In 1991 the Minnesota Twins won the World Series in 7 games. In the final game of the Series, a single in the 10th was the hit that won it. Seven months earlier, 52 hits rained down on Rodney King and led to the LA riots in 1992.
I don’t think anyone would say that Rodney King was a good guy. The 1991 beating was the result of a DUI stop following a high-speed chase. But I also don’t think anyone would say he deserved to get his ass handed to him by a bunch of racist LA cops. With the videotaped beating and the subsequent trial of the officers, King became a cultural touchstone. The LA riots only added to the legend and King’s plea, “Can we all get along?” became part of our national vernacular.
20 years later, King has left the building. It’s odd to think about how someone who really only had a bit part to play in history ended up becoming so important to the recent history of the United States. I’m pretty sure just about anyone alive at that time remembers the beating, the trial of the officers and the ensuing riots. But how many people remember Jack Morris’ 10-inning shutout that clinched the Series for the Twins and clinched him the Series MVP trophy? King may not have been a hero. He may not have even been that good of a person. But his story still redefined a moment in American history.
“Some places are like people: some shine and some don’t.”
Those who know me know I like to do odd things, like throw myself off bridges, eat cuttlefish or play H.O.R.S.E. … with myself. But that’s not why I called.
In the spirit of odd things, I thought I’d use the funniest movie of all time to deal with all the MLB Hall of Fame talk.
Congrats! You made it out alive, Barry!!!
As we celebrate Barry Larkin’s entry to the hallowed Hall (even though it took three stupid years) I thought we should take a look at those who didn’t quite make it out of Overlook Hotel, the ones who will probably be there a while.
Jack Torrance: Do you have the slightest idea what a moral and ethical principle is? Do you?
I can’t out think a potato, but I know this: Piazza, Kent, Bagwell and Big Mac aren’t getting in. EVER. And I don’t think I have to explain why. But I digress…
Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in. Not by the hair of your chiny-chin-chin? Well then I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in. [Axes the door]
Wendy, you’ve got a big surprise coming to you. You’re not going anywhere.
From one Jack to another… of course, Allen’s Jack Morris slipped through the cracks again. I feel for the kid (Allen), but I personally believe Jack will be dead before he leaves the snowy mountaintop of baseball’s purgatory labyrinth.
God, I’d give anything for a drink. I’d give my god-damned soul for just a glass of beer.
Good Luck, Lenny Dykstra… maybe next year… yeesh. And maybe stop talking for a while.
Follow Johanna on Twitter!
I didn’t think it was possible to make a better Predator film than the first, but then I saw the trailer for the latest incarnation and I got that same tingly feeling I get from watching that Smoltz-Morris World Series match-up from 1991 — a game that has a strong argument to be labeled the greatest post-season baseball game ever played.
Like Chris Hansen is the greatest on-air predator-catching person in the history of investigative television…
And Manny Ramirez is the most prolific ballplayer with Predator roots (he’s only 2/3 human) as I pointed out nearly a year ago today…
Sure. I’ve got Predators on the mind. But I know I’m not alone.
And though this post doesn’t have much to do with politics (we’re getting health care I heard) nor baseball save the Manny reference, it is important that I prove to you that I am not alone, by showing you an even better version of “American Gothic” than the original “American Gothic”:
So don’t hate me, ‘cuz I’m right.
(Image courtesy of B3TA)
On this team, there is no Al Kaline. There is no Kirk Gibson. No Jack Morris, no Trammell, no Whitaker.
Heck, this ain’t even the ultimately disappointing club that was supposed to win the 2006 World Series. No, sir. That squad is now but a bitter memory… and after a series of motor city slips and gaffes including but not limited to Jurrens for Renteria, the brutal rape of their farm system by the merciless Florida Marlins, and a handful of awful contracts best represented by Nate Robertson and Dontrelle Willis, the 2010 Detroit Tigers seem to be more of the weak, purring variety than anything else.
And now that fan favorite Curtis Granderson has been kicked out of the cage, finding fault with this Dave Dombrowski mess is a lot easier than it used to be.
You have Jim Leyland? Yes, and you also have Jim Leyland cut off from nicotine.
You have athlete extraordinaire, Brandon Inge? Yes, and you also have his strikeouts.
You have Johnny Damon? Yes, but you overpaid… and did he come with his wheelchair?
I dunno. It’s not like I hate the Tigers or anything. I mean, I have nothing personal against Detroit save hearing about them ad nauseum via my cantankerous and oft negligent colleague Mr. Allen Krause; but that doesn’t affect my judgment. I simply report the facts, interpreted in my own special way.
And that special way offers this declaration: the Tigers are in for a world of hurt in 2010.
But shhhh. Don’t tell Al. Or Johnny Damon. Or Detroiters, all three or four of them.
And whatever you do, please don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
PS. If you think I offer something like this just to p!ss off RSBS‘ other half, then you are absolutely correct… and almost as diabolically undercutting as I.
I know you guys are both baseball fans so you’re enjoying the drama of
the postseason but isn’t it hard for you to get into it when your team
is no longer in the running? Allen’s team choked and didn’t even make
it and Jeff’s team made it but then choked. I know it’s still baseball
and I know it’s still the playoffs but doesn’t it kind of take
something away when you’re watching as a fan of the game instead of as
a fan of a team in the game?
Just for today, I will put aside my pretentious baseball ego and do what politicians do: answer a question with a series of questions. This is also what mathematicians call “proofing”; it’s what women I’ve dated call “being obtuse” — what I call “playing mind games.”
If your local pub didn’t offer a Maccallen 32 year, would you tell the bartender, “Nah, no Johnnie Walker for me, I’ll just have a soda water”?
After a long night of partying that has left your stomach growling for sustenance, would you not eat Taco Bell because it isn’t “authentic” Mexican cuisine?
If you couldn’t get behind either party’s presidential candidate because they both made promises they didn’t keep would you simply not vote for the lesser of evils?
On second thought, forget that last one.
Just know this: Baseball is baseball is baseball is baseball… and a couple weeks from now, I (and a whole lot of like-minded baseball nerds) are going to be suffering from a supreme lack of entertainment. This will be when I start looping the 1982 and 2006 Commemorative World Series DVDs; when I reread Tim McCarver’s Baseball for Brain Surgeons; when I pop in the VHS tape of Morris v. Smoltz — Game 7 of the 1991 Fall Classic — and salivate over every pitch, even though I already know what’s coming.
Yeah, yeah, yeah… it’s too bad my (our) team(s) isn’t (aren’t) in contention. Boo hoo. But baseball is the religion, the individual teams merely saints. I can live without my saint but not without my religion; and you can bet that those who follow the religion of baseball (thoroughly) are way more wacky than any suicidal jihadist or hypocritical evangelical.
And yes, I do see a therapist about this… from time to time.
Hate me ‘cuz I teeter on the cliff of instability, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
***IMPORTANT PROGRAMING NOTE***
Suggested to us by the always hilarious Jonestein at BABL, Mr. Krause and I will be competing in a World Series Metaphor Competition — a Metaphor-Off… yeah, let’s call it that.
Why? ‘Cuz we can. And we will.
But we need your help!
As you know, Al and I champion ourselves as masters of the meandering
metaphor; and we need your suggestions. What do you want to see
metaphorized? (Yes, that’s a word. I made it up.) It could be
something as simple as an individual player, a team, a rule, a concept,
whatever. We want your ideas. Email us at firstname.lastname@example.org, Twitter us at @RSBS
or kindly comment on a post with your suggestion. After selecting a
trio of your topics, Mr. Krause and I will then post our metaphors
during the World Series and YOU the reader will vote for the winner in
this best of three competition.
Don’t just sit there…. suggest, suggest, suggest!
Achtung! For my esteemed yet often misguided colleague, Mr. Allen Krause has finally done what no one ever thought possible: he emptied his soul of memories sweet and dear to his heart, thus proving that indeed, he does obtain some semblance of emotion, a hint — albeit faint — of feeling.
But just who knew his heart was set on Alan Trammell?
Well, actually, I did… but that’s only because I’ve been listening to Mr. Krause’s Ode-to-Trammell for over eleven years now. Trammell this and Trammell that… Trammell and Whitaker and Lemon and Gibson and Parrish and Trammell and Trammell and TRAMMELL!
Alright. I get it. We get it. Mr. Krause is in love with Alan Trammell.
Fine. There’s nothing wrong with that, Al. And I especially applaud you for realizing that despite your ongoing man-crush and ever-growing infatuation with all things #3, that you are still able to logically conclude that Trammell has no business in the Hall of Fame. Because he doesn’t. If you really want to argue the HOF case of a deserving ex-Detroit Tiger, come to your senses and rally behind the Jack Morris train. (*for more information on the blasphemous errors of Mr. Krause’s ways regarding HOF worthy Tigers, click *here*)
What I (and most probably all RSBS readers) can’t seem to understand is why, if Alan Trammell and Lou Whitaker remain so dear to thy heart, Mr. Krause, could you not find a better picture of this treasured double-play combo than this:
It’s 2008, Al, and with the advent of the interweb, CNN’s ability to “beam” people “up” on live television and the fact that a black man will be the president of US America, one would think you’d be able to find at least one decent picture of your childhood sweethearts.
The one you provided looks awfully similar to this anomaly of reality:
And you’re right, Al, the possibility of Trammell ever donning his face on a Cooperstown plaque is about as possible as Bigfoot piloting a UFO over Detroit during a World Series championship parade.
It just ain’t gonna happen.
So go ahead. Do what you do. Hate me. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.