Though mythical in proportion, this tragedy is neither Greek nor Roman: it's Atlantan. After fifteen years of diminishing returns, Dale Murphy's candidacy for inclusion the baseball Hall of Fame has been revoked. Per a set of rules as asinine as they are arbitrary, no manner or form of ink will ever again transcribe the name of the legendary Atlantan slugger on a HOF ballot.
To contain my ranger (rage + anger), and to show solidarity with The Murph, I too am officially announcing my retirement! I retire from writing on all things Hall of Fame. And as I do so, I will not refer to it as the Hall of Shame. OK, now I will never again refer to it as the Hall of Shame. OK now...
If he's followed me through the years - and I assume he has - Dale Murphy knows that I've done my best to stump for him. It's not our fault that people don't listen to us - we're just two men, and our combined voice only goes so far. Time to leave the sport behind and move past it. Together.
As part of my retirement, instead of dredging up the deep and painful memories of watching Murphy's vote percentage dip lower and lower, I will re-post my thoughts on this subject from year's past. If I were to pen my passionate thoughts once again, I'd risk sounding bitter - a man trapped in the past.
So here are two year's worth of emails sent to a limited distribution of friends and family before the blogosphere, and quite possibly the Internet itself even existed. To ensure ultimate authenticity, I did not alter so much as a single word, even where I probably should have.
So for the last time, enjoy my intimate thoughts on achieving baseball most profound honor. Dale Murphy and I thank you!
Still No Love for the Murph
January 8, 2008
By: Greg Brantner
again passed over for the Hall of Fame. Ridiculous. Apparently 2 MVP's, 398 Home
Runs, and a sterling dedication to his Mormon faith are not enough to sway those sports
writers who can't tell the difference between a great baseball player and that fat dude
munching on a hot dog with nacho cheese sauce on it that sits below the writer’s box. I
could make this a long, drawn out email that most of you will probably not read...and I
will. Jayson Stark of ESPN.com sums it up better than I ever could:
And the forgotten stars of the '80s keep on coming. No player of his generation has been
more outspoken about the steroids era than Murphy. And, sadly, it's possible that no great
player has had more damage done to his candidacy by that era -- and its inflated numbers
-- than Murphy, either.
His 398 homers and that .469 career slugging percentage look downright ordinary
nowadays. But remember, this is supposed to be about what these men did in their era.
And back in the '80s, Murphy led all National Leaguers in runs and hits, tied Mike
Schmidt for the most RBIs and finished second to Schmidt in home runs. He also was a
back-to-back MVP, a five-time Gold Glove winner, a proud member of the 30-Homer
30-Steal Club, a guy who once got more All-Star votes than anyone else in the whole
sport and one of the classiest clubhouse citizens ever.
Apparently, those glittering credentials aren't going to make him a Hall of Famer. But for
this man to see his vote total shrink from 116 to 50 is a grievous voting injustice.
Well said Jayson...well said...
Still No Love for the Murph - Revisited
January 27, 2009
By: Greg Brantner
Murphy." - Nolan Ryan
Idiot sportswriters can, however. And they just so happen to be the ones who have
hidden the keys to Dale Murphy’s Hall of Fame Mazerati. The number of Hall of Fame
votes that Murphy has received in the last six years closely resembles that of the general
trend of the US stock market for the last six months. It’s inversely proportional to the
unemployment rate since the beginning of 2009. It is going down, not up, with brief
positive spikes that provide a transparent-thin mirage of hope for fools like me.
What the hell, folks? This guy was the dominant player of the eighties. Throughout
that decade, he was a seven time All-Star, a five time Gold Glove winner (not bad for a
converted catcher playing center-field), a four time Silver Slugger Award Winner (for
being the most prolific masher), a two time Home Run, RBI, and Slugging Percentage
champ, and oh yeah, he won back-to-back MVP awards. Only Eddie Murray had more
RBI’s and Mike Schmidt more homers than the Murph in that ten year span.
It bothers me personally that he is not getting his due respect, and it is tough to push these
feelings aside. That being said, I will attempt to take an un-biased, pragmatic, business-
like approach to the situation to see why hordes of Cosby-sweater wearing, seat-busting
sportswriters won’t vote him in (okay that was a cheap shot. I apologize).
398 Home Runs: Murphy fell two ding-dongs short of the number that was previously
considered a benchmark for becoming a lock for the Hall. His quest to become (one can
only assume) the first member of the Church of Latter-day Saints with a bronze bust in
the HOF would look more balanced with that nice, round number 400. It is just a number,
but since a group of sportswriters has the cognitive capacity of a beach ball, it might
be somewhat difficult for them to see it as just that (valid observation, but perhaps too
crude. Sorry).
Hits per a hundred: His career batting average was .265, bottoming out well below the
core of his productional prowess during the eighties. It is not indicative of the treacherous
hitter that he was, but it stands in stone for all the mustachioed blow-hards who get paid
to voice an opinion that no one cares about to use as justification for not voting for him
(calm down, Brantner, shed the emotions).
Location, Location, Location: Some pundits say that Atlanta’s Fulton County Stadium
was a hitter’s park, and that he benefited from his many seasons there. Hogwash!
Raphael Belliard played eight seasons in Atlanta and managed to muster one tater-shot.
A warning-track blast that almost doubled his tally late in his career sparked him to say
after the game, “I missed it by one cheeseburger”. Does this sound like a hitter’s park to
you? (Is this a rhetorical question? I’ll answer it anyways – No, it does not).
Post-season Success: Or lack there of. Is Murphy, with his broad shoulders and
trademark low-wagging bat, to blame for the Atlanta Braves spending less time at the
top of the standings than a sportswriter at the gym? While Ted Turner was marketing the
Braves as “America’s Team” and transmitting their games for the entire nation to see ,
he forgot one thing: Talent. Actually he forgot two things: Talent and Leadership. Bobby
Cox managed for four years beginning in the late seventies, but that was before he turned
into the wildly successful, grumpy and cantankerous Ulysses S. Grant-like character that
we now know him to be. Joe Torre stepped in for three years, but that was before his
balls had dropped. Eddie Haas, Bobby Wine, Chuck Tanner, and Russ Nixon - who the
hell are these guys? And who were these guys managing? While Dale Murphy played in
the All-Star game seven times throughout the decade, only one Braves teammate, Bruce
Benedict, was selected more than once. And who the hell is Bruce Benedict?
As you may imagine, my unbiased and completely objective look at the situation does
not change my opinion. If anything, penning my thoughts and analyzing the facts, I am
more resolute than ever in my feelings that he is Hall worthy. Of the three most dominant
hitters of the eighties, the guys that really mashed and made pitchers tuck their rosin bags
between their legs, one is already in the hall (Mike Schmidt), one is close to it (Andre
Dawson – “The Hawk” received 67% of the required 75% this past year), and one is
losing votes each year.
What he has going against him is that the net effect of striving for 400 tally-whackers
diluted his career numbers more than a sportswriter’s daily column. This is a shame
because very few ballplayers have matched the productivity that he had for a solid
decade. He only had a few less than productive campaigns, but they affected him greatly.
Here is my breakdown of his 18 seasons in the majors: his first two were unimpressive,
but I give him a pass as he was breaking into the league and constantly fighting for
playing time, not to mention switching positions as frequently as an obese sportswriters
hits the free breakfast buffet; the next two years he was coming into his own as a
ballplayer, taking the field almost every day, while putting up impressive numbers;
then came the eighties, when he lorded over the baseball world like an out-of-breath
sportswriter over a tray of enchiladas.
Then there were his last four years. His twilight saw him produce offensive numbers
that were uglier than the Philadelphia Phillies uniforms he now buttoned up. He looked
like a lion in a tutu, and played marginally better. He ended his career in Colorado, the
friendliest of hitter’s parks, what with its short fences and carbonated air. He stepped up
to the plate forty two times attempting to capture those last elusive dingers. He hit none.
Why is his apparent exclusion from the Hall so difficult for me to handle? I have thought
about this question for quite some time and still have no conclusive response. Obviously,
I think that he deserves to be permanently enshrined with the other great baseballers
of the past. But it’s more than that. Dale Murphy was the signature dish on the Atlanta
Braves menu at a time when the food wasn’t very good and nobody patronized the
restaurant. Not the prototypical superstar, he threw himself into the Atlanta community,
the super-sized big brother to an entire city. It’s no coincidence that of the three times
he graced the cover of Sports Illustrated, only two were for his baseball prowess. The
1987 Sportsman of the Year cover entitled “Athletes Who Care”, featured Murphy – the
charity spokesperson, not the ballplayer - along with seven other athletes who had made a
significant impact on their community.
Weeknights as a child, my younger brothers and I, bundled up in Braves jam-jams,
snuggled and wrestled around on the foot of our parent’s bed as we watched our loveable
losers play deep into the night. Bedtime was strictly enforced, unless the Braves were
batting, in which case we could always stay up until the inning ended (or there was a
pitching change). The Braves lineup we saw was decked out in the older, light blue
uniforms highlighted by the smiling Indian, and did not include the likes of Fred McGriff,
David Justice, Terry Pendleton and Chipper Jones. Nope, this version of “Murderer’s
Row” was more of a “Purse-Snatcher’s Row” and included welterweights such as Ozzie
Virgil, Glenn Hubbard, an injury-plagued Bob Horner, and Bruce Benedict, who left no
indelible impression on me and may or may not have actually existed.
When things looked the worst, when bedtime seemed imminent, when our parents
were finally going to get rid of us…Dale Murphy would step up to the plate. A batter
of mythical proportions, we knew that he would start a rally, prolonging our day a few
more precious minutes. Even if the Braves lost the game, something they did better than
any other team in the eighties, we knew that the Murph would stir something up, and he
rarely failed us. Dale Murphy extended my bedtime. He is an American Hero!
It was him, along with Dominique Wilkins and Spud Webb, who fueled my early interest
in sports and competition. A young skinny Atlantan yielding a plastic yellow bat, I
always pretended to be the Murph when I repeatedly sent our hard porous whiffle ball
towards the Fulton County Stadium warning track, otherwise known as the wooden
fence that framed the driveway at 325 Spring Ridge Drive, Roswell Georgia. Could Dale
Murphy beat Dominique Wilkins in a game of one on one? If I was Murphy and my
brother was Nique, then yes, he could.
Speaking of hoops, he saw me play basketball on a few occasions. I was lucky enough to
be the same age as one of his many children, and we happened to play basketball in the
same league. His kid was on the Ducks, while I played on the Owls (actually, according
to my uniform I played on the “OW”, as the “L” and “S” had fallen off). It was hard to
play in the same gym as Dale Murphy, and I forgive my parents for continually sneaking
glances of him.
He was epic, the first professional athlete I had seen up close. Tall, strapping, and built,
he was a khaki-wearing, de-speckled, ball-cap sporting version of Clark Kent. It was
hard to concentrate on basketball when Dale Freaking Murphy was in attendance. I was
extremely jealous of the kids on his son’s team when I saw them jumping up to high-five
him as he doled out Capri-Suns. You shouldn’t be able to touch the Murph’s hands. You
shouldn’t be able to look directly into his eyes. This being my interpretation, it struck me
considerably that he looked so comfortable around the masses of kids swarming him. He
didn’t have to be like that. Picture Barry Bonds serving at a soup kitchen. Or Bobby Cox
playfully rustling a child’s hair.
These examples lay the groundwork for my belief that character should be taken into
account when voting for members of the HOF. I don’t agree that a malfeasant, a bigot,
a racist, or for that matter a philanderer, a negligent family man, a gambler, or a jerk
should be denied entrance into the Hall based on a character flaw, but do I feel that
when a person shows exceptional character and is a pillar of their community, while also
producing solid numbers year after year, that should merit him extra consideration. In this
case, votes for the Hall of Fame.
What irks me most is that for all his personal accomplishments, it was only when he
left Atlanta that the team began to prosper. The magical 1991 worst to first campaign.
Back to back World Series appearances. The championship in 1995. The perennial flow
of tomahawk-chopping All-Stars. Fourteen straight division titles. The positive media
attention and national exposure. It must have been difficult for the consummate team
player to watch – whether in Phillies gear, Rockies gear, or his church clothes – his
former team achieve a level of success that he worked so hard for, yet ultimately was
unable to provide.
Based on the evidence I have presented, Dale Murphy’s admission into the Hall of Fame
would not be a special exemption. This should be an obvious decision to the power-
abusing panel of sportswriters, most of who have never played professional (or college,
high school, or pee-wee for that matter) sports and have never committed a charitable act
(I simply assume this last part is true). Dale Murphy was not a decent baseball player. He
was not average, and he was not good. He was great. And he was a great family man and
a great Atlantan.
The next decade should see plenty of Braves enshrined in the HOF. Tom Glavine, Greg
Maddux, John Smoltz and Chipper Jones will be locks. Fred McGriff and David Justice
should get some consideration. Bobby Cox and pitching coach Leo Mazzone for sure.
Murph played with Glavine and Smoltz and was managed (twice) by Bobby Cox. Here’s
hoping they put in a good word for our man. It would be the decent thing to do.
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