I would like to believe I’ve agonized this much over the kind of ballots that are really supposed to matter, the ones you fill out on the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November, the ones that decide mayors and congressmen and governors and presidents. I’d like to think I’ve spent more brain power weighing in on one side or another of a referendum.
I’d like to say that. I would.
Except I never have. This is three years now that I have received my ballot for the Hall of Fame and had to confront a name that represents so much more than a name; it represents an entire era of baseball, an entire period that has been soaked in tar and dipped in feathers and dragged around the pig sty for a lap or two.
The name: Mark McGwire.
The first year, I left my check mark off the shadowed box that appears to the left of the names of the candidates. Last year, I thought about it, and I thought about it, and I thought about it some more, and I decided to fill in the shadowed box with a check mark, the same way 117 other voters did. We were a distinct minority, only 21.9 percent, when 75 percent is needed. I trust — or hope — the other 78.1 percent agonized as much as I did over this vote, the way many of the names on a ballot make you agonize.
These are some of the names on this year’s ballot, for instance, that can inspire hours of saloon and water cooler debate if you have the time to argue, defend and rebut: Bert Blyleven, Andre Dawson, Barry Larkin, Edgar Martinez, Jack Morris, Dale Murphy, Dave Parker, Tim Raines, Lee Smith. And that doesn’t even include Don Mattingly, whose support wanes more and more every year. Just those other nine names, though: you could argue either side, in or out, just in or just out, and you would have an awful lot of right on your side. And I would imagine you could think about it again every couple of months and change your mind. Those are nine borderline players in my book. Any would be worthy. None might be. Ask me again in a couple months.
And there is McGwire. This is his fourth year on the ballot. It is my third year with a ballot. His percentage has dipped, but that’s according to last year’s totals, when many voters were still furious about Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds. A year has passed. We have a better handle about the so-called “Steroid Era,” and what it meant, and what it means. It is a question I’ve obsessed about for years. And here is where I sit on it right now (which could well be different from where I’m sitting a year from now):
We didn’t catch most of these guys in the act. We didn’t worry about policing them then. Baseball didn’t worry about policing them then. So why is it now the responsibility of Hall voters to do the police work? I hate to be the one to say this, but we know very little. We have strong suspicions. There’s been some marvelous reporting. And you know the only people of note who have had their hands caught in the cookie jar?
Rafael Palmeiro, Andy Pettitte, Manny Ramirez and Alex Rodriguez. And as we become more familiar with our post-Steroid Era world, we have settled into what amounts to a compact of forgiveness with those who admit their sins (Pettitte and A-Rod), and there are many who now say they would have used Palmeiro as a hedge against “compiler” candidates anyway, even if he’d never shaken his index finger at Congress.
Barry Bonds has been convicted of nothing, nor has he confessed to anything. Neither has Clemens. Neither has Sammy Sosa. Neither has almost every guy about whom we nod knowingly, while side-glancing his numbers. And that, for better or worse, includes Mark McGwire. Do I think he did steroids? That isn’t the issue. Do I know for an absolute certainty? No one does.
So I am forced to vote on the merits, and on the numbers. And here is what you conclude: for a large chunk of his career, no man was as dominant at the skill of hitting baseballs for absurdly long distances as Mark McGwire. And he did hit 586 home runs. He did hit 70 in 1998. And whether we want to acknowledge it or not, he did help bring baseball back from ruin that summer with his chase of Roger Maris.
He gets my check mark again this year. I suspect I’ll do the same for Clemens and Bonds, even Sosa, when their time comes.
Unless I change my mind again. And what can I tell you? I might.
Mike Vaccaro’s e-mail address is michael.vaccaro@nypost.com. His book, “The First Fall Classic,” is in bookstores everywhere.
Colts’ decision should be easy
I have to admit, this is something I don’t understand, and never will:
Why is the Colts playing “to win” today even an issue?
Why is this even a debatable subject? Have we really reached a point in our society where it’s no longer desired — or even required — to aspire to reach an all-time record? Hasn’t anyone paid attention to the glory the ’72 Dolphins have basked in the last 37 years? Didn’t anyone notice how much the ’07 Pats reveled in being the first team to push the envelope to 18-0?
And doesn’t anyone remember how this all played out for the Colts the last time such questions swirled around them, when they lost three of their final four games in 2005, including their playoff opener?
The whole notion of protecting players in the NFL is absurd; guys get hurt. Sometimes it kills a season. We can talk all we want about what’s gone wrong with the Jets, but do you think things might have been different if Leon Washington and Kris Jenkins were still playing? Injuries happen. And you know when they tend to happen most? When you’re obsessing over them.
You know Peyton Manning would play them all to win, and you know if it was simply a matter of big-footing the coach, he’d have already broken Jim Caldwell’s toe. But it’s probably Bill Polian’s call, and Manning’s cleats might not be quite that big. Although they should be. They should go for it. And it’s crazy that this might even be a question. Crazy.
VAC’S WHACKS
* Gosh, I don’t know about you, but I’m flabbergasted that it turns out that Brett Favre and Brad Childress maybe aren’t quite as close as Pitt and Clooney in those Danny Ocean movies.
* Watching Derrick Rose’s wizardry the other night, I couldn’t stop thinking about what a young Clyde Frazier might have done to try to cool him off. And while he never actually said it on the MSG broadcast, I have to believe Clyde was thinking the same exact thing.
* Jeez, are we really about to live in a world where Nick Saban has two championship rings? Really?
* Kelvim Escobar? What, did Brien Taylor change his phone number?