A Baseball Hall of Fame ballot, explained: some of our columnist’s picks might surprise
Here’s a confession: I don’t know what I’m doing.
That’s true in many ways, of course. Any car repair more complicated than filling up with gas. Fashion. Advice on covering Travis Kelce.
Basically, if I’m being honest, the only places I’m 100 percent confident are playing Tecmo Bowl, smoking ribs ... and now I feel like I need to think of a third, but you’ll have to give me a minute.
This all comes up as I’m filling out another Baseball Hall of Fame ballot. I’ve had a system in the past.
First come the eyes — someone like Mariano Rivera, where you simply don’t need to think.
Then comes the brain — statistics, comparisons, invaluable resources like the work done by Jay Jaffe and others.
Then comes the gut — this part is aided by conversations with people who live this stuff, like scouts and former players and executives and writers.
Which is where this year’s process took a thousand different turns.
I voted for the maximum of 10 players — Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Curt Schilling, Scott Rolen, Billy Wagner, Gary Sheffield, Todd Helton, Jeff Kent, Andruw Jones and Sammy Sosa.
These are repeated votes for Bonds, Clemens, Schilling, Rolen, Wagner and Kent. I’ve explained my view on each of them before, including around this time last year. I owe you an explanation on the other four, plus Manny Ramirez, who I’m no longer voting for.
Let’s do that now:
Helton: For a lot of people, the debate seems to begin and end with Coors Field. That ballpark — especially in the early 2000s — gave us some bonkers baseball, so there’s a tendency to hang that around Helton’s neck like some sort of unchosen disqualification. And to be clear, we can’t intelligently look at his career without considering the context.
In 2000, Helton had one of the craziest seasons in history: .372/.463/.698, leading the league in hitting and slugging and doubles (59) and RBIs (147). That year, he slashed .391/.484/.758 at home.
But nearly everyone hits better at home than on the road, and would it surprise you to hear that only two players in the National League had a higher overall OPS than Helton did on the road that year? Or that Helton’s road OPS that year was higher than Barry Bonds’?
The more you look at the numbers, the more the Coors Field stuff chips away. Helton’s career OPS+ — a number that is adjusted for factors like ballpark and era — is higher than Tony Gwynn, Dave Winfield, Carl Yastrzemski, Ernie Banks, Eddie Murray and many other Hall of Famers. His career road OPS is within .005 of Ken Griffey Jr.
Helton defined the Rockies for a generation. He was a first-round pick in 1995, and played all 17 years in Denver. He walked 160 more times than he struck out. He won three Gold Gloves, and was considered among the best defensive first basemen his entire career.
Helton was not a creation of Coors Field. He was one of the most talented baseball players of his generation, a consistent force and reliable producer who happened to play home games at high altitude.
Sheffield: In the past, I’ve been hung up on Sheffield’s durability, defense, and WAR. Those last two points are heavily related, because Sheffield’s career is torched by defensive metrics: Baseball Reference grades Sheffield at -27.7 dWAR, worse than any outfielder in history, and worse than any Hall of Famer.
But as a hitter? He was unforgettable. There may be no player in baseball history whose stance was more emphatically mimicked by kids around the country. He was a force of nature with a bat in his hands — 509 home runs, a batting title, and remarkable precision for such a violent swing.
In 1996, Sheffield slashed .314/.465/.624 with 42 home runs, 142 walks and just 66 strikeouts. The complete list of men with seasons of 30 or more home runs, 140 or more walks, and 70 or fewer strikeouts: Barry Bonds, Ted Williams, Gary Sheffield.
WAR’s defensive component fogs what Sheffield was as a player. And I’m a little skeptical of that number, anyway. Defensive metrics are a work in progress. Nobody will confuse Sheffield for Willie Mays, but the worst of all-time? And if so, is that his fault or his managers for not making him a DH like Edgar Martinez?
For me it comes down to this: when I think of Gary Sheffield, I do not think about him being a step too slow to a ball, or baserunners taking an extra base. I think of him with a bat in his hands, the most menacing sight for a generation, and probably one of the 30 or so greatest hitters of all time.
Jones: He was essentially done as a productive player by his 30th birthday, which is the difference between him being seen as a borderline candidate by many and a slam dunk by all.
That’s been a barrier for me, as well as the reputation (enforced in conversations) of his effort. One of the most indelible images of his career is him coming off the field mid-inning by Bobby Cox in 1998.
But Jones was a meteoric talent, unforgettable during his peak. He debuted at 19 years old, and in the nine seasons from 1998 to 2006 hit 319 homers (eighth in that span) while earning the reputation as one of the greatest defensive centerfielders of all-time.
Baseball’s 162-game season is professional sports’ ultimate test of endurance, and I respect the grind but also can’t help but feel Hall of Fame voting has tilted too far toward longevity and too far away from a player’s peak. Besides, for each of the 11 seasons beginning in 1997, Jones played at least 153 games at one of the sport’s most demanding positions.
In 2005, he led baseball with 51 home runs while winning one of his 10 consecutive Gold Gloves. Only Willie Mays and Roberto Clemente won more as outfielders. If Jones had hung around as a corner outfielder or even a DH for some more production in his 30s, I suspect this wouldn’t even be a debate.
Sosa: This is the most complicated Hall of Fame vote I’ve ever made. You have to understand that Sammy Sosa was my favorite baseball player after Bo Jackson retired. I loved his energy, his speed, his arm, eventually his power and, of course, his name. I defended him against my friends, who said he struck out too much. His is the last jersey I’ve ever owned.
But I never voted him for the Hall of Fame. His greatness was essentially confined to five seasons, and even then he was flawed — his range in right field shrunk, he didn’t take walks until the homers came, and he did strike out a ton.
PED usage doesn’t bother me the way it does many others, in part because baseball itself tacitly encouraged its usage by failing to implement even a remotely serious testing and enforcement program until 2005 (at which point Sosa was 36 and essentially done). I also believe Sosa has been treated unfairly, embraced as a co-savior along with Mark McGwire until exiled as a pariah a short time later.
But it is hard to know what to make of statistics from those years.
I’m changing my mind on him now because I’ve realized I’ve been judging a unique career with traditional methods. His 58.6 career WAR is not particularly impressive by Hall of Fame standards, and even as a hitter he falls significantly below inductees like Eddie Mathews, Willie McCovey, and Jim Thome.
But all of those measurements completely miss the point with Sosa, like judging a sandwich by its vitamin C content. He did not have a long peak, but his peak is virtually unmatched in baseball history: .306/.397/.649 with an average of 58 home runs, 141 RBIs and 124 runs from 1998 to 2002.
Nobody — not Bonds, not McGwire, not Ruth — ever hit for more power in any five consecutive seasons.
I understand why most do not vote for Sosa, and I do not expect him to get in. He was by many accounts selfish, and a bad teammate. He reportedly used PEDs, and the circumstantial evidence is strong. Like we said before, he was a flawed player.
But for a time — and when the sport needed it the most — he was baseball’s biggest star, hitting like nobody had before or since. That all happened, and even if you believe it wasn’t honest, baseball allowed it. The sport shouldn’t be allowed to pretend otherwise.
Now, the one I didn’t vote for.
You can tell I am not particularly bothered by PED usage. I understand many of you disagree, and I understand why.
But humans respond to incentives, and the incentives that baseball allowed at the time encouraged PEDs. The Hall of Fame already honors drug users. Buck O’Neil somewhat famously said the only reason he and others in his day didn’t use steroids is because they didn’t have them.
Manny Ramirez was among baseball’s best hitters for 15 years, from the time he debuted at 21 years old (finishing second in Rookie of the Year balloting to Bob Hamelin) to the year he slashed .332/.430/.601 with 37 homers and 36 doubles at age 36.
His 555 home runs are more than all but 14 men who’ve played the sport, and his batting average and on-base percentages are higher than Hank Aaron, George Brett, Chipper Jones, Albert Pujols, Jeff Bagwell and others. He’s basically Miguel Cabrera, but with more power.
Yes, he was an often uninterested and sometimes hilariously bad defensive player. Yes, the sideshow could be a bit much at times. But, man. Hitting is the game’s most valuable skill, and few in the sport’s history have been better.
That was enough for me, and I understand why it continues to be enough for many voters.
But I’ve been swayed that Ramirez is different than Sosa or Bonds or McGwire or anyone else.
I’m paraphrasing, but two conversations with people who work in baseball hit the same notes: The sport failed to confront PEDs in a meaningful way for too long, and whatever happened before that can be seen as water under the bridge.
But after the system was implemented — and, notably, after Ramirez was an established superstar — he used, and kept using, and got caught, and even kept using after that. He was the first player to be suspended twice for violations, and retired after the second.
That level of arrogance, disrespect, and desperation is a separator. Cynically, you could say players like Sosa took advantage of baseball’s failures. But they were also responding to the incentives that the sport put in place.
Ramirez was different. He had it all, then gave it up. Twice. That’s on him.
That’s my thinking, anyway. The selection process is imperfect, just like the men on the ballot and the people checking the boxes. Two people are unlikely to see the same thing the same way, and I respect all thoughtful views. The process deserves transparency.
This story was originally published December 30, 2020 at 5:00 AM.