DH: I Love You Just the Way You Are

I need to know that you will always be
The same old someone that I knew
Ah, what will it take till you believe in me?
The way that I believe in you?
I said I love you and that's forever
And this I promise from the heart
But I couldn't love you any better
I love you just the way you are 

Billy Joel, Just the Way You Are, 1977

Adam Wainwright's unfortunate injury while running out a ground ball has given rise to the flipside of the more common argument to abolish the designated hitter. The worm has turned, for the moment at least, and now the loudest voices are decrying the travesty of forcing people  to attempt to hit baseballs who are trained to throw them.

It's like, the argument goes, asking the magician's assistant to become the knife thrower.

Moreover, they've co-opted the argument of their opposites that the two leagues should hew to a single policy. They note that NL teams suffer a decided disadvantage during inter-league play (and the World Series) because their rosters aren't constructed to supply an extra hitter.

And now that offense is sagging, to the (theoretical) detriment of fan interest, replacing pitcher at-bats with real hitters would counter that regretful trend.

I don't buy it.

For the record, I love the DH. It keeps luminaries -- particularly the eminences grises -- in the game. Without it, Paul Molitor's not in the Hall of Fame. David Ortiz has no position. Frank Thomas plays five fewer years. And Edgar Martinez's knees deny us of his amazing career.

The DH makes every at bat meaningful. There's no automatic out, no automatic sacrifice bunt attempt.

The DH allows injured players to return faster. They can take a few cuts a game while they heal without the rigors of on-field exertions.

The main argument against the DH falls flat in places where brains drizzle. Deciding when to hit for the pitcher is such a cookie-cutter choice that a single monkey with a typewriter could correctly discern it  90% of the time without a SABR card or Tony LaRussa whispering in his ear. The cosmic complexities of the double switch might have challenged the intellect of Ron Washington, but they don't amount to game-deciding strategies.

That said, I like having it both ways. I'm enjoying Alex Rodriguez resurrecting the final chapter of his career and completing his assault on the record books. But maybe that doesn't move you. As it stands now, hooray for both of us.

If you don't buy my pro-DH arguments, fine, there's a league for you. If you like to see Mike Leake helping himself with the stick, you can. If the spectacle of Bartolo Colon swizzle-sticking at the plate amuses you, content yourself. Sometimes you feel like a nut; sometimes you don't.

The split in the leagues causes some slight disruption, sure, but on balance it's better that way. The current set-up makes everyone happy, which is part of the problem. Because some people hate it when that's the case.

The Hall of Fame...?

At the beginning of each semester, I ask my students to write down directions from a mythical street to another mythical street by way of a third mythical avenue. Of course, there are no wrong answers, because if you don't know where you're going, any road will get you there.

There's a bit of the old professor's trick in Hall of Fame voting because it's not clear what the standard is. The original blueprint was Babe Ruth, Walter Johnson and Ty Cobb, but a good frat leader could fit that Hall into a Volkswagen Beetle.

Since then, voters have swerved back and forth between the "big tent" Hall and the "best of the best" Hall. Which leaves us today with no real benchmark.

Bill James of Abstract fame and Jay Jaffe, an author at Baseball Prospectus, both measure Hall credentials of qualifying players against average Hall of Famers at given positions. Inducting only nominees who equal or surpass the overall average at their positions would slowly raise the standard over time.

That's more or less the criterion I use for my (also mythical) Hall of Fame ballot. Inductees have always comprised roughly one percent of players at a given time, and that seems to me like a reasonable guide. Given that, here's a brief summary of my HOF evaluations.

Don't Even Need To Look 'Em Up:

Marvin Miller, Tim Raines, Robbie Alomar

I wrote an impassioned piece last year this time comparing the putrid induction of Bowie Kuhn, likely the least effective commissioner in baseball history, to the snubbing of Marvin Miller. As the union chief who moved the players from virtual slaves to multi-millionaires, Miller tormented Kuhn at every confrontation. Inducting Kuhn and not Miller is, without hyperbole, like putting Jerry Quarry in the Boxing Hall of Fame and leaving out Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali. Marvin Miller is one of the five most significant figures in MLB history.

I made my case for Raines a few blogs back. His inability to come close is yet another indictment on the baseball media establishment.

You may be remembering the Robbie Alomar who spit on an umpire, or the Robbie Alomar who disintegrated upon arrival at Shea Stadium, never to re-animate. But the Alomar through age 33 was a truly great five-tool player. He posted OBP over .375 eight times and slugged over .450 seven times. That's right fielder territory, but Alomar was a slick-fielding second-sacker. He's the top echelon of second-basemen after the gods -- Hornsby, Morgan, Lajoie, Collins. This one is a no-brainer, which is why the BBWAA should excel here.

Deserving:

Barry Larkin, Edgar Martinez

Like Alomar, Larkin was a five-tooler whose power tools stayed mostly in the closet. (He did hit 33 dingers one anomolous season.) In Cal Ripken, Jr.'s wake, we tend to expect our shortstops to swing big lumber, but Larkin's .295/.371/.444 over 19 seasons, with 379 steals at 83% and Gold Glove defense places him squarely among the greats.

Edgar Martinez is a closer call, in part because the Mariners let him marinate in Triple-A for several years after he'd proven he could knock around Major League arms, and in part because he didn't play the field. Plenty of Hall of Famers past (think Harmon Killebrew) and future (paging Frank Thomas) were lousy fielders who could have benefitted from a seat half the game, so I don't penalize Martinez much for that. But there's no doubt that a hitter who cannot take the field limits his team's flexibility and forces them to play a lesser hitter who can catch.

That said, the guy raked. Anyone who hits .312/418/.515 over 18 years is going to have to have some pretty awesome warts not to make the Hall of Fame. The guy contributed 4-5 wins a season without putting on a glove, which puts him above the average Hall of Famer at first base. (He began his career at third, was a passable fielder, but couldn't be left without adult supervision as his knees deteriorated.)

I guess I'm convinced:

Bert Blyleven, Ron Santo

The seamheads say Bert Blyleven and Ron Santo belong in the Hall of Fame. Blyleven was an effective, rubber-armed curveball specialist who toiled mostly for weak teams in prosperous hitting environments. As a result, we didn't value him correctly contemporaneously. But he did seem to be one of the five best hurlers in his league every year for a long stretch, fanning three times as many batters as he walked.

Santo was a superb, but not spectacular, cornerman for the Cubs during a short career smack in the middle of Deadball II. His .277/.362/.464 seems mundane until placed into the context of his time.  Makes sense to me, but I was five when he had his best year. Santo, of course, is not on the ballot, but the Veteran's Committee, aka Dr. No, could induct him.

Not Enough

Andre Dawson, Dave Parker, Fred McGriff, Don Mattingly, Dale Murphy

Dawson and Parker got on base at .323 and .339 lifetime rates. That is well below average for any outfielder, much less a HOF candidate. Mattingly and Murphy, to different degrees, were superb two-way players for a period of time, and not so superb the rest of their careers. Really, Murphy had five great years and not much otherwise. The argument for Mattingly is really a concession speech: he would have been Hall worthy but for an injured back. Well, I would have been Hall worthy but for a scintillating lack of talent.

McGriff is my toughest out. He was a numbers accumulator for much of his career, what with the seven straight 30-homer campaigns. He hit everywhere he went until age 39, compiling 493 home runs and .284/.377/.509. But he never seemed to equal the sum of his parts. McGriff was a mediocre fielder who ran like tapioca pudding. My qualitative side can't put him in.

Don't Know What To Do With
Alan Trammel

I remember Trammel as Mark Belanger's alter ego, but in fact, he was twice the hitter and nearly every bit the fielder. In 1987 he smacked 28 home runs, knocked in 105, stole 21 of 23, hit .343/.402/.551 and was the best defender in the game. He was the best defender in the game numerous times, but he couldn't (or just didn't) do back flips, so no one noticed. I didn't either. The statheads say he's a stone cold lock. I'm feeling cognitive dissonance, because that's not how I remember him.

You might disagree. Tomorrow, so might I. Because after all, there's no real standard.
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