(Note: This was originally posted on July 31, 2006. In light of recent developments regarding Major League Baseball, I decided to post this again, as it expresses my feelings perhaps even stronger now than when I originally wrote it. And seems to be just as pertinent. What follows is the entire body of the original post. Thank you for tolerating a bit of old prose.)
It was the definition of “love at first sight.” The first time I got involved with her, I was hooked. I loved everything about her. The excitement, the heartbreak, the little intricacies both on the surface and below it. I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to be around her all the time. She only came around for a few months every summer before the seasonal change in a small town in North Dakota would take her away for me, leaving other activities and challenges that would present themselves but never proved to be quite as interesting. It was an undying love that never got old or stale.
Things went incredibly well for a long time. I was in heaven. Until one summer day in ’81. I had feared it for several weeks, and my fear came to fruition. She left me. Baseball left me for the first time. I was crushed and no idea how to handle it. I was lost without her, but, luckily for me, she decided to come back a short time later. Obviously, I welcomed her back with open arms, and figured the relationship was going to be grand once again. It was a given it would last forever.
It was a great time for several years. Perhaps not as memorable as the 1970s, but great nonetheless. I got to see my Dodgers beat the hated Yanks later in ‘81, a fabulous year by the Tigers in ’84-a year that also featured one of the rare Cub playoff appearances. Naturally they had a 2-1 lead in the best of five versus the Padres and lost. In ’85, the first year that the league championship series went to seven games instead of five, I got to see the Royals come back from a 3-1 deficit. Not once, but twice. First against the hard-luck Toronto Blue Jays, then over the Cardinals in the World Series. Of course everyone remembers the Red Sox-Mets series in ’86, which was preceded by an incredible ALCS in which the Red Sox prevailed over the Angels after Boston was down to their last strike and trailed three games to one. (See also my earlier posts regarding Donnie Moore, Bill Buckner, etc., from 7/02, and "Do You Remember . . ." from 5/17).
The Twins, my first favorite team growing up as a child in North Dakota, broke through and won in 1987, which amazed us all. Of course ’88 brought Orel Herschiser’s record-breaking scoreless inning streak, and later Kirk Gibson’s home run (“I do not believe what I just saw!”) against the A’s. I remember it like it was yesterday.
She left me again in 1989. Naturally, as any man would with his first love, I again took her back. She got what she had coming to her that same year, though. Even though the A’s would rebound from their ’88 loss, sweeping the Giants in a series that was interrupted by an earthquake, it was about as anti-climactic as could be.
As the spring of 1990 arrived, I was over our last break-up. And to loosely paraphrase a well known quote, sports makes for strange bedfellows, which brings me to the Cincinnati Reds. They got off to a great start in ‘90, like the Tigers in ’84, and wound up sweeping the A’s in the World Series. Being a Dodger fan, I didn’t care too much for the Reds’ success, so I was rooting for the A’s in the Series, the same team I had rooted against the previous two years. Naturally, since the A’s had won handily the year before, I figured the Reds were doomed. And of course the Reds won four straight. Ah, her beauty shone through once again. I both loved her and hated her (not really) at the same time. Oh well. I guess you must take the bad with the good. But even though the Reds won the World Series, life was, and had been, very good. I had seen some of the best baseball of my life in the years following the ’81 strike. I couldn’t have been happier, all things considered. The relationship between she and I was absolutely wonderful. The Twins won again in ’91, followed by the Blue Jays winning back-to-back titles.
For some reason when I was a kid, maybe it was the cool uniforms and the outstanding batting helmet, or the underrated talent they had like Tim Raines and Andre Dawson in the early ‘80s, I had taken a serious liking to the Expos. Or maybe it was because I was one of the few baseball fans who got to see a lot of them. With the advent of cable TV in the late 1970s, we had a whopping 13 channels, including two Canadian channels. I became familiar with Raines and Dawson as well as Tim Wallach, Steve Rodgers, Gary Carter, and so many other Expos who didn’t get their due because fans just simply didn’t get to see them very often. Granted, the ’94 Expos didn’t have the same team I had watched growing up, but the soft spot for them was still there. I thought of how great it would be for the franchise and the city of Montreal to finally realize a championship. And how great it would be for major league baseball. And as a baseball fan first and foremost, how great it would be for me to see it. Or perhaps the Cleveland Indians or the Chicago White Sox, neither of whom had won a World Series since well before I was born. At any rate, the ’94 post-season would no doubt prove to be interesting, since MLB had broken each league into three divisions for that season, and with a wild-card team now qualifying, the playoffs would take on a whole new look. I anticipated it greatly, even though she told me she might not stick around to see it through. I didn't want to believe it. Couldn't believe it. But she ultimately left me again, one last time. Before I got to see the Expos, Indians, White Sox, or anybody else compete in that ’94 post-season. After much thought and reflection, I came to the conclusion that I was not going to go through the pain of her leaving any more. I told her not to bother coming back. Sure, she tried, but I held firm. With a stiff upper lip, I said no. No more.
Major League Baseball has brought a lot of problems on itself in recent history. A. Bartlett Giamatti, a true baseball man, was hired as commissioner in September of 1988. He died just under a year later. Giamatti wrote in “The Green Fields of the Mind,” regarding baseball:
“It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.”
The owners wanted Faye Vincent, another baseball man who replaced Bart Giamatti after his sudden death, out as commissioner in favor of one of their own. They got it. Under pressure-one might even say duress-Vincent resigned in September of 1992. (Looking back, many of the owners at the time wouldn’t have had a clue on how to deal with Bowie Kuhn, who made decisions, usually prudent ones, based on the ‘best interests of baseball,’ and was seldom questioned. But then, times change. Boy, do times change.) In the Selig regime we have had rampant steroid use, a tied All-Star Game, the ingenious decision that the All-Star game winner would decide home-field advantage in the World Series, (a poor attempt to make the All-Star game mean more than it should, and an even poorer attempt to divert the attention away from Selig’s major snafu to call the game after nine innings when it was tied), and a major labor roadblock during the 1994 season. Which, of course, meant that I didn’t get to see it to fruition. Not that the owners were the only ones at fault. There was and is more than enough blame to go around for the debacle of the 1994 Major League Baseball season. Both the owners and the players had serious delusions of grandeur in thinking they were bigger than the game. They weren’t. But they did prove they were too big for me.
Without looking it up, and aside from 2001, I couldn’t tell you who won the World Series in any given year since then, though I do know a lot was made of the Yankees playing the Mets one year. I did watch most of the 2001 Series, in part because of the emotions of 9/11 being fresh in everyone’s mind and in part because the local Diamondbacks were involved, and who knows if or when I’ll ever see that again. Other than that, I have not watched one major league game. I still watch baseball and love the game. But now it’s the Arizona State Sun Devils or an occasional minor league game. And every game I do watch, without fail, the song from “A League of Their Own” goes through my mind. This used to be my playground. Because for me, as a kid, it really was. And I can’t help but get choked up. The pain that she caused by leaving me three times is great. But nothing in comparison to the pain I would experience if I allowed it to happen again.
Thanks for taking the time to read.
“This Used To Be My Playground,” from the movie “A League Of Their Own.” Sung by Madonna. Written by Madonna and Shep Pettibone. Sire Records
Let's get something straight here, folks. For those who don't remember, Mr. Bud Selig was in command during the '94 strike, the subsuquent home run explosion of Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa in '98, and everything since. Blame Barry if you must, but the fact of the matter is that Selig and his cronies allowed all of this to go on. And in a fitting display, Selig had his hands in his pockets when Bonds hit #755. No one should be surprised by this. It's the same place his hands were when all of this started. Same s***, different year.
Glad you a-holes ran Faye Vincent out of office.
How does that egg taste, Bud? Get used to it. There's lots more where that came from.
My apologies for not getting this out sooner, but after my appearance on the show, I have been flooded with phone calls, emails, text messages, telegrams, cards and letters, and smoke signals. But then, I always said I wanted to be like Elvis. (Note to self: Be careful what you wish for.) Between a crash course on the Morse code and answering all of the requests for my appearance on future “round table” discussions, not to mention delusions of grandeur that keep invading my dreams and altering my normal sleep hours, I simply haven’t had the time or the energy to sit down and pound on the keyboard. But now that mykids are out of school and can help me plow through both of therequests But now that I’ve hired an agent to help me wade through it all, I have finally found the time. I even remember to turn the ringers off on my home and cell phones, so as not to be disturbed.
First off, let me say that I did catch enough of week two of the http://www.blogtalkradio.com/All_Star_Bloggers_ Show to know that Frank handles the show like a pro. Unless he’s got me completely fooled, (which isn’t all that difficult), it seems like he prepares very well and handles being at the mike like someone who’s done it many times.
I was anxious, excited, and admittedly a bit nervous as I called in to take my seat on the show. Going in, I had jotted down a few things I wanted to say right off the bat, i.e. mentioning demon’s blogsite, which I would then let him expound on, Southern Cindi’s situation and how we are all pulling for her, my appreciation to Fox Sports for giving us a forum in the first place, and how professional I thought Frank had been on the show, among other things. Naturally, I forgot all of those once the “On The Air” light lit up.
But I had been looking forward to inter-acting with Hoffman and demonicume. I have had many discussions with both of them via the blogsite. And while we didn’t agree all the time, the discussions were still healthy. I only hoped that, in previous blog discussions, I had imparted as much insight on both of them as they had imparted on me. And frankly, I was afraid I hadn’t, which added to my nervousness. Which would explain why, after the show, I thought of many things I wish I had said or things that I wish had come out differently. Perhaps I wasn’t alone among my fellow guests in feeling that way.
As the show progressed, I realized a couple things. And I think this is the definition of a paradox, but while I didn’t know if I was as well-spoken as either of them, nor was I sure that I had their ability to answer questions on the spur of the moment, I also realized that I could at least somewhat hold my own. Whether I did or not is up to the listeners, but I definitely did loosen up the longer the show went on. Yet there were still those moments when I thought of something to comment on or expound on based on what demon or Hoffman said, and just as quickly forgot it.
I appreciated greatly the callers to the show, as they definitely added something. And while my initial reaction would be to pine for a two hour show, I’m sure Frank has heard that request many times. I’m also sure that Frank has a life beyond this show, and that he’s already considered the two hour suggestion. As we all know, it’s not just strictly his call. So I think we should be thankful for what we’ve got. And be thankful to Frank for taking the time and the initiative in opening up the forum, as we should be to demonicume for his efforts on http://realsportsbloggers.com/, which have been arduous, to say the least.
I would love to do the show again, and maybe someday I’ll get the opportunity. Now that I’m a pro at it, (cough) perhaps there will come a day in the near future when the Fox Sports Bloggers who are interested in doing the show have all gotten their chance. I would not feel right stepping in again before that happens. But best of all, I learned a lot while doing the show. At least that’s what my kids agent tells me.
Don't forget to tune in this Wednesday at 10:00 P.M. eastern. And speaking of shows, The Dan has a pretty good one, too. His can be heard at http://www.chevradioam.com/ every weekday from 9 A.M to noon eastern.
Thanks for taking the time to read. And thanks to all who listened to the All Star Bloggers Show. Thanks again, Frank.
Bowie Kuhn, former Major League Baseball commissioner, passed away last Thursday at the age of 80. While he was no more or less popular than the commissioners who preceded him, the memories of his reign over the game leaves baseball fans of that era with a certain degree of emptiness and longing for the way the game of baseball was once revered. In retrospect, the fact that he ruled the game with the best interests of baseball in mind speaks volumes about how far the mighty game has fallen. I imagine the mention of his name means little or nothing to most fans under the age of 30, who subconsciously, through no fault of their own, sustain the idea that the inmates have always run the asylum.
Kuhn oversaw the big leagues from 1969-1984. To be fair, he was a participant in the advent of the designated hitter and occasional World Series night games, something he was criticized roundly for at the time. He also was at the helm during a period of expanding free agency and labor strife, which would seem minor by today’s standards, even considering the strike of 1981. Regardless of how much these factors were perceived to undermine the integrity of the game at the time, the amount of that blame should be laid at his feet is debatable, since it occurred during an era of increased player demands in every team sport. Many of those demands were justified, and some were not, as the irresistible force of the pendulum was swinging toward the side of the rank and file after decades of the supreme power of the owners possessed, as I mentioned, in every pro sport.
On the other hand, Kuhn nevertheless possessed enough power to suspend owners George Steinbrenner, Charles Finley, and Ted Turner, for what he perceived as transgressions that were not in the best interests of baseball. At the funeral, former Detroit Tigers’ owner Tom Monaghan said, “Bowie would stand up to these owners when he thought they were attacking the integrity of baseball." That is a far cry from the state of today’s game. But when Bowie Kuhn was running “The Show,” you knew who the real boss was. If the current powers-that-be had stood up to the owners in the mid and late ‘90s, perhaps the entire issue of performance enhancing drugs and bloated statistics would not even be an issue. It is a Babe Ruth-sized dark cloud hanging over nearly every baseball discussion that involves numbers these days, and it could have been avoided. But that’s a subject for another day. Or a day that’s already passed, since that discussion has been broached on many occasions.
Stephen Kuhn, Bowie’s son, said that his father had an encyclopedic knowledge of baseball. Isn’t that what baseball fans, in an ideal world, would want, perhaps even crave or expect, from one who is running the sport?
As I get a little older and a little more removed from the great game that used to be my playground, there are certain unwanted and unwelcomed milestones that appear without warning in my rear view mirror. In the years since I have distanced myself from the game, some of the players I grew up watching and reading about are no longer with us, and it hurts like hell. The numbers of links to my childhood love of baseball are shrinking. The latest of those to leave us is Bowie Kuhn. You’re not in the Hall of Fame, Bowie, but in the best interests of baseball, you get my vote.
(This was originally posted on July 21, 2006. I wish it had happened.)
Earlier this week, 94-year old Buck O'Neill drew a walk in the top of the first inning in a minor league game. Granted, it was intentional, but while standing at the plate he still showed he could swing the bat a little. He actually jogged part of the way to first base. He was traded shortly thereafter, during the same game, to the opponent and made a plate appearance for them as well. Knowing he was a star in the #### Leagues in the 1940s, and knowing that 17 other players from the #### Leagues and pre-#### League era made it into the Hall of Fame this year while he didn't doesn't sit very well with me, to be perfectly honest. Based on his career alone and the goosebumps I felt while watching the video of his first at-bat, I say put him in Cooperstown.
Okay, some of you aren't convinced yet. I could list his stats here, but Buck O'Neill and his legacy are about so much more than that, and listing stats for a man like him would almost be demeaning. He deserves to be in. A local radio station here in Phoenix (www.xtra910.com) has a couple of guys in the afternoon, Mark Asher and John Gambodoro, who regularly interview legends of sports. Players who played in the 40s, 50s, and 60s. They had Buck on several months ago. I listened to it on the way home and was mesmerized the whole time. He kept mentioning how lucky he was to have been able to play the game that he loves. No mention of the certain injustices he faced by being a #### baseball player in 1940s America. Not one. Just one great baseball story after another, after another. I had the whole thing going on; eyes welling up-in a happy way, chills from head to toe, and a very vivid rememberance of why I used to be so in love with the game of baseball. I almost had to pull over to assure that I wouldn't miss a word of it.
As I mentioned earlier, Buck O'Neill is now 94 years old. If I had my way, he'd be around forever, so I could meet him one day. I can't think of any better way to spend a day than sipping iced tea and talking baseball with Mr. O'Neill. The reality is, however, that he will leave us eventually. And I feel safe in saying that I guarantee that he will be in the hall someday. Why not do it now. The ovation when he is announced at Cooperstown, and the subsequent speech, however short or long it may be, would be something any baseball fan will not soon forget.
Thanks for taking the time to read, and may God bless Buck O'Neill wherever you are.
I decided to watch some of the Yankees-Tigers game tonight. You see, my girlfriend was watching "The Nanny" or "Nanny 911," or “Nanny With An English Accent Living With A Severely Dysfunctional American Family,” or whatever the heck it's called. The last thing I want to see when I get home from work is a show about screaming kids, which is probably staged anyway. I'm convinced of that. I’m also convinced that sports are the only REAL reality show there is. Anyway, as I was watching a Kenny Rogers masterpiece, no, not the movie “The Gambler,” I started to think, as I always do, what made the game of baseball so great when I fell in love with it. And what could be done to bring ‘traditionalists’ like myself back to the game. Make it better for everyone, not just people like me. Go ahead and snicker at us traditionalists, if you want. Call us ‘old school,’ say the game has passed us by, say whatever you want. But baseball, at its core, is one game that hasn’t changed the rules much at all, at least on the field. The way it’s run leaves much to be desired, however. It wasn’t broke, but they tried to fix it anyway. Sure, MLB set an attendance record this year. So what. The NBA and NHL have done the same recently. That doesn’t mean the game itself is any better. But it could be. And I've got a few ideas..
So as I was watching, and enjoying the underdog Tigers have their way, I must add, I was mentally playing “Commish For A Day.” Okay, a week. Gotta have time to implement these new bylaws. Here’s what I would do, in a heartbeat:
1) Shorten the season. Not the number of games played. The length. With more playoff teams now than in the past, the season should end around mid-September, which would allow the World Series to start the second week of October or so, which would mean nicer weather for the fans. To accomplish this, I would . . .
2) Schedule more double headers. A double header today means one of two things-one of the games is a make-up for a rainout, or it’s one of those dreaded “day/night” double headers, for which the fan must pay twice in order to see each game. Abner Doubleday, Alexander Cartwright, or whoever invented the game must be spinning in their grave regarding this one. And Ernie Banks is crying somewhere. Let’s bring back the terms ‘twin bill.’ ‘Twi-night.’ ‘Nightcap.’ In the 60s, there were double headers nearly every Sunday, and always on holidays. Lou Gehrig’s famous ‘Luckiest Man on the Face of the Earth’ speech was delivered between games of a double header. Ted Williams could have sat out the second game of a double header on the final day of the ’41 season and protected his (rounded up) .400 average. He didn’t, and finished 6 for 8 on the day, with a .406 average. Guess that’s why they called him ‘Teddy Ballgame.’ I would also make it mandatory for each team to schedule a double header on opening day and the last day of the season. For a one-game fee.
3) Eliminate “batting glove maintenance” between pitches. Too many hitters step out of the box and re-fasten their batting gloves between every pitch. This must stop. If it doesn’t, outlaw batting gloves. That’ll fix their ####.
4) Any batter hit by a pitch gets two bases, not one. This would eliminate a lot of intentional hit batsmen. Sometimes it’s necessary, I get that. But teams would have to pick their spots. Which would mean more strategy for the manager to deal with. Not a bad thing.
5) No game will start later than 7:15 local time. This could be a deciding factor in whether parents take their kids to a ballgame. If the kids don’t get into the game, where’s the future of baseball?
6) Ban the DH. When I was a kid and I first heard of this ‘new rule,’ I was incredulous. “You mean there is going to be a guy who only hits? He doesn’t play a position?” To this day, I don’t know many rules in any sport that make less sense.
7) Let’s have some World Series day games, even if only on the weekend. Go get a haircut. Go get your oil changed. And watch the World Series. Walk by the store in the mall and watch it on TV while your significant other continues on to shop. We’ll make time, believe me. We’ll enjoy it like it used to be.
-Read, nor comment, on T.O. going back to Philly for this week's game.
-Read, comment, nor watch, any baseball playoffs, since I am a reformed baseball junkie. (Except an occasional glance at the Minnesota Twins, my childhood team.)
-Read, nor comment, on any steroid stories about Roger Clemens, Andy Pettite, or Andy Rooney, for that matter, since I don't care anymore.
-Read or say anything about the Arizona State or Arizona Cardinals football team, since I'm out of aspirin. When does the friggin' basketball season start????
-Say the word 'Manning.' That could be a tough one. Wish me luck.
Although I have heard all I want to regarding Barry Bonds in the past year, I couldn't help but mull over the ramifications of the latest chapter in the saga. As we are all aware of by now, Game Of Shadows authors Lance Williams and Mark Fainaru-Wada were sentenced to serve some time behind bars for not revealing their sources. I applaud them. Any reporter worth his/her salt should do the same in order to maintain credibility. I also have a hard time condemning the source of the information for leaking it to the reporters, though common sense would say that it was not right to do so. But whether the judicial system is flawed or not for imposing this penalty, the source was at fault, or whether the authors handled their situation correctly is not the point of this writing. But it now appears obvious to me that Barry Bonds did in fact use steroids. Not that I needed any further proof in my own mind, but if the facts in Game Of Shadows were erroneous, I find it hard to believe the government would have pursued this matter as fervently as they did. In other words, if the information leaked was not, in fact, what was disclosed in the grand jury hearings and subsequently wound up in the book, the government would not have much of a case against the "leaker" or the authors, would they? It appears to me that the book was indeed factual and was based on actual grand jury testimony, which is no doubt what got the ire of the feds up when the information surfaced in the book. That, and the fact that perhaps they deemed this to be getting in the way of their "investigation," which as we all know is moving along at a record pace.
That sound you just heard was another egg breaking on the face of Major League Baseball. Can I get a towel, please? Make that lots of 'em!
I was going to call this Five Things I Hate About Sports, but hate is such a strong word, don't you think? Especially since I have become a kinder, gentler blogger. I then considered 'despise, ' loathe,' and 'things that drive me up a wall.' But I settled on ‘dislike’. That should be sufficient to get my point across. In reading this, you may find that some are ongoing and have probably been mentioned before in other forums. You’ll also likely find some that have gone through your mind at times. At any rate, just missing the cut for the list was people who disagree with me. Keep that in mind when making any comment you choose to make. I’m kidding, for those of you who don’t know me very well. I've actually been thinking about doing this post for some time now, and my list is much longer than what appears here. But it's getting late, and I've got an early tee time tomorrow, so I cut it short. Perhaps a part II will surface soon. Here goes, in no particular order.
1. The word “notoriety.” This is one that has bugged me for a long time. I heard it misused three times on the radio yesterday alone. As in “Matt Leinart achieved a lot of notoriety for his winning record at USC.” No, he didn’t. A lot of publicity, yes. A lot of acclaim, yes. But notoriety? No. Notoriety is something people like John Dillinger, Al Capone, and Nate Newton have achieved. (Geez, Ricko, you just can’t stay away from a shot at a Cowboy player, can you?) No, I can’t. Not when they’ve achieved so much NOTORIETY. This is one you can hear literally daily on sports broadcasts or telecasts.
2. “Madden 2007.” (et. al.) The video game was released for public sale in August of 2006. Can we at least play the ’06 season before we have ’07 games? This is not a criticism of John Madden, (that will come later), EA Sports or that particular version of the football game. Many other games do the same thing. I used Madden ’07 as an example because of its timeliness. Obviously, the 2007 version is based in no small part on the 2005 season, correct? Am I the only one who sees something wrong with this picture?
3. The Miami Heat, the Chicago White Sox, and the Pittsburgh Steelers are currently referred to as “World Champions.” Refresh my memory. Which ‘world championship’ did they win? Are the phrases ‘NBA Champs,’ ‘World Series Champs,” and ‘Super Bowl Champs’ not gaudy enough for us Americans?
4. John Madden. Forgive me for saying this, please, because I know a lot of fans like him. But if I were watching a football game for the first time, I would find Madden quite useful, with his circling of the center, since I wouldn’t know what a center was, and forward-back up the video of a key block. Over and over. Back and forth, back and forth, since as a novice fan, I probably missed it the first three times. I would probably also enjoy, were I a beginner, a 90 second dissertation on how a play action can fool the defense, but only if the running game is respected. Or an explanation on why the Patriots should sit on the ball with a minute left and play for overtime against the heavily favored Rams in Super Bowl 34. They didn’t, of course, and wound up winning the game. Go eat a turkey leg, John. And while doing so, ponder, ‘what would Brett Favre do?’
5. All the riffraff they insist on showing during a game these days. Get the garbage off the screen so I can see as much of the field/court/rink, etc. as possible. If I can’t figure out what’s going on, that’s my problem, and I probably shouldn’t be watching.
Someday, I’m going to have a Wall of Fame in my house. It’s going to need some space, so I’ve resigned myself to the fact that it probably won’t happen until the kids are gone, since I’ll need one of their bedrooms to do it. I’m going to feature sports figures that I’ve seen in my lifetime who have epitomized what I consider to be the best side of athletic competition. I could list the criteria, but I think the reputation of the subjects will do it for me. I’ll simply say this-Winners with class. And in the unfortunate circumstance that they did lose, still exuded class. At this time, I’m limiting it to figures I’ve seen in my lifetime, as I mentioned, since obviously I am more familiar with those figures. More than likely, by the time the kids leave home and I can have more space, I’ll also have added a few names.
When I get to embark on the assembly of that Wall of Fame, here are my “charter members:”
Dean Smith-North Carolina basketball coach for 36 years. Career record: 879-256. A winning percentage of .776. Eleven Final Four appearances. Twenty-three consecutive NCAA tournament appearances, a record. His list of star players is far too long to list here. But that’s not the best part. This is--Ninety-six percent of his players received their undergraduate degree. And of those, one in three received their graduate degrees. A former Tar Heel once said, “Coach Smith doesn’t prepare you for the next game or the next season. He prepares you for life.” One of the many basketball traditions Smith started was starting all his seniors in the last home game, which has become known over the years as ‘Senior Day.’ One year, when Smith had six seniors on the squad, he started them all, rather than sit one out. To him, the ensuing technical foul was a small price to pay.
James Worthy –Although he was a Tar Heel, this was not an easy one for me, since he went on to play for the enemy-the Los Angeles Lakers. I was a Celtic fan in the ‘80s, but anyone in their right mind would take "Big Game James" any day. To borrow an overused phrase, he was the consummate pro. Consistent, humble, productive, and a great teammate. And yes, a North Carolina grad under Coach Smith. The only reason Worthy isn’t thought of more highly is because of what I call the “Jim Rice Syndrome.” So incredibly consistent that you never noticed him until he was injured or in a slump. Which usually didn’t last long, due to his focus on fundamentals. Fundamentals will almost always pull you out of a slump. Just ask Dean Smith.
Larry Bird-No one ever did more with less, so to speak. Other than being 6’9”, which helped, no doubt, he was as fundamentally sound as they come. He had to be. His attributes? Quickness, speed, and leaping ability were not among them. He had one thing going for him. A work ethic unmatched. Free throw percentage, three-point percentage, rebounding, passing, steals, big plays, etc. All came from sweat and desire, and what is now referred to as ‘reps.’ Nothing else. In my mind, the greatest player ever, because he instantly made everyone on his team better.
Walter Payton-The backbone of the Chicago Bears for a lot of years. During the years when the Bears weren’t very good, and there were a lot of them, they had very little alternatives offensively. And Payton still produced, and produced big time, even though the defense knew what was coming. Until Emmitt Smith, Payton was the NFL’s all-time leading rusher. And he did so playing for a much poorer team most of his career. Payton would be the first player I would pick in a playground game. He did everything that was asked of him and more. Rest in peace, Sweetness.
Nolan Ryan-Throwing a fastball by major leaguers when you’re well into your 40s is a pretty good credential, for starters. But taking into consideration the fact that Ryan pitched seven no-hitters, two of them after his 40th birthday, is hard to believe. He had two in ’73 alone. Think about that for a minute. Ryan was an employee that any major league team would love to have today. Talk about a workhorse. In 1987, he led the NL in ERA (2.76), and had a record of 8-16. Guess he was keeping his team close in a lot of 2-1 and 1-0 losses. Ponder these numbers-and this is just scratching the surface: Nine seasons with 10 or more complete games. Roger Clemens, by comparison, has had five. Twelve complete game one-hitters. A record 383 strikeouts in that ’73 season, during which he started 41 games and completed 26 of them. Two hundred and twenty-two lifetime complete games. He averaged just under seven innings per start in his 773 career starts. He struck out more than 300 batters in a season six times. By comparison, Clemens’ high for a season is 292 in 1997.
Chris Evert/Jimmy Connors-I grouped these two together because of the similarities of their careers. Both had multiple rivals; Evert had Evonne Goolagong, Virginia Wade, Margaret Smith-Court and later Martina Navratilova to deal with. Connors had rivals like Stan Smith and John Newcombe early in his career, followed by Guillermo Vilas, Bjorn Borg and later John McEnroe. This signifies that both Evert and Connors were top-notch for a long time. Both won a lot of championships, and against many different opponents. Both won early in their careers and late. They were the biggest rivals of several different players at any given time in their careers. Always hunted, they still produced big time. And both always won graciously and faced the music when they lost. We could use a few more like them today.
Eddie Robinson-Grambling’s head football coach for 56 years. Not a misprint. Fifty-six years. Lifetime coaching record: 408-165-15, A .694 winning percentage. He produced over 200 future NFL players. He had to recruit against the bigger, more well known schools, which was just about everybody else, during his whole tenure at Grambling. As a result, he often had to take kids who were perhaps second tier talents and make them realize their full potential. Obviously, judging by his success, he was able to do that. Granted, he didn’t play against the biggest name opponents either, but if you measure one by how he fares against his peers, his legacy stands on its own merit. Incidentally, one of his former players, Doug Williams, succeeded him as coach in 1998. Williams was the MVP of Super Bowl XXII with the Washington Redskins.
Rod Carew-The sweetest ballplayer I knew growing up, when all of us are the most impressionable. As a kid, I only dreamed of being as cool as Rod. Sweet swing, speed enough to steal a base or regularly bunt for hits, and a very underrated fielder at second base. The best all-around second baseman in baseball for about 10 years running if you look at consistency. He was one of those players you had to watch to get the full appreciation. He seemed to move effortlessly on the base paths, yet got there in a hurry. Every time I see a player wearing number 29, I think of Rodney Cline Carew.
And there you have it. My version of first-ballot Wall of Famers. Thanks for taking the time to read.
"There's a break in the action. Let's send it down to Rick. What's going on on the field, Rick?"
"Well, we were supposed to go back to the studio for an update on scores and breaking sports news, but they are having technical difficulties, apparently. So let me tell you what happened to me recently. Went to a minor league ballgame the other day. When the lineups were announced, I learned that the first two hitters for the visiting team were brothers named Fowler. The starting pitcher for the home team was named Walker. I left.
"I went home and watched a different Triple-A game on TV where the pitcher was getting drilled. The manager, who was miked up, finally came out to pull him for a reliever and the pitcher said, 'Skip, I'm not tired at all.' The manager replied, 'No, but your outfielders sure are.'
"The pitcher, irate that he was coming out of the game, turned and fired the baseball with all his might into center field. The ball bounced off the wall and the center fielder, who was squatting down getting a breather, suddenly sprinted to where the ball was and threw a perfect strike to second base.
"About that time, my neighbor, who was at the minor league game but also left early, called and wanted to go to a bar at a nearby hotel. When we finally got there, we heard from the bartender that the the visiting team was staying there. After a few drinks, I had to use the men's room. As I was walking through the lobby to get to the restroom, I saw a man whom I recognized as the manager standing in the lobby. As his starting pitcher from earlier stumbled in the front door, the manager said in a booming, agitated voice, 'Drunk again!' The player replied, 'Me too!'
"Oh, I think the technical difficulties have been fixed. Let's send it back to the studio."
I've only been doing this for a couple months and don't have time to post as often as I'd like. Thanks to the idea by CarolynT a few days ago, and some good response by other respected bloggers-not that I am a respected blogger- - - never mind. I think you know what I'm trying to say. I've limited it to three, and here are my three best. I would like to think that since I don't get to post a lot due to time constraints, they fall under the 'quality over quantity' heading. I'll let you be the judge. Thanks to those of you who take the time to read.
It was the definition of “love at first sight.” The first time I got involved with her, I was hooked. I loved everything about her. The excitement, the heartbreak, the little intricacies both on the surface and below it. I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to be around her all the time. She only came around for a few months every summer before the seasonal change in a small town in North Dakota would take her away for me, leaving other activities and challenges that would present themselves but never proved to be quite as interesting. It was an undying love that never got old or stale.
Things went incredibly well for a long time. I was in heaven. Until one summer day in ’81. I had feared it for several weeks, and my fear came to fruition. She left me. Baseball left me for the first time. I was crushed and no idea how to handle it. I was lost without her, but, luckily for me, she decided to come back a short time later. Obviously, I welcomed her back with open arms, and figured the relationship was going to be grand once again. It was a given it would last forever.
It was a great time for several years. Perhaps not as memorable as the 1970s, but great nonetheless. I got to see my Dodgers beat the hated Yanks later in ‘81, a fabulous year by the Tigers in ’84-a year that also featured one of the rare Cub playoff appearances. Naturally they had a 2-1 lead in the best of five versus the Padres and lost. In ’85, the first year that the league championship series went to seven games instead of five, I got to see the Royals come back from a 3-1 deficit. Not once, but twice. First against the hard-luck Toronto Blue Jays, then over the Cardinals in the World Series. Of course everyone remembers the Red Sox-Mets series in ’86, which was preceded by an incredible ALCS in which the Red Sox prevailed over the Angels after Boston was down to their last strike and trailed three games to one. (See also my earlier posts regarding Donnie Moore, Bill Buckner, etc., from 7/02, and "Do You Remember . . ." from 5/17).
The Twins, my first favorite team growing up as a child in North Dakota, broke through and won in 1987, which amazed us all. Of course ’88 brought Orel Herschiser’s record-breaking scoreless inning streak, and later Kirk Gibson’s home run (“I do not believe what I just saw!”) against the A’s. I remember it like it was yesterday.
She left me again in 1989. Naturally, as any man would with his first love, I again took her back. She got what she had coming to her that same year, though. Even though the A’s would rebound from their ’88 loss, sweeping the Giants in a series that was interrupted by an earthquake, it was about as anti-climactic as could be.
As the spring of 1990 arrived, I was over our last break-up. And to loosely paraphrase a well known quote, sports makes for strange bedfellows, which brings me to the Cincinnati Reds. They got off to a great start in ‘90, like the Tigers in ’84, and wound up sweeping the A’s in the World Series. Being a Dodger fan, I didn’t care too much for the Reds’ success, so I was rooting for the A’s in the Series, the same team I had rooted against the previous two years. Naturally, since the A’s had won handily the year before, I figured the Reds were doomed. And of course the Reds won four straight. Ah, her beauty shone through once again. I both loved her and hated her (not really) at the same time. Oh well. I guess you must take the bad with the good. But even though the Reds won the World Series, life was, and had been, very good. I had seen some of the best baseball of my life in the years following the ’81 strike. I couldn’t have been happier, all things considered. The relationship between she and I was absolutely wonderful. The Twins won again in ’91, followed by the Blue Jays winning back-to-back titles.
For some reason when I was a kid, maybe it was the cool uniforms and the outstanding batting helmet, or the underrated talent they had like Tim Raines and Andre Dawson in the early ‘80s, I had taken a serious liking to the Expos. Or maybe it was because I was one of the few baseball fans who got to see a lot of them. With the advent of cable TV in the late 1970s, we had a whopping 13 channels, including two Canadian channels. I became familiar with Raines and Dawson as well as Tim Wallach, Steve Rodgers, Gary Carter, and so many other Expos who didn’t get their due because fans just simply didn’t get to see them very often. Granted, the ’94 Expos didn’t have the same team I had watched growing up, but the soft spot for them was still there. I thought of how great it would be for the franchise and the city of Montreal to finally realize a championship. And how great it would be for major league baseball. And as a baseball fan first and foremost, how great it would be for me to see it. Or perhaps the Cleveland Indians or the Chicago White Sox, neither of whom had won a World Series since well before I was born. At any rate, the ’94 post-season would no doubt prove to be interesting, since MLB had broken each league into three divisions for that season, and with a wild-card team now qualifying, the playoffs would take on a whole new look. I anticipated it greatly, even though she told me she might not stick around to see it through. I didn't want to believe it. Couldn't believe it. But she ultimately left me again, one last time. Before I got to see the Expos, Indians, White Sox, or anybody else compete in that ’94 post-season. After much thought and reflection, I came to the conclusion that I was not going to go through the pain of her leaving any more. I told her not to bother coming back. Sure, she tried, but I held firm. With a stiff upper lip, I said no. No more.
Major League Baseball has brought a lot of problems on itself in recent history. A. Bartlett Giamatti, a true baseball man, was hired as commissioner in September of 1988. He died just under a year later. Giamatti wrote in “The Green Fields of the Mind,” regarding baseball:
“It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.”
The owners wanted Faye Vincent, another baseball man who replaced Bart Giamatti after his sudden death, out as commissioner in favor of one of their own. They got it. Under pressure-one might even say duress-Vincent resigned in September of 1992. (Looking back, many of the owners at the time wouldn’t have had a clue on how to deal with Bowie Kuhn, who made decisions, usually prudent ones, based on the ‘best interests of baseball,’ and was seldom questioned. But then, times change. Boy, do times change.) In the Selig regime we have had rampant steroid use, a tied All-Star Game, the ingenious decision that the All-Star game winner would decide home-field advantage in the World Series, (a poor attempt to make the All-Star game mean more than it should, and an even poorer attempt to divert the attention away from Selig’s major snafu to call the game after nine innings when it was tied), and a major labor roadblock during the 1994 season. Which, of course, meant that I didn’t get to see it to fruition. Not that the owners were the only ones at fault. There was and is more than enough blame to go around for the debacle of the 1994 Major League Baseball season. Both the owners and the players had serious delusions of grandeur in thinking they were bigger than the game. They weren’t. But they did prove they were too big for me.
Without looking it up, and aside from 2001, I couldn’t tell you who won the World Series in any given year since then, though I do know a lot was made of the Yankees playing the Mets one year. I did watch most of the 2001 Series, in part because of the emotions of 9/11 being fresh in everyone’s mind and in part because the local Diamondbacks were involved, and who knows if or when I’ll ever see that again. Other than that, I have not watched one major league game. I still watch baseball and love the game. But now it’s the Arizona State Sun Devils or an occasional minor league game. And every game I do watch, without fail, the song from “A League of Their Own” goes through my mind. This used to be my playground. Because for me, as a kid, it really was. And I can’t help but get choked up. The pain that she caused by leaving me three times is great. But nothing in comparison to the pain I would experience if I allowed it to happen again.
Thanks for taking the time to read.
“This Used To Be My Playground,” from the movie “A League Of Their Own.” Sung by Madonna. Written by Madonna and Shep Pettibone. Sire Records.
Earlier this week, 94-year old Buck O'Neill drew a walk in the top of the first inning in a minor league game. Granted, it was intentional, but while standing at the plate he still showed he could swing the bat a little. He actually jogged part of the way to first base. He was traded shortly thereafter, during the same game, to the opponent and made a plate appearance for them as well. Knowing he was a star in the #### Leagues in the 1940s, and knowing that 17 other players from the #### Leagues and pre-#### League era made it into the Hall of Fame this year while he didn't doesn't sit very well with me, to be perfectly honest. Based on his career alone and the goosebumps I felt while watching the video of his first at-bat, I say put him in Cooperstown.
Okay, some of you aren't convinced yet. I could list his stats here, but Buck O'Neill and his legacy are about so much more than that, and listing stats for a man like him would almost be demeaning. He deserves to be in. A local radio station here in Phoenix (www.xtra910.com) has a couple of guys in the afternoon, Mark Asher and John Gambodoro, who regularly interview legends of sports. Players who played in the 40s, 50s, and 60s. They had Buck on several months ago. I listened to it on the way home and was mesmerized the whole time. He kept mentioning how lucky he was to have been able to play the game that he loves. No mention of the certain injustices he faced by being a #### baseball player in 1940s America. Not one. Just one great baseball story after another, after another. I had the whole thing going on; eyes welling up-in a happy way, chills from head to toe, and a very vivid rememberance of why I used to be so in love with the game of baseball. I almost had to pull over to assure that I wouldn't miss a word of it.
As I mentioned earlier, Buck O'Neill is now 94 years old. If I had my way, he'd be around forever, so I could meet him one day. I can't think of any better way to spend a day than sipping iced tea and talking baseball with Mr. O'Neill. The reality is, however, that he will leave us eventually. And I feel safe in saying that I guarantee that he will be in the hall someday. Why not do it now. The ovation when he is announced at Cooperstown, and the subsequent speech, however short or long it may be, would be something any baseball fan will not soon forget.
Thanks for taking the time to read, and may God bless Buck O'Neill wherever you are.
The Boston Red Sox recently held a reunion of their ’86 World Series team during a series with the Mets. Bill Buckner declined the invitation to return. And that’s a shame. My gut feeling is that Buckner would have been well received by the Red Sox faithful, especially since they have won a World Series in the meantime. But Buckner was not taking any chances. He’d been reminded far too many times already about his error in Game 6 of the ’86 World Series that he didn’t want to tempt the fact that anyone would bring it up if he visited Fenway for the reunion. Unfortunately, because we take our sports in America very seriously, he was probably right.
Donnie Moore, Doug Brien, Doug Sanders, Scott Norwood, and Buckner, to name a few. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when reading these names? More than likely, it’s how each was on the cusp of victory, a huge victory, only to have a cruel and unexpected twist of fate intervene and forever mark them as being associated with a loss. A big loss. Each had admirable, in some cases stellar, careers, but each will unfortunately be remembered for the one moment in the spotlight in which glory escaped them. Avoided them like the plague. Spit in their faces, even. Each is remembered unfairly for the one play, the one moment, which erased years of guts, glory, and success. Sports have a way of working themselves into the very core of our soul, and becoming, in a figurative sense, life and death for many of us. Sometimes, for those involved, it is.
Donnie Moore with pitching coach Rene Lacheman after the ’86 ALCS loss.
Donnie Moore was one of the best closers in baseball in the mid '80s, but he was never the same after giving up a home run to Dave Henderson in Game 5 of the AL Championship Series in 1986. Moore’s team, the California Angels, were one strike away at the time from getting to their first World Series. It’s not remembered that Moore was playing hurt at the time. He was still the Angels’ best option, which is a testament to his talent. And even though the Angels still had two games with a chance to advance after the loss, neither was close. And Moore was never allowed to get over his single-pitch mistake. (In an incredible precursor of the fate that was to follow, Bill Buckner had a base hit to ignite the rally in the ninth inning of Game 5). Any highlights or remembrance of that ’86 ALCS focuses on Henderson’s homer off Moore, and makes little mention of the fact that the Angels still had two games after that to win the pennant. They didn’t, and Moore was vilified. He pitched two more relatively ineffective years for the Angels before being released. His battles with depression finally caught up with him on July 1
