Category: Fandom

I previously wrote about a former fire-baller who, midway through his career, became considerably more crafty, and pitched for nearly two decades, winning more than 200 games. My conclusion was that while David Cone may not have had a Hall of Fame resumé, he deserved at more than one year on the ballot.

This week we will look at another former fire-baller who, midway through his career, became considerably more crafty, and pitched for more than two decades, winning more than 200 games. My conclusion, as you will see below, is that Frank Tanana deserved at least one vote on the Hall of Fame ballot.

The then-California Angels made Frank Tanana the thirteenth pick in the 1971 draft. And two years later, at the tender age of 19, he made his major league debut. He threw four innings and gave up four earned runs in his first appearance, taking the loss against the Kansas City Royals. He faced the Royals again five days later, and didn’t relinquish the hill or the ball, going nine innings, giving up one earned run, en route to his first big league complete game and victory. Tanana would finish the season with a 2-2 record and a 3.08 ERA.

Tanana spent eight years in Anaheim, was traded to Boston for a year, then to Texas for three-plus seasons, before being sent to his hometown team, the Detroit Tigers. Tanana finished his career in New York – spending parts of the 1993 season in Queens and then the Bronx. When the final tally was done, he won 240 games against 236 losses, with a 3.66 ERA, 3.79 FIP, and a 106 ERA+. At first glance, with those stats, he was a just-above-average pitcher who played long enough to accumulate more counting stats.

But the truth is harder to parse. When Tanana first came on the scene, he was part of a one-two punch with Nolan Ryan that rivaled Warren Spahn and Johnny Sain (there was a common saying during the time: “Tanana and Ryan, and two days of cryin’”) and other local heroes, Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale. In 1975, Tanana led the American League in strikeouts with 269 (Ryan had only 186), including 17 in one game against the Rangers, and came in fourth in Cy Young voting. He was an All-Star the next three seasons, leading the league in WHIP in 1976, and ERA and bWAR in 1977. But injuries started to take their toll, and by the end of his tenure with the Angels, he had gone from a fastball pitcher to one who relied on off-speed pitches and deception to get batters out. And yet, from 1981 through the end of his career in 1993, he still averaged 31 starts and 198 innings per season (which would make him a workhorse today). Despite a 138-158 record during that time, he pitched to a 100 ERA+ – perfectly average.

And although it was a different time, it is notable that Tanana completed more than twenty percent of his career starts: 143 of 638.

Unfortunately for the lefty, he only made two post-season appearances, both in the American League Championship Series. In the first, in 1979 for the Angels against the Orioles, he went five innings, surrendering two earned runs, taking a no-decision in his team’s loss. The second, eight years later while pitching for the Tigers against the Twins, he went 5-1/3, giving up three earned runs, and took the loss.

When sizing up Tanana’s Hall of Fame bona fides, he doesn’t really stack up. The average Hall of Fame pitcher has 40 instances of black ink (leading the league in a category) on his Baseball Reference page. Tanana has nine.

Bill James’ Hall of Fame Monitor, which has a score of 100 as a likely Hall of Famer, nets the lefty out at 55.

And according to Jay Jaffe’s JAWS measurement, Tanana comes up short in every category:

• Career bWAR: 57.1 (Avg HOF Pitcher: 73.0)
• 7-Year Peak bWAR: 38.1 (Avg HOF Pitcher: 49.9)
• JAWS: 47.6 (Avg HOF Pitcher: 61.5)
• WAR/162: 3.1 (Avg HOF Pitcher: 4.5)

Tanana appeared on the 1999 Hall of Fame ballot along with his former teammate Nolan Ryan, and other future Hall of Famers George Brett, Robin Yount, Carlton Fisk, Tony Pérez, Gary Carter, Jim Rice, Bruce Sutter, Jim Kaat, Dave Parker (this year), Bert Blyleven, and Minnie Miñoso. Even with Steve Garvey, Dale Murphy, Tommy John, Dave Concepción, Luis Tiant, and Dwight Evans on the same ballot, some writer – from the Orange County Register or the Detroit Free Press – from some publication, could have found some room on their ballot for one measly vote for a pitcher who, at the time, was eleventh all-time in left-handed pitcher wins. Alas, it was not meant to be, and Tanana joins the ranks of very good players who only got one shot at Hall of Fame induction.

PLAY BALL!!

In 2012, I took my son’s travel ball team to a Lancaster Jethawks game. I had arranged for each kid to run out on the field with his positional counterpart in the top of the first inning.

As the kids gathered, the second baseman circled the boys up and told them to sprint to the outfield immediately after the national anthem and high-five the center fielder. The publicity person told the kids not to do it, but at the behest of this fun-loving Jethawk, they did so anyway.

Two years later, that second baseman would make his major league debut with the Houston Astros; and , then he was quickly traded to the Miami Marlins. The next season, after a trade to the Los Angeles Dodgers, he made his postseason debut, going 4-for-13 in the National League Division Series, which the New York Mets won three games to two. That .308 batting average in four games was a sign of things to come for this versatile young ballplayer. Kiké Hernández has made a name for himself in MLB by being a carefree guy who is not afraid to don a banana suit to lighten the mood. More than that, he has made a name for himself by coming through on the biggest stages when the lights are the brightest.

In 1,183 regular-season games so far during an eleven-year career, Hernández has slashed .238/.308/.405, hitting one home run every 32.5 plate appearances. But in the postseason, those numbers go up to .278/.353/.533, with one home run every 17.3 plate appearances. And this is no small sample size—he has done it over 86 games.

When Hernández has been asked the difference between the regular season and the post-season, he has replied that he has the ability to slow his heartbeat. But it has to be more than that. Average players don’t just change into superstars when the calendar flips to October because of their heartbeat.

Here is a brief chart of active player postseason home run totals:

The only name on this list that is remotely similar to Hernández is Alex Bregman, who (a) played in a hitter’s park with a very short porch (the Crawford Boxes in Houston), and (b) has nearly twice as many post-season plate appearances as Kiké. You don’t sit one home run behind Aaron Judge, and two home runs behind Bryce Harper, just by controlling your breathing. 

But Hernández wasn’t and hasn’t always been Señor October. After that .308 in the 2015 NLDS, he went hitless in eight at bats in the 2016 National League Championship Series, which the Dodgers lost to the Chicago Cubs.

But in Game 5 of the following year’s NLCS, against the same opponent, Hernández had his coming out party. He crushed three home runs into the Chicago night and raised millions of dollars for hurricane relief for his native Puerto Rico in the process. Over the five-game series, he slashed .444/.546/.1444 with seven RBI. The legend of October Kiké was born.

Unfortunately, after that breakout, Hernández went 8-for-54, with just two home runs and four RBI over his next 21 post-season games in four additional playoff series, slashing .148/.258/.259 in the process. Maybe the hype was just that. But in the Covid year of 2020, after going 0-for-5 in the Division Series, Hernández began a resurgence that has not slowed down.

He slashed .308/.357/.769 for the Dodgers in the 2020 NLCS. Then, after a soft 2-10 in the World Series, he left the Dodgers for the Boston Red Sox. The following year he led the BoSox to Game 6 of the ALCS, going 20-for-49, slashing .408/.423/.837, with five home runs and nine RBI for the entire post-season.

This year Hernández was back with the Dodgers and doing what he does best. Over three series he hit .294 while playing great defense at three prime positions: center field, second base, and third base. And the lights and pressure of New York didn’t cow him one bit: he hit .286 over the NLCS and the World Series while smashing yet another post-season home run.

As of this writing, Hernández is a free agent. But after two highly successful runs with the Dodgers, after winning two World Series titles in Los Angeles, after being the Swiss Army knife willing to play any position—including pitcher—and play them all well above-average, there is a very high likelihood that Kiké is back in Dodger blue next season, and at a salary considerably higher than the $4 million he earned last year.

PLAY BALL!!

Color me a socialist. Not in the political sense, but in the idea that people who come to sporting events should, by and large, be treated equally and fairly.

It truly bothers me when – at the ballpark – the rich only get richer. I certainly understand that the more you pay for your ticket, the better your seat, and thus the better your view. 

Where my hide starts to get chapped is when the more you pay for your ticket, the better concessions that are available to you. For this thought exercise, I am putting aside the various and sundry stadium clubs that have premier seating and premier services, and thus premier food and beverage. I am talking about sitting in what used to be referred to as “box” seats as opposed to reserved, loge, or the bleachers. It should not be that hard to make sure that the same food is available to all fans, regardless of the price they paid for admission.

Where this bee really gets into my bonnet is with balls thrown into the stands by the players. Sure, you pay more for a ticket, you are closer to the action, and you are more likely to catch a foul ball. That is just how it works.

And that is pretty democratic – no one controls how many or how far foul balls will be hit, and thus many times per game a ball reaches the upper deck where a fan with a lower-cost ticket has a chance of in-game glory and long-term bragging rights; not to mention an incredible souvenir. 

But over the past five to 10 years, we have seen a proliferation of players throwing balls into the stands after the mid-inning toss-around and after the third out is recorded. And nearly every one of these balls ends up in the seats closest to the action, where the rich fans get richer.

I have given this a ton of thought, and was heartened when Steve Ballmer, the exuberant owner of the Los Angeles Clippers, announced that at the team’s new arena there will be T-shirt cannons that reach the upper decks. The T-shirt cannon is the basketball corollary to the between-innings ball toss into the stands. These predominantly go to fans in the most expensive seats. Well, not at the Intuit Dome, and, if I had my way, not at your local ballpark, either. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was lucky enough to be invited to sit in the Dodgers’ Dugout Club. This is the premier seating I referenced above. I was sitting close enough to hear the players chat on their way to and from the field. After the last out of the top of the third inning, the Dodgers tossed the ball around the infield and it ended up in the glove of second baseman Gavin Lux. True to form, Lux tossed the ball into the stands. But, he didn’t just lob it into the luxury seats. He gave it a heave and sent it up to the loge level, where eager fans were shocked and excited to be getting the ball. I remarked to the people I was sitting with that the kid from Wisconsin gets it. With his Midwestern values, Lux understands the importance of hard work and the need for everyone to have a chance to be rewarded. I wish more players did this. 

However, I am not naïve enough to believe that players will suddenly start chucking balls to the farthest reaches of the stands. That is why I previously recommended to the Dodgers’ chief marketing officer that at least a few times each game, a player should toss the ball to an usher (rather than the fans in general) and that usher should deliver the ball to a fan in another section. I cannot state with any authority that the ball would mean more to the kid in the upper deck than the kid in the lower bowl, but I can state that it would somewhat level the non-playing field for fans. Just because your parents cannot afford four tickets at $150 each doesn’t mean you automatically lose the chance to go home happy with a game-used souvenir.  

It is the small things that teams can do to grow the game. Give that kid in the far reaches a ball, and she is a fan for life. Her family tells that story to their friends and neighbors, and they are more likely to shell out for tickets, parking, hot dogs, peanuts, and beer. Attendance would increase. Equally as important, fan engagement would increase. Fan excitement would increase. And, if those things continue to occur, team values would increase, which, let’s face it, is what owners truly care about. 

One more minor suggestion: A premier seat owner knows they will not be using their tickets on Tuesday night. They call the team and inform them that the seats will be empty. In return for opening up the seats, the seat owner is given a credit to be used for future tickets or concessions. The team then sends an usher to the upper deck and presents a family with a special surprise: You all get to sit in the unoccupied premier seats for the duration of the game, and you get all of the goodies that go along with that. Heck, the team can even mention the name of the premier seat owner who bequeathed the seats to this unsuspecting family. 

With electronic ticketing and so much information known about attendees, this is low-hanging fruit. It would not take very much to make this happen every night. The marketing boon derived from changing a family’s game-viewing is nearly unquantifiable. Some team – maybe the Yankees, who always seem to have tons of seats open in their most expensive section – needs to institute this plan. And soon. Attendance may be up in MLB this year, but if the sport we love is going to continue to be relevant for future generations, we need to use every tool available to create fans for life. 

Crash Davis says that strikeouts are fascist. I think seats and souvenirs need to be socialist. In today’s game, we cannot do much about the former; but teams certainly can fulfill the dream of the latter.

PLAY BALL!!

My nephew is living my dream. Unlike me, who – many, many years ago – had to walk on, he was recruited to play Division I baseball. He did a workout for the coaches, and joined the team. It wasn’t that easy – most things never are. He – like me – had to endure tryouts in the fall to see who would actually make the club. But, unlike me, when all of the players were culled and all the cuts were made, when the final spring roster was determined, when the coaches decided who they wanted to wear the swanky new uniforms and get the team-issued mitts, my nephew’s name was on the list. Alas, when that final cut happened more than 30 years ago, my name was not.

None of this brings even an ounce of jealousy or envy. My nephew worked hard for this (way harder than I ever did); he earned it; he passed up other opportunities and took risks and they paid off. Kudos to him all around. And now he is living the life of a collegiate athlete, with the early morning wake-ups and the long days and the missed classes due to team travel. And he seems to be loving it.

Recently I went to see him play a game at Pepperdine University in Malibu. If you have never seen a game at the Eddy D. Field Baseball Stadium, which sits on a mountain above the Pacific Ocean, get thee there quickly. There may be no better place to watch a ballgame in the U.S. of A. To get to the field, I needed to travel on Malibu Canyon Road and then turn right onto Pacific Coast Highway. At that intersection, just a few hundred yards to the west, is a single set of baseball fields that may offer an even nicer view than the one at Pepperdine. At that corner sits the perfectly named Bluffs Park, the home of Malibu Little League. On the right day, you can hear the waves crashing while shagging balls in the outfield at Bluffs Park. Here you feel like you could actually hit a ball into the ocean (Note: You can’t).

As I made the right turn, and saw the baseball complex out of the corner of my eye, a chill went up my spine. You see, it was there, on the Pony diamond, in midst of all that beauty, where I had the worst game of my entire baseball career (and that is saying something). It was a Saturday afternoon; I was 12 years old. We were playing a scrimmage against a team from Malibu Little League, and were happy to be the visitors at their incredible facility.

Now here it is important to note that from the time I picked up a bat until the final time I slammed one down at Sancet Stadium in Tucson, Ariz., I could always hit the baseball. I was a contact hitter – I didn’t hit for much power, but I did hit for average. On days that I wasn’t feeling it, I could work a walk like Juan Soto. I never struck out much. To me, the only thing worse than making an error in the field was the slow walk back to the dugout after swinging through (or, G-d forbid, looking at) strike three. (Note: In the ‘80s and ‘90s, strikeouts were frowned upon, not something simply to be expected as one of the three true outcomes. In fact, the year this story occurred, MLB players suffered nearly 50% less strikeouts than they did in 2023.)

But this day in Malibu, with the breeze blowing in and the sun shining bright, was something special. On this Saturday, I came to the plate four times, which is not bad for a seven-inning game. I saw 14 pitches over those four at-bats. Last season, the MLB average was 3.91 pitches per plate appearance, so my 3.5/PA wasn’t too shabby. The difference is that I struck out four times, with my 29” aluminum bat never making contact with that 5 oz. piece of leather. Breaking it down, I struck out on three pitches twice, and on four pitches twice. I batted four times and accomplished a golden sombrero needing only two pitches over the minimum to get there. Suffice it to say, there was no ice cream for me afterwards. 

The game was so awful, my performance so dreadful, that I actually shook it off pretty quickly. I couldn’t do much more than laugh. One of my coaches said to me, “It’s just one of those days.” In the moment, I sincerely hoped that the plural would never be necessary. And lucky for me, it never was. But that day, nearly 40 years on, still lingers, still sits like a pit in my stomach, and still brought a shiver when I passed that infernal baseball diamond on my way to watch my nephew do great things.

Baseball is the best sport. It sticks with you. It brings you joy and pain. I recently started playing in a Sunday softball league, and I was astonished by my muscle memory. Having spent the better part of my childhood fielding grounders and chasing fly balls, my body intuitively knew where to go and how to react and when to bend. Drop-stepping and making a play on a fly ball to left field at 52 years of age nearly brought more joy than striking out four times on 14 pitches brought pain, if that makes sense. The game, once ingrained, never leaves you.

My nephew is having a terrific year. He cracked the starting lineup a few weeks back, is hitting over .300, and was nominated for the WCC Freshman of the Week at the end of April. He will have good days and bad days ahead, but hopefully he never experiences a day like I had in 1984 at Bluffs Park. But even if he does, he can hang his hat (rather than his head) on the fact that he is a legitimate Division I college baseball player, he is living his dream. And, in so many ways, he is living mine.