Chasing 50

I spent Tuesday and Wednesday nights at the SkyDome, riding shotgun as Jose Bautista chased home run number 50. As he chased baseball immortality. I desperately wanted to be there, two or three Bud Light Lime's deep, when he made history.

So it was of absolutely no surprise that Bautista reached baseball's home run hitting peak on Thursday afternoon, in his first at-bat no less, while I was pinch hitting for my brother at Family Business (that's what we named the company; smart, eh?), big bro off manning the company's booth at a trade show downtown. Deep down, I knew that was exactly how it was going to go down. Hey, I tried.

My brother's got a tiny little television at his desk, at Family Business. It's set to MSNBC, all day, everyday. The stock market. Bulls and bears, yo. Thanks to Thursday's game being televised on Sportsnet Fucking One, the TV was of little use to me. I was riding with Jerry Howarth and Alan Ashby and, I've got to be honest, that was fine by me. And as 12:37 pm rolled around, and Shawn Hill threw his first pitch of the afternoon, I couldn't help but think of another historic home run I'd heard on the radio. You might remember it, too. October 11, 1992, at the then Network Associates Coliseum, in Oakland, California. Roberto Alomar, off Dennis Eckersley, a two-run shot that evened the score in game four of the ALCS, a game the Blue Jays had at one point trailed 6-1.

No, I wasn't in the mood yesterday afternoon to complain about the debacle that is Sportsnet One. Instead, I was ready for what I knew would be Jerry Howarth's epic call. And when it came, I was alone, sitting at my brother's desk, listening attentively when Bautista found himself ahead in the count, two-and-one.

"A ball hit deep to left-centre! Back to the wall! ... THERE SHE GOES!!!1 Number 50!"

I knew Howarth wouldn't let me down. I heard the "!!!1" in his voice. And I sat there, smiling like a jackass. Bautista had done it. Fifty home runs. A number baseball legends Harmon Killebrew, Albert Pujols, Mike Schmidt, Ernie Banks, and Reggie Jackson, to name a few, were never able to reach. And, more than being happy for Bautista, I was proud of him. He never let anything slow him down, especially not the steroid allegations. He was -- is -- a model of immaculate baseball consistency. And number 50 came off of King Felix Hernandez, no less, the 2010 American League Cy Young Award winner, whether he wins the bloody award or not. That's how Bautista rolls. In style.

I would have loved to be there. Like I said, I tried. But there was something special about hearing it happen on the radio. I went all Carlton Fisk, and willed that ball past the left field wall through the radio's speakers. I hoped and prayed that it would indeed clear the fence. I pictured Bautista running the bases, head down, like he'd done it 49 times before. And I listened as the sparse crowd roared, and gave him the curtain call he of course deserved.

On a brief aside: I called out Toronto's hockey fans for booing the home team in preseason game number one Tuesday night because, you know, that was fucking pathetic. Hopefully those same folks were taking notes Thursday afternoon, when the Blue Jays faithful rose to their feet to salute Seattle's Ichiro mid-game, as he became only the second player in baseball history to record 10 seasons with 200 or more hits. Ichiro's insane. And Toronto's baseball fans are smarter, and classier.

Back to business. In the end, not even I could have scripted it any better. Number 50 was the game's only and winning run, at the expense of the American League's best pitcher, with Bautista's parents in attendance, to boot.

In the aftermath of the momentous occasion, as Bautista became only the 26th man in baseball history to hit 50 home runs, and the first since 2007, I read piece after piece about his accomplishment. One of them stood out, from FanGraphs:

"... But in 2010, it's harder to enjoy an out-of-nowhere home run performance in the same way [as others who, like Bautista, recorded massive home run spikes]. ... Once miracles are cheaply bought, they are no longer easily enjoyed. I hope Bautista can keep it up, so that we can finally feel at liberty to enjoy his miraculous season."

I couldn't, and still can't, relate. I've enjoyed Bautista's season immensely. More so than any other individual Toronto Blue Jays' season in recent memory. Yep, even Roy Halladay's years. It's different; Bautista made history. And I wanted to be in attendance when he hit the milestone moon shot partly because I wanted to say thanks. Not once have I felt not at liberty to enjoy Bautista's miraculous season all summer. One through 50, it's been a blast. I wasn't there, but thanks, Jose.

Image courtesy the fine folks at daylife. 

Deep Thoughts

More on the Baseball Hall of Fame vote. Plus: the frustrating Toronto Maple Leafs, and the .500 Raptors:

1. The Tao of Stieb asked, on Twitter: "Impertinent Question: Why the fuck does someone from the Delaware County Times have a HoF quote?" Beats the hell out of me. So I moseyed on over to http://www.delcotimes.com/sports and at 2:00 am Thursday morning, found nothing on the Baseball Hall of Fame vote that became news at, oh, 2:01 pm eastern time Wednesday afternoon. Nothing. Of the four top stories, three were about the Philadelphia Eagles and one about the Philadelphia Flyers.

2. According to trusted source Wikipedia, three Toronto writers are members of the BBWAA: The Globe and Mail's Jeff Blair, Canadian Press and MLB.com writer Larry Milson, and the Toronto Sun's Bob Elliott. The Toronto Star's Richard Griffin isn't on the list, but said he's been a member for 15 years.

4. Jeff Blair wrote two excellent columns, one before the vote, and one after. You should read them both. What I like about Blair is that he flat out tells you who he voted for: Alomar, Tim Raines and Mark McGwire. Blair's colleagues in the city should follow his lead.

5. I trust guys like Tom Verducci and Jeff Blair to make this decision. Ken Rosenthal doesn't inspire the same confidence. And Jay Mariotti clearly cannot be trusted. The revolution will not be televised. It'll happen on the internet.

6. First Doc. Now Alomar. If Tom Cheek doesn't win the Ford C. Frick award, I might be forced to believe that the Toronto Blue Jays have "become the target of a systematic process of intimidation and manipulation the likes of which you have never" seen before.

7. On days like this, in the aftermath of a beating of the Toronto Maple Leafs by the Philadelphia Flyers, it's easier to tell yourself that Vesa Toskala played. The entire game. Even if he didn't.

8. At 8:21 pm yesterday evening, I received a text message from my brother: "Luke Schenn sucks." Good times.

9. It's bad enough that the Leafs lost, and gave up another three power play goals in the process. What makes it worse is that Daniel Carcillo scored. Carcillo needs to be placed on an iceberg, and sent floating off into frigid waters. It can't be possible for even Flyers fans to like Carcillo. Or can it? I mean, if Don Cherry hates him, what hope does he have?

10. When Reggie Evans was diagnosed with a "sprained left foot" on October 20, 2009, did you have any idea he still wouldn't be playing in January of the new year? I totally misjudged that injury. I was thinking a couple of weeks. Three, tops.

11. An office colleague of mine, whom I sit beside and genuinely enjoy working with, isn't as passionate about the Raptors as she used to be. Yesterday, she dropped the bombshell that she's not a fan of Chris Bosh. Aghast, I hopped out of my seat to confront her. This wasn't a through-the-cubicle-wall conversation. This was serious business. I said: "Twenty/ten!!1 Every night." She said it wasn't good enough. She said hurtful things: that Bosh couldn't deliver in the clutch; that he isn't a superstar. I stood my ground; 20/10 is no joke. And Scott Carefoot has pointed out at RaptorBlog that Bosh has been the definition of clutch this season. While my definition of superstar is clearly different from that my colleague's, there's no denying Bosh is a special talent. I maintain: max money. Really, the Raptors have no other choice. And, for everyone's sake, the Bosh hating needs to stop.

Robbing Alomar

Yesterday, Wednesday, January 6, 2010, was all about the Baseball Writers Association of America. Their annual 15 minutes of fame. Their time to shine. And shine they did.

The BBWAA must get off on the attention. They should. They must. It's why the script never changes. We, the fans, and we, the bloggers, know what's coming. Ever year, it's the same story: outrage at the Hall of Fame results, followed by anger and exasperation. It's like clockwork. And Twitter has certainly made it easier to vent.

Roberto Alomar is a first-ballot Baseball Hall of Fame player. You know it. I know it. All of the members of the BBWAA know it. He received more votes - 397 - than any other first-year candidate not to be elected. But thanks to the democratic process, a few men denied Alomar his right. And what the fuck can you do? Democracy's all we've got.

I was disappointed. Angry. Forever the optimist, I figured Alomar was a lock. I was excited to see Robbie become Toronto's first contribution to Cooperstown. Finally, I'd have to make a visit. I openly brooded over the snub. But I've realized there's no point. Alomar will get in. Next year. It's a fact. He won't have to agonizingly wait the way Andre Dawson did, and the way Bert Blyleven continues to. It isn't much, but it's something.

In a sick way, it's been fun. Reading articles such as "Roberto Alomar's omission a travesty" by Boston Herald writer, and BBWAA member, Steve Buckley took me back to a time when Alomar was the best second baseman in all of baseball; when Alomar and the Blue Jays ruled the baseball world. Alomar did it with his bat and, Lord knows, he did it with his glove. In October, Alomar dominated. A .313 postseason batting average. A .347 World Series average. And people noticed.

Buckley said it best: "We botched it. There's no other way to say it. We botched it."

Indeed. A few men wanted to punish Alomar, and they did. That's life. That's democracy. It's why a guy like George W. Bush ruled the free world for eight awesome years.

Next year, the BBWAA will atone for their petty mistake. And at Roberto Alomar's induction ceremony, we will party like it's 2010.

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 ...

Baseball and my Dad ...

My father is no sports fan. The furthest thing from it, actually. He's got no time for sports; never has, never will. And that's cool.

Dad grew up in India. Sure, he played some cricket in his day, but he didn't have the New Delhi Nuggets to cheer for, watch on the television every night, and read about in the newspaper the next day. Dad grew up in a different time, a different place.

As young kids in Toronto, my older brother and I were smitten over baseball. We treasured our Blue Jays. Loved them. With every ounce of our being. Dad didn't get it, but he sure as hell supported our passion. Back in the early 90s, we, a family of four, would head down to the SkyDome, 500 level tickets in hand, numerous times a season. Thinking back, one of the most exciting days of the year was when we received a letter in the mail from the Toronto Blue Jays, asking us to select which games we'd be attending that season.

Over the years, we went to a lot of games with Dad. While he never took a liking to the team, or the game, he did love one part of being in attendance in the summertime: the SkyDome. A civil engineer by trade, Dad marveled at the stadium's technology. (Classic immigrant story: Dad's education, from the best institution in India, wasn't recognized in Canada.) Sometimes I wished for the Dome to be closed mid-game, just so he could see the roof in action.

Dad also loved the wave. He'd sit back and watch in amazement as 45,000 fans rose, section by section, when it was their turn.

To this day, what I love about Major League Baseball in the fine city of Toronto is its affordability. A man can take his family of four down to the ball park, feed them, and not have to worry about the next mortgage payment, or the next rent cheque. Unbeknownst to me as an oblivious youth, there were times when Dad's wallet wasn't as fat as it is today. But he never let me or my brother find out. The last thing he was going to do was take baseball away from us. Now, years later, I want him to know just how much I appreciated that.

Thank you, Dad. Thanks for the trips down to the stadium, the program my brother could keep score in, the hot dogs, the nachos, and the soft-serve ice cream cones from the truck after the game. Looking back, I'm sure there were times Dad could have said no to the program, or to the hot dogs, so he could have had a beer. But he never did; he never said no.

It didn't matter to Dad that he could have cared less whether Robbie Alomar, my most-favourite player in the whole wide world, had a good game or not. Or whether the Jays got the win. But I know in my heart that he hoped Alomar would perform, and that the Jays would win. So his boys could ride the subway back up north with a smile on their faces.

Thank you, Dad. You are an inspiration. Every single day. Happy Father's Day.

Roberto Alomar has AIDS

You can read the story here. There are a couple of links within the story you should check out, as well.

Suddenly, all those "catch the taste!" jokes don't seem so funny anymore.

Honestly, I've got nothing funny, witty, or sarcastic to say about this. Robby was my hero, my idol, my everything, growing up. It's a sad day, and I wish him well in his fight against the disease.

Here's hoping he gets into the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, wearing a Toronto Blue Jays cap of course, before he leaves us for good.

Good luck, Robby.

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...