The Hardball Times -- Bruce Markusen

The Hardball Times -- Bruce Markusen http://www.hardballtimes.com/main Baseball. Insight. Daily. en studes@hardballtimes.com Copyright 2010 2010-03-19T11:15:37+00:00 Cooperstown Confidential: a tribute to Willie Davis http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/article/cooperstown-confidential-a-tribute-to-willie-davis/ http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/article/cooperstown-confidential-a-tribute-to-willie-davis/#When:09:48:57Z

The USA Network proudly proclaims that “characters are welcome.” Well, the network could have found plenty of material in a sitcom or drama about the life and times of Willie Davis. The longtime Dodgers center fielder, who died on Tuesday at the age of 69, lived a life that could safely be described as unconventional.

Davis arrived on the major league scene in 1960, given the challenge of essentially trying to succeed Duke Snider as the Dodgers’ regular center fielder. By 1961, he had the job. Replacing future Hall of Famers is never easy, especially for an emotionally sensitive man like Davis.

The Dodgers, however, felt that he was fully capable of his own greatness. With the build of a tall greyhound, Davis ran faster than any of the Dodgers, including Maury Wills, and as fast as anyone of his era. He also had surprising power for his rail-thin frame. He could throw like a right fielder, and catch anything with hang time in center field.

To the disappointment of the Dodgers, Davis did not become a superstar. He simply did not have enough patience at the plate. Overly aggressive, he too often swung at pitches outside of his reach. His power remained occasional, not consistent. Only once did he hit 20-plus home runs in a season.

Still, he forged a niche as a very good ballplayer. From 1961 to 1973, Davis served as the Dodgers’ starting center fielder. He regularly collected 170 hits a season, stole 20 to 30 bases, and played a smooth center field. He made two All-Star teams, won three Gold Gloves, and played for two world championship clubs. Though clearly not the caliber of a Willie Mays or even a Reggie Smith, Davis established himself as one of the better all-around center fielders of the 1960s and early '70s.

Perhaps the expectations were simply too high. Davis himself set unreasonable goals. Before the 1969 season, Davis predicted that he would hit. 400. Davis ended up hitting .311, a perfectly acceptable batting average, but 89 points short of his predicted goal.

From the standpoint of style, Davis had few peers, both on and off the field. With his outgoing personality and willingness to socialize, Davis became a natural fit for Hollywood. He made a memorable appearance as himself on the TV show “Mr. Ed.” As the talking horse made his way around the bases, Davis and Leo Durocher provided witty commentary from the Dodger Stadium sidelines. Later, Davis played a manager on “The Flying Nun.” And then he made an uncredited appearance as a police officer in a 1971 film called "The Love Machine." (How’s that for a diverse set of credits: talking horses, flying nuns, and love machines?)

Davis left us with some distinct images from his playing days, too. First off, I’ll always remember him as one of those players who wore his cap under his helmet, like Al Oliver and Bobby Murcer. Then came his running style. He glided silkily in center field, using loping strides to track balls from one outfield gap to the other. On the bases, he used his long legs to run out triples, twice leading the National League in that category. (Davis, who wore No. 3, called himself “Three Dog” because of his ability to hit triples.)

How fast was Davis? During one minor league season, he collected seven inside-the-park home runs. He was one of the five fastest players I’ve ever seen, along with Willie Wilson, Mickey Rivers, Joey Gathright, and an obscure middle infielder from the 1970s named Larry Lintz.

Unfortunately, the balance and dexterity that Davis showed in running the bases and playing the outfield didn’t always carry over to his off-the-field demeanor—or his interviews with the media. Davis talked about how losing never upset him, since he saw how happy the players on the other team became after beating the Dodgers. As Dodgers vice president Buzzie Bavasi once said of his center fielder: “He can run, hit, and throw. The only thing Davis has never been able to do is think.” Ouch.

Davis could think; he just didn’t do so in conventional ways. That included his choice of religion. In 1971, Davis drew attention to himself when he joined a Buddhist sect. Displaying prayer beads, he began chanting before games. In contrast to most other players, Davis’ choice of religion became a major story with both the local and national media. Some of his teammates resented the chanting, calling it a distraction. Others were simply amused by his pre-game ritual.

By 1973, Davis’ standing in Los Angeles deteriorated. That summer became a tumultuous one for Davis and the Dodgers. Although he was team captain, Davis stopped hustling on routine grounders and fly balls. Fed up with his lack of leadership, Dodgers general manager Al Campanis traded him to the Expos for workhorse reliever Mike Marshall, who would emerge as the National League’s MVP in 1974.

Now playing north of the border, Davis predicted that he would have his best season yet. Then again, he made that prediction every year. Like most seasons, Davis fell short of his lofty goals. He played up to his usual standards—a .322 on-base percentage, 12 home runs, 25 stolen bases—but nothing beyond his best days as a Dodger.

After his peak years in Southern California, Davis bounced around with several clubs, including the Rangers, Cardinals, Padres and Angels, and two Japanese teams, the Chunichi Dragons and Crown Lighter Lions. When he first arrived at spring training with the Rangers in 1975, he reported directly from a Los Angeles jail, where he had been held for alleged non-payment of spousal support to his ex-wife. What an entrance!

While he was with Texas, some of Davis' teammates noted his unusual habits and his strange physique. He shared living quarters with an intriguing choice of roommates—a Doberman pinscher with large fangs. He diligently performed yoga, which was frowned upon in some baseball circles, as part of an overall conditioning program that left him with an odd physical appearance. Davis had such little body fat that his veins bulged out throughout his body, giving him almost a surreal look. As one Rangers beat writer put it, Davis appeared to be all “skin and veins.” One of his teammates dubbed Davis the “Strange Ranger.”

To the surprise of no one, Davis didn’t last long in Texas, not with a manager like Billy Martin. One day, Davis and Martin engaged in a clubhouse fistfight. I don’t know who won the actual fisticuffs, but Martin won the war. Within minutes of the fight, Davis received his walking papers in the form of a trade to St. Louis.

With his batting and running skills fading, Davis eventually found his way to the Japanese Leagues. As a Buddhist, Davis felt the Japanese culture would embrace his religious beliefs. As it turned out, Davis was too extreme for the Asian culture. In the opinion of some, Davis displayed his religion too fervently. He chanted in the clubhouse before each game, to the point of disturbing some of his teammates. “It gave the others the feeling they were at a Buddhist funeral,” complained Wally Yonamine, Davis’ manager with the Chunichi Dragons.

After Davis’ playing days, his eccentricities degraded into the realm of the bizarre and the near violent. In March of 1996, Davis was arrested after threatening his parents with a samurai sword and ninja-style throwing stars. Davis demanded that his parents pay him $5,000; when they refused, he threatened to burn down their house and kill them. Davis was booked under investigation of assault with a deadly weapon and attempted extortion, but his parents opted to drop the charges.

Though Davis escaped prison time, the incident brought him public humiliation, making him a punch line. Having hit rock bottom, Davis proceeded to make a slow but steady climb toward respectability. The Dodgers hired him to work in their speakers bureau. He delivered motivational speeches to youngsters, urging them not to repeat the mistakes he had committed in abusing drugs and alcohol. In many ways, he reminded me of Dock Ellis, another abuser of drugs who had found redemption during his final years.

I was especially saddened to hear about Davis’ passing on Tuesday because he appeared to be winning the toughest of the battles with his demons. Though I never met him, he seemed to be a good man at heart, based on the testimony of teammates and officials in the Dodgers organization. As his former Dodgers teammate Tommy Davis told Fred Claire of MLB.com: “I think of Willie and I think of a guy who was always laughing.“

Just as importantly, Willie Davis demonstrated that people can come back from adversity, even later in life. Like many of his fans, I just wish that life had been longer.

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The tools of ignorance have also given us some of the game’s most iconic nicknames, ones that tell us about a player’s ability, his physique, or even his personality. Here are six of my favorites, along with the origins to their memorable monikers:

Lawrence “Yogi” Berra: When is the last time anyone called the Hall of Fame catcher “Lawrence,” or “Larry?“ In this case, the nickname has supplanted the birth name. It dates back to Berra’s childhood friend, Bobby Hofman, who later would become a major league player himself. Hofman said that Berra’s mannerisms strongly resembled that of a yogi—a Hindu holy man who doubled as a snake charmer—that he had seen in a movie. “That yogi walks like Lawdie Berra,“ Hofman said famously. The nickname caught on, making Berra better known as Yogi throughout his major league career and into retirement. Since Berra was never known for having an athletic build, the nickname seemed like a perfect fit.

The nickname later caused a small controversy. Hanna-Barbera Productions, one of the leading animators of the 20th century, developed a cartoon character that was given the name of “Yogi Bear.” Cynics believed that the company had done so intentionally as a play on the name Yogi Berra, but Hanna-Barbera officials have always denied that connection. Eventually, some fans began to greet Berra as “Yogi Bear,” a designation the catcher never appreciated.

Clint “Scrap Iron” Courtney: More recent generations of fans associate the nickname with former manager and infielder Phil Garner, but Courtney will always be the original “Scrap Iron.” The nickname evolved from an incident involving sportswriter Milton Richman, who kidded several of the St. Louis Browns players, including Courtney, about their lack of foot speed. Fed up, Courtney challenged Richman to a race at a train station. In addition to losing the race to Richman, Courtney injured himself when he ran into a baggage car. In spite of sustaining several bruises (and some embarrassment), Courtney refused to sit out the next game—in fact, he played all nine innings—thereby earning the name for his toughness.

Courtney’s feistiness and general willingness to mix it up with other players brought him a few additional nicknames. Some players labeled him “Red Neck,” a reference to his southern heritage and his hair-trigger temper. Others called him “Toy Bulldog” in honor of his willingness to fight all combatants. His long list of opponents included the pugnacious Billy Martin, who beat him up soundly in a 1952 brawl between the Browns and the Yankees.

How tough was Courtney? He was willing to catch despite wearing glasses, which some considered a dangerous proposition for a catcher wearing an iron mask. In fact, Courtney became the first major league catcher to sport eyeglasses, setting the stage for future receivers like Darrell Porter and Brian Downing.

Carlton “Pudge” Fisk: The nickname of “Pudge” did not fit the Hall of Fame catcher during his long major league career. At 6-foot-3 and roughly 200 pounds, Fisk owned a relatively lean physique for a catcher. He was also fast enough to tie for the American League lead in triples in 1972. The origins of this nickname actually go back to his youth, when Fisk struggled with his weight. As an eighth grader, Fisk was 5-foot-4 and weighed a hefty 155 pounds. One might think that other children in Fisk’s school came up with the rather cruel nickname, but it actually originated with Fisk’s family, coming from either his aunt or grandmother. Even as Fisk grew taller and more athletic, the nickname stuck with him throughout the minor leagues and eventually with the Red Sox and White Sox. Fisk didn’t seem to mind; the name “Pudge” is engraved on his Hall of Fame plaque in Cooperstown.

Fisk’s nickname carries such strong resonance that it influenced a nickname for a catcher of the following generation. As a young catcher with the Rangers, Ivan Rodriguez became “Pudge” Rodriguez to his teammates, a tribute to Fisk’s legacy and the belief that Rodriguez would succeed him as a Hall of Fame caliber catcher.

Ernie “The Schnozz” Lombardi: As much as any of the nicknames here, this is one that would have had trouble fitting in our politically correct times, where players’ feelings are given due consideration . But in Lombardi’s heyday of the 1930s and '40s, teammates and opponents had little hesitance in referring to the Hall of Famer as “The Schnozz.” Lombardi did have a large and crooked nose, even if it was often hidden behind his catcher’s mask.

I’m not sure how offended Lombardi may have been by the nickname, but it hardly seemed to affect his hitting. A perennial .300 batter, Lombardi swatted ferocious line drives to all parts of the field. His high batting averages became even more impressive given his incredible lack of speed. At 6-foot-3 and 230 pounds, the ponderous Lombardi lumbered around the bases. He just as easily could have been given a nickname for his slow foot speed, but the attention paid to his nose made him The Schnozz once and for all.

Ted “Double Duty” Radcliffe: One of the appealing traits I find with the old Negro Leagues is the versatility of the players. In carrying rosters much smaller than their 25-man counterparts in the major leagues, Negro Leagues teams needed players who could handle several positions, even those with radically different requirements. And they did so without complaint.

A classic example of versatility could be found in Radcliffe, who was not just a utility player but a standout performer. Although primarily a catcher, and a good one at that, Radcliffe also chipped in as a pitcher from time to time. He earned six All-Star selections as either a pitcher or catcher during the late 1930s and early 1940s.

Radcliffe’s versatility first achieved national attention in 1932. As a member of the famed Pittsburgh Crawfords, Radcliffe took part in a memorable double-header at Yankee Stadium. In the first game, Radcliffe caught a shutout thrown by Satchel Paige. In the second game, the Crawfords needed a starting pitcher and called upon Radcliffe, who turned in a 4-0 shutout of his own. In reporting the doubleheader, famed sportswriter Damon Runyon dubbed Radcliffe “Double Duty.” The name caught on quickly, remaining synonymous with Radcliffe for the rest of his life.

Louis “Big Bertha” Santop: At 6-foot-5 and 240 pounds, Santop was one of the Negro Leagues‘ best catchers, becoming a Hall of Famer in 2006. His nickname originated during World War I, when the Germans unveiled an enormous siege gun by the name of “Big Bertha.” Shortly thereafter, the name became attached to Santop, whose power matched his size.

I’m not sure whether Santop appreciated the nickname—after all, how many guys would like to be called Bertha?—but he did enjoy taunting opposing pitchers. Santop often shouted at the pitcher, predicting that he would hit a long home run against him. In Ruthian fashion, Santop occasionally delivered on his promise by launching a tape measure blast. One of Santop’s longest home runs occurred during the dead ball era. Playing in a 1912 game in Elizabeth, N.J. Santop hit a ball that traveled approximately 500 feet, clearing a 485-foot wall with a few yards to spare.

In addition to the half-dozen players listed here, at least two other catchers deserve honorable mention. One is Johnny Bench, who became known in baseball’s inner circle as “Hands.” The nickname never caught on widely, but it was accurate in describing Bench, whose unusually large hands helped him adopt a one-handed catching style. In a famous photograph now housed at the Hall of Fame, Bench used his right hand to hold seven baseballs at one time.

The other player is Ed Kirkpatrick, who split his career between catching and playing the outfield. Teammates called Kirkpatrick “Spanky” because of his facial resemblance to Spanky McFarland, one of the featured players in the “Little Rascals” television series. Kirkpatrick played the part well, with his shirt often becoming untucked during games, in much the same way that Spanky wore his clothes while cavorting with Alfalfa, Buckwheat, Darla and the rest of Our Gang.

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That reality recently invaded the central New York area, of which I‘m privileged to be a part. The small city of Oneonta, only 22 miles from here in Cooperstown, lost its New York-Penn League franchise, the Oneonta Tigers, to Norwich, Conn. Poor attendance, a perennial problem in the City of the Hills, motivated the move.

The departure of the O-Tigers ended the town's stretch of nearly 45 consecutive years as the host of an NYP-League franchise. The marriage began with the Oneonta Red Sox of 1966 and continued with the Oneonta Yankees the following year. Remaining a Yankee affiliate until 1999, Oneonta then joined forces with the Tigers organization.

Along the way, a long line of future major league stars wore the Oneonta colors, including Curtis Granderson, Don Mattingly, Amos Otis (a onetime Red Sox farmhand), Andy Pettitte, Jorge Posada, Bernie Williams and a football Hall of Famer named John Elway. One could compose a pretty fair all-star team of players who called Oneonta home.

Like most area baseball fans, I’m disappointed (and slightly angered) by the decision of the Tigers’ new ownership to move the club to Norwich. If owner Myles Prentice had lived up to his original agreement to keep the team in Oneonta through this summer and then endured another poor round of attendance, his decision to move the team would have been far more understandable. But Prentice couldn’t wait, instead reneging on his promise to former owners Sam Nader and Sid Levine that he would stay in Oneonta through at least 2010. (Prentice will pay a financial penalty for failing to live up to the conditions of the lease.) As Levine said to a reporter about Prentice’s decision: “You can’t trust anyone anymore.” Refreshingly honest in his response, Levine deserves a commendation for accurately appraising the situation.

Tigers general manager Andy Weber also comes out looking suspect here. Weber claimed that he tried for months to obtain a beer license for Damaschke Field, but the paper trail indicates that no such paperwork was filed with the proper authorities in 2009. It makes one wonder whether the Tigers intentionally filibustered on the beer license issue as a way of minimizing attendance, and thereby justifying their decision to move the team so quickly.

If that’s the case, the Tigers ownership deserves nothing but scorn. If the Tigers legitimately tried and failed to obtain a beer license, they still deserve a rebuke for a lack of honesty. Either way, let this serve as a word of warning to the good folks in Norwich…

Jim Bibby, AKA Fontay O'Rooney

Former big league pitcher Jim Bibby died on Feb. 15, bringing to mind a flood of memories for fans of 1970s baseball. Bibby, who lost a battle with cancer at the age of 65, is best remembered for three reasons. In 1974, as a young hardballing righthander with the Rangers, he threw a no-hitter against the world champion A‘s, striking out 13 batters. Five years later, Bibby became a significant contributor to the world champion Pirates of “We Are Family“ fame. And he was the older brother of another professional athlete, Henry Bibby, a fine shooting guard with the Philadelphia 76ers during the Julius Erving/Maurice Cheeks era.

Yet, I’ll remember Bibby for so much more. He was one of the biggest pitchers of the era, a hulking 6-foot-5, who pushed the scales to the 250-pound mark. He was also the sweatiest player I’ve ever seen play. On hot, humid days, he would look like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News, the perspiration pouring down his face and arms like he had been caught in a waterfall. Bibby sweated so much on the mound that it was hard to watch him work; the more you watched him, the more you started to sweat.

Perhaps my most profound memories of Bibby come from the riotous book Seasons in Hell, by Mike Shropshire. Much of the material is rated X, and therefore not so fitting to my writing sensibilities, but some of it can be shared here. For some reason, Bibby used to go by the stage name of “Fontay O’Rooney”vaudeville. And no one understood why he picked the odd moniker of Fontay O’Rooney. The alter ego just made him more colorful, a player teammates enjoyed having around in St. Louis, Texas, Cleveland and Pittsburgh.

Whatever the reasons for the alternate name, Bibby was just a friendly, amiable guy. A veteran of two years in the Vietnam War, Bibby’s intimidating physical appearance belied his friendly nature. He was outgoing and funny, and so popular as a minor league pitching coach that the Lynchburg Hillcats held a bobblehead night in his honor. Willingly signing autographs before and after games, Bibby always took time to talk to fans who wanted to chat with a former big leaguer.

Farewell, Jim Bibby. And farewell, Fontay O’Rooney…

Slick Surratt, Negro Leagues star

Another good soul departed us earlier this month. He was Alfred “Slick” Surratt, a veteran of World War II who played in the Negro Leagues during the '40s and '50s before doing his part to preserve the legacy of black baseball. Surratt, who died recently at the age of 87, played the outfield for the Kansas City Monarchs from 1947 to 1952 and also barnstormed with Satchel Paige’s all-star teams.

Known for his whippet-like build, Surratt played a game predicated on speed. He was an exceptional bunter who tried to hit ground balls and line drives. Surratt used to joke that if he hit a ground ball that bounced more than once, the infielder could forget about throwing him out. He was exaggerating, of course, but only slightly.

After his playing days, Surratt became involved in efforts to start the Negro Leagues Museum in his native Kansas City. Along with his former manager Buck O’Neil, Surratt helped launch and promote the museum, which chronicles the history of the Negro Leagues from 1920 through their eventual disbanding in the early 1960s. In many ways, Surratt was a lesser known version of O‘Neil—gregarious, upbeat, and always willing to spin stories about his days in black baseball.

Surratt maintained a good sense of humor about segregation in the South. He used to point to the Arkansas license plate on his car, which featured the slogan, “Arkansas: The Land of Opportunity.” Surratt then said, “At the first opportunity, I left.”

Whenever I hear of the death of another Negro Leaguer, I’m reminded of how quickly we’re losing these links to our baseball past. Most of the survivors of the Negro Leagues are now in their 70s and 80s, and a number of them have had to struggle with subpar health care. Sadly, it won’t be too long before they’re all gone, taking with them their firsthand recollections of their days in black baseball.

So if you ever happen to run into a former Negro Leaguer, make sure to ask him to tell you a story or two. And thank him for making the best of a bad situation, when the color of his skin mattered more than it should have.

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Thirty years ago, the Topps Company produced one of the best baseball card sets of my lifetime. Each of the 1980 cards features a simple but effective design, with small banners in the upper left and lower right corners indicating the player’s position and team, respectively. The design provides a sturdy framework for the card photography, which is consistently clear and vibrant throughout the set, almost without exception. All in all, Topps supplied the set with a good mix of portrait and action shots, giving it a balanced and varied look.

One of my favorite cards in the 1980 set depicts Ron Davis, who is being rediscovered by the baseball world because of his son Ike’s fast rise through the farm system of the Mets. A nondescript minor league reliever with a common name, Ron Davis originally came to the crosstown Yankees from the Cubs in the middle of the 1978 season. Davis was the return for an over-the-hill Ken Holtzman, who had become the bane of both manager Billy Martin and owner George Steinbrenner. Davis was actually the player to be named later in the deal, with the official announcement of his involvement not happening until two days after Holtzman had been dispatched to the Cubs.

Late in the 1978 season, Davis made his major league debut for the Yankees. As I remember rather vividly, he hardly made a stirring impression. The numbers support my memory. In four relief appearances, he coughed up runs at a rate of nearly 12 per nine innings. Numbers aside, Davis didn’t look very impressive from a physical standpoint, either. With his oversize wire-frame sunglasses, pointy nose, and wide hips, the tall and gangly Texan looked like a misshapen schoolteacher. Based on initial reactions, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Davis never pitched in the major leagues again.

Thankfully for the Yankees, my ability to evaluate talent in the late 1970s ranked right up there with my ability to slam-dunk. In 1979, Davis emerged as one of the lone bright spots during a season pockmarked with heartbreaking losses, disabling injuries, and unforeseeable tragedy that came with the passing of Thurman Munson. With Goose Gossage injured and Dick Tidrow slumping horrifically, managers Bob Lemon and Billy Martin began to turn to Davis and his hard, sinking fastball. Throwing from a distinctive three-quarters delivery, he didn’t strike out many batters, but that hardly mattered. It seemed that almost every game Davis entered from the bullpen, he began the proceedings by inducing a double play. Having removed the inherited runners, he usually proceeded to pitch scoreless ball, as the Yankees either clawed back from deficits or broke up ties in the late innings. By the end of the 1979 season, Davis had won 14 games while losing only two. It’s the kind of record that you rarely see from today’s relievers, who are usually restricted to one inning at a time.

Davis’ performance earned him his first card, a spot in Topps’ 1980 set. In a clear-cut action shot seen from the first-base side of the mound at the old Yankee Stadium, Davis is seen at the finish of one of his characteristic whip-like deliveries that became so distasteful to American League hitters.

Logging an incredible 131 relief innings in 1980, Davis fully evolved as the setup man to Gossage. He devoured the sixth, seventh, and sometimes the eighth innings before turning the ball over to the future Hall of Famer. Davis continued to rely on his sinkerball, which made him a constant double play in waiting. And then, in 1981, Davis turned on the gas. On May 4, he offered a glimpse of his renovated pitching style by striking out eight consecutive Oakland batters. Making a stunning transition to power pitching (with a newfound emphasis on high fastballs), Davis proceeded to fan 83 batters in 73 innings during the strike-shortened season. With Davis throwing hard, and Gossage throwing harder and hardest, the Yankees cornered the market on late-inning flames. The two right-handers became the most feared relief tandem in the game, helping the Yankees come within two games of winning the 1981 World Series.

It was also during the 1981 season that Davis made a name for himself as a bit of an everyman. With the major league players opting to go on strike in midseason, Davis didn’t have enough money to sit on his back account. Instead, he took a job as a waiter at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Kansas City. On July 18, two walkways at the hotel collapsed, killing 113 people while injuring nearly 200 others. Davis played an active role in the rescue efforts, helping bring some injured people to safety.

Having compiled three brilliant seasons in setup relief, including an All-Star performance in 1981, the 25-year-old Davis appeared destined to eventually inherit the closer’s role from Gossage. Sadly, that never happened. In fact, Davis never pitched for the Yankees again. After Davis reported to spring training in 1982, he watched the Yankees make a major trade on April 1. The April Fool’s deal brought talented reliever Shane Rawley to the Bronx, giving the Yankees a left-handed complement to Gossage. Now overloaded in the pen, the Yankees felt they had something to trade as part of their efforts to bulk up the middle infield. Long admirers of the Twins’ talented, power-hitting shortstop, Roy Smalley, the Yankees pulled off another headline transaction only 10 days later. On April 10, the Yankees acquired the switch-hitting Smalley—at the hefty price of Davis and top shortstop prospect Greg Gagne. It would turn out to be one of the Yankees’ worst trades of the 1980s.

It’s not that Davis blossomed in Minnesota; he did not. Anointed as the Twins’ closer, Davis struggled in his new role. He would never be as dominant in the ninth inning as he had been in the sixth, seventh, and eighth. Still, the Yankees had lost their most valuable relief pitcher, a durable, hard-throwing right-hander who could give them innings—high quality innings, at that—while also closing games on days that Gossage wasn’t available. And if Davis had remained in New York, he would have eventually replaced Gossage as closer, allowing Dave Righetti to remain in the rotation—a position from which he never should have been removed.

After four mediocre seasons in Minnesota, Davis bounced from the Cubs to the Dodgers to the Giants, finishing out a journeyman career in 1988. Though only 32 years of age, Davis‘ days in the major leagues had ended. He exited the baseball stage just as quietly as he entered it. To this day, I rarely hear Yankee fans talk about Ron Davis. It’s as if he were a ghost that never really donned pinstripes for those four seasons in the late 1970s and early '80s. The only time that I hear anyone mention him is in association with his offspring, Ike Davis, who could be playing first base for the Mets in 2011, if not sooner.

The saga of the older Davis does make you wonder. At one time, he was a dominant setup reliever who seemed primed for a long career as a standout closer—the successor to Goose Gossage. If Davis can become forgotten that quickly, perhaps anyone can.

At least I have his 1980 Topps card to trigger my memory.

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Curt Blefary: Thankfully, Blefary played in the era before ESPN, preventing Chris Berman from saddling him with the nickname of Curt “Bats in the” Blefary. That nickname would have told us little about the former major league handyman. Instead, we are left with a treasure trove of more descriptive nicknames for the former Oriole, Astro, Yankee, Athletic and Padre.

Along the path of his journeyman career, Blefary was best known by the nickname of “Clank,” given to him by former Orioles teammate Frank Robinson. “Clank” represented the imaginary sound that the ball made when it banged against Blefary’s glove.

You see, Blefary was not exactly a defensive stalwart, no matter where he played. Originally an outfielder with the Orioles in the mid-1960s, Blefary played left field, flanked by two gifted defensive outfielders in Paul Blair (who played center) and Robinson himself (who played right). Although Blefary had decent speed and an above-average throwing arm, he did not track balls well, nor did he have sure hands once he reached his intended destination. Clank, went another ball, trickling away from Blefary’s glove.

Blefary’s defensive foibles in the outfield, along with an inconsistent bat, led the Orioles to try him at other positions, like first base and catcher. With the Astros, Blefary became a fulltime first baseman; with the Yankees, a fulltime right fielder. Toward the later stages of his career, Blefary took on a role as a backup catcher with the A’s and Padres. At one point, Blefary carried eight different gloves and mitts with him, giving him coverage at every position but shortstop. But whatever the position, including third base and second base, the sound of ball against iron resonated everywhere. Ironically, his career ended one year before the American League adopted the designated hitter rule.

A colorful character off the field, Blefary acquired other nicknames for non-defensive reasons. He was called “Cuckoo” because of his offbeat personality and his tendency to speak first and think later. Some of his teammates called him “Buff,” which was short for “Buffalo,” an apparent reference to his large size and general clumsiness.

Dick Stuart: Though I’ve written about the ex-Pirate, Red Sox, Phillie, Met, Dodger and Angel extensively in this space, Dick Stuart reigns as the champion in this category and must be mentioned at least in passing. He was given the wonderfully appropriate nickname of “Dr. Strangeglove” by an unknown Red Sox teammate, who wanted to recognize his legendarily bad defensive play at first base. Stuart’s accomplishments included a 29-error season in 1963 and a 24-error campaign in 1964, totals that might have been hard to achieve for a barehanded first baseman playing 19th century ball.

The new nickname, adapted from the name of a new Peter Sellers film, Dr. Strangelove, became a headline writer’s dream. After the release of the 1964 James Bond thriller Goldfinger, a few writers began referring to Stuart as “Stonefingers,” but that label never caught on like the more inventive Dr. Strangeglove.

Toby Harrah: Like the colorful Blefary, the hardworking Harrah was a favorite of this writer. And like Blefary, he developed a reputation for poor fielding habits early in his career, though not to the same extent as Clank. Harrah came up through the old Washington Senators system, making his debut for Ted Williams in the Capitol City before making the move with the rest of the franchise to Texas. Harrah was a rare breed among shortstops at the time; he had power, speed, and the patience of a saint at the plate.

The other half of Harrah’s game, however, did not make a similarly strong impression. Unlike slick fielding contemporaries Mark Belanger, Eddie Brinkman and Bert Campaneris, Harrah did not glide toward batted balls. He moved stiffly, almost mechanically. He had a tendency to make wild throws to first base. He also lacked sure hands, which would contribute to a 29-error season in 1974. So it was inevitable that one of his early teammates started calling him “Stone Fingers,” a la Stuart. Yes, teammates can be cruel.

(Stone Fingers was Harrah’s secondary nickname. In actuality, “Toby” is a nickname, too. Harrah’s real name is Colbert Dale Harrah.)

In contrast to Blefary and Stuart, Harrah did settle down defensively, to the point where the nickname faded away. But Harrah, with as much effort and hustle as he brought to the position, never became an accomplished fielding shortstop. In 1977, the Rangers moved him to third base fulltime before sending him to the Indians in a one-for-one deal for the slick-fielding Buddy Bell. Harrah reached his peak with a career season in 1982, then endured an unsuccessful stint with the Yankees before ending his career back in Texas. Still evolving as a player, the 36-year-old Harrah emerged as the Rangers’ everyday second baseman in 1985, despite having played a total of only 29 games at the position in prior years. Perhaps the Rangers should have played him at second base all along.

George Grantham: Chicago writers gave him the uncomplimentary nickname of “Boots,“ which had nothing to do with his footwear but everything to do with his impossibly low standards of fielding. A player of 1920s and '30s vintage, Grantham played second base, or at least tried to play second base. In 1923, as a rookie for the Cubs, he made 55 errors. That is not a typo. The next year, he committed 48 miscues. In spite of such horrors in the field, Grantham managed to last 13 seasons in the major leagues, based largely on his .302 batting average and .392 slugging percentage. Mercifully, the Pirates switched him to first base in 1925.

Historically, Boots has been a popular nickname for players who specialize in fielding futility. An honorable mention should go to Cletus "Boots" Poffenberger, a right-handed pitcher who was not particularly comfortable handling comebackers and various other groundballs during his three seasons in the 1930s.

Pat Creeden: A second baseman for the Red Sox in 1931, Creeden lasted for only five games. But his .846 fielding percentage, coupled with his minor league reputation, earned him the nickname “Whoops.”

Bill Fagan: A 19th century pitcher who was prone to making errors, Fagan was given the name of “Clinkers” during his two-year career. Not very flattering, but highly creative.

So what’s the lesson in all of this? If you’re a poor fielder struggling in this fundamental aspect of the game, you can take some solace in knowing that you might receive a fun and catchy nickname in return. It will involve some unusual cruelty, but it might make you more memorable, just like it has for Clank, Strangeglove, Stone Fingers and the rest.

Click here to learn about THT's download subscriptions.]]> Bruce Markusen 2010-02-05T10:00:38+00:00 Cooperstown Confidential: Bobby Bragan’s remarkable life http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/article/cooperstown-confidential-bobby-bragans-remarkable-life/ http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/article/cooperstown-confidential-bobby-bragans-remarkable-life/#When:10:45:44Z Bobby Bragan was not particularly successful as either a major league player or manager, but his career was incredibly noteworthy, highly unorthodox, and utterly fascinating. Bragan, who died last week at the age of 92, lived as full a baseball life as anyone, replete with episodes of color, controversy and redemption.

As a player, Bragan lasted seven seasons with the Philadelphia Phillies and Brooklyn Dodgers, in a career splintered by service in World War II. Bragan didn’t hit much, batting .240 with 15 home runs in 1,900 at-bats. Here’s what’s odd. The two positions he played most frequently were shortstop and catcher. How many catcher-shortstops have you ever heard of in the major leagues? Not many names come immediately to mind, other than someone like Bert "Campy" Campaneris, a longtime shortstop who put in token time as a catcher as part of a publicity stunt. (There was also Cesar Tovar, a second baseman who played a little bit of shortstop and, like Campaneris, played part of one game as a catcher.) The two positions are incongruous, requiring completely different athletic skills, and usually featuring two distinct body types. But Bragan put in significant amounts of time at both positions, playing 415 games as a shortstop and 140 games as a catcher.

By the late 1940s, Bragan had become one of the Dodgers’ backup catchers. He was still with the team in the spring of 1947, coinciding with the arrival of a pioneer and future Hall of Famer, Jackie Robinson. As fellow Hardball Times writer Steve Treder so eloquently pointed out in a recent post over at Baseball Think Factory, Bragan was not exactly one who embraced the major leagues’ first African-American player of the 20th century.

“Bragan was an ardent anti-integrationist, one of the most vocal members of the 1947 Dodgers opposed to Jackie Robinson’s presence on the team,” Treder writes. “But once the season unfolded, and he observed what Robinson went through and how he handled it, Bragan began to greatly admire Robinson, and he saw that he’d been wrong all along, that what he’d been taught to believe was nonsense. Bragan became a vocal champion of integration. It takes a big person to be that self-aware, and to grow that way.”

Indeed. Perhaps it was that willingness to grow that made Bragan a natural to manage after his playing days, which ended with Brooklyn in 1948. Bragan became one of the game’s most intelligent and innovative managers of the '40s and '50s, excelling at two different levels in the minor leagues. Bragan never carried that success over to the major leagues, but he certainly made an impression on those he encountered along the way.

Bragan had a temper, as evidenced by the anger he showed toward umpires. But he didn’t just throw tantrums; he tried to make statements with his actions. As a minor league manager with the Hollywood Stars of the Pacific Coast League, Bragan once sent the Stars’ batboy onto the field to act as the team’s third base coach. Bragan felt the umpires were making a farce of the game, so he decided to escalate the farce by using his batboy in an expanded role. He showed his dislike for another umpire’s decision by sending up eight consecutive pinch-hitters—all for the same batter. In perhaps his most outlandish maneuver, Bragan responded to being ejected from a game by completely stripping off his uniform while on the playing field. It was one of 13 times that Bragan earned ejections during a tumultuous 1954 season.

Bragan toned down his act only slightly once he reached the major leagues with the Pittsburgh Pirates in 1956. The ejections came with less frequency, but with no less ferocity. On July 31, 1957, Bragan drew the heave-ho from umpire Stan Landes for holding his nose after a questionable call. A few minutes later, Bragan suddenly reappeared. He strolled casually onto the field, holding an orange drink with a straw in his hand. Bragan leisurely made his way over to the umpires, offering each of the four men a sip from his drink. “It was my major league debut as a clown,” Bragan told the Associated Press after the game. “I’m fed up with these guys. They won’t even listen to a legitimate complaint.”

The umpires became less inclined to listen after the offer of the orange drink. The chief of the umpiring crew, Frank Dascoli, vented his anger at Bragan during a postgame interview. “He’s a busher, a clown and a comedian,” Dascoli fumed to the AP. “By pulling that stunt, he vindicates anything that ever happened to him.”

Bragan’s overt displeasure with the umpires overshadowed his sense of innovation. He dared to do things differently at a time when conservative play was the norm.

As manager of the Pirates, Bragan sometimes batted his best hitter first (instead of the more traditional spot of third in the order) and his pitcher seventh (instead of ninth). Under Bragan’s theory, once he cleared out the pitcher’s spot the first time through, the eighth and ninth-place hitters would become the tablesetters for the top of the order. Bragan also employed a lineup based primarily on batting average. He batted Dale Long, his leading slugger, in the leadoff spot, and then followed up with Bill Virdon and Roberto Clemente, his two best hitters for average. Bragan continued to arrange his order by batting average, with the highest averages followed by lower ones.

Critics derided the non-traditional lineup as “Bragan’s Brainstorm,” but the unorthodox batting orders actually seemed to help. In 1956, the Pirates improved by six games over their 1955 record. Unfortunately, a poor start to the following season resulted in Bragan being fired and replaced by Danny Murtaugh.

Bragan surfaced again to manage the Cleveland Indians and Milwaukee Braves. With the Braves, he encouraged slugger and future home run king Hank Aaron to steal more bases, a strategy that most managers of the day would not have pursued with their cleanup hitters. In his first season under Bragan, Aaron stole 31 bases.

Even after his retirement, Bragan continued to show a penchant for the unconventional. In 2005, Bragan became the oldest person to manage a professional baseball game, at 87 years, nine months, and 16 days. Coming out of retirement for one day to break Connie Mack’s record by one week, Bragan managed the Ft. Worth Cats of the independent Central League.

Fittingly, he was ejected in the third inning.

In addition to managing and playing, Bragan also enjoyed a third career. During the 1970s and '80s, he worked in the public relations department of the Texas Rangers. As part of his duties, Bragan delivered speeches, put in appearances at promotions, and generally fulfilled his duties by being Bobby Bragan. A master at telling stories, Bragan could entertain for hours. He liked to spend time in the Arlington Stadium press room, where he played the piano for the media during dinner, giving them an interesting diversion on hot summer nights in Texas. Given his outgoing personality, it’s no wonder that Bragan became known as “Mr. Baseball” in the Fort Worth area.

Bragan won’t ever make the Hall of Fame for what he did as a player or manager. But when it comes to experiencing the game over the course of seven decades, it would be hard to top the resume of Bobby Bragan.

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Last season saw the rise in popularity of “Kung Fu Panda,” also known as Pablo Sandoval, in San Francisco. He joined teammate Tim Lincecum, the National League’s Cy Young Award winner, who doubles as “The Freak.” Then there are more established veterans like Travis Hafner (“Pronk”), David Ortiz (“Big Papi”), Ivan Rodriguez (“Pudge”) and Roy Halladay (“Doc”).

Among today’s major league set, here are some of the more descriptive and lyrical nicknames:

Ryan Braun (“The Hebrew Hammer”)
Adam Dunn (“The Big Donkey”)
Mike Cameron (“The Black Cat”)
Aaron Harang (“Zombie”)
Dan Haren (“Caveman”)
Felix Hernandez (“King Felix”)
Carlos Lee (“El Caballo”)
Hideki Matsui (“Godzilla”)
Jose Valverde (“Papa Grande”)
Shane Victorino (“The Flyin’ Hawaiian”)
Jayson Werth (“Werewolf”)
Kevin Youkilis (“The Greek God of Walks”)

Given the revival of creative and amusing nicknames, I thought it would be an appropriate time to highlight some of the best monikers in baseball history. I’ve excluded those names that carry a derogatory ethnic component, such as the all-too-frequent “Chico” for Latino ballplayers and the repetitious “Chief” for players of Native American descent. With that in mind, here is my unofficial “all-nickname” team, consisting of players now retired from our great game.

Catcher:
Ted "Double Duty" Radcliffe: Nicknames often reflect a player’s on-field capabilities. As with many players in the old Negro Leagues, Radcliffe needed to be versatile to accommodate the needs of a shortened roster. Although primarily a catcher, and a good one at that, Radcliffe also chipped in as a pitcher from time to time. In 1932, he participated in a Pittsburgh Crawfords doubleheader at Yankee Stadium, catching a shutout by Satchel Paige in the first game, then pitching a shutout of his own in the second game. As a result, famed sportswriter Damon Runyon dubbed the Negro Leagues standout “Double Duty,” and the nickname stuck for the rest of Radcliffe’s 103 years.

First base:
Lou Gehrig “The Iron Horse:” This nickname, which carries a certain regality, became an homage to Gehrig as he set the seemingly unbreakable record for games played. The phrase was not original, however; it was the nickname that Native Americans gave to the steam locomotives of the 1880s. The power, strength, and durability of the locomotive trains greatly impressed Native Americans, and the media transferred the same nickname to Gehrig, whose own levels of brute force and endurance made him one of the game’s elite. More than seven decades after Gehrig made his famed farewell speech at Yankee Stadium, the nickname still fits Lou perfectly.

Second base:
Johnny "The Crab" Evers: The Hall of Fame infielder was given the name by sportswriter Charley Dreyden, who noticed the crablike way Evers held the ball before releasing it. But the name eventually took on a different connotation because of Evers’ combative disposition, a characteristic noticed by Cubs teammates, opponents and National League officials. Because of his long-running feud with shortstop Joe Tinker, most people now associate the temperamental Evers with the less-than-flattering label.

Shortstop:
Bob "Death to Flying Things" Ferguson: This one is a true favorite in my private pantheon of all-time nicknames. A 19th century shortstop, Ferguson was considered a sure-anded fielder. Because of the nickname, many have assumed that Ferguson was particularly skilled at catching pop-ups and fly balls, but there is no evidence of this supposition. As James K. Skipper pointed out in his entertaining book, Baseball Nicknames, it’s just as reasonable to assume that Ferguson was adept at handling a fly swatter! Either way, this ranks as one of the most creative and descriptive nicknames of any baseball century.

Third base:
Ron "The Penguin" Cey: For those who ever watched Cey play, this nickname came about for obvious reasons. With his short, stocky legs, Cey looked like he was waddling instead of running, both in the field and on the basepaths. Cey first heard the name in college. It became far more popular after he became the Dodgers‘ third baseman, thanks largely to the promotional efforts of manager Tommy Lasorda, who couldn‘t resist referring to Cey as "The Penguin." In some ways, the memorable nickname has overshadowed Cey’s playing career; he was one of the National League’s best third basemen of the 1970s, perhaps second only to Hall of Famer Mike Schmidt.

Outfield:
“Shoeless” Joe Jackson: This one requires a longer explanation. According to Jackson biographer Donald Gropman, the nickname was the invention of Scoop Latimer, a reporter for a newspaper in Greenville, S.C. During the 1908 Carolina Association minor league season, Jackson got blisters on his feet while breaking in a new pair of baseball shoes. The next day, he reverted to his old pair, but found that his feet still hurt. So rather than sit out that day’s game, Jackson played that afternoon for Greenville wearing only his stockings. Latimer printed the nickname “Shoeless Joe” in the next edition of his paper, resulting in the birth of one of baseball’s great legends. With or without shoes, Jackson remains a controversial subject—and on the outside looking in when it comes to election to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Outfield:
Jimmy "The Toy Cannon" Wynn: At 5-foot-9 and 170 pounds, Wynn hardly looked like a prototypical power hitter. Fans of the Astros soon came to understand that appearances could be deceiving. Wynn hit with such remarkable power, even in a hitter’s bone yard like the old Astrodome, that a contingent of Astros fans began referring to him as “The Toy Cannon.” Whenever I hear the nickname, an image comes to mind of Wynn pulling a toy cannon by a string, as he slowly walks from the on-deck circle to the batter’s box. It’s a strange image to say the least, but it says something about the powerful connotations that come with such a visual nickname. (Perhaps it says something about the odd workings of my mind, too.)

Later in his career, Wynn wore part of the nickname on the back of his Braves jersey. As part of Ted Turner’s promotional efforts, the back of Wynn’s shirt read “C A N N O N.”

Outfield:
Walt "No Neck" Williams: As one of my personal favorites, this one just had to crack the starting lineup of the all-nickname team. For those who have seen photographs of Williams, a journeyman outfielder with the White Sox, Indians and Yankees, the nickname perfectly described his head-and-shoulders region. From a distance, he appeared to have no neck, his head seemingly sitting on his collarbone. The descriptive name was the brainchild of journeyman catcher John Bateman, one of Williams' teammates during his first major league stop with the Houston Colt 45s. Along with a fitting nickname, Williams brought some color to his various major league stops He ate hamburgers voraciously, ala “Wimpy” in the old “Popeye” cartoons, and liked to cover his body in Vaseline both before and after games. He felt that it would be good for his skin, even if it did nothing to elongate his neck.

Designated hitter:
Dick "Dr. Strangeglove" Stuart: Although he retired well before the DH rule came into play in 1973, Stuart played first badly enough that the American League could have introduced the rule just for him. When it came to poor defensive play at first base, Stuart had it all: bad hands, stiff reactions and poor range. So it was quite appropriate that one of his Red Sox teammates fitted him with the nickname of “Dr. Strangeglove” during the 1964 season. It came from a Hollywood connection, the Peter Sellers’ black comedy, "Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb," which had been released in theaters over the winter. The unknown teammate’s play on words became a hit with the media and fans. The timing could not have been more appropriate, considering that Stuart had made 29 errors the previous season, a remarkable achievement for the relatively undemanding position of first base.

Starting pitcher:
Sal "The Barber" Maglie: An aggressive right hander who toiled for all three New York teams in the 1950s, Maglie developed a reputation for throwing up and in against opposing hitters, occasionally plunking them with his hard fastball. So it was only natural that Maglie would be called “The Barber,” who would provide hitters with baseball’s version of a “close shave.” Maglie’s appearance, with his perpetual five o'clock shadow, enhanced the nickname. On both counts, The Barber became an apt description for the onetime Dodger, Giant and Yankee.

Starting pitcher:
Bill "Spaceman" Lee: This one came courtesy of Lee’s Red Sox teammate, utility infielder John Kennedy, who didn’t care much for the left hander’s offbeat personality. Even though the nickname was meant to be derogatory, Lee embraced his Spaceman persona. With his liberal viewpoints, Lee rarely fit into baseball’s conservative establishment. He once called Don Zimmer the “designated gerbil,” bragged about spreading marijuana on his pancakes, and famously bolted the Expos in protest over the release of second baseman Rodney Scott. The Spaceman tag led to a famous photograph of Lee in his pitching motion while wearing a full NASA spacesuit. Priceless.

Starting pitcher:
John "Blue Moon" Odom: Contrary to what some might believe, A's owner Charlie Finley didn't give Odom the “Blue Moon” nickname, as he had Jim “"Catfish" Hunter. Odom actually picked up the moniker long before he signed his first professional contract with Kansas City. “Back in fifth grade in football practice,” Odom explained, “a guy named Joe Mars started calling me ‘Moonhead.’ I really didn’t like that. (He said) ‘I’m calling you that because your face is round. We can’t call you ‘Yellow Moon’ (because of) your complexion. So we’re gonna call you ‘Blue Moon.’ ”

In addition to the roundness of his face, some observers felt the nickname fit because Odom often appeared to be in a somber mood. After a series of personal struggles that came with his post-playing days, Odom has turned his life around, becoming an active member of the Major League Baseball Players Alumni Association. Odom also has grown to appreciate his nickname, which has given him a strong identity in retirement. “I used to hate that name,” Odom said a few years back, “but now I love it. I’m known all over the world as Blue Moon now.”

Relief pitcher:
Mitch "The Wild Thing" Williams: Like Stuart, Williams owes his nickname to popular culture, specifically to the first "Major League" movie, which became a box office hit in 1989. The movie’s release coincided with Williams’ breakout season as a headline closer. Though effective at times as the relief ace for the Cubs and Phillies, Williams too often resembled Charlie Sheen’s character in the film, who was capable of hitting the on-deck batter with an errant pitch. Williams wasn’t that wild, but he was close, often running full counts and issuing more than his share of bases on balls. With his off-balance delivery, which featured a fall to the ground after almost every pitch, it’s no wonder that Williams had little idea where the ball would end up. Still, he had a fairly successful career, helping the Phillies to the 1993 National League pennant, and has emerged as one of the more provocative analysts on the MLB Network.

So, with apologies to Ralph "Roadrunner" Garr, George "Twinkletoes" Selkirk, Christy "Big Six" Mathewson and Don "Full Pack" Stanhouse, there you have the first all-nickname team from a staff member at The Hardball Times. Given the volume and richness of baseball nicknames over the years, one could round up hundreds of other worthwhile candidates. And that’s exactly what we’ll attempt to do over the coming months.

Click here to learn about THT's download subscriptions.]]> Bruce Markusen 2010-01-22T10:00:17+00:00 Cooperstown Confidential: Super Joe is still here http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/article/cooperstown-confidential-super-joe-is-still-here/ http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/article/cooperstown-confidential-super-joe-is-still-here/#When:10:00:05Z Joe Charboneau is apparently not one of those people.

Last week, Charboneau became involved in a barroom fight in North Ridgeville, Ill., the town where he runs the local parks and recreation baseball program. Details of the incident remain sketchy—as of this writing, no charges have been filed against either Charboneau or the other combatant—but it is just the latest in a long line of offbeat escapades for the man who experienced such a meteoric career in the major leagues.

Originally signed by the Philadelphia Phillies in 1976, Charboneau quit playing ball in his second minor league season because of a dispute with management. He took up slow-pitch softball for awhile before the Phillies decided to give him another opportunity. Charboneau took advantage of the second chance on the field, hitting well in the California League, but his affinity for barroom fights—a nasty habit that apparently continues to this day—convinced the Phils to trade him away. So the organization sent him packing to the Cleveland Indians organization.

As he did in the Phillies system, Charboneau showed that he could hit for both average and power. After hitting .352 at Double-A Chattanooga, the burly right-handed slugger earned a promotion to the Indians’ major league roster, but not before an eventful spring training. During a preseason trip to Mexico, a crazed fan jabbed him in the back with a ballpoint pen. The tip of the pen actually touched one of Charboneau’s ribs, but did not cause serious damage. (Remarkably, the fan was fined less than $3 by the local court system, hardly a bastion of North American justice.)

To Charboneau’s credit, the incident did not deter him in his rookie season. Splitting his time between left field and DH in 1980, Charboneau belted 23 home runs, slugged .488, and batted .289. Those numbers helped him earn the American League’s Rookie of the Year award.

Yet, the award did not become the story with Charboneau. His off-field persona overshadowed his on-field power and production. Nicknamed “Super Joe,” Charboneau became famous for his many unusual habits. Baseball fans in Cleveland quickly learned that Charboneau, as a youth, used to fight boxing matches in boxcars at the price of $25 a bout. As an adult, Super Joe had other tendencies, like opening beer bottles with his eye sockets, something that most humans would consider too painful—and dangerous. (After opening the bottle, he sometimes drank the beer through his nose, providing a fitting exclamation point to the achievement.)

He also ate cigarettes, another unsafe habit. On one occasion, he decided to rid himself of an unwanted tattoo, not by consulting a tattoo parlor, but by cutting it out himself with a razor blade. And in perhaps his most pain-inducing stunt, Charboneau once tried to repair his own broken nose with a pair of pliers. He apparently eased the pain with a few shots of whiskey, in his best attempt to recreate medical practices of the 1800s.

Charboneau’s exploits made him an immediate legend in the Cleveland area. Coupled with his hitting, they inspired the creation of the song, “Go Go Joe Charboneau.” The song, which rose to No. 3 on the Cleveland charts during the 1980 season, featured the following lyrics:

“Who’s the newest guy in town?
Go Joe Charboneau.
Turns the ballpark upside down.
Go Joe Charboneau.
Who’s the one to keep our hopes alive, straight from seventh to the pennant drive?
Raise your glass, let out a cheer for Cleveland’s Rookie of the Year!”

With the catchy (if not particularly lyrical) song in place, the legend of Joe Charboneau seemed ready to take off completely. Comparisons with Rocky Colavito, an Indians great from a previous generation, inevitably resulted. (The comparisons weren’t really fair; Colavito had more power and a far stronger defensive presence, with a cannon-like arm that played beautifully in right field.)

Unfortunately, Charboneau’s reckless ways seemed to foreshadow a short career. During spring training in 1981, Charboneau injured his back while sliding headfirst into a base. Hampered by the back ailment, he slumped so badly that the Indians sent him back to the minor leagues in midseason. Charboneau eventually underwent two operations, neither of which helped.

By 1983, Charboneau was playing for Cleveland’s Triple-A affiliate in Buffalo and struggling with a .200 batting average. Frustrated by the fans’ displeasure with him, he decided to give the hometown folks an “obscene salute.” No one thought it was appropriate or funny, except possibly Super Joe himself. The gesture angered Indians management, which gave him his release. Although the Pittsburgh Pirates offered him another chance in their system, his professional career soon ended, after only three truncated seasons in the major leagues.

Since his playing days, Charboneau has remained connected to baseball in peripheral ways, as a sports talk show host and independent minor league coach, in addition to his duties with the North Ridgeville parks department. It remains to be seen whether he will retain that job after his involvement in the recent brawl. He had maintained a relatively low public profile until the recent incident, with his Super Joe persona having given way to a more normal life as plain old Joseph Charboneau. Perhaps Super Joe has returned, for better or worse.

I suppose there is something intriguing, in a wild west sort of way, about a young man in his 20s becoming involved in barroom brawls. But when you’re in your 50s, and you’re still brawling like you were a 25-year-old, there is something disturbing, perhaps even pathetic about that. Maybe I’m wrong here; after all, we don’t know many of the details of last week’s incident, and perhaps Charboneau was merely acting in self-defense. I hope that’s the case. If not, Super Joe may have reached the stage of his life where he simply needs some help.

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