Eddie Murray and My First Baseball Debate by Dan Mennella

Dan Mennella is a writer for MLB Trade Rumors, and he has worked for MLB.com and the Long Island Press as an editor, reporter, and columnist. He also writes at his blog, The Mennella Line, and tweets @danmennella.

It’s been said that perpetual, unrelenting losing can skew one’s perspective. These were the unfortunate circumstances under which I entered into my first baseball debate.

When my Mets obsession began in 1991, they were beginning a three-year bottoming out after their successes in the 1980s. Of course, the Mets’ 1991-93 seasons turned out to be a garden-variety run of ineptitude, certainly not an historically bad one, but perspective and patience are uncommon virtues among 8-, 9- and 10-year-olds, so my indoctrination into life as a Mets fan was not always a smooth one.

One of the few highlights, though, was Eddie Murray, who became the Mets' first baseman prior to the 1992 campaign. Murray was in the midst of one of those awkward, late-career mercenary tours after a successful 12-year stay in Baltimore, having played with the Dodgers from 1989-91 before signing on with the Mets. He was one of the few marginally useful, respectable players on Mets teams that went a putrid 60 games under .500 over the next two seasons, which included the 1993 Mets, The Worst Team Money Could Buy.

In retrospect, it’s not especially lofty praise to have been a rock of professionalism and adequate production for one of the laughingstocks of the modern era, but seeing as some of the other boys in Flushing were busy throwing firecrackers at children and spraying reporters with bleach, Murray was a welcomed exception, and I came to like him quite a lot. What else was there to root for?

My good friend and fellow baseball rat Brian, however, was a Yankees fan and a devout worshipper at the Church of Donnie Baseball. Mind you, these were the final days before the birth of the Yankees dynasty, when the Yanks were just beginning to emerge from their own doldrums. So, Don Mattingly was the only True Yankee in an era short on them, and his zealots were very protective of him and continue to be. He’s the patron saint of Yankee martyrdom, the very idea of which could make the rest of us sick were Donnie himself not so likable and deserving of his reverence.

Nonetheless, we had the fodder for my first baseball debate: Is Murray or Mattingly the better player? The lumbering switch-hitter or the slick-fielding sweet swinger? The quite, underrated loner or the long-locked, mustachioed rebel? Admittedly, this was not akin to whether you preferred Willie, Mickey or the Duke in the 1950s. After all, Murray was as much a Met as was Mays a generation earlier, which is to say not at all, and Mattingly, sadly, was a shadow of his former self, and it was obvious that he wasn’t for long with his back seemingly killing him with each cut he’d take. But it’s all we had, and it was a good-natured, if not an especially well-informed, debate.

Since-developed analysis shows that Mattingly was actually the better player by two wins in 1992-93. My thanks, however, to the Baseball Writers Associate of America, which has furnished me with the ultimate trump card: Steady Eddie’s induction into the Hall of Fame in 2003. Let that one burn, Brian.

It’s one thing for new fans to discover the wonders of baseball in good or even OK times, and another entirely to do so in lean years. At least Murray gave me something to argue.

Short Hops: Tino Martinez by Joe Pawlikowski

Joe Pawlikowski is a contributor to Fangraphs and the Yankees blog River Avenue Blues. Check him out on Twitter @joepawl.

Tino Martinez is by no means the consummate 1990s first baseman. Though he did rank ninth among his peers with 213 home runs in the decade, he never carried the fearsome aura of McGwire, of Thomas, of Bagwell, of Vaughn. He did, however, replace one of the definitive 1980s first basemen, Don Mattingly. After a slow start to his career Tino rose to prominence in 1995 when he swatted 31 home runs for the AL West winning Mariners. That winter they traded him to the Yankees and, a month later, signed power flash in pan Paul Sorrento. The New York fans did not take kindly to beloved Mattingly's replacement, showering Martinez with boos early in his pinstriped tenure. Some fine hitting, and a World Series title, helped calm the Bronx natives. In 1997 they witnessed the best he had to offer, a season in which he hit 44 home runs and, for the first half at least, battled Ken Griffey Jr. for the AL home run crown. Tino also hit one of the most memorable postseason home runs of the Yankees dynasty, a grand slam that capped a late-inning comeback in Game 1 of the 1998 World Series. By decade's end he wore three rings.

A Song for the Well-Traveled First Basemen by Steve Weddle

Steve Weddle is an editor, short story writer, and novelist. His fiction has appeared in numerous literary and crime/noir journals, he is the editor of Needle, and he blogs at DoSomeDamage.

Think of “First Basemen of the 1990s” and you’re picturing Frank Thomas of the White Sox. Jeff Bagwell of the Astros. Mark Grace of the Cubs. Mark McGwire of the Cardinals. Rafael Palmeiro.

Those big sluggers you could count on, and not just at the plate. For the most part, you could count on these guys to be in the same place from one year to the next. Not a one of these guys was a “journeyman.”

Then you have David Segui. Wil Cordero. John Olerud.

Cordero played for the Expos (twice), Red Sox, White Sox, Indians (twice), Pirates, Marlins, and Nationals. (Does that last one make three times for the Expos?) He’d move to a new team in the offseason, just to show up on a new injury report for the next season. Or the waiver wire. But he was always around somewhere.

Much like David Segui, who played here and there (mostly there) throughout the 1990s. He came up with the Orioles in 1990, then moved to the Mets, Expos, Mariners, Blue Jays, Rangers, Indians, and finally back to the Orioles for a few seasons in the 2000s. Segui may be remembered, not for the 15 years he played with nearly as many clubs, but for appearance in the Mitchell Report. Segui reportedly had a doctor’s note allowing him to take HGH, but no doctor gave anabolic steroids. He had to get those in the Mets clubhouse. Still, his .291 career average meant that he was able to find work as a slugger – on many, many teams.

And that brings us to John Olerud. Blue Jays. Mets. Mariners. Yankees. Red Sox. Twice a World Champ. Twice an All-Star. Thrice a Gold Glove winner. Often a Rickey Henderson teammate.

Olerud had a brain aneurysm when he was playing for Washington State University. Because of that, he would wear a batting helmet even when playing the field, which led to the great story involving Rickey Henderson. When Henderson and Olerud were standing around the batting cage, the story goes, Rickey said to John that he’d played with another dude who also wore a helmet in the field, just like Olerud. To which Olerud replied, “That was me.” Turns out, according to someone who had to go and do “research” on it, that the story is an urban legend.

Olerud fought for playing time with Joe Carter and Carlos Delgado when he was with the Jays, so they shipped him off to the Mets for someone called Robert Person.

Olerud, along with infielders Edgardo Alfonzo, Rey Ordonez, and Robin Ventura, provided a fantastic core for the Mets team for a few years.

Thinking back to the 1990s, it seems Olerud was always on first base – whether playing in the field with the Mets or Jays or taking a 3-2 count and drawing a walk or scraping out a single.

Olerud was a great defensive first baseman who batted .295 for his career. He’d go on in the 2000s to play in Seattle with a kid named Griffey, where Olerud would win three Gold Gloves.

So while you’re thinking of the Big Hurt for the White Sox, of the Killer B in Houston, of McGwire, and Grace, and all the other stud first basemen that you only had to buy one jersey for, don’t forget Segui and Cordero and Olerud.

Short Hops: Cecil Fielder by Ryan O'Hanlon

Ryan O'Hanlon is the sports editor at the Good Men Project Magazine. He's still trying to figure out how to use Tumblr and you can follow him on Twitter @rwohan.

Cecil Fielder should’ve worn baggy pants. He used to be able to dunk a basketball. He named his son Prince (does he think he’s a king?). He struck out three more times than he hit. I only remember him from a flimsy Detroit Tigers card I got in a cereal box and a season-and-a-half with the Yankees. But I think he was good sometimes, and I know his name makes no sense. Nothing, really, about Cecil Fielder makes any sense. That’s why he’s the first baseman of the 90s.

Paul Sorrento by Dayn Perry

Dayn Perry is a contributor to NotGraphs, a baseball columnist at FoxSports.com, and the author of Reggie Jackson: The Life and Thunderous Career of Baseball's Mr. October.

The word “Sorrento” is not a Latin noun that, in certain declensions, means “someone who quietly, improbably and in workmanlike anonymity embodies a decade.” But it should be.

Paul Sorrento, in baseball terms, came to us in the latter days of 1989 and left us just before we began worrying that Y2K would kill us all or, worse, prevent us from accessing the full menu of GeoCities pages. That is, Mr. Sorrento’s MLB life spanned, from start to finish, the decade in question. And what a decade it was! We cloned a sheep! We abided Paul Reiser! Someone wrote this book!

The harsh light of time, however, has diminished all of it. We had a fine time but woke up and regretted a thing or two about a thing or two. As it unfurled before us, the decade felt very Mark McGwire, but in retrospect it was all very … Paul Sorrento. Is it an indictment of a decade to characterize it as a first baseman who was, in so many ways, Eric Karros minus several hundred plate appearances and the “Breck Girl” hair? Or is it … not half bad?

After all, Mr. Sorrento ranks 12th in home runs for the decade. He hit the first bomb in Camden Yards history. He was an original Devil Ray. And is there anything more decidedly 1990s than being longtime teammates with Charles Nagy? Also: He likely had at least passing conversations with Reggie Jefferson and Junior Felix!

Mr. Sorrento, you were not half bad. And neither were we. Like us, he was worse than Rickey Henderson but better than Limp Bizkit. So, so much better.