I honestly don’t pay much attention to the Hall of Fame these days. On the one hand, political concerns (and I mean “political” as in “woke”) are starting to play far too large a role in the unstated criteria for admission; and on the other, new and somewhat controversial metrics like WAR are beginning to nudge aside common sense as a robotic generation of nerds insists that everything can be reduced to numbers.
In my relative indifference, then, I’m afraid that the selection of Ted Simmons to Cooperstown this past fall blew past me like a quick-pitched fastball. There I was, getting sucked into discussions about Larry Walker… and the committee finally did right by one of the most all-around productive players of the rather unglamorous Seventies and Eighties. Maybe there’s some use to Wins Above Replacement, after all (or maybe not: Ted’s WAR is almost identical to Fred McGriff’s, who is supposed to be a mere also-ran).
I mean, a switch-hitting catcher who hits for both average and power… how much versatility can you ask for? Of course, power stats in those lackluster years would soon be eclipsed by the emergence of Steroids Superstars. In the long, dark shadow of the Nineties, nobody remembers slugger Steve Balboni, who topped 30 home runs only once in his career; and scarcely more fans will recall Tony Armas (Senior), who reached that plateau just three times. Ted’s comparatively modest average of 15 homers over a span of 14 seasons might fly under the radar; but the decade-and-a-half figure is highly significant. Balboni and Armas both did their damage over about half a decade… and I could mention, say, Jeff Burroughs or Reggie Smith, who had more protracted and successful careers, but who likewise didn’t regularly log seasonal home runs in the thirties.
Ted’s 2,472 hits especially catch the eye. His .285 career batting average matches Yogi’s—but Berra, surprisingly, had over 300 fewer safeties. Johnny Bench is over a hundred behind Yogi, and his average trails that of the other two by almost twenty points. Now, Johnny fought hard and bravely against injuries and ill health. He was also the premier defensive catcher of his generation. Yet there’s something—indeed, much—to be said for durability, particularly at the backstop position. Ted had that in spades.
I’m sure that the sabermetricians are aware of such intangibles, and also of the relevance of “the times”… but the essence of such things is that you can’t really quantify them. I respect anyone who tries, up to a point. I may begin to grow a little disgusted, though, when Dexter Sliderule forgets that he’s only approximating, and shifts into a more insistent mode. The numbers are helpful. They’re indispensable, even. Yet they cannot be considered as the first and last word, with nothing in between.
I’ll devote the final half of today’s ramble to a thought that first struck me when I was viewing the career of Sam Rice. The lifetime .322 hitter accumulated 2,987 career hits—yes, a puny thirteen shy of 3.000. Any fan of today would wonder immediately why Rice didn’t polish off such a superhuman accomplishment. Did he lose his eyesight? Was his hand destroyed in an off-season accident? Nothing so dramatic: he simply hadn’t realized that he was within a sneeze of turning over the “thousands” counter!
Now consider how many later players (Sam hung it up in 1934) desperately plod along just to reach some magic number that almost assures admission to the corridors of Mount Olympus: 400 homers (now 500), 3,000 hits or strikeouts, 300 wins. Because these somewhat arbitrary figures came to achieve canonical status as the game aged, chasing after one of them often grew to be the obsession of the individual player and—with all the publicizing made possible by television—the prime marketing strategy of many a franchise.
The obsession can be fatal. In wasn’t to Pete Rose: he found other ways to shoot himself in the foot. But his career average very nearly dipped under .300 (.303) as he stumbled after Ty Cobb’s all-time hits record. During his final seven seasons on the active roster, Pete topped .300 only once (and .271 only once more). His official at-bats over that period ranged between a part-time 365 and a nearly invisible 26. Anything to get Number 4,190!
Craig Biggio at least registered full seasons right to the end, with his seasonal batting average dipping below .250 just once (by four points). Why the HOF electors treated him like a pathetic nag toppling over the 3,000-hit finish line on three legs, I’ll never understand.
I mentioned Fred McGriff parenthetically above. Having come short of 500 home runs by a paltry seven, Fred perhaps damaged more than helped his case by hanging around for a final 410 AB’s only to grind out fifteen more dingers. His average over this span dipped well under the .250 mediocrity mark.
Duke Snider, likewise, may have rubbed more luster off his career than he added by hanging around long enough to tally 407 round-trippers. Very similar to McGriff, Duke had a bit over 500 AB’s in his final two seasons, hitting well under .250 during the span. The trade-off was an additional 18 homers.
You could say that Snider at least found his happy ending (though he had to wait sixteen years for the Sportswriters’ approval). His teammate Gil Hodges suffered what has been the fate—so far—of Fred McGriff. The cornerstone of the champion Brooklyn Dodgers’ defense, said to have the surest hands of any first-sacker in his generation, Gil sadly ran out of offensive gas in his bid to reach 400 home runs. Hodges was already at 298 after his first ten full years of service. You had to figure that he could round up another 102 within three of four years… certainly within five. But the Dodgers moved from Brooklyn to LA at just that point, and the shift to a track-and-field stadium ridiculously rehabilitated as a baseball quasi-diamond favored neither his style nor Snider’s. Gil’s offensive totals plunged across the board; he eked out a mere 25 home runs over his last four seasons—which, to be sure, represented scarcely over 500 AB’s. Two of these seasons saw Hodges returning to New York (again, like Snider) on the expansion-formed Mets in a clever marketing scheme to capture some of the old Ebbets Field enthusiasm. Like Jackie Robinson, Gil should probably have said “no” to the original West Coast move; he should certainly have declined to be humiliated over those final four seasons (during one of which—1960—he batted .198).
What shall we say, then, of players who were perennial All Stars for a decade, had probably stacked enough lumber over that period to achieve serious consideration for Cooperstown… and then stayed year after frustrating year trying to seal the deal? Albert Pujols won’t damage his legacy, or even his first-round election… but he should have retired two or three years ago. Barry Bonds would not be cooling his heels in Pete Rose and Shoeless Joe Limbo if he hadn’t allowed majestic numbers to woo him beyond the parameters set by Mother Nature.
Numbers. They’re too much in our heads, with too little context. WAR is apparently an attempt to supply context and to substitute a more legitimate number. How, though, do you factor in an allowance for a player who would have been among your elite few if you hadn’t distracted him with other magical numbers?