Me, Raffy and Greg, all the way to the Hall.Last Saturday, suffering from a mild stomach ache, I sat myself comfortably on my living room couch and watched six straight hours of television. A personal modern day record (I’m sure trumped by a grade-school sick day), I started my own personal TV-Watching Hall of Fame. But what should qualify?
As I contemplated my achievement and its significance, the Cubs were closing out Greg Maddux’s 300th victory with an 8-4 win over the Giants.
Suddenly it was all in perspective. While Maddux is one of only 22 pitchers to reach the 300 mark, a sacred plateau, many have watched six straight hours of TV. Some even watch six straight hours every day and on a good day, might watch 10 or even 12. So, with my six hours a wash, where should I set the benchmark for achievement in the future?
Maddux has been a quality pitcher for most of his 19-year career and has four Cy Young awards. My endurance and consistency are certainly under question seeing as I didn’t even turn on the television on Sunday and haven’t watched more than two straight hours since.
But if I watched a substantial amount of TV every Saturday, but never watched TV on Sunday, does that discredit the original achievement?
In order to properly assess my terms of TV-watching achievement, greater questions must be answered. Is greatness a measure of consistent accomplishment or momentary brilliance?
Sandy Koufax was dominant for only six years, but for those six years, he is remembered as one of the greatest pitchers to have ever lived. On the flip side of the coin, Rafael Palmeiro has never been a top-five player, never been regarded as elite, yet durability and consistency alone will earn him a place in the Hall.
With the outlook grim, simplicity may be the answer. Rafael Palmeiro hit 500 home runs and as a result, he might be a lock. But what about Fred McGriff? As he wanders from team to team, chasing that magic number, stuck at 493, should the line be so bold? Does that mean if I watch 10 hours and 58 minutes of television, it should be forgotten for falling short of 11?
If it weren’t for a strike-shortened ’94, McGriff would have his 500 and he’d have reserved his place in the museum of greatness. Without a second (or maybe 20th) wind, McGriff will never reach the milestone and Palmeiro will be giving his Hall acceptance speech while the Crime Dog watches in his Lay-Z-Boy wondering why 500 home runs means so much when he could have just taken a few (more?) steroids and been there himself.
Baseball never shies from debate, whether it’s trying to determine whom the A’s should start for the first game of a playoff series or whether Barry Bonds or Mark McGwire could hit the ball farther off a tee. The Hall of Fame is the mother of all debates, the womb of baseball history; it’s all great baseball debates rolled into one: who’s better?
Maddux is a marvel of pitching science, one of the few in the 300 club who won while lacking overpowering stuff. He’s outsmarted hitters for almost 20 years, always one step ahead. But for some, the line between great and good isn’t so clear.
Ken Griffey Jr. dancing around the outfield in Seattle or Pedro Martinez in the playoffs, shutting down the Indians out of the bullpen, that was greatness. Rafael Palmeiro never had a shining moment, a dominant year; why should he have a memorable career?
My TV-Watching Hall of Fame was put to bed before it truly woke up, but an important lesson was learned. Trying to quantify greatness through arbitrary standards can leave you with too many memories of a stomach ache and a lot of wasted time.