2007

21–10–2

[Franchise record: 393–382–6]

(L) The foul lines may or may not go to infinity; the sparkle on that trophy does for sure.
(R) The ’07 Whippet, who played on the first MPR team, in 1981, has still got it goin’ on.

In the days following the ballclub’s victory at the league championship tournament, your loyal mouthpiece waited in vain for a summons from the Historian. Days went by in silence. Psychics and seers and other woo-woo types were recruited, but after probing the ether like a squadron of demented proctologists, they were unable to elicit so much as a Historical squeak. The staff at Speaking of Faith even volunteered the services of their demigod-sniffing dog, to no avail. Then, very late one evening, after watching a Twins game in which Nick Punto actually got a hit, the mouthpiece awoke from a drooly couch-nap to find that the Historian had at last drawn nigh. (It’s a combination of a clammy chill in the room and a distinctive aroma; you kind of have to be there.)

“What gives, o great one?” I asked. “I thought you’d be crowing from the rooftops about our wondrous victory.”

“I thought it was all a stupendous dream,” he said quietly. “I mean, put yourself in my ethereal shoes. Twenty-six years and no championship? You want to talk about ‘speaking of faith’? It has taken faith of the mountain-moving variety for me just to keep paying attention after so long. But then, when my heart’s desire came true, I didn’t quite trust it.”

“It’s okay, H-Dawg,” I said. “Everyone has their moments of doubt.”

“I’m past it now,” he replied. “You guys were awesome—in the regular season, too. I especially like how you finally dealt with the crucial infield weakness that’s hindered you for so long—by breeding your own shortstop. And by the way, if you ever call me H-Dawg again, I’ll smite your sorry keister like it’s never been smote before.”

I held my tongue.

“One other thing,” he said. “You changed the name of the Wick award to the Air-Wick?” He sounded peeved. I nodded warily.

“Love it!” he said. “Like the winner needs air freshener of the soul.”

Roster

Now entering the Historian’s Hall of Fame:

Randy Johnson (1986–2005) (Whippet of the Year – ‘90; Most Improved – ‘88, ‘98)…
RJ! RJ! RJ! How many players have their own trademark move? Kareem had the Skyhook. Tiger Woods has the fist pump. RJ had the Flipper. A nonchalant little thing he did with his glove while waiting under a fly ball, as if he was saying, “Come to Papa.” Randy was one of the most dedicated and dependable players the MPR team has ever had: he was always there, at practices, games, and chalk talks. (It must run in the family—his parents frequently attended our games, displaying endless good cheer, despite what they were forced to witness on the field.) In addition to the Flipper, RJ had a sweet, compact batting swing that was astonishingly dependable. Newer team members may not know that Randy made one of the most dramatic catches in team history, at the 1988 Goodwill Tournament: an over-the-shoulder, dead-run, back-to-home-plate grab that was Willie Mays–like in its artistry. But it should also be remembered that he was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for the team. During a playoff game, RJ smacked a base hit, and decided to stretch his solid single into a risky but much-needed double. He
ran for all he was worth… the team watched intently, its collective heart in its throat… and as he reached the midway point between first and second, it became apparent that his pants were threatening to desert him. The dilemma: slow down and corral the waistband, or keep on truckin’ and let gravity do its worst. The Historian hopes he doesn’t have to tell you which course of action Mr. Randy Johnson took. It was a case of “Damn the Levis—full steam ahead!” That’s why he’s a Hall-of-Famer.

RJ entered the Satchel Paige Wing in 2000. Tonight he is enshrined in the Hall proper. On this great occasion, the Historian says, “Welcome, RJ. You brought Jell-O, right?”

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