To which I say … yawn.
Thanks to Twitter, Hall of Fame blather gets me going. Debate, debate, fight, fight, debate, fight, debate, fight, debate, growl, woof, argue, argue, argue, argue. I believe in Tim Raines, I don’t believe in Craig Biggio, I believe in Jack Morris, I don’t believe in Jeff Bagwell, I … I …
I don’t care.
It just hit me. Right now. I don’t care. And you know why? Because it makes no sense. There’s no right answer or wrong answer, and the people who vote (media) have no real business voting. If we want to do this right, we have players vote. Or managers vote. Or, perhaps, we just stop caring about a building in the middle of nowhere. Does Barry Bonds belong in the Hall, even after filling his body with jugs of nuclear waste? No, yes, maybe. Does Roger Clemens? No, yes, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t care. Not really. Except when I’m on Twitter. Or researching a book about the players. Then I care. But only for a fleeting moment. Then I lose interest and watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians.
Or something like that.