'No Sweat' Love, Rance

Everybody can just CHILL OUT cause I got some Rance Mulliniks for that a$$.

 Rance Mullinks, 1988 Bowman

Here is Rance Mulliniks. This is vintage Bowman Rance, so if you want to know how many triples he had against the Royals (0) in 1988 as opposed to the Rangers (0), just flip the card over, homeboy. But I don't recommend doing so because:

I feel like the flesh-holed, mock long-sleeve practice jersey was made specifically with Rance Mulliniks in mind. You think he's sweating in that thing? I don't think so, homeskillet. Probably because he's only posing for a picture and not actually playing, and because it's spring time, and because of the breathable flesh holes, and also because he's Rance Mulliniks.

Rance Mulliniks didn't sweat the small stuff when he had 972 hits from 1977-1992. Also when his manager was like, "Lance, yer battin' for Johnson, git off yer kiester!" Lance was like, "No sweat. My name is Rance though."

According to Wikipedia, In 1984 he ("he" meaning Rance Mulliniks, the person I am talking about here, not a different person) was named to Sports Illustrated's Dream Team as a utility infielder. Listen, I'm not gonna sit here and poke fun at being named to a dream team of utility infielders. We're talking about .00000000001 percent of the general population that's even talented enough to be awarded such an honor, homeslice. Utility infielders are important. Very important. The most important, arguably. It's like, why don't they just make the entire airplane out of utility infielders?

Seriously though. Here is my own personal dream team of utility infielders (it should be noted that in my dream all the utility infielders are wearing Ronald Reagan masks for some reason and they are all sitting on the bench waiting to get into the game, which never happens because my alarm went off):

-Rance Mulliniks
-Luis Sojo
-That guy whathisname from the Braves or whatever
-Rance Mulliniks again

I'll go to bat that squad any day, homegirl. J/k I wouldn't do that. But still.

Mattingly Exceeds Strict Drake's Standards of Bigness

Don Mattingly, 1988 Drake's "Big Hitters"

I have always liked Don Mattingly, as you may or may not have known. And by liked I mean wished he were my best friend and went to the mall with me on the weekends and took me under his wing and mentored me to baseball greatness and eventually introduced me at my Hall of Fame induction and at some point died in my loving arms. But I entered this labor of love with some sense of trepidation. Yes, he was the best player on my favorite team, said all the right things, was very handsome, had a je ne sais quoi that demanded my undivided attention and instant admiration, was/is/always will be the greatest baseball player, etc. Still, for a brief time at the outset, I was plagued by the burning question: when, if ever, will Don Mattingly be endorsed by a popular brand of processed snack cake products?

It's entirely possible that Drake's had named Mattingly a Big Hitter prior to 1988 - I would argue that an entity as focused and research-driven as Drake's Bakeries would be hard-pressed to find a bigger hitter for their 85/86/87 set - but, if so, I never obtained the evidence. So when Drake's released its 8th Annual Collector's Edition, I waited with baited breath as my mom went to the store and bought out all Drake's products at my demand.

I exhaled ... and then inhaled three packs of coffee cakes.

The thing a lot of people don't realize: it's not easy to be named a Drake's Big Hitter. This isn't some arbitrary, meaningless promotion type deal where a snack company aligns itself with Major League Baseball to maximize their respective revenue streams and, as a result, several hundred thousand naive kids are taking a pair of scissors to a cardboard snack box thinking their gonna be millionaires some day. No, it transcends all that. To be named a Drake's Big Hitter, the three separate but equal driving forces behind Drake's - Ring Dings, Sunny Doodles, and Yodels - must all be in agreement. One may assume that, working for the same parent company, these brands would have similar tastes, but they most certainly do not.

Ring Dings is old school, blue collar, used to be a scout. Values hard work, grit, scrappiness, hustle, leadership, guts. Famously submitted backup catcher Ed Hearn as a Big Hitter in '87 because he liked "the cut of his jib."

Sunny Doodles is all about stats: WAR, UZR, OPS+, and the like. Doesn't allow romantic notions about baseball to enter the equation when considering Big Hitters. Takes everything literally, and once submitted a motion to change "Big Hitters" to "Excellent Hitters" so he could vote for someone besides Cecil Fielder. Motion didn't pass, so Sunny Doodles adjusted privately to account for rumored penis size, hence Mattingly.

Yodels is an idiot who doesn't even watch baseball. Likes professional wrestling and drinks Monster Energy drinks, still has no energy.

To boot, on the rare occasions these three entities even agree on a Big Hitter, their unanimous vote acts only as a suggestion. The final say is with the Drake's duck.

Drake's duck be like, "Quack, quack," and that can be good or bad, depending on how he quacks it.

So anyway, as you can see, it's near impossibl--

Whatever.

The Rick Rhoden Rap

Rick Rhoden, 1988 Fleer Superstars

Rhoden comma Rick, ain't slick or dick
In name that is, I'm slick and got a big one
S to the P for the effin' Yankees
You don't know my steez? Please suck on these
Sunflower seeds, yo, get that cheese
Played for mad teams, can't nobody lock me DOWN
Down, keep the ball down
It's what I do, tell your girl my balls drop
Off the plane, yo, insane how I pull that string
Bling underneath this fly windbreaker
That's your girl o'er there? Pfft, think I'm gonna take her
Back to the dugout teach her how I swing
That bat that club, either one that's the thing
Mad versatile, be golfin' on the weekends
Weekdays too, work every five days
Got more cash than a pimp gets paid
Be pimpin too in this pimped out cart
Sitting on chrome 'till my next scheduled start
Unless I get the call to pick up the good wood
First pitcher DH in the AL hood
Run and go tell that playa, it's all good
On the dugout steps getting on my Gatorade
Other SPs drinking mad hateorade
Mad cause I got mad skills to compete
On the links, on the hill, at the club, on the street
Dope mustache just icing on the cake
Your wispy-ass upper lip ain't taking my cake
I rhyme cake with cake, yo, don't give a what
Got better things to do like see what's up
With this nervous ass dude standing in the batter's box
Allergic to my stuff like he's got the chicken pox
Sit your ass down, son, called strike three
At the knees, it's a breeze like a short par-3
Gotta bounce, gotta pounce on this helpless a$$ rook
Rihanna where you at? Bring it in with the hook ...

The Leaders

In 1986 there were two Yankees leaders. One of them was Donald Arthur Mattingly, the greatest baseball player who has ever lived in the universe. The other was Rickey Henderson, who was pretty good, I guess, but who deferred to Mattingly. There were no other leaders.

But there was another leader. He couldn't be found in the clubhouse, for he was the leader of Yankees fans everywhere. Every day, day after day, without exception, except for away games and off days, this leader would wake up, put on his Yankee red shorts, not put on a shirt, fluff his hair, and head to the ballpark. The name of the ballpark was Yankee Stadium, a.k.a. Leader Stadium. He sat in the front row. The crowd knew when to cheer because this leader would stand up and not have a shirt on and start cheering, and so everyone else would know that something good happened. Did the Yankees score? Probably. Just clap.

On one glorious day in 1986, the three leaders of Yankeeland converged in such an epic and magnificent display of leadership, it could never again be duplicated. Donnie Baseball, a.k.a Hitman, a.k.a. G.O.A.T. drove in Rickey on a biz-omb--standard--and when the two heroes converged at home plate, they executed the world's only known perfect high-ten. Their hands clasped together, an audible sound of batting gloves converging with force could be heard for miles, and the shockwaves of awesomeness it sent through the air began to inspire people all around the country. (Note: For example, that was the day Bill Gates invented the computer and also the day Chesley Sullenberger decided to become a pilot.) Amazingly, caught in between this epic high-ten, and putting forth an undercurrent of swagger in his own right was leader of the Yankees fans, understandably and bravely leading the cheers. It was leadership personified, and it would never, ever, ever, ever happen again.

Except the next year it happened again when Donnie hit a grand salami--standard--and broke the record for grand salamis in a season and then executed another perfect high-ten with his boy Rickey at the dish.

But therein lies the mystery ...

Was the leader of the Yankees fans there? Did the fans know to cheer? It's impossible to tell, because stupid Topps orange'd out the whole thing.

But like my mom always used to say, you can't just orange out a leader. I believe somewhere, in between Donnie and Rickey's crotches probably, is a blurry, shirtless man with a puff of hair on his chest clapping his ass off. Being a leader.

Hat tip to Punk Rock Paint, for his finest work yet.

Salute to an American Rock

Tim Raines, 1988 Fleer Superstars

This card is a proud member of Fleer’s beautiful 1988 Superstars series. Did you have any doubts this card was produced IN AMERICA? You did not. But if so, here’s this:

U.S.A.! U.S.A.! Go back to Taiwan, Topps! The color scheme also goes perfectly with the red, white, and blue of the Expos, one of many proud, American franchises. And hey, you know what goes great with red, white, and blue, aesthetically? Yellow. Yellow screams, “This is our country, you yellow-bellied commie bastards!” This series is a regular cornucopia of American-based colors, and I for one salute it.

Standing front and center today is Timothy Theodore* Raines. Part of the reason he is front and center is because Fleer has cleverly grayed-out his anonymous friend and baseball companion as if this were a Facebook profile picture. Status update: single.

Raines also appears curiously old and up-to-something. I can’t say that I trust him. What have you been up to, Tim Raines? Why the wry smile? YOUR HAND IS IN THE COOKIE JAR! There’s no telling what Raines and his grayed-out partner in crime have been plotting, but if I had to guess I would say: a hot foot. Or, murder.

Raines was famously nicknamed “Rock,” often rumored to be a result of rocks of cocaine falling out of his back pocket while sliding into second base. Wikipedia squashes this notion, stating in a footnote:

Raines received this nickname at an Expo rookie camp when he was seventeen, based on his physique.

This seems more believable. I always found it rather outlandish that baseball players, notoriously discreet amongst each other regarding illegality, would name a fellow player after drugs. It’s a wonderful, heartwarming anecdote to tell your grandkids, but I remain skeptical. Assuming the physique thing is true, it’s safe to say that Tim Raines in no longer “Rock,” but what fifty-something former ballplayer and should-be-Hall-of-Famer amongst us really is? (Those who are, please leave shirtless pics in the comments. Ben’s idea, not mine.)

Of course that is not to say that Raines did not have problems with drugs at one time. According to Wiki:

Raines's performance dipped in 1982, as he hit .277 with a .353 on base percentage. At the end of the season, Raines entered treatment for substance abuse, having spent an estimated $40,000 that year on cocaine. To avoid leaving the drug in his locker, Raines carried it in his hip pocket, and slid headfirst when running the bases. He used cocaine before games, in his car, after games, and on some occasions, between innings in the clubhouse.  Raines would later testify at the infamous Pittsburgh drug trials, in September, 1985.

I enjoy the detailed account of where Raines would use drugs, which reads like some demented Dr. Seuss book.

I do cocaine before a game

I do cocaine in my automobile

I do cocaine after a game

Then a base I will steal!

But I don’t want to make too much of that. Old news. People recover from their mistakes and go on to succeed. It’s the American way, and that is the type of story Tim Raines’ career appears to have personified. Raines was a switch-hitter with a career .385 on-base percentage and 808 steals. In ’83 he scored 133 runs; he hit with decent power for a leadoff hitter, leading the league with 38 doubles in ’84; he won titles with the Yanks in '96 and '98; totaled 279 bases in ’87; and those are just a few highlights from a consistently great and long career.

Someone should crop out the biased, nonsensical tendencies of a select group of yellow-bellied, entitled old men and elect Tim Raines to the Hall of Fame. He should get in on stolen bases alone. This is, after all, AMERICA, and if there’s anything more American than stealing, I’ve never heard of it.

“It’s the rock in the building,” – Jay-Z, rapper, baseball Hall of Fame suggester

*guesstimate

The Goudey Trade-away That Time Forgot

I just found this post in my drafts folder... Not sure why it was never posted. Originally from October 17, 2007.

Goudey Trade-away #46: Tekulve and Bottalico for Mulder and Vidro

This trade comes in from Nic in Wausau, Wisconsin.

Giving: Mark Mulder, #75; Jose Vidro, #187 (red back)
Getting: Ricky Bottalico, 1997 Collector's Choice; Kent Tekulve, 1988 Score

These two cards I'm getting in this trade are really out there. Hey! Which way to the beach? Also, that background on the Tekulve card is freaking me out. Is he pitching inside a kaleidoscope?

Or is his windup so powerful that he's about to fall backwards off a bridge into the Delaware River at sunset? Gotta love any pitcher whose games played stat line reads like an NBA starter. Teke was pretty tall, too (6'4"). He probably could been a backup shooting guard for the Sixers if Andrew Toney got injured. Kent would come prepared: He could provide his own striped knee-highs.