The Goose, The Rose, and The Hall

Well, my loyal readers, tonight I must pose a question. Now that the holidays are finally behind us, who gave every retail store and shopping mall on the planet the green light to go ahead and start putting up Valentine's Day crap? For crying out loud, every store I've walked into since January 2nd is packed to the gills with red hearts, pounds of chocolate and cutesy little stuffed animals that make me want to start a shooting spree. Good God, people... give us a chance to unwind from the gala pageantry and festive lights that plagued us for the last two months of shopping in retail hell. Did Valentine's Day become part of the "holiday season?" If so, I must have missed a meeting somewhere. What a shame.

It's a shame because if there's any holiday that should be included in the "holiday season," it's St. Patrick's Day. The day in history when Saint Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland. My God, what a Freudian dream that was. Regardless, whenever there's a holiday that makes it the norm, rather the expected, to get hammered, I can get on board with that.

Anyway, the reason for the post today is that they announced the men that are going to be inducted into the baseball hall of fame today, and the lone inductee is Bruce Sutter. Rich "Goose" Gossage just missed, and I'm bummed about that. The Goose was pretty much the first closer in the history of baseball. He was the man. Back when closers had to get 3, 6, or 9 outs, the Goose was unhittable. Not to take anything away from the closers of today, like Mariano Rivera, but when the Goose got picked up in that Yankee golf cart and driven to the mound, just his sheer presence was enough to make the toughest hitters in the game piss their pants. Granted, he (and Mariano) was a Yankee, and I'm a little biased, but his becoming enshrined into the hall should be a no-brainer, and he's been eligible for 12 years now. But I digress.

The one thing that I found interesting is that Pete Rose, the all time hit leader, got 10 write-in votes. I have mixed feelings about this, and here's why.

One of my fondest childhood memories is sitting in the living room of our first house in Jamestown, NY, on an ottoman, next to my father, sitting in his recliner, drinking a Budweiser, and smoking Terryton cigarettes. It was the middle of summer on a Saturday, and the Yanks had a matinee game against the hated Boston Red Sox. I'm guessing it was 1978, because Ron "Louisiana Lightning" Guidry was on the hill, and in 1978 he was 25-3. Pretty ridiculous. Regardless, I remember my mother coming into the room and asking who was winning. My answer was "we are, 6-2." I can tell you pretty much the entire lineup from that year. Not so much that I watched the Yankees every possible minute, but when I was a kid, I never really had a lot of time with the old man. Hence, when the Yanks had a Saturday game, there I was, and I paid such close attention to the game that I can tell you every player at every position. Just for laughs, let's give it a shot. Catfish Hunter and Ron Guidry were starting pitchers. Goose Gossage was the closer. I won't go through the whole lineup, but with names like Mickey Rivers, Chris Chambliss, Thurman Munson, Roy White, Lou Pinella, and the hero of 1978 that virtually ended the Red Sox season that year, Bucky Dent... or as he's known in Boston, Bucky F'ing Dent, you'd be hard pressed to find a lineup to compare. Suck on that one, Boston.

No matter what was going on in our lives at the time, there was always baseball. It was a perfect game with perfect players on a perfect Saturday afternoon.

Anyway, back to the Pete Rose thing. A couple of years later, we had moved, and one summer my whole family took a trip to Cincinnati to see the relatives on my mom's side. By that time I was playing Little League, and was simply enamored of the game. My uncle had scored us tickets to the Reds/Astros game, so I wouldn't have to sit around with my two female cousins... one of whom used to beat the shit out of me, so I was glad to avoid the beatings for a few hours. Although our seats were in the nose bleeds, this was the era of Rose, Johnny Bench, and Tom Seaver. Seaver actually pitched the first inning and a half, but didn't have his stuff that day and got yanked. By the way, Seaver holds the record for most votes to be inducted into the hall of fame with 90%... just thought you'd like to know. The Reds went on to lose the game (I want to say 7-3, but I'm really not sure), but I remember that Johnny Bench was up in the bottom of the 9th, bases jammed, down 4, and struck out. Sorry Cinci.

For those of you that have been living under a rock for the last 15 or so years, the reason that Pete Rose isn't, and most likely won't be, in the hall is this; he bet on the game. He did the one thing that you can't do in professional baseball. It was a time when steroids weren't illegal, and Barry Bonds's head wasn't the size of a beach ball. As long as you went to practice, played your position, didn't kill anybody or bet on the game, you were going to stay in the show. Pete gambled, and lost in more than one way. Although you can go to the hall and see some of his memorabilia and the big poster of him getting his 3,000th hit, you can't go see his plaque; and that's the one that matters.

On the one hand, I get it. He bet. You're not allowed to bet. You don't get in the hall. I get it. I'm not stupid. On the other hand, it's always been my belief that what gets you into the hall is what you do between the lines. It's playing your hardest and using the gift that God gave you to be the best you can be. It's sacrificing your body. It's hours of BP and shagging fly balls. It's fielding hot ground balls that can take an unexpected hop and break your thumb. And lastly, but not least, it's going in head first to home plate for that much needed run, and it's earning the nickname, "Charlie Hustle."

Now, the fact that he bet is crucial here. The people that vote on who gets in are sports writers. They're pencil pushing geeks like me that love the game, but never had the gift to get in the show. They just don't get the game. They don't understand how anyone can just live and breathe the very essence of the game, and that's what's sad. If you've never played, there's no way I can explain it to you. It's something that gets in you, and you just can't shake it. Ask someone who played, and they'll tell you the same thing. However, some hack that was a guest on a local sports talk show said that it's not just based on what you do on the field. He said that it's now based on character, integrity, and essentially how you're viewed as a person. I think that's about the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard. If that were the case, Ty Cobb would never set foot in Cooperstown, and Barry Bonds will be bagging groceries in 3 years. Those two are about the biggest assholes that have ever picked up a bat, but Cobb is in, and that jerk Bonds will most likely be in on the first ballot. Can Bonds play the game? Absolutely. He's unbelievably talented. Is Cobb one of the best hitters ever? You bet. Are they assholes? Certainly.

Having said that, I have to believe that Pete Rose should be in the hall. It's called the Baseball Hall of Fame. It's not called the Baseball and Non-Betting Great Guys With Outstanding Character Hall of Super Nice Guys. If it was, I'd be in, and you could go pay $13 to see a plaque of my ugly mug in Cooperstown. On second thought, maybe not. I have been known to go to Vegas and place the occasional wager and drink the occasional beer and get thrown over the occasional table and occasionally dance with a beautiful blonde from California... so maybe I'm not the ideal candidate for the hall.

In short, if Pete Rose doesn't ever get into the hall, I'll just choose to remember his play as if I was still sitting on that ottoman, inhaling second-hand smoke and asking the old man if I can try a sip of his beer... with a perfect game and perfect players.

Anyway, I must be off. Gotta head out shopping and avoid the ultra-red glare of whatever the hell holiday is coming up in a couple of months. Maybe I'll buy a rose.

Until next time...

R