The strange joy of naming obscure ballplayers
You have probably seen the memes, social media posts and TikToks where millennial sports fans express the elusive joy of naming obscure baseball players entirely devoid of context.
Kelly Shoppach. Miguel Cairo. Mark Grudzielanek.
I, too, have always enjoyed this harmless pastime, which is born of irrepressible nostalgia and propelled by a fascinating virality.
Lyle Overbay. Brett Tomko. Manny Delcarmen.
There is something ineffably joyous – cathartic, even – about expressing one’s reminiscence for seemingly random bygone ballplayers.
Ryan Garko. Octavio Dotel. Ray King.
Learned in adolescence, these names linger in our brains, and that vague wistfulness – not quite worship, not quite adulation – yearns for a physical footprint in the world.
Tony Graffanino. Scott Podsednik. Bengie Molina.
Part of it is pure sentiment, tethered to particular moments in our lives, while another part is sheer intellectual vanity – recalling hazy veterans a convenient proxy for fandom clout.
Rich Garcés. Jason Lane. Ted Lilly.
Living in England, away from the main hub of baseball discourse, I have always lacked a consistent and reliable outlet for such meaninglessly meaningful exhortations.
Jay Payton. Tony Womack. Randy Winn.
For me, there is no family Thanksgiving jaunt down memory lane.
Jonathan Van Every. José Vidro. Jonathan Broxton.
Generally, I cannot sink beers with the boys and throw out forgotten hardball heroes.
Troy Glaus. JJ Putz. Trent Oeltjen.
Typically, nobody at my office watercooler can name any baseball player, let alone multiple sepia-tinged folk heroes.
George Kottaras. Tanyon Sturtze. Lars Anderson.
Over the years, I have explored various techniques to memorialise those ballplayers loved and lost – tweeting, penning poems, hoarding lists, watching old games – but a viable solution never seems to last.
Devern Hansack. Kason Gabbard. Dioner Navarro.
And so, I’m finally writing this column, dropping nostalgic names among reflections on why they resonate at all.
Dusty Brown. Jeff Karstens. Dámaso Marté.
Principally, there are just guys and moments we remember, their exploits lurking in vague vignettes, like newspaper clippings or scrapbook snippets.
Reggie Willits living in a batting cage.
Kevin Mench having a massive head.
Joel Zumaya missing three playoff games due to an injury sustained while playing Guitar Hero.
There are also various sub-genres within the craze, including players whose transient peaks coincided with the zenith of our own nascent fandom. Fleeting supernovas, I call them. Guys you recall being great who, in reality, were pretty average.
Érik Bédard. Jack Cust. Jeremy Bonderman.
Another genre focuses on guys whose debuts coincided with a random game we attended or watched on TV.
Sean Marshall. Charlie Zink. Elijah Dukes.
However, one of my favourite sub-genres celebrates familiar faces in unfamiliar places – established, well-known stars, synonymous with one team, who bizarrely played for others, despite most people forgetting.
Albert Pujols, Jim Thome, Paul Konerko, Luis Gonzalez and Sergio Romo with the Dodgers.
Bartolo Colón, José Canseco, Rickey Henderson, David Cone, Grady Sizemore, Éric Gagné and John Smoltz with the Red Sox.
Jim Edmonds, Carlos González, Jimmie Foxx and Tony Lazzeri with the Cubs.
Gary Sheffield, CC Sabathia and Hideo Nomo with the Brewers.
There are even idiosyncratic wrinkles within this ‘forgotten player’ rabbit hole, including incongruous coaches – Joe DiMaggio with the A’s; Babe Ruth with the Dodgers; Barry Bonds with the Marlins – and legends who achieved milestones in discordant uniforms – Wade Boggs collecting his 3,000th hit as a Devil Ray; Pete Rose recording his 4,000th knock with the Expos; Gaylord Perry winning his 300th game as a Mariner.
Another riveting subcategory – one that often sparks hours of impassioned debate – focuses on players who never played for the teams who drafted them.
Nomar Garciaparra with the Brewers. Justin Turner with the Yankees. Aaron Judge with the A’s.
Then, of course, we have the ever-perplexing potion of superstars from other sports who were also drafted by MLB teams.
Patrick Mahomes with the Tigers. Dan Marino with the Royals. John Elway with the Yankees.
And then, we have the motherlode – the timeless ‘what are they doing now?’ inquisition.
Aubrey Huff is now a MAGA-supporting Covid conspiracist who was once addicted to Adderall and survived suicide attempts.
Raúl Mondesí became the mayor of San Cristóbal, his Dominican hometown, but received an eight-year prison sentence for corruption and mishandling public funds.
Magglio Ordóñez also went into mayoral politics back in his native Venezuela, as a disciple of Hugo Chávez.
Mark Teahen hit .205 with two home runs in 33 games for Tommasin Padua in the Italian Baseball League.
Ugueth Urbina was convicted of attempted murder and spent seven years in prison.
Eugenio Vélez became an arms trafficker and is currently serving 10 years behind bars.
Yuniesky Betancourt became embroiled in an insurance fraud scheme.
Scott Spiezio revealed in-career addictions to vodka and cocaine.
Sergio Mitre became an abominable monster.
To some, naming obscure ballplayers in this regard may seem inane, pointless or boring – a monumental waste of time. And that is perhaps the case. But in a world where we are all just wasting time – where boredom is inevitable and all ‘points’ are manufactured – what better way to mark the passage of time than by projecting esoteric athletes into the ether?
Sidney Ponson. Jair Jurrjens. Boof Bonser.
I could go on all day.
This is my purpose in life.
Jeff Samardzija.