Wednesday, January 30, 2013

KC Nanobrew Winter Summit

Brewing for Beginners. And Experts. And Dudes. 





(This guy's beer will be in your belly in three months)



I’m not quite sure why they call it nanobrewing, since there was nothing inherently “nano” about the amount of beer that was brewed consumed brewed this past weekend with the dudes of KC Nanobrews, at the Stuck Truck Brewery. Or as I like to call it, Chad’s house.


Brewmasters and malted-novices alike gathered to witness the birthing of an All-Grain Irish Ale in preparation for St. Patrick’s Day, ensuring that, unlike in year's past, we'll have something to imbibe while watching the Celtics play. This meeting afforded brewers of all levels and experience the opportunity to meet one another, discuss beer-related plans for 2013, watch K-State get spanked, and drink copious amounts of, what else, beer.


Rob and Chad spearheaded the actual brewing process, though in this public forum I won’t divulge any of KC Nanobrews’ trade secrets. Really, I just didn’t pay attention. There was so much going on all at once - the pouring, measuring, filtering, smelling. The sanitizing, steaming, mixing and discussing. It made me dizzy, though ironically so did the beer.



(Chad controlling the steam with his iPhone)


Any brewer worth his hops has to read directions and follow them, know what goes where, and when - there’s a process and it can’t be interrupted or changed in any manner. Or maybe it can. I honestly don’t know. With each subsequent delicious home-brewed beer that went from cup to belly, I understood less and less about what was going on. Yet oddly, the less I understood, the more intrigued I became.


I tried to follow along and comprehend, though as I saturated my body and brain with liberal streams of homebrew, I became utterly unable to understand the magic and wonderment of the brewing process. I should be familiar with the basics by now, having lived with two different home-brewers, however it appears that this is one of those crafts in which expert status is not achieved through osmosis, simple observation or sampling. Even if its strenuous sampling.



(No idea what's in there. Could be beer?)


On a positive note, the goal of this shindig wasn't for me to learn how to brew beer - that would have been an amazing and improbably side consequence. This day's objective was simply a great excuse to spend some time outside on a randomly gorgeous January afternoon, drinking beers and goofing off (more on that later).
  

And though I haven’t mastered the craft and am flunking the entrance exam, I did pick up a few pointers. Brewstervations, if you will. (Holy crap that’s lame, but somehow I don’t want to delete it).
  

For starters, only guys can brew beer – I’m positive of this. Please don’t perceive this as a sexist remark. But there were no women there. At all. So I can only assume.



(Science at work)


Also, homebrew is better than milk - for spicy foods, that is. Screw you, Chad, for throwing an entire jalapeno bush into the chili. You know that that sort of hotness gives me the sweats. Still, the thick, dark, foamy porter did well to combat my imminent tongue swelling. And it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. The last time milk did that, things didn’t turn out so great.


Because it takes so long to brew, there needs to be a planned non-dangerous distraction. What is this, you ask? Something to fill in the gaps between the brewing action items. College basketball provides a good distraction, but so does taking advantage of a fire pit. And while the KU game only took two hours, Chad’s yard had at least four good hours of crap to burn. We didn’t plan the bonfire ahead of time; it just sort of happened. I blame the boos, the lack of women, and of course, the fact that there was no pre-determined safe distraction.



  (This is what happens without adult supervision)

And most importantly, I learned that as long as you bring a six-pack of beer, you’re free to sample generously. That’s the best part about having friends who brew – free beer! For us non-brewers, at least. Seems obvious, but like any master craftsman, brewers not only love to create – they love to share. Yes, brewing is a costly and time-consuming hobby that can haunt your living soul as you tinker, tinker, tinker with your formula, striving for hoppy perfection. So if I can add to my buddies’ satisfaction by flashing a stout-stached smile and providing well thought out constructive notes such as, “tastes great!” then all the better. And if all it costs me is a sixer and mileage, well that’s pretty cool.


I plan to mooch off of KC Nanobrews for as long as they’re around, which I hope is forever, and always in my home city. I strive to understand even the most basic elements of the craft, so the next time I share these stories, they comes from a voice of confidence. Even if that means drinking less and taking more notes.


OK, that last part is completely unrealistic. Let’s start with this: I strive to drink less Miller Lite. That I think I can do.

Brew Away!

(I don’t know if brewers actually say this, but I’m pretty sure they do)


Check out this list of KC Nanobrews concoctions for Chad and Amy's wedding. To learn more about this incredible social club, follow them on Facebook.  


Thursday, January 17, 2013

Bike MS 2.0: 0 for 2 - Part 2


The Stunning Conclusion to My Fateful Ride...


(AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!)


When you last heard from me, I was shuffling out of the hospital, clad in spandex and a woman's scarf and in search of medication. If this seems odd to you, you may want to revisit part one of this odyssey, found here...

Continuing on!

Part IV: Get Me Drugs
And fast!

Much like the last time she had to care for me (tonsillectomy), the first task at hand was drugs - I needed pain pills like I needed to get out of my spandex shorts: bad. I couldn’t expect to call the doctor until Monday morning at the earliest and my collarbone was broken so badly that I could quite literally see, feel and hear it – a nasty triumvirate of sensory bombardment.



Of course, as luck had it, this task would prove challenging as well. For starters, I still had no insurance card. As helpful as they were – and I must reiterate that they were extremely kind and helpful – the Bike MS volunteers weren’t yet able to track down my backpack, which contained my wallet and therefore my insurance card (as a side note, does this mean that I will need to add “insurance card” to my in-case-of-emergency stash when I ride?) It was in Lawrence, and I’d either have to have a friend bring it back with them or pick it up at the Bike MS headquarters on Monday. I called Walgreens and fortunately they found me in their system, so I could fill my script at the location close to my house. Minor success.



I resolved this dilemma while sitting in my dad’s truck – which I was luckily borrowing since my Saturn has a manual transmission – watching Melody chase after a stray dog that had just been hit by a motorist. Wearing her scarf because I was freezing (still no shirt, remember; spandex too), I was waiting in a parking lot, pathetically, I might add, while she inserted herself into one of those weird and uncommon situations that tested the true resolve of a Good Samaritan.



We saw a car stopped in the middle of an intersection close to our townhouse, a lady gesticulating awkwardly at something - a dog appeared; not just any dog, but a dog that had been violently struck by a car. Melody gave me puppy-dog eyes and I told her to pull into a parking lot so she could chase after it because no one else seemed to be doing anything but yelling or ignoring the situation entirely - as I secretly wanted to do, I’ll admit.


Off she went, across the street and, eventually, out of my sight. After the calls that fixed my pain pill situation, I grew agitated that, 1) she had yet to return and was no longer within visual contact, and 2) she had left the driver-side door open and the breeze was cutting through her lacy scarf (yes…I previously left out that the scarf was lacy), and 3) I was so cold that my teeth were chattering profusely. To move from one side of the truck to the other seem a monumental task, so I tried to fight the cold by attempting to fall asleep – keep in mind, the drugs were kicking in. No luck - terrible plan foiled - so I stepped outside, braved the chill, entered the driver’s seat, shut the door and turned the engine on. HEAT!



I was going to find her. Almost 30 minutes had passed by now and my mind – under the initial effects of the painkillers, mind you – was going to dark places. All I wanted to do was go home, pass out on the couch and forget about what happened. So I hopped into action. Of course after I used my left hand to awkwardly shift into drive and headed across the street, I immediately spotted her back where we had initially parked. That was my luck that day – I was a pawn in a shitty game of screw-that-guy-or-whatever.



While the accident (obviously) pushed the limits of the amount of physical pain my body could tolerate, the worst was yet to come. The you-stupid-idiot-what-the-hell-did-you-do’s were gnawing at my psyche as the day went on. I was home by 10:00 am, at which point I should have been roughly six hours from the finish line. In my mind, I knew exactly where I should have been at that exact moment pedaling and sweating and feeling the cold wind at my face; but instead I was drugged, bandaged, covered in a dinosaur blanket (yes, the one I’ve had since I was five), cuddling with my large-eyed and concerned dog. She always knows when I feel like crap.


(Nothing says consolation like an ice-pack, a slumbering dog and a 27-year old dinosaur comforter)


All day long, each hour that passed saw another mental pitchfork thrown at my brain, reminding me where I should have been at that time, what I should have been doing. Why only wearing boxers and a robe was taking the easy way out. I hated myself for not being able to let it go, and knew there was no point in trying. Today was going to suck, and nothing anyone could say would make it better.


(Day 1: Nice neck-tan) 

Then the calls came ringing in. I sent an email to Tommy and another rider – Jake – to let them know what had happened, and that in spite of the broken bone, I was okay (sounds funny to say, but it really could have been a lot worse). I felt obligated to get the word out there, knowing I’d receive a lot of attention about the accident, something I’m not comfortable with, and would prefer stay ahead of. Fatigued teammates and race finishers were all asking how I was and what had happened. Initially there was word – how, I have no idea – that I had recovered from a “minor” fall and continued on with the ride. I wanted to dispel any rumors early on, so that the weekend and my transition back to work went as easy as possible. Not that I’d be there anytime soon.



Once the calls subsided and the time I estimated my Lawrence arrival at had passed, a huge mental weight was lifted from me. I felt better now that I was no longer forced to dwell on the crap-pile that had been my day. I was drool-druggy with painkillers too, which helped, I imagine, and I had my dog and Netflix. What more could I ask for?



Part V: Recovery


Sleep was terrible! I awoke to a shooting pain in my, you guessed it – collarbone. I lay there on my back approximately three degrees rotated from the position in which I fell asleep, yet that was just enough for the bones to grind, alerting my brain once again to the fact that shit wasn’t right. My right hand carelessly attacked my nightstand in hope of a solution. I struggled, but eventually found and popped a few pills and lay there awake, waiting for them to kick in. I would drift in and out of if-you-can-call-it-sleep before ultimately resigning myself to getting out of bed. Even the transition from back-on-bed to feet-on-floor was laborious and painful. They don’t make pill strong enough…


And so it was that I would rise early with nothing to do, nowhere at all to go, feeling like crap and oh yeah, with bones grinding against each other. I was drooling from pain pills throughout the day, my dexterity went to hell and the only thing I had to look forward to was the next show on TV.


(Day 2: Lots of ice)

If you’ve never had a serious injury, you’re unaware of how much it affects the little things we all take for granted. Sure, I wouldn’t be able to throw a baseball for a few weeks. I accepted that - but that’s minor in comparison to how it really affected me. Try brushing your teeth with your off-hand. It sucks! What about getting dressed? Impossible without first bracing myself against a dresser, jumping up and down, twisting, rotating and using a bed for leverage. I challenge you to button a button with one hand – you’re off-hand. It also sucks! I convinced myself that if I went outside – which for the record I did not do often – I would carry a pen in my left hand, Bob Dole-style. Just makes things easier if people know that your hands are of no use.




(Day 3: Kind of feel like the bone wants to Aliens out of my body)

There are other, way more personal ways in which this injury affected - think anything hygienic. I will not go into detail, but will say this: you learn a lot about yourself when you have to do things one-handed, off-handed. You learn your limitations. You learn to prioritize. You learn that it’s okay to wear a robe, no shirt and gym shorts all the time, because there’s no reason not to. You learn more about yourself than should be legally possible.



And so the awkwardness went for four straight days until the orthopedic surgeon sliced my skin open, Humpty-Dumptied my collarbone back together and sealed them in place with a metal plate and screws he could very well have purchased from Ace Hardware. Though the pain was bad – intolerable at times – those first few days before the operation weren’t altogether terrible. At least I could shower normally. Sure, I had to hold my right arm in place with my left, splashing water and soap at random parts of my body, hoping to freshen up, but that was nothing compared to my bathing experience post-surgery.


Before Surgery: Welcome the Stache (for luck)


Just Before Surgery


Immediately After Surgery: Not really sure where I am


Recuperating


Scar-Bandage


Bathing after the operation involved a highly-complex system of carefully-placed towels, bowls and sponges. I had to “bucket-bathe” myself for the first time since my days in Nicaragua, however this time I had to do it one-handed (opposite-handed, to boot), in a small shower space and covering my massive wound with gauze. To say it was tricky was an understatement.



I had to be careful with the staples, though. That’s right, staples. Looks like they could have been purchased at Staples (lame joke, but whatever). When the doc sewed my skin back in place, he sealed the wound with staples. To understand what happened, take the stapler at your work desk and forcefully eject 15 of them into your shoulder. That’s the exact same thing that happened to me. Pretty sweet, huh?




Warning: Avoid this image if the previous paragraph made you uneasy!




(Once Again: AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!)


The good news was that the bone was healing properly. The surgery took two hours – one longer than expected, unfortunately for my dear, waiting mom – as the surgeon “fished” out bits of my bone and put them back in their normal place. It was a bad break, but not unusual enough to round up the medical interns. It just took a while. Upon shattering, the two main portions of my collarbone pushed past each other, criss-crossing and forcing my right side into a natural slouch (see the image below, for reference). The surgeon fixed that slouch and pieced the bone back together - the metal plate will do the rest.



(Before and After)

It was not a quick recovery process. The Cliff’s notes version goes something like this:

  • Crash my bike/break collarbone/curse the cycling Gods
  • Four days of swelling/uncomfortable is-my-bone-going-to-pop-out-of-my-skin line of self-doubt and questioning
  • Two hours of surgery – Yay! Bone is back in place
  • Fifteen days of “Don’t get the bandage wet or your arm will fall off!” Or thereabouts. Hello once again awkward bucket baths.
  • Shave chest and armpits due to “stink factor”. Not sexy.
  • Remove big bandage to reveal smaller bandage – can now feel staples with finger. For the record, they feel like staples.
  • Three more days of bucket baths before removing second bandage
  • Staples removed. First “real” shower since the surgery feels amazing. Skin around wound gritty from weeks of no cleaning.
  • Two months of no biking, no running, no lifting, lots of annoying Melody. 

(The after-after)

And that was it. After two months, I began lifting light weights to start the physical recovery process. I wasn’t given any special physical therapy exercises – just told to take it slow and easy. After two months of absolute inactivity, I could definitely do that.



It was nice to have my mom up in KC for a few days after the surgery, helping me with minor chores and giving me someone to talk to. To prove that I could be productive, I watched every single episode of Twin Peaks and sometimes heated up leftover Chinese food all by myself. When I took the dog out, I wore gym shorts, a robe and no shirt – something I’m sure the neighbors appreciated.



I didn’t leave the house much, since anything I’d do would involve moving, walking, gesturing, saluting or some other movement of the arm that could potentially cause pain. I talked with my dad quite a bit, as well as with friends, but otherwise I became a temporary hermit. It wasn’t a terrible experience, just super-boring. Super-super boring. With a capital “B”!



Now three months out, my scar is massive and sexy. The pain is all but gone, only popping up if I sleep wrong (i.e. on it) or take direct contact. I can now run, bike (though no way I do that until next year) and lift weights, which I’m doing if for no other reason to build up the muscle by the bone. I will forever need to be scanned at airports and other security checkpoints, which is kind of a downer, since I’ll never be able to claim again that I’m being racially discriminated against.



I’m still reminded of the accident every time I see my shirtless body in the mirror. I suppose this will continue until I face my fears and begin biking again. Hopefully I learn from this. Too often I become distracted – whether it’s biking, driving, running, walking at work with my laptop – thinking ahead, instead of paying full attention to what’s happening right NOW…in the moment. This accident proves that shiny objects in my brain could be more damaging than they appear. So the question is, will I change?




Forget that, the better question is, will I finally complete a century ride? I’m sitting at zero for two, with the second outcome significantly worse than the first. Here’s what I think will happen. I’ll sign up for the race again, late of course. I’ll train just as poorly as I trained this year, or less. I’ll be nervous as hell when the gun goes off and the race begins. Pedaling past the starting line, I’ll tell myself to put last year’s race out of my mind. Then, when my GPS device hits the 4.0 mile mark, I’ll look over at the side of the road, nod my helmet in respect, search for the same discarded beer can, keep on pedaling, and…And…And?


Only time will tell.


Sunday, January 13, 2013

Dale Murphy: The Consummate Atlantan

No Love from Cooperstown



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




It's my sad duty to report that our (well, mostly my) beloved Dale Murphy was once
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





"I can't imagine Joe DiMaggio was a better all-around player than Dale
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.