted to sign a guy for one year to let him attain a milestone, finally end up in Cooperstown?
So many choices... so much celebration ready to be unleashed, but in the end, my bet is for Bert Blyleven and that's it.
Alomar will go next year in the emptiness of the voting, as will Barry Larkin. The following July will be a dull celebration that nobody except for Reds fans will go to. You can guarantee that Mets fans won't be there to cheer Roberto on to glory.
In looking down the list of all those who made the Hall of Fame in its early years, there were many great players who did amazing things. By about 1945-46, some of the names are pulled from the deepest recesses of baseball history, but in dusted off tobacco cards, their images come alive again to show that they were the founders of the game that made it possible for all others.
In looking at the salaries of the modern baseball players who prove that with one good year, especially a good year in a contract year, they can go anywhere, it's hard to see general managers and owners and fans getting bang for their bucks.
Sure, Alex Rodriguez and hiss $33 million per SHOULD make the Hall of Fame - save for the pesky steroids trouble he had, but will Carlos Lee and his $19 mill per? Let's keep this trend going and ask about John Lackey, AJ Burnett, Magglio Ordonez, Barry Zito, Aramis Ramirez, Todd Helton, John Lackey, Carlos Zambrano, Alfonso Soriano, Carlos Beltran, and Mark Teixara? And one could also ask about Johan Santana and CC Sabathia, he of the Taft-like figure, but perhaps they will go somewhere with the bright lights of the Big Apple shining on their careers - if they can stay consistent and win, especially on the bigger post season stages.
Perusing the top 20 salaries by year, only Ichiro and Derek Jeter are locks. At this point, Jeter could probably rob a bank and be forgiven due to his having been involved in the (most over-rated) play of all time that saw Jeremy Giambi's steroid addled self thrown out at home for failing to slide, but I digress...
If Manny Ramirez did steroids, what's to say that Ryan Howard won't be found guilty or some future generation will punish whiff masters for failing to connect with the ball more often, if only to make a ground out and advance runners?
Who's a safe bet? Miguel Cabrera? Torii Hunter? It would be easy to shift them to the same list of not quites as previously mentioned, but such is the game of baseball in 2011.
And while I've said it before and I'll say it again that players should take what they're being offered, is giving the money to really good players INSTEAD OF great players the answer? Should the whole thing be based on hope?
If so, then Carlos Gonzalez is in a great place for both himself and his team. $80million for 7 years is very affordable in a world where total salary packages are pushing towards $150million plus rapidly and that's not even getting into the waste of cash that is Alex Rodriguez's $264million salary. In a downturn of his career and coming off a steroids revelation, is this smart money? And barring steroids allegations, the long term high money package deals look relatively safer for the top players, but still... Mike Mussina? Carlos Delgado? Gary Sheffield?
Jeff Bagwell?
Which brings us to the Hall of Fame vote at 1pm today. For a man who made the All Star team 4 times from 1991-2005 and accumulated 449 supposedly "steroids free" home runs (the strength of his vote, if one is casting for him) and a near .300 lifetime batting average (which eclipses Dave Kingman's 442 and .236 respectively), are we really to believe that just because a person wins Rookie of the Year and 1 MVP award, he is worthy of Cooperstown?
And perhaps we'll see today.
Personally, I think Larry Walker's 383 home runs and .313 batting average and the idea of what could have been, even though he played at Coors Field is a hell of a lot better, but that's just me. I know that he will be nowhere close.
I also know that Roberto, "the Spitter," Alomar should sit out for another year, but alas, that's just me, too. The good folks at ESPN are giving him a 94% favorable rate in his 2nd year (out of 18 voters) and Walker only has 1 vote. However, it should be noted, Mark McGwire has 7 votes, still only half of the needed vote to get through the doors, but for his honesty and the bad advice that he took from his lawyers, we can look at his career for what it is.
Someday soon, the Hall of Fame will need to address steroids users in its wing of honor. This won't be next year because the highlight of the voting will be guys like Dustin Hermanson and Carl "Dinosaur" Everett. There will literally be nobody to vote for. Really. Don't believe me? Look it up.
But in 2013, Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, and Mike Piazza will join Mark McGwire in the vote getting. We're not even including drunken lout David Wells in that category, but should he really be getting votes either if we're talking about doing things with honor? I mean, he's not Doc Ellis, but still... next year is not going to be pretty.
So who will tip the scales this year?
Bert Blyleven in his millionth year? Jack Morris? Barry Larkin? Dale Murphy? Lee Smith?
Will the voters respect DH Edgar Martinez?
Will Tim Raines be remembered for his stolen bases or that they were done headfirst to avoid smashing the cocaine vials that he kept in his back pocket?
Will Rafael Palmeiro be believed for his stern denial of using steroids before or after the fact he was busted?
Will Barry Larkin still be seen as great in a day and age when short stops hit for power and presitge?
Will anyone remember the 80s enough to remember Alan Trammel?
Will Fred McGriff's 2 years leading the league in home runs to end up with 493 in a career that ran from 1986 to 2004, only to be derailed by the fact that nobody wanted to sign a guy for one year to let him attain a milestone, finally end up in Cooperstown?
So many choices... so much celebration ready to be unleashed, but in the end, my bet is for Bert Blyleven and that's it.
Alomar will go next year in the emptiness of the voting, as will Barry Larkin. The following July will be a dull celebration that nobody except for Reds fans will go to. You can guarantee that Mets fans won't be there to cheer Roberto on to glory.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Harmon Killebrew
When more young kids are aware that your name is a drinking game than that of the 11th greatest home run hitter in major league history, which is a position that he will occupy for quite some time since nobody wants to take a chance on Manny Ramirez this off season and because Vladamir Guerrero is suffering from Dominican ball player aging-itis, this is something to say about the state of people understanding baseball history. Then again, many young players are completely unaware of the history of the game.
However, Harmon is just one of a long list of players and managers and announcers to develop life-threatening sickness and to move within inches of shuffling off this mortal coil. To be honest, 2010 was quite the legendary year for baseball with the comings, goings, and happenings, in what has come to be called the year of the pitcher.
But to that, Harmon was no friend of pitchers as he went deep 573 times in his 22 major league seasons. Six times, he led the league in dingers, and 8 times, he walloped more than 40 jacks. Eight times, he had more than 100 RBIs, which was at its zenith as the US put a man on the moon, a year that he contributed to 140 runs for the 1969 Twins. Considering that the Twins only had Rod Carew and Tony Oliva on their team that year, that's saying something.
Killebrew had 49 of the 163 home runs and 140 of the team's 744 RBIs. He was a man amongst men save for the fact he never hit more than 300 in a season (his first season didn't even produce 20 at bats). However, for those 49 jacks in 69, he only whiffed 84 times. That's not even half of a Ryan Howard season, and don't get me started on Mark Reynolds and Carlos Pena.
So as the 74 year old has developed esophageal cancer and moved into the Mayo Clinic for treatment. As he says:
"With my wife, Nita, by my side, I have begun preparing for what is perhaps the most difficult battle of my life. I am being treated by a team of medical professionals at the Mayo Clinic. While my condition is very serious, I have confidence in my doctors and the medical staff, and I anticipate a full recovery."
We can only hope that he recovers, and that as he does, people who profess a love of baseball remember that only 41 single seasons were ever greater than his 49 in 69. And while the Twins and the Senators and the Royals of his time were never that good, he was.
His plaque at Cooperstown proves it.
However, Harmon is just one of a long list of players and managers and announcers to develop life-threatening sickness and to move within inches of shuffling off this mortal coil. To be honest, 2010 was quite the legendary year for baseball with the comings, goings, and happenings, in what has come to be called the year of the pitcher.
But to that, Harmon was no friend of pitchers as he went deep 573 times in his 22 major league seasons. Six times, he led the league in dingers, and 8 times, he walloped more than 40 jacks. Eight times, he had more than 100 RBIs, which was at its zenith as the US put a man on the moon, a year that he contributed to 140 runs for the 1969 Twins. Considering that the Twins only had Rod Carew and Tony Oliva on their team that year, that's saying something.
Killebrew had 49 of the 163 home runs and 140 of the team's 744 RBIs. He was a man amongst men save for the fact he never hit more than 300 in a season (his first season didn't even produce 20 at bats). However, for those 49 jacks in 69, he only whiffed 84 times. That's not even half of a Ryan Howard season, and don't get me started on Mark Reynolds and Carlos Pena.
So as the 74 year old has developed esophageal cancer and moved into the Mayo Clinic for treatment. As he says:
"With my wife, Nita, by my side, I have begun preparing for what is perhaps the most difficult battle of my life. I am being treated by a team of medical professionals at the Mayo Clinic. While my condition is very serious, I have confidence in my doctors and the medical staff, and I anticipate a full recovery."
We can only hope that he recovers, and that as he does, people who profess a love of baseball remember that only 41 single seasons were ever greater than his 49 in 69. And while the Twins and the Senators and the Royals of his time were never that good, he was.
His plaque at Cooperstown proves it.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Jebediah Springfield
Until 1796, he was Hans Sprungfeld, a murderous pirate that once tried to kill George Washington, but then, he left Maryland and headed west, and after a series of adventures and a desire not to have marital relations with his cousins, he became Jebediah Springfield, the founder of Springfield. Some point after that, he left his confessions for the world to see:
Know ye who read this there is more to my life than history records. Firstly, I did not tame the legendary buffalo, it was already tame, I merely shot it. Secondly, I have not always been known as Jebediah Springfield. Until 1796, I was Hans Sprungfeld, murderous pirate. And the half wits of this town will never learn the truth. ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. I write this confession so that my infamy will live on long after my body has succumbed to my infectious diphtheria.
And if that was how it all began, then it wasn’t much different than how the history of baseball began. Sure, there was no Lisa Simpson to ethically debate whether or not to tell the world about it, but eventually the truth would have to come out. In the meantime, baseball needed a founder, and it seemed logical that when Abner Graves “misremembered” having been privy to drawings from Abner Doubleday, the Army Captain became the creator of baseball, and so the historians who were attempting to create a history had found one or at least created a suitable alternative history.
Thus, in creating a truly American national game, this seemed to be much better than simply modifying the game of Rounders and taking from the British more than we wanted to in a day and age nearly a century after Rip Van Winkle had woken up to a new America twenty years after this fledgling country had swapped Georges, for to do that meant that we would be taking her daintyness, Jane Austen, and using her words from Northanger Abbey, "It was not very wonderful that Catherine, who had nothing heroic about her, should prefer cricket, base-ball, riding on horseback, and running about the country at the age of fourteen, to books" to originate the national pastime of America. And while Germans would try to claim the earliest remembered mention of "Englischer Baseball" rules, the reality is that the earliest mention of the game that I love is "away flies the boy to the next post and then home with joy, which was written in 1744 by another British person, John Newberry, in his work A Little Pretty Pocket-Book.
And technically, any "American" would have been British at that time as there was no inclination in Tom Jefferson's mind to write a Declaration of Independence to become a new and great country like he would do in another 33 years, but in the that period, a set of years equivalent to the life of Christ, the seeds of my sport would continue to germinate and become something greater, something more American than the British games of rounders and cricket.
For here was an America that was clamoring to be without the unduly English influence, and here was a beautiful new world whose nooks and crannies looked to be discovered while it discovered and created all of its nuances and culture during an age that would truly exhibit the promise of Jeffersonian Idealism. What better way to accomplish it than to do it with baseball diamonds in the fields of the ever expanding towns and villages along the way?
What better way to do it than to build a baseball diamond in the Catskills, which could then be named after a Civil War hero? And still better than that, what could be better than to enshrine the greats of the game within its walls?
Perhaps this is what Harry Chadwick and Albert Spalding had in mind when they created the commission to unveil the hidden history of my game in 1905. Nevertheless, instead of truth, they inherited the memories of an old man’s recollections from a life that never happened. To close the case on history with the nostalgic reminiscing of a the aged and tattered version of a man traveling back to age five and hoping that he managed to somehow remember that he met a man who was actually 155 miles away from where he was supposed to be on that 1839 day, seems a little far-fetched in this objective world of ours, but in the early twentieth century, it was all business as normal, and according to many sources, that half-assed glancing over is the real history of the great game of baseball that we Americans, Latinos, Asians, Canadians, and the smattering of other countries that have been able to field a team for the World Baseball Classic have inherited.
And so it is another hundred years later, I and many others can wonder why Graves would have sent the story in. Perhaps, he was looking to create a brief sense of notoriety by gaining his fifteen minutes of fame from the Akron Beacon Journal. Perhaps, it offered a chance to temporarily escape from his demons. All we know is that in the time after this, Graves managed to gun down his wife in cold blood and spend the rest of his life in an asylum. Perhaps, this is the most fitting end for the first chapter of this literary tale that is the world of baseball.
Whatever the case, it’s the beginning of this story that cements baseball as America’s game. And even if it’s not America’s game in the same way that it was, it’s my game, and that’s why I’ll be typing this story and these biographical expressions of baseball from now until November 4th. Stick with me until the end of the season. It’s going to be a wild ride.
Really.
Know ye who read this there is more to my life than history records. Firstly, I did not tame the legendary buffalo, it was already tame, I merely shot it. Secondly, I have not always been known as Jebediah Springfield. Until 1796, I was Hans Sprungfeld, murderous pirate. And the half wits of this town will never learn the truth. ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. I write this confession so that my infamy will live on long after my body has succumbed to my infectious diphtheria.
And if that was how it all began, then it wasn’t much different than how the history of baseball began. Sure, there was no Lisa Simpson to ethically debate whether or not to tell the world about it, but eventually the truth would have to come out. In the meantime, baseball needed a founder, and it seemed logical that when Abner Graves “misremembered” having been privy to drawings from Abner Doubleday, the Army Captain became the creator of baseball, and so the historians who were attempting to create a history had found one or at least created a suitable alternative history.
Thus, in creating a truly American national game, this seemed to be much better than simply modifying the game of Rounders and taking from the British more than we wanted to in a day and age nearly a century after Rip Van Winkle had woken up to a new America twenty years after this fledgling country had swapped Georges, for to do that meant that we would be taking her daintyness, Jane Austen, and using her words from Northanger Abbey, "It was not very wonderful that Catherine, who had nothing heroic about her, should prefer cricket, base-ball, riding on horseback, and running about the country at the age of fourteen, to books" to originate the national pastime of America. And while Germans would try to claim the earliest remembered mention of "Englischer Baseball" rules, the reality is that the earliest mention of the game that I love is "away flies the boy to the next post and then home with joy, which was written in 1744 by another British person, John Newberry, in his work A Little Pretty Pocket-Book.
And technically, any "American" would have been British at that time as there was no inclination in Tom Jefferson's mind to write a Declaration of Independence to become a new and great country like he would do in another 33 years, but in the that period, a set of years equivalent to the life of Christ, the seeds of my sport would continue to germinate and become something greater, something more American than the British games of rounders and cricket.
For here was an America that was clamoring to be without the unduly English influence, and here was a beautiful new world whose nooks and crannies looked to be discovered while it discovered and created all of its nuances and culture during an age that would truly exhibit the promise of Jeffersonian Idealism. What better way to accomplish it than to do it with baseball diamonds in the fields of the ever expanding towns and villages along the way?
What better way to do it than to build a baseball diamond in the Catskills, which could then be named after a Civil War hero? And still better than that, what could be better than to enshrine the greats of the game within its walls?
Perhaps this is what Harry Chadwick and Albert Spalding had in mind when they created the commission to unveil the hidden history of my game in 1905. Nevertheless, instead of truth, they inherited the memories of an old man’s recollections from a life that never happened. To close the case on history with the nostalgic reminiscing of a the aged and tattered version of a man traveling back to age five and hoping that he managed to somehow remember that he met a man who was actually 155 miles away from where he was supposed to be on that 1839 day, seems a little far-fetched in this objective world of ours, but in the early twentieth century, it was all business as normal, and according to many sources, that half-assed glancing over is the real history of the great game of baseball that we Americans, Latinos, Asians, Canadians, and the smattering of other countries that have been able to field a team for the World Baseball Classic have inherited.
And so it is another hundred years later, I and many others can wonder why Graves would have sent the story in. Perhaps, he was looking to create a brief sense of notoriety by gaining his fifteen minutes of fame from the Akron Beacon Journal. Perhaps, it offered a chance to temporarily escape from his demons. All we know is that in the time after this, Graves managed to gun down his wife in cold blood and spend the rest of his life in an asylum. Perhaps, this is the most fitting end for the first chapter of this literary tale that is the world of baseball.
Whatever the case, it’s the beginning of this story that cements baseball as America’s game. And even if it’s not America’s game in the same way that it was, it’s my game, and that’s why I’ll be typing this story and these biographical expressions of baseball from now until November 4th. Stick with me until the end of the season. It’s going to be a wild ride.
Really.
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