Showing posts with label Hall of Fame. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hall of Fame. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Cooperstown Confidential


Over at The Second Pass, a fantastic website about books that's rightfully starting to get a ton of attention, my friend John reviews Zev Chafets' Cooperstown Confidential, an almost total take down of the National Baseball Hall of Fame. As is his wont, John gets right to the heart of the matter: 
Zev Chafets’ Cooperstown Confidential, a slender book that serves as both a revisionist history of the Hall and a polemic in favor of socially liberal admission policies (Pete Rose and steroids users will rejoice if Chafets has any impact on voting patterns), manages to be earnest and playful, though not in the traditional ways described above. Earnest because it spends more time addressing issues like racism and commercialism than whether Bert Blyleven deserves a plaque; and playful because it gleefully spits in the face of anyone who thinks the Hall’s (very thin) Puritanical sheen is anything but a “public relations sham.”
I read a very early version of Chafets' excellent and provocative book, and I'm in total agreement with John. Like the College of Cardinals or the U.S. House of Representatives, the Baseball Hall of Fame is made up of equal parts legends, qualified representatives, quacks, criminals and, yes, cheats. That the Hall of Fame continues to hold itself up as a model of constancy, integrity, even infallibility, is nothing more than clever marketing. Everybody's just selling soap. Chafets, a former columnist for New York's "Daily News," is right to call the Hall out on their spotty history of institutional hypocrisy. His book is worth picking up. 

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

"That Next Goddam Guy Up, Rickey."

Roger Angell picks off recent Baseball Hall of Fame inductee Rickey Henderson, who was, according to Angell, one of the greatest--and most annoying--players in the history of baseball. Why was Rickey such a pain in the ass? Because Rickey made it thus: 
It was all on purpose, of course. Rickey’s plan, from the first day, was to get into the minds of the other team’s pitcher and the other team’s manager and the other team’s infielders, and their fans, too, and get them thinking about Rickey instead of the business at hand. That at-bat scrunch shrivelled the strike zone to the size of a Kleenex; his furrowy, imperious frown, twisting head, and curatorial glare at each passing pitch turned the home-plate ump’s calls his way. Once he was on base, that squinting, finger-twitching pause when leading away from first made the infielders sidle to more awkward places in the diamond, and insufferably burdened the pitchers’ attention. Managers, out of their gourds with anxiety, more than once ordered an opposing lead-off batter walked intentionally, with nobody on base, to clog up the base-paths and avert more potential damage by that next goddam guy up, Rickey.
For a look at Henderson's, um, impressive lifetime stats, take a look over here. To get the complete story of Rickey, though, feast your eyes on this