SB Nation User Blog: E Ticket

Better Times (Part II)

E Ticket — Sun, 24 May 2009 06:58:33 -0000

The years roll by, and I am no longer a little boy. I grow up, and move away from home, start and end a career, raise a family, watch them grow up and move out. I try never to forget all the wonderful and sometimes sad things this game of baseball has taught me along the way. It has become the nature of the things and people in my life. It has become what holds life together and holds back the despair when human tragedies want to turn life dark.

So one day in the 85th year of my pops’ life I join him and some of his World War II pilot friends at one of their monthly luncheons. Their war experiences were talked out years ago, so they speak of other things. For no apparent reason, the bitter memory of Sam Jones non-no-hitter comes to mind when I overhear one old pilot mention that he used to go to Dodger games at the LA Coliseum. I turn to my dad and we try to refresh each others memories about that time 50 years ago. But what I remember has little context. I’m just not really sure how true any of it is. Time and age can put a misty halo around those things. They tend to make old guys like me overly sentimental and enamored with selective memory. So I decide to do a little digging, to see what ever happened to Sam Jones. Where did he come from? How did he get here? What ever happened to him after that day. Neither my dad nor I knew. Was he as nice a guy as I seemed to remember? Was he really that good?

Fortunately, a gentleman by the name of Rory Costello had some serious questions himself. Rory Costello, a man I know nothing about, seems to be a very good writer with the Society for American Baseball Research, with an eye for detail as well as the human side of baseball.. He has written at length on the life of Sam Jones. You can read Rory’s wonderful biography of Sam here. For it was there that I received my answer.

It seems that in 1959 San Francisco, I am not the only 11 year old who idolizes Sam Jones. As Costello writes:

"Sam made a special friend that season: an 11-year-old boy named Johnny Bushman, who had moved from a reservation in Montana (his father was a Sioux) to San Francisco. Young Johnny faithfully attended all the Giants games at Seals Stadium, though he didn't always have the 90 cents to get a bleacher seat. The pitcher had noticed the lad, who wore leg braces as a result of polio, on the fringes of the crowd of kids who would gather around Willie Mays. In his quiet way, he made sure that Johnny got tickets and even admitted him to the clubhouse afterward"

Sam has one more good season left in him with the Giants, as age, injuries and workload begin to wear at him. He is the Opening Day pitcher for the first ever game to be played at Candlestick. Sam goes on to defeat his old team, the St. Louis Cardinals 3 to 1, giving up only 2 hits to former Giant Bill White and 1 hit to former Giants teammate, Leon Wagner. In his next start, coming on 3 days rest, he one-hit the Cubs. But about that time bad news arrived for Sam. According to his biography:

Shortly thereafter, Sam found that his young friend Johnny Bushman was in San Francisco's Shriners Hospital after a leg operation. So he went often to see him and the other children on the ward, staying to play pool, sign autographs, and give away caps. "Said Sam, himself the father of two boys, 'He's a nice, well-mannered kid. I just like him.'" Eleven years later, these visits would have a poignant echo.

Sam eventually fades away from the Big Leagues, after being taken from the Giants by the Houston Colt 45s in the 1961 expansion draft. He plays minor league and winter ball right up until 1967 when he is finally released by the Columbus Jets of the old International League. It is an eventful 6 years since his glory days with the Giants. Lots of ups and downs, but mostly downs as his body starts to betray him. In addition to the ever increasing damage he is doing to his elbow and shoulder, he has developed what turns out to be malignant tumors in his neck, yet he continues to pitch. He is in two horrific automobile accidents and bounces back each time.

At some point -- it's not certain exactly when -- Sam's neck cancer returned and spread. He entered West Virginia University Hospital in Morgantown on June 1, 1971, and was there off and on for treatment over the next five months. In October, the news reached Johnny Bushman from San Francisco, by then a 23-year-old college student. While watching a Giants game, he heard that his old hero was gravely ill. That very night he dropped everything to fly east. Bushman said, "Sam had done so much for me when I was a boy that, in whatever small way I could, I wanted to repay him."

John Veasey -- who knew Sam well and took several photos for Dick Schaap's profile -- spotted Johnny in the hospital. He wrote a touching story that the Associated Press then made national. It was an emotional reunion for the two men in Sam's hospital room; both were moved to tears. Johnny planned to stay with the Jones family in Monongah "as long as they will put up with him." Indeed, he was there when the end finally came on November 5. "I brought back the ball he'd given me from his 20th win in 1959," says Bushman today. "But after Sam passed, then Mary gave it back to me again."

Sam Jones is buried in Woodlawn Cemetery, in Fairmont, West Virginia. His modest headstone bears the inscription "'Sad' Sam 1925-1971." As of 2008, nearly four decades later, he had not received any other memorials in his hometown. Yet SABR member John Schwarz (who profiled the pitcher for the 2002 edition of The National Pastime) honored Sam's memory in a unique way. He commissioned artist Jennifer Ettinger of Vancouver, British Columbia, to paint a 40-by-30-inch portrait in acrylic. She may have captured the man's expression better than any photo -- down to his trademark toothpick.

Junior Gilliam, retires from Major League Baseball at the end of the 1966 season after spending his entire 14 year career as a Dodger. It was Gilliam who hit the fateful ground ball to Andre Rogers on that long ago summer evening in 1959. He dies of a cerebral hemorrhage on October 8, 1978. This, just one day after the Dodgers clinch the pennant by beating the Phillies in Game 7 of the NLCS. He, like Sam Jones, is in his 40s when he dies.

Andre Rogers is traded to the Milwaukee Braves at the end of the 1960 season in exchange for Al Dark. Alvin Dark will manage the Giants to the NL pennant in 1962. Andre Rogers passes away peacefully in his sleep shortly before Christmas, 2004 in his native Bahamas at the age of 70

As it turns out, my memory didn’t betray me. Sam Toothpick Jones, was a good man, a better man than I had any grown-up reason to expect. He was also a very good and courageous pitcher and a great Giant. Sadly, I never really knew him. I wish I had. I know I wanted to more than anything at the time, but it never worked out. He was so nice to my dad and to me and my brother. He knew how much even the smallest kindness meant to little kids. I guess that made him real special too. I think thats part of the culture of baseball even if its not too visible to most fans. The part that ballplayers grow up with from the time they themselves are kids. They all know that if it wasn't an older player in front of them along the way reaching back to give them a hand, they would never have had any success at all.

Some guys forget. Especially when they are surrounded by folks who tell them how great they are even when they're not. But a lot of guys are like Sam too. And those are the ones I root for.

I don’t go much for memorabilia, or souvenirs. Just more stuff to keep track of, and the more stuff you have, it seems the more that people want to take it from you. But even so, I still wish I had that ball. I would have had something to remember him by. At least I had it for awhile and I still have the memories. That’s more than most people get to have, so I have no complaints. It was a great ride Sam. I hope you enjoy meeting all your new friends here at the Cove. :D

Better Times (Part I)

E Ticket — Sun, 24 May 2009 01:59:48 -0000

(note: The life, and times of the San Francisco Giants are well-documented. They are written down in newspapers, magazines, and record books. My rather ordinary life is not. Like Jose Canseco in his book “Juiced”, I am attempting to write about the past without notes nor evidence, but merely personal recall and conversations with surviving family and friends. But unlike Jose Canseco, there is no ill will for anyone. With one possible exception. That of Charlie Park, former sports writer for the defunct Los Angeles Mirror. The reason will become apparent later)

It was a Thursday afternoon. May 12, 1955 to be exact. I wasn’t there, when or where it happened. I am 2000 miles away in Barry Bonds future hometown, being a typical bored mindless seven-year old, honing the fine science of rubber band shooting and splattering spitballs against the blackboard.

Meanwhile, in Chicago Illinois, Sam Jones, of the big sweeping curve, and deadly fastball, six months short of his 30th birthday enters the top of the ninth with a 4-0 lead. He has walked four and struck out three, facing only two batters over the minimum thanks to an earlier pair of double plays. The Pirates have yet to hit safely, despite the lineup presence of Roberto Clemente, future NL MVP Dick Groat, future All Star Frank Thomas and the brothers Gene and George Freese.

For the home team Cubs, future SF Giant Jim King goes into left field, a defensive replacement for future SF Giant Bob Speake. Future SF Giant, Sam Jones begins the Top of the Ninth by immediately walking No. 8 hitter, Gene Freese. Preston Ward, who would go onto hit a stellar .211 that year, pinch hits for future Cy Young Award Winner and Comeback Player of the Year, Vern Law. Law entered the game in the bottom of the 3rd after starter Nellie King, had pitched an ineffective 1st and 2nd innings. After wild-pitching Freese over to second, Jones walks pinch-hitter Preston Ward, before Ward is pinch-run for by Cuban rookie, Roman Mejias.

This rolls the lineup over with runners on 1st and 2nd, nobody out, and leadoff batter Tom Saffell coming up. Saffell, rescued from the Atlanta Crackers in 1949 by Gabe Paul, is a bench player after being replaced in right field by first year player Clemente. This would be Saffell’s last year in the Bigs. Saffell, like Freese and Ward before him, works Jones over for a walk, juicing the bases for Groat, Clemente, and Thomas.

With the bases loaded and chomping down on his flat-sided toothpick, Jones gets a swinging strike-out of number three batter, Clemente, after ringing up Dick Groat on a called strike three. One batter later, clean-up hitter Frank Thomas, strides to the plate; only to be rung up on strikes by Home Plate umpire Artie Gore, to end the game and preserve the 4-0 victory. The Cubs that year, would finish in sixth place, 9 games under .500, 26 games behind the Brooklyn Dodgers. The Pirates would finish dead last winning only 60 games. The Giants were only one year removed from their World Series victory the prior Autumn, never to repeat this accomplishment.

Thus, following three consecutive walks and a wild pitch to start off the ninth, Sam “Toothpick” Jones strikes out a future Hall of Famer, a future MVP and a future All Star, ensuring his place in American History as the first black player to pitch a Major League no hitter. Sadly, fewer than 3000 fans are at 1060 W Addison St. to bear witness. I learn of the feat the next morning as my dad reads aloud the details from the sports page. As he speaks, I slurp down the usual bowl of cold cereal, pausing only to punch a younger brother as he tries unsuccesfully to snag my toast. My father does not see the bratty sibling reach for the toast, but only me as I repell the attack upon my breakfast. Getting whacked for not picking on somebody “my own size.” convinces me that life is unfair. Little do I know.

Prior to the 1959 season, the San Francisco Giants have a dilemna; two young outstanding first base prospects. Orlando Cepeda is one. Bill White who can play the outfield as well, is the other. Willie McCovey is still in the wings. And the Giants need pitching like a dead man walking needs a stay of execution. Horace Stoneham or Chub Feeney (Giants VP and General Manager) take your pick, pulls the trigger on a trade for Sam “Toothpick” Jones, by now a 34 year old journeyman with a sometimes sore arm. Jones had been traded to St. Louis following the 1956 season and pitches with some success for fellow Cards, Stan Musial, Ken Boyer, Curt Flood, Tim McCarvar, Bob Gibson, and Jim Brosnan. He puts together arguably his best season for the Cardinals in 1958 going 14-13 with 250 innings pitched, 225 strikeouts and an ERA of 2.88. But the Cardinals need a guy to plug into left field, so Bill White and Ray Jablonski go over to the Cards, and Sam Jones and Don Choate (whose career lasts 4 games at the end of the 1960 season) come west to San Francisco. Sam Jones is now a San Francisco Giant and that’s all I need to know.

Forty Six years ago, Art Rosenbaum and Bob Stevens, two of San Francisco’s best sports journalists in their day, write the seminal diary of the San Francisco version of the Giants; aptly called: “The Giants of San Francisco”. One of the chapters deals exclusively with the 1959 season. As for the Sam Jones part of that season, I’ll let the book take it up for awhile:

Milwaukee's Hank Aaron had hit a 410-foot double off Sam Jones in the sixth inning, knocking Jones out of the game. In the dressing room an hour and a half later, several San Francisco sports writers were gathered about Jones, asking what happened. "You can tell Aaron that the next time he sees me he's going flat," Jones said, bitterly. "Don't print that” Mays said quickly from the next locker. "Sure, print it," said Jones," and you can tell Aaron too. "Don't print that,"Mays repeated. Jones had been around. The newspapers chose to print the statement, and stressed the implication of how Aaron was setting himself up for a hole in the head next time he faced the wicked-curving Jones. They chose to print it over the protests of the twenty-eight-year-old Mays, who had also been around but not as much as Jones.

And that is the thing about Willie. He takes it upon himself to be the guy looking out for the others. He believes it is up to him to run interference for his teammates. It is because of his bigger salary that he feel this sense of obligation. The story continues:

Two days later was interesting for Giant fans and writers. Jones came into save a tiring Mike McCormick's win in the odd game of the three-set series. The stands were abuzz because the fourth man up was Aaron. Jones erased the first three men. In the dressing room after wiping out Milwaukee for the Giants' 6-3 win, Jones was again faced by reporters. "No comment' he said. "Ask Rigney. And besides that, don't ask me for no comment the rest of the season.

Though there was much stir about the incident ( Sports Illustrated cameras were present in Milwaukee for the "rematch"), Jones threw straight to Aaron and Hank bounced into a double play.

As the season rolled along and Jones became the "big man" for the Giants, his suggestion to "don't ask me for no comment" was forgotten. Sam was too busy starting and relieving to fret too much about the printed word.

And then came the evening of June 30, 1959. The Giants, in the heat of the pennant race with the Braves and Dodgers are in Los Angeles for a Tuesday night game in front of 59,000 fans at the Los Angeles Coliseum.

Los Angeles native, Eddie Bressoud, a better fielding shortstop who was signed by the Giants out of high school in 1950, is benched in favor of the first Bahamian to play Major League baseball. He is converted cricket player, Andre Rogers, a player not too unlike the up again, down again Eugenio Velez. It is to be Sam Jones vs. Don Drysdale. And it will be this night above all others that will forever be the cornerstone of the West Coast version of the Giants Dodger rivalry. Rosenbaum’s and Steven’s book continues:

“… a succession of unusual occurrences helped give Giants vs. Dodgers, in its California incarnation, a character quite distinct from New York vs. Brooklyn. The first such incident demonstrated that even a scorer's decision can exacerbate municipal prejudices.”

Indeed it does.

In 1959, Sam Jones, a laconic right-hander who gnawed on a toothpick while he pitched, was the ace of the Giants' staff. On the night of June 30, in the Los Angeles Coliseum, he had a no-hitter working in the eighth inning when Jim Gilliam of the Dodgers hit an easy bouncer to the infamously maladroit Giant shortstop, Andre Rodgers. True to form, Rodgers bobbled the ball, picked it up and, aware that further effort would only compound his folly, made no throw to first.

The official scorer, Charlie Park of the Los Angeles Mirror-News, did not hesitate in calling Gilliam's grounder a base hit. Jones nearly swallowed his toothpick. Members of the San Francisco press shouted imprecations, but Park resolutely rejected all appeals. Base hit! Russ Hodges, broadcasting the game home to San Francisco, was tremulous with rage. "If ever a man deserved a no-hit game, Sam Jones did tonight," he bellowed into the KSFO microphone. "The ball was a routine grounder."

Most observers thought Jones threw a no-run, no-hit game, but Charlie Park of the Los Angeles Mirror-News, the official scorer, ruled Jim Gilliam's bouncer to short in the eighth inning a hit. In the dressing room Jones brushed aside Park's outstretched hand, said he didn't want to talk to any newspaperman and especially one who didn't know how to score. Sam puffed on a cigarette while the familiar toothpick occupied the other side of his face. There were tears on his cheeks. "Why," he sulked to other newsmen, "don't yon guys buy yourself another scorer?" Charlie Park said he thought Gilliam would have beaten out the throw even if Andre Rodgers had fielded it perfectly. Rodgers caught it, dropped it, picked it up and failed to throw. Park didn't hesitate. The "hit" sign went up immediately. Later he refused to change his verdict despite much badgering in the press box. Courageously, he said he didn't hesitate when he saw the play and felt there was no reason to do so later.

The controversy did not die that night. The Chronicle, a wag of a newspaper, seized the opportunity to portray Park's decision as the embodiment of the Southern California mentality and to show up Charlie as the sort of bounder who would willingly rob the North of its drinking water and its no-hitters. There are, the Chronicle editorialized, "dark and secret things, unrelated to reality and governed by no law of man or nature, that happen all the time in the Los Angeles Coliseum.... Whatever the explanation, the facts are intolerable to San Franciscans who regard baseball as a sane pastime, bound by logical rules, fairly imposed. They don't like to have indignities inflicted on Sam Jones' no-hitter. This is a matter of principle, not sectionalism—a moral consideration which holds that it will be a cold day in Candlestick Park when any Dodger pitcher gets closer to an official no-hitter than the Jones boy did in the Los Angeles Coliseum."

The editorial writer had no way of knowing just how many cold days there would be in Candlestick Park, because the new stadium was still under construction in 1959, a matter of no small moment then. The Giants were playing in 23,000-seat Seals Stadium in a year in which, to their considerable surprise, they found themselves pennant contenders. In late September they were leading the league by two games and facing the prospect of playing the city's first World Series in a minor league park. The Dodgers resolved this dilemma by sweeping a three-game series in San Francisco, taking the lead themselves and pressing on to whip the White Sox and become California's first world champions. The battle now was truly joined.

And so it was. Unless you experience the rage and pain of having your hero done in by dastardly evil conspirators, you do not know the depths to which more than a few Northern California 11 year olds are plunged that evening. And despite the Giants second win in a row over the despicable Dodgers, our guy gets robbed of a no-hitter for all-time.

Later that year, Sam Jones is selected for the 2nd All-Star Game. Ironically, it is on a Monday afternoon in early August, at the LA Coliseum. My mom’s kid sister, who had lived with us while going to school, has married well, and her husband, a Giants fan, arranges to fly my dad and himself to LA from the City for the day. Jones pitches a scoreless couple of innings against the American League in traditional fashion, striking out three, walking two while allowing no runs in a loss to the American League. LA Dodger pitcher, Don Drysdale is charged with the loss so there is some solace for Giants fans.

Waiting for the return flight home in a nearby coffee shop, a number of the players are hanging around waiting for their flights. My dad and uncle, in a booth next to Jones, get to talking to him about their respective experiences in the Army Air Force during the war. Jones has a John-Madden-like discomfort with flying (Pops was a former bomber pilot, and Jones an earth bound enlisted airman who learned to play baseball while in the Army Air Force) so he tries to loosen Jones up with some of his wartime experiences.

They continue the conversation on the return flight and when they land, he offers Jones a ride, Jones having opted for a cab when he left the day before. So as they start up the Bayshore Highway, neither knows where they are really going except in a general way. Naturally they got lost Jones lives on some side street out in Noe Valley that my dad doesn't know as we live on the other side of Twin Peaks at the time. So after driving around in circles for a long while following Sam's errant directions, he finally asks Sam if he could find his way home from the park. “Oh hell yeah” Sam said and so off to 16th and Bryant they go and find Jones’ house a short time later.

Later that evening as he tells us the story: “Out front was the most beautiful black Cadillac El Dorado Convertible he has ever seen. It has one of those Continental Tire Kits on it and everything” Sam asked if he could do anything for him, and my dad tells him he had a couple of boys at home, that are big fans of his and would sure like an autographed ball. Sam told him: “I’ll do you one better. I'll get the whole team to sign two of them, one for each boy. Call me in a few days when I have them, and you can come down to the ballpark and pick them up...how would that be?”

Well, my dad figures that it is just talk and that he will never hear from Sam again. But several days later, just before they leave on a road trip, Sam calls my dad and he goes over to Seals Stadium and gets the two balls, one for each of us.

We hang onto them for about a year. Not having the money for new baseballs and having them get chewed up all the time in the alley behind the house or on the blacktop at the playground, our supply of balls is always in dire straits. One day we decide to play “catch only” with one of them and only on the grass where it won't get scuffed. Unfortunately we forget about the grass stains and the sweaty hands of little kids smearing ink. So needless to say, the first ball gets trashed and finds its way into our supply of “gamers”. Before too long it is indistinguishable from all the rest of the stringy taped up orbs we keep in an old cardboard box in the basement. I don’t even remember what happens to the second one.

(to be continued)

Ahem

E Ticket — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 04:39:08 -0000

I was lazing back last night, feet up, the constant drumming of February rain keeping time and harmony with John Chancellor's warm narrative, drifting away in The Seventh Inning of Ken Burns' Baseball. Its been 15 years since it first aired. Nineteen Ninety Four. And its been dusted off by the new MLB network to fill airtime until the season begins.

I sat there last night, with vague childhood memories. Vaguely remembered stories about the careers of Williams, and DiMaggio and Campanella and Robinson winding down. The more familiar careers of Mays, Snider, Mantle, Ford, and Koufax in ascent. It reminded me again of the ever-changing of the guard from one generation to the next. And that no matter how hard we try, we cannot make time stand still.

I watched again and listened again as familiar voices spoke of that decade between 1950 and 1960. The Giants, Yankees, and Dodgers. The three best teams of their time. Bob Costas, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Roger Angell, Robert Creamer, Donald Hall, Shirley Povich, George Will and others. Only today, I view some of them with perhaps a little less affinity, if not trust

And then it struck me. John Perricone, in a most poignant and salient piece, was able to contextualize this whole mess called the "steroid era" as bad a term as that may be, by writing something that was as profound as it was obvious.

"These writers are defending their childhood memories, and poorly at that. They are, in effect, saying that these players aren't as good as their heroes were, therefore, they are cheating."

But of course these players are as good as the writer’s heroes were. The past is always wonderful. We can make it any way we want. It is only fettered by our imagination, wishful thinking, and the very natural human instinct to avoid remembering, painful events and facts.

The predecessors of those in today’s MSM were not as kind to Willie Mays nor Willie McCovey as some would have us believe. Mays was just as likely to be denigrated as a hot dog for letting his cap fly as he was to be recognized for his contributions. His patented basket catches were "setting a bad example" for young players and teaching them bad habits. And if he dare strand a runner in scoring position in a key game, he was chided for not being clutch. If he missed an interview, he was rude, uncaring, or aloof.

And because Mac had a very long and loping stride, he was mistakenly called out for loafing and being a lazy runner. Like many products of a 1940s and 50s Alabama education, he was not the most articulate guy when he first came up at the age of 21. As a result, many fans who just like today echo what they hear and see in MSM, often mocked him. I had never heard that kind of hateful vile from grown-ups before. It wasn’t a lot of people, but enough to scare me.

In an ill-fated attempt to make room in the lineup for both he and Cepeda, the Giants forced Mac into the outfield for parts of the 62, 63, and 64 seasons. Mac made 14 errors in LF in 63 to lead the team. And he caught hell from the media as a result. The terms were unflattering to say the least.

So Mays was a hotdog, and McCovey was lazy and dumb, and Cepeda had a hard time with English. But in the end their biggest crimes were not about that at all. They were all guilty of not being Joe DiMaggio. At that time, the greatest player ever to come out of the Bay Area.

As a kid, I can remember endless references to the DiMaggio brothers, Joe, Dom and Vince. Everywhere I went. Joe this and Joe that. Joe was more graceful than Willie. Joe never lost his cap. Joe never made stupid basket catches. Joe never stranded a base runner in his life. Joe beat Bill Brasky at dominoes and won World War II single-handedly and he never did anything wrong or even spit on the sidewalk. Even my grandfather would get in on the act and regale me with DiMaggio anecdotes. And he hadn't lived in the country on a regular basis since 1926!

Be that as it may, it was Mays time. And it was McCovey’ s time. And all the others who came along in the 50s and 60s. And to be sure there was resentment of the new guys. There always was. And there always will be. But it was their time. Not only at the plate, in the field and on the mound, but outside the lines too. Different values, different pressure. More money. Jet lag, and night games became the norm. Every ballplayer had to prepare himself in his own way.

From the time they are little kids, ballplayers are taught: prepare, prepare, prepare. To study the game. To condition the body. Why? To get an advantage over his opponent. Isn't that the whole point? To get an edge. Ty Cobb filed his spikes. Hank Aaron took Greenies. Babe Ruth was a practicing alcoholic as was Grover Cleveland Alexander. They all did things that were considered socially unacceptable. They made bad choices, caught diseases, did stupid things, and otherwise behaved just like every other human being who is predisposed to doing risky things. Which is what competitive sports is all about. Risky behavior. Where risky behavior crosses the line into malfeasance is beyond the scope of this post however.

There are fewer things more vapid, than justifying a wrong by pointing to another wrong. And that is not the purpose of citing these things and players from prior eras. Each ballplayer does different things than the players before him and certainly different than those that will succeed him. Gaylord Perry and MSM would routinely yuck it up whenever the topic of his spitter came up. He wrote a book about it. He still went into the hall of fame and his "cheating" was nothing more than a source of bad one-liners for most. Something in which I totally concur.

Sammy Sosa corked bats. Though "illegal", corking bats actually results in a minute drop in distance that a hit ball will travel. Sammy Sosa was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Would Ruth’s or Aaron’s accomplishments be less if their bats had been corked? Would they be greater? One thing is for sure. They are smarter than Sammy Sosa. But, what if Ruth had had to bat against Satchel Paige, Smoky Joe Williams, Bullet Joe Rogan, Willie Foster and the rest of the excluded Negro Leaguers? Is Ruth any less "Ruthian" as a result? What if Henry had to play at the Stick like Mays, would he have had as many jacks as he did at the Atlantal Space Launch facility? Is he any more diminished by a rigged ballpark? I think, not. Point. Counterpoint. Blah. That steroids are against the rules and not legal in some cases is a result of politics and incomplete science.

Success, achievement, recognition is not a zero-sum game. Just as a father can love an only child, he can also love two, three, four, five or however many children he has. Both collectively and individually. The esteem and favor in which one is held, is not diminished by the esteem and favor of the others.

It seems to me that peds are more of a political issue, backed by poorly thought out legalities and even less objective science and serve as little more than a vehicle for the nostalgia ridden to castigate those who have succeeded their heroes from the past. I was three months old when Babe Ruth died from cancer. I was mad at him for a long time for doing that. And when I was a little boy it really upset me that I never got to see Christy Mathewson or John McGraw. I thought life was horribly unfair that Lou Gehrig had to die so young. Or that Willie Mays never showed for my Cub Scout troop. Or that Billie Martin died drunk in a car wreck.

And every fall when everything dies I remember Wilver Stargell and how unfair it all seems sometimes. And I remember Pops' Game 7, sixth inning homerun to take the lead and secure the World Series in 1979. We were Family as Sister Sledge sang. In 1985, Dale Berra and Dave Parker accused him of distributing greenies in Federal Court. Whether true or untrue, it does not take away one iota of admiration and respect for Pops. Nothing. Pops had to do what every professional does to keep his edge. Did whatever it took to maximize his level of performance. For the record, he denied the accusations. For the record, I don't care.

Did methamphetamines contribute to Pop’s untimely stroke and death in 2001? We will never know. We can only remember with great fondness the smiles, the thrills and heart-stopping fun we had watching him . And if at the end of ones life, one can say, that he gave everything he had to his vocation to be the best he could be, and in the process enriched the lives of millions of fans, who are we to wag a finger at him.

I understand these things. You understand these things if you love this game. Nobody misses the days of Willie Mays and Willie McCovey and Orlando Cepeda and Juan Marichal and Gaylord Perry more than me.(Mainly because I am older than most) And when we see Mac on crutches, crippled by disease and injury for the rest of his life, it makes us horribly sad. As I felt when Mickey Mantle and Billie Martin died much too young. And when Lyman Bostock was murdered, and Donnie Moore took his own life.

But no matter how sad their departure from the game. No matter how vivid the memories of their feats, their time has passed. The old ballplayers know that. It is a sad thing for awhile. Most get over it and move gently beyond to join the rest of us. Some manage the transition with great style, and gentle humor, but mostly with great memories and the gratitude that for awhile in their lives, they were the best at what they did.

A few turn overly somber or bitter. And some of them, like so many in media, think that any recognition and honor that comes to the next generation will somehow minimize the work of the prior generation. But it doesn’t. Their accomplishments stand alone. Just as the accomplishments of Bonds, Rodriguez Magwire and Clemens stand alone, so do those of Roger Maris, Babe Ruth, Henry Aaron, Frank Robinson, Ty Cobb and Grover Cleveland Alexander.

With or without peds. With or without Black ballplayers. With or without drugs, mental disorders, bigotry or any manner of personality defects. Their accomplishments and achievements still stand. Baseball is still the greatest institution in the history of Western Civilization. So great in fact, it can withstand the cash burning contract of one Barrack Zito, and not have to ask for a stimulus package. And if you really think about it, that’s one hell of an accomplishment.