A Game of Inches

I think I was about 14 years old when we had a bang-bang play on the baseball field. Some wise-beyond-his-years kid in the dugout said – to no one in particular – “Baseball is a game inches.” One of our wise-due-to-his-years coaches quickly retorted, “Baseball isn’t a game of inches. Sex is a game of inches.” This statement went over our heads, but we all laughed because our coach said “sex” and we were teenage boys. If life has taught me anything, it is that both the player and the coach were correct. And we saw the player’s view unfold last night at Dodger Stadium.

If the Dodgers ultimately find themselves in the one-game wild card round facing Yu Darvish, they will look back to July 22nd and they will be thinking about a game of inches.

If you didn’t watch or see highlights of the slow motion dumpster fire that was fourth game of the most recent Giants-Dodger series, allow me to set the stage.

On Monday night, the Giants thumped the Boys in Blue 7-2.

On Tuesday night, it looked to be more of the same. But the Dodgers scored three in the sixth, and then walked it off on a Will Smith three-run homer in the bottom of the ninth to complete a comeback from being down 6-1.

Wednesday night had the Dodgers poised to draw even in the standings with the Giants, leading 2-1 going to the top of the ninth. And then Kenley Jansen brought his gas can to the mound. Single, homer, K, double, walk, walk, Jansen replaced, K, walk, ground out. Giants 4, Dodgers 2. Gut punch.

But the Dodgers bounced back in the finale, going for the split and a one-game deficit. They led 3-1 going to the top of the ninth. Despite throwing 27 pitches (and blowing the save the night before) Dave Roberts sent Jansen back out there to try yet again. There are myriad reasons why a manager might want to get his closer back on the horse and wash the previous two save opportunities off. Roberts may believe that the Dodgers have no chance in October without a healthy Kenley (both physically and mentally), so now is the time to get him right. Maybe, as some opine, the front office dictated that the ninth inning belongs to Jansen. Maybe he demanded the ball, and Doc was too intimidated to say no. We will never know the truth. What we do know is that Kenley came out of the pen throwing darts. The announcers observed that it may have been a combination of adrenaline and embarrassment that got him to 96 MPH on the gun.

Whatever the impetus, Jansen used it to strike out Mike Yastrzemski on three pitches. He then gave up a single to Wilmer Flores (the ninth inning home run hero from the night before); followed by a strike out of Alex Dickerson on said 96 MPH heater. He started Donovan Solano with another 96 MPH cutter for a swinging strike. But MLB players can hit speed without movement, and Solano crushed the next offering (94 MPH) off the wall in dead center for a double. Tying runs in scoring position, two outs. Jansen got Jason Vosler, a rookie with all of 66 big league plate appearances, to 1-2. After a foul ball, we were introduced to our first game of inches. Jansen threw a nasty slider just inches low. The rookie spit on it; the umpire called it correctly. The next two pitches weren’t even close – bases loaded.

Next up, Thairo Estrada (yeah, me either). He hit a routine (although slow) grounder to short. Chris Taylor fielded it cleanly and tossed it to Sheldon Neuse who was standing on second base. Neuse caught the ball as if it were three hours before first pitch and he was having a catch with someone from the local Kiwanis Club. Neuse was drafted out of the University of Oklahoma by the Nationals in 2016. In college, Sheldon played exactly 1 game at second base. In the minors from 2016-2018, Sheldon played exactly 1 game at second base. Starting in 2019, both the A’s (to whom he was traded in 2017) and the Dodgers (to whom he was traded in 2021), started giving Neuse reps at 2B. He played 16 minor league games there before playing 20 for the A’s in 2019. He played there 21 times at Triple-A this season before being called up, and has now played there in 11 games with the Dodgers. So Neuse is no newbie at second base, but he certainly isn’t seasoned. Would a seasoned second baseman – or at least one more accustomed to the position, say Chris Taylor, or even Max Muncy who has played more than a thousand innings at second – have known to stretch for Taylor’s throw? I know Kiké Hernández would have (but he plays for the Red Sox). Gavin Lux would have (but he is out with a hamstring injury). Hell, Albert Pujols (he of 3.1 career innings at second base) would have. But that is not who was there with two outs in the ninth on Thursday night. That would be Sheldon Neuse, who didn’t heed the “game of inches” trope. So, despite an initial out call to end the game, upon further review, the runner was safe, the run scored, the bases remained loaded, and the game went on.

Still leading 3-2, the Dodgers just needed to retire Darin Ruf to go home happy. After working a 3-2 count, Ruf checked his swing on a cutter up in the zone, which, upon further review, was clearly a swing. But the first base umpire didn’t believe so. In the umpire’s “game of inches,” Ruf held up and took ball four, forcing in the tying run. Dave Roberts, likely frustrated with himself (why Kenley; why Neuse; why is this happening again?!), frustrated with his players (see, Jansen and Neuse), and angry at an umpire who blew the (would be) game-ending call, lost it. Out of the dugout he stormed, hat in one direction, arms in two other directions, and curse words and spittle in the direction of the offending (offensive?) umpire. Roberts got tossed, the next batter singled home two, at which point the game was all but done for.

The Dodgers were mere inches from splitting the series and being 8-5 on the season versus the Giants. They were mere inches away from being one game back of their NorCal rival. They were mere inches away from restoring some level of confidence in their $80M closer. Baseball, as the Dodgers learned the hard way Thursday night, truly is a game of inches. And, once again, the Dodgers fell short.

PLAY BALL!!

From “Let’s Go” to Letting Go

My son was three years old when I handed him a small glove and said, “Let’s go.” We were headed to Dodger Stadium and his first baseball game. But his early life experiences would not be limited to Chavez Ravine. No, as my father did before me, and as his father did before him, I elected to foist my ardor for baseball onto my son, to teach him the game and to teach him to love the game.

By the time he was six years old, he had already visited a handful of stadiums and walked on the field at Fenway Park. By age ten, he had seen a Home Run Derby and an All-Star Game, and met legends like Goose Gossage. Hell, before he could drive, he had visited the Baseball Hall of Fame and attended two World Series games. Sure, my dad and I were each raised on baseball, but neither of us had it nearly as good as my son, who was (and is) living the life of Riley when it comes to the game.

My son took to baseball like a fish to water, and began playing t-ball like the other kids. And soon he was working the Little League scoreboard on Saturday afternoons. Which led to him asking me to teach him how to keep score. He would walk around with an umpire’s indicator in his hand to keep track of the action. He learned the history of the game, watched present-day highlights, and kept an eye out for future stars (including one he played with). A running joke between us — but only because it is partially true — is that the only non-required reading he has done in the last five years is Dustin Pedroia’s biography.

My son has an affinity for baseball, and for baseballs. He has a knack for knowing just what level of annoyance is necessary to get a player to toss him one, and he knows where to stand at the end of an inning. Not even blue is safe, as my son positions himself by the umpire’s tunnel at the end of a game knowing that perfectly good pearls are in the home-plate umpire’s ball bag just waiting to be liberated and added to his collection.

But more than anything, my son loves the ballpark. Once he got his driver’s license, he would leave for games hours before me, parking outside the stadium and trekking in to be the first one through the gates. And he never wants to leave before the game is over. And by “over,” I mean that we need to step over brooms sweeping the stands.

Earlier this summer, our family spent some time in Chicago. So, of course, my son found his way to Wrigley Field hours before first pitch, leaving the rest of us to meet him there at a more reasonable time. And since we were going to be in the Midwest, and to continue my personal quest to get to every park in the majors, I booked us a trip through Ohio.

First stop: Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati. This time I went early with my son, but as soon as we had cleared the metal detector, he was off to chase a batting practice ball or a ballplayer interaction. Cincinnati was a revelation — a great park with an even better vibe. After walking past the statues of Reds greats on Joe Nuxhall Way, we were ready for our next stop: Huntington Park in Columbus.

Truth be told, this Triple-A sojourn was my son’s idea. He looked at the map and the calendar, and realized that Columbus was on our way, and the team was in town. So, to the Clippers game we went. There we were treated to a grand tour of the minor league (in affiliation only) park for a team with a rich history. We sat along the first-base line and were close enough to hear the coach yell “Back!” when a pick-off attempt was made. Circling around the outfield, we could hear the center fielder call off his compadre on a fly ball in the gap. The food was great, the lines were short, and the parking was cheap. And the team store had a better selection than a major league team that I will not name to avoid offending any readers.

After a night in Columbus, we headed north to my son’s namesake yard: “The Jake.” Now known as Progressive Field, it lived up to the hype. Sure, I would have loved to have been at Municipal Stadium when the Red Sox won Game 5 of the 2007 ALCS, with Josh Beckett besting CC Sabathia. But from what I have heard about the “Mistake by the Lake,” I didn’t miss much from a ballpark standpoint. The Jake, er, Progressive Field, is fantastic. The sightlines are clean, the concourses are broad, the sausages are flavorful, and the beer is plentiful. The park holds 35,000, and it feels both larger and more intimate.

At one point late in the game, a collection of Indians faithful decided to taunt Miguel Cabrera. Even with a packed crowd, Miggy could hear them loud and clear. Their exchange was hilarious, and when the future Hall of Famer motioned for the group to stop drinking, the place erupted with laughter. The Indians scored 13 runs, Cabrera hit his 493rd career dinger, and the fans went home happy. This was one of those nights that you don’t want to end.

We took a long walk out of the ballpark — well after the grounds crew had descended onto the field. And then an even longer walk back to our hotel. Our journey was coming to an end. In that half mile stroll, I began to feel a great deal of nostalgia. Not only was this trip over, but so too was this phase of my relationship with my son.

Soon he will be a heady college student, with all that that entails. Soon he will be living nearly 2,000 miles and two time zones away. Soon he will be one of those rowdy guys drinking too many Great Lakes Lagers and shouting at opposing players. And, before too long, he will be taking his son (one can hope!) to ballgames and ballparks across this great land. East 9th Street in Cleveland, Ohio felt a little like a Rubicon, from which there was no going back.

But, like baseball, hope springs eternal. Once we were back in L.A., we had one more bite at the apple. With the Red Sox in town, we headed down to Anaheim Stadium to catch a glimpse of Shohei Ohtani (and to get his giveaway birthday pillow). Jake had a conversation with, and got a ball from, Jason Varitek, because, why wouldn’t he? And he caught a ball between innings. And the Red Sox won a nail biter. And we headed home. We drove a long way in silence. Him, with thoughts of baseball and the future. And me, with thoughts of baseball and the past.

PLAY BALL!!

What Are We Doing?

One of my best friend’s favorite thing to say is “What are we doing?” I have thought about that expression often the last couple of weeks with respect to MLB umpires turned TSA agents ferreting out illegal substances. By now we have all witnessed the Max Scherzer interrogations as well as the Sergio Romo striptease, and, of course, the Shohei Ohtani giggle-fest with the boys in blue. We know that the Mariners Héctor Santiago became the first victim of this new “sticky stuff” enforcement regime. But, really, what are we doing?

        

Santiago has already appealed his suspension, claiming his glove contained only sweat and rosin. And truth be told, what schmuck would load up with anything illegal the first week of spot checks? Scherzer, after Joe Girardi specifically asked the umpires to check him, said it best: “I would be a super fool to use something [that day].” This all begs the questions: Since when did umpires become scientists? Since when do they have the requisite knowledge and training to determine rosin + sweat is different than rosin + Bull Frog? Sure, a lump of pine tar on Michael Pineda’s neck is an easy call. Stevie Wonder could find a piece of sandpaper in Kevin Gross’s glove. It didn’t take the Hubble Telescope to spot the emery board flying out of Joe Niekro’s back pocket. And maybe Spider Tack is easy to discover – that shit makes Gorilla Glue look like Elmer’s. But we are now living in the gray area where pitchers may or may not be cheating, and – by rule – we have appointed the umpires judge and jury.

After his ejection last week, Santiago’s glove was confiscated and deposited into a plastic evidence bag for the guys at CSI Park Avenue to analyze. But why? As Jesse Rogers of ESPN reported: “Per source, the league didn’t need to inspect Santiago’s glove any further. The ejection and discipline are based on the umpires’ report of having detected a foreign substance.” So, why don lab gloves and radioactive tongs and make a show of taking the mitt out of play? Once they determined there was “sticky stuff,” they could have tossed Santiago – setting up his eventual 10-game suspension – and let him go to the clubhouse with at least his glove, if not his dignity. The rest of the performance was simple frippery.

Santiago, like Scherzer and Romo before him, denied any wrongdoing. And for the reasons articulated above, I tend to believe them all (but check back in a month or two when the inspections have become more lax). But what I find comical about this entire drill is that it is always the same: pitcher leaves the mound, umpire checks his hat, his glove, and his belt, and off he goes (well, not Santiago). Are those the only three places a pitcher might hide an illegal substance?

Buster Olney reported in the lead up to this new investigation routine that umpires were going to use scouting reports on different pitchers to check them for their specific tendencies. That is what Girardi was getting at with Scherzer – claiming that on all other nights Scherzer never touched his hair, but on this night he touched his hair, so obviously he was hiding something on his follicularly-challenged head. But outside of that one inspection, the umpires largely have stuck to the big three locations.

I was at a game in Cincinnati last weekend, and a Braves pitcher went behind the mound and bounced the rosin bag on his hand. He then adjusted his pants right above the ankles. The whole thing may have been totally innocuous. Or, he may have had some unlawful compound on his leg. We will never know. As this was happening I said to my son, “Let’s see if the umpires check his pants at the end of the inning.” Sure enough, the third out was recorded, and the umpires checked his hat, his glove, and his belt. The pants – which he touched immediately after loading up with rosin – were left uninspected. Which led me to ask: “What are we doing?”

It is my sincere hope that the June 15th memo, and the June 21st commencement of inspections, was a “scared straight” plan of attack. MLB is hoping that players, knowing that the Rule 6.02 (c-d) is now being enforced and suspensions are forthcoming, will stop the practice. If that was the wish, it seems to have been fulfilled. In the period between the day that word leaked that the hammer was about to fall and the day that umpires actually pulled out their science kits, spin rates dropped 22rpm for four-seam fastballs, 42rpm for sliders, and 47rpm for curveballs; strike out rates dropped a full percentage point; and batting average rose about six points (which seems small, but is actually a huge jump league-wide in a few short weeks). And since enforcement began, those rpm numbers have dropped even further and batting average has gone up another two points.

But since there have been countless inspections and only one (alleged) culprit, the current system of checks and re-checks is nothing more than Kabuki theater. If they really want to catch some culprits and end this endemic violation of the rules, the umpires should begin spot-checking different pitchers during random innings and in varied uniform and equipment locations. The pitchers can and should know that the “sticky stuff” highway is heavily patrolled, but they shouldn’t know behind which bush Smokey is hiding, and they certainly shouldn’t know what part of their person or equipment will be searched. Do that, and pitchers will have something to fear and a reason to not use the banned substances; do that, and teams will be disinclined to continue their never-ending quest to gain a competitive advantage (rules be damned); do that, and we will finally have some true law enforcement.

Otherwise, what are we doing?

PLAY BALL!!

p.s.  For more about this topic, and much, much more, tune in to the IBWAA Podcast.

 

Fathers & Sons

When I first walked through the gates of Sancet Field (now Stadium) at the University of Arizona, my eyes were immediately drawn to center field. Shagging fly balls out there was the best baseball player I had ever seen. He wasn’t huge (5’11”, 195 pounds), but he was so smooth. He tracked down every line drive, had a cannon attached to his shoulder, and hit the ball a country mile. Little did I know that that guy was the son of former big leaguer Clyde Mashore, who played five years in the National League in the ‘70s, finishing with -1.7 of total bWAR. My new college teammate (however temporarily) was Damon Mashore, who made it to “The Show,” played three seasons, and ended his career in 1998 with a total of .5 bWAR. Advantage: Son.

In Joe Posnanski’s fantastic book, The Soul of Baseball, the late, great Buck O’Neil had the following soliloquy: “Why do you think there are so many fathers and sons in the game? Maybe it’s because baseball is a sport you hand down to your kids. Does a father teach his son how to be a running back? No, see, that’s instinct. Everybody runs with their own style. Does a father teach his son how to play basketball? Maybe, there are a few fathers and sons in basketball, right? But it’s not the same thing. In baseball, you play catch with your son. You teach him how to hold a bat, how to swing it, how to get under a pop-up, how to throw to the right base. You teach him how to run the bases. You teach him how to run back on a ball over his head. You teach him how to throw a curveball. In baseball, you pass along wisdom, like your father did for you in your backyard.”

With apologies to Helen Callaghan, baseball is a sport of fathers and sons. So, in honor of Father’s Day and in keeping with Buck O’Neil’s brilliant insights, let’s take a look at some other apples that have fallen from trees.

Per CBS Sports:

  • There are 240 father-son combinations to have reached the big leagues.
  • There are 46 active second-generation players.
  • Five families have produced third-generation players: the Bells (Gus, Buddy, David, and Mike), the Boones (Ray, Bob, Bret, and Aaron), the Colemans (Joe, Joe Jr., and Casey), the Hairstons (Sammy, Jerry, Johnny, Jerry Jr., and Scott), and the Schofield/Werths (Ducky Schofield, Dick Schofield, and Jayson Werth).

And when Bret Boone’s son, Jake, was taken in last year’s draft by the Washington Nationals, we were given a puncher’s chance of seeing our first fourth-generation player. Suffice it to say, one (but certainly not the only) prerequisite to becoming a Major League player is having a father who did so.

That in itself is not that interesting. What is interesting is that in lineups all across the big leagues you can find the name of a second-generation player who is markedly better than his father. And, when you include two Hall of Famers in the mix, that is high praise indeed. Here is just a handful of these comparisons (all statistics current through June 17th):

Fernando & Fernando, Jr. Tatis: I am not sure we even need to do this analysis. Senior had a fine 11-year career, finishing with 6.4 bWAR. But, if he hadn’t hit two grand slams in a single inning at Dodger Stadium in 1999, we probably wouldn’t know too much about him. Now he is best known for rearing his namesake. Junior is one of (if not the) most exciting players in the game today. He is a five-tool star who does everything better than nearly everyone else. If he can avoid injuries (a valid concern), he is on his way to living up to his $324M contract and possibly to Cooperstown. Sure, that is a long way off; but, in 2.5 seasons he already has 10.1 bWAR, 50% more than dad. Senior may get the biggest piece of chicken, but Junior gets the biggest applause.

Vladimir & Vladimir, Jr. Guerrero: This one is the most fascinating of the father-son combos. Vladdy had a historic career. Over 16 seasons he collected 2590 hits, slugged 449 home runs, knocked in 1496, had an OPS of .931, and ended with 59.5 bWAR. He was elected to the Hall of Fame in 2018 with 92.9% of the vote. And yet, Vladito may be better (but not quite yet). The son learned to control the strike zone (“do as I say, not as I do”), hits the ball harder and more consistently than dad, and is off to an incredible start. But at similar places in their careers, dad still outpaces son in nearly all metrics:

 

  G H R HR BB SO
Vlad 258 305 154 50 61 137
Jr. 250 266 137 46 107 174

 

That said, take a look at this from MLB’s Instagram account:

Dante & Bo Bichette: You will recall that Dante had a great career as part of the Blake Street Bombers in the thin air at Coors Field. He started with the Angels and then moved to Milwaukee before landing in Denver. He rounded out his tenure with Toronto, Cincinnati, and Boston, compiling 274 home runs, an .835 OPS, and 107 OPS+, with 5.6 career bWAR.

Those are fine numbers, and it was a fine career. But if we just look at his and his son Bo’s first chunk of time, we will see how much better the fils is than the père.

 

  G H R HR BB SO
Dante 178 130 54 18 22 110
Bo 142 176 107 30 37 148

 

Craig & Cavan Biggio: Craig was elected into HOF in 2015. He is clearly one of the best to ever play the game. As such, he left his son, Cavan, with huge shoes to fill. As such, Cavan may be the one kid on this list who doesn’t surpass his father in either skills or (ultimate) stats. Craig came up as a catcher, moved to centerfield, and landed at second base. Cavan is also a bit of Swiss Army knife, playing second, third, and a little outfield, and has actually gotten off to a better start to his career than his dad. But he has a long way – any many hit-by-pitches – to go before he can carry dad’s jock. Considering where they started, it will be interesting to see where they finish:

 

  G H R HR BB SO
Craig 184 140 78 16 56 93
Cavan 205 172 125 30 135 235

 

One additional note about the above three from Jayson Stark’s “Weird and Wild” column in The Athletic: Last weekend, all three players, all three sons of former big leaguers, hit home runs at Fenway Park two games in a row. That has never happened before.

Clay & Cody Bellinger: Clay Bellinger had an unremarkable four-year career. But, hey, he was a big leaguer. His best contribution may have been passing his DNA to his son Cody. Since Clay only played four years, let’s take a look at Cody’s first four years (which combines the 60-game 2020 and the 16 he has played to date in 2021):

 

  G H R HR BB SO
Clay 183 60 57 12 22 82
Cody 522 508 337 124 267 466

 

If Cody doesn’t play another MLB game, he has already won a Rookie of the Year, an MVP, and a World Series. It is already clear that Cody > Clay.

Charlie & Ke’Bryan Hayes: This one may be too soon to tell, but we can make an educated guess. Charlie had a very nice career, culminating with his squeezing the last out of the 1996 World Series. Over 14 years, he collected 1379 hits, 144 of which left the yard, and accumulated 10.5 bWAR.

Ke’Bryan is the top prospect in the Pirates organization, may soon be deemed the best defensive third baseman in baseball, and hits like a mule kicks. Putting aside his lack of understanding that you must step on all of the bases when you hit one over the fence, his career looks awfully bright, and it seems he may pass papa in no time flat.

Raúl & Adalberto Mondesi: One might claim this one is too soon to tell, but I think it is safe to say that dad will have bragging rights at Thanksgiving. Raúl played 13 years, hit 271 home runs, and threw runners out with abandon. He finished his career with 29.5 bWAR.

Adalberto is a middle infielder with not much pop (35 dingers over six seasons), not much contact (359 Ks in 1200 plate appearances with 30% K-rate), not much selection (4.2% BB-rate), and a .709 OPS. If you doubled Adalberto’s career and got him to 12 seasons, he would be WAY short of his dad’s ultimate numbers. I guess, theoretically, Adalberto’s 13th season could be Mike Trout-ish and get him the win in the last furlong, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

Bobby & Bobby, Jr. Witt: This one is truly too soon to know, but you know. Putting aside the difficulty in comparing pitchers and hitters, we are stymied by the fact that Junior has yet to reach the majors (despite having an incredible spring training and tantalizing the people in Kansas City). Bobby played with eight teams over 16 seasons, collected 142 wins against 157 losses (if you are into that type of thing), with a 4.83 ERA and a 1.569 WHIP. He ended with 14.6 bWAR. If Bobby, Jr. lives up to even half the hype, he will pass Senior in his third or fourth big league season.

As you may have guessed, there are many more former fathers and current sons we could compare, including the McCullers (Lance & Lance, Jr.), the Pedersons (Stu & Joc), the Brantleys (Mickey & Michael), the Bedrosians (Steve & Cam), the Quantrills (Paul & Cal), and the Shaws (Jeff & Travis). But the players listed above are a great cross-section of the current crop of kids, most of whom are boat-racing the men who taught them the game.

However, regardless of how many records they set or how much money they make, my guess is that they will all live by Ken Griffey, Jr.’s credo: Dad still pays.

Have a wonderful Father’s Day. Grab your pops, or grab your son, or grab them both, and…

PLAY BALL!!

When Playing Politics, Play to Win

Much has been written, including by my IBWAA colleague Dan Schlossberg, about Rob Manfred’s (unilateral?) decision to move the 2021 All-Star Game from Cobb County, Georgia (it is important to note that the Braves technically do not play in Atlanta) to Denver, Colorado due to Georgia’s new election law. MLB issued a statement saying that this was “the best way to demonstrate our values as a sport.”

More than 200 companies, including Coke, Delta, Apple, and Microsoft have spoken out about the bill and voting rights in general. And, in response, politicians from Marco Rubio to Ted Cruz to Greg Abbott have weighed in, with Mitch McConnell saying that corporations have “the right to participate in the political process [but should] stay out of politics.” Said differently, please keep those sweet corporate donations coming, but please keep your corporate mouths shut.

Our former president jumped into the fray – why wouldn’t he after suggesting that fans boycott football (and a whole host of other companies, products, channels, shows, etc.) – stating, “I would say boycott baseball, why not? I think what they did was a terrible thing.”

In lieu of (or in addition to) a boycott, a handful of congresspersons introduced legislation to strip MLB of its antitrust exemption. We can debate whether or not such an exemption should remain in effect, but what is perfectly clear is that it should not be removed as retribution for a disliked business decision.

These elected officials are doing a lot of pearl clutching about a major sports league wading into the political sphere. These are the same pearls that were clutched when NFL players kneeled for the national anthem, or when WNBA stars wore Raphael Warnock t-shirts, or when the NBA elected not to play after the death of Jacob Blake. But none of these people seemed to have an issue with military flyovers or President Bush throwing out the first pitch in the 2001 World Series, or any of the other countless political events that take place in ballparks and arenas and stadiums each and every year. And, as Howard Bryant rightly pointed out: “For people upset about sports applying political pressure on states, it appears they’ve forgotten the only reason Atlanta even has a baseball team is because in 1965 the city agreed to integrate seating at Fulton County Stadium as a condition for the Milwaukee Braves to move.”

But Manfred’s decision struck a nerve because it went right to the heart of the political process and the means and methods people use the same to get elected. I am not here to opine about the virtues or iniquities of the law, other than to say that the dialogue about it in the media and elsewhere has been misguided, focusing on prior versions of the legislation as well as the wrong aspects of it. The discourse has been exaggerated (at best), and outright wrong (at worst). Those failures – as well as the failures in the law itself – seem to be easily correctable, however.

But claiming sports and politics should not mix is a fool’s errand, a naïve desire, and a willful evasion of the world in which we live. And it is through that lens that I view Manfred’s decision to move the game. I believe that Manfred felt he had no choice. As has been pointed out by Buster Olney and others, if Manfred elected to keep the game in Georgia, this would have been a topic of conversation every day from now until July. Players would have been asked about it, throwing them – oftentimes unwillingly – into a political scrum. This had the potential to splinter clubhouses, forcing players to make what could and would be viewed as a political decision if/when they were given the honor of being an “All-Star.” Some guys just want to play ball.

Further, I am certain Manfred envisioned a scenario in which one or two players elected to forego the game, and then many more followed suit. And, of course, there is the issue of sponsors withdrawing their financial and cultural support for both the game and “the game.” And, as Schlossberg pointed out in his article, Dave Roberts’ ambivalence about managing the NL squad must have had some impact on the Commissioner’s final verdict. If I were sitting in Manfred’s gilded chair, I would fear that I might ultimately be required to cancel the All-Star Game, which would be a blemish considerably harder to erase than letting one end in a tie.

It has been reported that some owners wanted more input. But from my cynical perspective, they less wanted a seat at the table, and more wanted to delay the decision until it was too late, until it was economically and practically unfeasible to actually move the game. And, if for whatever reason, the game was eventually canceled, it would not be the owners’ fault – they would hang the whole mess around Manfred’s neck. They would disclaim any responsibility, and attempt to claim the high ground with their players, sponsors, and communities.

Again, it is easy to see why Manfred did what he did when he did it. But, that resolution seems a bit facile to me.

There is no doubt that this whole situation is fraught. And there is no doubt that politics and race have butted their way into the national pastime in a way that neither fans nor players nor owners nor the Commissioner would have ever wanted. But complaining and being outraged and calling for boycotts are all now competing to become the national pastime. And I firmly believe that some of that could have been avoided by doing the hard thing, by keeping the game in Georgia, and by having a plan.

Had Manfred taken a beat, gathered some very smart, very capable, very experienced, people in a room and given them twenty-four hours to come up with a list of ways to make this work – had he considered it less from a public relations perspective and more a human relations perspective – he may have come to a different conclusion. He may have determined that as much good could come from keeping the game in Georgia as moving it.

If it were me, and I were making $11,000,000 per year to be the leader of a $10B industry and 30 oftentimes self-interested billionaires (actually only 23 billionaires, and 7 hundred millionaires, but let’s not quibble) of various political leanings, I would have come up with a different solution.

To start, I would have gathered Stacey Abrams, Curtis Granderson, and Hank Aaron’s family to issue a statement denouncing – with specificity – the new Georgia voting law. I wouldn’t have relied on Democratic talking points or an early version of the bill. I would have quoted non-partisan election experts to explain – in clear and simple language – how and why this new law is intended to and will disenfranchise people of color.

Next, I would have laid out a comprehensive plan of how MLB intends to use All-Star week to highlight the inequities of voting laws, not just in Georgia, but across the country. This would include setting up voter registration events in Atlanta, at Truist Park, and at every MLB stadium each day of the All-Star break (utilizing the same infrastructure that made NBA arenas voting locations, and MLB parks Covid testing/vaccination sites).

And then I would re-affirm MLB’s plans to honor the late, great Henry Aaron at this year’s game. But, I would make it perfectly clear that MLB is going to focus on all of Hank’s on-field achievements as well as his civil rights advocacy. And, if they were willing to do so, I would ask Hank’s family to come on the field before the game and read a statement about his activism and how Hank would view the current state of race relations and civil rights in this country.

Lastly, I would use my power as the Commissioner of Baseball to pressure each team to make hefty donations to organizations dedicated to advocating for stronger and more equitable voting rights. And then I would commit MLB to match those donations. Utilizing my bully pulpit at the annual State of the State press conference, I would further explain how and why keeping the game in Georgia, and all of the social justice events around the event, have been a net positive; and how MLB strives to be and continues to be a leader in making positive change in communities across the country.

From my perspective, doing those thing would actually “demonstrate our values as a sport.”

But hey, that’s just me.

On Opening Day Manfred told ESPN he wasn’t moving the game. By the next day, he said he was. What happened in-between is anyone’s guess. But based on what Stacey Abrams, Jon Ossoff, and Raphael Warnock had to say about the decision, I feel confident that none of them were included in the deliberations. Manfred played politics, but he didn’t play to win. And, as a result, businesses and workers and fans in Fulton and Cobb counties, and the civic engagement of the country, all lost.

PLAY BALL!!

Mixed Emotions

I first visited Fenway Park in 1978, and so began my love for the Boston Red Sox. In those heady years, I was too young to read the box scores, and even with an outfield of Rice, Lynn, and Evans, I didn’t have a favorite player. Yaz may have come close.

I really became interested in baseball in the mid-‘80s, at which point I was following Wade Boggs and Roger Clemens, and for some reason, Marty Barrett. Mike Greenwell, begat Mo Vaughn, who begat Nomah, who begat Varitek, who begat, pound-for-pound, the best pitcher of all time: Pedro. But it was in 2004, oh that magical year of 2004, that I finally landed on my favorite player. How could you not love David “Big Papi” Ortiz? He was everything you wanted in a star – the charisma, the smile, the clutch hits, and, of course, the hugs. He carried the team on his back, and he had a blast doing it. Even as Dustin Pedroia, Jon Lester, and Mike Lowell got headlines, Papi remained my guy. Ortiz brought the “fucking city” together in 2013, and led the Red Sox to another improbable World Series title.

This is all a long way of saying that my personal die was already cast when Mookie Betts arrived in 2014. He is an electric player; he carries all five tools on his slight shoulders, has had five straight top-10 MVP seasons (including winning it in 2018), five straight Gold Gloves, has won four Silver Sluggers, and owns two rings in two cities in the last three years. He is a 300-bowler, and feeds the homeless when no one is looking. He checks every “favorite player” box, and yet he wasn’t my A-Number One; that spot is reserved for Papi. So when the Red Sox traded Mookie to the Los Angeles Dodgers before the 2020 season, I was quite sad, but not crushed. As I have previously written, I actually agreed with the team’s decision. But I cannot imagine a world in which Ortiz ever wore another uniform.

My family moved to the West Coast in 1979, and I started going to Dodger Stadium in 1980. It was an embarrassment of riches in those years. We had “Fernandomania” and an infield of 30-HR hitters. We had the antics and clutch pinch-hitting of the recently passed Jay Johnstone. We had the pride of San Pedro De Macoris: Pedro Guerrero (and if you grew up in L.A., you can hear Vin Scully saying those words as you read them here).

As the decade wore on, we had Sax and Hershiser and Gibby. Mickey Hatcher took over where Johnstone left off. And then Mike Piazza, a 62nd round draft pick, who took the league by storm. And, of course, there was Tommy. But none of these men were ever “my guy.” It took nearly another two decades of living here and going to games to find that one player. And, ironically, it started in a ballpark 70 miles north of Dodger Stadium, while this guy was playing in Single-A for the Astros. I wrote all about that here.

But when Enrique (“Kiké”) Hernández joined the Dodgers in 2015 from the Marlins, I had “my guy.” And how could you not a love an undersized overachiever who played every position (save for catcher, but not for lack of trying), hit in the clutch, and made having fun Job #1?

While that 2015 season was Kiké’s high-water mark for batting average (.307), he later hit 24 dingers in 2018 and knocked in 64 runs in 2019. But it was in the postseason when he shined the brightest. Check out these stats of a guy who never had an appointed place in the lineup, was rarely used against righties, and never knew – day to day – when or where he would play:

2015 NLDS: .308/.400/.308

2017 NLDS: .333/.500/.667

2017 NLCS: .444/.545/1.444

2019 NLDS: .429/.500/1.000

2020 NLCS: .308/.357/.769

But you can throw all of those stats away and just look at Game 5 of the 2017 NLCS and Game 7 of the 2020 NLCS. In the former, Kiké went yard three times at Wrigley Field to help propel the Boys in Blue to the World Series and raise $2,000,000 for the people of his native Puerto Rico. In the latter, he tied the game in the bottom of the 6th inning, giving the Dodgers new life, and setting the stage for Cody Bellinger’s 7th inning home run that provided the pennant-winning margin of victory.

But you can throw all of those clutch hits away and just remember Kiké sitting in the dugout in a banana costume – on the orders of Andrew Friedman – to help the Dodgers win an extra-inning affair against the rival San Francisco Giants.

In 2019, MLB came out with the “Let the Kids Play” motto. They shot a commercial with eleven players on the dais, including Mike Trout, Christian Yelich, Francisco Lindor, Aaron Judge, Giancarlo Stanton, and Ronald Acuña Jr. From my perspective, Kiké Hernández was an obvious oversight. He personifies the “let the kids play” mantra, and it is hard to find anyone having more fun and getting more from his G-d-given talent than Mr. Hernández.

So, when Kiké entered the free agent market after the World Series, I held out hope that the Dodgers would re-sign him, and that my season tickets would allow me to watch another few years of my favorite player (fans in the park permitting). But as the offseason wore on, it became ever more clear that the Dodgers had no designs on retaining Hernández. If one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, it was to my great delight that my beloved Red Sox reeled in Kiké. He got the two-year deal I had hoped for him; he took Nomar’s number, and it would seem he has finally found an everyday position, filling the rather large (metaphorically only) shoes left by Dustin Pedroia’s retirement.

Gordon Gekko once said: “Mixed emotions…like Larry Wildman going off a cliff in my new Maserati.” That is how I feel. Forty years of going to Chavez Ravine, and for the last half-decade I had my favorite player. And now he is gone. Gone 3,000 miles away, but gone to my favorite team. Having Mookie here on a career-ending deal softens the blow, but I would be lying if I said that Dodger Stadium will be a little less colorful, a little less joyful, a little less fun, without the Banana Man sliding and diving and jumping for joy. Consider me dubious, but I don’t think Trevor Bauer can fill that role or that hole – either on the field or in the clubhouse.

The people of Los Angeles will miss Kiké more than he can possibly appreciate. The analytics may say that players like him are easy to find and replace, that a guy with no specific position and who averages 1.5 bWAR/year isn’t that valuable. This is where the newfangled baseball analysis falls short.

Kiké is more than any numbers on the back of his baseball card or on any quant’s spreadsheet. He is the personification of what we want to watch and root for, and what we want our kids to aspire to be. He is a grown man playing a kids game with the exuberance of youth. You can tell he takes nothing for granted and appreciates the sport, his teammates, and most especially, the fans. So I will take solace in the fact that while I can no longer watch Kiké Hernández in person every day, I can still root for him and know that his special skill set is bringing joy to the people of Boston.

Mixed emotions indeed.

PLAY BALL!!

The Joys (and Memories) of Youth Baseball

According to USA Today, more than 25 million kids played baseball or softball in 2018. The number of kids enrolled in Little League and Pony League has actually been trending up over the past few years while overall youth participation in all sports has remained relatively static. That is great news for the future of baseball. Many boys and girls are getting the opportunity to learn the game, to love the game, and to make lifelong friends. And that last part may be the most important.

Earlier this year, one of my lifelong friends (starting from my time in Pony League) passed away. Last week there was a celebration of his life, and so many of those old baseball friends appeared on my computer screen, telling stories of times long ago. Unfortunately, I have lost touch with many of these guys over the last thirty-plus years, but hearing their voices and being reminded of old stories, I realized that while much has changed, much remains the same. I was instantly brought back to my childhood. The bonds that formed while breaking in a new, stiff Rawlings remain solid after all these years.

Molly Knight recently published a two-part interview with Clayton Kershaw in The Athletic. She, of course, asked him about his childhood friend, his former Little League teammate, Matthew Stafford, coming to Los Angeles to play for the Rams. Kershaw referenced how he has been a Lions fan for years, rooting on his old buddy, but now he can direct his excitement to the Los Angeles team. It will be just like they did so many years ago. One wonders if that friendship would have formed without Little League baseball.

Clayton Kershaw and Matthew Stafford: The Wonder Years | Bleacher Report | Latest News, Videos and Highlights

There are a great many MLB players who excelled in Little League, including Cody Bellinger, Randal Grichuk, Lance Lynn, and Todd Frazier. Hell, Jason Varitek and Michael Conforto played in the Little League World Series, the College World Series, and the World Series. But the better question is whom they all met along the way, and how close those friends are today?

During my friend’s memorial service, one of the speakers told a story of driving with the deceased from Boston to Philadelphia after watching another one of our Pony League buddies strap on the tools of ignorance at Fenway Park. The guys were on their way to Citizens Bank Park to watch our friend play some home games. That was just one of many such anecdotes. These are friendships forged through long days on freshly cut grass, followed by cheap pizza, pitchers of soda, and Thrifty ice cream cones. Friendships made early in life that stuck through adolescence, high school, the minors, and all the way to the big leagues.

Last week my son, who is preparing to leave for college in the fall, got together with three of his Little League buddies. They go to different high schools and have gone their separate ways in the past few years. But it took all of about ten seconds for them to fall back into their old ways; reliving their “glory days,” talking about their long afternoons hanging out at the Little League park watching their friends play, eating burgers, chasing foul balls, and living their best pre-teen lives. I have no doubt that their futures will be filled with similar road trip tales.

Whether it was my son coming home with a smile on his face, or old friends recalling memories with tears in their eyes, it is the friendships formed on ball fields across this great land that are built to last – regardless of where adult duties and responsibilities take us.

With strict Covid protocols in place, it seems that Pony League and Little League baseball will be played this spring. According to littleleague.org, the Little League World Series is tentatively scheduled for August 19-29. For countless reasons, we must have youth baseball this year. Kids need to let the horsehide fly and feel that leather on their palms; they need to hear the ping of their bats and the smell of the grass. They need to run around the bases and around their local sports complexes. They need to play ball games and get game balls. They need to eat at least two meals per weekend at the snack shack, and to form friendships that will last a lifetime. I know that I sure did.

PLAY BALL!!

Through the Looking Glass

When I was six years old, I MC’d my elementary school’s production of “Alice in Wonderland.” Memory does not serve if I was afforded that lofty position because I could neither sing nor act, but if the current state of affairs is any marker, both of those analyses would ultimately be proven correct. In any event, and with apologies to Johnny Depp, Tim Burton, and, of course, Lewis Carroll, I don’t think any of them could have imagined the upside down world in which we are currently living.

To wit, for some reason, having the ability to speak on the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives and consistently having conservative voices be the top ten most engaged posts on Facebook means Big Tech is shutting you down and your First Amendment rights are being thwarted. For reasons that I cannot fully appreciate, wanting the free market (not the government) make decisions means that the government should compel private companies like Twitter and the aforementioned Facebook to allow individuals to say what they want, when they want, to whomever they want. Even with a law school degree, I don’t truly understand how strict constructionists believe that the Constitution applies to non-state actors, but I guess I am just not fully enlightened.

That is why, in some people’s minds, it makes perfect sense to claim fraud against one side, all the while demanding, cajoling, and coercing others to “find” votes for themselves. Or claiming holding one accountable for their actions isn’t a show of “unity,” but claiming the other side “stole” an election is? I just feel like I am back in the North Stratfield Elementary School multi-purpose room all over again, living in a world where left is right, right is wrong, and you cannot believe what you read, because you can only believe what you hear, unless what you hear (e.g., rioters stating: “Trump said to do so”) doesn’t comport with what you want to believe (it was Antifa conducting a false flag operation), so then you just go back to believing whatever it is you want to believe.

Which brings us to one Curtis Montague Schilling. That wind chime you hear in your backyard is from the collective sigh of relief from members of the BBWA whose votes didn’t reach 75% for Schilling earlier this week. Thus they don’t have to permanently regret voting for someone who sympathizes with Nazis and insurrectionists (although, to be fair, if it took the events of post-January 6th to get you off the Schilling bandwagon, maybe you don’t deserve said sigh of relief).

After falling 16 votes shy of induction on this year’s ballot, Schilling penned a lengthy note to the Hall of Fame, which he then posted on Facebook. In it, Schilling extols his many and varied virtues, and conveniently forgets about his many sins. I guess that is normal and typical PR spin. But where this gets all Through the Looking Glass is with regard to specifics.

Based on his letter, Schilling has a great relationship with the Hall of Fame. But they – for reasons that don’t make a whole lot of sense – have nothing to do with the HOF voting. That is the BBWA. And the BBWA, as you know, is made up of writers. And 71% of those BBWA writers thought Schilling was worthy of HOF induction. And yet, when discussing what has been written about him in the past, Schilling claims that “nothing, zero, none of the claims being made by any of the writers hold merit.” Does that include those who voted for him? I am confused.

He states: “The media has created a Curt Schilling that does not and has never existed.” So, when a reporter reports on what Schilling said in an interview, or on his radio show, or what he tweeted, who is it that creating something? When you tweet this:

  

who is the creator? I just don’t understand. Reporters report. Sure, they have biases like the rest of us, but Schilling is and has been hoisted on his own petard, not some imaginary boogeyman the “press” created out of whole cloth because, to his thinking, they don’t like his politics (more about that below).

Schilling wrote: “I stood at my locker 400+ times after my starts and took every question and answered honestly.” Does doing your job (and admittedly, more openly and honestly than many other professional athletes) give you the right, the permission structure, to call them liars or advocate their death? Should writers just look past his violent rhetoric because he answered a handful of their questions?

Schilling accuses writers of deceit: “Those people who stood there asking the questions KNOW [his emphasis] what they are claiming is untrue yet they quote, re-quote and link to one another story after story that began as lies and grew into bigger ones.” If that is the case, if the writers “know” what they are writing and linking to are false, why hasn’t Schilling filed a defamation suit against any of them? If someone accused me of being a Nazi-lover, or a homophobe, or an insurrectionist, I would be shouting from the mountaintops and suing in courtrooms to get the record corrected. All Schilling has done is confirmed the stories with his big mouth and his twitchy thumbs.

Schilling claims what a great teammate he was (and, I have no doubt that is true). He talks of all the different types of people he has played with, including gays. If that isn’t the “I have many black/Jewish/gay friends” argument, I have no idea what is. I hate to deliver this piece of obvious news, but being a great teammate to a gay person does not give you license to be a homophobe.

Schilling feels he is being unfairly maligned and lumped in with cheaters or other scofflaws. I think he is (shockingly) being narrow-minded. Writers can hold two thoughts in their minds at once. They can choose not to vote for players for a multitude of reasons. It is highly likely that Clemens and Bonds are not in the HOF because of their respective PED allegations. And it is very possible that Omar Vizquel’s vote tally fell because of the domestic violence claims by his wife. And we can assume that Schilling has fallen short because he is an asshole.

In his letter to the HOF, Schilling points out all the humanitarian awards he has won, many of which were voted on by writers. “Do those awards and 22 years absent of a single validating event to support their claims define me?” he asks. Schilling is a bright guy. There is no world – outside of Wonderland – that he does not see that his words and actions over the past decade have had a deleterious effect on people’s view of him. Schilling wants his HOF election to be solely about his actions on the field: “I’ll defer to the veterans committee and men whose opinions actually matter and who are in a position to actually judge a player.” But it is those same players who have been exceedingly quiet in his defense. One might turn that deference on its head and ask: Do those players want to be lumped in with this particular reprobate who gets post-career attention being a right-wing troll and social media flamethrower? Do they want to share a stage with this man? Or a drink on the porch of the Otesaga? Do they want their HOF credentials tarnished by his admission? I don’t know the answer to these questions; and if he gets 16 additional votes next year, none of us ever will.

Schilling would have you believe that he has been excluded due to his conservative politics. He states – without any evidence, ahem – that most of the BBWA are “left-leaning.” If what he avers was true – that writers are lefties and won’t vote conservatives into the HOF – then the Hall would be a lonely place. Oh, and has been pointed out repeatedly, this guy got 100% of the votes a few years ago (the guy on the right, in case there was any confusion).

But, in the upside down world, Steve Carlton’s politics weren’t too conservative for the BBWA, but Schilling’s are?

I don’t – and won’t ever – have a vote for the Hall of Fame. But I am what some people call a “Big Hall” guy. It is a museum of the history of the game, and that history – warts and all – should be on display. And I find it a bit hypocritical to have Bonds, Clemens, and Pete Rose prominently displayed in exhibits upstairs, while refusing to give them plaques downstairs. As I have written before, I think these guys should get in on their merits, and then all the facts should be included on their plaque – not just their stats. Like “…In addition, Rose was banned from baseball for betting on Reds games when he was their manager.” Or “In addition, Bonds’ records are viewed as dubious due to his rumored use of performance-enhancing drugs throughout the second half of his career.” Schilling’s could say, “In addition, Schilling came under fire for his racist, homophobic, anti-democratic screeds after his career ended.”

But I would also add another wrinkle (Mina Kimes referenced part of this wrinkle the other day, and whenever you can be in the company of Mina Kimes, you are doing something right). Each ballot should have two boxes:

  • Induction
  • Induction Weekend

Writers would be able to vote for induction, but they could also vote to do so without the pomp and circumstance of induction weekend. The player doesn’t get the right to be on stage for the ceremony; and he doesn’t get the platform to spew anything. He doesn’t ride, go to the dinner, or hang out with the other players drinking scotch and reminiscing about the “glory days.” It will be confirmed that he is and was part of the fabric of baseball, and his career merits the honor of being in the Hall of Fame, but his actions – on and/or off the field – do not comport with what the Hall wants represented on their most hallowed weekend.

If we could do both – have the plaques state the whole truth and have the weekend not tarnished by their presence – I would vote for Rose, Bonds, Clemens, and maybe even Curt Schilling, to be inducted into the Hall of Fame.

But asking for that amount of change from two pretty stodgy organizations is something that could probably only happen to Alice, in Wonderland.

PLAY BALL!!

Feel-Good Stories

I’m a sucker for a feel-good story. Catch me watching any of those military parents-coming-home videos and I am sure to get misty. Show me Alex Smith battling back from near death to lead the Washington Football team, and something catches in my throat. So when a bunch of feel-good stories fall from the sky in a single week – all overcoming the same issue – I couldn’t help but notice.

And after the hell of this week (including the death of Don Sutton, The Hammer, and a lifelong friend), after the hell of the last few weeks, after the hell of the last year, after the hell of the last four years, we all need some feel-good stories. In the span of twenty-four hours, four individuals, all of whom have extremely different backgrounds and who vary in ages and skillsets, but all of whom share a trait with approximately three million other Americans, all had beautiful moments in the sun.

Here are my/our feel-good stories of the week:

GEORGE SPRINGER

Because I write about baseball, let’s start there. George Springer grew up in Connecticut, and dealt with a crippling stutter. In his words, it was “brutal,” as he sat in the back of class, afraid to raise his hand. He has previously stated it took him until age 24 or 25 to “embrace [the stutter]…I am who I am.” Springer is now the national spokesperson for SAY: The Stuttering Association for the Young. Each year the former World Series MVP hosts a bowling tournament to raise funds so that kids can attend Camp SAY, which is a summer camp for young people who stutter.

All eyes were on Springer this off-season, and not because of how he speaks, but because of how he hits, fields, and runs. As one of the top free agents available, many believed his deal would define the market. This week Springer decided to take his skills (and hopefully his philanthropy) north of the border, signing a 6/$150M deal with the Blue Jays (the first $100M+ deal of the off-season). It is hard to ever say any player is worth $150M, but when measuring a player’s contribution both on and off the field, it is equally hard to find anyone more worthy than George Springer. Good for him; and great for the people of Toronto.

BRAYDEN HARRINGTON

After meeting Joe Biden on the campaign trail last February and bonding with him over their respective stutters, young Brayden was called upon to give a short speech at the virtual 2020 Democratic National Convention. But Brayden wasn’t done. After the convention, he wrote a book to inspire other kids with speech impediments. And this week, as part of the inaugural celebration, Brayden – sporting a very dapper bowtie – read arguably the most famous passage from John F. Kennedy’s 1961 inaugural address to an audience of millions.

When (now) President Biden first met Brayden last year, he told him not to let his stutter “define him.” Through words both spoken and written by Brayden, I don’t think there is any chance of that.

AMANDA GORMAN

At around 12:30pm eastern time on January 20, 2021, the world fell in love with Amanda Gorman. Standing on the inaugural platform in her bright yellow coat and flaming red head band, this 22-year-old from Los Angeles took us all by storm with her words and her delivery. The first person to be named National Youth Poet Laureate finished writing her poem, “The Hill We Climb,” after rioters ransacked the Capitol on January 6th. Although she was not given any guidelines for the poem she was to deliver, when Amanda learned that the theme of the inauguration was “America United,” she knew what and how to write. And thus, to the assembled masses on the west side of the U.S. Capitol, and to millions more watching on television, the young woman recited a poem that included the following verse:

And so we lift our gaze, not to what stands between us, but what stands before us.

We close the divide because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside.

We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.

Amanda Gorman read such beauty into the world for nearly six minutes. She rose to the lectern after Lady Gaga, Jennifer Lopez, and the President of the United States, and no one would have ever known that she has an auditory processing disorder and a speech impediment, and that, until just a few years ago, she couldn’t pronounce the letter “R” sound. Her recital was one for the ages, and set an example for countless people about what is possible. I am not sure there is any image that more perfectly captures the import of her words than this:

JOE BIDEN

There isn’t really much more to add about the 46th President of the United States and his lifelong struggle to overcome a stutter. It is still noticeable at times, but that didn’t stop him from giving a 24-minute acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention in August, nor did it keep him from delivering what Fox News anchor Chris Wallace called “the best inaugural I ever heard” on Wednesday afternoon.

It was Joe Biden who befriended Brayden Harrington, and it was Jill Biden – the First Lady and a 40-year school teacher – who first learned of Amanda Gorman. Although we are just a few days into the Biden Administration, it is not too soon to state with certainty that this White House will be a considerably more welcoming place to people of all stripes and obstacles than it has been for the last four years.

It seems we are constantly taking two steps forward, and one step back. But for a few hours this week, we were able to revel in the accomplishments of four people who overcame vocal barriers to find themselves at the top of their respective games and recipients of much-deserved adoration. That is something to celebrate.

Twenty-four days until pitchers and catchers report (theoretically).

PLAY BALL!

HOF Voting Ended One Week Too Early

January 6, 2021 was an ignominious day in the history of this country. The President of the United States incited a riot in the people’s house in a hubristic and futile attempt to overturn the outcome of a free and fair election. While the size of the insurrection and the casualties and damage caused may not have been foreseen, the participants and their intent was clear from anyone with access to the Internet. One need not live on the deep web to have known what the President had in mind when he prompted his 88.7 million (former) Twitter followers with this exhortation: “Big protest in D.C. on January 6th. Be there, will be wild!” Or when he told a horde of masses that had gathered at The Ellipse that “we will never give up, never concede” and then directed them to march down to the Capitol to “show strength and…be strong.”

In the aftermath of the riot, Twitter (and various other platforms) denied Donald Trump service. Major corporations are refusing to endorse any politician who sought to undermine the election. And white supremacists, Proud Boys, and other miscreants all over the country are now finding themselves on the wrong end of law enforcement just days after they ran roughshod over the Capitol Police. It is clear – at least in the short run (we Americans tend to have very fleeting memories) – that the biggest losers of last Wednesday’s events were the soon-to-be ex-president, Josh Hawley, Ted Cruz, and the right-wing social media website Parler. And although there were no winners in the melee, there is someone who escaped the worst of its consequences.

Voting for the 2021 class of the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame ended on December 31st. As such, all ballots had to be submitted six days prior to the (attempted) coup. Six days before the Confederate flag was carried through the Rotunda. Six days before a man wearing a “Camp Auschwitz” sweatshirt and a man wearing a “SMWE” t-shirt strode through the halls of U.S. power without a care in the world. Six days before “Murder the Media” was scrawled on a door inside one of the most sacred buildings in the United States. In short, six days before any and all of these bilious acts would have, could have, (potentially) should have impacted the Hall of Fame candidacy of one Curtis Montague Schilling.

Over the past few years, Schilling – even more so than Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds – has become one of the most difficult Hall of Fame votes for members of the Baseball Writers Association of America. The PED candidates may be polarizing – did he or didn’t he? does it matter? – but Schilling has truly brought the rarely-ever-used-prior-to-Mark McGwire “character clause” into specific relief.

When Schilling’s name first appeared on the ballot in 2013, be received 38.8% of the vote (if I didn’t know better, I would think ol’ #38 pre-ordained that total). He fell to 29.2% the next year, bounced back to 39.2% the next, before jumping to 52.3% in 2016, slowly making his way to 70% last year. Schilling only has two more bites at the apple – this year and next – to get to the requisite 75%. But only one player in the history of HOF voting has ever received 70% of the vote with time remaining and not been inducted (don’t feel bad for Jim Bunning, he was later elected by the Veteran’s Committee).

It is possible that Schilling’s performance on the field is sufficient to move the needle despite his words and actions off of it. It is quite possible that his 11-2 playoff record, with a 2.23 ERA, 0.97 WHIP, and nearly 6-1 K-BB ratio, combined with four complete games, two shutouts, an NLCS MVP, a World Series MVP, and three rings to his name are enough to push him up and over 75% either this year or next.

It is possible that as the ranks of worthy names on the HOF ballot thinned, enough members of the BBWA would at last check the box next to Curt Schilling’s name.

It is possible that enough writers have taken issue with the selective and moralistic exercise of the “character clause” (that was hypocritically implemented by Kenesaw Mountain Landis, the racist former commissioner of baseball, who history now reviles to the point where his name has been taken off the MVP trophy) that they would hold their noses and vote for Schilling because he was one of the sport’s all-time great pitchers.

But, if Schilling’s name appears on at least 75% of the ballots this year, it just may be due to the luck of the calendar. If the BBWA required ballots to be submitted by, say, January 7th, I can imagine a drumbeat of writers chasing their mailman down the street like some rabid, remorseful, and regretful Orel Hershiser1, Bill Madlock2, or Greg Maddux3.

Just one week, that is all it would have taken. Does anyone honestly believe that with what transpired at the Capitol, that 75% of the BBWA would have voted for a man who retweeted this:

Or this:

Or a man who was, as Jay Jaffe pointed out in his FanGraphs piece on December 28th , “…as of last week…promoting election conspiracy theories and calls for martial law on his Twitter account, not to mention comparing the nation’s top infectious disease expert to a Nazi…”

But that wasn’t enough. After the siege in Washington, and maybe just to rub the noses of those who voted for him a week earlier, Schill tweeted the following:

Do we believe that in the hours after the darkest day in our nation’s capital, the first time since 1814 it has been attacked, and attacked by people espousing all of the same beliefs that Curt Schilling not only holds, but shouts into every microphone – electronic or otherwise – that he can find, that the BBWA would still have voted for him? When Twitter banned Donald Trump; when Amazon stopped hosting Parler; when cabinet members resigned; when the 25th Amendment was openly discussed; and when the nationwide hunt for hooligans continued unabated? Does that seem like an environment for writers who previously chose not to look the other way, for writers who said – by their words and their votes – some bridges are simply too far, for writers who were looking for a reason not to include Curt Schilling on their ballot, to change their minds? If only the vote had been one week later, we know at least Steve Buckley would have had a different ballot.

Curt Schilling is a lot of things – a racist, a gamer, a homophobe, a clutch pitcher, a failed businessman, a Lou Gehrig aficionado, and a plain old asshole. But if his name appears on 75% of the Hall of Fame ballots when the results are revealed on January 26th, we can add “one lucky son-of-a-bitch” to the list.

With the House of Representatives impeaching President Trump for a second time; with Republican lawmakers facing denunciations from their hometown newspapers and, more importantly, their benefactors; with domestic terrorists being arrested; with cronies and acolytes running for the hills; wouldn’t it be a sad but ironic capstone to this whole sordid affair if Curt Schilling was the one person who avoided any repercussions.

PLAY BALL!!

1Bulldog

2Mad Dog

3Doggy