When players come into the league, they either do or do not live up to their hype. Doesn't matter who—Alex Rodriguez, Fred Lynn, Bob Hamelin, or Stephen Strasburg—it seems like everybody is subject to hype. (A great movie about this, in a roundabout way, is Sugar.)
But what about the guys who fly under the radar? Guys who just sort of show up? Where do they stand? In a world dominated by information, it's hard to imagine a player making it to the majors today without at least one news source commenting on his talent (or lack thereof).
I'm not old enough to remember John Doherty. His statistics suggest he didn't really belong in the major leagues, or the high minor leagues, for that matter, but he hung around the California Angels for parts of two seasons (1974, 1975), and triple-AAA for six others.
But you'd think someone must remember him, right? You'd think fans of the game or little kids collecting cards in the mid-1970s would know about John Doherty of the Angels. And maybe they do, but I'd venture a guess that the circle is relatively small—say, limited to the Los Angeles, California–area. The reason? This card of Doherty (1975 Topps) was his only Topps card. Ever.
And it's not a memorable card. The only reason I pulled it from a stack last night was because I didn't recognize the face or the name, and because his face was so close to the camera. Right away that's a bad sign, possibly meaning no photo of him in game-play action, or the batting cage, for that matter, was taken (though he's wearing a left-handed batting helmet). Even the signature (from his Topps contract) emblazoned across his neck is hurriedly scrawled, as if Doherty, too, was surprised by the dumb luck of his being called up.
The game's history is filled with "cup of coffee" guys. For some players, that means one inning of mop-up duty, or a few games as a fourth outfielder. For others, it's parts of a few seasons, or an exceptional first season followed by a disappointing second. And then nothing.
We will remember Stephen Strasburg, no matter how he performs in the majors, just like we remember Clint Hurdle and Brien Taylor.
But John Doherty? All I can say is, Who?
Henry Cotto, have you been crying because the 1990 - 1994 Countdown has finally drawn to a close? Well, I say save your tears and consider this: how will people remember you? For your on-field glories, or because your 1994 Topps card makes it look like you're ready for your closeup? My money's on the latter. For all the many thousands of words we write exulting the sports card as an artistic, historical and cultural triumph, its one true legacy is that it's funny. Very funny, to be exact. Whether it's a sight gag or the subject has an outlandish, Dickensian name, there's fun to be had in the representation of sports so often devoid of that very quality.
Here are a few examples.
The joke here is on Rudy. Who wants their contribution to one of the best Topps sets of the Seventies to be shown popping up? This is also funny because if this photo had been used three years earlier in the 1972 set, it would've been under the heading Rudy Meoli In Action.
Nothing about this Ray Fosse card is obviously funny (besides his facial hair). I find it funny because I've realized he looks like Honus Honus, lead singer and pianist for the crazy band Man Man. You can see the resemblance for yourself by clicking here.
On his own card, Topps has validated Melendez's desire to get laid as often as possible. Not many players can claim an entire company is their wingman. But then again, not many players are Luis Melendez, Sex Machine.
There's a common misconception about baseball players: that those who toiled before Andy Messersmith's monumental free agency ruling did so simply out of 'love of the game.' That because they didn't make millions of dollars, the players were happier and the game was simpler and more innocent. This couldn't be farther from the truth. The fact of the matter is that men played this game not because they loved it but because their skill at it allowed them to escape going down the mines, or puddling steel, or being farmers, or anything else.
Oh sure, there were those within the ranks who did love the game, but it's always been about making enough money to stave off the inevitable. Were it not about money then why did players like Satchel Paige jump mid contract for better pay? Why did guys like Koufax and Drysdale try to negotiate with O'Malley together? And what about John Montgomery Ward and the short-lived Players League? With rights came more access to money and with money came a few more years the average player (with no other sellable skill) could support his family. To suggest otherwise is to view the past through beer goggles.
Mike Shropshire's The Last Real Season presents just such a beer- (amongst other controlled substances) goggled view. Which is too bad, because it's an angle that feels out of place within an otherwise strong narrative. The book is an account of the Texas Rangers' mediocre 1975 season, told from the point of view of the sometimes drug user/definite alcoholic who also happens to be the Rangers' beat reporter from The Fort Worth Star-Telegram (Shropshire). It's an enjoyable, if somewhat predictable, everybody's-a-character, no-holds-barred tellin'-it-like-it-is diary from the same mold as Bouton's Ball Four and Lyle's Bronx Zoo. Since this was the mid-Seventies, it was also inevitable that Shropshire should riff his prose in a 'yeah I did it, so what?' Hunter S Thompson vein.
The only thing that holds this book back is its assertion that major leaguers from 1975 were 'having more fun' because they were getting paid squat (in comparison to post-free agency figures). Hogwash. According to the US Census for 1975, the average yearly salary for a man between 24 and 35 was somewhere around $11,500. Shropshire says that the average ballplayer salary in 1975 was $27,600. Though it seems like ballplayers weren't doing all that bad, remember that their salary was for only half the calendar year. And with many players not having much of a life outside of playing baseball, the off-season employment choices were most likely slim. So to suggest that players were anything less than obsessed with getting paid as much as possible for their services is ludicrous.
But like I said, if you disassociate the narrative from this angle, Shropshire's engaging off-the-cuff you-are-there style shines through. This should help The Last Real Season stand out from the current crop of anecdotal baseball biographies from the sport's former insiders. Having a raging, booze-fueled Billy Martin as one of its protagonists doesn't hurt, either.
The Last Real Season, by Mike Shropshire, comes out in May.
From Grand Central Publishing.
Has there ever been a more self-reflexive team card? This could only be topped by the Utah Jazz striking up the band with a few guys strung out on heroin in the background, or the Orlando Magic sawing each other in half in front of a group of bored kids. Actually, you know what they should do. They should make a subset of Team Tableaus, where the team has to act to out the team name. I see the Trail Blazers in furs and pelts, getting high out in the woods with Sacagawea, Golden State Warriors fucking each other up on the streets of 1970s New York City...wait, wrong Warriors...Knicks crowding a back room all dandied up with watch fobs and pince-nez, slapping each other on the backs and surrounded by servants, Chicago Bulls in black and white striped shirts and red ascots 'round their necks, fleeing for their lives down Michigan Avenue. You get the idea.
I wouldn't be surprised if you could have found this image on the inside of a matchbook, or on a male escort postcard tacked to the inside of a public phone booth in London. Seriously, the only thing that's missing is that the team isn't wearing tuxedos. Slick Watts is wearing his headband and wristbands, the white guys all have bushy mustaches, and Bill Russell's out front like Ricardo Montalban from Fantasy Island.
Hello all you foxy ladies. If there's anything you need--anything at all--just call upon my team of Supersonics. They're here for your pleasure and convenience. Spencer! Archie! Slick! Help make our beautiful guests a little more comfortable. I'm Bill Russell, but you can call me Captain Wonderful. Next stop: your wildest, most basketball-related fantasies.
By the way, do you think Slick Watts wore his headband and wristbands at all times, on and off the court? I'm thinking the answer is Yes, with a capital 'Y.' And by 'at all times' I'm including when he showered, slept (hair net and oven mitts for protection), sat in jury duty, bought groceries, built computers in his garage with his dorky friends and attended black tie events with other pillars of the community.
I mean, they were the source of his powers, right?