Being a baseball fan for the last 56 years or so, I’m embarrassed to admit I had never heard of or read anything written by Joe Posnanski, a fact most likely stemming from a lifelong insecurity that all but forces me to read only books which any of my most respected former teachers would deem erudite enough to justify the time spent reading them. That’s not to say I haven’t cheated over the years, nabbing a fistful of figurative potato chips and running down to the basement instead of remaining in the kitchen and finishing my healthy broccoli. However, none of those snack grabs ever came away with even a bite of Posnanski.
After having revealed way too much about my psychological issues, it’s easy to admit I was not too optimistic about liking this book when I first received it, not only because of the misguided erudite test I put books through. The thing is I have never bought into that ranking exercise to determine who is the greatest baseball player of all time. There are just too many levels of apples and oranges, or to keep things less erudite, too many levels of potato chips and cupcakes. There’s no way to accurately weigh players against each other when there were so many inherent differences factoring into to each player’s career stats, differences such as mound distance, mound height, competition, home park dimensions, position played, the team make up, the manager(s) they played under, interrupted service time, number of teams in the league, rule changes, tools (i.e., balls, bats, gloves, shoes, protective gear) available, schedule, travel modes, day games versus night games, PEDs, acceptable vs. unacceptable cheating techniques, turf, availability of computer-aided technique analysis, to name a few. As I began to read, I anticipated a buffet of stats that would overfill my plate, force me to overindulge in ill-advised pairings which would leave me mumbling “why did I eat that” as I slumped on the couch, falling asleep with one rogue finger pressing constantly on the remote’s channel-up button. Plus the book was over 800 pages long! Given the pace I read, I figured I had to clear my reading schedule for the next two baseball seasons.
Boy, was I wrong.
First, I loved the structure of the book - one concise chapter for each ranked player, starting with the player ranked the 100th best and ending with the player ranked number 1, a picture of the player at the beginning of each chapter until you reach the top ten, where you get two pictures, the second being an official baseball card picture.
Then I appreciated the smooth flowing text of each chapter, surprised at how quickly I finished each chapter, and how, as if Posnanski was challenging me to eat just one Lay’s potato chip, I couldn’t resist reading another chapter, and another chapter, and another chapter. All without regret or indigestion.
Yes there were stats, lots of them, but they were smartly presented, like French restaurant style modest plates as opposed to recklessly upsized fast-food-joint feed bags.
And each player profile was obviously meticulously researched and carefully selected to completely, or as near completely as possible, capture what made each player not just the player they became but also the men they were. Dare I say each profile was - erudite? Yes, I do dare. Amazingly, even when I was sure I knew all there was to know about a player, like Mike Schmidt, for example, whom I have followed since his unrepresentative rookie season, I came away enlightened.
Finally, Posnanski makes it clear he too isn’t a big fan of trying to rank all time greats. In fact, he forgoes a strict ranking in favor of sometimes ranking players in connection with some associated number from their careers - like 56 for Joe DiMaggio and 20 for Mike Schmidt; each such departure whetted my appetite like an amuse-bouche.
So, putting all my psychological shortcomings and gustatory obsessions aside, I can almost unreservedly recommend Joe Posnanski’s excellent tome (I almost said "Thome") The Baseball 100 to every baseball loving reader out there, erudite or not. Why “almost?” Well, did you ever have a great meal which you enjoyed thoroughly, but one dish had some unique ingredient in it which you couldn’t decide whether you loved it more or hated it more because of that flavor, but come 2:00 AM when you’re in bed trying not to wake your wife as you belch that flavor over and over, you think you may have loved it slightly less than you originally thought you loved it? That’s how the one nagging doubt I have after reading this book feels. What has me muffling nocturnal burps? That d@mned picture atop Chapter 45 - Bob Gibson. Why is he left handed in that picture?
Got to go; Stacy Schiff’s Samuel Adams biography is up next.