I think I would've liked the man they called 'Killer'

My exposure to Harmon Killebrew was minimal. His final game came a year before I was born, and I can't recall him ever appearing at card shows when I attended those events growing up. As an avid collector with an insatiable appetite for baseball trivia as a seventh/eighth grader, if you'd asked me to name the 500 home run club (which, in the late '80s, consisted of just 14 men), I'd probably get 12 or 13 pretty easily, and then have to think longer to remember Killebrew. That's no fault of Killer's. I grew up in New Jersey; the Mets were my team. Baseball was long gone from Washington and the Twins were known for Kent Hrbek, Kirby Puckett, Dan Gladden and Frank Viola.

But I think Harmon Killebrew would've been the kind of player I really liked, an underdog of sorts among the game's greatest sluggers. He may have been listed at six feet tall, but it seems he was probably an inch or so shorter. If some photos I've seen today are dated correctly, he was bald before he was 30. And in recent years, while some of the living members of the 500 Home Run Club still look like they could give the ball a ride, he looked as much like your middle-school principal, your barber or your pharmacist as he did the 10th player to reach that long ball milestone.

My one encounter with Killebrew came before the 2004 All-Star Game, when MLB brought the living members of the 500 Home Run Club to Houston for the Home Run Derby. It was amazing being in the same room with all of those sluggers, not to mention the Commissioner of baseball and the top sportswriters in America. As I mentioned in that blog post, I considered asking some questions of a few of the legends, but with no assignment or specific questions in mind, I decided I'd rather get photos of each of the guys. I'm happy that I did, but looking back, it's unfortunate that 2004 was still the beginning of the digital age -- I was still working with a film SLR and had no way to know how my shots turned out until getting the prints back from the lab. My shot of Killebrew is OK, but the flash bounced off a few sportswriters in front of me, putting Killer in the shadows when he deserved the spotlight alongside his peers in that room.

From ND to MLB: Cy Williams

Fred Williams bears the names of two of baseball's greatest players. The nickname he was known by, Cy -- as in "Cyclone" -- naturally sparks thoughts of the winningest pitcher in Major League history. And the surname is shared with the self-described "greatest hitter who ever lived," Ted Williams. But Cy Williams made a name for himself as a pretty decent power hitter and speedy outfielder during a 19-year career with the Cubs and Phillies. He was said to be the fastest player in the game and such an athletic talent that, in addition to serving as the backup left end on the football team (Knute Rockne was the reserve on the right side), he apparently passed up a chance at the 1912 Olympics as a hurdler and broad jumper.

Williams' baseball career worked out just fine. Signing with the Cubs in 1912, he became the first slugger in the Senior Circuit to reach 200 home runs and went into his final season, 1929, as the National League's career leader, with 246. He hit just five in his final season, and during that campaign, Rogers Hornsby blew past him, taking the lead in June with the 250th of his career in a 39-homer season, which he finished with 277. Williams hit 202 home runs from 1920-30, a total surpassed only by Hornsby's 252 and Babe Ruth's, um, 516.

Williams went straight from Notre Dame to the Cubs, playing 28 games and batting just .242 with one RBI in his rookie season. He spent five years in Chicago, first playing in the West Side Grounds and then moving to the new Weeghman Park in the years before it was known as Cubs Park (starting in 1920) and then Wrigley Field (beginning in 1926). In 1915, his first full season, he slugged 13 home runs to finish second in the league. A year later, his 12 round-trippers would be good for the Major League lead.

Williams was dealt to the Phillies before the 1918 season, and in 1920 started a run of nine straight seasons of double-digit homers, including NL-leading totals of 15 in 1920, 41 (tied for the MLB best with Ruth) in '23 and 30 in '27. The spike in power came as the Dead Ball Era ended and Williams got comfortable with the Baker Bowl's dimensions: 300 feet to right-center (with a 40-foot fence) and 272 down the right-field line (with a 60-foot fence and net). There's no need to bother with other dimensions of the Phils' home field, because Williams was known as such a pull hitter that, according to his SABR bio, opposing managers positioned their fielders on the right side of the diamond, employing what became known as the "Williams shift" -- for Ted Williams -- two decades before it was used on the Splendid Splinter.

After his retirement in 1930, Williams got his only minor league experience by serving as the player-manager for the Richmond Byrds in the Eastern League for just one season. He then retired from the game, returning to his dairy farm in his native Wisconsin and beginning the second phase of his life as an architect and running a construction company.

Cards for the earliest players are hard to come by -- at least on a budget. While there are a few contemporary cards available from the 1920s, the prices tend to be anywhere from $30 to $70. Some PSA graded autographs go for hundreds of dollars. So while I would've preferred something more first-hand, this 1991 Conlon card fits my needs, showing Williams in his Cubs uniform. Works for me.

A black mark

6:42 p.m. ...

We knew it couldn't last.

Alas, tonight Citi Field is sullied by the 2009 debut of the Mets' black jerseys. Gag.

It's a shame they couldn't bring out the blue hats before the black.

3 a.m. update ...

And it figures. The Mets wear the black. Gary Sheffield pinch-hits, hitless thus far as a Met. They're down one run, seventh inning. Sitting on 499 home runs ...

BAM. Long drive down the left-field line, and Gary Sheffield is the 25th member of the 500 home run club.

Fade to black.

Which part of Palmeiro's story do we believe?

I have to say I'm stunned. Shocked. Knock me over with a feather.

It's not so much that Rafael Palmeiro tested positive a banned substance under MLB's new drug policy, it's that so many people are being so damn quick to crucify him for it. To be clear, I agree that this is a blow to his career and his accomplishments. Furthermore, perhaps most importantly, he certainly could answer a lot of questions — and perhaps clear his name a little bit — if he elaborated on his comments that he "never knowingly took steroids" and that he would love to explain what he tested positive for and why he took whatever it was he took, but he won't by saying he can't.

To read Scott Miller's column, you'd think Miller himself walked in on Palmeiro holding the needle. Buster Olney calls for Palmeiro to explain himself and at least tosses in the conditional "might" before saying his Congressional testimony in March does not appear to have been truthful. The fact of the matter is, we don't know what Palmeiro tested positive for, and we don't know that he was telling anything but the truth before Congress. Apparently, such details were not passed on to Miller. It bothers me when journalists are so quick to get their opinion out there, eager to inflate their reputation with strong words and a definitive stance. It's a tired, repeated refrain (just take a look at any conservative site with regard to the war in Iraq) that the media is so quick to report on the negative and overlook the positive, but it seems not to be restricted to world politics. (And how much does the internet play a role? Would some of these columns look any different if they weren't rushed "to post" less than six hours after the announcement?)

In my opinion, I think MLB rushed into this policy because it wanted to save face. It had ignored the problem for so long, but now that Congress was getting involved, it had to do something. Almost as soon as the details were announced, they were criticized.

To this day, I wonder if the players have been provided with a definitive list of what will cause their urine sample to come back positive when tested under baseball's drug policy. Torii Hunter was initially scared to drink Red Bull and I wonder if he's received any assurances that it's OK. Senator Joe Biden (Democrat of Delaware) issued a statement in January saying, "The new testing system sounds better than the flimsy one they had before. But the penalties are weak and it is still unclear what substances will be banned under this new agreement." And in the NFL, they had already learned that some banned substances are not clear on the labels of the supplements they take.

Back to Palmeiro. If it weren't for Jose Canseco's book, I don't think Raffy would have been among the usual suspects with regard to steroids. To me, his career just doesn't scream "steroid user." His home run output never had the jump that, say, Barry Bonds' did when he suddenly hit 73 after never reaching 50 before (or since). He increased his 1992 total of 23 by 15 in 1993, an impressive bump, but not a suspicious one to me. He was 28 that season, too, and how many baseball men will tell you that strong arms and quick wrists that produce lots of line drives and doubles can turn into home runs with a minor adjustment that puts a little more loft on the ball? Sure, it doesn't help Raffy's case that the 37 home runs came in the year after Jose Canseco arrived (I'm not going to ignore a fact just to prove my point), but again, it's not like there were no other possible explanations for the power boost.

Palmeiro played five years in Baltimore — somewhat seen as a welcoming park for the left-handed hitters — and then returned to Texas and its new hitters haven. He was solid and consistent, as are the hitters on his comparable players list. Nothing but reliable Hall of Famers there.

I don't think Palmeiro's stupid. I don't think the combination of his lawyers, agent and wife are, either. Even if he had done something he shouldn't have in the past, before his appearance before Congress, how could he put himself in such a position to be caught like this? Seriously, do you think a man who has continued to work with Congress, participating in a conference call just a few weeks ago, would accept that invitation while knowingly breaking the rules at the same time?

Last summer in Houston, I stood in a conference room at Minute Maid Park with every living member of the 500 home run club. Steroids had again become a hot topic to the point where that night on Baseball Tonight, I watched Karl Ravech interview Mark McGwire, a conversation that must have happened either moments before or after the press conference I attended. Each hitter had a table to which he went after the initial introduction and camera crews and print reporters alike approached the players as they needed. Aside from the great Willie Mays and the outspoken Reggie Jackson, the players who drew the biggest crowds — and, in the instances I dropped in and heard bits of conversation as I made sure I stopped at each table, fielded the steroids questions — were Bonds, Sammy Sosa and McGwire, the players who then, as now, have drawn the most suspicion.

Among the most accessible tables were those of Ken Griffey Jr. and Palmeiro. In fact, some of Bonds' overflow spilled into Griffey's space. In my mind, I still tend to think of Palmeiro as part of that group, the one that included Mike Schmidt, Harmon Killebrew, Willie McCovey and Frank Robinson; not the group of Bonds, Sosa, McGwire. I'm sure Palmeiro is guilty of something; I don't think he's a patsy, I don't think he's being set up by MLB. There's no conspiracy. But I do wonder if we'll ever know the truth, if every suspended player who says he never took anything more than a supplement will be vindicated or exposed.

While I'm not going to go off half-cocked and absurdly say Palmeiro lied in front of Congress when there is absolutely no such proof to support that accusation, I do wonder just what part of his story I should believe. Unfortunately, I don't think Raffy will ever tell us, for sure.

Hit It Here: All-Star Monday

All-Star Monday, July 12, 2004, Houston

They called it "Workout Day" on the schedule, the day when the players take batting practice at the ballpark and their children run around in miniature replicas of their fathers' jerseys. If I'd been so inclined, I could have taken the shuttle over to the Four Seasons for the managers' press conference where the announced the lineups, and then I could've stayed for the player availability in the ballroom. I could've walked up to any all-star sitting beneath his name and asked him questions -- provided I could get through the crowds of reporters who undoubtedly surrounded the bigger names like Bonds and Clemens.

But I didn't. What did I need quotes from the players for? I was there for the celebrity softball game, and I woke up Sunday morning, transcribed my interview tape and notes and e-mailed the file off to the magazine. After calling to check that it was in, I was free, off the hook unless they called with a question. No one did. This was my time.

I got myself some lunch and watched ESPN, read a little of The Teammates and boarded the bus, getting off at the Hilton and walking across the skybridge to the convention center to check out the FanFest. Like Bill Simmons, I could've spent a day there. I could've spent thousands, yet I managed to restrain myself. The minor-league cap section was alluring enough on its own, but I browsed through the retro jerseys and the all-star ones with the players' names and numbers. I managed to resist them all, and kept the chili dogs off my back too.

Although the convention center is probably half a mile long, I was forced to exit near the middle, rather than at the end which was much closer to the ballpark. The five-minute walk was probably my longest stretch in the midday heat, which reached 100 degrees on Monday. I was back inside the comfortable juicy coolness of Minute Maid Park at 3:30. My plan was to grab a snack and then hit the field for batting practice, but as I passed through the main press box to head upstairs, I glanced at the daily game notes and noticed a 4 p.m. press conference with Bud Selig and the 14 living members of the 500 home run club. It was in the room just behind the auxiliary press box in the mezzanine, so it wasn't far for me at all.

I took a seat in the next-to-last row on the right side, which had a view of the podium and the seats where the players would sit that was from the side. I didn't want to take a good seat from someone who needed to be there. Soon, I notice Willie Mays walks in behind me to the stairway off to the right from where all the players will emerge. Then comes Eddie Murray and Hank Aaron, who stops to talk with a woman sitting behind me. Reggie Jackson walks through, then Harmon Killebrew and Mike Schmidt before Willie McCovey is wheeled through. He has trouble walking these days. Ernie Banks heads the other way to see someone or get something.

Then the players come up from the clubhouses: Sammy Sosa, Ken Griffey Jr., Rafael Palmeiro and Barry Bonds. Only Bonds comes alone; the others have at least some of their sons in tow, dressed in either dad's team uniform or his all-star jersey. Palmeiro seems small compared to the other three, who also seem to be much bigger than the retired members of the club. We'll attribute that to better nutrition and conditioning for today's players, won't we?


More than 7,500 home runs in those chairs.

After ESPN's Karl Ravech and Commissioner Bud said some words at the podium, the players went to their assigned seats for interviews. I sat in for a bit on Mike Schmidt's session, figuring I'd throw out a question to him, but then decided I'd rather have pictures of this group than sound bites. So then I worked the room, squeezing between the crowds at the legends' tables for headshots.

I couldn't get anywhere near Barry Bonds' area, but I knew I'd have a chance to shoot him on the field. I spotted Phillies president Dave Montgomery, whom I've met before in Lakewood, and reintroduced myself because he's a nice, approachable team owner. I wouldn't have done the same with a George Steinbrenner type.

When the active players left for BP, I got the last of the legends and made my way back down to the field. There it was a madhouse. Reporters and cameramen everywhere. Peter Gammons and Kenny Mayne. Paul White from USA Today's Sports Weekly, Jayson Stark and Tim Kurkjian from ESPN. I shot like a photographer who had to sell dozens of photos in order to pay the rent this month.


Jim Thome makes sure he's heard.


Sammy's always smiling.


Jeff Kent's sons enjoyed the workout day.


Thome and Todd Helton watch a big fly.


Piazza goes deep.

Soon, the American League players emerged.


New York, New York.


Curt Schilling and his four kids settled in along the third-base line. Randy Johnson's son is on the left.


The Schilling clan.

So the Big Unit ambled over to chat with his former teammate and World Series co-MVP.


Even kneeling, he's tall.

Mariano Rivera gave an interview seated among his All-Star teammates and his own kids in foul territory behind third base.


Mariano Rivera speaks in Spanish.

It's nice to see the players with their children. You see a more human side to them than just the multi-millionaires who can play a game better than any of us can. These guys started out much like we did, playing in youth leagues in town and then in high school. Only they were gifted enough to be able to do it in college, in the minors, and now in the majors. They're the best in the world, yet I'm sure there's not one of them who wouldn't give it up to be a father. At least I'm sure that's what they'd say. But to see the little Riveras and Gordons walking around, you think of these guys as fathers and you don't hate the Yankees as much. At least not today.

I've been on fields before for batting practice. I've stood beside the cage when Piazza, Jeter and Nomar have taken their cuts. I've seen a home run from the vantage point of the hitter. To see that on a major-league level is something I'll never forget, and it never gets old. To stand near enough to feel the breeze from a Barry Bonds swing is sensational. At times it seems like virtual reality. As I was standing on the first-base side of the field, right near the line across which we reporters were not to step, I turned around at one point to see George Brett standing next to me. Todd Helton came up to say hello, then looked back to someone I took to be his brother. "Did you see who that was?" Todd asked him. "George Brett!"


It's a different game when you're this close.

When I spotted Blue Jays manager Carlos Tosca, I asked about his nephew Daniel, who was with Lakewood when I covered the team. Dan's now in the Diamondbacks system with a second child and I told Carlos to say hello for me. As I left, he introduced me to his son, who looked as excited as I was to be there. Walking back over to the NL side, Mark Loretta stopped at the top of the dugout steps to sign some autographs, indicating to the fans in the stands that they could toss their baseballs to him. Two people went at the same time, but not even an all-star infielder can handle both of those throws. He grabbed the higher one, near his chest, but the other was too low and bounced through his legs and back to me. I tossed it back to Loretta, who appreciated not having to run after some fan's errant toss.

I took pictures of Ichiro, of Kent's kids, one of whom posed and smiled for me. I spotted Barry Bonds and Jason Giambi talking on the other side of the cage and got a picture of them through the netting that just begs for a joke caption that includes the acronym BALCO, or at least alludes to it. "Hey, Barry, your head's looking smaller!" "Thanks, Jason! How's that 'parasite' treating you!"


Insert BALCO joke here.

The media was only allowed an hour on the field for BP on Monday, so I trudged back up to the mezzanine seating for the lesser press to watch the home-run derby batting practice. David Ortiz of the Red Sox hit the rafters of the roof a couple of times, then nailed it again during the derby and lobbied -- unsuccessfully -- for a home run, but it wasn't, according to the ground rules. I watched the derby from just above the ESPN porch set that overlooked the outfield. Below me, I noticed Bill Simmons in his Manny Ramirez t-shirt watching from John Kruk's seat on the set.


Opening the roof.

They introduced the 500 home run club to the theme from The Natural, a composition that never gets old when used for the best in baseball. Barry Bonds was the first to hit in the derby, and before the first pitch, the catcher stood up and called for a ball outside, as if to issue an intentional walk. I so called that. I thought about that on the flight down, and at that moment I regretted not mentioning it to Laura or someone, anyone who could corroborate my claim that such a move would be hilarious.


Moments after Tejada's winning blast.

The derby was a spectacular show, and after the first round, Milo Hamilton, who played M.C. down on the field, said, "You thought the first round was something, let's see how the balls fly out of here when we take the roof off this place!" I looked up and noticed that, indeed, the roof was rolling back, so quietly and effortlessly. The windows to my right out in faraway dead-center field were sliding back and the deep, deep blue night sky was coming through. When Miguel Tejada won it with his final blast that set off fireworks out in left field, I immediately turned to the door and headed for the shuttle bus back to the hotel. I wanted to drop off my camera bag before the gala at the aquarium.

At the gala, I became skeptical that the likes of Roger Clemens or Alex Rodriguez would really show up because it wasn't like the other, smaller parties I'd been to so far. This one was open to more people, and lots of fans and kids strolled through the backlit displays of marine life and up the stairs to the second- and third-floor balconies and bars. The whole thing was catered, with food at several locations, alcohol at more, and tables out on the balconies and inside what was either a ballroom or conference room. Out at a table on the second-floor balcony, I spotted George F. Will and realized he was talking to actor Robert Wuhl. Across the table sat Bud Selig. What a group. It is only later, as I stood at the wall of the third-floor balcony and looked down over the main entrance to the building, that I realized that maybe the biggest stars would show up: there, dressed in black and talking on his cell phone, was Roger Clemens, his wife and two cops by his side. They waited for the train to pass -- a tiny, amusement park train that carries visitors around the aquarium -- and then walked inside. I ran into him later as I walked back down to the second floor just as he was leaving, saying, "See you guys tomorrow." Matthew Modine continued to stalk me, and I later saw another familiar face eating at one of the standing tables in the main buffet room. I stole a glance as I passed, but he caught my eye and returned my inquisitive look with a trademark glare. "Yep," I thought to myself, "That's Will Clark."

The aquarium has an actual bar down on the first floor, and again I spotted the Sports Guy as well as ESPN's Dave Campbell. As midnight passed, the bar TV on ESPN, Baseball Tonight began its live broadcast from outside. Later I found where they were, but I've stood beside ESPN broadcasts before, so I turned around and made one last pass along the grounds. The crowd surrounding a tall blond athlete led me to Curt Schilling, and when I returned to the main entrance, he followed. Then I saw, sitting at a table, Joe Morgan holding court with a couple of friends. Simmons was there again too, and he took note of Schilling, mentioning it in his column.

Unlike the night before, I didn't have to go back to bed. I wasn't as tired or exhausted. I got on the elevator with Peter Gammons, who looked ready to curl up and fall asleep right on the carpeted floor of the elevator. I stayed up a little longer and had a snack, watching the ESPN highlights of the home run derby. Then I got a good night's sleep. Tomorrow was All-Star day.