BBWAA Drinks Michele Bachmann's Bathwater (or, Cooperstown, Arizona)

As Ken Burns' Tenth Inning documentary so subtly points out, if we weren't so inclined to call the last two decades of baseball history "The Steroid Era," they would most certainly be defined by the influx of immigrant ballplayers - from Europe, from Asia, and especially from Latin America.  If you demarcate the Steroid Era from the introduction of the "Bash Brothers" (1987) to the retirement of Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds (2007), you see a heretofore unparalleled degree of Hispanic talent.  The Nineties and Naughties were for Latino players and fans what the '50s and '60s had been for African-Americans.

When the "Puerto Rican Jackie Robinson," Roberto Clemente, died bringing supplies to Nicaraguan earthquake victims in the winter of 1973, the BBWAA rightly held a special election, the first and still the only of its kind.  They enshrined Clemente without the usual five-year waiting period.  However, since that time the BBWAA's recognition of Hispanic players has been relatively sparing.  When Roberto Alomar takes the stage in Cooperstown this summer, he will be only the fifth Latino voted in by the BBWAA.  That's right, in nearly forty years the BBWAA has found only five Hispanics worthy of induction: Juan Marichal ('83), Luis Aparicio ('84), Rod Carew ('91), Tony Perez ('00), and Alomar ('11).  A handful of other deserving Hispanic stars, most notably Orlando Cepeda, had to find their way into the Hall through the back door (a.k.a. The Veterans Committee), which only further highlights the BBWAA's distressingly prejudicial track record.

But that's about to change, right?  Alomar is but the first of the floodtide of Puerto Rican, Domincan, Venezuelan, and Cuban megastars who came to dominate the game during the Clinton-Bush decades and will eventually wash up on the Elysium shores of Cooperstown.  Their entrance into the Hall cannot be denied, right?

Not so fast.

You see, one of the dirty little secrets about the tacit ban of PED-abusers being enforced by the BBWAA voters is that it cuts broadly swatches in the Latin-American baseball legacy.  I'm not saying that's it's overt aim, but it is what's happening.  And, when it comes to prejudicial treatment, rationales generally don't carry much water.  Yes, Bonds and Clemens grab more headlines and have been the subject of more legal prosecution (or persecution, depending on how you look at it), but their notoriety, coupled with that of Mark McGwire, may mislead us into seeing this as a black and white issue (pardon the horrible pun).

It always feels a little dirty breaking things down along racial lines, but I think it's necessary to see what I'm taking about.  In the wake of Jeff Bagwell's poor showing, it seems clear the BBWAA intends to stigmatize not only convicted and/or admitted abusers, but also those who have been indicted by widespread rumor.  Here's a rough list of Hall of Fame candidates (let me emphasize, some of these guys would be borderline cases, even without the PED issue) who have been branded with the Scarlet S:

African-American:

Barry Bonds*
Gary Sheffield*

Caucasian:

Roger Clemens*
Mark McGwire*
Jeff Bagwell
Jason Giambi
Andy Pettitte
Kevin Brown

Hispanic:

Alex Rodriguez*
Sammy Sosa*
Manny Ramirez*
Rafael Palmeiro*
Ivan Rodriguez*
David Ortiz
Juan Gonzalez
Jose Canseco
Miguel Tejada
Luis Gonzalez

*Denotes lock for enshrinement if it weren't for PED allegations.

No doubt there will be additions to this list in the intervening years.  Every voter who sees himself as a "moral policeman" has probably already passed judgement on a few players who the general public may not even suspect.  What I want to draw your attention to is the "stars."

Were it not for the stigma of PEDs, we would, over the next decade, be seeing the Hispanic "wing" of the Hall of Fame adding as many members as it did in the entirety of the previous century.  In fact, with guys like Pedro Martinez, Vladimir Guerrero, Omar Vizquel, and Mariano Rivera also gaining eligibility sometime in the relatively near future (none, so far as I know, has yet been linked to PEDs), we could've seen the total Latino contingent as much as tripling in size during the early part of the 21st century.

No place was more associated with the revolution of Latino baseball than the Dominican Republic.  Most now regard the island as the greatest concentration of baseball talent in the world.  As yet, however, there is only one Dominican Hall of Famer, Juan Marichal.  No Dominican position players have been inducted.  Sammy Sosa, who self-consciously took the mantle of "Dominican Clemente," was supposed to change that.  In terms of power-hitting, his five season stretch from '98 to '02 is unparalleled in history.  He leads all Dominican-born players in homers.  But, unless something changes, he won't be in the Hall of Fame.

Nor will Manny Ramirez, possibly the greatest hitter of the Dominican Immigration Era (I'd argue Albert Pujols, but Manny did get a seven-year headstart, making him more of a groundbreaker).  By the end of this season, Manny will lead all Dominican players in hits, runs, doubles, walks, and RBI.  Yet we may have to wait until five years after Pujols retires (2025? 2030?) to see the induction of a Dominican hitter.    

Pudge Rodriguez will likely be the first catcher to 3000 hits.  He was the best of a generation of Latino backstops who revolutionized the position, including Benito Santiago (Puerto Rico), Tony Pena (Dominican Republic), Sandy Alomar Jr. (P.R.), and the Molina brothers (P.R.).  Prior to late '80s, it was totally normal to give Gold Gloves to fat white catchers who didn't throw anybody out.  Then stuff like this started happening routinely.  It's not exaggeration to say Puerto Rican catchers changed the game; however, the BBWAA probably won't find room for a Puerto Rican catcher in Cooperstown.

Rafael Palmeiro was born in Havana, Cuba in 1964.  It wasn't the most important thing that happened in Cuba that year.  But he became, far and away, the most successful Cuban hitter in Major League Baseball history, only the fourth player (of any nationality) to get 3000 hits and 500 homers.  But there's no room for this defector in Cooperstown.

Over the next decade Alex Rodriguez will take aim at several major records.  When he retires, he will be included in the "greatest ever" discussion, alongside Ruth, Bonds, and Mays.  He'll be the first player of Hispanic descent to enter into that conversation.  But, unless something changes, he won't be in the Hall of Fame.

For a long time now, baseball has been a global game.  Hell, MLB has been actively touting itself as such for at least a decade.  Yet, for some odd reason, from 2001 to 2010, during a decade defined by globalization, the BBWAA voted in eight white guys and eight black guys, all born in the United States. That ratio has got to change, but a contingent of patronizing writers within the BBWAA have found a way to assure that it won't, at least not as drastically as it should.

In 21st-Century America, we are sensitive to accusations of racism, which is, perhaps, a good place to start.  But it doesn't mean we aren't racist.  When we want to drum up racist or nativist sentiments, we rail against illegal immigrants, welfare mothers, the uneducated and unemployed, drug abusers, and terrorists.  It isn't our fault that most of the people who make up these criticized constituencies happen to be minorities.  If they happen to observe that their minority status may be the precursor to lack of opportunity, education, etc. which is the stated grounds for their persecution, we call it "perceived racism."  There is no such thing.

The BBWAA has to ask themselves, when history looks back at their moral crusade, what will the Scarlet S really stand for.

The Juiced Hall Era

I was certainly thrilled that Andre Dawson was elected to the baseball Hall of Fame earlier this week, but I was also disappointed to learn that he will be the only member of the 2010 class. Obviously, there are a wide range of opinions among the membership of the BBWAA on what exactly it means to be a Hall of Famer and what exactly the role of the Hall of Fame is, and they are certainly entitled to that debate, since effective ground rules have never been laid out.

Bill James' The Politics of Glory outlines the Hall's humble origins, it's numerous oddities, and its torturous electoral process.  It is a must-read, even for people who aren't generally of the sabermetric persuasion.  Even though I don't fully agree with all of James' arguments, I appreciate that men like himself and Rob Neyer have thoughtful, well-reasoned explanations of what they expect the Hall to represent. Many other pundits (many of them BBWAA voters) are irrational and schizophrenic on the subject.  Sportswriters are prone to prejudice, ignorance, and hubris on many topics, but perhaps none more blatantly provokes these qualities than questions about the Hall of Fame ballot.

Personally, I just can't understand Cooperstown as anything except an archive and a museum.  I honestly don't imagine what other role it is supposed to play.  As such, I don't see the problem with inclusivity.  I have extraordinary liberal standards.  On this particular ballot, I would've supported the candidacies of fourteen players: Dawson, Roberto Alomar, Tim Raines, Barry Larkin, Alan Trammell, Mark McGwire, Edgar Martinez, Burt Blyleven, Lee Smith, Jack Morris, Dave Parker, Dale Murphy, Don Mattingly, and Fred McGriff.  And there are many other players who I believe are too important to a rich baseball education to be excluded from an institution whose primary purpose would appear to be assisting such an education: Dick Allen and Curt Flood, for starters.  What I'm looking for from the Hall of Fame is a relatively complete picture of the various eras of baseball history and I think each of these men are appropriate to a portrait which is vivid and engaging.

I don't think baseball fans are as ignorant at the writers think we are. Just because Jack Morris is in the Hall of Fame, that doesn't mean he will be forever remembered as equal to Bob Gibson or Sandy Koufax.  When writers argue that enshrining a player like Dawson or Blyleven or McGriff might somehow "dilute" the Hall of Fame and diminish the accomplishments of its other members I am appalled.  It portrays egotism and misanthropy, suggesting such writers think everybody else too stupid to make subtle qualitative distinctions.

On the contrary, I believe the Hall of Fame's institutional role should go well beyond increasing the appreciation of "first-ballot" players like Gibson, Koufax, Ruth, and Mays, men whose legends and contributions need very little help remaining in the public eye.  I think it would be wonderful to have a place where people can also learn about players (and other baseball personnel) who haven't been as broadly canonized, but are nonetheless fascinating and inspirational figures. I can't help but ask, "Why not?"  What possible disservice would be done by having a Dave Parker plaque in Cooperstown?  Parker's career was fully of incredible accomplishments and is also defined by a number of curious, humorous, and instructive anecdotes.

A Hall of Fame which successfully rendered an objective and productive history of America's pastime would have to be an independent institution. Bud Selig (and subsequent commissioners) should not have the power to govern the Hall, nor should there be any criteria which makes a player ineligible for entry.   The more the Hall relies upon MLB or the BBWAA, the more it loses credibility and becomes a largely inconsequential syphon for advertising and propaganda.  A truly comprehensive baseball history naturally includes the careers of Pete Rose, Joe Jackson, and Mark McGwire. To argue otherwise is grossly incompetent.  The Hall of Fame won't be a truly legitimate institution until such players are included.

However, I also believe the players should have no say in how they are represented in Cooperstown. Those actions which sullied the reputations of the men listed above are as much a part of baseball history as their achievements on the field. So, yes, Mark McGwire should be in the Hall of Fame...but his plaque will "talk about the past."

Frankly, McGwire's treatment by voters thusfar suggests we are headed down a slippery slope. How do they propose to distinguish which "juiced" players get in and which ones don't.  McGwire's example is a dangerous one especially because he was never suspended for drug abuse or convicted of anything.  Everything we know about his pharmaceutical exploits is circumstantial.  Much the same can be said of Clemens, Bonds, A-Rod, and many of the other so-called "juicers."  The subjectivity of this process endangers the credibility of the institution.  What happens if Clemens is elected, but Bonds is not, or vice versa.

It is possible that ten years from now we will have a Hall of Fame that more or less omits two decades of baseball history and does not include baseball's all-time hits leader (Rose) or baseball's all-time home-run leaders (Barry Bonds and Alex Rodriguez), not to mention other players of extraordinary accomplishment like McGwire, Clemens, Manny Ramirez, Sammy Sosa, etc.

People go to the Hall of Fame largely to embrace their own nostalgia and share a part of those memories with their children. Many men and women who grew up during the "Juiced Ball" era would have very little use for a museum which ignores the existence of those players who most defined their youth. Keeping them out of the Hall of Fame is a fascistic re-writing of history. What must happen, eventually, is that baseball must enshrine the best players of that era, but they must do so without ignoring the ethical questions which also dominated the decade.

What makes a museum different from an amusement park is that it is expected to elicit not only joy, but also curiosity.  When a parent takes a child, they expect not only to entertain them, but also to educate and intrigue.  In such situations, it is imperative that the child see beyond the heroizing phenomenon of athletic celebrity.  Baseball is a wonderful way of exploring American cultural history, and that history much include discussions of addiction, exploitation, prejudice, and even defeat.  Manny's suspension is a part baseball's historical record, as is the Mitchell Report, the Bonds indictment, the Congressional hearings, the BALCO investigation, etc. To pretend otherwise merely compromises your credibility.

Redemption Songs?

No matter how many times George Mitchell pleads that it should be otherwise, his report will be considered the critical document of the steroid era. It will be a key reference for any baseball historian trying to make sense of the drama, on and off the field, of the game's millennial years. Even as he was saying it, you knew as he knew, there was no way the media was going to treat Mitchell's report as merely a synecdochical glimpse into the breadth of abuse by players, and irresponsible oversight by coaches, management, and baseball officials, during the nineties and early aughts. They were going to treat it as the Word, passed down from on high, as to who was juicing and who wasn't. Every major media outlet has reduced the 409-page document to a list of players mentioned within, many utterly without regard for the context in which the players name is being brought up.

When you actually read the document you realize that the quality of evidence varies enormously between players like Larry Bigbie and David Segui, both of whom admit using steroids, and players like Brian Roberts and Jack Cust, both of whom are implicated only by off-hand conversations they had with Bigbie. Most of the named players, including almost all of the big names (Clemens, Pettitte, Tejada, Gagne, Lo Duca, Brown, etc.) are faced with evidence that falls somewhere between these two extremes, often including testimony by Kurt Radomski and Brian McNamee, former dealers, corroborated by some form of paper trail or corresponding testimony. By strange coincidence, it seems that Mitchell's most thorough, detailed accounts are reserved for higher profile players, especially Clemens, whose abuse is outlined for nearly ten pages, about seven more than any other player.

There are many interesting storylines to follow in the wake of the Mitchell Report, probably none more sweet than the public "indictments" of Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte, long-characterized as golden-boys of the Caucasian work ethic. However, one story likely to be overlooked during the immediate fallout by media frantically concerned with the names in the report, is the story of the names that are conspicuously absent, including Sammy Sosa, Ivan Rodriguez, Luis Gonzalez, and Brady Anderson (all of whom have been the victims of steroid speculation in the past). And some names which are present, like Bonds and McGwire, gain at least a partial redemption because no substantial new evidence is brought against them (some of the current evidence may even be called into question).

Undoubtedly, many reputations may be saved, at least in part, by the coincidence that the feds only managed to discover and utilize three major sources: BALCO, Radomski, and Signature Pharmacy (source for the Florida rejuvenation centers). Although Mitchell didn't highlight this striking inadequacy, it seems safe to say that he suggests at several places in the report and in his comments during yesterday's press conference that these three sources represent only a fraction of the supply lines available to major league players during the height of the steroid craze preceding the introduction of testing in 2002. It is this shortfall which has prompted baseball writers like Buster Olney and Drew Sharp, both Hall of Fame voters, to argue that no player from this era is free of suspicion, you have to be willing to enshrine all of them (including Clemens, Bonds, McGwire, Sosa, Palmeiro, etc.) or none of them (including Maddux, Smoltz, Glavine, Jeter, Biggio, etc.).