Porky's 498

Pokey Reese, 1999 Topps

Today’s lesson from the Topps School of English & Grammar comes courtesy of Pokey Reese:



The oxymoronically-named Pokey

Let us, for a second, first assume, as I think this statement is implying, that “pokey” is a common baseball term for a player who hits singles and bunts a lot or something, as in:

Scout: Guy’s got decent speed, no doubt, but he’s a little pokey out there.

Normal person: “Pokey?” How do you mean?

Scout: Ya’ know … he pokes the ball around. Like, he pokes at it, with his bat, and it doesn’t go very far, which is bad.

Normal person: I have never heard of such a thing.

Scout: Watch.

Player in question swings and misses, bat flies out of his hands and hits a popcorn vendor in the back.

Scout: Alright, he wasn’t pokey there, but you get what I’m saying.

Then, let us assume that Pokey Reese was not, in the traditional sense, very pokey at all! For example, instead of the “fact” that he hit 44 career home runs in eight years in the bigs, let us say that he hit 498 career home runs in only eight years in the bigs. Then, let us assume that “Reese” is French for “slugger,” in which case, yes—Pokey Slugger is indeed an oxymoron in the same way that jumbo shrimp is an oxymoron. Jumbo shrimp? Pfftt. That is crazy talk.

Wikipedia, anything to add?

Reese was nicknamed "Pokey" by his grandmother for his chubby infant complexion; she intended to call him "Porky", but Pokey stuck.

Grandma Reese: Look at that fat baby! I’m gonna call him “Pokey!”

Grandpa Reese: What in the heck does that mean, Louise? Pokey? He’s fat—not a baby who bunts all the time!

Grandma Reese: Oh, goodness! Did I say, “Pokey?” I meant to say, “Pokey!”

Grandpa Reese: Darn it, Louise!

Grandma Reese: I mean “Porky!”

Baby Reese: (From his crib) Po-key?

Grandpa Reese: Well, it’s too late now! We got ourselves an oxymoron!

This makes consecutive Porky-related posts, which ties the record for most consecutive themed posts (2), set back in February of this year when we explored hunted game. I mention this not to brag, but so that everyone knows how rare it is to witness so much Porky content in one place. What we're doing here ... it's kind of special.

Porky's 56

Hal Reniff, 1967 Topps

I’m pretty sure this is my oldest baseball card. I don’t know where I got it, or why I have it, other than that it features a Yankee. Rest in peace, Hal Reniff. On with the show …



The chunky righthander

I love the straightforwardness of olden times (the 60s). Whereas a modern card may have described Hal Reniff as “sturdy,” or “nimble for his size,” and hid that phrasing somewhere near the end of the tidbit, literally the second word of Hal Reniff’s ’67 Topps card is “chunky.” Like, let’s get this out of the way, because we know everyone’s thinking it—dude is a chunkster. According to Wikipedia, Mr. Reniff also went by the subtle nickname, “Porky.” Also, according to BR Bullpen, he was the great nephew of Joe “Moon” Harris. So, it should be duly noted that this chunky Porky was from the Moon.

works in the Yankees’ ticket office during the winter months.

First, ! Second, Hal Reniff won a title with the Yanks in ’61, and would have (may still have; unsure) won another with them in ’62 were he not serving his country, and the team’s got him selling tickets in the offseason to supplement his income? Amazing. Third:

Hal Reniff: (Sitting at a desk, chewing tobacco, bored, watching kids outside playing in the snow; phone rings) Yeah, Porky here … Uh huh … Uh huh … That day we play, uh (flipping through schedule) Kansas City … Eh, they kinda suck, but ya’ know, still baseball and what not … Promotions? Pfft. Yeah it’s uh, “Bring your money to the ballpark and spend it day” … How many ya’ want? … Three? Let’s make it four, even number … Listen, I gotta eat, buddy … Alright then, looks like the price just went up five bucks a pop! … Oh yeah, well I’d like to see you come down here and try! … FINE, IT’S A DATE! (Slams down phone, takes shot of whiskey.)

Another great thing about old timey cards is that, say you are a person who does not understand words very well. How about then, instead, an easy-to-decipher cartoon?



As you can see, Hal Reniff topped Yankee pitchers with 56 appearances in '66. He did this by climbing over the bullpen fence, which featured actual bulls—dangerous, you say, especially for a man named Porky! Don't worry, they were friendly bulls—and sweating while holding up a sign announcing the number of that particular appearance. In this instance, it was a team high "56," a number that, up until that point, held no other significance within the organization.

Also, the righty has been unscored upon in 4 World Series games. Many of those potential runs were prevented when the catcher moved to second base to tag out the baserunner in the face while an indistinguishable blob existed somewhere in center field. Baseball!

The Store Run

Jose Canseco, 1987 Drakes

Mom, here's what I need you to do. Go to the store like, now. Get something Drakes, okay? Drakes Cakes, Yodles, Donut Delites, those freakin' Fruit Pies with the cherry or apple real fruit filling ... real fruit. Pfft. Like Drakes is pulling apples off the vine at some Midwest farm and stuffing them into processed sugar pockets, am I right, mom? Ridiculous.



Ya' know what though? Get the Fruit Pies. I'm feeling them, the more we're talking about it. Alright, so you get the Fruit Pies. MAKE SURE they feature the "7th Annual Collector's Edition 'Big Hitters!'" It should say it on the front. If it doesn't say "Big Hitters," DON'T GET IT! Honestly, if you come home with Drakes Fruit Pies and there's no "Big Hitters" in there, I will throw a Fruit Pie at you. Really. I'm sorry, but I will. Also, listen -- how much money are you working with on this trip? One bill? Two? Cause here's the thing -- I'm looking for the Canseco. Dude's legit, mom. And I need to increase my odds. So get as many Fruit Pies as you can. If you need to, forget about the milk. Milk is gross anyway. I really don't understand how milk became a standard American beverage. It's white goo from a cow's utters. That's freakin' disgusting, mom. It's not your fault -- don't get me wrong. You're just doing your job, I know. I'm just sayin.'

Anyway, so here's what's gonna happen, ideally. You're gonna come home with some Fruit Pies. I'm gonna tear that shizz open. Bam -- there's Canseco. I'm a be like, "MOM, GET ME THE FREAKIN' SCISSORS!" Gonna cut that thing with the precision of a surgeon.





Then, I'm gonna add it to the collection. Dudes are gonna be mad jeals, know what I'm saying, mom? Word. Then, to celebrate, I'm gonna eat a Fruit Pie. Maybe two. I don't know. You're gonna be like, "Don't ruin your dinner!" I'm gonna be like, "Whatev, mom -- chill." You're gonna be like, "Wait until daddy gets home!" Then I'm gonna tighten up a bit. You got me, mom. You got me. For reals. You're the best, mom. I love you.

Mom, also -- get some Lunchables.

White Lies

Joe Carter, 1988 Topps Big

It’s difficult to go wrong with the fabulous head shot outlined in white next to a game time action shot. The pensive 80s-ness of the Joe Carter blank stare next to a picture of him hustling to catch what seems to be a short pop-up to the right side of the infield, combined with the simple yet dynamic color-scaled racing stripe slash lightening bolt that features the man’s simple yet dynamic name is all, in a word, brilliant.

So yes, it’s difficult to go wrong here. But not impossible. One thing about the front of this card is that it lets the cat out of the bag—Joe Carter is black.

Back of the card, do you concur?



No, you do not. Jon Bois over at SB Nation did an unreal and fantastic job of highlighting the less-than-subtle racism and/or mind-boggling mindlessness of the Topps Big series of cards, in which the cartoons on the back featured only white players. It’s a hilarious read, and it reminded me that I had at least one of these cards of my own.

Topps’ refusal to recognize races other than Caucasian in their cartoons is so unbelievable, I feel like they owe everyone an apology, even 20 years later. This defies explanation. I am tempted to ask the question, “How did they get away with this?” although I am truly uncertain whether or not I even noticed this as a kid. It is possible that I did, and reacted by joking about it with my friends during various trading sessions. It is less possible that I noticed and was offended—I don’t recall being that socially conscious at 10, and besides, who was I going to tell about this, the police? It is also possible that I did not notice, which makes me feel ashamed and forces me to question how many instances of racism I let slide because of my own youthful naïveté. If a stupid baseball card is causing introspection of your very soul, something went terribly wrong.

But hey, that said, black, white … whatever! Cartoons are fun!



Wichita State? Pfft. Big deal. I am actually the Wichita State all-time leader in doubles, and I never even went there. And how vain is Joe Carter that his favorite book is the Wichita State record book, simply because it contains several of his own records? Ever hear of “To Kill a Mockingbird,” Joe? You’re not in it, but still. It's pretty good. Also, the first paragraph of the Wichita State record book begins, “Joe Carter, known as ‘the Amazin’ Caucasian,’ set several baseball-related records at this University.”



Oh, hey, also—Hank Aaron was white. Little known fact. Of all the African American baseball players to depict as white cartoons, I’m sure Hank Aaron, who experienced unimaginable racism that included death threats as he embarked on the hallowed home run record of a famous hard-drinking and carousing honky, would enjoy it the most. That Joe Carter’s favorite player wasn’t Jackie Robinson probably saved Topps several lawsuits and millions of dollars.

I also enjoy how Joe Carter, even after he’s made it to the bigs, tapes the photos of his favorite players to the inside of his locker as if he cut them out of Tiger Beat magazine. So not only is Joe Carter white, he is also an 11-year old girl.

Sigh. I am depressed. You? Good.