There must be something about second basemen. The Hall of Fame Veterans Committee just announced the results from the voting for the Class of 2009, adding slick-fielding and power-hitting second baseman Joe Gordon. He was the first player added via the Veterans Committee route since 2001, when Bill Mazeroski joined the ranks of the immortals.

   The vote this year continues the disappointment for Ron Santo, who missed once again, snagging the highest vote total of the Post-1942 Ballot … 61 percent. Kibitzing about Hall-of-Fame voting is one of my favorite pastimes, and it’s hard not to opine that giving the nod to Gordon while offering yet another thumbs down to Santo and Gil Hodges (shown at left) seems hard to understand.

   That is until you remember that Gordon’s election required nine out of 12 voters (he got 10), and the Post-1942 guys were voted on by the full body of Hall of Famers (I refuse to include the redundant “living” modifier that usually appears in such instances. Unless you’re in Chicago, who else but the living would have a vote?).

   I have a lot of sympathy for the Hall officials, who continue to tinker with the voting process to ensure as much fairness as possible in what still ends up being a highly subjective system. There was a good deal of grumbling seven years ago – including among Hall of Famers themselves, allegedly – about the Mazeroski nod, and the subsequent tightening of the procedures produced blank slates from the Veterans Committee for the next seven years.

   The complaint that used to dog the Committee many years ago was that certain “favorites” seem to emerge – sometimes seemingly out of the blue – to be elected, apparently at the hands of powerful members able to steer the voting. It’s hard to see how that can be avoided on a panel of 12 voters; the alternative, having the full body of HOFers do the voting, would seem to yield a different puzzle of being able to find enough voters to get anybody at all elected.

   I suspect that would be the lament of Santo and supporters of  Hodges, Jim Kaat and Tony Oliva, the top four vote-getters from the Post-1942 Ballot. for those keeping score at home, the rest of the results would be (in order): Joe Torre (30 percent), Maury Wills, Luis Tiant, Vada Pinson, Al Oliver and Dick Allen.

   I at least give the Hall a lot of credit for paring the list to that group. Honestly, I’d have less of a beef about most of those guys gaining admittance than I would of Gordon, and there are several I’d actively campaign for (Santo, Hodges, Oliva, Wills and Dick Allen).

   Torre doesn’t need my help. He’ll go in as a manager for sure, and if you like irony, his offensive numbers as a player are significantly better than Gordon’s in several important categories. Still, Gordon was regarded as an extraordinary talent in the field, hence the nickname Flash. (OK, there's that comic book character, too)

   Gordon was also a manager for several seasons in the 1960s, but that probably didn’t do much to aid his standing, though it may have given him some additional opportunities to meet and befriend some of the guys who might have voted him in (e.g. Phil Niekro and Don Sutton). It also seems likely that being on the Yankees didn't hurt him either.

   And speaking of opining, I blogged several weeks back that the very nature of the voting made it tough to guess about results, but of course I did so anyway. And I got it wrong.

   Methinks we haven’t heard the last of all of this, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

   When I was much younger, I would occasionally lament all the police blotter doings that had infiltrated the sports pages, but now that I am, uh, maturing rapidly, I don’t mind it as much, perhaps because I at least recognize the names.

   What also occurred to me was that lumping all the evildoers into one basket simply because they’ve run afoul of various laws and league prohibitions probably does a disservice to some.
This morning’s news included word that O.J. Simpson faces his day in court for the fracas in the Las Vegas hotel room. I’ve already read a lot of blather in cyberspace that he should be locked away for life, so naturally I’ll lean to a contrary view.

   O.J. Simpson should be sentenced for precisely the appropriate prison term for the hotel room nonsense and nothing else. Period. And my modest understanding of the criminal justice system – gleaned from video instruction from several generations of great barristers ranging from Perry Mason to Judge Judy – leaves me to think that nobody in the world would serve an 18-year sentence for what transpired in that hotel room.

   It’s not the fringe of cyber loonies saying that O.J. should be locked away for good; these are mainstream, big-name sports media outlets. And they openly champion the idea that Simpson deserves to go away for life precisely because of what happened in 1994. And they should know better.

   If we believe in our system of criminal justice – no snickering, please – we’ve got to insist that Simpson be sentenced without any acknowledgement of that other incident from 1994. Tall order, for sure, but the alternative – having folks salted away for alleged misdeeds that they have not been convicted of – should be anathema to all of us.

   Even if there is a merely a 1/100th of 1 percent chance of innocence – which sounds about right for the 1994 slaughter – it still has to be honored, being far superior to having judges arbitrarily adding years to a sentence for something unrelated to the actual charges.


   The same morning news also told of an effort by the National Football League Players Association (NFLPA) to get suspensions lifted so five of six players benched for violating the league’s anti-doping policy.

   I won’t bore you with all the details, but it essentially involves use of a dietary supplement in training camp that has a banned substance included in it, even though the banned substance isn’t listed on the the label.

   The decision is expected today, so that the players can play this weekend, assuming that the judge rules their way. I suppose it’s quite possible (maybe likely) that the judge will rule that the suspensions should stand because the rules about steroids, etc., are agreed to in collective bargaining.

   I don’t know about you, but I like my miscreants to be guilty of a bit of wrongful intent, and I don’t much care for the idea that the substance wasn’t listed on the label. I also don’t like it that the league apparently knew about the banned diuretic being in the dietary supplement and didn't notify the players' union.

   That’s enough reasonable doubt for me. I realize the inherent risk in blogging in this fashion. By the time most read this, a decision may well have been rendered. So be it. I'm trying to learn to embrace the immediacy of this medium.

   “Free the Minneapolis Six!”

   I’ve gotta admit that in all my years at SCD (15-plus and counting) and nearly another 15 before that as a reader and later freelance writer for the magazine, I don’t recall seeing any bobsledding memorabilia in the various auctions.

   What got me thinking about this was a casual bit of storytelling in the office about my time as a bureau reporter in the late 1970s in Saranac Lake, N.Y., just 10 miles from Lake Placid.
It was an exciting time to be at that particular location, since I arrived in 1978, just two years before the Olympics would bring its remarkable traveling road show to that tiny Adirondack Village.

   One of the people who played a huge role in bringing the Olympics to a town of about 3,000 year-round residents was Jack Shea, a double gold-medalist from the 1936 Olympics that had also been held at Lake Placid. When I got to know him, Shea was a supervisor for the Town of North Elba, which included Lake Placid, and I interviewed him numerous times in that role and in his capacity as vice chairman of the Olympic Regional Development Authority.

   Shea hardly needs any laudatory commentary from me; he was arguably one of the nicest, most decent and revered men who ever set foot in the Adirondacks, which is saying quite a bit.

   But what prompted this meandering blog was a recollection of bobsledding, which was a somewhat different undertaking in the years before that historic Olympics in 1980. I used to occasionally hang out into the wee hours of the morning at a place called the Hitching Post (I hope I got that name right) that was on the Saranac Lake city limits on the road to Lake Placid.

   It’s only mildly whimsical to suggest that various bobsledders “trained” there in their own odd fashion, which essentially meant honing daredevil skills to a degree probably unheard of in any other sport. The most famous figure of this colorful group was a legendary local folk hero named “Dew Drop” Morgan. (shown in a photo from All Points North Magazine)

   There may be a Dew Drop Inn in every city of any appreciable size in America, but I can promise you they couldn’t match the one in Saranac Lake, if for no other reason than the presence of the decorated World War II and Korean War veteran himself.

   I dropped in there from time to time from 1978-81, and I worked with his wife in a seedy, second-floor bureau office above a liquor store in downtown Saranac Lake, but I didn’t know him that well, so I’ll rely on a website, www.simonesez.com, for his bio:

   “A bombardier in World War II and the Korean War, he was twice shot down behind enemy lines – the second time, he was rescued by Russians. Dew Drop’s bride made her wedding dress from the parachute that saved him the first time.”

   I don’t recall Mrs. Morgan ever telling me that particular story, but I have no reason to doubt it. Dew Drop was the kind of guy Reader’s Digest had in mind when they solicit stories about “Unforgettable Characters.” In addition to the “Dew Drop Inn,” he owned a number of others, and tended bar at even more, including some of the elegant hotels in the Lake Placid environs. Along with his prominence in the local tavern industry, he was nearly as renown for a penchant for various games of chance, all of which gave him an almost bottomless well of material for his loquacious moments on either side of the bar.

   He was raucous, larger than life and easily one of the most recognizable figures in the Olympic Region, as it was known.

   Younger (than me) sports fans might be more familiar with one of the Morgan’s 13 children, John, a color commentator for bobsledding at a number of Olympics and world-class events, along with playing himself in the feature film “Cool Runnings,” the movie about the Jamaican bobsled team.

   I’m not sure just what got me to reminiscing about Saranac Lake and the Olympics; it may have been as elemental as the thermometer, which registered 5 degrees when I ambled into the F+W offices this morning.

   I always liked Eddie Murray as a ballplayer, thinking him kind of a nicely timed successor to Henry Aaron, since Hank hung it up in 1976, and Murray showed up the next year. The similarities between the two are numerous and significant, but the overriding one was the staggering consistency that they both displayed on the field, and the quiet majesty that enveloped them off it.

   Part of that understanding came more than 10 years ago when I first saw Murray signing autographs at a show, and it quickly became apparent that he also had something in common with yet another of the game’s legendary players from my youth: Brooks Robinson.

   Like Brooksie, Murray seems to be one of those great ambassadors for the game, showing an affection and understanding for fans – especially the younger ones – that typically makes old-timers like myself grumble that the multimillionaires in today’s game could take a lesson from the likes of the Murrays and Robinsons of yesteryear. In truth, there are a number of modern guys who display the same laudable characteristics, but that’s a different story.

   I watched Murray sign autographs at the late-November Sun-Times Show, and I can’t recall another player in recent memory who seemed to be having so much fun with little kids. Learning to fake sincerity is one of the great tricks of master politicians, but learning to spot the real thing ought to be a cherished skill sought by the great unwashed. As a duly ensconced member of that club, I can assure you of his bona fides.

   As I was leaving the show Sunday afternoon and walking to the parking lot across from the convention center, Murray was about 10 yards ahead of me. At one point, he spotted a $100 bill on the ground, picked it up and quickly called out to a man who was maybe 40 yards in front of him. Murray handed him the bill and was thanked for his efforts.

   That doesn’t make him a saint, but it’s still useful information. So is this: “Steady Eddie” hit 504 career home runs and never hit more than 33 in one season.

   Think about that for a minute or two.

   OK, it’s Dec. 1 and the big day is just over three weeks away. Christmas is hardly a slam-dunk for me, but there is one narrow little area where I have a real contribution to make on Santa’s behalf: sports cards as stocking stuffers.

   This is something I’ve written about in SCD columns before, but it bears a reminder every year because it’s a cool way to provide youngsters with something fun at Christmas with minimal expense.


   All you need is the stuff shown in the photo here: sports cards, Saran Wrap and an iron. I am not a shill for a particular plastic wrap, but the one pictured – Saran Wrap Original – worked best over many years of experimenting. It’s tough to find around my area, with most stores carrying something called Saran Wrap Premium, which ironically isn’t as good as the Original, in my opinion.

   The gum, by the way, is optional, and should be included only when you can be certain the enclosed pieces are fresh and still enclosed in the wrapper from Topps. We’ve used them because we get samples of cards here at SCD and the gum doesn’t get chewed with the same efficiency that it might have years ago.

   As you can see, the iron in the photo is almost an antique, having been used for packaging and sealing baseball cards for nearly 30 years ... and nothing else. It takes some tinkering to find the correct heat setting, but once you do it should be smooth sailing, er, sealing.

   I came up with this system when I was producing the O’Connell & Son Ink Baseball Greats way back when. The idea is you take a piece of Saran Wrap, roughly 8-by-10 inches, and plant a stack of anywhere from 35-100 cards smack dab in the middle of it, face down.

   Then you simply wrap from there, starting with the vertical and then overlapping the two end pieces across the back of the bottom card (shown). You then take the iron and “seal” the whole deal, with most of it applied to the back area where the flaps meet, but also on all of the sides and even the top, because that makes for a nice tight seal. If you include gum – with the caveats noted above – it probably works best sticking it right in the middle of the cards, rather than on the back.
Since I don’t bake cookies, the cards are a nice way I can participate in holiday preparations without feeling completely useless. It’s also a great way to put leftover cards to use, though I always urge that as many stars be included as feasible.

   Counting the literally thousands of packs we donated to the KidStore program we used to run with our SportsFest show, I would guess that over the last 15 years I’ve made 3,000 or 4,000 packs, though I concede we have a leg up here at SCD in having access to leftover cards that perhaps few would enjoy. But whatever you’ve got, I promise you they will be a hit when a youngster tears through his stocking on Christmas morning.

   And if, by chance, you happen to have an eccentric uncle in his late 50’s – and what family doesn’t have at least one of those? – you can even make him up one with some 1959 Topps commons and maybe even a wildly off-center star or two.

   Merry Christmas!

  
   Speaking of major-league rarities (an allustion to my previous blog), old-time hobbyists did a bit of a double-take on Friday at the show with the appearance of Kit Young, a hobby pioneer who doesn’t typically travel to Chicago for the Sun-Times Show, or even many others, aside from the National Convention. The legendary figure was finishing up several weeks of a buying trip that began at his San Diego headquarters, and he penciled in Sun-Times to take part in a 70th birthday bash for another well-known name, Dick DeCourcy.

   You know you’re something of an old coot when someone called “Cat” Osterman charges more for an autographed 8-by-10 than “Doc” Gooden. That’s no dig at Ms. Osterman, merely an observation about my favorite player in the 1980s and 1990s.

   Osterman was signing autographs at the Sun-Times Show last weekend, along with another 2004 Olympic gold medalist, Jennie Finch (shown here). I got a kick out of seeing all the unbridled enthusiasm for both players, including spotting a young girl dressed in a softball uniform while Dad carted around a giant Jennie Finch framed poster. We’ve apparently come a long ways, Baby, since the 1970s when I remember covering girls high school basketball as a reporter and I was subjected to what seemed like a constant rugby scrum at mid-court, with very little in the way of offense at either basket.

   Jeez, Doc Gooden was headed to the Hall of Fame right alongside Roger Clemens, who, ironically, as a University of Texas alumnus was an Osterman favorite. While I should applaud the fact that both Doc and Cat were affordable autographs ($25 and $29, respectively), I still can’t get over the nagging realization that he’ll have to pay to get into Cooperstown just like the rest of us.

   For much of Gooden’s career, I constantly put his numbers side-by-side with Roger’s as a means of clinging to my goal of Doc’s eventual enshrinement. Obviously, in the second half of his career, that parlor game lost a good deal of its utility, until finally it wasn’t a rational undertaking at all. I guess it would be even more ironic if somehow Clemens’ bid for immortality gets sidetracked, obviously for at least technically different reasons than Dwight’s.

   I was tempted to blog about the alarming implications of having the two top finishers for the American League Most Valuable Player Award this year being named Dustin and Justin, but decided instead that more weighty observations from this odd voting should be pursued.

   Potential themes abound, with perhaps the most obvious being the almost spooky link between Dustin Pedroia and a controversial MVP selection from 66 years ago. For purposes of discussion, the Red Sox youngster posted stats essentially indistinguishable from Joe Gordon’s in 1942.
The added interest comes from the fact that Gordon is getting another Hall-of-Fame look by the newly reconfigured Veterans Committee. Because there has been so much (largely welcomed) tinkering with the voting procedures for long-retired players, it’s tough to speculate about whether Gordon will get a thumb’s up on Dec. 8 when the voting is announced. Forced to hazard a guess, I would say no.

   The Pedroia MVP nod revives the annual debate that asks the age-old question: “What the hell are the criteria for voting for MVP?” I enjoy the Hot Stove League element that the vote affords every year, since the sportswriters seem to each have their own key elements to consider when they vote.

   As it is with so many things, I suspect that one’s view of the debate probably dates to a first encounter with a favorite player getting hosed by the curious helter-skelter system. I wouldn’t claim the Joe Gordon MVP/Ted Williams Triple Crown season in 1942 as my own defining moment, but as I began studying baseball history as a teenager, I was jarred by the realization that Gordon’s fine season (for a second baseman) that year would win out over one of Teddy’s two Triple Crown campaigns. Seems the scribes didn’t have quite the reverence for that particular occurrence back then; it's hard not to indulge the suspicion that the fourth estate was punishing the petulant youngster for displaying such a seeming lack of reverence for their own profession.

   Or maybe the significance of the Triple Crown is appreciated a bit more now, since it hasn’t happened in the American League in 41 years, and it’s been 71 years since it was engineered in the Senior Circuit.

   My initial MVP voting beef came in 1959 when the scribes gave a second consecutive MVP to Ernie Banks, who had an admittedly wonderful season for the hapless fifth-place Cubs. My contention was that the Award should have gone to Henry Aaron, who won the batting title with his career best .355 and also rolled up 400 total bases in a season where the Braves tied the Dodgers for the pennant at the end of the regular season.

   I can’t quite remember what happened in the ensuing playoff, but the image of Felix Mantilla keeps popping into my head.

   A couple of weeks back, Topps came out with the Barrack Obama card that you see here, nicely styled after the classic 1952 Topps Baseball set. It’s part of an American Heritage nonsport issue that the company is producing for release early next year.

   What struck me about it was realizing how many really neat ersatz cards have been done over the past 20 years employing – largely but not exclusively – the wonderful vintage Topps designs from the 1950s and 1960s. Using 1952 as an example, think how many different cards Topps has created using that design over the past two decades.

   I say two decades, but really most of this retro-style tinkering has taken place in the last 15 years, and accelerated wildly in the last 10.

   But here’s my wacky idea: How cool would it be to build a set of just Topps-produced cards done in the 1952 style (or any particular favorite year) over that span? Included would be two of my favorites: the Obama card and a nifty Sy Berger card, both shown here, but there a bunch more that are just as nice, if not quite as significant.

   I suppose we would want to limit this fanciful set to just baseball, since limits would have to be included just to make it feasible, but since it’s kind of a customized “set,” who’s to tell you what is the correct makeup? Collector’s choice.

   And obviously there would have to be a lot of other qualifiers included, since many of the Topps inserts are quite rare, and the autograph and relic cards add another daunting obstacle.

   But none of that torpedoes the mission, it just merely requires the collector to devise parameters that he/she can live with.

   Ultimately, I think an album filled with cards, ersatz or even reprints of the genuine item, would make for a nice set. It would just require a lot of precise description if you ever got around to trying to sell it on eBay.