IBC

Really, no thread on this yet?
Good to see all three in. I still don't want to see Clemens or Bonds in, but in good news on the trend front, Edgar Martinez was on of the biggest jumps. He deserves a spot in the Hall.

I get a little bored with Hall of Fame voting today. Not sure why. I have no problem with the inductees. Surprised Trevor Hoffman is as close as he is. Bonds and Clemens will get in eventually. Voters are fickle. The same writers who were too scared to write about roids and shed a light on it have been trying to take a moral high ground about the Steroids Era. Hypocrisy, IMO.

As I watched Pudge tabbed for Cooperstown last night, I thought about a little piece I wrote on the day he retired five years ago, about the time he nearly killed me with his mini-van.


The Day Pudge Rodriguez Almost Killed Me

With all the hoopla surrounding Pudge Rodriguez's retirement from baseball--probably a few years too late, and somehow still far too early--I'm reminded of my one brief, and nearly fatal, encounter with the greatest catcher ever to don a chest protector.

It was 1991. I was an eighth-grader. Pudge was barely any older. And we ran into each other, quite literally, coming around a corner outside the old Arlington Stadium. He was there because the Rangers tabbed him as their starting catcher for that night's game against Jack McDowell and the Chicago White Sox. I was there on assignment for Mrs. Johnson's CATS class: We were asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, and I could only think of one thing. I wanted to be a ballplayer. And at that point, I was still young enough and naive enough to think that it was possible. That, and pitchers hadn't started throwing curveballs yet.

Mrs. Johnson's project had us pick our profession, then spend a day shadowing someone in the industry. So I got a behind-the-scenes pass to meet and interview a Rangers catcher. Wasn't Pudge, though. He wasn't anybody yet. My appointment was with a mustachioed receiver named Geno Petralli. Dad and I drove two hours up to Arlington, met the public relations folks at the stadium, and were escorted back to the players' parking lot where my meeting with Geno would take place. Cool.

Only Geno didn't come. We waited. And still, he didn't come. But finally, word did. Geno was stuck at a card show, where he'd been signing autographs all afternoon. He sent his apologies, and a replacement to meet me, a seldom-used outfielder called Jack Daugherty.

Petralli, Daugherty, whomever. I didn't care who it was, as long as he was a pro ballplayer. And so I spent the next half-hour asking this fella, Jack Daugherty, how he became a ballplayer and what it was like and what the best part was and what I should do to be a ballplayer just like him. He was kind. And out of the sport by the time I turned in my project. (Almost.)

But I had the scoop. I was on my way. My dad and I turned to exit the parking lot, arriving at a wicked blind corner at the same time as a mini-van distinguished only by its lack of distinction. The van was flying (as I remember it) and came within inches from hitting me. And that made it close enough for me to stare into the eyes of the pudgy young kid behind the wheel. He shot me a smile to say "I'm sorry...and what are you doing here anyway?" I would would see that smile for the next decade or two, even though it mostly obscured by a red catcher's mask. Soon, I'll see it in bronze, too.

I didn't stay for the game that night, which the Rangers won 7-3. But the young van driver did. He went 1-for-4, knocked in two runs, and threw out two base runners. And he stuck around there for the better part of 21 years.

I will always remember Pudge's heroism on the field. And how he led Texas to its first baseball relevance. And how we all came together to cheer for him, and guys we called Juando and Rusty and Raffy and the Gambler. And I will always remember the day that a crazy 19-year-old kid who became a legend almost ran me over with his ugly, brown, dented, driving-too-fast-for-the-confines-of-a-parking lot minivan. And how I lived to tell about it.

Pudge and I never met. If I ever interviewed him in my days as a journalist, I don't remember it. So that near-miss was it, and that's not much. It wasn't the best thing that happened to either of us that day (he made his big league debut, and I went to Wendy's with my dad). But I thought about the brief moment today, for the first time in years, as Pudge said his last goodbyes at Rangers Ballpark. Somewhere near that old parking lot. Bet that doesn't come up in his presser.

But if I could be there, and if I could tell Pudge one thing, it would be this: "Dude. Slow down."

Great story.

Funny thing, I have a somewhat related story. Some years back my dad and I went to the Rangers spring training camp in Ft. Meyers, FL, and after the game we stood outside the stadium by the walkway where the players cross from the stadium to the batting cages/locker rooms. Decent crowd of people, lots of ball players walking around signing autographs, and then all of a sudden a Lamborghini comes out from the stadium and security has to move all the fans out of the way, because Pudge was coming out in his Lambo onto the walkway. All the other players were parked past right field in a parking lot, but Pudge apparently was allowed to park in the stadium and drive it on the walking paths. After he briskly pulled out, quickly did a 3-point to aim his car the right way and nearly hit fans in the process, and then he gunned it and took off down the walking path.

I always respected him as a player and think he's one of the greatest catchers ever... maybe even THE greatest catcher ever, but after that, I didn't really care for him much anymore.

Great catcher. Shitty driver.