Greetings from day two of the Winter Meetings

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For the second day in a row I am the first person in the media room. Given that I was not exactly the first person to go to sleep last night, I am far less proud of myself for being an early riser today than I was yesterday. Viva la Winter Meetings.

This is the first of the four Winter Meetings I’ve attended where there was not some fairly major-to major signing after 9pm local time. This was OK in that it meant that there wasn’t cause for me to have to interrupt my evening circulating plans to blog about something, but it was less OK in that it meant that there wasn’t cause for anyone else to clear out either. There are many fine establishments to quench one’s thirst here at the Opryland Resort, but last night they were all crowded.

But it did make for good people-watching. The sports bar here — Fuse — performed a noble service in attracting all of the Ed Hardy shirt-wearing 20 and 30-something men so they did not come into close contact with the rest of us. Next door, Def Leprechaun played once again at the Irish pub, attracting people who seemed around 65% less-amused at a band with a clever name last night than they were the night before. They’re OK and all, but less is more with those guys.

But those were just places where my party and I passed through while looking for the real action of the Winter Meetings, which took place in the large bar off the main lobby, called The Falls. This is where major and minor league lifers found their friends, held impromptu reunions and reminisced about their younger days. “Hey, you sonofabitch! How the hell ARE ya! Hawhawhaw!” [back slap back slap back slap].  It was the real life version of that “Seinfeld” episode when George met the Houston Astros executives. Except the lone Houston Astros executive I saw last night was Kevin Goldstein, and he was calm and dapper.

I tried my best to keep my ear to the ground, but really, there was not a ton of gossip to be had.  The best I could do was to take joy in little moments.  Like seeing Jim Leyland and Bruce Bochy not looking stressed and cold, which is how we last saw them. Like seeing managers, agents, executives and reporters stack their empties on a brick wall that should not have been able to hold that many empties.  Like seeing some jerk at the bar telling Brad Ausmus to “get a job,” and then, when Ausmus looked perplexed, hearing the jerk say what he meant was that he thought he was a great managerial candidate and that “get a job” meant “I’d love to see you managing a team.”  You’ll hear rumors today that that jerk was me, but don’t you believe it. Ahem.

Anyway, back at it today.  Mike Napoli was fun yesterday, but we’re still waiting for a big, big move a la Josh Hamilton or Zack Greinke.  Given that we put up 68 posts at HBT yesterday, you know that if something like that happens — or if 66 or so smaller moves happen — we’ll have it for you, so tune us in and rip off the dial.

No, New York players do not get an unfair bump in Hall of Fame voting

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Angels owner Arte Moreno said something interesting yesterday. He was talking about the retired former Angel, Garret Anderson, and said “If he would have played in New York, he’d be in the Hall of Fame.”

The initial — and, I would add, the most on-point — response to this is to note that, for however good a player Anderson was at times, no definition of the term “Hall of Famer” really encompasses his legacy. He was OK. Pretty good on occasion. Nowhere near a Hall of Famer, and I don’t think you need me to go over the math to establish that. The only way Anderson would ever sniff the Hall of Fame one day is if we sent Tony La Russa back in time to manage him for several years and then brought him back from the past to strong-arme the Veterans Committee.

The more interesting question to me is the matter implied in Moreno’s comment: that players in New York get an unfair boost when it comes to the Hall of Fame.

I get why he might say that and I get why people might believe it. New York gets all the press. If you can make it there you can make it anywhere and, my God, people in New York will not let you forget it for a second. East Coast Bias™ and all of that.

Except it’s baloney, at least as far as the Hall of Fame goes.

I think it’s fair to say that, yes, if you play in New York, your reputation gets elevated more than if you played elsewhere, but I think there are limits to that what that elevation gets you. You’re more famous if you knock in 100 as the third-best guy on a Yankees team or if you are involved in a notable game or series or controversy as a Met, but it doesn’t mean you get some extra helping hand from the BBWAA five years after you retire.

At least one guy I know, Adam Darowski, has taken a rough look at this on the numbers. He has determined that, by at least his measure, Yankees players are the fourth most underrepresented contingent in Hall of Fame voting. Red Sox are fifth. Mets are in the middle of the pack. It may be more useful to think of this without reference to any numbers, though, and look at it in terms of who is and who isn’t getting some sort of unfair bump.

If there was a New York Premium to Hall of Fame consideration, wouldn’t Bernie Williams, Willie Randolph, Ron Guidry, Elston Howard, Don Mattingly, Roger Maris, Jorge Posada, David Cone, John Franco, Keith Hernandez, Andy Pettitte and a bunch of other guys of that caliber get more support than they’ve historically gotten? I’m not saying all of those guys deserve to be in the Hall, but they all have better cases than Garret Anderson and none of them got in or appear to be getting in any time soon. They are close enough on the merits that, one would think anyway, an aura of New Yorkness surrounding them would have carried them over the line, but it never did.

Meanwhile, almost all of the most borderline Hall of Famers are old, old, old timers who were either poorly assessed by the Veterans Committee or who had the good fortune of being good friends with Frankie Frisch. Again, not a ton of Yankees make that cut. A whole lot of Giants do, but I suppose that’s another conversation. The questionable Hall of Famers of more recent vintage represent guys from all over the big league map. The only Yankee I can think of in relatively recent years who raised eyebrows was Catfish Hunter, and I suspect more of that was based on his legacy with the A’s than with the Yankees, where he really only had one great season.

Here’s what I think happens, practically, with New York players: If you play in New York, merely good and notable performance makes you huge in the moment and in casual remembrance, but your historical legacy is often written down a bit as a function of overall team success. Also — or, maybe, alternatively — it’s a matter of every good Yankees era being defined by such a big meagstar — Ruth, DiMaggio, Mantle, Reggie, Jeter — that the really good, even Hall of Fame-worthy guys who played with them are overlooked to some degree. Which, when you think about it, kinda sucks even worse for them because their megastar teammate is, thanks to the rings, in some ways getting elevated by team success while the lesser stars are denigrated because of it.

Which is not to say that we should cry for New York players. Paul O’Neill will never have to pay for a steak dinner in Manhattan for the rest of his life and, thanks to all of his friends in the press, Andy Pettitte’s obituary won’t mention his PED use at all while Barry Bonds’ obit will mention it in the first graf. It’s getting to the point where if you can simply avoid infamy and not suck for a five-year stretch you can get your number retired and a place in Monument Park.

But New York players aren’t getting unfair consideration in Hall of Fame voting. Indeed, I think they’re probably getting graded a bit too harshly.