By Jeff GlauserTwo men made the Hall of Fame yesterday. Just two. Just the way it should have been.
But here’s the kicker: That remark has nothing to do with cheaters.
More than any other sport, the Baseball Hall of Fame has with it an aura of elitism, an air of exclusivity and, traditionally, an extreme level of discernment.
Six years ago, I experienced this firsthand.
Long ago, before I knew anything regarding the manipulative obsession of video games, women and Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream, there was my first love.
Memories remain of playing catch with my father on a summer weekend, whiffleball tournaments with my neighbor, little league uniforms with the local real estate sponsor and the knee-high stirrups or – before the days of fantasy baseball – creating my own “team,” and keeping score by throwing a racquetball off the garage until it got dark and seeing where it landed, cars be damned.
They were simple times, and – unlike the women – didn’t take much to figure out.
My favorite team, of course, was the Phillies (which may explain my longstanding inferiority complex). My favorite player, like every other kid in the Delaware Valley, Mike Schmidt (although – even then an anti-conformist – one year I wanted to stand out from the pack. Hence, my Jeff Stone phase).
As a child, it was easy to understand the appeal of a Schmidt. Steady and dominant. Clutch and cool. He was bigger than life. Every year, as sure as death, taxes and a Mike Tyson arrest, there was a spot waiting for Schmitty on the all-star squad midseason, a gold glove waiting by season’s end.
It was a no-brainer the man was a lock for the Hall. But much more because of the impact he made on the game, as opposed to the one he made in the box score.
Whatever the reasons – though fantasy leagues are certainly one – the sport has become increasingly stats-oriented. Home runs are far easier to hit, yet somehow far more fascinating to today’s spectator.
Mark McGwire – regardless of possible foreign substances – could hit the hell out of the ball. It was essentially his modus operandi.
But he was essentially a one-trick pony. A career .263 batter. Only seven times did he play in over 140 games – just twice in his last ten seasons. One gold glove (one more than he deserved). A renowned power hitter, yet only six seasons with over 100 RBIs, three with over 100 runs and never with more than 28 doubles (which occurred as a rookie). In fact, take away the years 1996-1999 (some may say for, ahem, good reason), and McGwire has a pedestrian 338 home runs.
Numbers don’t lie – but perceptions can. If he dominated, it was certainly fleeting.
Six years ago, I entered the Hall of Fame – as a visitor. Instantly, I became a child again, surrounded by epic, mythical figures. Those who each defined their respective eras. Not based on numbers, per se, but on performance.
Yesterday, two others entered the Hall – as permanent residents. Both steady and dominant. Clutch and cool. Faces of an era and – just as importantly – of their franchises. When you think Orioles and Padres, can you seriously think of anyone else?
As a child, the future Hall of Famers were not subtle – they were blatantly apparent. Bigger than life. Schmidt. Boggs. Brett. Clemens. Ryan.
More than any other sport, the Baseball Hall of Fame has with it an aura of elitism, an air of exclusivity and, traditionally, an extreme level of discernment.
Six years ago, I experienced this firsthand.
Long ago, before I knew anything regarding the manipulative obsession of video games, women and Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream, there was my first love.
Memories remain of playing catch with my father on a summer weekend, whiffleball tournaments with my neighbor, little league uniforms with the local real estate sponsor and the knee-high stirrups or – before the days of fantasy baseball – creating my own “team,” and keeping score by throwing a racquetball off the garage until it got dark and seeing where it landed, cars be damned.
They were simple times, and – unlike the women – didn’t take much to figure out.
My favorite team, of course, was the Phillies (which may explain my longstanding inferiority complex). My favorite player, like every other kid in the Delaware Valley, Mike Schmidt (although – even then an anti-conformist – one year I wanted to stand out from the pack. Hence, my Jeff Stone phase).
As a child, it was easy to understand the appeal of a Schmidt. Steady and dominant. Clutch and cool. He was bigger than life. Every year, as sure as death, taxes and a Mike Tyson arrest, there was a spot waiting for Schmitty on the all-star squad midseason, a gold glove waiting by season’s end.
It was a no-brainer the man was a lock for the Hall. But much more because of the impact he made on the game, as opposed to the one he made in the box score.
Whatever the reasons – though fantasy leagues are certainly one – the sport has become increasingly stats-oriented. Home runs are far easier to hit, yet somehow far more fascinating to today’s spectator.
Mark McGwire – regardless of possible foreign substances – could hit the hell out of the ball. It was essentially his modus operandi.
But he was essentially a one-trick pony. A career .263 batter. Only seven times did he play in over 140 games – just twice in his last ten seasons. One gold glove (one more than he deserved). A renowned power hitter, yet only six seasons with over 100 RBIs, three with over 100 runs and never with more than 28 doubles (which occurred as a rookie). In fact, take away the years 1996-1999 (some may say for, ahem, good reason), and McGwire has a pedestrian 338 home runs.
Numbers don’t lie – but perceptions can. If he dominated, it was certainly fleeting.
Six years ago, I entered the Hall of Fame – as a visitor. Instantly, I became a child again, surrounded by epic, mythical figures. Those who each defined their respective eras. Not based on numbers, per se, but on performance.
Yesterday, two others entered the Hall – as permanent residents. Both steady and dominant. Clutch and cool. Faces of an era and – just as importantly – of their franchises. When you think Orioles and Padres, can you seriously think of anyone else?
As a child, the future Hall of Famers were not subtle – they were blatantly apparent. Bigger than life. Schmidt. Boggs. Brett. Clemens. Ryan.
Cooperstown opened its doors yesterday for two more prototypes of that era – and rightfully so.
It kept them shut for another – and rightfully so.
Share your own Jeff Stone memories with Jeff Glauser at send2jg@hotmail.com.
Share your own Jeff Stone memories with Jeff Glauser at send2jg@hotmail.com.
2 comments:
Where did this guy come from? His articles blow.
Totally disagree. Well written, well-researched, and articulate. Looking forward to seeing more. Good pick up, Phanatic!
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