27 Dec 2011, by Eric
I saw this headline on Google News:
Voting for Hall of Fame too complicated these days
I so badly wanted the enclosed article to be about the convoluted and absurd process of electing members to the Baseball Hall of Fame that I clicked on the link right away. Alas, it was not about the dumb, difficult Hall of Fame. Rather, it was about the tough moral questions brought on by this corrupt era of steroids.
Now, thanks to the taint of the steroid era, the arrival of the ballot brings dread instead of anticipation, suspicion instead of admiration.
For the second straight year, I look at Jeff Bagwell's name and wonder if he beat the system while he was also pounding baseballs out of ballparks all across the country. I'd love to vote for him, because he was always a class act whenever I had to interview him and his numbers scream Hall of Famer.
Dread! Suspicion! What is a baseball columnist to do in times like these? After all, this is a world in which terrorists could be hiding under the hedges at the country club and children are just as likely to play soccer as they are tee-ball. Truth is scarce, the Culture is changing. Baseball remains safe. In Baseball things remain the same. There are clear lines drawn between Evil and Good, between Good and Great. Or at least there used to be. (Also: Hall of Fame ballots still come by mail? Really?)
Whining and whispering about which names on the Hall of Fame ballot may have used steroids is a new annual tradition. It's not likely to go away anytime soon because Hall of Fame voters are losing a grip on the only world that they control -- that world of illusions comprised of discarded Gold Glove trophies and dusty Hall of Fame plaques. In their world, morality consists of things like "clutchness" and "being a class act." It also consists of not hitting home runs between say 1997 and the present because doing so makes you suspicious and suspicions are like fog and fog makes it harder to see.
So we're stuck with a bunch of writers losing their grip on the one relatively meaningless thing they are tasked with controlling. We're stuck with poor Bob Brookover at the Philadelphia Inquirer, who after grousing about Jeff Bagwell, concludes that he would rather not have to vote for the Hall of Fame at all because it's just so damn difficult.
I did not enjoy actually filling out the ballot and I am starting to believe it is an impossible task that would be better left to someone else.
Actually Mr. Brookover, it's just the opposite. Filling out a Hall of Fame ballot is a super easy, super possible, and totally inconsequential task. All you have to do is look at a bunch of names, decide which ones you like, and then write them down or check the box next to them -- I'm not sure how precisely a voter marks his or her choices on the ballot.
Previously I've argued that we should let more people into the Hall of Fame because the institution's purpose should be bringing joy to fans, not operating as a vehicle for exclusion. Along those lines, it seems foolish to let suspicions rules our thinking about a place that is meant to celebrate baseball, not moralize over it. Let's make things easier, not harder. (Pete Rose and Joe Jackson should be in too, of course.)
I've suggested adding fan voting and lowering the threshold for election from 75 percent to 70 percent of writers. I'd like double down on the call for a popular vote -- let's make room for beloved players who don't have the gaudy numbers -- and then go one further. The writer vote should should go by a simple majority: If more than 50 percent of writers think Jeff Bagwell is Hall of Fame worthy, then he is Hall of Fame worthy. And if Atlanta fans can make a compelling case for him, Jeff Blauser ought to be Hall of Fame worthy too.
More speeches. More plaques. More joy.
22 Dec 2011, by Ted
In episode 34 of the podcast, we go for a little more structure, including actual quotations from around the web! The Braves attempt to protect their brand, Yu Darvish faces high expectations (from us)and Barry Bonds becomes an expensive scapegoat. Plus, the MLB Fan Cave -- our favorite topic -- has gotten even more discomfiting, but nothing is as discomfiting as the BBWAAA's response to the Bill Conlin scandal.
[podcast]http://pitchersandpoets.com/podcast/PnP_034.mp3[/podcast]
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Tunes by Jesse Gloyd
16 Dec 2011, by Ted
Derek Jeter orchestrates a walk of shame that is both intriguing and deeply sad, the Houston Astros are on the mend, we struggle to care about the Ryan Braun situation, and we discuss the nature of names in the latest episode of the podcast. Bon chance, Melancon!
[podcast]http://pitchersandpoets.com/podcast/PnP_033.mp3[/podcast]
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12 Dec 2011, by Ted
To paraphrase Bruce Chatwin, the fictional process is at work.
There used to be a pair of trees that jutted over the skyline of San Cristobal, D.R. My bartender Diego said they were called the Hermanos del Fuego because smoke poured out of their heads at night. Sometimes when I was too drunk to tally pitch counts I'd imagine the fat parrots gliding around their branches. Often I spent half the night on Diego's patio watching them fume and wondering if the trees were hiding some kind of secret toothbrush handle factory. Diego told me it was time to quench my curiosity or he would close my tab.
The day after I signed a thirteen year old for $600 I packed a machete, three mayonnaise sandwiches, and four bottles of Chupacabra Delite and hiked towards the trees. I reached the trees around nightfall. At first they looked like a normal pair of trees but then I started to inspect the trunk. When I scratched the surface the bark flaked apart like wet cardboard. It was perturbing. This tree investigation would be no Woody Woodpecker cartoon. It would be like watching one of the long movies where sometimes you don't see an ass or a helicopter for an hour. I was committed for the duration.
I wandered around collecting lumber for the sake of heat and light. I had dumped about six handfuls of kindling into a pile when I heard a creaking noise. I silently hid behind a boulder, within eyeshot of the Hermanos. I watched as the trunk of the westerly tree slid open like an elevator door, then slid shut. A few minutes later the Hermanos del Fuego began to smoke and a red beacon began to flash in the canopy, as if from inside a jungle submarine. After a few minutes all the smoke and the lights stopped and one of the trees pooped out a freeze dried cube of paper. I made sure the coast was clear and dragged the cube back to my fire pit. With the heat from my fire I was able to peel off a couple thawed memos. The letterhead showed the logo of the fucking New York Yankees.
Working my way through the cube I found several contracts. These weren't your typical seven figure butt slaps. The Yankees were sharing ink with Madonna, Pepsi and Godfather's Pizza. Most of the papers fell apart in my hands like wet toilet paper so I couldn't make out the alphabetics for shit, but I was able to peel out a complete set of hieroglyphics. When I deciphered the contract code I almost had an angina. Per the written words in my hands, the Bronx Hillbillies were paying Halliburton to genetically manufacture baseball players.
Yep, I got pissed. Yup, I ate all my sandwiches in thirty seconds.
Next thing I know I'm thumbing through a dripping wet series of email exchanges. The subject heading of the email chain was “The Methuselah Project”. The Yankees wanted a lab mercenary (I will call him Dr. Turducken) to mix the genetic material of Jamie Moyer with that of Julio Franco. They wanted create players that would last for thirty years. Turducken said that the genetic material had been realized but there was only a thirty percent chance that a Methuselite would become a professional athlete. There was a sixty percent chance the offspring would be born without elbows. The Yankees wouldn't listen. They demanded an eternal lineup. It reminded me of the movie where the alien general was desperate to teach the enchanted piglets to invade the earth.
When I discovered that Turducken's address was Hermanos del Fuego Laboratories my heart began to spasm blood into my eyes. I was a scout for the Miami Marlins. This was our turf. In a decade we had won two World Series but had remained the fourth most popular professional sports team in the tip of our peninsula. We took a lot of abuse. A week after we won the World Series I was denied lodgings at Don Shula's bed and breakfast. Lebron James keeps on saying the Marlins are his favorite soccer team. We couldn't afford Jeff Conine. Twice. How could we get respect in South Beach if word got out that the Yankees were manufacturing a dynasty right under our noses? That night, I sat by the fire and got hotter and hotter.
When day broke I heard the pinging of the retractable door. I waited until I saw Dr. Turducken walk out of the tree and I popped out from behind the big rock. He was looking at his cellphone. I cut his head off with my machete. Blood was still spurting when I rolled Turducken's skull down the hill. I drug his body inside the tree and used his still warm fingerprints to gain access to the laboratory. The industrial fridge was stocked with vials, test tubes, and buckets of genetic essence. I also found some buffalo wings.
While they were reheating, I took a Louisville Slugger signed by Jim Leyritz and made ice shavings out of every piece of glass I could find. By the time my wings were done I had demolished every computer and all of the lab's centrifugal technology stations. I snapped all of the candles at the Derek Jeter altar. I propped the fridge door open with a trashcan, rendering millions of dollars of genetically engineered sperm completely inert.
On my way out of the tree I got a text saying that we had signed Jose Reyes. It was a great feeling, knowing that I wasn't acting alone, but then again Fishies like to swim in conspiracy. Of course I had to leave the country after I destroyed the lab but before I left I signed into FB using my daughter's account. I left a note on the Marlin's official FB wall. It said “Don't fuck this up. This isn't a rebuilding year. This is the year we build on the demolished bones of our enemies.”
10 Dec 2011, by Ted
The podcast is back! After an impromptu hiatus, we're back to talk about the mind-bending flurry of off-season news from the baseball multiverse, from Albert Pujols at home in the suburbs to the weird new sheen of the Miami Marlins.
[podcast]http://pitchersandpoets.com/podcast/PnP_032.mp3[/podcast]
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