This article is part of a series. Also see: Introduction
I'm not exactly accustomed to batting leadoff, either as a player (I played baseball as a kid and usually got put in the lower holes of the order) or as a general manager (albeit in the fantasy world), so I'm a little nervous about swinging at a first-pitch fastball with a lot of high ride. But since Brad Oremland and company drew the appropriate straws and I came up leadoff, I think I can live with it. I didn't do half bad opening our little draft, either.
I'm going to get this much out of the way first: my club would have some very formidable competition in actual games. (Tell me you wouldn't be a little bit nervous sending even Mickey Mantle or Hank Aaron up to face The Mariano in the ninth inning.) But in all fairness so would Brad's, Diane's, and Bill's clubs against mine. Though I have to admit that any game in which Yogi Berra in prime squares off against Johnny Bench in prime; or, Mike Schmidt in prime versus George Brett in prime, would be games to remember even before the first pitches are thrown.
I went, essentially, for a) a team that would put runs on the scoreboard; b) a team that would also keep runs off the scoreboard on the other guys' ledger; and, c) a team that wasn't likely to make more headlines for clubhouse toxins or off-the-field shenanigans than for what they did on the field. (Okay, so Ted Williams could be and often was the biggest pain in the ass in the Show in his time and place, but Ted Williams was a divinity student compared to an awful lot of other people who didn't get half the headlines or produce a tenth of what he produced and, anyway, don't think for a minute that most of the rest of my team would be shy about putting Teddy Ballgame into his place now and then. Even if Mickey Mantle could deke him into a hustle of a clubhouse raffle.)
Here to recap, first, are the drafts, by positional order:
Yours, Truly Brad Oremland Diane M. Grassi Bill Hazell C Yogi Berra Johnny Bench Gary Carter Ivan Rodriguez 1B Willie McCovey Stan Musial Pete Rose Lou Gehrig 2B Jackie Robinson Eddie Collins Joe Morgan Roberto Alomar SS Cal Ripken, Jr. Honus Wagner Ozzie Smith Alex Rodriguez 3B Mike Schmidt Chipper Jones Brooks Robinson George Brett LF Ted Williams Barry Bonds Carl Yastrzemski Ken Griffey, Jr. CF Mickey Mantle Ty Cobb Joe DiMaggio Willie Mays RF Hank Aaron Babe Ruth Frank Robinson Roberto Clemente SP Sandy Koufax Lefty Grove Tom Seaver Walter Johnson SP Juan Marichal C.Mathewson Nolan Ryan Roger Clemens SP Bob Gibson Cy Young Steve Carlton Whitey Ford SP Randy Johnson Pete Alexander Ron Guidry Pedro Martinez SP Greg Maddux Warren Spahn Catfish Hunter Don Drysdale RP Rollie Fingers Bob Feller Goose Gossage Mariano Rivera
Yogi Berra — In fact, knowing I had the first pick overall in our little fantasy round, I knew immediately whom I was picking first and why, and it was no contest and no brainer time. I went for the throat. I went for Yogi Berra. And I will tell you why, with a major boost from Allen Barra, whose writing on the subject (in Brushbacks and Knockdowns) convinced me absolutely — Yogi Berra, who beats out Johnny Bench by a slender but none the less considerable degree as the greatest catcher ever to play Major League Baseball, is quite likely the single greatest team player of all-time in any team sport.
The evidence? Barra isolated it, I confirmed it myself with my own research, and here it is: with perhaps the single exception of Whitey Ford, who would have been a great pitcher even if he'd had Bob Uecker behind his plates (and Whitey's only two 20-win seasons came with Elston Howard behind his plate), every Yankee pitcher who threw to Yogi Berra, when Berra was the regular Yankee catcher (which was about eleven seasons and seven World Series rings worth), performed considerably more superior on the mound than at any other time in their entire major league careers. Even Allie Reynolds; even Eddie Lopat; even Vic Raschi; even Bob Turley. Bobby Shantz, who once bagged an American League MVP (as a 24-game winner for the 1952 Philadelphia Athletics, of all people), spent a few seasons pitching quite below that level before he became another Yankee reclamation project and got to throw to Berra for a couple of seasons. They were the better seasons of his later career.
And if you can throw practically any workable major league pitcher on the mound and put Yogi behind his dish, and he can show the kind of improvements those gentlemen showed, just imagine what you'd get if you put Yogi behind the dishes of, well, just about every pitcher Brad, Diane, Bill, and myself drafted. Put it this way: Whitey Ford himself claims to this day that it was Berra who gave him the confidence he needed to appear the cocksure, no-quarter pitcher he appeared on the mound even with a repertoire that wasn't exactly the personification of power pitching.
The fact that you're also going to get a man who hit for power, produced runs at remarkable rates for his field position, had an above-average throwing arm, was the best defencive catcher of his time, was an intelligent baserunner who rarely cost his team runs on the bases, and knew what he was doing behind and at the plate, is a mere bonus. The name of the game is six parts putting runs on the scoreboard and half a dozen parts keeping them off the scoreboard. And if you can find me a catcher who's going to make six Hall of Fame pitchers (incumbent or in waiting) that much more certain that you can't pry runs out of them with guns and masks, you're smarter than I am.
Willie McCovey — You can do an awful lot worse at first base — especially when a) Lou Gehrig has been snatched ahead of you; and, b) your brain vaporized enough to cause you to forget Keith Hernandez (arguably the greatest-fielding first baseman ever to play the game) — than pick a guy who hit 521 bombs, drove in 1,555 runs, and produced 164 runs per 162 games to play first base for you. Forgotten: Stretch was a slightly above average fielder, even if you allow his height advantage in picking off bad throws, and for a guy who seemed allergic to taking a walk, he wasn't quite the strikeout machine you might have thought, either. (He doesn't even crack the top 20 on the all-time list.) And he isn't the first guy who'll kill your rally hitting into double plays, either — he averaged a mere 11 per 162 games.
Jackie Robinson — Forget the pioneer. Forget the racial courage. Forget, in other words, everything else you know about Jackie and concentrate on the ballplayer. And when you do, you're going to come up with one thing: this guy would have been a no-questions-asked Hall of Famer even if he was white. He was actually a virtuoso multi-position player, but there's no argument: second base was his best position and he was an athletic and intelligent defensive player. You might care to note that he finished his career having produced 197 runs per 162 games, and that includes driving in an average 87 runs, most of the time from the leadoff or number two lineup slot. In the 1950s, that was an amazing achievement. And if you're looking for a nonpareil leadoff man, you might care to note that Robinson struck out 34 times per 162 games lifetime while taking 87 walks per the same games.
What a surprise that Leo Durocher, later an enemy, once said of him, "He don't come to play. He come to beat you. He come to shove the bat right up your ass." Which was once thought, surely, of Ty Cobb. But Jackie Robinson won't blow up your clubhouse down the stretch.
Cal Ripken, Jr. — The chase and passage of Lou Gehrig's longevity record has left Ripken with a rather unfair reputation for having been less than the player he really was. We'll put it this way: Ripken re-introduced a long-missing thought to Major League Baseball — that a shortstop could be big without being an on-field putz and could produce runs in big ways, period, never mind sending over 400 over the fence and whacking 3,000 or more hits.
He was the prototype for the contemporary power shortstop; it's very possible that Alex Rodriguez and (when he wasn't fighting injuries) Nomar Garciaparra wouldn't have been all that possible without Ripken. Producing 180 runs per 162 games kind of nails that one securely, even if A-Rod, especially, has left him in the lurch other than the clubhouse class that Ripken had to burn. My favorite instance: the notorious season-opening Oriole losing streak, during the tail end of which Ripken spotted a new reporter on the Oriole beat and beckoned him over: "Join the hostages."
Mike Schmidt — The single greatest two-ways third baseman ever to play the game. Only George Brett is anywhere in Schmidt's neighborhood. As a hitter, Schmidt's bombs were indeed what Thomas Boswell called conversation pieces; as a fielder, Schmidt was an elegant assassin. To hit with his kind of power and to play the kind of third base that creates almost as many conversations as the bombs do is as singular as is producing 208 runs per 162 games, lifetime, playing a field position that's murdered many an otherwise serviceable hitter.
Ted Williams — What you don't need me to tell you: There goes Ted Williams, the greatest hitter who ever lived, and if you don't believe him he'll be glad to tell you. (Repeatedly.) What you probably don't know: he was a better fielder than credited; his fielding average was only a tick below the league average, but his range factor was a couple of ticks above the league average. He was exactly at the level of his league in the field, something Babe Ruth couldn't necessarily claim. (Neither can a lot of other Hall of Famers, for that matter.)
Of course, you're going to pick him because of those 257 runs produced per 162 games, first and foremost, but the Splinter wasn't even close to an embarrassment in the field. As for his postseason performance, let's be fair: he was hurt in the one World Series he did get to play, and he never got the chance to play in another one.
Mickey Mantle — He may be the single most unfairly judged player ever to wear a major league uniform, which is a strange thing to say about a Hall of Famer, but think about it: how often even now do you hear Mickey Mantle couched in terms amounting to what might have been? Nearly every conversation I've ever had about the man comes down to that, and Mantle himself — in the late years of his life, confessing his failures as a man, lamented too often about what he might have been — and frankly I thought Allen Barra should have won a prize for finally coming out and saying (as he did in Clearing the Bases) that Mickey Mantle deserves to be judged not for what he might have been but for what in fact he was.
Would you believe that, in their 12 best seasons, Mantle reached base more often than Willie Mays, his incomparable contemporary? Would you believe he has a better stolen base percentage overall? A better on-base percentage than Stan Musial, Joe DiMaggio, and Tony Gwynn? Would you believe he grounded into 138 fewer double plays lifetime? You can look at the evidence as it is. Or, you can look at the evidence as you thought it was supposed to have been but for all those other factors that add up to the might-have-beens that do him no further justice than they do us. Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays were probably the two most complete players ever to wear a major league uniform, but there is indeed a dime's worth of difference between them and the dime belongs to Mantle.
Hank Aaron — Probably the single most consistent Hall of Fame power and average hitter (and above-average fielder). That's often held against him, because he didn't have the Big Number Season that sticks out like an abscess. But you and I both know that he was damn near the overall equal of Mantle and Mays, did things right at the plate and in the field, and was also pretty deadly in the postseason, too.
What you might have forgotten about Hank Aaron: he averaged 69 walks per 162 games but he also averaged 68 strikeouts per 162 games. It's not that strikeouts are that terrifying (you'd rather see someone hit into double plays?), but I can't think of a more evenly balanced player between the two. I'm not even sure one really exists.
Sandy Koufax — You probably don't need me to argue his greatness, but once upon a time Bill James isolated a stat on Sandy that astonished even me, and I saw the man pitch in his prime: mulcting two of his best seasons, then examining how he pitched when he had less than three runs to work with, Koufax turned out with a won-lost record over the two of 18-1. Think about that: less than three runs to work with; 18-1. Combine that with his 6-2 won-lost record, lifetime, in games he pitched on two days' rest, and no one should ever again be allowed to call him overrated.
Add to that how deadly he was in the World Series (0.88 lifetime ERA), and that his three 20-win seasons showed him winning more each time out, only beginning with a 25-win season, and if you get the chance and don't draft Koufax to lead your rotation you should probably undergo severe psychoanalysis.
Juan Marichal — Marichal would have won the one-across-the-board Cy Young Awards Sandy Koufax had won if Koufax had chosen some other line of work in those years. He doesn't have the image, because he only ever got to play in one World Series and didn't get a lot of work in it (like Ted Williams, Juan never got another chance to strut in a Series), but Juan Marichal actually out-pitched Bob Gibson (who does have the image and the World Series jacket to match) in their best seasons, and — like Koufax — usually pitched his best baseball against contending teams. Juan Marichal was probably the best right-handed pitcher in the post-World War II era, at least until Tom Seaver came into the league. And even then...
To this day, the Roseboro incident is held against him (it was when it came time for his Hall of Fame eligibility), which shows how much people really remember about the incident. You'd have a hard time holding your temper if the other guy's catcher threw one right past your ear, when you were facing the field, because he thought his pitcher hadn't gotten you good enough for brushing back a couple of his guys, and advanced on you a) wielding a heavy catcher's mask in a slightly threatening position; and, b) with a little martial arts knowledge to boot. It doesn't excuse Marichal, but it isn't fair to say he was unprovoked.
Something which, surely, John Roseboro himself came to understand; Marichal eventually apologized for the incident and Roseboro eventually became one of his prime champions for the Hall of Fame.
Bob Gibson — You don't denigrate Bob Gibson to say Juan Marichal out-pitched him in their best seasons. And you don't say no when you've got the chance to put Hoot and the Dandy in your rotation. You're talking about two men who knew what they were doing on the mound and turned baseball games into marksmanship contests, even if Marichal was by far the most fun of the pair to watch with all those windups and kicks. And if you don't think you're going to win some World Series games with a Koufax and a Gibson in your rotation, you must have slept through the 1960s...
Randy Johnson — He has this much in common with Koufax: his career went from nothing special (if you don't count all the strikeouts) to never better. But with Koufax it was correcting a delivery hitch. (He was always a good and intelligent pitcher.) With Johnson, it was learning as he earned. More than any pitcher of his time, the Big Unit learned, little by little, but none the less profoundly, to become a pitcher. By the time he arrived in Arizona (I wonder if the Mariners still kick themselves for letting him loose), Johnson was as formidable a mound thinker as he was a mound marksman. And once his education was complete, he was probably the deadliest pitcher of his time in his prime seasons, and he left no doubt about his dangerousness in the postseason. He never really lost his intimidation factor or his mastery of the inside half of the plate, or his willingness to use it liberally and mercilessly, but watching Randy Johnson become a pitcher of mind as well as matter is one of the great thrills of a lifetime of baseball watching.
He finally won his 300th game this season. He earned it.
Greg Maddux — The brains of the rotation. (Not that Koufax, Marichal, Gibson, and Johnson were dummies.) The living proof that you don't need power (though the youthful Maddux had power to spare) to keep the other guys from getting frisky at the plate. Match him to Tom Seaver and you've probably got the two brainest pitchers who ever practised the art. Maddux, like Marichal, usually pitched his best baseball against contending teams in his prime, and, like Koufax, he was also one of the most valuable brains to pick for young pitchers trying to learn the art without intimidation. You put together an extraterrestrial talent with an eagerness to teach and you've got something invaluable to any team. That, plus 350 wins...
Rollie Fingers — What Dick Radatz should have ended up having been — an intimidating reliever with an armload of power who was the Goose Gossage prototype (Radatz was done in prematurely when he tried mixing an uncomfortable slider into his brief repertoire, allegedly on Ted Williams' counsel, and failed to keep his playing weight under control, after three seasons in which he terrorized the American League) — Rollie Fingers was. He could work two innings or five without skipping a beat; he threw stuff that could tie up a hitter into a meek grounder or a modest fly out; and he seemed to have the rare ability (or so I thought when I watched him pitch, anyway) for a reliever of being able to think three hitters ahead and work the incumbent appropriately.
The Lineup
1. Robinson, 2B
2. Ripken, SS
3. Schmidt, 3B
4. Mantle, CF
5. Berra, C
6. Williams, LF
7. Aaron, RF
8. McCovey, 1B
9. Koufax, SP
Monday, July 6: Introduction
Wednesday, July 8: Jeff Kallman's Team
Thursday, July 9: Brad Oremland's Team
Friday, July 10: Diane Grassi's Team
Monday, July 13: Bill Hazell's Team
Leave a Comment