The Roster
The Roster
By Jerome Klein
George Elder died, but it didn’t do me a damned bit of good.
The stats tell the tale, as they always do. George made his major league debut for the Cleveland Browns in 1949, yet his career was over that very same year—44 at-bats, 11 hits, 0 home runs—need I go on?
Elder did excel in one thing; before his death in July 2022 at 101—he was the oldest living ex-major leaguer, truly an elder.
But it doesn’t change the fact that as a baseball player, he wasn’t worth shit.
My 2022 All-Dead Baseball Team was in serious trouble.
Baseball players die in the same ways everyone else does. They succumb to cancer or heart attacks or strokes. They fall from the sky (Thurman Munson), kill themselves (Hideki Irabu), or someone kills them (Lyman Bostock). Occasionally lightning strikes one (Geremy Gonzalez), or a satellite dish crushes another (Bo Diaz). Ed Delahanty went to his final reward over Niagara Falls, and not even in a barrel.
Twelve major leaguers died in wars. A decent number die in car wrecks, boat crashes, or farm accidents. Appendicitis, influenza, tuberculosis, typhoid fever, and thrombocytopenic purpura claim their share. They’ve been known to die of syphilis. Tom Gastall’s plane went down in the Chesapeake, but he miraculously managed to scramble out of the wreckage, only to drown. Fair to say, it wasn’t Tom’s day.
Still, whoever they are, from the most exalted Hall-of-Famer to the lowliest mop-up reliever, they’re eligible for my annual All-Dead Team. We’re very egalitarian.
The concept is simple: die. Get that out of the way between January 1 and December 31 and you have a chance to make the year’s 26-man roster. My task, like any good GM, is to cobble together a functional team from the best available player at every position, at least a team that would be functional if the participants weren’t all dead. I begin a new roster every year, so if you miss this year’s eligibility requirement, feel free to die next year. It’s a fantasy baseball format, rewarding offensive prowess, but ignoring defensive metrics, meaning the only thing stopping Greg Luzinski from being my starting center fielder isn’t the fact that he was a lumbering ox, but the fact that he’s still able to lumber.
We employ the universal DH. Sorry, purists.
I use a five-man pitching rotation and if you aren’t good enough to start, you go to the bullpen. A huge bonus is that I don’t have to worry about frayed rotator cuffs or ulnar collateral ligament strains in the course of the season. I could make a joke about ‘dead’ arms, but I’ll refrain.
I aim for a versatile bench, but I must tell you, finding a backup catcher can be a chore. For that matter, finding any catcher is challenging. Either there aren’t enough catchers in the universe, or they don’t die often enough. It’s something worth looking into. When I tell you that my tandem of catchers on the 2006 All-Dead Team are Bill Baker and Red Hayworth, you can be excused for asking, “Who?”
It’s all about talent. In the end— his own—a ballplayer’s method of demise doesn’t matter, his life, his hopes, his dreams, his colorful stories, all rendered null. All that counts are his stats. For my roster, the tragedy of Mark “The Bird” Fidrych is not that he asphyxiated at 54 after his clothes became entangled in a spinning shaft on the undercarriage of a 1987 Mack dump truck, or even that an arm injury kept him from fulfilling what might have been a brilliant career after winning 19 games as a rookie (with a physical appearance like Big Bird), though just 10 more the rest of the way, but that ultimately, those paltry 29 victories still qualified him as my fifth starter. Another way to say that my 2009 rotation sucked.
My problems in 2022 began in January. Eighteen former major leaguers entered eternal slumber that month. You’d think some good would come of this, say in the form of a slugging second baseman or a 200-game winner, something to get my year off with a bang. You’d be wrong. Charitably, most of these guys were…ahem, stiffs. With all due respect, Cholly Naranjo (1 career win) and Gale Wade (six hits) aren’t going to cut the mustard, and when Larry Biittner (he of 861 career hits and 29 home runs) is the best a month has to offer, you start looking forward to the calendar page flipping.
Still, I’m an optimist at heart and consoled myself that I had time to make up the deficit.
But February and March, though better, weren’t stellar.
Of 13 new applicants for the All-Dead Team, only six seemed locks to secure a position. We signed Pete Ward as a 3rd baseman (he could also slot in at outfield and first) and his 98 career home runs were welcome, though not overwhelming. Gerald Williams, a solid, unspectacular outfielder joined us. Julio Cruz brought his 343 stolen bases (and .237 batting average, ouch!). Odalis Perez, Ike DeLock, and Ralph Terry provided reasonable arms to the pitching corps, though only Terry won over 100 career games, my preferred minimum for a starter on a solid All-Dead team.
But it was progress and I felt better. I’m a glass-half-full kind of guy.
I know, I know. I’ve taken my share of criticism for compiling a yearly All-Dead Team. My wife finds it gruesome. My mother is horrified, though she’s crowding 100 and, for all I know, slept with George Elder back in the day. My friends have only a slightly better take on it and you don’t even want to know what otherwise disreputable people my friends are.
I know that the players on my team are (were) real, corporeal, flesh and blood. They were people. But can we even pretend to value ballplayers for only their humanity, or do we admit we take into consideration their slugging percentage as well? Mostly, they’re pictures on a baseball card, box score lines, grainy black and white film, figures in HD on my new TV. They’re pixels. When my favorite team wins the World Series, I cheer and they celebrate, but nobody sends me a check. I know them (in a way), but they certainly don’t know me. The only intersection between us is that they play baseball and I watch them do it, and the only lasting one is if they played it well. If I squint mightily into my distant memories, I might dredge up a few Yankee utility infielders from the 1960s, but even my 20-year-old daughter recognizes the name Mickey Mantle.
My affection depends largely on their skills. I believe most people feel that way. It’s a single-line entry when Bob Conley (0 wins) dies; a headline when Joe DiMaggio does exactly the same thing. You tear open the package of trading cards and toss aside the nobodies, searching for the stars.
The difference between George Elder and George Brett isn’t the quality of their deeds, but the quality of their at-bats.
Finally, ask yourself, would it still have been called Lou Gehrig’s Disease if Lou Gehrig was a lifetime .219 hitter? I think not.
Go ahead and boo; I’m sticking to my guns.
T.S. Elliot said that April was the cruelest month, but apparently, he wasn’t waiting on any talented baseball players to die. Sure, if you’re Carl Boles (24 career at-bats) or Chris Haughey (0-1 record), the month lacked a certain sense of, shall we say…continuance, but Tommy Davis, Joel Horlen and John Ellis at least contributed to my All-Dead Team in the form of an outfielder, a starting pitcher, and a catcher/1st baseman.
I’m not entirely heartless. Some deaths are hard to take. They sting. Tommy Davis, for example: two batting titles, the prominent mentions in Ball Four, the fact that he was a Seattle Pilot. I have an enduring fondness for that small band of sad-sacks. I liked Tommy Davis.
But 2121 hits, 153 homers, and a lifetime .294 average speak for themselves.
Conversely, some deaths are more palatable. For certain players – like if they played for the Red Sox – I maintain a stiff upper lip in the face of tragedy and casually pencil them into the lineup. When I saw, Former Red Sox Infielder Passes Away, does it make me a terrible person that I was disappointed to learn it was merely Tom Matchick, when it might easily have been Rico Petrocelli? 210 home runs don’t just grow on trees, people.
I didn’t feel that way in 2020 when my two favorite pitchers – Whitey Ford and Tom Seaver – died. That tore a piece of my childhood from me, but it certainly bolstered my pitching staff, a consolation. In fact, 2020 was a dream year for the All-Dead team, a who’s-who of the dead (Joe Morgan, Dick Allen, Lou Brock, Bob Gibson, Al Kaline, Phil Niekro…), as if the Grim Reaper woke up that year with a hard-on for baseball players. Maybe Death is a soccer fan. Maybe he didn’t like the new 3-batter rule and thought Rob Manfred was a douchebag, or he just got tired of seeing Angel Hernandez blow another strike call. I miss those players – but my loss was also my gain.
May brought mediocre backup catcher Joe Pignatano and the odd middle reliever. June was worse. July featured some platoon types—Dick Schoefield, Dwight Smith—but nothing to write home about unless the letter began, Dear Mom, this team blows.
I found myself growing hostile as the months wore on. I thought of Bobby Shantz (and his 119 wins) and wondered, at 97 years old, is reaching 100 really so important? And, Carl Erskine, how are you feeling at 93? Don’t be silly, go ahead and have that third martini. Couldn’t hurt.
Like I said, hostile. During introductions at the Red Sox Old-Timers game, I pictured the microphones or TV cables or lights on tripods—anything powered by electricity and not grounded—poorly juxtaposed alongside the groundskeepers spraying down the infield with water…uh, oh.
Goodbye to some technician’s job; hello Carl Yastrzemski.
And watching the alumni at the Hall-of-Fame induction ceremony, I couldn’t help but wonder about the integrity of the bolts holding up that grandstand. Has anyone seen my wrench?
August delivered Bob Locker, a good closer (and sadly a Seattle Pilot) and Lee Thomas, with his 106 home runs (better than nothing), who I remembered as the general manager of the Phillies, but not as a player. I don’t lose sleep over general managers.
September’s bounty was plentiful. Hector Lopez was called home, bringing with him positional versatility and 136 homers. A bonus for my feelings was that I’d never heard of him. Then John Stearns, who I did know, went to a better place—in this case behind the plate as my new catcher. Mark Littell, no star, but a complimentary bullpen piece, signed on. Last, Maury Wills.
2134 hits, .281 average, 586 stolen bases. It was a coup, made better by the fact that while I certainly knew who Maury Wills was, I had no fondness for him. My dentist was Dr. Maury Wilson and I conflated an all-star shortstop with the guy who constantly berated me for not adequately flossing. I acknowledge that’s not fair, but it’s the truth.
Things were looking up. October brought a chill to the air, and also Dick Ellsworth (115 wins), a solid rotation addition. Bruce Sutter, his 300 saves and Hall-of-Fame pedigree in tow, followed. My starting pitching remained suspect, but my bullpen was lights out. I hoped to finish the year strong.
But November was blah, only Chuck Carr, a pinch runner at best. By my assessment, the All-Dead 2022 team sorely lacked power or enough starting pitching. As Thanksgiving passed, I wondered what I had to be thankful for.
I was torn between my desire for an excellent All-Dead team and my desire to be a decent human being. But not too torn – I had a dream one night where Orlando Cepeda was crossing the street in front of my car and I stomped on the accelerator…
Maybe it was a 9th inning rally—or maybe Santa decided I was a good boy after all – when he delivered starting pitchers Ray Herbert, Tom Browning, Curt Simmons, and Gaylord Perry in December. 734 total wins! Ho-ho-ho.
Santa may have had second thoughts though, since he brought not a single usable hitter—and no, Denny Doyle isn’t usable, plus he was a Red Sox. Still, a good way to end the year. Not a great team, but not a loser either. We wouldn’t outslug anyone, but we’d hold our own.
The New Year’s ball drops, the 2022 window closes. There is always a let-down when an All-Dead team is complete. I tinker, make my final selections and cuts, and imagine the boys taking the field against another All-Dead team or even a live one. No time to rest, of course. Despite the movie title, death does not take a holiday. A new season awaits. Better luck next year, luck in this instance being a double-edged sword.
And remember, no ballplayers were harmed (by me) in the writing of this story.
The 2022 All-Dead Team
1B Lee Thomas
2B Julio Cruz
3B Pete Ward
SS Maury Wills
C John Stearns
OF Tommy Davis
OF Hector Lopez
OF Gerald Williams
DH John Ellis
Bench: Larry Biittner, John Wockenfus, Denny Doyle (Hah!), Dick Schoefield, Gene Clines
SP: Gaylord Perry, Curt Simmons, Tom Browning, Joe Horlen, Dick Ellsworth
RP: Bruce Sutter, Bob Locker, Mark Littell, Ralph Terry, Ray Herbert, Ike DeLock, Odalis Perez
Jerome Klein lives in southeast Pennsylvania and roots for the Phillies. His fastball still reaches 95mph, but only if he brings it with him on a really fast train.
Jason David Córdova lives in Puerto Rico as an illustrator and painter. Some of his art can be seen on Instagram at @jasoni72. You can visit his shop on Red Bubble.
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