Meaningful At-Bats

We continue, in Toronto, to wait for meaningful baseball. Patiently, I might add. And as the Blue Jays were officially -- mathematically -- eliminated from post-season play Sunday afternoon in Boston, I reverted to the old adage, tried, tested, and true: maybe next year.

But 2010 has far from been a lost cause. (Unless you're Travis Snider, or J.P. Arencibia, but that's a whole other story.) Toronto hasn't lost 100 games. They won't end up anywhere near the dreaded century mark. And they certainly won't finish below the Baltimore Orioles in the standings. Shame on those of you who even thought of such a fortune. No, we weren't treated to meaningful baseball this season, even though it's clear the franchise is headed towards the light. But, thanks to Jose Bautista, we were treated to that which we haven't seen around these parts since Carlos Delgado's heyday: meaningful at-bats.

Forty-nine home runs. One every 10.65 at-bats. And counting. A violent assault not only on fastballs, but on Toronto's, and baseball's, record books. History. Bautista will become the first Blue Jay to hit 50 home runs in a season. It's going to happen, and, no, I don't believe in jinxes. And when it does, when number 50 does clear the left field wall (hopefully at the SkyDome), the feat will have been accomplished for only the 42nd time in baseball history.

The Toronto Blue Jays have been around since 1977. The Steroid Era has come and gone. Bautista will be the first to hit 50 for the good guys, and he could very well be the last. That's the beauty of baseball. You just never know. I'm convinced the franchise will one day return the post-season. Will add a pennant, or two, to their collection. But I'm not so sure I'll ever see another no-hitter. Perhaps Dave Stieb's effort was Toronto's pitching performance of my lifetime. And, in that same light, perhaps Bautista's exploits in the batter's box have been Toronto's home run hitting performance of my lifetime.

Post-All Star break, there's been a buzz everytime Bautista has stepped up to the plate. It's palpable. At home, on the road, and even on television. Bautista excites; Bautista has people talking baseball. (And beards.) There's an expectation that regardless of who's throwing the ball, and how fast it's traveling, and how much it's moving, Bautista can murder it. The situation hardly matters, either. Nobody could be on base. Actually, nobody usually is. The Blue Jays could be down by five. Yet each Bautista at-bat matters. Each Bautista at-bat means more than any other.

The only comparable seasons to Bautista's are John Olerud's 1993 campaign, and Carlos Delgado's 2000 and 2003 seasons. Olerud flirted with .400 that magical summer, and finished with a Weighted On-Base Average (wOBA) of .453, and a Weighted Runs Created Plus (wRC+) of 181. In 2000, Delgado hit 41 home runs, and put up an incredible wOBA of .471. King Carlos bested Olerud's wRC+ by one, finishing with a rating of 182. Delgado finished fourth in MVP voting that season, which still completely blows my mind. In 2003, Delgado hit 42 home runs, and tallied a wOBA of .423, and a wRC+ of 160.

Bautista, with 49 home runs to his name, and 12 games left on the schedule, today sports a wOBA of .423, and a wRC+ of 170. Like I said: historic. One of the finer offensive seasons Toronto has ever seen. Delgado-esque. And who could ever have imagined saying that about the journeyman outfielder-slash-third baseman?

I get it, now. I get why Damien Cox, and others in his wake, had to ask the question. We're talking history, and in Bautista, a player who has come out of nowhere. Literally. Pittsburgh: baseball's nowhere. What I wish I'd see less of, though, in the Toronto media landscape, is "But you've got to at least ask the question ..." masquerading as reporting. Because I'd put money on the fact that Bautista is indeed clean. He's been tested. And he does not physically look the part of a juicer. If the Steroid Era taught us anything, it's that the human eye does not deceive. There's more: Bautista hasn't hit a cheap home run to opposite field all season. He's pulled one through 49 to the left side. The proof in Bautista's changed mechanics alibi -- he's closer to the plate with his back foot, his hands are higher, and he starts his leg kick, and swing, earlier -- can be found in the fact he's hitting fastballs 32.8 runs above average this season, compared to only 4.2 runs above average in 2009. Bautista essentially owns the inner-half of the plate. He's made a conscious decision to pull the ball. If he doesn't get a pitch to pull, he'll gladly take a walk, his on-base percentage a career-high .382, far above his .342 career average. Instead of wondering whether Bautista is on steroids, where are the columns applauding Bautista's patience at the plate? Where are the columns asking an even more important question: why the hell is he still being pitched to inside?

It's pointless, defending Jose Bautista's honour. I know that. And, at the end of the day, he doesn't need my help. His urine has done, and will continue to do, the talking.

Instead, I'm going to enjoy Bautista's final meaningful, and hopefully violent, at-bats this season. I'm going to be at the SkyDome on Tuesday night, and Wednesday night, and maybe even Thursday afternoon. Perhaps I'll be there on the weekend, too. And maybe next week, when the Yankees are in town. Bautista's got nine games to hit number 50 at home, in Toronto. And I'm not going to miss it.

Beautiful image via daylife.

Some dreams stay dreams, some dreams come true

Yes, Brandon Morrow did indeed do that on Sunday afternoon. And, ever since, I've been walking around telling everyone within speaking distance that the young man pitched, according to Statistics Guru Bill James' Game Score metric, the fourth most impressive game since 1920, when the Live-Ball Era began. Nineteen-bloody-twenty. Say it out loud. Let it sink in.

There's no doubt about it: Brandon Morrow pitched like a man on August 8th, 2010. Actually, like the mightiest of men. (Read that article from the Toronto Sun; it's arguably the greatest in the history of the tabloid.)

One out. That's all that stood between Morrow and baseball immortality. But Morrow's exploits will live on, in Toronto at least. Because his was the type of performance I will tell my grandchildren about. And that's the beauty of baseball: something truly special can happen on any given day, from even the most unlikely of candidates. Speaking of which, Jose Molina stole second base on Sunday. Seriously. And that's why I continue, more and more everyday, to fall head over heels back in love with baseball.

"Let's all take a deep breath as we go to the most dramatic ninth inning in the history of baseball. I'm going to sit back, light up, and hope I don't chew the cigarette to pieces."

- Vin Scully, during Don Larsen's perfect game in the 1956 World Series

No, it wasn't the World Series. And, no, Morrow wasn't throwing a perfect game. But damn if there wasn't incredible drama. Heading into the final frame, with Morrow 16 strikeouts deep, and only three outs away from Toronto's second no-hitter, which the franchise continues to agonizingly flirt with, I felt like Vin Scully did more than 50 years ago; like we were indeed headed to the most dramatic ninth inning, in a 1-0 ball game to boot, in the history of baseball.

Thanks for keeping him in the ball game, Cito. And thanks for the baseball butterflies, Brandon Morrow.

Yes, J.P. Arencibia did do that on Saturday afternoon. And had I not heard it from the mouths of Jerry Howard and Alan Ashby, I probably wouldn't have believed it myself. When the young catcher sent his second home run into the stands, I involuntarily began honking the horn of my car. I can only assume that my brain figured it was the right thing to do.

Every baseball player dreams of making it to The Show. And I'm sure every baseball player dreams of getting their first Major League hit in their first Major League at-bat. But to hit a home run on the first Major League pitch to be thrown his way, and to follow that with a double, a single, and another home run ... there's no way J.P. Arencibia could have ever dreamed such a dream. And that's what made his curtain call -- finally, Toronto -- and the smile on his face that much more special.

In all my excitement, I've even checked out Arencibia's FanGraphs page: a 1.255 wOBA, and a 732 wRC+. Quite the debut.

Brett Cecil on Friday night. Arencibia on Saturday afternoon. Brandon Morrow on Sunday afternoon. The latter two becoming worldwide trending topics on Twitter. The streets are talking; 1993 is being bandied about. People are excited about the Toronto Blue Jays.

Food For Thought

With his mind-blowing 17 Ks, Brandon Morrow joined Roger Clemens as the only other Toronto Blue Jays pitcher to strike out more than 15 batters in one game. Clemens did it an astounding four times in the two years he represented Toronto. The next time you're bored, or wasted, check out Clemens' 1997 and 1998 splits. Whatever he was on during his stay in Toronto, at 34 and 35 years old, it was some quality stuff ...

It's tough not to feel for Seattle Mariners fans right now ...

Since Alex Anthopoulos's acquisition of Yunel Escobar, the Blue Jays are 15-7, and 14-5 when the shortstop is in the lineup ...

Your Toronto Blue Jays, with 59 wins, have only three fewer than Roy Halladay's Philadelphia Phillies. And it's those same Phillies who are 140 million dollar "contenders." What a world ...

Reflection Eternal

I didn't get any autographs. The lines were slightly longer than I had anticipated. I drank beer at St. Louis instead; that's where I learned that Alex Rios had been put on waivers. Shocked and chagrined, I tried to confirm the validity of the text message I'd received (thanks, Kiener). I learned a valuable lesson Friday evening: I need a BlackBerry data plan. Because I don't pay Rogers enough already.

My favourite part of Friday night's mostly underwhelming pre-game ceremony was when all the guys gathered in front of the mound, around The Cito, pictured above, for an orgy of back-to-back World Series championships love. A special manager, and his two special teams. Definitely worthy of some group hug action.

Seventeen years later, Dave Winfield still wants noise. Once again, we were more than happy to oblige.

No matter how many times the Toronto Blue Jays finish in fourth place, nobody can ever take 1992 and 1993 away from us ...

Back-to-Back.

As for our beloved Rios, it's a non-story, really. Alex said it best: "Who gives a fuck?!?!1" Sure, I kind of lost my shit when I heard the breaking news, but apparently everyone and their mother goes on waivers. The 90 percent of baseball execs who think the Jays should dump Rios? Forget about 'em.

You don't dump an asset when it's trading at its lowest. (What is this, the Toronto Maple Leafs?) Fuck cutting your losses; I'm going down with the ship.

We'd all love for Rios to perform at a higher level, to justify the $60 million that remains on his contract. Out of all American League right fielders who've played more than 100 games, Rios's .742 OPS ranks second-last. Believe me, nobody wants that number to be higher than I do. But it isn't all bad: among AL RFs Rios ranks fifth in hits, with 113, fourth in doubles, with 25, second in the base thievery category, with 19, and fifth in RsBI, with 62. Make no mistake about it: Alex Rios is the most clutch hitter the Toronto Blue Jays employ. His .283 AVG with runners in scoring position, and .346 AVG with runners in scoring position with two outs, might have something to do with that.

It's one thing to dump an underperforming asset to get out from underneath a brutal contract (see Wells, Vernon). It's another to trade an asset and get something of value in return. Don't listen to the fearmongers; Rios' contract isn't that bad.

I don't think there's ever been a better time to say it: I believe in Alex Rios.

Heroes

Joe Carter rightfully deserves the title of "World Series Hero." But there is no bigger home run in the history of the Toronto Blue Jays than Roberto Alomar's two-run shot off of Dennis Eckersley on Sunday, October 11, 1992, in the 9th inning of game four of the ALCS.

It was at that moment when the Blue Jays shed the label of chokers and, finally, became the best team in baseball.

Robbie took home the ALCS MVP trophy, and rightfully so. His numbers from the six-game series were outstanding:

26 at-bats, 4 runs, 11 hits, 1 double, 2 home runs, 4 RsBI, 5 stolen bases, 2 walks, 1 strikeout, a .423 batting average, .464 on-base percentage, .692 slugging percentage, and a 1.157 OPS.

Speaking of heroes, the one, the only, Paul Molitor. Check out his numbers from the six-game 1993 World Series:

24 at-bats, an astounding 10 runs scored, 12 hits, 2 doubles, 2 triples, 2 home runs, 10 RsBI, 1 stolen base, 3 walks, 0 strikeouts, a .500 batting average, .571 on-base percentage, 1.000 slugging percentage, and a mind-blowing 1.571 OPS.

MVP, indeed.

There were others. In his career in the ALCS, spanning three years (1991, 1992, and 1993), Juan Guzman started five games for the Toronto Blue Jays. He won them all, with an ERA of 2.27; 31.2 innings pitched, only 8 earned runs allowed. He walked a ton of guys, 18, but struck out 22.

Who can forget Jimmy Key's performance in 1992? Pitching from the bullpen during the ALCS, he made his final start as a Blue Jay in game four of the World Series, going 7.2 innings, allowing only one run on five hits, while striking out six. Key threw 91 pitches that night, 57 for strikes. Roy Halladay would have been proud.

It wasn't the last we'd see of Key. He came out of pen in game six to throw an inning and a third of one-hit relief; the winning pitcher of the game in which Toronto was crowned World Series champions for the first time ever in life.

There are so many more performances I could single out. Too many.

Tremendous memories. I'll relive them all tonight, in what will be one massive love fest at the SkyDome. I anticipate never hearing the building louder than it will be tonight. Until the Toronto Blue Jays win another World Series ...

Someday it'll all make sense ...

One day, I'll stop bitching about the AL East, and how it is the toughest division in baseball. Not today. But one day.

As my man Dean pointed out in the comments of my last post, with the Tampa Bay DEVIL Rays having won last night, to sweep a mini two-game set with the Boston Red Sox, the AL East is now home to three teams with 60 or more wins. The Yankees check in with 65, the Red Sox 62, and Tampa Bay 60.

Only one other American League team has hit the mark; the Los Angeles Angels (63). In the National League, three teams: the Los Angeles Dodgers (66), Philadelphia Phillies (60), and San Francisco Giants (60).

Three teams in the AL East. Four throughout the rest of Major League Baseball. Life is cruel. And home, the AL East, has been most unkind to Toronto this season, with the Jays having gone 12-24 against divisional opponents. All in all, it's amazing the Jays have won 51 games so far in 2009. (That's my way of saying J.P. Ricciardi has done a stand-up job with a payroll of only $80 million dollars.)

The Ultimate Flashback Friday

For one night, let's forget about this, another, clusterfuck of a season for our Toronto Blue Jays. Tomorrow night at the SkyDome, for no reason at all, because we don't need a reason, let's celebrate the 1992 and 1993 teams that ran the AL East; that did something truly special for the city of Toronto.

I'll be there. In my powder blue. Cheering wildly like I'm 10 and 11 years old again; like I was when Dave Winfield sent the ball down the left field line in 1992; like I was when Joe Carter's ball cleared the fence in 1993. Hell, I think I'm even going to hit up the autograph sessions.

Speaking of memories, I was actually talking to the boys about the '92 World Series, and Ed Sprague's 9th inning pinch-hit home run in game two vs. Atlanta. Looking back, what an absolutely monumental round tripper. The Jays had lost game one of the series, and were down 4-3 in game two, with only three outs to go. Cue the heroics. A walk to Derek Bell, and a bomb to left field by Sprague to silence the deep south. It came off of Braves closer Jeff Reardon who, according to the ever-trustworthy Wikipedia, was then baseball's all-time saves leader; 5-4 Toronto, the World Series tied at one, and heading to Canada for the first time ever in life. Huge.

Unfortunately, I can't embed Sprague's home run here on the blog, but you can watch it here. Take a minute to do so. Trust me, it'll give you goose bumps.

The salad days. Be there tomorrow night to relive them.

Go Jays.

UPDATE: My man Johnny G mentioned the "Trenches" in the comments. I loved that shit. Sprague, Bell, and Turner Ward. Rudeys, all three of them. I did a quick search, and found this gem from the SI vault:

Sprague didn't play much after being called up—he had only 47 at bats—but he and two other Blue Jay reserves, outfielders Turner Ward and Derek Bell, started something called the Trenches, a silly little rally routine that has enlivened the Toronto bench. They lay a towel labeled TRENCHES on the top step of the dugout, near the bat rack. Bell, the loader, pulls out a bat belonging to a Blue Jay teammate who's about to hit. He passes the bat to Sprague, the exchanger. As the batter comes to the plate, the bat is handed to Ward, the shooter, who fires off an imaginary volley at the opposing pitcher. "If we need a big homer, like tonight," Ward said Sunday night, "I turn the bat around and make it a bazooka." The imaginary warfare may seem juvenile, but when one of the soldiers has to come into a game, his place is often taken by Toronto's 41-year-old star, Dave Winfield. "He's our commander in chief," says Sprague. As so often happens in battle, it was the guys in the trenches who won Game 2.

Makes you love Winfield even more, doesn't it?

Trenches!1

May 27, 1993

The following has been generously cross-posted over at Pension Plan Puppets ...

A severe injustice occurred that fateful night, 16 years ago. I was only 10-years-old, and I'm not quite sure I understood the magnitude of it all at the time. I was young, and full of hope. Not jaded. I simply figured a birth in the finals, and the winning of the Stanley Cup, was guaranteed with Doug Gilmour at the helm of the Toronto Maple Leafs. If not in 1993, eventually.

I watched game six at home, with my 13-year-old brother. (There's nothing I enjoy more than a west coast start-time in the playoffs.) The Leafs' 1993 playoff run - three seven-game series - had us captivated, and had led us across the bridge from casual fandom to die-hard. It was impossible not to be enthralled by the '93 Leafs, Wendel Clark's performance in game six part of the reason why.

Clark should have had an opportunity on the power play to score his fourth goal of the game that night and, in the process, send the Maple Leafs to the Stanley Cup final. Instead, Kerry Fraser chose to interfere with destiny. A blatant high-stick; a preposterous non-call; two incredulous and very upset young boys; Toronto's own little asterisk.

Looking back, while no team has ever come closer, I'm reminded of a quote by the Roman philosopher, Seneca:

"Injustice never rules forever."

Preach on, brother. When the Toronto Maple Leafs do win the Stanley Cup, and they will, a lifetime of cursing Kerry Fraser will be washed away. All will be forgiven.

Until then, Fraser can go fuck himself.

I forgot to say...

Thank you.

I'll be honest, there was some wellage of tears during #93's tribute on Saturday night.

I was proud, not emotional, when Wendel Clark's number was raised to the rafters. But I found myself dabbing the corners of my eyes when Doug Gilmour was immortalized. I still maintain that all the dust, you know, in my mom's basement had something to do with it, but I can't lie to you. Gilmour was worth the tears. After all, the pride of Kingston, Ontario was one of the main reasons I got into hockey. 

Growing up, I wanted nothing more than to be the second baseman for the Toronto Blue Jays. Roberto Alomar was my hero, my idol, my God; my everything. Until Gilmour arrived.

After Cliff Fletcher brought Dougie to town, he was quick to capture the heart of my older brother. Thinking back, I was one of those annoying kids who followed his big brother around, and wanted to be just like him. In no time, Gilmour had my heart in his hands as well.

All these years later, it's tough to look back. The Gilmour years were magical. Straight magical. Some of my fondest memories as a Leafs fan come from that era, when Gilmour ran the Leafs, and ruled this city. But he left with unfinished business. Like so many before him, and like Mats Sundin after him. 

Gilmour came back, though. He found his way back home. I was at the Saddledome in Calgary, with my brother, back in 2003, when Dougie donned the blue and white once again. It was like a dream. Until he blew out his knee, and missed the playoffs. It then became a nightmare. For Gilmour, for the Leafs, and for us, the fans, it simply wasn't meant to be. And I will never, ever forget that collision.

Those who know me, and I trust that many of you who read this space regularly do by now, know what Mats Sundin means to me. But there was something special about Gilmour. Sundin was fantastic as a Maple Leaf, statistically the best ever, but he was no Gilmour. I'm not sure we'll see the likes of #93 around here again.

Gilmour arrived in 1992. He was gone by 1997. In only five short years, he left his mark on the collective soul of a hockey mad city. Although he was never able to get there as a Toronto Maple Leaf, his number now rests where it rightfully belongs: at the top.

Thanks, Dougie...

Reminiscence...

I was only 10 years old at the time, but I'm quite certain Dougie Gilmour's 1992-1993 season was the finest, ever, by a Toronto Maple Leaf.

Looking back, there really was something special about Killer. The Leafs don't retire numbers, but I'd be surprised if anyone ever wears #93 in the blue and white again.

The Leafs enjoyed some great playoff runs during the Pat Quinn era. Those were good times. But Toronto's magical run in 1993, led by the warrior Gilmour, can truly be called "the good old days."

I miss those days.

Bring Back Burns

The axe finally fell on Paul Maurice yesterday. Fired. Relieved of his duties. Released. Not exactly what I would call earth-shattering news. We all saw this one coming from a kilometre away.

I'm not going to dwell too much on Maurice's tenure with the Toronto Maple Leafs. He simply didn't get the job done. Under his tutelage the Leafs were unable to win on home ice, sported a mediocre power play, and were frighteningly awful at killing penalties. Most importantly, the team didn't make the playoffs.

I can't honestly say I'm going to miss him. As I've written before, his track record speaks for itself and, well, it ain't making a whole lot of noise. Maurice just isn't that great of a coach.

Yes, Maurice is good people. And a great quote. I hope he lands on his feet and gets another job in the NHL if that is what he desires. However, good guys always finish last. Dead last. Or, well, 24th in the 30 team NHL.

You know who else was a great quote? Pat Burns. And he was pretty good at that whole coaching thing, too. He's the perfect man for the job. Burns' resume screams competence: a Stanley Cup ring, a Jack Adams award, and experience in Toronto. Who better than Mr. Burns to take over behind the bench? His passion is exactly what we need as we enter a new era.

Of course, "competence" and "Maple Leafs" don't exactly go hand-in-hand, but I can't imagine that Burns doesn't want this job. The Leafs hold a special place in his heart. I remember reading an article from a couple of years ago when the 1992/1993 Leafs got together for a little reunion. Burns spoke fondly about that team and how special it was. He also offered this little nugget of information: on his mantle at home is not a picture of his Stanley Cup winning New Jersey Devils team. Instead it's a picture of the 92/93 Maple Leafs, the most special team he has ever coached.

Bring Back Burnsy. It has got to be done.

Nostalgic

Last night, as I read the numerous post-mortems on the Toronto Raptors season, watched another NHL playoff game that didn't involve the Toronto Maple Leafs, and watched the Toronto Blue Jays lose another heartbreaker (where is the bloody offense!?!?), I began to think about better days.

Days back in 1993, in particular. "The good old days." Fifteen years ago. Geezus. Time flies.

As I thought to myself, "I shouldn't be watching the God damn Habs and Flyers," my thoughts drifted to the spring of 1993 and the man who represented those wonderful times, number 93 himself.



Doug Gilmour. My first love. If that video doesn't bring a smile to your face, your heart is made of stone.

"Boy, oh boy, he's a beauty!" Indeed, Don Cherry, indeed.

Meanwhile, the offensive juggernot known as the Toronto Blue Jays wasted another magical pitching performance, this time from Dustin McGowan. This team is really starting to piss me off. They've managed only one run and seven hits in their last 18 innings. For a team that is supposed to be an above average hitting team, this is absolutely unacceptable. And utterly disheartening.

I'm more scared than I am upset. The Jays finished April with a dismal record of 11-17 and a season that began with so much promise is quickly fading to black. The "road trip from hell" - one win in eight games - mercifully ends tonight in Boston.

Great column by Blair at The Globe. Check out the layout, even though it'll likely only make you more depressed. It seems J.P. Ricciardi could pull the trigger on a trade, but teams only want our pitching.

The struggles of my beloved Blue Jays got me thinking back to the fall of 1993, when our players could, you know, actually hit the baseball. Sometimes, they'd hit the ball so hard it would clear the fences. A home run. Remember those?



Looking back, I don't think I understood, at the time, just how truly dramatic and special that moment was. I also didn't know it would be the last time we'd make the playoffs...

Props Out To Thurmo

Thurman Thomas - "The Thurmonator" - was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame on Saturday. As a Buffalo Bills fan that endured four straight Super Bowl losses in the early 90's with Thurmo in the backfield, I've got to show him some love.

It's true. I'm a Buffalo Bills fan. I know, "Bills" stands for "Boy I Love Losing Super Bowl's." I've heard it before. Get it out of your system.

Finished? Great.

There hasn't been a lot of football commentary at SportsAndTheCity.com, so before I get to Thurmon Thomas, I'll share with you the story of how I became a Buffalo Bills fan.

I followed a couple of friends. They were Bills fans. That's it. I was young, I didn't need a good reason. It seemed like a logical choice at the time.

As I grew older, I justified aligning my football allegiance with the hideous city of Buffalo because it was the closest NFL city, geographically, to Toronto.

Thurman Thomas was my favourite running back growing up. I loved those Bills teams and every time they made the Super Bowl (from 1991 to 1994), I truly believed they would win them. All of them. By 1994, even just one of them. It was heartbreaking. Absolutely devastating. To make it to the ultimate game four seasons in a row, and lose each one? Wow. It still hurts. If there is such thing as a "loser complex", the city of Buffalo owns it. They've copyrighted it.

Thurmo, a five-time Pro Bowler, was dominating in the backfield in the early 90's. Along with Jim Kelly, they dominated the AFC. It was fun to watch.

Thomas, the leading rusher in Buffalo Bills' franchise history, finished with 16,532 yards from scrimmage, which ranks 8th all-time in the NFL. His 12,074 rushing yards rank 12th all-time in the league's books. Thurmo is also the only player to ever lead the league in total yards from scrimmage for four consecutive seasons.

There's more. He's also the only man to ever score a touchdown in four consecutive Super Bowl's. Trust me, the guy was good.

What makes Thomas' story even more special is the fact that he wasn't supposed to have such an illustrious career. He wasn't a "can't miss prospect" out of college. He was a projected first-round draft pick, but a knee injury caused him to slip to the second round, where the Bills were more than happy to draft him. But Thomas worked hard and set out to prove his doubters wrong, because that's how he rolled.

Legendary coach and Hall of Famer Marv Levy praised Thurmo at his induction ceremony. "On a team with many stars, never did I hear a complaint from (Thomas) about 'Not getting the ball enough,'" said Levy, who called Thomas, "One of the most unselfish players I have ever known."

Thurmo's induction brought back a lot of memories of those great Bills teams. Jim Kelly at the helm, Thurmo in the backfield, Andre Reed at wide receiver, Steve Tasker on special teams, and Canadian Steve Christie kicking field goals. Who can forget Bruce Smith and Cornelius Bennett? Rudey's, all of them.

The 1991 season was the finest hour of Thurmo's career, and he was named the league's MVP. In the 1991 Super Bowl against the New York Giants, Thomas rushed for 135 yards and one touchdown, along with 55 yards on five receptions. It was the game of his dreams. But it turned into a nightmare.

Super Bowl XXV. 1991. January 27th. Tampa Stadium. Two words:

Wide Right.

Scott Norwood shanked the winning field goal, the Bills lost 20-19, and it was the closest - two points - they would ever come to touching the Vince Lombardi Trophy.

I wonder what Scott Norwood is doing with his life. I wonder if he dreams about that field goal. I wonder how often he thinks about it. I wonder if he's gone completely nuts like Ray Finkle in Ace Ventura Pet Detective. Laces out man, laces out.

Thurman Thomas is now immortalized forever in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, and rightly so. He and the rest of his Buffalo teammates weren't able to get their hands on a Super Bowl ring, but Thomas is now the proud new owner of a Hall of Fame ring, one I'm sure he will wear with immense pride.

Although I hate everything about the city of Buffalo, their football team remains a part of my youth. I'll never forget those trips to the Super Bowl and the losses to the Giants, Redskins, and those damn Dallas Cowboys. Those losses, however, can't cover up all the good the Bills, and Thurmon Thomas, accomplished. Most important of all, though - I'll never forget #34 Thurmon Thomas.

Thanks Thurmo. You left me, and an entire generation of Buffalo Bills fans, with some great memories. Props out to Thurmon Thomas, one of the best running backs to suit up in the NFL.