Ah man, Willie Davis was found dead, aged 69. He took over centerfield for the LA Dodgers following the retirement of Duke Snider. The various death notices are especially sad as they paint a picture of a lonely man: he was found dead alone in his Burbank apartment by a “neighbor who sometimes bought him breakfast”; there is no available information concerning any survivors.
In 1996, Davis was arrested at his parents’ home for threatening to kill them and burn down the house unless they gave him $5,000. All of this while armed with samurai swords and throwing knives.
Sad.
In other news of the slow decline, Nomar Garciaparra retired the other day, signing a one-day contract to make his grand finale in a Boston uniform. He trotted onto their Spring Training field in Fort Meyers to a loud ovation to say good-bye to the fans who at times called for him to be traded, killed, or worse. The love-fest struck me me as a little awkward: there was so much (seeming) vitriol between he and the team in 2003 and 2004 that you might think they’d never speak again. Of course, it’s the fickle Boston media, who seem to relish a relationship with their stars at one extreme end of the emotional spectrum or the other (and throughout a career generally both) who we’re talking about, so how much of the drama was a cooked-up story we can’t be sure, but anyone who watched that team has well-seared into their memory the sulking Nomar in the dugout prior to the trade, and the sense of a weight lifted afterwards.
But the departure of Nomar is really and truly a bit melancholy for me because his emergence was followed by own reentry into being a fan of the game. I fell out of watching baseball in the early ’90s as it became at odds with my blossoming angsty teenage persona, missing the strike entirely (which was probably a good thing) and then, for whatever reason (perhaps the emergence of the web), started really watching right as our man was embarking on his 1997 Rookie of the Year campaign. He was incredible to watch: everything he did on the field felt effortless, and the change he seemed to represent at the shortstop position was genuinely an exciting development, though in hindsight perhaps a bit of a fad. Always a bit of a free-swinger (54% percentage of pitches swung at compared to the MLB average of 45%; 45% of first-pitch swings compared to the average of 26%), he was no textbook player, no lesson to the blossoming players of the world, but man was he fun to watch. From the rituals prior to pretty much every single pitch to the home run blasts, he was among the best shortstops in the league from 1999 through 2000, suffering then a wrist injury that seems to have really diminished his skills. He rose once more, briefly, to bang 20 deep flies in 2004 for the Dodgers, earning himself one final All Star appearance.
All time he ranks honorably, his Wins Above Replacement number at 42.6, 30th all-time among shortstops, right behind Omar Vizquel (43.2) and right ahead of Phil Ruzzuto (41.8). Though that latter player is in the Hall of Fame, and the former most certainly will be, I don’t think Nomar’s name really belongs in the discussion, even as a long-shot. He burned brilliantly, but for too short a time. It is sad to see him go- and puzzling to see him join forces with the antagonistic media- but I am quite happy to have seen him play.
As I write this, Pedro Martinez, another towering figurehead from the Nomar-era Sox, is still without a job. Should he fail to catch on it will be sad to see two of the most exciting players I’ve ever watched go into retirement. It certainly makes a fella feel old.
But, hey, that’s life. It’s springtime again, it’s full of new faces, new beginnings, and a new story.