Personal Narrative: A Look At The Hall Of Fame

If you’re like me, then when you see your career portrayed in movies or television, you get hyper-critical and pick apart every detail. Nothing is ever right. No one would ever act that way in that situation, no matter how much it fits the plot or the character. So you wave your hand, roll your eyes, rant, rave, and absolutely refuse to throw in the towel and let the fight die. The worst part is that you know better. You know it’s being dramatized for the sake of the show or film, but something inside of you just won’t let you not care. This messy thought process also applies to me when it comes to the Hall of Fame.

I know that I should know better. I know that I shouldn’t care that much. Whether or not a player gets into the Hall of Fame does not and should not matter all that much to me as a baseball fan. That fact will not change how much I enjoyed watching someone play or how much I’ve marveled at his statistics on his Baseball Reference page. But I just can’t help myself.

I’m an

Debates about a player’s induction into Cooperstown involve those things and given that they take place after a player’s career, there’s a large sample size; there’s a chance to be objective; there’s a pretty solid standard to compare against. Those things should combine to make solid, reasonable, rational arguments. Of course, that doesn’t happen. The arguments around the Hall of Fame get clouded by steroid suspicion, narrative-driven nostalgia, and all sorts of other hindrances that make rational debate damn near impossible. Invariably, there are articles written with flimsy defenses of indefensible ballots that I try to ignore, but sometimes, I can’t help it. Every year, I know this is going to happen, but it hasn’t stopped me from fighting on Bert Blyleven Hill and probably won’t stop me from doing the same for Mike Mussina when the time