Mind you, the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown was always a dubious institution.
You know who's NOT in the Hall? I mean, besides Larry David?
Abner Doubleday, that's who, the reason the Hall is there in the first place. Not even MLB could swallow that lie about itself.
About the best thing to be said regarding the place is that its location was useful in helping to bail out a lovely little, upstate town at the nadir of the Great Depression. Since then, though, it's been largely run by the horsey set and other, pretentious local potentates who also know and care as little about the game as old Abner.
I'm not an HOF purist, and I think the debates about whether or not this individual or that one should be in there are kind of fun.
Was Rabbit Maranville a good enough fielder to make up for his powerless, .258 lifetime batting average? (No.)
Should Phil Rizzuto be in when you consider not just his playing days, but also his long career as a beloved broadcaster—not to mention his poetry? (Yes!)
Let the arguments rage. This is baseball, not whether to go to war over Ukraine.
But when it comes to putting in Big Juicy, while leaving out guys like Bonds and Clemens who had HOF careers before they ever juiced, it's absurd. Not to mention the wholly absurd decision to put Piazza in—after punishing him for five years.
Enough. It's not supposed to be the "Guys Who Weren't Dicks to Me Hall of Fame."
Putting in Ortiz makes a farce of the Hall of Fame—just as baseball writers helped make a farce of baseball itself over the last 30 years, by turning a blind eye to the steroid use that was all around them.
This is one more nail in the coffin for objective truth, in a country where, increasingly, it just matters whose side you're on.
It used to be said that Walter O'Malley bought off writers from New York's many papers with free meals and booze. Today, apparently, the price has gone down. What passes for sports media can now be bought for a nice smile and a sunny personality.
What a cheap date.