Steve Crawford 1988 Fleer

Sometime in November 2021 I received this card from the Baseball Card Bandit (BCB):

 

I don't know Steve Crawford personally, but if you were to ask me who he was I'd know who you meant. Mustachioed guy who pitched out of the bullpen for the Boston Red Sox in the 1980s. As my brother Jay would say, "I don't know him, but I knooooooow him."

As you can tell, my credentials regarding Steve Crawford are solid.

If you were to ask me how many seasons he pitched in the Majors for, I'd say, "Three, probably. No more than four." But I'd be wrong. Steve Crawford pitched in parts of 11 Major League seasons, starting with a cup of coffee with the Sox in 1980 (two games) and finishing up with 33 games with the Royals in 1991.

That's not bad, he maxed out his Major League pension, which is a success. But was his career a  success? If you're going strictly by the numbers, probably not. When he was in Boston to stay (1984-87) he usually made more than 30 appearances and his ERA hovered around the 4.00 mark, which in the 80s wasn't great. 

But 11 seasons in the Majors is nothing to sneeze at. You don't get that many seasons by being a charity case or completely sucking.

On the other hand, if you look at the numbers Crawford gave up a bunch of hits, he gave up a bunch of walks and he didn't strike too many people out. When the Red Sox went to the World Series, Crawford was mostly used in mop-up duty and got crushed. His World Series 6.23 and gave up two home runs in four innings. He pitched in one game against the Angels in the ALCS that year.

After he bottomed out in 1987 (he was really bad: 5.33 ERA, 91 hits, 32 walks and only 43 strikeouts over 72.2 innings) he was released by the Sox. He was picked up by the Dodgers in 1988 and languished in AAA for the entire year while the big league club won the World Series. He spent his last two season in the Bigs with Kansas City.

I know that I talk about this a bunch in this blog, I'm probably a little obsessed, but I wonder what goes through the minds of players who are stuck on the Albuquerque Dukes (like Crawford was) knowing that you are a big leaguer who can help, but watching as the Dodgers are kicking ass all year. Do you hope they lose? Are you glad they won? Do you root for an injury?

I'm sure it's a bittersweet feeling when your team wins without you. Actually, it's not bittersweet, it sucks. I know that when I see a team that I was once on start to win, I get depressed. "Maybe they won because I was holding them back," I reflexively think. But the professional athlete doesn't think like that. The  professional athlete has confidence to spare. I would bet that they aren't sad, but that they think, "If I was there, we would have swept, not won in five games" or "We would have won 100 games instead of just 99."

For the pro athlete those slights turn into the fuel that they burn for the next year. "I'll show them. I'll be so good that they'll beg for me to come back ... and then I'll stick it up their asses!"

To be a professional athlete you need that chutzpah, that arrogance, than mentality that you--and you alone--can lead your team to victory. I'm sure years and years of being the no-doubt best player on every team you've been on, countless league MVP awards, Player of the Game trophies for every big game you played have stoked this flame (and it's probably why so many athletes are conservative Republicans or Libertarians). My guess is that Steve Crawford felt the same way.

When the professional athlete lets those hobgoblins of doubt creep in--like they do to every other mortal on this planet--that's when they lose their edge. Suddenly the batter didn't get lucky when he hit that homer off you, you start wondering if your fastball was good enough. And that's when you're sunk. You need a short memory and a lot of confidence to perform on the highest level and if you start gaining the former and losing the latter,  forget about it. You may as well start looking for a new job because you're done in the Bigs.

Aside from what I think I know about Crawford and his psyche, about the only other thing that I know about him is that his nickname was"Shag". It's not because he was a lady's man, but because he looked like he always needed a haircut. And with his bushy hair, his equally busy mustache and the reddish-brown color, Crawford also resembled the shag carpeting found in most 1970s dens and rec rooms. On this card, his looks screamed 1970s, despite it being the late 1980s. That's not what you want.

Another thing you don't want is to be part of Wade Boggs' Delta Force. When Boggs' paramour Margo Adams decided to tell all of her secrets, it wasn't just the Boston All-Star third baseman that were parts of her kiss-and-tell article in Penthouse. She talked about other members of the team, one of which was Crawford who along with Boggs and another teammate or two wanted to go back at pitcher Bob Stanley.

Apparently Stanley didn't fool around on the road and stayed loyal to his wife. This bugged Boggs for some reason and so him in the rest of the Delta Force got him hammered and paid a woman to seduce him and bring him back to his room. As Stanley and his lady were getting undressed and ready to rock, Boggs, Crawford and others broke in and started snapping pictures.

I'm not sure what they attempted to accomplish with this "mission" but I guess Stanely was pretty embarrassed. So great job, guys!

Crawford hung up his cleats after the 1991 season. He didn't pitch a ton, but when he did, he got hit hard. I bet those hobgoblins were bugging him big time by this point in his career. 

I'm not sure what the guy has done in the subsequent 30 years, but whatever it is, I'm sure he's doing fine. Whenever he's at his low point, Shag Crawford could always say that he was a Major Leaguer for ten year who got to pitch in the World Series and there is no way that you ever could think about doing that on your best day.

Otis Nixon 1992 Upper Deck and Mike Smithson 1990 Topps

Some time before September 5, 2017 I received these two cards from the Baseball Card Bandit (BCB):

2019 Notes: For some reason I didn't post either of these cards on Facebook. Though if you want to learn more about Otis Nixon, I just wrote a blog post on him. Click here for more! BTW, this is a much better card than the first one.

Since neither of these cards were ever shown on Facebook, and I'm not sure how I got them, I'm going back to writing with black text because it's easier on the eyes. When I think of Mike Smithson, I think of this guy:

I'm not sure why I get these two players confused. Stenhouse went to Harvard, which I thought was fascinating information when I was a kid ("There's a baseball team at Harvard? Wow!), Smithson did not. Both played for the Twins and then spent some time with the Sox, Stenhouse played 21 games for the 1986 team, Smithson appeared in 71. And that's another thing, Smithson was a pitcher, Stenhouse was an outfielder-DH. I will say that they both have pretty sweet mustaches, they're both Mikes and their last names begin with an "S". 

Now that I have that out of the way, Mike Smithson was the typical Red Sox pitcher for that era not named Roger Clemens. He didn't strike a lot of people out, he didn't seem to walk a ton of players, but man, did he give up a bunch of hits. He was a back of the rotation guy on a team filled with a lot of back of the rotation guys. 

There are a couple of interesting things about Mike Smithson:

• Although he didn't make his Sox debut until 1988, seven seasons into his career. He was drafted by Boston and sent to the Texas Rangers for the immortal John Henry Johnson. He hung around in Texas for two seasons before being shipped to the Minnesota Twins. 
• While with the Twins, he was on a lot of bad teams but once the team got good in 1987, he was still on the roster; making 20 starts. However, he was not added to the postseason roster and was released six weeks after the World Series. I assume he got a ring, but that still had to sting. Do you root for your team to win? I bet Smithson did because ...
• The only thing that I remember from his tenure as a Red Sox is that the team was playing someone (I can't recall which other team) and their pitcher was just beaning everyone in sight. So the pitcher dots another Sox player and Smithson comes running out of the dugout like he's leading the charge against this pitcher and the rest of the opposition. Only Smithson got about 20 steps out and realized that no one was behind him. He had to slink off the field. I bet that not only embarrassed the hell out of Smithson, but also probably made him want to punch his own teammates. That was a dick move by the Sox, which isn't surprising because it comes to find out, most of the players on those late 80s Red Sox teams were assholes. 

Anyway, he played two seasons for the Sox before being released in December, 1989. He signed with the Angels, but didn't get into a major league game in 1990. 

John Dopson 1990 Fleer and Bruce Hurst 1992 Pinnacle

On August 15, 2017 I received these cards from the Baseball Card Bandit (BCB):

On Facebook, I wrote: I've been very behind with my BCB cards. Here are two from a couple of weeks ago. 

I wrote a long piece about BruceHurst recently, this is the second Hurst card I've received from the BCB, which you can find it here.

2019 Notes: There isn't a lot more to say about Bruce Hurst than what I said about him in the last entry. I've never seen Pinnacle cards though. They seem like a nice enough card. 

The second card is John Dopson. He came over from the Expos along with Luis Rivera for Spike Owen and a minor leaguer. Dopson wasn't very good. All he needed to be was a cromulent third or fourth starter but he was unable to do so. That's John Dopson in a nutshell, good enough to be in the majors but not good enough to be counted on.

2019: The above is an unfair portrayal of Dopson. 

I don't recall much about John Dopson and the way he pitched, I only remember the name. There isn't much to go on in terms of information online about Dopson, but judging from his baseball-reference page, he might have been on the road to being a decent major league starter. The year before he was traded to the Sox, he had an ERA+ of 118, which is good. And while his K/9 ratio wasn't great, he looked okay. I'm sure people freaked at his won-loss record of 3-11, but who gives a shit about that. 

After he came over to Boston, a lot of his peripherals dipped a bit (ERA+ and K/9 especially) but his won-loss record improved to 12-8, which again, who gives a shit. However, at age 25, maybe this was the type of pitcher John Dopson was going to become: a nice, middle of the rotation innings eater. Every staff could use one of those. 

In the next two seasons, Dopson pitched a total of five games (four in 1990 and one in 1991) which leads me to believe that he was seriously injured. With what, I'm not sure, it's not on his Wikipedia page but he came back in 1992 and had a bad year. In 1993 he had a worse year and the Sox let him go. He was a California Angel for the 1994 and then retired.  

You try to look at a bunch of numbers and see if you can figure out what kind of person a ballplayer is and it's hard to do so. You try to remember what he was like when you watched him pitch and it's difficult to do so. Dopson seems like one of those players where things were going to start going his way and then he got injured. And the wasted potential of the 1990 and 1991 seasons probably never go away from his mind, even though we've long forgotten about it. 

Yes, I'm sure that there are a lot of advantages to being a pro ballplayer. But for the vast majority many never reach their fullest potential and I bet having to walk around with that notion in rattling around in your brain for the rest of your life has to be maddening. 

Dave Henderson 1990 Fleer

On March 19, 2017 I received this card from the Baseball Card Bandit (BCB):

On Facebook, I wrote: This is the latest from the BCB, return address of Ash, which is the name of the dorm I lived in while in college. 

I am not sure if the BCB knows what a significant person Dave Henderson is in my life. Which is odd considering that I never met the man and he played for the Sox for less than one calendar year. 

But Dave Henderson is the person solely responsible for my Red Sox fandom. He also taught me that it's never over (which has had both positive and negative connotations), which is a pretty important gift. 

Anyway he was the spark that brought the Sox back from the brink of sure elimination in 1986 and probably would have been the World Series MVP -- if not for the double edged sword of the it's never not over thing. That's how those things work, sports karma. 

He was caught in the midst of a youth movement a year later and was traded to the Giants for Randy Kutcher. He rejoined the AL and became a sorta star in those awesome A's mini dynasty of the late 90s. After he left Oakland he finished with the Royals and then became a broadcaster where he began his career in Seattle. He passed away about a year ago and honestly, that sucked. 

Your sports heroes are not supposed to die. If these larger than life men can die, that means you're going to die one day too. 

God speed Dave Henderson, you taught me to believe in comebacks and also that it's okay to let people know that your favorite magazine is Playboy -- a fact he disclosed in the 1987 Red Sox yearbook.

2019 Notes: I could probably write about Dave Henderson for a year. I can remember Game 5 of the 1986 ALCS like it was yesterday -- though it was really 33 years ago (shit, I'm old). The Sox had a magical season in 1986. From the rejuvenation of Jim Rice to another batting title for Wade Boggs to Roger Clemens going supernova, everything was breaking right for the Red Sox. 

Even manager John McNamara couldn't screw this up. At least that's what I thought. In the ALCS, the Red Sox ran into the California Angels and they were not backing down. The cast of characters that were beating up the Sox included Brian Downing, Bob Boone, Doug DeCinces, Bobby Grich and John Candelaria. All of these guys were in the twilights of their careers but they were still doing a lot of damage to the Sox. 

But no one was crushing Boston like Mike Witt. The guy was practically in unhittable and was cruising along into the ninth when he gave up a home run to Don Baylor. The Angels were still up by one run and held a three game to one lead. Gene Mauch, who already had a huge collapse on his resume, brings in Gary Lucas. He immediately plunks catcher Rich Gedman. Mauch freaks out again and brings in Angels relief ace Donnie Moore -- who probably wasn't completely warmed up yet -- who ends up giving up the home run to Henderson. The Angels tie it in the ninth and the Sox won it in in the 11th on a Henderson sac fly. 

The Red Sox end up crushing the Angels in the last two games in Boston and go on to the World Series against the Mets -- the less said about that, the better. 

While this game was unfolding, in Amesbury my father was cooking Sunday dinner. This never happened, but he didn't care about sports and he was furious because his dinner was getting cold, I believe it was steak, peas and mashed potatoes (all his favorites), because my mother, myself and my brother wouldn't leave the TV. 

"Eat your dinner," he yelled. "They're just going to lose like they always do!"

Almost immediately after he said that, Henderson lined his shot into left field and three-fourths of our house went nuts. There was no way that we were leaving the den now and our dinner got colder and colder, while my Dad got angrier and angrier. Once the game was over, we came into the kitchen and were about to eat our cold meal. All of a sudden my uncle, aunt and grandmother pull into the drive way with piping hot McDonalds, Burger King AND Chinese food. It was another miracle and probably one of the best days of my life. 

What Dave Henderson taught me was immeasurable:

1. Baseball is the best fucking game in the world. Literally anything can happen. A guy who wasn't on the team, was only playing because the starting centerfielder (Tony Armas) was injured and who literally knocked a ball over the wall for an Angels' dinger a few innings earlier, can be the ultimate hero. 

2. No game is ever quite over, no series is ever done until the last out is made. Like I said above, anything can happen. And this game is burrowed so deep in my brain that I am forever chasing this dragon, trying to get that same feeling of jubilation and joy again. It won't happen, you can't be 12-years-old in the midst of your first pennant race ever again. 

3. Sometimes adults, even your father, aren't right. And sometimes you have to ignore their orders and you'll see something pretty great. 

And even though he wasn't even the best outfielder named Henderson, he still had a pretty amazing career. Dude had a kick-ass Fu Manchu, always seemed to be smiling and had a lot of style when playing the field; you could tell that he enjoyed being a major leaguer. Not only that, but he played for 15 years, went to four World Series, won one and was an All-Star. Sure, he never led the league in anything or was particular close to making the Hall of Fame, but that's a career that you'd take every day if offered. 

I know that Dave Henderson had some issues with the bottle, but he'll always be my hero. I wish that I had a chance to tell him. 

Scott Fletcher 1990 Upper Deck

On December 23, 2016 I received this card from the Baseball Card Bandit (BCB):

On Facebook, I wrote: Is the BCB really Santa? That's what some people are saying. Postmarked from Salt Lake City too. Perhaps the BCB is Mitt Romney?After many moons, the BCB dropped a Scott Fletcher card on me with a note asking "Why can't we get players like that?"

This question was often posed by erstwhile Channel 4 reindeer/sportscaster Bob Lobel (not his nonunion Mexican equivalent Pablo Bell) when a former Bostonian did well in another uniform. 

2019 Notes: Hey! I refer to Bob Lobel here and I didn't need to do it in the last entry. I guess that just goes to show that I should probably read the next entry so that I'm not doubling up the work. 

Today's card features Fletcher in a different pair of Sox, White to be exact, getting upended on a double play. Fletcher was the prototype Dirt Dog that Boston fans have grown to love: scrappy, no power, no speed, and did the "little" things. He was one of the many who manned second base prior to the arrival of Dustin Pedroia. 

You should praise Zeus every day that you get to watch Pedroia instead of Scott Fletcher.

2019: I know that I wrote a bit about this a few days ago when I was talking about the Red Sox and their shortstop problems of the 1980s and into the 90s, but that also extended to the second base. I mean, Tim Naehring played pretty well but he was always hurt. Luis Alicea was okay for a little while and Todd Walker and Mark Belhorn were both good too, but once Pedroia showed up, that was the second baseman you wanted in your lineup every day. He hit for average and power, he was fast, he had great range and could throw too. 

Pedroia hasn't played in over a year (and in 2017 he was slowed down by a bunch of injuries) so I think that people forget how good of a player he is; but when he's on, he's one of the best in either league.  

This is a really cool shot of Fletcher jumping over Angels infielder Jack Howell to turn a double play. If I was him, that would be hanging in my living room. 

Fletcher played for 15 seasons in the big leagues and that's nothing to sneeze at. He did okay for the Red Sox when he showed up in 1993 (95 OPS+) but the most important thing is that he stabilized the second base position. The Sox had no idea who to put there after Jody Reed left, so Fletcher was the guy. The following season, he fell off the cliff and he spent his last year in Detroit before retiring. 

Fletcher only made it to the postseason once in his career (1983 when he was with the White Sox the first time), never made an All-Star game or win any awards (MVP, Gold Glove, Silver Slugger, etc). He just was Scott Fletcher, professional baseball player. And I think that for most people who never made the majors, that would probably be an okay lot in life. But I wonder if it gnaws at him that he was just a fine major leaguer. 

Getting to wear a big league uniform for 15 years is no easy feet, but I wonder if Scott Fletcher feels differently? 

Divide and Conquer!

Big news in this issue, gang. Big and sorta sad news. Warren Worthington III, better known to comic aficionados, as the Angel has changed his uniform. He’s back to wearing his new classic uniform, though this time it’s red instead of blue.

(I don't know where the halo is in the above costume, it's usually in the middle of his chest, but it's not there. The Angel looks like a bit of an asshole here, doesn't he?)

It’s about damn time Angel looked presentable. He looked like an asshole flying around, chest showing, headband on in his yellow and red Ronald McDonald togs. Seriously, he looked like this:

I for one am glad that we don’t have to look at this monstrosity of a uniform anymore. But, you know what, you guys? I’m actually a little sad too. That ketchup and mustard creation really brought home the spirit of the Champions. The spirit of the 1970s, the Me Decade, where if it felt good, you did it. Extra wide bell bottoms, garish shirts, cocaine addictions, sloppy sex in bathrooms? Whatever man, just keep on truckin’ and we’ll let our kids pick up the pieces.

Let’s give it up one last time for the Baby Boomer generation, they had the fun and passed along the check to us! And oh yeah, now they’re super scared of everything, so they elected a monstrous sentient Cheeto to really bring the whole shithouse down. You fucked up drugs, casual sex, rock and roll, the economy (TWICE!), might as well fuck up the entire government on your way out! Thanks again guys. Great work.

Anyway, Rampage shows up at the Champions headquarters armed with photos of the Titanium Man hauling Black Widow and her former mentor Alexi Bruskin AKA The Commissar* somewhere. This really pisses of Ivan**, who despite almost dying at the hands of Rampage decides to go for round two. He hit him pretty hard. Rampage was popped so hard that Hercules was pumped for Ivan.

(Would you look at how god damn thrilled Hercules is in this pic?) 

* I wish that this story was written in the early 80s, just someone could have said, “Don’t turn around. Uh-oh! Der Kommissar’s in town! Uh-oh!” After the Fire, a nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

** There’s a number of strange things about Ivan: he looks like a French Stan Lee for one thing. But the other thing is that his voice doesn’t match his personality. What I mean by this is that Ivan is Russian as the Kremlin, but he’s written in such a thick American East coast way. Like he lived all his life in Brooklyn. He uses idioms like “pal” and “dough” and “ain’t”, I’m surprised he hasn’t yelled, “It’s clobberin’ time” yet. And that’s fine, Russians—all foreigners—assimilate into the US and use the day’s slang. But not in comics, especially not in comics from 1976. Ivan is Russian, so he would speak in a bastardized version of the mother tongue, like the X-men’s Colossus. Lots of “da’s” and “nyet’s” and his syntax isn’t peppered with slang. The lack of racism (probably not the right word, but you get what I mean) in Ivan’s speech is kind of off putting.

Ramapage decides that he’s had about enough of this bullshit and hits his self-destruct button, which is a gigantic red dot on the middle of his yellow uniform. He’s been hit in the chest a bunch of times, but he’s never exploded. I’m not sure why this time is any different. But it is! And he blows up. But it appears that Griffin and Darkstar had something to do with this, so Rampage isn’t totally crazy.

The Champions kick Rampage when he’s down (vocally) and Ivan tries to get him to spill the beans about the Black Widow, but Rampage dies. Sort of. Not really because the Ghost Rider yells at Angel for being a rich prick (“You don’t know what it’s like to be broke – what it can do to you!”) and then takes their fallen foe to the hospital.

After GR bolts, Champions PR man (I think they called him the team’s financial manager two issues ago, but whatever they’re the same job, right?) Richard Fenster is all like, hey we have a big launching thing to do in a few hours, what are we going to do? Angel says, “Now might not be the time to do that, Dick (no offense meant, that’s his name!)” and Ivan loses it. He thinks that Angel wants to break up the Champions instead of look for Natasha.

Which, to be fair, sounds like an Angel thing to say but Ivan leaves to find his “tsarina” on his own. Hercules grabs a file cabinet and Ice Man grabs a broom to tidy up, while WW III bitches about his ripped costume. The rich are different than us, indeed. Anyway, Hercules tells everyone not to worry, the team launch is going to be awesome “especially if there are ladies in the audience” because the Prince of Power is going to be there too.

I fucking love Hercules.

Cut to: the villains in their liar who have just spilled their plans to Natasha. Griffin wants to kill everyone, especially the Angel (can’t say that I don’t blame him). Titanium Man tells him to chill out when another Russian super villain makes his entrance by blasting TM. It’s the Crimson Dynamo and he’s the son of Ivan Petrovich. YES! The same Ivan who speaks like he’s from the Boogie Down and who just cold-cocked Rampage. It’s just like Huey Lewis says, it’s a small world after all.

While this is going on, Ivan (yup, Crimson Dynamo’s dad!) has figured out where Black Widow is by reverse engineering the black pearl that they got last issue (don’t ask) and Ice Man is tagging along. Remember what we talked about a few entries back about how weird it is that everyone keeps calling Angel and Ice Man “kids” or “youths” or “young ones”? Bobby Drake has finally had it up to his icicles and told Ivan to knock it off.

Ghost Rider drops Rampage off at the hospital and now he’s talking like a demon again and NOT like Gene Autry. There’s a lot of inconsistencies in voice in this issue, which is a bit distracting.

The Angel gets his new uniform and it looks pretty good, though he says that it reminds him of when he was with the X-Men. Awwww. At least Dick is in a tuxedo. Hercules is just chilling in a skirt and sash.

I’m not sure whether the comics had anything to do about this or whether I was just used to red being their primary color and blue being an accent, but in the mid to late 1990s the Angels baseball team were purchased by Disney (who also own Marvel) changed their name from the California Angels to the Anaheim Angels. When they changed their name, they changed their uniforms. They were pretty damn ugly, but their main color scheme went from red with dark blue accents to periwinkle with red accents. It looked like shit and a few years later, they went back to a uniform that was more red.

 

(Above is Chuck Finley and the upper image is how I remember the Angels looking the most. The second image is sorta like a two or three season look, which I liked but it's not the "traditional" Angels uni.)

(This is Mo Vauhgn in that shitty Anaheim Angels look. Man, I loved Mo Vaughn and was pretty bummed when he went to California. He was a horrible free agent acquisition by them.)

(This is Mike Trout in their most current uniforms. They won a World Series in 2002, so I doubt that they'll change these togs any time soon. But, that was 15 years ago. It doesn't seem that far away. I remember being on a plane to a conference to Vegas when the pilot told everyone that the Angels won the World Series.)

Those periwinkle uniforms sucked (those aren’t even real vests, those are just blue sleeved jersey) and the Angels teams weren’t very good either but I could never get past the blue uniforms. They didn’t look like the Angels. And WWIII doesn’t look like the Angel in his blue togs either, he just looks like the Angel clad in red. Which is kind of weird because if you think of the color red, you think of fire. Angels aren’t in fire, that’s where the devil and his demon horde hang out. Angels live in the sky, so they should be more in tune with the color blue.

Yet for both the baseball team and the comic book character, I think that they look best in red. Weird.

Anyhow, Angel and Hercules go out and meet the people of Los Angeles. California Governor Jerry Brown is pissed that only two of the heroes are there, “I understood that there were five of them!” and things are going pretty well. Until Titanium Man, Crimson Dynamo and the Griffin show up. This is a nice cliffhanger because shit’s going to hit the fans next issue, kids.  

All-in-all, not a bad issue. It kept me interested and laughing. Can’t ask for more than that. The cover was sort of a dud, but the color scheme was cool. I also like that they showed Rampage blowing up and sending Champions everywhere. Update: the vest rating system will stay despite Angel's new uni. Three vested Angels out of five.