This is a column about the most mysterious electoral body in America.
And here's the amazing part: We aren't even going to mention the state of
Florida.
(Private aside to Floridians: You're welcome. Mail the expression of
deep gratitude we negotiated -- those free Sea World tickets -- to the usual
address.)
Thankfully, friends, this is a column about a different kind of
electorate. This is about the distinguished members of the Baseball Writers
Association of America who vote for the baseball Hall of Fame.
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We
have said before, and we will say again: Bruce
Sutter is the most under-supported Hall of Fame
candidate in our time as a voter. He is such an
easy guy to vote for, it never ceases to amaze us
that so many of our peers make it such a habit of
forgetting to check his name. ” |
Oh, we admire these people. We respect them. We've even shared a beverage
or two with many of them.
We just can't figure out what the heck they're thinking. That's all.
We want to say, right here at the top, that this is a column written by a
fellow Hall voter. And only those who vote know what an honor it is, what a
serious responsibility it is and, especially, how excruciatingly hard it is.
So this is no pot shot from afar. This is a pot shot from a voter who has
spent way more hours of his life contemplating whether Jim Rice is a Hall of
Famer than Rice has ever spent worrying about how many "hits" our column has
gotten.
But now that we've got all the disclaimers out of the way, here are
some of the questions that drive us into a semi-hysterical lather every year:
What exactly consitutes a Hall of Fame relief pitcher if Bruce Sutter and
Goose Gossage aren't?
How is Carlton Fisk a Hall of Famer if Gary Carter isn't?
If being a classic No. 1 starter for just about your entire career -- and
the winningest of your time, to boot -- makes a pitcher Hall of Fame
material, how come only 111 people voted for Jack Morris last year?
And if Kirby Puckett is such an automatic choice as a first-timer on this
year's ballot, how come Dale Murphy has never gotten more than 116 votes?
We'll write at a later date about how we assessed Puckett and the other
first-time candidates on this year's Hall ballot. But this is a plea to our
fellow voters -- a plea to look again at some of these old-time candidates.
Let's take these issues one by one:
The closers
This is election No. 8 for Bruce Sutter. This is only No. 2 for the Goose.
They were the most dominating closers of their eras. They shared an aura
of greatness that rippled through an entire stadium every time they walked
into a game in their primes.
Yet last year, somehow, they didn't even get enough votes combined
(they got 358) to get elected to the Hall of Fame.
So let us ask now, with all due respect:
What's up with that?
We have said before, and we will say again: Bruce Sutter is the most
under-supported Hall of Fame candidate in our time as a voter. He is such an
easy guy to vote for, it never ceases to amaze us that so many of our peers
make it such a habit of forgetting to check his name.
Let's rip through just his most meager qualifications:
He pioneered a pitch -- the still-dreaded split-fingered fastball.
He revolutionized the way closers were used.
He won a Cy Young award.
He finished in the top 10 in the MVP voting six times in eight years --
something no other relief pitcher has ever done.
He averaged 25 saves a year for 12 years -- when that was a number that
meant he wasn't just another Jose Jimenez or Mike Williams.
He pitched 100 innings-plus five times and 99 innings once.
He never filed a single grievance just because Whitey Herzog used to wave
for him in the seventh inning on a regular basis.
And despite all that, he got precisely 38 percent of the vote last
year. But if you polled the hitters who had to face him, we guarantee he'd
have been closer to 100 percent.
Same for Goose, once voted in a poll by the Rolaids people as the most
dominating closer of his era. We always thought domination was the first
criterion you looked for in a Hall of Famer. But apparently not.
Let's take a gaze at Gossage's credentials:
He made nine All-Star teams in 11 years -- and finished more All-Star games
(six) than any reliever in history.
From 1975-86, he saved more games (275) than anyone but Sutter (286).
In his first 10 years as a closer, he had ERAs of 0.77, 1.62, 1.82, 1.84,
2.01, 2.23 and 2.27 twice.
He once struck out 151 hitters in a season in relief (in 1977, for the
Pirates) -- still a National League record.
He pitched 130-plus innings in relief three times. (John Wetteland, among
others, hasn't pitched 130 in the last two seasons put together.)
He was so durable, he spent a total of two weeks on the disabled list in
the '80s.
And just to add to his scariness, he did for the Fu Mancu what Rollie
Fingers did for the handlebar 'stache.
Sounds like a guy who pretty much overpowered the field in his day. But
the Goose racked up a mere 166 votes last year, in his first appearance on
the ballot.
And why? How? Someone please explain that to us.
Yeah, well, maybe Gossage hung on too long. And maybe Sutter's shoulder
blowout cut his career too short. But the real problem here is that the
American voting public has more trouble evaluating the modern closer than it
does with the butterfly ballot.
And here you thought that was impossible.
The catchers
The good news for Gary Carter is that 80 more voters somehow thought he
was a Hall of Famer last year (248) than thought he was a Hall of Famer the
year before (168).
The bad news for Gary Carter was that that was still 149 fewer voters who
thought Carlton Fisk was a Hall of Famer.
So Fisk is in. (Hey, did he ever finish that acceptance speech?) And
Carter is out.
And now, without Fisk around to compare him to, maybe there will be no
sense of perspective whatsoever on just how preeminent a player Carter was in
his time. But we'll provide one anyway:
Fisk caught the most games in major-league history. Carter caught the most
games in National League history.
Fisk made 11 All-Star teams. Carter made 11 All-Star teams.
Fisk started seven All-Star games in his career. Carter started eight in a row.
Fisk won one Gold Glove. Carter won three Gold Gloves.
Fisk hit 20 homers eight times. Carter hit 20 homers nine times.
Fisk drove in 100 runs two times. Carter drove in 100 runs four times.
Two catchers in history (Yogi Berra and Johnny Bench) had hit 300 home runs
before Fisk and Carter laced on the old shin guards. Those two then became
the third and fourth.
OK, Carter never wrapped a poetic midnight World Series homer around a
foul pole. But he did hit two home runs in an All-Star Game ('81). And he is
one of only two catchers in history to drive in nine runs in a World Series
('86).
So how is one of these catchers a second-ballot Hall of Famer, while the
other is still hanging around the ballot for a fourth encore?
It's one of the mysteries of life -- right up there with Stonehenge, the
Northern Lights and that Darren Dreifort contract.
|  | | Jack Morris will forever be remembered for his gutsy, 10-inning masterpiece in Game 7 of the '91 Series. |
The ace
We'd be the first to acknowledge that Jack Morris was no Bob Gibson. He
wasn't Tom Seaver. He wasn't -- and isn't -- a no-doubt-about-it,
carve-his-plaque-right-now Hall of Famer.
But here's what he was:
A No. 1 starter in every way. For years and years and years and years.
On the one hand, his ERA (3.90) would be the highest of any pitcher in
the Hall. On the other hand, any time Morris took the ball, it wasn't ERA
that defined his day. That "W" next to his name did.
And Jack Morris was a winner.
Everyone knows he was the winningest pitcher in the '80s. But we looked at
a far longer period -- the 14 seasons from '79-92. And Morris' 233 wins in
that span were 41 more than any other starter of his generation. Nolan Ryan,
in that same period, won only 168.
He pitched a no-hitter.
He and Greg Maddux are the only pitchers since the '70s to start three All-Star Games.
He pitched for three teams that made the World Series, and he was the
clear-cut ace on every one of them.
And if you were going to show one World Series game from the last 20 years
to demonstrate what people mean when they use the term, "ace," wouldn't it
have to be Game 7, 1991, Mr. Jack Morris on the hill for 10 nerve-wracking
shutout innings?
But one thing that makes Morris so tough to evaluate is that, unlike
the winningest pitchers of previous generations, he was no 300-game winner.
If he had been, he'd be a no-brainer pick.
It isn't Jack Morris' fault, though, that he came along just as the
four-man rotation was going the way of the Nehru jacket. Instead, he turned
into the first product solely of the five-man rotation to become a serious
Hall of Fame candidate.
So as we evaluate him, we have to evaluate whether our Hall standards,
and particularly, our Hall magic numbers, need to be adjusted for the
realities of modern baseball.
Well, this just in: They do.
For one thing, Morris' 254 wins are actually more than Carl Hubbell
(253), more than Gibson (251), more than Juan Marichal (242).
For another thing, Morris averaged 16 wins a year in the '80s. And if
that's so easy, even in this era, how come the only pitchers who averaged 16
or more in the '90s were Maddux and Tom Glavine?
We understand why Morris is no knee-jerk choice. But it all comes down to
this: In his time, he was the best pitcher in his league. And if that doesn't
make a man a serious Hall of Fame candidate, then we don't understand what
does.
The center fielder
Kirby Puckett's career ended after 12 brilliant seasons. Unfortunately
for Dale Murphy, his career kept going.
But suppose it hadn't. Suppose something had happened to force the great
Murph to quit after his 12th full season, in 1989. How similar would the
careers of Murphy and Puckett look then?
Puckett never won an MVP award. Murphy won two (in a row).
Puckett won six Gold Gloves in seven years. Murphy won five in a row.
Over the 12 full seasons of Puckett's career, he was first in his league in
hits, second in batting, third in runs scored. Over the first 12 full seasons
of Murphy's career, he was first in his league in runs, second only to Mike
Schmidt in homers and RBI, third in hits.
Puckett finished in the top 10 in MVP voting four straight years. Murphy
finished in the top 10 in his league four straight years.
Puckett sold the game with his ever-present smile and warmth. Murphy sold
the game with his ever-present smile and warmth.
Amazing, huh? Let's also remember it was Murphy, not Puckett, who
joined the 30-30 Club. And it was Murphy, not Puckett, who got more All-Star
votes one year ('85) than any other player in the sport.
So you could make a case that the worst thing that happened to Dale
Murphy's Hall of Fame credentials were that he didn't know when to say
goodbye.
His career batting average, heading into the '89 season, was .274. It
finished at .265.
His career slugging percentage, heading into '89, was .493. It finished
at .469. (Puckett's, by the way, was .477.)
And he never could hit that 400th home run.
But there was a time -- for about five years in the '80s -- when people
often argued that Dale Murphy was the best player in baseball. He did
everything you would ever want a player to do on the field. He was everything
you would ever want a player to be off the field.
Just like Kirby Puckett.
So when those voting returns come rolling in next month, when Murphy gets
his 112 votes and Puckett gets his 412 votes, remember that. Almost
everything about their careers was the same -- except the ending. And the vote
totals.
Look, we know this is no exact science. We know there are other people
out there who feel just as strongly about Bert Blyleven, Jim Rice, Steve
Garvey and Dave Parker as we feel about these guys. That's fine.
If we're voting for great players who don't make it to the Hall of Fame,
that just means it's hard to get in. And it's supposed to be hard.
But all we ask of our fellow voters is to take the time to think -- really
think -- about their ballots before we end up seriously embarrassing ourselves.
Or else we might all wind up on "Hardball" some night, getting taken
apart by Chris Matthews and Alan Dershowitz.
Jayson Stark is a Senior Writer at ESPN.com.
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