Babe Ruth is Not My Doppelgänger

What if you looked like a famous person, someone known the world over? Would you spend your days sipping mixed drinks by the pool, charging everything to the real Carrot Top's tab? Or possibly signing glossy 8x10s to enthusiastic diner owners, hoping for free sandwiches?

When I look in the mirror, I only see Ben looking back. No big deal. My coworkers don't do double-takes when I walk to the copier. 

But Gary Nolan Circa 1974? Gary Nolan Circa 1974 has the same rosy-cherub face as Babe Ruth Circa 1918. And if I didn't know that Nolan was, in fact, a real person, I might believe you if you told me that this photo was part of an elaborate practical joke played on Sparky Anderson—a wax figure of the Babe done up in a sporty wig and Cincinnati jersey, posed in front of a locker, the athlete's natural habitat.

I hope Gary used his uncanny resemblance to the Babe to his advantage. I'm talking about free artery-clogging food, free beer, free cigars, poorly thought-out endorsement deals, lots of showgirls, getting his stomach pumped on the train between Cincinnati and Pittsburgh, and generally carrying on with a devil-may-care attitude and little regard for his long-term health—like any celebrity doppelgänger should. I mean, who would squander a free pass to push a piano into a pond? 

Not me, my friend. Not me.

Fun fact I learned on the back of this card: Gary's full name is Gary Lynn Nolan. Can you name another famous baseball player with a similar name? That's right: Lynn Nolan Ryan. So really, Gary should change his name to Gary Lynn Nolan Ryan. Or better yet, let's start a petition for him to change it to Gary Fred Lynn Nolan Ryan. 

I bet we could get like a million signatures. 

Let us now praise anonymous men

When players come into the league, they either do or do not live up to their hype. Doesn't matter who—Alex Rodriguez, Fred Lynn, Bob Hamelin, or Stephen Strasburg—it seems like everybody is subject to hype. (A great movie about this, in a roundabout way, is Sugar.)

But what about the guys who fly under the radar? Guys who just sort of show up? Where do they stand? In a world dominated by information, it's hard to imagine a player making it to the majors today without at least one news source commenting on his talent (or lack thereof).

I'm not old enough to remember John Doherty. His statistics suggest he didn't really belong in the major leagues, or the high minor leagues, for that matter, but he hung around the California Angels for parts of two seasons (1974, 1975), and triple-AAA for six others.

But you'd think someone must remember him, right? You'd think fans of the game or little kids collecting cards in the mid-1970s would know about John Doherty of the Angels. And maybe they do, but I'd venture a guess that the circle is relatively small—say, limited to the Los Angeles, California–area. The reason? This card of Doherty (1975 Topps) was his only Topps card. Ever.

And it's not a memorable card. The only reason I pulled it from a stack last night was because I didn't recognize the face or the name, and because his face was so close to the camera. Right away that's a bad sign, possibly meaning no photo of him in game-play action, or the batting cage, for that matter, was taken (though he's wearing a left-handed batting helmet). Even the signature (from his Topps contract) emblazoned across his neck is hurriedly scrawled, as if Doherty, too, was surprised by the dumb luck of his being called up.

The game's history is filled with "cup of coffee" guys. For some players, that means one inning of mop-up duty, or a few games as a fourth outfielder. For others, it's parts of a few seasons, or an exceptional first season followed by a disappointing second. And then nothing.

We will remember Stephen Strasburg, no matter how he performs in the majors, just like we remember Clint Hurdle and Brien Taylor.

But John Doherty? All I can say is, Who?