Reposted from January 9th, 2012. (And probably will be re-posted again every year from here out.)
Nobody wants to read my thoughts on the Hall of Fame. Nobody wants to read that far too many voters are morons, dinosaurs, hockey bloggers, or self-important twats crying out for help by wielding whatever little power the sporting world has left them to shrivel and die with (though many are very much not!). Nobody wants to be told that what we actually know about steroids, and especially their impact on statistics, especially given how widespread their use in baseball was, is nothing close to what assfaces think we can just safely assume. Nobody wants to think about why we’ve placed those, and not other training methods, on the wrong side of our collective line of morality. Nobody wants to hear what a fucking disgrace it is that writers who essentially cheered on the steroid era– who looked down on Steve Wilstein like he was strangling the golden goose– act now like the world’s moral compass, when they know goddamn well that PEDs were used under a far more complicated system of tacit acceptance than implied in the intellectually dishonest horseshit they shovel to a readership they clearly do not respect. Nobody wants to accept that we just can’t possibly ever know who did what, how much was being done, how much it impacted individuals, or how level the playing field was, given that such a large number of both hitters and pitchers certainly used. Nobody wants to admit that this was simply part of the game, understood by fans, by owners, by players, and by reporters, and not raged against until a token attempt to make the game “clean” could put the issue in a neat little box laughably marked “Even Though They’ve Been Around Far Longer, People Only Took Steroids in Baseball From 1994 to 2003, and They Were All Filthy, Cheating Swine and Now Everything Is OK (And Don’t You Even Think About Mentioning Greenies).”
Nobody wants me to point out that, for fucking goddamn sakes, a fuck-tonne of the people voting can’t even process the far simpler concept that, while guys like Jim Rice and Jack Morris were indeed some of the most famed and feared players of their eras, they were famed and feared to a level made excessive by gross misinterpretations of their abilities and their stats– and that we needn’t compound those initial errors by digging in our heels like a bunch of I’m-not-man-enough-to-ever-let-my-ego-down-and-admit-fault chickenshits.
Nobody wants me to point out that the Hall of Fame ballot you fill out isn’t your chance to save face, and pursue grudges, and act like you’re some kind of fucking scientist, and redefine the notion of “evidence,” and pretend that ignored internal memos are written in stone, and rail against anything illegal whenever that’s a convenient position, and scoff at seamheads’ proof no one pitches to the score, and act that the Hall of Fame should be a clean, whitewashed place, and pretend you’re not on your fat fucking ass every Sunday watching the NFL and not giving a shit what they put in their bodies, and to screech from the bully pulpit and revise the perhaps-ugly bit of history you fully fucking participated in without ever pushing back. Dickholes.
Congratulations to Barry Larkin.