STOCKING STUFFERS

The Yankees got their man today, inking Hideki “Godzilla” Matsui to a 3-year deal reportedly worth $21 million according to the AP. With Nick Johnson on the block, looks like Popeye Zimmer is first in line to win the “Godzookie” look-a-like contest.
At the very least Jeff Kent adds a healthy dose of shit-kicker charm to the Astros, if ornery-old Jimy Williams being the second-coming of Dick Williams left ass cheek wasn’t enough. Jeff Kent looks like one of those sturdy, good-looking California state troopers; aloof, and conceited in a rigid and humorless way. His sour disposition should be a good compliment to the incredibly likable trio of stars, Berkman, Bagwell and Biggio. So should his Hall of Fame stick. Especially when he’s going to be hitting in that horseshit ballpark. Kent’s addition to the Astros should at least garentee one bench clearing brawl against the Cardinals next summer.

Choosing between Rocket Clemens and Bartolo Colon is like asking yourself what cut of steak you are going to order at Peter Lugers. Which ever you choose, it amounts to a whole lot of meat. The big cut; with all the fat still on it. And just when it looked like these two were the only slabs left, Cuban defector Jose Contrera’s announced his free-agency yesterday, adding ox-tail to the menu. The Post reported this morning that Grege Maddux will accept salary arbitration from Atlanta later today, which may free up either Kevin Millwood or the recently aquired Russ Ortiz (Atlanta needs a first baseman; Nick Johnson, this is your life). More meat. Mmmm, more meat.

If the Yankees sign Clemens we will get the opportunity to enjoy a great pitcher reach one of the great career milestones. The problem is: just how many people are going to be able to enjoy watching Clemens do it? The Red Sox fans who saw him give their home nine the best years of his life; Toronto fans, where Clemens won two straight Cy Youngs before he bolted to the Yanks; or the Yankee fans who have seen him trudge through his four seasons in New York, collecting a 6th Cy Young and two World Series rings along the way?

I don’t mean to suggest that Clemens doesn’t have his supporters. There is a lot to admire about his game, even more about his career. But I would venture to guess that there hasn’t been a pitcher gunning for 300 who was more unpopular; who has been cast as the heavy, the villan. It’s funny but I think before Clemens came to the Yankees, they didn’t have a player that even a reasonable-minded Yankee-hater could really sink their teeth into. Rocket changed all of that. Clemens will be most remembered in pinstripes for his flair-ups with Mike Piazza, for being the guy that gave people an excuse to hate the Yankees (as if people need an excuse), rather than the Cy Young or the two rings. (I may remember him most as the man who made me dislike Andy Pettitte.)

If the Yankees sign Colon it’s cause George just got so hungry for that Filet Mignon that he didn’t care what he had to give up for that fat steak, he’s just damn sure he’s going to eat steak. Cause he’s fat ass George and he loves a fat ass steak. Mike Lupica ostensibly makes the same point in his column in today’s Daily News.

Colon can talk the talk these days, because he’s in the prime of his career and his stuff is nasty. For the past four winters, my friend Javier and I ask each other, “Is this the year that Colon is going to decide to stop putzing around and win the Cy Young?” He wasn’t good enough to win it last season, but it was his best effort to date. There is every reason for him to be grinning these days. He’s like Vin Diesel (with more than a touch of Ernest Borgnine), sitting back, enjoying all the fuss being made over him I’m sure.

The most interesting character in the Expos drama of course is general manager Omar Minaya. He’s been in the news constantly for two weeks and has yet to make a move, with the Yankees, Red Sox or anyone else. Minaya, a street-savvy, and engaging New Yorker has taken the only gm job ever offered to him, and run with it brilliantly. Minaya’s first year on the job should keep him employed in the field for some years to come regardless of what goes down with the Expos. He took an opportunity and was aggressive and creative from the get go. Minaya sought out the sport in the challenge, and comes across as a very confident operator. Certainly able to hold his own between his bosses at MLB, and his contemporaries like Billy Beane, Brain Cashman, Phillips, Riccardi and the like. He’s straight-forward, and unpretentious in his briefings with the press, but accesible, enthusiastic, and funny. Minaya has the energy of a jock, not a suit, and that’s refreshing. Not a dumb jock, but a competitor, a gamer.

Steve Phillips is like a Slick Willie version of Gabe Paul. No matter what happens on his watch, his greatest talent may be keeping a job. Of course Gabe Paul also kept the Indians in Cleveland, and he did help George Steinbrenner build (and buy) a championship in New York, but his primary achievement was how many owners he convinced to keep him employed. Phillips won’t have the shelf life that Gabe Paul did, but he does appear to have lasted longer than could be expected in Queens. Whether this is due to Fred Wilpon’s poor judgement or Phillip’s ability to create a positive impression (or a combination of the two), hardly matters.

Phillips is in the middle of another annual winter shopping spree. Ordonez is gone and so is Alfonzo. The union boys are in: veteran lefties Tom Glavine and Mike Stanton. But after practically being awarded Executive of the Year last winter, it’s hard to get too excited about anything the Mets will do on paper this off season. Phillips is in the position to win now, so there is little regard for the future. He probably won’t be around that long anyhow.

Phillips may look good getting rid of problems getting rid of mistakes (Ordonez, Burnitz, Cedeno), but they are his mistakes in the first place. My cousin Gabe has been depressed by all the Mets dealings in the free agent wilderness. (It’s nothing that signing Cliff Floyd wouldn’t help cure.) Where is the identity of this team? Where is the connective-tissue? Who is around from year to year to identify with? Johnny Franco? Oy veh.

“I wonder how long it’s going to take me to not instinctively root against Glavine when I see him on sportscenter,” Gabe told me over the phone. “I don’t only want players that I heavily associate with another team.”

Like who? Jack Clark, Danny Tartabull, and Don Baylor. It’s funny that the Yankees have as much stability with a core group of players as any team in the majors, because they’ve always fervently embraced free agency.

Here is part of an e-mail I got from cousin Gabe the other day

The Braves are going to end up with a rotation that
includes Mike Hampton, Kevin Millwood, Russ Ortiz, and
Paul Byrd. For those four starters, the Braves will
pay less than $10 million in 2003. If Maddux accepts
arbitration, they have the best rotation in the NL.
If Maddux departs, they might still have the best
rotation in the NL, depending on where Maddux winds
up. It’s brilliant how they assessed Maddux and
Glavine and said, You know what? We’re not going to
blow the bank on these two. Let’s figure out some
other way to have great pitching. Fuck that era.
It’s time for this era.

Meanwhile, the Mets live off of others’ dregs. Here’s
my imaginary line-up / roster du jour for 2003:

Roger Cedeno LF
Desi Relaford 2B
Mike Piazza C
Carlos Beltran CF
Mo Vaughn 1B
Joe Randa 3B
Tsyoshi Shinjo CF
Jose Reyes SS

Bench: Joe McEwing, Lenny Harris, Carlos Baerga, Brent
Mayne, Raul Gonzolez, Esix Snead

Starters: GLavine, Leiter, Trachsel, Neagle, Heilman
Bullpen: Benitez, Weathers, G. Roberts, Jaime Cerda,
Stanton, Kane Davis

Harris, Relaford, Shinjo, AND Baerga??? Yup. Can you
sense my longing for continuity? I can describe how
we got all the new guys, if need be–I’ve worked out
all the transactions. If I really had the energy, I’d
figure out a way to unload Benitez…

The Mets could field a fun team next year, and even a succesful one, but one thing for sure is once again, they will be different. Especially for the casual fan, it’s dizzying to keep up with all the changes.

Mike Stanton, bare-armed and grinning, is splashed across the back page of the Post today, in his newly-minted Mets uniform, tossing a baseball to himself. The headline reads “I’D PLUNK CLEMENS”. After playing for Atlanta and the Yanks, Stanton shows he’s got a little Sal Maglie in him, jumping across town to don the Mets home pinstripes. He may not look like the Barber, but Stanton does look as if he just got out of the barber’s chair. If he gets the chance to plunk Clemens, he’ll get to prove just how much like Maglie he can be.

Phillies or White Owls? Colon’s Blunt Advice

There is an amusing bit in Jack Curry’s column today in New York Times today concerning Bartolo Colon’s state of mind, as trade rumors continue to swirl around the Expos’ 29-year old stud hurler.

“Colon was told that the Yankees and the Red Sox were among the teams that rejected proposals from the Expos for financial reasons. When Colon was informed that the Yankees were trying to decide whether they should sign the free agent Roger Clemens or obtain Colon for three players and cash, he offered his blunt assessment of that choice.

‘You got to take Bartolo,’ Colon said. ‘You got to take Bartolo.'”

Ah, the Emis according to Bartolo.

As in roll that shit, light that shit, smoke it, huh Gordo?

Hall of Fame Watch

JOE, HO, HO

Joe Torre is on the list of 26 former ballplayers who are up for Hall of Fame consideration by the newly revamped Veterans Committee (Rob Neyer has a good article regarding the recent changes in his most recent column). In his book, “Whatever Happened to the Hall of Fame” Bill James listed Joe Torre as one of the two most qualified catchers who are not in the Hall (Ted Simmons was the other). But even if Torre is not elected by the Veterans Committee for his accomplishments as a player, there is little doubt that his success as a manager will eventually place him in Cooperstown.

The following excerpt is from Pat Jordan’s acutely observed memoir, “A False Spring”. While it doesn’t necessarily prove that Torre should be in the Hall of Fame, it does provide a revealing portrait of a young man at the start of what has turned out to be quite an impressive baseball career.

It is spring training, 1960 and Pat Jordan is struggling to make an impression as a pitcher in the Milwaukee Braves organization…

‘I was determined to impress…There was no task too menial or unpleasant (carrying the bats to and from the diamond) for which I did not volunteer. And when I suffered a minor yet painful sore arm, I told no one. I knew it wasn’t serious, was just a spring training sore arm that would heal with a few day’s rest, and so, when Billy asked for a batting practice pitcer one day, I couldn’t resist offering myself. My arm was so sore my pitches barely reached the plate. The batters, thrown off their timing by my lobs, swung so far ahead as to hit them foul or miss them entirely. They complained to my catcther, Joe Torre. He fired the ball back to me and said, “Put something on the damn ball!”

“Mind your own business,” I replied. I lobbed another pitch, and the batter swung and missed. He said something to Torre. Joe stepped in front of the plate. He held the ball up in front of his eyes and said, “If you can’t put something on this,” and then he fired it back to me, “get the hell off the mound.” He turned around and I threw the ball at the back of his head. I missed and the ball bounced off the screen. Joe flung down his glove and his mask and started toward me. We’d certainly have come to blows if [skipper] Billy Smith had not come between us. With a hand against each of our chests, he told us to cool off, forget it. I remember being suprised by the look on Billy’s face as he separated us. His eyes were wide and there was a tremor in his voice.

I was glad Billy stopped us. I had no desire to fight Joe Torre, who at 19 already had the looks and attitude of a 30-year old veteran. Joe was fat then, over 220 pounds, and his unbelievably dark skin and black brows were frightening. He looked like a fierce Bedouin tribesman whose distrust for everything could be read in the shifting whites of his eyes. Like myself, he too, was earnest that spring. Joe’s earnestness was genuine, however, not recently picked off the rack like mine. He was unwavering in his dedication to baseball. He tolerated no lapses of desire or effort from either himself or his teammates. Billy Smith called him a “hard-nosed sunuvabitch.” It was a term of endearment. Joe viewed my feeble lobs during batting practice as “unprofessional.” He was right. I should have either confessed a sore arm and not pitched, or else ignored the pain and thrown at good speed. My weak compromise hurt my teammates.

Yet this was Torre’s first spring training, too. He had acquired his professionalism from his brother Frank, then a star with Milwaukee; from his desire to prove he expected no favors from the Braves because of Frank of his own $30,000 bonus; from his Roman Catholic, Italian working-class upbringing in Brooklyn; and from his own nature. At 19 Joe was simply a mature and serious youth. He took everythying seriously—his baseball, his family, his religion, his brother’s career and even the Playboy bunny he would one day marry.

The night of our dispute in Waycross, I lay on my cot thinking that Billy Smith would admire for standing up to Joe. At that moment the scouts and managers and executives were assembling to pick tomorrow’s teams. I could almost hear Billy’s high voice as he picked me: “That’s my kinda player. Won’t take shit from no one.” But the following morning when I passed the bulletin board my name was under that of Travis Jackson, managaer of Davenport of the Class D Midwest League. Later that afternoon, I discovereed that what Billy Smith had actually said the night before was, “I won’t have no red-ass guinea on my club.” Surely he meant Torre, I thought. But his name was still under Billy’s, while mine remained under Travis’s for the rest of the spring. Why? How had Billy decided that I was the red-ass geinea?’

WHAT’S ALL THE HUB BUB, BUB?

Now that the winter meetings have concluded and everyone has left Nashville, I’m at a bit of a loss as to what to write because the Yankees haven’t done dick. This may not be the worst thing that could have happened, especially considering how much Omar Minaya was trying to pry out of B.Cashman for either Bartolo Colon or Javey Vasquez; still, when the biggest local news is the signing of Todd Zeile, how thrilled can a Yankee fan be?

I have nothing against Todd Zeile, he seems like an intelligent, well-spoken, and friendly guy. Joe Torre likes him, and he’s one of Robin Ventura’s best friends. If the Yanks want him to be the new Luis Sojo, I suppose it’s a cosmetic upgrade. I personally prefer a super scrub to be fatter, and uglier (Ron Commer fit the bill nicely), but what can you do? If the Bombers expect much more out of Zeile, then they could be asking for trouble. Slow trouble.

As for Stanton inking a deal with the Mets, I have to admit it stuck in my craw a wee bit. A productive Yankee going to the Mets? Now I know how the other half feels. To be honest, I’d almost rather see Stanton on the Red Sox, cause then I could at least cry “Benedict Arnold” and root against him. What do I care about the Mets? All I know is a 3-year $9 million deal was not too much to ask. If the Yanks were somehow convinced he wasn’t worth it, I’m glad the Mets were sensible enough to pony up the dough.

Makes you wonder how Boss George will react this summer when Chris Hammond’s hits a rough patch. You suppose his “baseball people” will feel some heat then?

It’s hard to cry for the Yanks though. I’m sure if the bullpen stinks it up enough, George will order reinforcements, regardless of the expense.

Speaking of the Sox, the sabermetric-minded men in the front office made their first significant moves, trading for second baseman Todd Walker, and first baseman/dh Jeremy Giambi. Both may weaken the Sox defensively, but not enough to override their offensive value. While it may be easy to say that the Sox obtained the wrong Giambi, I don’t see how he won’t help them. Can’t you see Jeremy beating the Yankees in several games next season, adding some spice to the rivalry? He could be to the Sox what Scott Speizio was to the Angels last year, minus the leather.

I also like Alfonzo signing with the Giants. This may be childish, but on some level, I still respond to trades based on how cool I think a player will look in a given uniform. I’ve always felt that if El Duque didn’t pitch for the Yanks, he’d look great in a San Francisco uniform (maybe it’s the Maricial thing). If it took the Giants to keep Fonzie out of Boston, I’m happy for that and that alone. Still, he’s got enough winter fat on him to handle the chill by the bay.

But with Fonzie gone, and Rey Rey Ordonez shipped off to Sweet Lou’s fantasy camp in Tampa, the Mets are without a left side of the infield. It will be interesting to see how much damage Steve Phillips will be able to undo; there are rumors involving Jeromy Burnitz and Roger Cedeno, though it’s tough to think that anyone would give the Mets Jack-Boil-Scratch for wack-ass Cedeno. Still, moving Rey was an inevitability, even if they Mets essentially had to pick up the tab. (It was Phillips who was deluded enough to pay a chicken shit player like Ordonez over $6 million per in the first place.)

The beauty part is the Mets couldn’t initially find Ordonez to tell him about the trade. He was over at El Duque’s crib, playing dominoes.
Meanwhile, the Braves continue to focus on pitching. On Tuesday, Atlanta traded lefty Damian Moss and a minor-leaguer to the Giants for their number 1 starter Russ Ortiz; later, they announced the signing of free agent right-hander Paul Byrd. Looks like more fun for Leo Mazzone, and the same old story for the rest of the division.

GONE, BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

Before it slips my mind, I just wanted to take a moment to note how much I’ll miss watching Edgardo Alfonzo play every day for the Mets. Like Bernie Williams across town, Alfonzo has been the quintessential quiet professional (minus the flakiness), on the field and in the clubhouse. While I was busy wringing my hands over the Yankees losing secondary players like Mike Stanton and Ramiro Mendoza, Mets fans had to come to grips with losing a considerably more valuable player in Alfonzo. (Have the Mets had a better clutch hitter since Mex Hernandez?) While the press in New York has taken the Mets to task for letting Fonzie slip away, he certainly didn’t help his cause asking for a multi-year deal at around $8-9 million per.

Still, for a team that has experienced as much turnover as the Mets have in recent years, it is a shame to lose Alfonzo, a stable, humble, and reliable presence (who has been with the team since 1995). There is a calm, far-away look in Alfonzo’s eyes which suggests he would have been a perfect fit in one of Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns. I always thought he should have one of those little cigars tucked in the side of his mouth at all times.

Word is that Oakland’s general manager Billy Beane likes Fonzie plenty. No suprise there. He’s not alone. Fonzie will have to settle for less money if he winds up in Oakland (and I don’t know how realistic that is), but that sure would be an interesting move.

One question: no matter where Fonzie signs, will he still keep his home in Whitestone, Queens?

I AIN’T GOT NUTHIN FOR YOU MAN

I suppose I should have something to say about the latest developments in Pete Rose’s bid for reinstatement, but alas, I don’t. I don’t have the will power, or the stomach for it. I find the entire situation agonizingly depressing, not to mention one big, fat bore. However, I am decidedly in the minority here. For complete and exhausitve coverage, look no further than Only Baseball Matters.

‘Nuff said.

HALL OF FAME

It’s about that time of year again. Time to consider the latest group of candidates for the Hall of Fame. This is an undeniable pleasure for baseball fans, one that allows us to rehash old arguments, make new discoveries, and perhaps even, drawn some new conclusions (however unlikely that sounds.). Both Tim Kurkjian and Rob Neyer at ESPN have weighed in on this year’s crop, which is highlighted by Eddie Murray and Ryne Sandburg, and there is a wonderfully detailed breakdown of the entire group on Aaron’s blog.

Eddie Murray seems like an obvious selection to me, while Sandburg appears to have all the credentials too. I have less of an absolute feeling about Sandburg though I don’t know what to attribute that to. It’s funny how some players seem greater as time passes, while others tend to fade a bit. Although I grew up in New York, there were several years in the mid-1980’s when WGN was available on local cable. So I watched Sandburg a good deal, and remember him as the outstanding player on the Cubbies (I don’t mean this as a diss either), a true team leader. I don’t mean to suggest that I don’t think Ryno should be elected to the Hall; there is ample evidence which supports him a viable pick (check out Bob Allen’s usefual analysis over at Baseball Primer ).

Here are my cousin Gabe’s thoughtful musings:

For me, Ryne Sandberg is inextricably linked with
Keith Hernandez. In a lot of ways, I consider 1984 to
be my first year as a functional baseball fan. I was
ten, so I wasn’t the seasoned iconoclast I am now, but
I was certainly in tune with what I thought about a
bunch of engrossing stuff: namely, conventional
offensive statistics, all star rosters, and MVP
awards.

No Mets player has ever been league MVP. In 1984,
Hernandez finished second behind Sandberg and the Mets
finished second behind the Cubs. Neither player had
what you would call traditional MVP numbers on
offense. Both were “tweeners”, guys who hit for a
strong average with extra-base power but not a ton of
home runs. (Sandberg would boost his homer totals
later in his career–in 1990, he hit 40.) Both were
great defensive players: Sandberg at a more demanding
position, Hernandez in perhaps a more revolutionary
manner. After the regular season, I was of the
opinion that the MVP race was dead heat; Sandberg won
by a ton, in fact, for a variety of reasons. (The Cubs
went to the playoffs, for one thing. Also, Sandberg
was a better defensive player than I could possibly
have understood at the time.)

Now that Sandberg is Hall of Fame eligible, I am
inclined to compare the two players once again. It’s
amazing to me how well they stack up over their
careers. Sandberg had about 1,000 more at bats, in
part due to the fact that Mex walked about four
hundred more times. Keith’s ten points ahead in
batting average (.296 to .285) and forty points ahead
in OBP (.388 to .347), while Ryno is up in slugging
(.452 to .436). Sandberg has a big lead in homers
(282 to 162), while Hernandez is up a little in
doubles (426 to 403) and, as I said, walks. Sandberg
struck out more, but scored more; Hernandez drove in
more. They’re not identical hitters–one had more
plate control, the other more pop–but their
differences are the sort that are borne out over long
careers rather than on a season-by-season basis; in a
given year, you could mistake one’s stats for another.
In the end, I think you could argue for Hernandez, in
spite of the homerun deficit, being the superior
hitter, albeit only slightly. They’re close.

As always, accounting for defense is less obvious. We
know what Mex meant to that team defensively and
spiritually. If Sandberg meant less to the soul of
the Cubs, I think it’s safe to say that he meant more
to their defense. I don’t think he reset the bar for
the position, as many think Hernandez did at first,
but I think he could be one of the top handful of
defensive second basemen of all time, which I guess
has to be more impressive than being the very best
first basemen ever (if indeed that’s what Mex was).

Nevertheless, if Ryne Sandberg goes into the Hall of
Fame, part of me that will feel slighted on Keith’s
behalf. In my mind, there’s a parity between the two
players. In a vaccuum, I don’t know that I really
think Hernandez is a Hall of Famer; in the context of
Sandberg’s election (should that occur), it will seem
more ambiguous. Anytime a player is elected based on
something other than total offensive
production–whether it’s offensive at a certain
position, defensive value, leadership–it opens the
door to debate in a way that a 300 win guy doesn’t.
Suddenly, we’re asking how this guy rates against a
whole lot of players with a whole variety of similarities:
If Sandberg makes us (or me, anyway) consider
Hernandez, then Hernandez certainly forces us to
consider Mattingly. And if you consider Mattingly–a
dynamic offensive player and leader with short
prime–how do we not talk about Albert Belle? (Not
that Joey’s eligible yet, but what do think the
chances are of him getting any serious support?)

And if Sandberg doesn’t make it in, should Kirby
Puckett have his membership revoked?

The Ryno/Mex comparison is intriguing. I agree with Gabe’s conclusion that one questionable candidate begats another. (And no, Albert Belle won’t stand a chance; if Jim Rice’s chances have been hurt by his sour relationship with the press, think about how hard it will be for Belle, deserving or not.)

So who is the standard? Willie Mays, or Frank Chance?

In his book, “Whatever Happened to the Hall of Fame?”, Bill James wrote:

“When you ask the question, what is a Hall of Famer, your natural tendency is to look for a written definition. What is it that makes a man a Hall of Famer? What does it mean to be a member of the Hall of Fame? What does the Hall of Fame look for?
There were no written standards in the beginning. An attempt to say what a Hall of Famer is was made by the Permanent Committee in the mid-1940’s, but that definition meets the standards of the rest of the Permanent Committee’s work, so for all practical purposes ther are no written standards.
So what then?
The Hall of Fame is what it makes of itself.
But since the Hall of Fame’s voting methods have been faulty over a long period of time, resulting in inconsistent if not arbitrary selections, that definition is very fuzzy.
The Hall of Fame resists definition. It is a museum, officially–but it is not certified by the American Association of Museums.
So, in a sense, the Hall of Fame isn’t really anything. It’s the highest honor in the American sports world, but it holds that position, to be honest, more by habit than by merit.”

Since there is no answer to the question, “What makes a Hall of Famer?” it allows us fans to do what we probably enjoy most: contemplate and debate.

Here is a follow up from Gabe:

I hope I didn’t come to any conclusions in the
Sandberg piece, because I don’t feel like I have any
on that topic! I think the crux of it is that there is
some discrepancy somewhere between who goes into the
Hall and who, in a given generation, we consider the
elite players to be–but I’m not sure in which
direction the discrepancy occurs. Probably both. In
some cases–like Puckett’s–I think the a player’s
positive aura and general winning ways make make
certain people feel like they have license to excuse
marginal credentials. In other cases, failure to
achieve certain exorbitant career benchmarks render a
less likable guy unqualified. I mean, there are
dozens of Mattingly’s–successful, popular players who
devotees feel have been egregiously overlooked. But
how about Dave Parker? That guy has no chance, and
let me tell you, he was a sick hitter and a great
outfielder.

Problems occur when you start basing future selections
on prior mistakes. Let’s say Puckett’s election is a
bit dubious, for argument’s sake. Or no, wait, let’s
take Ralph Kiner, who was received the minimum votes
needed, I think in his last year of eligibility. By a
number of accounts from people who have spent much
more time thinking about this than I have, Kiner’s
inclusion is a mistake. How horrific a mistake it is
I’m not sure, but I think you can safely say that
Kiner is one of the least deserving corner
outfielders/first basemen of the modern era to be
enshrined. But he’s in, there’s nothing to be done
about it, and there are no official tiers of Hall of
Famer to qualify how much of a Hall of Famer some one
is. To me, the question then becomes, do we use this
guy as a precedent? Because I think you and I could
come up with a long list of active and un-enshrined
retired players who have more impressive resumes than
Ralph. Even taking era into account, I think we can
safely say that Albert Belle is better (and had a
career cut short at about the same point); Dave
Parker’s better; Jim Rice is better; Jose Canseco,
Dale Murphy, Harold Baines. These are just guy’s
who’s offense is at least debatably better than
Kiner’s. When you start to consider defense, you get
into people like Alan Trammell, Ron Santo, and many
others–both those who played key positions (Lance
Parish, never mind Kid Carter) and those who were
actually good at less crucial positions (e.g. Dwight
Evans, whose defensive value alone must at least equal
Kiner’s offense). When you consider leadership, you
get into players like Gil Hodges. (Of the people I
just named, I think only Hodges has a real chance at
election, and that’s because of what his managerial
career added to his cache.) I think it’s safe to say
that there are 20-30 active position players who are
better hitters than was Kiner and who have achieved,
in one form or another, more than he did in career
stats–do they all go in? I can’t believe they all
will. If Dale Murphy didn’t go in, why would Juan
Gonzalez (unless he has a real revival)? But both are
better qualified than Kiner, who was elected late
enough (1975) for writers to know better, to have some
perspective.

But, as I said, he’s in, and you therefore have every
right to use him as a kind of standard if you want to.
Even though his real peers are George Foster and
Cecil Fielder. Darrell Evans was a more valuable
player than Kiner, and no talks about him going to
Cooperstown. It just goes to show that some
sportwriters aren’t informed enough to know what to
look for. Therefore, you end up with no real sense of
standards, players elected or excluded with an
insufficient sense of context.

HONEST TO GOD

I wrote to Travis from “Boy of Summer” yesterday to get his reaction to the loss of Mike Stanton, and R. Mendoza. Here is what he had to say:

Liked your writings on the losses of Mendoza and
Stanton. I liked them both too, though I can see why
the yanks cut them loose. Stanton’s getting old (will
be 36 in early June) and lost his ability to finish
batters off (only 44 K’s in 78 IP, down from about
1/IP throughout his career). His ERA stayed
relatively low, but he’s gonna have problems if he
doesn’t find whatever he used to use to strike batters
out. He might have been worth it if he’d accepted the
$2.5 mil/year contract, but definitely isn’t worth
risking more than that. Incidentally, as a Christian
myself, his “God Squad” membership actually made me
like him more, and certainly had to have some hand in
his willingness to be accountable when he blew one.

I think they’ll miss Mendoza more. There aren’t a lot
of guys out there who give you ~100 relief innings
with an ERA 20% better than league average and never
bitch about wanting a closers or starter’s job.
Someone will get themselves a nice reliever in Mendoza
next year, but again, if it costs them more than $3
mil/yr, they’re getting ripped off.

I’ll miss them too, but there are always guys out
there like Chris Hammond who can do what you want for
what you want to pay. I just wish for once we could
get one of these patented Leo Mazzone reclaimation
projects *before* his pricetag goes from sardines to
caviar.

So there’s my take

Travis

I’m usually leary of mixing Religion with, well, almost anything, so I was struck by Travis’ comment that Stanton’s faith “certainly had to have some hand in his willingness to be accountable when he blew one.” I like to believe that a ballplayer can be a man of integrity without neccesarily being devotely religious, but on second thought, Travis could be right. I don’t want my own prejudice to discount the fact that Travis may be on to something. Of course not knowing Stanton personally, I can’t say for sure, but it made me think of Andre Thorton, the Cleveland Indian slugger of the late 70’s and 1980’s.

In October, 1977, Thorton lost his wife and one of his children in a horrible car accident. Thorton had turned to Christ when he was still in high school, but after the accident he became more outgoing with his faith, and began leading a prayer group on the team. It wasn’t met with open arms by rest of his teammates, but Thorton wasn’t out to “shove religion down anyone’s throat.” According to Terry Pluto’s book, “The Curse of Rocky Colavito”, “Thorton’s ministry grew, not just with the Indians but in the entire community. He organized youth groups and worked with various churches.

‘Andy probably had as big an impact on my life as anyone I’ve ever met because of how he lives his faith,’ said Mike Hargrove. ‘They tell you that Christians are passive, but Andy is just the opposite. Andy would say that God gave you a special talent, and it was up to you to play as hard as you could. And how he continued to play after the tragedy—that was an inspiration to me.’

Those who know Thorton realize that he can be intimidating because he is so honest and has almost a spiritual presence.

‘When I introduced my wife to Andy for the first time, she told me that she wasn’t sure if she ever wanted to see him again,’ said [Duane] Kuiper. ‘I asked her why. She said, “It’s those eyes. He looked right through me.” That is how it is with Andy. When you meet him, he looks you right in the eye, almost as if he’s looking right into your soul.’

Again, I don’t know if this is the case with Mike Stanton. But perhaps his faith does account for his willingness to be a stand-up guy (does it also explain his reputation for being a class A bench jockey, I don’t know). Thanks to Travis for making me take a look at the limitations of my own preconcieved notions.

BYE, BYE BRUHO, BARKEEP

Clearing out his locker at the end of the season, Yankee reliever Ramiro Mendoza was asked about his future with the team. He said simply, “I want to die here”. Looks like the Yanks won’t be paying the funeral costs, after they declined to offer the soft-spoken pitcher arbitration this weekend. Along with Mike Stanton, another sturdy member of the Bronx bullpen during the past six seasons, Mendoza was given his walking papers this weekend, a direct result of the Yankees cost-cutting off-season strategy.

According to Peter Gammons, “The Yankees on Friday gave Mike Stanton 15 minutes to either accept a two year, $2.5 million per annum deal (the same offer they extended to Mark Guthrie and Chirs Hammond), and when he did not, told him thanks for compiling the best World Series and postseason ERAs of any lefthanded reliever in basebal history, take your gold watch and don’t let the door hit your derriere on the way out.”

I was disapointed that the Yanks didn’t offer arbitration to one of the two pitchers, but considering how dearly George wants to cut corners, it shouldn’t come as a suprise that the role players are the first in line. (Actually, the first would be the poor schmo’s in the organization whose dental plan is in jepoardy, but who is keepin score?) There was some unpleasentness in the way the Yankees cut their ties with Stanton, but I suppose it would be foolish or naive to expect anything less. (Tom Glavine didn’t exactly get the royal treatment from the suits at Aol, did he?) Bill Madden took the Yankees to task yesterday in the News, and I’m sure many Yankee fans share his sentiments.

Players like Mendoza and Stanton are the spoils of a championship team. But like Henry Higgens once sang about his protege E. Doolittle, I’ve grown accustomed to their face. For what it’s worth, I’ll miss them. I suspect much of my reaction is based on sentimentality rather than common sense, still here are some parting thoughts on two guys who made solid contributions to the Yankees recent success.

If Boomer Wells looks like a mook who was snatched off his barstool, given a uniform, and told he’s going to pitch in the major leagues, then Mike Stanton could very well have been the barkeep. Stanton’s face looks like a mug right out of one of Bill Gallo’s cartoons in the News. There is a timelessness to his doughy features which suggest that he could have pitched comfortably alongside Whitey Ford, and Allie Reynolds. What I always appreciated about Stanton is his accountability. Whenever he got his tits lit, he would stick around and deal with the press; a true stand-up guy. Ok, so he’s a card-carrying member of the God Squad too, but nobody is perfect. It never intruded on my image of him as an ordinary Joe from the neighborhood bar.

From what I gather, Stanton was one of the leaders in the Yankee clubhouse too (he also served as the team’s player rep). He sure looks like a ball-buster. When El Duque first joined the team in ’98, Stanton got in the Cuban hurler’s ass about his unorthodox warm-up routine. I guess he found out soon enough that Duque’s ass was red enough to begin with, and Jose Cardinal had to step in, in order to prevent the two from coming to blows.

I’m grateful for how well Stanton did his job in New York, but I don’t necessarily think he’s irreplaceable. The only pangs of bitterness I felt when I heard the news is a bit unfair, but here it is anyhow: playoff vet, Stanton gets low-balled while pretty boy Steve Karsay is making a king’s randsom, sitting pretty. When Karsay recovers from off-season surgery, he should be required to perform some sort of community service. He could start by donating some of his salary to fix up the fields just outside of the Stadium. (Actually, I like Karsay just fine: I think the entire organization, from the top on down should take more pride in fixing up the diamonds around the Stadium.)

Ramiro Mendoza has been one of my favorite Yankees in recent years. Along with Bernie Williams, he has a tranquil, shy presence and comes off as something of a dreamer. Known as “El Bruho” ( the witchdoctor), for his hard sinker, Mendoza’s soporific body language belies the effectiveness of his pitches (just ask the Red Sox, who were stymied twice by Mendoza in the 1999 playoffs). Dozie looks as if he is permanantly drugged. He doesn’t only look sleepy in the bullpen, it’s as if he barely wakes up when he’s on the mound.

When Mendoza is right, he is efficient and brisk; when the sinker ain’t sinking, it gets walloped a long way. Either way, Mendoza remains calm, even somewhat detached. Or maybe he is just resigned to the fact that sometimes you just don’t have it. There are few Yankee pitchers that have amused me as much when they were getting spanked (Hurricaine Hideki was funny too, but for different reasons). Mr. Piazza hit a couple of absolute bombs off Mendoza in 1999 and 2000. I remember being at the Stadium in August of 2001, when Juan Encarnacion, then playing with Detriot, crushed a Mendoza sinker in the left-field bleachers. It was late in the game, and the Yankees still held the lead. Torre came to get him, and Mendoza gave him the ball. He shrugged his shoulders and walked off the field with a sheepish grin, perhaps thinking, 1) at least we still have the lead, and 2) godamn, he hit that a long way.

In his own way, Mendoza is emblematic of the patience and trust the Yankee braintrust have impressed upon George Steinbrenner during the latest championship run. Back in the Bronx Zoo days, a guy like Mendoza would have been traded in the blink of an eye. (I immediately recall the fate of young Jim Beattie.) But throughout nagging injuries and being shifted from the rotation to long relief, and then to set-up man, Mendoza was one of Joe Torre’s guys and the manager always went to bat for him. That Mendoza is now expendable is not a failing of Joe Torre. If anything, the fact that he stayed around so long is a minor miracle in and of itself.

Funny how winning championships can create a degree of stability. Even when you are working for Boss George.

WHATTA YA HEAR, WHATTA YA SAY, WILPON WON’T LET GLAVINE SKATE AWAY

In the middle of the heaviest snow fall New York has seen in several years, the Mets dealt the gelt, and got their man, signing Tom Glavine to a 3-year deal reportedly worth $35 million (with an option for a fourth year, which could bump the money up to $42-44 million). The Mets outbid division rivals, Philadelphia and Atlanta for the veteran lefty, just when everyone had Glavine joining Jim Thome and David Bell with the Phillies. Nothing like a little winter suprise, huh?

This move may not put the Mets over the top, but as Bill Madden writes today in the Daily News, it does keep them competitive and respectable. Bob Klapisch has this to say in The Bergen Record.

I don’t have a strong initial gut feeling about how Glavine will do with the Mets, but I don’t see why he wouldn’t perform admirably. Now whether that results in 11 wins or 18, I can’t say. Will he help attract other free-agents to the Mets? I don’t know. But this much is certain: in a world where perception is as important as reality, Fred Wilpon has snatched the morning headlines away from the Yanks (who resigned Robin Ventura to a one-year deal worth $5 million yesterday), and restored a sense of credibility to his franchise.

What do you know, but I found myself deep in the heart of Red Sox country over the Thanksgiving weekend. My girlfriend and I were visiting her parents, who live roughly twenty minutes outside of Burlington, Vermont, in a lovely farm house that overlooks Lake Champlain. It was my inaugural trip to their home, and we spent most of the time happily cooking, eating, and digesting.

As much as I was looking forward to meeting her family and spending time in their home, I was also eager to comb the area for used bookstores in the hopes that I would find some hidden treasures.

Several years ago, when collecting records—digging for beats, was my primary hobby, I found the college towns of New England to be terrific for good finds at reasonable prices. I assumed I could have some similar success in the bookshops as well.

There is nothing like the feeling of finding the book you’ve been hunting for, especially when it’s at a decent price. It makes all the dust-inhalation worth it. I usually rate bookstores in terms of selection and pricing. Ambiance and all that other good stuff is nice but strictly secondary. The sports section is often minimal in used bookshops; this can be vexing, but it also makes finding a choice book all the more satisfying. The suprise, and delight of finding a coveted book, or that rare record, is a small, but rich pleasure; one that is harder and harder to find in the world of instant access.
Last summer for instance, I bought “Beyond the 6th Game” by Peter Gammons via the internet. Although I ended up enjoying the book plenty, it was tough for me to shell out close to $20 including shipping and handling for an edition which should have cost me no more than $7. I’m by no means miserly by nature, but in certain instances, my grandmother, the bargain hunter, is alive and well in her grandson, thank you very much.

My first outing was not an overwhelming success. I braved the elements—snow, gusting winds, bitter cold, and headed to Burlington. Much to my dismay, two of the the town’s four bookshops were closed. As I trudged through the town mall, my mood soured considerably; it was not ideal browsing weather. (I was however smart enough not to have dragged my girlfriend along, so at least I was left to suffer on my own.) By the time I reached the two remaining stores I discovered precious little in the way of selection, but screw it, I was not leaving empty-handed.

Angry shopping is the worst state a bargain hunter can find themselves in, because you end up forgetting your principals in favor of the quick fix, the immediate gratification. So what if the gender studies department dwarfed the sports section, I was going to buy something, dammit. And I did. Terry Pluto’s “The Curse of Rocky Colavito: A Loving Look at a 30 Year Slump” for six bucks (a good buy), a hardcover edition of Arnold Rampersad’s formidable and elegant-looking Jackie Robinson biography for $12 (just about right, though more than I wanted to spend), and just for shits and giggles, a paperback copy of Louis Armstrong’s first autobiography, “Swing that Music” for $8. (Armstrong is a suprisingly deft writer; engaging, unpretentious and of course, funny.)

These books were fine in and of themselves, but since they weren’t books I was necessarily searching for, I left feeling empty and discouraged. (Sometimes I have a concrete list of titles in my head, or at the very least I’ll be on the look-out for specific authors. Currently I’m interested in almost anything written by Ray Robinson, Ed Linn, Leonard Koppett, or Fred Leib.) Fortunately, when I got back to the house, and sat my ass down in front of the fireplace and cracked open Pluto’s book on the Indians, my mood quickly brightened. Knowing next to little about the history of the Indians, it didn’t take long before I was gobbling up Pluto’s heartfelt, and humorous recollections of what it was like growing up an Indians fan.
The following day, my girlfriend and I got in the car and took a trip to Middlebury, which is about 40 minutes away from Burlington. I found Middlebury much more to my liking—quaint and personable: the quintessential charming New England town. There wasn’t a national chain in sight—no Borders books, no Eddie Bauer, no nuthin.

We parked just outside of a bookstore that would be the only shop we would need to visit all day. When we walked into the place, we were greeted by the impenetrable smell of dust and moth balls, along with the house cat—usually a good sign. The bookstore was downstairs, and it resembled a dusty-ass salvation army as much as it did somebody’s congested, wood-paneled rec room. I quickly found the sports section and was suprised at the size of the collection, which was larger than normal. I immediately spotted the garish yellow dust-cover of “Nice Guys Finish Last”, Leo the Lip’s biography, written with Ed Linn.

Eureka. I can cross that one off my list. A hardcover book, in very good condition, I opened it slowly to peek at the price: $5. Hey now.

Next, my eyes fell on another hardcover book in good shape: Roger Angell’s “Five Seasons”, which I already own. Again, $5. (For that kind of money, you know I couldn’t resist buying a second copy; hey, with the holidays upon us, you could do worse than getting a Roger Angell book from ol’ Saint Nick, am I right?) I put the books down and scurried off to find my girl, just so I could do a victory dance. She laughed and said, “You better get back there before someone snatches them up.”

Like who, the cat?

I ended up making off with a few more books on my list: “The New Thinking Fan’s Guide to Baseball” by Leonard Koppett, and Richard Ben Creamer’s definitive biography on the Bambino, “Babe: The Legend Comes to Life”. For the hell of it, I also snatched Tim McCarver’s first book (written with Ray Robinson) “Oh Baby, I Love It*”. But I couldn’t stop there, so I also picked up a second copy of David Halberstam’s book on the Trailblazers, “The Breaks of the Game”, and another hoopskaball book, “48 Minutes”, by Bob Ryan and Terry Pluto, which is an in-depth study of a single game between the Cavs and the Celts in 1987.

I was on a roll, so I stocked up on doubles of some old favorites: Nat Hentoff’s “Jazz Is”, John Huston’s autobiography, “An Open Book”, Garson Kanin’s tinseltown memoir, “Hollywood”, and Woody Allen’s “Side Effects” and “Getting Even”. When hardcovers are going for five bucks a pop, and the paperbacks are no more than $2, I make like Cy Syms and was a very satisfied customer.

So while we sit on our hands and wait for slowly developing Hot Stove League to bear its winter fruit, I can’t say I don’t have anything to keep me occupied. I can, as Roger Angell suggested, learn by reconsidering and reflecting, and by “keeping [baseball] warm in a cold season…begin to make discoveries.”

If anyone has any thoughts or comments about any of the books or writers listed above, I’d sure appreciate hearing them.

Words to Live by…

“There is a game of baseball that is not to be found in the schedules or the record books. It has no season, but it is best played in the winter, without the distraction of box scores and standings. This is the inner game, baseball in the mind, and there is no real fan who does not know it. It is a game of recollections, recapturings, and visions Yet this is only the beginning, for baseball in the mind in not a mere yearning and returning. In time, this easy envisioning of restored players, winning hits, and famous rallies gives way to reconsiderations and reflections about the sport itself. By thinking about baseball like this, by playing it over and yet keeping it to ourselves, keeping it warm in a cold season, we begin to make discoveries. With luck, we may even penetrate some of its mysteries and learn once again how richly and variously the game can reward us.”

Roger Angell, from “Baseball in the Mind”

Kudos to John Perricone over at Only Baseball Matters for reaching the 20,000 hit milestone. It proves that if you are as dedicated and enterprising as Mr. Perricone has been, the readers, they will come.

One of my most treasured baseball pals is my cousin Gabe. He’s the Met fan I always turn to first whenever anything is going on. Here is his take on the Mets’ pursuit of Glavine:

Tom Glavine is a red herring, isn’t he? I mean, I
like him more than I did at the start of all this, and
I don’t have any reason to believe that he wouldn’t
win 16 games for the Mets next year. But let’s
consider some things:

1. The Mets had a $94 million payroll in 2002 and
stunk.

2. In spite of this payroll, the Mets didn’t have any
basis for expecting to be a great team in 2002. A
competitive team, maybe, but not a great team.

3. It is maybe fair to say that the Mets could not
have expected the complete meltdown of 2002. However,
the notion that most or all of the underachievers will
rebound and propel the Mets into postseason contention
is a bit dubious to me. The Mets are an old team and,
in one or two cases, an overweight team. (Mo is
obviously beyond overweight for an athlete, but Cedeno
and Alfonzo looked way too beefy last year.) Of the
players who underachieved, it is perhaps only safe to
assume that Burnitz and maybe Alomar will rebound.
And in Burnitz’s case, his adjusted career norms are
not so much better than his 2002 performance. Mo will
probably be closer to his second half than his first,
but his days of hitting .300 seem long gone.
Meanwhile, Piazza had his worst offensive season.
From a historic standpoint, the fact that his worst
season still left him the best hitting catcher in
baseball is tremendous; however as the centerpiece of
the Mets line-up, he left something to be desired.
Cedeno and Alfonzo had years solidly within their
established parameters. Given all this, even if the
Mets were to win 88-90 games in 2003, they wouldn’t
have any basis for expecting to compete with this team
beyond next season.

4. It is not impossible that 2003 will be Tom
Glavine’s last great year. Glavine is old and at this
point strikes out few hitters. Pitchers with low
strike out rates tend to deteriorate faster than those
who strike out more than the league average. There
are some exceptions, but not many. If it’s true,
Glavine’s last great year would coincide with an
imminent, massive, and unpredictable roster turnover.

5. After the 2003 season, the Mets will (one way or
another) be free of the contracts of Burnitz, Ordonez,
Benitez, Franco, and Alomar–about $36 million in
2003, $46 million if they don’t sign Glavine. If the
Mets simply play out the string with this roster,
however many games they win, they have the chance to
be off-season monsters next year. $46 million per is
some serious dough. Even if that is an unpredictable
road to take, it seems like it has the potential to be
much more productive in the long run than signing an
aging pitcher.

6. If we can expect Tom Glavin to win 16 games in
2003 under normal circumstances, how many can we
expect Steve Trachsel to win? I’m gonna say 10-11.
(He’s won 11 the last two years.) Now, five games
isn’t nothing–it’s often the difference between
making the playoffs and not. But it doesn’t guarantee
a berth. More importantly, it seems as if the Mets
will have between $27-30 million committed to Glavine
in 2004-2006, when he likely will not be winning
sixteen games a year. If the Mets don’t honestly feel
that the acquisition of Tom Glavine all but assures
them a playoff berth in 2003, they should forget about
signing him. If the realistic outcome is winning 84
games instead of 79, it’s a bad move. Frankly, it may
be a bad move anyway. There are appropriate and
inappropriate times to break the bank on a free agent.
Even if the Mets make the playoffs with Glavine, the
signing could hinder them for three years. (It’s why
trades for people half way thru contracts are usually
more productive signing free agents.)

7. Acquiring Denny Neagle is a bad move.

8. Acquiring Tom Glavine is not a great move. It
would not turn an organization around. Signing a free
agent never turns an organization around. It might
make a good team a championship team, but in the Mets’
case it may be like treating frostbite with a
flashlight. Or something like that. . .

Bob Klapisch updated his take on the Glavine situation last Friday.

I was amused by the talk of a Yankees-Rockies-Mets swap over the weekend. I agree with my cousin; acquiring Denny Neagle would be bad for the Mets. Shea is a good place to pitch, but the vibe is all wrong for a flake like Neagle. Forget Glavine, how much better is a fruitloop like Denny Neagle than ol’ Steve Trashcan?

There is a Lovable Loser quality about Traschel. In another baseball lifetime, he could have stepped right out of Ring Lardner’s “You Know Me Al”. As a matter of fact, you can read Lardner’s epistolary novella in the time in takes Traschel to get through the bottom of the 5th.

Did everyone see the photo’s of Michael Piazza’s visit with the Pope? Good to see a nice Catholic boy like Michael making the big time. I wonder if the Pope had any tips for Yazzie. Personally, I feel that Michael should grow his hair long again. He doesn’t have to go with the mullet, though that wouldn’t hurt. Even if Mike is a clean-cut guy, the dirtbag look has always suited him. In fact, it seems to me that Yazzie is a far more menacing presence with long, grizzly locks, and a nasty-looking mustachio. Especially since he’s such a pusscat. It sure makes him a lot more fun to watch. Not for nothing, but Giambi could let his greasy-ass hair grow a lil’ bit too.

As if Mets fans needed another reason to hate the Braves, they now have the opportunity to see whether Mike Hampton, the pitcher who spurned them for the big money, and educational perks of Colorado, can resurrect his floundering career in the NL East with Atlanta. Some guys have all the luck.

Sure, Hampton has had to pay for his avarice, as his numbers over the past two seasons demonstrate. His slugging aside, Hampton has payed the piper, in true Faustian style; I know more than a few Mets fans who took great pleasure in watching his misfortunes.

Now, it’s Hampton who may have the last laugh. He is sitting pretty, having succesfully wriggled his way out of a career-threatening situation in Colorado, and he hasn’t lost a cent of his outlandishly large contract. Three teams will pay Hampton the remaining $84 million on his contract, with the Braves on the hook for $48 million over 6 years. Not a bad deal if he bounces back. Tim Kurkjian reports on the details of the trade, which is one of the more complicated deals in recent history.

Of course, it’s a calculated risk on the part of the John Schuerholz; Hampton could be a complete bust. But with pitching guru Leo Mazzone returning, it’s hard to believe that Hampton won’t recover at least some of his pre-Colorado form.

What makes the Hampton deal so interesting is that is seems to have fallen into the Braves lap. If this is the start of a trend, there could be a few more good suprises this winter.

Of course, the Mets pursuit of Tom Glavine becomes even more urgent now. Even if it’s from a public relations point of view. But how could anyone be suprised if Glavine plays both the Mets and the Phillies, and returns to Atlanta himself? Bob Klapisch writes today that the Mets still have a good shot at the vetern lefty, but I have my doubts.

Nothing like stoaking the fires of a rivalry. Especially with a red-ass, douche bag like Hampton cast as the latest villain. Is Glavine next?

It all makes me wonder what suprises the Sox have in store for us Yankee fans this winter.

And vice a versie too.

There are two things that strike me abou

One of my favorite parts of the Bill James Abstracts and Baseball books were the historical biographies, which were characteristically informative, droll and idiosyncratic. I don’t think they ever made it past the A’s, but no matter, they still covered a good bit of ground. Reading the entries on the Alou brothers last night, I wanted to share the following bit about “one of the best strings of graffiti” that James had ever seen:

‘First handwriting, somebody has written “Jesus is the answer.”
Second handwriting, next guy has added “What is the question?”
Third handwriting, “Who is Matty and Felipe’s brother…”

At the end of Felipe’s profile James adds,

‘Alou’s biography, “Felipe Alou…My Life and Baseball” was helpful in preparing this article, and will be of particular interest to those of you who talk about Christ as if he was renting the next apartment.’

Zing.

Another shout to John Perricone over at Only Baseball Matters for anticipating the signing of Felipe Alou (11/7/02). Alou is going to take over for Dusty Baker as skipper of the San Francisco Giants according to espn.com. Felipe replacing Dusty? How appealing can you get?

After the AL MVP was announced yesterday it took me a good half an hour to remember how much I actually like Miguel Tejada. I felt that Alex Rodriguez should have won the award, but it’s hard to bitch about Tejada getting it. He is a terrific player who had a stellar season. I’ve followed Tejada since I read the book “Away Games” by Marcos Breton and Jose Luis Villegas. The book came out in 1999 I believe, just when Miggy and Ben Grieve made their way to Oakland’s major league squad. (I wonder if it’ll be updated now that Miggy’s hit the big time.) The book offers an excellent general history of baseball in Latin America, as well as a touching portrait of a skinny kid who one day would become the AL MVP. Well worth checking out.

Yesterday, John Perricone at Only Baseball Matters conveyed his dismay concerning the treatment Barry Bonds has recieved from both the media and the public over the years. While I think Bonds has not helped himself as far as his image is concerned, a lot of the criticism he has drawn suggests racism’s pervasivness is alive and well. What particularly caught my attention was his analogy to Don Mattingly, a local favorite (who many argue is overrated); one the great players of the Larry Bird 80’s. It struck me as poignant because Mattingly enjoyed his greatest years with a player who is more than a little bit like Bonds in Rickey Henderson.

Henderson didn’t last much longer in New York than Reggie Jackson did; he didn’t make the same kind of impact, though he was a better all-around player. Mattingly, of course was the most popular Yankee since Mickey Mantle. I can only imagine the bemusement a young baseball fan will be greeted with 30 years down the road when he looks at the books to compare Mattingly with Henderson. “How is Mattingly even in the discussion?” he might say. But those of us (mostly white) old-timers who grew up in New York during the 80’s will most likely stick to our guns, arguing that Donnie Baseball had more “heart” and “grit” and all those other wonderful intagibles, than Rickey Henderson ever dreamed of possessing. Numbers are overrated we may say. But the real issue is how deep our perceptions run.

The issue of perception and racial stereotypes is thorny and complicated, and I don’t pretend to be an expert. But it’s clear to me that a black player like Henderson didn’t recieve the kind of praise or adulation that seemingly fell into Mattingly’s lap. I don’t mean to suggest that Mattingly was a phony, or that he didn’t deserve the attention. But how many Yankee fans or members of the press for that matter, pulled for the young Mattingly over Dave Winfield in 1984 when they battled it out for the batting title simply because he was white?

It should come as no suprise then that Henderson also runs a close second to Bonds as the most under-appreciated great player of his time.

Last night I did some rummaging around in my baseball library and pulled out “Wait Till Next Year”, a book about the 1987 sporting scene in New York written by columnist Mike Lupica and screenwriter William Goldman. (Bantam Books, 1988.) This portion, written by Lupica, may be of interest, John:

‘In New York, it has been historically more useful to be a white star than a black star; the opportunities for endorsements and commercials and billboards and all the rest that comes with being a celeb are more readily available to you. With the Mets, Gary Carter and Ron Darling were infinitely more appealing to Madison Avenue than Darryl Strawberry and Dwight Gooden, even before Gooden’s difficulty getting the passing grade on the urine test.
This sort of racism is not specific to New York, or baseball; it is part of professional sports now. [Wasn’t it always?] There was just more conversation about it around the Yankees in early 1987 because [Rickey] Henderson was having such an electrifying start, the Yankees were in first place, the Mets were in trouble, and Henderson still wasn’t the toast of the town. A lot of people thought it was a combination of the normal racism of sports, and perception—the way players were presented to the world in the newspapers. Henderson had the image of being cocky. Lenny Dykstra, the white center fielder for the Mets, strutted and swaggered just as much at Shea Stadium as Henderson did at Yankee Stadium. But Dykstra, who had traded mightily on the Mets’ World Series championship during the off-season, had a reputation as being tough.
Henderson was a hot dog.
Dykstra was his nickname: “Nails.”
It was a subtle distinction, but a distinction nonetheless.
Henderson, the black man, was cocky.
Dykstra, the white man, was tough.
Henderson had an image problem. Dykstra didn’t. That day at Yankee Stadium, the crowd at kept cheering after Mattingly’s grand slam, wanting Mattingly to come out and take a curtain call. Mattingly, a shy man who thinks curtain calls are silly displays, didn’t want to go. Henderson, laughing, ran up the dugout steps, waved, got Mattingly’s cheer.
In the clubhouse, Willie Randolph said, “It’s the only way Rickey can get one.”
And there was more than racism going on.’

Here is where Henderson bears an even stronger resemblance to Bonds:

‘Henderson simply refused to sell himself to the writers; he simply was not one of the kings of clubhouse schmooze. He would not, or could not, make himself available to writers before games. Rickey had his own way of doing things, and his reluctance to promote himself in any way just seemed to fit into the tapestry of being Rickey. He was a game player. He did not enjoy the running and drills of spring training; did not like rules of any kind; he would hide in a corner of the dugout in Fort Lauderdale when the Yankees ran laps early in spring training, then jump out when [then manager, Lou] Pinella and the coaches weren’t looking, join his mates for the final lap. He did not like getting to the ball park any earlier than he had to; it was obvious to teammates and writers covering the team that he had terrible work habits. The slightest injury sent him to the bench; it was a problem that would become more and more acute for Henderson, and his team, and his image, and Yankee fans. [The irony for Henderson, is that he ended up with the career record for stolen bases and runs scored, but never shed the image as a player who loafed it.]
And there was “Don’t need no press now, man.”
The writers had never forgotten those first words Henderson spoke in the Yankee clubhouse, in April of 1985. Henderson had injured an ankle in Florida, had needed extra time to recuperate, and the regular season had started without him. When he did show up, the writers were waiting for him.
Henderson shooed them away from his locker, saying, “Don’t need no press now, man.”
He hadn’t gotten a lot of press since…
One day a writer said to Dave Winfield, “Why isn’t Rickey bigger around here than he is?”
And Winfield, voice dripping with sarcasm, said, “You mean like I am?”
Claudell Washington was more vocal and belligerent about the issue, especially at the end of May , when Dennis Rodman and Isiah Thomas of the Detroit Pistons would create a national sensation with some remarks about Larry Bird, and the fact that he might not be as big a star as he was if he wasn’t white. Thomas, when given the chance to explain himself by columnist Ira Berkow in the Times, said, “Magic (Johnson) and Michael Jordan and me, we’re playing on God-given talent, like we’re animals, lions and tigers who run wild in the jungle, while Larry’s success is due to intelligence and hard work.”…
Washington: “You think Rickey Henderson doesn’t understand what we’re talking about with this whole black-white deal? You think he doesn’t know? That man Rickey is a legend. He should be on every billboard in town, on every commercial. Rickey Henderson is the best.’ (pp.181-83)

I don’t think Don Mattingly was any less sincere in his approach to the game and his talents than Henderson was to his, it’s just that Mattingly was the personification of what Curt Flood once labled as “that paragon of nineteenth-century Integrity—the Hungry Ball Player.” To be a bit more disparaging, I should say, “The Hungry White Ball Player”. The humble, over-achiever. Flood added, “To acquire a public reputation as a ‘hustler’—a good competitor—is usually a matter of posture or personality…Slowness of foot also helps, requiring the player to fling himself to the turf in vain efforts to catch balls that more gifted athletes might have handled while remaining unruffled and erect.” (From “The Way It Is” by Flood with Richard Carter. Trident Press, 1971. pp.51 + 59.) Reading Flood’s observation I couldn’t help but think how nicely it applied to David Eckstein and Garret Anderson this post season. Which player recieved more press, what kind of press what it, and who is truly the better player?

Cynicism aside, Mattingly was a grinder of the highest order, one who led by example. One of the reasons for his popularity was certainly his race; it is why Mattingly was lauded for his dedication, and perspiration, while Winfield was derided as a disapointment at best, and at worst, a choke artist.

The truth is Mattingly was praised for developing skills which overcame his lesser natural talent, while Bonds and Henderson were scorned for neglecting their superior skills and natural gifts. Or at least taking them for granted. Mattingly was the thinking man’s player; Rickey and Bonds are showboats. I think the fact that Bonds was a rich kid, not to mention a black one, didn’t help endear any of the great white public to him either. And John is correct, Bonds has never played the “Golly gee” card, or even the “Baseball been berry, berry good to me” one that Sammy Sosa has shrewdly employed so succesfully.

Where Bonds loses me is when he complains about not being liked as much as Jordan, Russell, Jabbar and Gretsky. Or respected. The two words are very different to me. If you want to be liked, you have to be a likable guy, or go out of your way to create a likable persona. Barry has always had a say in this, no matter what scars he accrued watching the media’s treatment of his father as a kid. Bonds has made a choice, and he’s had to live with the consequences. He’s chosen to be true to himself, and that has apparently precluded him from using the media to his advantage. His grudges, real or imagined are too great to overcome.
But I don’t think Bonds really cares about being liked. I sure don’t know how well liked Kareem was during his heyday. Respect, that’s another story. It’s seems to me that

Bonds is as respected as a player can be, between the lines. If not by the media and the public than at least by his peers. Feared is another word that comes to mind. But it is true that he isn’t admired, or revered in a way that say, Cal Ripken is. Race certainly has something to do with this. I don’t want to take Bonds off the hook totally, because he’s accountable as well, but Bonds was never interested in selling himself to White America like Michael Jordan has.

I never thought of comparing Bonds and Mattingly, but it’s interesting to think about, simply from a practical approach. They had such different styles. They were such different hitters. I found a good bit from Tom Boswell in his book “Heart of the Order” (Penguin, 1989) that pertains to this difference:

‘For historical reference, the Musial analogy works [with Mattingly]. Left-handed hitter. Eccentric closed and coiled stance. Sprays the ball. Tons of doubles. Not too many walks. Hard to strike out.
“He doesn’t look like Musial, but he hits like him,” says Orioles manager Earl Weaver. “Musial was the best at adjusting once the ball left the pitcher’s hand. He’d hit the pitcher’s pitch. Williams was the best at making them throw his pitch. He didn’t believe in adjusting. If it wasn’t what he wanted, he knew enough to walk to first base. That’s why he hit .406.
Once every coupla games, a Musial or Mattingly is going to adjust and put that tough pitch in play instead of walking and you’re going to get some extra outs. But he’s also going to drive you crazy by popping a perfect fastball on the fists down the left-field line for a double.” (p.68)

You could say the same thing about our Vlad Guerrero today.

Here is one last bit, again from Curt Flood, who once approached Mr. Wunnerful for some hitting advice.

‘Stan Musial also helped—mainly by working as hard as he did on his own perfect swing. If this immortal felt the need for frequent extra practice, how could I hope to prosper on less effort? He was an awesome sight in the batting cage, sweat pouring, brows knit in concentration, telling the pitcher what to throw next, hammering twenty or thirty balls to the fences and beyond—polishing, polishing, polishing.
I once plucked at his sleeve for advice. I had become overanxious about the curve ball and was swinging at it too soon. When balls are being fired toward your head at ninety or a hundred miles an house, there is no time for deliberation. I mean, you do not just decide to delay your bat in case the pitch turns out to be a curve. Proper timing is an end product of a properly balanced stance, a properly hinged swing and, of course, athletic reflexes. I asked Musial if he could tell me how to adjust my swing. He thought about it for a while and then confided with total sincerity, “Well, you wait for a strike. Then you knock the shit out of it.” I might as well have asked a nightingale how to trill.” (pp.63-4)

Vlad G of course takes it to another level. He doesn’t concern himself with balls and strikes. I’m not sure what game he’s playing inside his own head, but he sure does know how to knock the shit of the ball.