His Majesty Maddux

(Editor’s Note:  While in the process of composing this latest missive, I received the results of my latest MRI scans.  I thought to abandon this topic in favor of discussing these, which is, after all, the main function of this blog.  However, I decided to finish this and address my latest cancer news in another edition of the blog.)

Major League Baseball made official a foregone conclusion this week when it elected former Cubs pitcher Greg Maddux to its Hall of Fame in a near-unanimous vote.  (Kept from being unanimous by a few all-about-me nerds who will fade into oblivion soon enough.)  It’s a bittersweet day for Cubs fans, who found the most brilliant symbol of their perennial loser status right in their faces once again.  Greg Maddux is the personification of the stupidity, arrogance, and amateurishness that has fueled the longest championship drought in the history of professional sports.

I don’t have to (and if I had any charity in my heart for Cubs fans, wouldn’t) repeat how everyone in the world – with the exception of Cubs senior management – knew exactly what the Cubs had in Maddux.  Or how the Cubs had Maddux signed in the spring of 1992 but opted to show the world their poker skills by pulling the offer off the table until after the ’92 season.  Or how that gamble by the Cubs power brokers paid off when Maddux won his first Cy Young Award at the end of that season.  Or how Maddux gave the Cubs one more chance to recover from this colossal screw-up by setting a deadline for their final offer, and how clueless old white man arrogance prevailed still once more when the Cubs decided to tender their offer to Maddux one hour beyond his deadline, and were somehow shocked when Maddux stuck to his guns and was already walking out the door when the offer came.  No, I’ll spare you the pain of remembering all of that.

Maddux’s amazing career includes four straight Cy Young Awards, 17 straight years winning 15 or more games, and 18 Gold Gloves.  He was also typically the among the top hitting pitchers in the league, sporting batting averages in the mid-.200’s while most hurlers never even saw triple digits.  So on top of being the best pitcher in the league, he was also the best hitting pitcher and fielded his position better than anyone else.  In other words, he was a BALLPLAYER.  But Maddux had an additional quality that set him apart from the rest.  He was cool.

Cool is a quality has all but vanished from the chest-thumping, in-your-face, arrested adolescent world of celebrity of today.  Miles Davis composed The Birth of the Cool, but nobody in today’s world would dig it.  Robert Mitchum or Steve McQueen would have no place in today’s world.  But Maddux had it – the cool of the assassin.

An incident I witnessed at Wrigley Field early in Maddux’s career made an indelible impression.  Maddux walked a veteran player with a high inside pitch.  This player squawked loudly at Maddux all the way down the first base line; I think perhaps he even strayed toward the mound but was intercepted by the first base coach.  Maddux stood with his back to home plate ignoring this entire demonstration.  The next batter dug into the batter’s box as Maddux settled into the set position to face him.  Suddenly, Maddux whirled and hurled a pickoff throw to first base – except that his throw went straight as a rifle shot to the head of the base runner, who escaped a certain skull fracture by diving into the dirt.  Whatever combativeness this player formerly displayed was gone as he picked himself off the ground, dusted himself off, and stared out in amazement at this brash young kid, who by now had his back to him again as he readied for his next pitch.  I guess the guy had never before had to escape a brush-back pitch while standing on first base.  I just watched this and thought, damn, this kid is bad-ass.

Cool remains a quality that is difficult to define.  Attempting to define it is decidedly un-cool.  It is no longer even an attractive quality in our narcissistic world of excessive introspection and self-obsession (he says, as he writes a blog that is mostly about himself).  Face it, you either got it or you don’t, and few have it.  Maddux always had it and always will.  I’ll bet he made the Hall of Fame leave a message while he finished his golf game.

Until next time, enjoy this scan of my autographed Greg Maddux rookie card, obtained and signed in person after an evening of boozing (and smoking) with Tom Glavine, David Justice, and several other Braves in a hotel bar many years ago.  OK, Maddux didn’t actually join the party, but he was kind enough to sign and return this card after I left it with the desk clerk for him.  Admittedly un-cool, but I’m glad to have the card.

GOODBYE AMIGOS!  SEE YOU SOON!  HAHA!!