Why Did Baseball Diss the Duke?
When Duke Snider passed away last month, his obituaries noted the raging debate during the 1950s over the three great New York City centerfielders – Snider, Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle. The debate was so intense, and so evocative of a great era in the national pastime, that Terry Cashman’s song “Talking Baseball” used as its refrain: “They knew 'em all from Boston to Dubuque. Especially Wil-lie, Mickey, and the Duke.”
It might be thought that Snider was lucky to be linked by lore to two superiors, much as Chris Bosh of the Miami Heat has come to be part of the “Big Three” with LeBron James and Dwayne Wade. But arguably the opposite is true. Snider belonged in Mantle’s and Mays’ class (during their respective primes he was close to their equal), but long ago history demoted him to a distant show position with Mantle and Mays jockeying for first place. One finds this development echoed in Jane Leavey’s comprehensive new biography of Mantle. In the course of describing the Snider-Mantle-Mays debate, she notes that Snider actually hit more home runs in the 1950s than his more celebrated counterparts. Then, without explanation, she drops him from the conversation and spends several pages addressing Mantle vs. Mays.
Such is the fickle nature of history and reputation. Larry Doby presents a more troubling example. His contemporary, Jackie Robinson, is one of the most commemorated players in major league history. A pioneer and great player both, Robinson deserves all the accolades. But Doby, pretty much his equal as both pioneer and player, has been cast to the shadows. The American League’s first African-American, and the Major League’s second, he debuted for Cleveland less than three months after Robinson broke the color barrier. He endured the same death threats, bean balls, and verbal abuse. And he was a seven-time all-star. Yet, Doby wasn’t inducted into the Hall of Fame until 1998, four decades after his retirement. Robinson, by contrast, was inducted in 1962, the first year he was eligible. There’s an annual Jackie Robinson Day, in which all players in both leagues where Robinson’s #42. Do you even know what number Doby wore?
Finally, take Thurman Munson and Carlton Fisk. During their respective primes, Munson was widely considered the better player, a judgment supported by statistics and suggested by the Most Valuable Player Award voting. (Munson won the award in 1976, and finished higher than Fisk most years). By the time Munson died in a plane crash in 1979, both he and Fisk had started to fade. Fisk hung around a remarkable 15 more seasons, but only one of them was memorable (when he hit 37 home runs in 1985). By the time he retired, he was considered a shoo-in for the Hall of Fame, and was inducted in 2000. Munson never received serious consideration. These days, most media and fans rate Fisk over Munson easily. Why? Because he played forever?
Someone should write a song about the fickleness of baseball reputation. I’ll give them a head start by suggesting the refrain:
Ever get to thinking
Watching reputations sinking
That history was written by a kook?
Tell it to Lar-ry, Thurman, and the Duke