Posted by Bill Baer on Thursday, January 15, 2009 at 6:53 am

Congratulations to Rickey Henderson and Jim Rice for their inductions into baseball’s Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. Rickey was a no-brainer, yet somehow more than 5% of the voters felt he wasn’t worthy. Rice was a controversial pick, but regardless of where you stand on his worthiness, you have to feel happy for him.

And that’s about where I stop caring about baseball’s Hall of Fame.

Unlike a lot of baseball fans, I did not get into endless debates about why Rice’s numbers aren’t exactly Hall-worthy, or why Bert Blyleven should have been voted in years ago. The Hall means nothing anymore, at least to me. Baseball is such a great sport not just for the action on the field, but for the antiquity and the lore. Who hasn’t been told stories of Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio, or Don Larsen’s perfect game in the 1956 World Series, or the mastery of Bob Gibson?

Some day, when we’re retired, we’ll tell stories of Rickey and Cal and Robbie Alomar in the same way. And maybe we can take our grandchildren to visit Cooperstown to learn about these guys…

[We drift off into my future]

“Grandpa, how do you get into the Hall of Fame?” my grandson asks.

“You have to have a great career where you consistently stand out amongst your peers.”

Not satisfied, he wonders, “But it seems some players are really good and they got left out, and some players aren’t as good and they’re in. How come?”

With a deep breath, I reply, “Well, the Hall of Famers are put in by the Baseball Writers Association of America. Lots of them are still members of the tangible media industry — newspapers and magazines and such. If they have had good experiences with a player, regardless of how good or bad he was, they’ll give him a vote. If the player ever yelled at the writer, or refused to do an interview, or didn’t give good enough answers, then the writer will vote against him.”

“So, how well you played isn’t necessarily the main factor?”

“Nope.”

“Who are these guys?” my grandson queries as we walk into a hallway separated from the rest of the exhibits.

Not even having to look at the scenery, I respond, “They are Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Jose Canseco, Ken Caminiti…”

My grandson interrupts me. “How come they’re all by themselves over here?”

“Back in the late 1990’s, baseball was hurting from the ‘94 strike and needed something big to draw interest. McGwire and Sosa got into an historic home run race where they both shattered Roger Maris’ single-season record of 61 home runs with 70 and 66. And Barry Bonds later broke it by hitting 73 in a season. Later, it was surmised that they were all using artificial substances to improve their game. When it came time for them to get inducted into the Hall here, they were shunned by the baseball writers who knew of the problem when it was in its infancy and did nothing to shine light on it; they ignored it. Then, they righteously campaigned against those guys ex post facto.”

“Ex post facto?”

“It means ‘after the fact’. They could have come forward with pertinent information, but there was too much money to be made off it, so they didn’t say anything. Years later, when they had made all their money, they finally said something because it provided another avenue for them to make money. The guys who wrote the book Game of Shadows are a good example.”

“So these players all used substances that made them better players?”

“We don’t know, still. No one ever had any evidence. McGwire was found with a bottle of androstenedione in his locker but it was legal at the time. Bonds failed a drug test for amphetamines, but never for the steroids he was accused of taking. Sosa was only caught once corking his bat, not for putting anything illegal in his body. And no one ever proved if these substances were actually performance-enhancing.”

Puzzled, my grandson thinks for a few moments. “These guys really got a raw deal didn’t they, grandpa?”

“Absolutely. No question about it.”

“Why don’t they put players in here in another way, instead of letting the writers decide? Can’t we just look at their stats and decide?”

Amused, I respond, “Ha! I wish. But not only do the baseball writers get to make the decisions, but most of them have always been vehemently against the use of objective statistical analysis, so they had stunted, intellectually, a generation of people who weren’t too Internet-savvy and weren’t exposed to these stats. As such, support for the use of objective statistical analysis didn’t grow as fast as it could have. But now it’s number one. It was a struggle, though.”

Not understanding how one could be against a system of thinking that is entirely objective, my grandson asks (geez, this guy asks a lot of questions doesn’t he?), “How could they be against, like, facts and stuff?”

“Good question. I guess they felt threatened because there was reason not to take the writers’ word as golden, and a lot of the writers’ beliefs are proven wrong by the stats. I think they have always been too involved with the players to maintain objectivity and that’s a part of why they don’t trust the numbers. Also, bloggers tended to utilize the stats more, and bloggers were making the writers extinct.”

“What do you mean when you say ‘objectivity’?”

“If they really like a player because he was nice to them or he’s a good interview, then the writers will be more likely to speak highly of the guy and overrate him. Likewise, if a player isn’t that nice or isn’t a good interview, the writers will be more prone to criticize the player more than necessary.”

“Wow, these writers sound like a narcissistic bunch, and it seems like they’ve left mud tracks all over the hall.”

We look down the corridor, following the literal track of mud to the end. Very faintly, we see Murray Chass make a left turn… this guy is still alive? It’s 2040!

Feeling tired, we walk out of the Asterisk section. I wrap up the last question by saying, “The writers have always looked out for themselves first, and the integrity of the game … not necessarily second, even.”

“This place sucks, grandpa, it seems like the writers have caused a controversy behind everything. I mean, look at Bert Blyleven’s place over here — it says he refused induction. Let me guess — the writers had something to do with that.”

“You’re quick. Yes, the writers kept the guy out because they were so unwilling to consider statistics that tell you a lot more than a pitcher’s win-loss record. They didn’t think Bert was up to snuff so they kept him out every time they had an opportunity to until the last year.”

Bert refused induction because he felt slighted and that getting inducted in his last year of eligibility was a slap in the face. He said he’d rather not be in than to get let in in the last year. He started a trend and now more and more worthy inductees are simply not participating in activities that involve the Hall of Fame. Some players already in have withdrawn themselves.”

[We drift back into the present]

Changes need to be made to the process of inducting a player into the Hall of Fame.

Should the voting really be in the hands of a group of people who will undoubtedly struggle in maintaining objectivity?

Should a player’s worthiness be based on any criteria whatsoever, as it seems to be currently, or should it be based only on the tangible*?

* This doesn’t necessarily mean a stats-only approach. For instance, Jackie Robinson should be in the Hall of Fame regardless of his numbers because of how he changed baseball’s landscape by breaking the color barrier (and he was a hell of a player as well).

Should a candidate be dragged through the mud year after year as he hopes to gain support, like Bert Blyleven? Bert said on Tuesday after learning he’s still not in the Hall of Fame, “I feel like crap. It’s year after year. When you have Hall of Fame numbers, and then you’re snubbed again, you’re supposed to do the politically right thing and say, ‘Oh, hopefully my time will come next year.’ I think it’s a bunch of crap.”

Should candidates be punished for mere accusations? Obviously, I’m talking about Mark McGwire now (he’s yet to receive even 25% of the votes), and soon this will refer to Sammy Sosa, Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds. So far, there’s been nothing in the way of evidence that proves any of these guys guilty. Why should we still hold the proof-devoid accusations against them? That seems unfair.

. . .

As you can see, there are a lot of issues to sort out for baseball’s Hall of Fame. What I’ve brought up may not even be the half of it. Until at least some of these issues are reasonably fixed, the Hall is, unfortunately, irrelevant. It’s a carnival where the biggest attraction is a group of narcissistic baseball writers who refuse to catch up with the times.