Never a dull moment in 2003

By Jeff Kallman Sports Central Columnist

"We try every way we can do to kill this game," Sparky Anderson once said, "but for some reason, nothing nobody does never hurts it." That was then, this is now. Nothing nobody does never hurts it still, but lots of people do continue to embarrass it. Especially when the thrill still breathes from a hugely vibrant postseason with a fishy conqueror.

Just ask the owners of the Texas Rangers and the Boston Red Sox, Commissioner Bud Selig, and the Major League Baseball Players' Association, each of whom did enough to make Alex Rodriguez resemble a hostage to that $250 million contract no one put a gun to Texas's head to offer or him to make him sign.

Which turned Mia Hamm's bridegroom into the unwanted superstar, his incumbent employer making clear enough that if A-Rod they could have, A-Rod (and Magglio Ordonez, the White Sox's still-unknown superstar, for whom they would have dealt Mia's groom if the A-Rod deal got done) they should love. (The deal died when the Red Sox wouldn't pass cash along with Manny Ramirez to Tom Hicks, whose insane, bidding-against-himself $250 million contract to A-Rod hoist him by his own petard.) Nice wedding present, that.

The Red Sox could not be blamed for feeling it insufficient to be part and parcel of yet another metaphysically lifting entry into their long enough litany of catastrophe on the brink of the Promised Land. After the world proved woefully unprepared to accept a bitter rivalry between (drumroll, please) the Chicago White Sox and the Kansas City Royals (they fought tooth, fang, and claw to make sure ... that they didn't look too bad behind the Minnesota Twins' late-season resurrection), on came the Red Sox, bombing their way to the American League wildcard. (In the National League, the Philadelphia Phillies were thought to have the wildcard lock. The Florida Marlins said, "Think again.")

The Oakland Moneyballers, after conquering the American League West, started round one with a surprise walkoff RBI bunt, then were gone in the usual fashion. So were the Atlanta Braves, just as quickly. So were the San Francisco Giants, dispatched by a man resurrected from the old baseball folks' home who "settled" for a single-year, $10 million contract.

The Giants had been exposed as useless enough when Barry Bonds is not allowed to hit, aided and abetted by Ivan Rodriguez looking just as good plowing a ball out of his counterpart's grip at the plate as he did keeping enemy first basemen from doing likewise.

Royko's Law: The team with the most ex-Cubs loses. Will's Law: The Cubs win when they win because they have the fewest ex-Cubs. The fewest ex-Cubs came to within five defensive outs of winning their first National League pennant since a once-hometown manufacturer ceased making the implements of war and returned to making Sunbeam appliances. Then, a fan in the wrong place at the wrong time reached for the wrong foul ball at the same time Moises Alou reached up from the field.

Then, a tiring Mark Prior returned to work, a usually sure-handed Alex Gonzalez booted a routine double play hopper, and eight runs home in the top of the eighth inning stole a prospective Cub pennant, a young Turk named Josh Beckett securing the theft with a sterling turn of relief proving a dress rehearsal for World Series virtuosity.

Grady Little made a commitment to Pedro Martinez's heart and was rewarded with his head on a plate. A Yankee tie, a Red Sox inability to break said tie, and Aaron Boone breaking Boston's heart with a 12th-inning, pennant-winning, walkoff belt into the left field seats, off a tiring knuckleballer, does that for you. That left the Red Sox to challenge the Baltimore Orioles for who could ponder the most managerial candidates. (The Orioles won by the numbers and by the surprise: they hired Lee Mazzilli, former Met hero and Yankee coach.)

Meanwhile, the Yankees took their home field advantage and the Marlins (they who had been down so low the Collins Avenue sewers looked like up to them) shoved it, in a rippling six-game World Series that almost eclipsed the rippling of the League Championship Series. And all George Steinbrenner could do about it (at first) was huff and puff and ... fire the team's hitting instructor. After all, world seniorweight champion Don Zimmer spoiled his fun by quitting the day after the World Series.

Josh Beckett, World Series Most Valuable Player, before pitching the game that sealed his award and the Marlins' unlikely-enough triumph: "They ain't just going to hand it to us." Josh Beckett, celebrating amidst the din and crowd of a disbelieving Yankee Stadium: "Go home, already! What are you still doing here? You lost!"

Modesty may soon enough have to become one of his boyish qualities -- the Marlins have since lost the real anchor of their championship, thanks to their owner offering to reward Ivan Rodriguez's leadership and field performance (not to mention his being the National League Championship Series' Most Valuable Player) with a pay cut. And now they may yet lose their chance to fleece Florida taxpayers out of a new ballpark.

Seasonal beginnings: A 23-year-old Baltimore pitcher, Steve Bechler, ran a temperature of 108 degrees after a rigorous spring training workout and died within 24 hours, prompting ephedra to make the list of presumably banned substances and his widow to litigate her grief. A passel of Hall of Famers debated whether Pete Rose should be allowed in if and when he is prepared to own up to his actual or alleged crimes against the state of the game.

Baseball Prospectus did its best to make it a moot point; that provocative website broke the news, in due course, that Rose and Major League Baseball were cutting the deal by which Charlie Hustler would be allowed to return to baseball in 2004. MLB denied, Rose for a change kept awfully quiet. Rose's latest autobiography was reported in December to be due on that day when ... you guessed it: the Hall of Fame election results are announced.

The Baseball Assistance Team, which exists to help pre-free agency era players in financial distress, got a pleasantly jarring surprise to close out their annual dinner: "I'm not saying this just because he's been my friend for 50 years, but I can't help wondering why Fred Wilpon (the owner of the New York Mets) is the only owner here tonight."

Two months after saying those words, Sandy Koufax severed his relationship with the Los Angeles Dodgers until they change ownership. (A News Corp. flagship published an ugly rumor, about a non-existent deal, to cover up his non-existent homosexuality, in return for his benign cooperation -- confirming particular details, but otherwise not speaking -- with a splendid biography.)

News Corp. soon enough found a prospective buyer, a group headed by Frank McCourt. By year's end, no one still knew whether or if McCourt really had the money to make the buy. But the Dodgers had to trade Kevin Brown -- and what remained of his $105 million plus private jet travel -- to the Yankees.

Seasonal continuings: Umpires and pitchers did not keep awfully quiet about something called QuesTec, purported to strike zone accuracy and pitching migraines in the same breaths. None kept as unquiet as Curt Schilling, who tried to hit one of the machines out of the park. Mo Vaughn finally ate himself out of the park, or at least out of game shape, turning his knees and Met lineups into hazardous materials, something everyone except perhaps the Mets who dealt for him a year earlier could see coming. Small wonder the Mets finally cashiered general manager Steve Phillips.

Braves fans had to get used to life without Tom Glavine, who agreed to get used to life with today's Mets, who only wish they had the Braves' problem of a 12th division championship and nothing to show for it but one World Series title out. Albert Pujols became the greatest almost-unknown player in the National League. Greg Maddux -- he who became baseball's second pitcher ever with 15 straight 15+-win seasons, behind Cy Young -- also became the future Hall of Famer no one could decide to want, after the Braves decided they could no longer afford him.

Sammy Sosa proved a real corker on a broken bat grounder. Baseball's top cop told him to put a cork in it for seven games. The Bat Police found nothing suspicious in any of his other working bats or those he sent previously to the Hall of Fame. And the nation behaved as though cheating had been uninvented until the Age of 10 Gazillion Dollar Players. Those were Gaylord Perry, Norm Cash, Graig Nettles, Lew Burdette, Don Sutton, Tommy John, Billy Hatcher, George Frazier ("I don't use foreign substances -- everything I use is from the good ol' U.S. of A."), Whitey Ford, Elston Howard (he who scraped balls on his shin guard buckles for the Chairman of the Board), Bobby Richardson (yes, children, the Right Reverend was set up to get a gimme to make a .300 batting average for 1959 -- only nobody told his buddy, Albie Pearson, who made a diving catch on the soft liner), Preacher Roe, and the Shibe Park grounds crew (they sculpted Ashburn's Ridge up the third base line, the better to facilitate the future Hall of Famer's dead bunts staying fair) you heard snickering in the background. Sosa ended up a lot better off than a Cub minor leaguer whose career ended before it really began, after the young man threw a little chin music at ... a pelican on a perch.

The Anaheim Angels aren't going to Disneyland anymore, thanks to a new and (so far) energetic owner. They were too busy going long enough on the disabled list. Between that and the previous offseason inertia, the Angels defended their World Series championship the new old-fashioned way: by barely holding on at the All-Star Break before a five-game thrashing by the Orioles sent them irrevocably out of the races. Then, healing, they signed Bartolo Colon and renamed the ballpark Angel Stadium at Anaheim (when Edison International backed out of the naming rights deal). Wait 'till last year.

"Bienvenu, Monsieur Gagne," hails Dodger broadcaster Vin Scully whenever a certain relief pitcher trotted in from the bullpen to start the ninth inning. Le souffler hors votre oreille, bellow National League hitters in reply. Tres' magnifique, proclaimed those who voted him the league's Cy Young Award winner. "If we lose 119," said a Detroit Tigers catcher, A.J. Hinch, in August, "that's better." That is precisely what the Tigers did lose, in their futile campaign to out-Amaze the 1962 Mets.

The 2003 Tigers merely sucked; the 1962 Mets sucked ... with style. If the nation needed a reminder, Jimmy Breslin's microcosmic, indispensable review of that impeccable comedy of errors, "Can't Anybody Here Play This Game?", was republished at long last. ESPN even went to the trouble of commissioning a computer to run off a seven-game Pratfall Classic between the 2003 Tigers and the 1962 Mets. The Mets won in seven. Alan Trammell, you're no Casey Stengel.

David Wells composed a worst-seller whose tales of Yankee panky probably cost him more in a team fine than he was likely to earn in royalties. Then, his proud absence of proper conditioning and nutrition helped cost his team a World Series when he left Game 5 with a recurring back problem after one inning's work -- the day after he bragged about his proud absence of proper conditioning. Wells is now a San Diego Padre.

Jose Canseco continued threatening to write a tell-all book, this time from behind a jail cell's doors, where he was locked up on probation violation and steroids charges. (His twin, Ozzie, a former major leaguer, got a year in the cage for violating his probation over a barroom brawl in 2001.) Bill Lee didn't threaten to write another book, the Spaceman just up and did it. Anyone who can quote Humphrey Bogart, A. Bartlett Giamatti, Adlai Stevenson, Roger Angell, William Jennings Bryan, Albert Einstein, Rene Descartes, Sandy Koufax, Henry Aaron, A.J. Liebling, George Satayana, Casey Stengel, and Tallulah Bankhead in the same surrealistic volume, can't be all that bad.

Randall Simon was a smash with "Sausage Grinder's Swing." The Homestead Expos were boffo in San Juan. Manny Ramirez was floppo on the postseason waiver wire. Lou Piniella once again led the league in base throwing. Larry Bowa once again led the league in dividing his players between those who adored and those who wanted to host his necktie party. Perhaps the classic might-have-been, Dwight Gooden, should have left home without his American Express card.

A new home inspired lots of power hitting in Cincinnati. Especially by the other guys. The Reds canned their general manager before conducting a mini-fire sale. The Pittsburgh Pirates held a mini-fire sale without canning their GM, then lost five players to the Rule 5 postseason draft. A Giants fan arguing with a pair of Dodger fans outside Dodger Stadium after a game was shot to death for his trouble. A formerly useful utility player with one fan-appreciative career year (for the White Sox), Ivan Calderon, was shot to death in his Puerto Rican hometown near year's end.

Gary Carter and Eddie Murray made a Hall of Fame audience think while Bob Uecker made it laugh. Roger Clemens made an arduous run at nailing his 300th win, en route his alleged retirement. Dontrelle Willis reminded people of Fernando Valenzuela. No, it was Juan Marichal. No, it was Luis Tiant. Willis had more movements than the Water Music.

Barry Bonds got into hot water (what a surprise) for daring to compare himself to Babe Ruth. The All-Star Game was turned into the linchpin for home field advantage in the World Series, and a Texas third baseman (Hank Blalock) made it so for the American League pennant winner. And the game was a rip-roaring play in spite of it. Fat lot of good Blalock did the Yankees. (And how did Garret Anderson win the Home Run Derby?)

Fat lot of good Curt Schilling hopes to do the Evil Empire. "I guess I hate the Yankees now," said the man who hit the Internet to prove to Red Sox fans he wasn't kidding about coming to the Fens. Gary Sheffield has found his way to the House That Ruthless Rebuilt. So has Javier Vasquez. Japan's number one major league prospect has found his way to Shea Stadium. A small passel of All-Stars in fact and wanna-be have found their way to Camden Yards. A small passel of all-stars in fact and wanna-be seem to have found their way out of Minnesota. Trader Jack (McKeon) and El Gato (Tony Pena) were Managers of the Year.

Seasonal endings: Larry Doby followed Jackie Robinson as a color line re-breaker (in the American League), but waited longer to follow him into the Hall of Fame than he waited to get respect and affection. Warren Spahn was the only man in baseball history who could (and did) claim to have played for Casey Stengel before (with the Boston Braves) and after (with the Mets). He was a genius, sandwiching 356 of his 365 lifetime wins.

Bobby Bonds hit 332 major league homeruns and fathered 658 more, at this writing. Al Gionfriddo went back-back-back-back-back-back-back-back-back to make a one-handed catch against the wall (that's how Red Barber called it), carrying a homerun away from Joe DiMaggio in the 1947 World Series. Paul Owens ran the front office show for the only known Phillies World Champion, then managed them to a pennant three years later.

Haywood Sullivan caught little enough in a Red Sox uniform, caught lots of flak (as a general manager) for letting a future Hall of Fame catcher (Carlton Fisk) escape the Fens as a free agent, and then did or didn't try exercising a palace coup he won anyway. Earl Battey behind the plate anchored some fine Twins teams (including one pennant winner) in the 1960s. His 1965 teammate, Johnny Klippstein, pitched for eighteen seasons, half that many teams, led the American League in saves (in 1960, with 14), threw two shutout innings for the Dodgers in the 1959 World Series, and threw two against them in the 1965 Series.

Claude Passeau is still the last man in Cub history to pitch a World Series shutout. When not measuring poor Steve Bartman for a firing squad, Cub Country does its level best to convince itself Passeau will not spend eternity with the same distinction.

Dave DeBusschere holds the lowest lifetime earned run average in the history of ... the National Basketball Association. Chris Zachary never had a winning season, but he helped the Tigers bag the 1972 American League East with a 1.42 ERA in relief. Art Houtteman won 19 games for the Tigers a season after fracturing his skull, had a 13-0 no-hitter broken up with two outs in the ninth, and won 15 for the pennant-smothering 1954 Indians.

A funny thing happened on the way to Cooperstown: Mickey McDermott told his wife (his co-author swears it) that he was dying as a publicity stunt for his charming memoir. "My reincarnation as a pitcher is doubtful," he wrote to introduce the memoir. "I'm more likely to come back as a Mexican gardener. Or his donkey. So at age 74, maybe it's time to sit down, tune in to whatever brain cells I've got left, and figure out where I got lost on the road to the baseball Hall of Fame. Hey, maybe what I've got to say will help a couple of kids find their way into it."

Article courtesy of Sports Central.