Not a lot of people can add that to their resume, but yesterday, one of the most recognizable, if not entirely feared, relievers of all time, earned that distinction. Goose Gossage got into the Hall and, in my opinion, rightfully so.
Hall of Fame Weekend in Cooperstown, New York holds a great significance to me. As a journalist in 2000, I covered the induction ceremonies when a decidedly Cincinnati Reds class was ushered in. Holding plaques and making speeches that day were Tony Perez, Carlton Fisk and Sparky Anderson. I sought out the event for the Sparky angle, but also because I always wanted to see the Hall. It was a weird weekend, for a couple of different reasons.
From a journalistic standpoint, especially my on-again/off-again career as a sports writer, this was pretty much my money shot. In the weeks leading up to Induction Weekend, I not only had the chance to interview former Tiger pitcher Dave Rozema, but Sparky Anderson himself. The latter, I set up with former Tiger communications director and longtime Anderson confidant, Dan Ewald. I tracked down Dan's number, told him who I was and asked if he would have time to set up a quick interview with the former Tiger coach and, still, local legend. He said he would try. A week before the ceremony, Sparky flies into Detroit, where he is picked up by Ewald at the airport. The skip will be staying at Ewald's house for a few days before they break for Cooperstown. I get a phone call at about 10 p.m. on Sunday night. It is Dan. He says he has Sparky there and he has a few minutes for an interview. I tell him I'll make it quick. He puts Sparky on the phone and for the next three minutes, my determination is to try to make sure my notes are as legible as possible because my fucking hand is shaking and my heart sounds like there is a perputual drumroll going on in my chest. For a half-second, I stop to realize that, oh my god, I have Sparky Anderson on the phone.
The interview goes well. I start by calling him Mr. Anderson, with my fingers crossed, and he responds with what I was praying he would say, which was "Please, call me Sparky." I was tempted to get up on my desk at home and do a little dance. Finally, the dopey eye gleam subsided and I was able to compose myself. He talked about the game and what it meant to him, and every answer seemed to always come back to the players. He gave them all of the credit in the world. The interview lasted about 15 minutes and when I hung up the phone, I poured a big glass of something brown and warm into my glass (and it sure as hell wasn't tea) and thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of having spoke to a man I felt was the pure embodiment of the sport I loved and respected.
Also inducted into the Class of 2000 that year were two Negro League players -- Norman "Turkey" Stearns and Bid McPhee. About a year before this interview, I had started freelancing biographical essays for a local publisher of reference materials. Most subjects were sports related and around that time they'd given to me a glut of assignments on Negro League players. I did my homework and research, and had become fascinated with the league, with its players, and the lore and tales that swallow up its history. The players were as good, if not better, than their white counterparts. They played twice as many games and crushed. Stearns played for nine different teams, but went into the Hall wearing a Detroit Stars hat. The Stars used to play their games at the now non-existent Mack Park. Before his death, it was widely reported that Stearns often held court in the outfield seats at Tiger Stadium, regaling fans with stories in great detail and candor. After the Sparky talk, I interviewed Stearns' widow, Nettie Stearns, for a related story. She was gracious and soft-spoken, very kind and accommodating. She said her husband loved baseball and his family. I was growing fonder of the history of the Negro Leagues by the week. The assignments kept coming, and I was immersed in the backgrounds of Satchel Paige, James "Cool Papa" Bell, Josh Gibson and Rube Foster.
With Anderson and Stearns both going in, my local angle was covered. So I told one of our editors that I would go to Cooperstown to cover it. Granted, Sparky went in as a Red, but Stearns was Detroit and as an adult, I always told myself I would go to the induction ceremony any time a Tiger gets in. Sparky, to me and a lot of people, is a Tiger. It also worked out well because I really wanted to go to Cooperstown to check it all out. Now, I had a reason. And, at the time, I also had a travel companion all too willing to come along. Two months before all of this, I had met, and started to "date," if you will, a woman I met while covering a Tigers' game. It didn't last more than 3 months and the relationship never took off because I was incredibly guarded of several warning signs. But, because I had a long history of getting involved with the wrong women, and would hatch a dating characteristic of refusing to see the writing on the wall --- which I would haul around with me until I met Kerry --- I thought "giving it a try" would be a good idea. This, despite the fact that she lived with her parents, declared to me that she was virgin, rarely drank, and, I'm not kidding, wore pretty much the same outfit all summer (she had 8 or 9 of the same denim shorts and same style of T-shirt). That, and she was a little too submissive for my taste, among many, many other things. So, what's the smart thing to do? That's right, drive 18 hours together out of town and spend the weekend camping in upstate New York.
On the drive home, she slept, and I decided then that I would end this thing a day or two after we returned to the Detroit area. It was messy. Well, she made it messy and that's an entirely different story, one of the best breakup tales you'll have heard in quite some time.
But the weekend with her was just awkward and kind of uneventful. We are at a campground. I bought a six-pack of beer and got a fire started (with the help of some fire-starting paste I got at a hardware store; she mentioned about five times about how lame it was that I used that, that I wasn't starting a fire from scratch). She wanted to go to bed at, like, 10 at night and kept asking if I was "going to drink that whole thing," which was a nod to the sixer. The next day after touring the Hall, we got big-ass slices of pizza. I ate mine with a knife and fork. She also found that to be lame. It was tough, being camped out with a critical, horny virgin with whom I had positively no designs on deflowering. I used this weekend to determine if I would give this relationship a chance, and by the first night, I had my mind made up that I was dumping this broad, this woman who once told me she "just wasn't into music," and had kept her bedroom in her parents' house identical to how it was when she was in junior high and high school. I'd fuck a palm full of that fire paste before I became "her first," and the chain of her self-imposed obligation that would surely ensue.
The induction ceremony was killer. Cooperstown is as quaint as they come. Its Main Street is lined with shops and trees and the whole thing is painfully Rockwellian. We saw the Hall of Fame game, toured the Hall a second day, visited the Pete Rose Hall of Fame down the street, saw some living legends walk around town, settled in on that Saturday for the ceremony and enjoyed. As a credentialed member of the media, I was also entitled to a ton of swag, including the pin commemorating that year's class, which I would later find out was a hot commodity for collectors. More than a couple of cats offered me a hundy on the spot for it. You hear the best stories and craziest statistics when they have this ceremony. Inductees speak before tens of thousands before them, and a dais full of Hall members sitting behind them. It was there, I learned of the amazing stat held by HOF'er Don Sutton, one that still makes me shake my head: never missed a start in a 19-year career.
Which leads me to another stat I read yesterday regarding Gossage's induction. In 125 of his 310 career saves, Gossage pitched the last six outs. Current saves leader Trevor Hoffman has never had to do that once in his career.
I always follow Induction Weekend because they are now starting to get to guys who were impenetrable cornerstones of my fandom when I was a kid. These are players I watched and admired. And I worry for future years, when they have to wrestle with Bonds, McGwire, Clemens and the rest of the tainted shitheads. The Hall is full of people who have done more devious shit than shoot 'roids. This is a fact. And the admission is wishy-washy. It's going to get to the point where 300 wins for a pitcher or 500 HRs for a hitter are not automatic. Ask Jose Canseco about that shit. If they won't let in Pete Rose, who was, in my opinion, the greatest hitter to play the game (apologies to Ted Williams), then the criteria is already jacked and the whole thing reeks of suspicion.
It is evident with the fact that I may have to wait a while until another Tiger gets in. Jack Morris stands the best shot, but it's a long one at that. It ain't happening for Alan Trammell, either, despite having eerily similar career numbers to Ozzie Smith. Perhaps had Tram incorporated some backflips into his schtick, he might get the nod, but it looks like he was busy in his career just being solid and kicking ass.
But, for weekends like the one that just passed, I casually overlook the politics and try to appreciate the player. Goose earned it. And every Induction Weekend, I fondly remember my own experience with the ceremony and visiting the Hall, and those priceless interviews I did with Sparky, as well as Nettie Stearns. I doubt that when I do reflect next year and years beyond, that I'll ever be able to shake the memories of the very marginal experience with the girl I dated for only eight weeks, but managed to resent in the long term.
I think I need to back to Cooperstown to reclaim it.
There is a natural disaster headed your way. You get 4 standard sized canvas grocery totes to fill with valuables and provisions to bring with you to a safe place. What would you put into your 4 bags and why?
Submitted by dejablu503.
Loaded weaponry and controlled substances.
People get a little nutty during crisis situations and I want to make damn sure I have the tools in place to provide solutions.
It is going to be a busy and decidedly decadent August, as far as spending quality time with choice peoples in the lush and scenic settings of Northern Michigan. Four weekends straight are booked, and each one will put us somewhere different up north. We got in game shape for it by spending the weekend, not up north, but with Heather and Pete at Pete's aunt's place on Lake Huron. We love it there, typically eating delicious, having drinks and relaxation way removed from our element. Always a great time. Saturday was nice and relaxing, as demonstrated by Pete's dad, a career Detroit newspaperman ...
... and the good doctor.
Kerry and I drove into Harbor Beach, but didn't find much except for this empty guard tower/station and some garage in the shadows of a nice industrial district.
Driving along any blue highway in Michigan, you are likely to see a car for sale on the side of the road -- more than likely owned by a farmer of German or German-American heritage -- that as you are passing it, you take about 30 seconds to visualize you not only owning it and driving it, but feeling rather confident about the whole thing. I love old, classic rides; sick, shiny lowriders; and most cars in between, especially if its long and built in the '70s. One vision I have of my future has me in a car like that. And so it is wonderful to hear when my wife sees a funky old ride and remarks that she could see that too, sometime down the road. "I like the ones with the big fins," she has told me. Fins it shall be. So imagine our chuckles when we saw this bad boy in the grass.
It rained the rest of the day and night, so we chowed, hung out and took off in the morning. Next weekend will be a fascination of nostalgia and weirdness as I return to central, northern Michigan, where I spent more than half of my childhood with my brother and parents in a cottage on a lake.
What part of your childhood do you miss the most?
Submitted by Maretta.
The part where you sleep in until 9 or 10 in the morning, grab your glove and bat, hop on your bike and meet the fellas at the ballfield for a little competition and lot of shit-talking. Come 5 or so, I'm the first to bolt, getting home in time for a big-ass plate of mom's cooking.
I also miss the part of childhood that doesn't include deadlines, mortgage payments, bosses, taxes, headlines, budgets and co-workers.
You remember icons, right? And I'm not talking about the compuer-related variety, either. I got my fill over the weekend, when I had the sublime pleasure of watching this:
I have very little in the way of "heroes." Actually, that is a term of which I'm not especially fond. I think icon is more appropriate, and I have about 6-8 of those I look upon with great respect and admiration. This guy is one of them. Baddest motherfucker, ever.
Show us your favorite moment in sports.
Without a doubt, what these guys did had the fucking balls to do:
Let's clear a few things up, shall we? I first saw this image when I was in about the ninth grade. I'd read an article about what this display meant and was oddly fascinated by it. Until I was 16, I long had Olympic dreams. It was that age when a track coach told me that if I wanted to fully commit myself to training and practice -- and by "fully" he meant training out of something like "Rocky" -- he thought I stood a decent chance of throwing discus and shot at a Division I university. From there, with an undistracted regimen, who knows what could've happened. At 16 though, I said fuck a bunch of that and moved along.
But before all of that, I found a picture of Tommie Smith and John Carlos, all black gloved-out on that podium in Mexico City in 1968. I showed it to my father with great pride, who then promptly reminded me that "those fucking niggers disgraced this country with that shit." It made me appreciate them even more. The Chicken was hatched one year after this picture was taken, during a Summer of Love, but also during the summer of Charles Manson, and a warm, sunny season of aggression and ambivalence in the young people of that time, of clashes in the streets and sounds of heads being cracked. To call it "turbulent" is a glowering understatement. I was born while a generation raged, fought back and said "fuck this." I was born screaming. I haven't stopped. And I never will.
This image is not about black power, as it has long been categorized. Through articles and interviews about the 1968 Olympics and to hear either one or both of them tell it, the gesture was not about black power or black rights, rather, it was dedicated to those struggling with their own human rights. And not just in the United States, but worldwide. They took a moment devoted to self and shared it selflessly with the rest of the world, despite pending vilification and scorn, mock and ridicule, threats and promises of violence swift in pain and rich in symbolism (some guy threatened to kill Carlos' father and mail him back to him a piece at a time).
I have seen some cool shit in sports. This beats them all.
What criteria do you feel makes a good QotD?
Submitted by stueykins.
Using the question mark as punctuation helps.
To Toledo we went Saturday night, to meet Casey, Mary and their 42-day-old daughter, Molly. The Mudhens took on the Columbus Clippers in what turned out to be a pretty decent game, despite the 6-5 loss for the Tigers' triple-A farm club.
If you put nine guys on a field and one in the box, on anything resembling grass and dirt, there is a relatively good chance that I will not only sit and watch, but will assuredly enjoy it. This ranges from sandlots to the pros. So it is for the minor leagues, where the field is a little smaller, the park is a little intimate in its seating, the concessions are cheaper and parking is exceptionally discounted. This also does not mention the gulf-sized difference in the fan's approach to the action. In the minors, most fans are there because they have a sincere interest in either the club itself or the game in general. At the professional level, any moron with a friend who has an extra ticket can sit for three hours, get wasted, not have a fucking clue what he's looking at, and still have the illusion that he's down for the game. Yes, there are luxury boxes at the minor league level, but the display is not as nearly as gaudy as you see in the pros, where corporate sludge oozes from the suites to the premium parking lot and back.
Guys in the minors don't have their money guaranteed, unless they're a pro there on a rehab assignment. They don't have fat contracts and endorsements, and I doubt their signing bonuses -- if they even have one -- are large enough to rival the budgets of some smaller municipalities. Things seem a little more real at the minor league level. People seem a little more true.
Before we headed south of our own border, we stopped at Rian's to take care of his pet tortoise, Rocco. Rocco is just a baby. He needed a quick turn in the water and some lunch.
In Toledo, the Mudhens play at Fifth Third Field, a relatively new venue with a great layout and sweeping views. Toledo itself doesn't seem all that bad, although I've been there only four or five times, each one a visit to see the Hens, so I've spent very little time about town. Lots of cool, big, old brick buildings, though.
The park itself is very nice.
They even had some smackers to give away.
This Clippers pitcher had the funkiest delivery I've seen in a while. He looked like a turkey out there. Left arm way up over his head, right hand way far behind his back. Strange windup and delivery motion.
Casey ended up sporting a visor-induced pompadour-style 'do by the end of the night. When it comes to hair, take it from the skinhead: rock it if you got it.
What question do you hate being asked?
Is that real? Did it hurt?
No smart guy, I just took a dull pencil and drew a big fucking skull on my elbow because I had a creative itch to scratch.
If you could do anything you want tomorrow, what would it be?
Submitted by Becca-Pink.
Breakfast late
Tigers' day game
chow, drinks, and pals from 5-7
dessert
fireworks
big fucking fire
Mrs. Chicken and I leave on plane for Monte Carlo at midnight
.
