My 4000th Post:
Simply put, my dad was the coolest baseball fan I?ve ever known, and even though they were the exact same age, Stan The Man Musial was my dad?s sporting hero, and man he admired most.
The Sport?s Illustrated piece below from 2010 is one of my favorite tributes ever penned by America?s premiere sporting publication.
Today, with my 4000th post, I honor Stan Musial and my Dad.
Link: http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1172566/index.htm
Excerpts:
ESPN recently called him the most underrated athlete ever . . . when Major League Baseball held a fan vote to name its All-Century Team, a special committee had to add Musial because the fans did not vote him as one of the 10 best outfielders ever. Ten! . . . Stan Musial never led the league in home runs. He came close once?that was in his epic 1948 season, when he was one home run short of becoming the only man in baseball history to lead his league in batting, runs, hits, doubles, triples, homers and RBIs. To this day, Musial fans will tell you he lost that home run in an August rainout in Brooklyn, though nobody knows for sure . . . Musial believed in being a role model. He thought that was part of his job, part of why he was being paid so much money . . . Musial puts his hand on the shoulder of a teary-eyed fan and says, "No ... thank you!"
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Musial was famous for signing autographs. So many Musial stories revolve around his seemingly boundless willingness to give people his signature. The old Cardinals announcer Harry Caray used to tell a story of a Sunday doubleheader in the St. Louis heat and humidity. Musial played both games, of course?in the 11 seasons after he returned from World War II, Musial averaged 153.5 games per 154-game season. And after the nightcap, Caray said, Musial looked as if he had been through a prizefight. In those days they still called boxing matches prizefights.
When the second game ended, Musial stumbled out to the parking lot. He barely looked strong enough to stand. And there, at his car, he found dozens of fans waiting, hoping, shouting, "Stan! Stan the Man!" Caray turned to the person next to him and said, "Watch this." And together they watched Stan Musial walk up to the group and shout out his trademark "Whaddya say! Whaddya say! Whaddya say!" And he signed every single autograph.
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The Brooklyn Dodgers pitchers tend to have special memories of Musial because he always seemed to hit his best in New York City. The numbers at the baseball database Retrosheet are not quite complete, but they show that Musial hit .359 with power for his career at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn (and a similar .343 with power at the Polo Grounds against the Giants). It was supposedly Brooklyn fans?based on their griping "Here comes the man again," when Musial would come to the plate?who created the nickname Stan the Man. They held a Stan Musial Day in New York at a Mets game once. Chicago Cubs fans once voted him their favorite player, ahead of all the hometown stars, including their own lovable Ernie Banks. That was real.
"All you have to do to understand what Stan Musial means is watch him around other Hall of Famers," La Russa says. "You can fool fans sometimes. You can fool the media sometimes. But you really can't fool other players. And when you see Musial in a group of Hall of Famers, they hold him in such high esteem.... It's like he's on another level."
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But if you had to define Musial with one number?the way 755 describes Aaron and .406 gets at Williams and 56 helps explain DiMaggio?then that number is probably 1,815. That is the number of hits that Musial had at home and on the road. Pujols?who prides himself on consistency?was incredulous. "I wonder if he meant to do that," Pujols said. Not long after that, Pujols politely asked people to stop calling him El Hombre. He understood that his own nickname was an homage to Musial. But he still asked people to stop it. "There's only one Man," he said.
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Stan Musial does this origami trick with a dollar bill. He folds the bill one way, then back. He folds it again and again, never looking at his hands. He smiles throughout. If he's in the right mood, Musial might offer a corny joke to keep the time moving. Horse walks into a bar. Or, How do you know that God is a baseball fan? That sort of thing. He will break into his particular brand of baseball chatter: "Whaddya say! Whaddya say! Whaddya say!" After a few seconds Musial holds up the dollar bill and, absurdly, it has transformed into a ring. The audience always oohs with surprise. Musial will look surprised too. How did I do that? Then Stan Musial, with the tenderness of a groom, will slip the dollar bill ring on someone's finger, wink and walk off to the happy murmur that he has inspired in people for most of his 90 or so years on Planet Earth.
It's a good little trick.
The question is, Why would a man learn such a trick? . . .
Maybe there have been a handful of better ballplayers. Maybe there have been a handful of more important baseball players. Maybe there have even been a handful of more memorable players. But no baseball player, none, worked so hard to make people happy. He hit the ball hard into the gaps, ran hard out of the box, signed every autograph, shook every hand and turned dollar bills into memories. And, all the while, he kept telling us that he was the lucky one. Whaddya say!
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One more Link:
http://www.stltoday.com/sports/base...cle_65592dd6-df4e-5d11-8e1c-5856b3ff6b67.html
Excerpts:
Then, with the Cardinals involved in a torrid pennant race with Brooklyn late in 1941, Musial was promoted to the big leagues. He hit .426 in 47 at-bats that September, impressing friend and foe alike.
In his first at-bat, against Boston Braves' knuckleballer Jim Tobin, Musial popped up. The next time he saw Tobin, he doubled off the right-field wall.
Against the Chicago Cubs in a doubleheader later that September, Musial made two diving catches in left field, threw out a runner at the plate and had four hits in the first game. In the second game, he had two hits, made a diving catch and then a double-somersault grab of another liner.
Chicago manager Jimmy Wilson, beside himself, said: "Nobody can be that good. Nobody."
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"It seemed like I always did some great hitting in Brooklyn," he said. "The field there was close to the stands. Every time I started walking to the plate, I could hear the fans say, 'Here comes that man again. Here comes that man.' I think Bob Broeg and (traveling secretary) Leo Ward picked up on it and called me 'The Man.'"
GL