Baseball Hall of Fame thinks fans are easily confused by two-syllable names

Big problems with the Baseball Hall of Fame plaques unveiled today.

The obvious issue is that neither of the two guys representing the Mets are wearing the Mets logo on their plaque caps.

Tom Glavine as an Atlanta Brave? Seriously? As if any one remembers Glavine’s time down South. Remember, earned No. 300 as a Met.

Then you have Joe Torre, who, for some odd reason, is shown wearing a Yankees cap. Right city, wrong cap.

You’d think the Hall would want to salute the next-to-last player-manager in baseball, a highlight of Torre’s tenure in Flushing, rather than guiding a number of steroid-soaked Yankee teams to ill-gained championships.

Torre would  be wise to simply slip those trophies over to the more deserving teams, especially the one from 2000.

But I’m not even talking about those slights.

The Hall, apparently, thinks baseball fans are easily confused by common two-syllable names.

In the past, Hall of Fame plaques would list a player’s full name. If necessary, it the plaque also included a nickname.

Let’s use plaques from some other former Mets misidentified with lesser teams as examples.

Sometimes this was essential, as with Lawrence Peter Berra, “Yogi.”

Sometimes it was more playful, as with Willie Howard Mays, Jr., “The Say Hey Kid” and Gary Edmund Carter, “Kid.”

But in recent years, for some odd reason, the Hall decided that fans needed to see in quotes shortened versions of very common names.

Glavine’s plaque reads Thomas Michael Glavine, “Tom.” Torre’s reads Joseph Paul Torre, “Joe.” Tony LaRussa’s plaque reads Anthony LaRussa, “Tony” and Bobby Cox’s reads “Robert Joe Cox, “Bobby.”

Greg Maddux’ plaque is a total mess, with Gregory Alan Maddux, “Greg” “Mad Dog.” Yes, two nicknames. Imagine -- a guy named Gregory getting called "Greg." Didn't see that one coming.

Frank Thomas benefits from having a one-syllable first name, with his plaque reading Frank Edwin Thomas, “The Big Hurt.” You just know there was a heated conference call discussion where someone debated that “Frank” should be added along with “The Big Hurt.”

Enlighten me, Hall of Fame. After 75 years of hanging plaques on the wall, why was this suddenly necessary?

It seems that 2001 was the last year when basic, common shortenings were not included, as Dave Winfield’s plaque simply calls him David Mark Winfield without being followed by “Dave.”

There were a bunch of years with one-syllable names like Ryne and Barry, Dennis and Paul and Bruce.

Then we started getting Tony Gwynn’s plaque including “Tony” and “Mr. Padre,” Calvin Edwin Ripken Jr. with “Cal.”

Was there confusion in the past? Do people walk by the Michael Jack Schmidt plaque and wonder if it’s that’s the same Mike Schmidt who played all those years for the Phillies? Could Roland Glen Fingers be the guy with the mustache known as Rollie?

And in an example near and dear to our heart, George Thomas Seaver is identified as such without “Tom” and we all still can figure out who he is.

Hey, Hall of Fame – baseball fans are smart people. Give us some credit!

New Baseball Hall of Famer Frank Thomas and the 'magical, misty night at Tiger Stadium'

Tim Raines and Frank Thomas at Tiger Stadium

We've told this story before, but it's worth repeating as we celebrate the election of our non-Met hero Frank Thomas and Met Tom Glavine to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Will and I were huge Frank Thomas fans even before I came into possession of the glorious sphere now known as "The Frank Ball."

The slugger came onto the scene just around the time both of us had moved to Flint. And we believed the tall first-baseman with the mega-watt smile would be the person to finally lead the moribund White Sox to better things.

We both had the life-sized poster of Frank — his last name was unnecessary by now — gracing our homes and collected his cards.

But actual contact with our hero was elusive.

We were on the field before the final game at Comiskey Park, rubbing elbows with Sox catcher Ron Karkovice and reliever Scott Radinsky, but Frank was nowhere to be found.

A year later we waited on a long cattle-chute autograph line at the White Sox Winterfest, snaking back and forth while Frank signed, smiled and posed with other fans — only to have the slugger heart-breakingly replaced with other signers as we inched closer. Minnie Minoso and then-manager Gene LaMont are nice guys, but we wanted Frank.

And at one Tigers-Sox game, an early afternoon shower washed out batting practice, leaving players lots of time to sign autographs. Two-thirds of the Sox signed a ball for me — but Frank remained in the clubhouse.

So when the White Sox were in Detroit for a series with the Tigers in early 1992, we weren’t discouraged by the showers that fell throughout the day.

In fact, we liked going to Tiger Stadium in such conditions. The vast majority of the lower deck is covered, and the rain kept a lot of people home, especially early in the season. We’d buy the cheapest tickets and sit pretty much wherever we wanted.

My favorite spot was section 224, right behind the visitors’ dugout on the first-base side and with easy access to a concession stand. That night Will and I were joined by friends John and Emily — my wife wanted no part of damp, cold nights at the ballpark.

There was a miserable drizzle that fell through most of the night, light enough to keep playing and wet enough to either send people home early or keep under cover. We sat toward the back of the section, bundled up and well under the overhang.

I wore a 1980s-era Sox cap — with a purpose, of course.

The new, black cap with the Old English lettering was all the rage, even with people who didn’t follow baseball. I wanted to show I was an actual Sox fan — such things are important.

I’ve followed the team as a secondary favorite since Tom Seaver played for them from 1984 to 1986, and had to stand out from the bandwagon-jumping cap-buyers. The tri-color 1980s cap, with the futuristic S-O-X, is so brutally ugly that only a real fan would be caught with such a thing. Keep in mind, this was long before the retro craze that made all things ugly popular again.

By later in the game, the drizzle diminished into more of a mist and there was probably less than a thousand people in the stands. Emily and I decided to move down to the row of seats directly behind the Sox dugout during the eighth inning. The orange-capped Tiger Stadium ushers had long-since lost interest in chasing seat-hoppers.

Frank was playing first base, so we were able to get a close look. After the inning ended Frank walked back toward the dugout and glanced up. We weren’t hard to see since all the other seats were empty. That, and we were screaming his name.

I think Frank heard us.

I think people in the left field stands probably heard us.

He looked up, flashed the mega-watt grin.

We had made eye-contact with Frank. Yes!

We were not leaving those seats.

The Tigers went meekly in the bottom of the ninth. Out No. 3 was a routine grounder to short with an easy throw to our man Frank at first. Game over.

Walking back to the dugout, Frank looked up, making eye contact a second time. Yes!

Then the unthinkable happened.

As he got closer, Frank took the gameball from his glove. "HEY!" he said in my direction, then tossed the ball — a soft arc through the mist to my outstretched left hand.

It took a nano-second for the gloriousness of the moment to sink in. Frank Thomas, the elusive Frank Thomas, had just given me a ball that ended a Major League game.

I remember yelling "Thanks, Frank!" and some guy saying "Hey, can I have that?" As if.

I’d once snagged a foul ball at a New Britain Red Sox game, and had a batting practice ball from the Rochester Red Wings from when I was on the field for an interview. Valued treasures, to be sure. But this one was special.

Frank’s career with the Sox had ups and downs, but he had an impressive career, with two Most Valuable Player awards and more than 500 homers. Congrats to the baseball writers for getting it right and enshrining Frank on his first try. (And a loud boooo for continuing to deny Mike Piazza.) The game ball is enshrined in plastic with a card from that year, an permanent exhibit in the baseball room of what has come to be known as the "magical, misty night at Tiger Stadium."

Cheering Frank Thomas, charming security and confronting Derek Jeter

We don’t set out to have adventures. Stuff just happens when Will and I get together for a ballgame.

You have to remember that Frank Thomas is one of our favorite players. He was a slugging rookie for the White Sox – whom both of us claim as a secondary team – and came up the year we were hired at the Flint Journal and became friends.

Of course, the off-told story of the magical misty night at Tiger Stadium only sealed the deal.

So Will grabbed tickets the day the Sox announced they were retiring The Big Hurt’s number on Aug. 29. And the opponent for this destined-to-be-glorious day? That would be the Evil Empire. Will certainly has no love for the Yankees, and my open loathing is legendary.

This day is best told with photos, and in multiple parts.

We arrived at the park bright and early because the team announced with was distributing Frank bobble heads, and we didn’t want to leave empty handed. An hour before game time, the line was already massive.

This brought back unpleasant memories of a Sox WinterFest, when sought Frank’s autograph and waited and waited in line, only have Frank replaced by two other signers as we were within two cattle-chute turns. No offense to then-manager Gene LaMont and the legendary Minnie Minoso, but our disappointment was immeasurable.

We did not want a repeat, and were only somewhat comforted by the stacks and stacks of bobble head cases on the other side of the rail. This fear would not go away until a bobbling giant Frank head with the mega-watt smile was in our hands. We passed through the gates and obtained without incident.

Here’s where things get a little ugly. The Sox have a lame policy that limits people with upper deck tickets to the upper deck. This stinks, because it’s not like we’re trying to steal seats. We like to get a look at batting practice and check out all the cool features in the stadium, very few of which are in the upper reaches of the park which is among the highest and steepest in baseball.

Having experienced this segregation last year, we knew that we could indeed mingle with the hoity toity people below by going to the guest services window and asking for a shopper’s pass.

Upon our banishment to the upper deck, we immediately went to the window and asked for the pass. I assumed this was a mere formality.

“It’s too busy now,” the power-tripping clerk said. “Come back after the fourth inning.”

Both of us realized that fighting with this guy was pointless. But we would not be denied, instead relying on our smarts and charm. Being denied was not going to be an option.

First we went to the guy working the elevator. He said we couldn’t go on, but if we walked down the endless ramps on Gate 3, we might be OK.

After descending, we came face to face with a kindly woman, and told our tale of woe. We just wanted to go to the team store, see the statues, then head back up to our seats. First she said, “Sorry, guys.” But I said we were told by the guy at the top of the ramps that we could do this if we walked all the way down. I looked as pitiful as possible, clutching my Frank bobble box to my chest, and looked wistfully beyond at the field level concourse. Sniff.

“OK, you can go.”

We scooted away before she changed her mind, and headed right for the centerfield area.


The Sox have a bunch of cool things out there. There’s the famous shower -- and it works, so be careful unless you want to get soaked.

Then there are a number of statues of Sox greats. Unlike the Tigers, the Sox have these at ground level where fans can touch them and pose and get an up-close view.
Minnie Minoso is a Sox hero, and we were thrilled to meet him -- even though we were waiting for Frank. The Minoso statue is pretty sweet.


We liked the detail on the Carlton Fisk statue, including the logo on the batting helmet. Naturally we had to recreate the infamous confrontation with Deion Sanders.

There are statues of Nellie Fox and Luis Aparicio attempting to turn a double play. I say attempting, becuase I am clearly safe.
We shunned the statue of former owner Charles Comiskey. How come Bill Veeck doesn't get a statue. Probably because Veeck would never stand for the way upper deck fans are treated at this ballpark.

There's a concession area high above the batters' eye in centerfield. Jim Thome reached it with not one, but two epic blasts.

Then we moved into the Fundamentals area. You are supposed to have a kid with you to get in this area, and it’s strictly enforced at the upper deck entrance. But adults in the field level can walk in un-kidded, yet another injustice.

Se we entered from below, and it’s pretty cool. Kids can try to race a giant cutout of Scott Posednick, and he apparently loses more races than a minor league mascot. There are batting cages and a pitching area where you try to knock down a moving cutout of a Sox catcher with your fastball.

Mickey is the sidewalk art from this year's All-Star Game in Anaheim.

There’s also a little field where you can field grounders. This looked like a lot of fun, but we didn’t want to push our luck any more than we already had.

Finally we made our way back to the upper deck for lunch. I will give the Sox credit here, they produce the best-smelling hot dogs ever, with large grills piled high with sizzling onions. And the entire concourse is decorated with photo murals with key players in Sox history, like Tom Seaver, represented twice.
Our attempted banishment to the upper deck was not without pleasures. The dogs and onions smelled wonderfully, and our grillers had a lot of nice things to say. The murals were worth exploring, and we found at least two references to Tom Terriffic.


Having secured both a victory over oppression and lunch, we settled into our seats, which were in the highest, deepest part of the ballpark, in fair territory in left field. No matter, as we were happy to be there.

Sadly, the sound system in our section was not working, and it was tough to clearly hear the on-field celebration. Lots of Frank’s former teammates were on hand, to wish him well, and his portrait on the outfield wall was revealed, as well as his framed jersey with No. 35, never to be worn by another member of the White Sox.



It was tough to hear what Frank was saying as he addressed the fans. He seemed to get kind of weepy, which was nice. I’m also pretty sure that he thanked Will and me by name. We could have asked people in sections with a functioning sound system if they heard Frank mention us, but we didn’t want to risk disappointment, as we were having too much fun.

Frank then threw the ceremonial first pitch to Carlton Fisk, and it was time for the game against the Yanks and the vile Derek Jeter.

Clearly, we needed to make a statement of sorts, and our treatment of Jeter will be detailed in the next post.

So much more than another vacant lot in Detroit

A pre-Opening Day visit to Tiger Stadium for a story in 1991 allowed access to all kinds of places we'd never again get to -- like the visitor's bullpen.

I want to send out a quick word of thanks to two folks who linked to the post about Will and me trespassing, err, paying tribute to what remains of one of our favorite ballparks, Tiger Stadium.

Paul Lukas of the always amazing Uniwatch , who linked to us on Monday, which led to someone sending us to Craig Calcaterra of NBC Sports' Hardball Talk .

Together, they absolutely obliterated the previous daily hit record for the blog, kindly introducing us to a wide audience. I'm grateful.

And it also had me thinking about that great old stadium, and some of the adventures there that were told here long ago. I wanted to share some again in case any of those new visitors come back, and I'd love to hear their stories about what happened at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull.

First can only be one of my favorite baseball moments of all time, when we finally established contact with my favorite non-Met, Frank Thomas on what can only be descrbed as a magical, misty night.

I spent one of the best birthdays ever when colleague John Munson and I had the run of the entire stadium as crews prepared for Opening Day. We saw some amazing things that most fans never got to watch, and explored just about every inch of the ballpark.
I'm sure Dennis Eckerlsy was more graceful getting out of the visitor's bullpen.


Then I had one of my most memorable moments as a reporter on the field, interviewing Hall-of-Famers Frank Robinson and Jim Palmer, plus original Met Al Jackson in preparation for a story about Mickey Weston.

Andrew and I had a wonderful time in roaming around centerfield and getting tips from Tigers players and coaches.

We had some non-baseball adventures at the stadium, too. Kiss kicked off its 1996 reunion tour with a massive spectacle at Tiger Stadium that ended up being a little dangerous.

There were other memories, inclunding the first interleague game between the Mets and Tigers, and the day we met a number of Negro League stars and learned a valueable lesson.

Josh Pahigian listed Tiger Stadium as Place No. 68 in his
101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out and I used that opportunity to run some of my favorite photos of players we've seen play there over the years. The best part about Tiger Stadium was that you could get so close, especially in the bullpen area.

The James Earl Jones lines about baseball in Field of Dream were all true, especially the one about memories so thick that you practically have to swat them away. I thought about that as Will and I wandered around what to some people was a vacant lot at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull earlier this month. Truth be told, it is so much more.

Baseball place No. 68: Tiger Stadium

The famous flag pole that was in play out in centerfield was the only thing remaining of Tiger Stadium when I drove past the site along I-75 last month.

Detroit started tearing down the glorious stadium last season, leaving the portion stretching from dugout to dugout. But the plans to save even that part were, like so much of Detroit, cast aside.

Josh Pahigian taps the stadium at thet corner of Michigan and Trumbull as place No. 68 in his "101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out."

Tiger Stadium was my baseball home away from home, second only to Shea in terms of games attended. Adventures there have been all over these places.

Rather than recount those, I thought it would be more fun to share some photos from the vault. Back in 1990 and 1991 BC -- before children -- I'd make it to a game each homestand, arrive early and take photos. The bullpens were open, near the stands and fans could get within 10 feet of pitchers warming up.

I'd also try to snag some autographs, but got tried of the professional collectors pushing in and being rude.


One of my favorite shots. Rock Raines and Frank Thomas were posing for someone else, and I started snapping away.

Nolan Ryan and Goose Gossage came to town with the Rangers.


Roger Clemens in pre-bat-chucking days.



Brett Saberhagen


I'm not sure who is in the middle, but that's Dave Henderson -- another favorite -- and Reggie Jackson. Henderson always seemed to have fun with fans. I remember once yelled out, "Dave, you're on my Rotisserie team!" and he smiled and said, "I know! That's why I'm doing so well!"
George Brett

Cecil Fielder was chatting with Dave Stewart -- who shot me the evil eye.


Bob Welch

Mike Moore
Julio Franco

Ron Karkovice and Milt Cuyler were favorite players even though they weren't stars.

Baseball Place No. 7: The Green Monster

Getting the Green Monster ready before game in 1991.

There are many words you could have used to describe Shea Stadium. “Intimate” was not one of them.

It is, however, the perfect way to describe Fenway Park.

Technically, Josh Pahigian targets only one part of the ballpark, the “Green Monster” as stop No. 7 in his list of “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

But I don’t see how you could go without the entire Fenway experience. There’s a reason Ray Kinsella was sent to the Boston Red Sox’s home in “Field of Dreams.” It’s darn near perfect.

Boston was a little more than two hours away from our town in Connecticut, a longer drive, but do-able.

Rich overlooks the Fenway field.

Rich is a Boston native, attended hundreds of Fenway games and was happy to show me his stomping grounds during my three years there.

My only ballpark experiences at this point were Shea, the disaster in the Bronx and Busch Stadium in St. Louis. All were large, modern stadia surrounded by parking lots and garages with lights mounted atop multiple decks.

But we were practically on top of Fenway before I even saw it. Rich is a master at finding parking spaces tucked into the surrounding neighborhoods, and I vividly remember walking through the blocks surrounding the parks, past the bars and shops.

The streets were filled with vendors, and the smell of sausages, peppers and onion on huge grills beckoned. Rich pointed out that it is far better to enjoy the smell than to eat one of the sandwiches, especially with a two-hour drive home. He spoke from experience.

And there was a massive old souvenir store on Yawkey Way packed with some items that probably were sitting on those shelves for decades – my favorite kind! I picked up an ancient plastic snow globe that for some reason has a moving see-saw with a batter and pitcher. I treasure it.


We walked around the back to see the other side of the Green Monster, which was neither green nor monstrous from that angle. But we could readily see batting practice home runs flying both into and over the net.

We entered through a rear gate for our seat in the centerfield bleachers, and there was then-rookie Ellis Burks standing on the other side of a chain-link fence in the tunnel, happily talking to fans and signing autographs.

There’s really nothing to prepare for that first glimpse of the Fenway’s field from the inside. But I understood immediately when I read that colorful Athletics pitcher Joaquin Andujar reportedly stepped out of the dugout before his first game there and said, “What is this? Are we playing softball today?”

Rich took me on a tour, first of the seats behind the bullpens, where you can look through the slats into where the players sit. I was less than a foot from Phil Niekro, which I thought was really cool.

Rich pointed out the cool little quirks, such as the Morse code hidden in the lines of the scoreboard, and the spot at the end of the press box where owner Jean Yawkey watched the games.

We sat in a spot called “The Triangle, a small section of the bleachers framed by the mighty monster itself.

We often snagged seats either in that spot or near it, and I was always amazed at the interaction between players and the fans, who were so close to the action. There was heckling, but much of it was good natured and even funny. I remember Brett Butler of the Indians one night cracking up and turning around to smile and wink when he thought one was particularly good.

We were semi-regular Fenway visitors over the next three years, dividing our trips between Shea, Yankee Stadium and Fenway depending on who was in town.


Two visits in particular stand out.

I brought my wife to Boston for Valentine’s Day weekend the first year we were married, and it was brutally cold. Naturally, I had to show her Fenway, even though it was the dead of winter. And like Rich had taught me, I grabbed the first possible space I found.

“Aren’t we far from the stadium?” my wife asked.

“Trust me, we’ll never get one anywhere near the place. I speak from experience.”

Of course, every other time I experienced this was when there was a game, and we turned the corner to see block after block of empty street spaces.

Don't let the smile fool you. This person is in trouble.

I am reminded of this to this day. And I still apologize. It was really cold.

My last visit was memorable for different reasons. Fenway was the last stop on our 1991 ballpark tour with Will and our colleague John.

The game, against the Chicago White Sox, went back and forth, and of course included Frank Thomas, one of our favorite players.

Boston was up 8-7 when future Met Robin Ventura smacked his second homer of the game tie it in the ninth.

The game went to the 14th inning, when Ozzie Guillen opened with a single and was sacrificed to second. Ventura was walked, and Frank loaded the bases with a single. Dan Pasqua singled to bring Guillen and Ventura home. Then Frank, by no means a base-stealer was caught trying to swipe home.

Our man Frank goes up against Dennis Lamp.

Bobby Thigpen then came in and closed down Boston to give the Chisox a hard-earned win.

But we soon learned that Will's Civic (not John's) was broken into, with some thugs stealing one of his cameras and some of the film he had shot at some of our previous ballpark stops. It wasn’t pretty.

So I need to get back there one more time and leave Boston with a happier feeling.