We all know that professional baseball is played by highly skilled athletes who possess world-class reflexes and hand-eye coordination. But one of the great things about the game is that, perhaps more than any other sport, it lends itself to players of all shapes and sizes. Some players have been famously plus-sized. As these men have become part of our heritage, I thought it would be interesting to pick a team of the very best--the All-Time, All-Eating team.
I should say from the start that inclusion on this team should in no way be considered insulting. The guys listed here were great players. Most of them were very popular in their towns as well. There are a number of reasons for the popularity, but in addition to personality and performance on the field, I think it is always comforting to fans when we see guys who are shaped more like we are. It gives us hope--if not on the field, at least at the table.
So here is my team of baseball's Barons of Bulk; the Princes of Paunch, the Kings of Corpulence, the game's abdominal snowmen. When these guys sat around the clubhouse, they sat AROUND the clubhouse. The salad days of their youth actually contained very little salad at all. According to insurance actuarial tables of body mass index, these guys should have all had coronaries before their 25th birthday. But they didn't. They were productive major league baseball players and that's why we loved them.
For the guys who came close, but didn't quite make the team, remember the words of Winston Churchill: "Never, never give in." (He was talking about the urge to stop with just two or three servings of mutton).
First Base: Boog Powell
Powell waged monumental battles with manager Earl Weaver over his weight until Weaver finally accepted that he seemed to hit better when he didn't worry about what he ate. Thereafter, his weight grew faster than the national deficit. Boog was an imposing, and sometimes peculiar, sight on the baseball field; Dan Epstein wrote in Big Hair and Plastic Grass that the Orioles abruptly dumped an all-orange uniform in the early 70s because Powell objected to looking like the world's biggest pumpkin.
Boog was a very good player and had some great seasons. But recurrent physical ailments dramatically curtailed his production. Seasons of 30+ home runs were interspersed in his prime with years of only 12 or 13 and he was essentially done by 33 years old.
I always felt that if he had been in better shape, Powell could have ended up with numbers that would have made a strong case for the Hall of Fame; he probably left 100 home runs on the table when he retired--probably the only things he ever left on a table.
Second base: Carlos Baerga
Second base is not a position that lends itself to overweight players. Second basemen have to move quickly to run down hot grounders and jump out of the way of guys who want to kill them while they are turning double plays. Second basemen who put on weight quickly become either outfielders, coaches or unemployed.
Carlos Baerga was one of the best-hitting second basemen in the majors for several years for the Indians in the 1990s. When weight trouble put him in the manager's doghouse, rumor has it that he proceeded to eat the dog. He was finished as an everyday-player before he turned 30.
Third base: George Scott
With apologies to Pablo Sandoval, I'm going with George Scott at third base. Scott was a surprisingly nimble-footed, slick fielding first and third baseman, but since first base is so crowded on our team, we will put him at third. He burst on the major league scene with a great rookie season in 1967, helping the Red Sox to their Impossible Dream pennant. It was apparent very early that Scott had trouble curbing his appetite and Manager Dick Williams, not particularly known for his sensitivity, made Scott's weight his personal mission the next year. Williams continually harangued Scott and loudly complained to the press that talking to Scott was like talking to a brick wall. Not one to respond to tough love, under constant duress, Scott proceeded to have one of the worst sophomore slumps in history. Once Williams departed, Scott had some great years and continued to pack on the pounds.
It's not as though Scott didn't try. To the contrary, as he aged, he became so obsessed with keeping his weight down, that his efforts actually hurt his play. In 1978, with the Red Sox, he worked so hard before games, staggering around the field while wrapped tightly in a rubber suit, that he was often exhausted by game time. More proof that sometimes it's better just to relax and eat.
Shortstop is a tough one. The shortstops of my youth were guys like Mark Belanger and Eddie Brinkman--they always came to the ballpark looking like they had just been rescued off a raft. They were so skinny, they didn't make a shadow during day games; they couldn't have worn a double digit number because their backs were only big enough for one number. More than any other position in baseball, there is very little tolerance for even the slightest amount of excess flesh at shortstop. For this reason, a fat shortstop is seen about as often as a skinny sumo wrestler.
I've given this a lot of thought and I'm going to have to take the easy way out. The only man I can remember looking even slightly unfit at shortstop was Luke Appling. Appling was a Hall of Fame shortstop with the White Sox in the '30s and '40s. His selection to this team comes with a caveat: when I saw him play he was 75 years old, competing in an old-timers game at RFK Stadium in Washington. So he deserved to be carrying around a few extra pounds. The extra weight didn't seem to hurt him though, as he hit a home run off Warren Spahn.
Teams sometimes try to stick a large man in the outfield, hoping that the hard-hitting will produce more runs that the defensive liabilities let in. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it leads to both sad and hilarious sights and occasionally can be perilous to teammates or fences that get damaged by the lumbering behemoths once they get up a head of steam while chasing flies.
Luzinski was just a big guy. He had a massive chest and thighs that belonged on a triceratops--and that was when he was young and in shape. He had some great hitting years with the Phillies for a decade, but by 1981, they gave up on him after two straight subpar, injury-plagued seasons when it was apparent that he was unfit for defensive duty. The American League White Sox snapped him up, placed him at DH and enjoyed a couple of very productive seasons.
When he helped the White Sox to the playoffs in 1983, driving in over 100 RBIs, there was intense speculation on where they would put his productive bat if they made the World Series. His wife was even quoted as fearing for his safety if he was placed anywhere on the field with a glove on his hand. Alas, the White Sox lost in the playoffs and he was spared.
First of all, I love Babe Ruth. No baseball list on anything is complete without the Babe. He hit home runs farther and more frequently, generated more publicity, "dated" more women, passed gas louder and, yes, ate more hot dogs than anyone else in baseball history. Everything about him was, well, Ruthian.
Contrary to popular myth--especially perpetuated by the ridiculous John Goodman movie--the Babe wasn't really fat until his later years. Even into the mid-1920s, he was a big guy with a huge barrel chest, but certainly did not have a belly, in spite of every attempt to eat himself into the size of a small third world country.
Fothergill is the wild-card of this team; not a commonly-known name nowadays. A very good hitter for Detroit in the 1920s, who batted over .350 several times and had a lifetime average of .325, he was one of baseball's all-timers, for a number of reasons. First, the nickname. In those less-than-politically correct days, he was known to one and all, as "Fatty." Fatty Fothergill. Nice.
The 5-10, 230 pound Fothergill had the reputation as one of the game's top, if not the top, eater and drinker. His dietary exploits were legendary.
In Leo Durocher's book, Nice Guys Finish Last, he writes about an encounter with Fothergill in the late '20s, when Leo the Lip was a young, obnoxious shortstop on the Yankees, bent on doing anything he could to help his team win. In the last of the ninth of a close game in Detroit, the Tigers had the potential tying and winning runs on base with the dangerous Fothergill at the plate. Leo loudly called time out and walked toward the middle of the infield. He then peered in at the plate and apologized to the umpire: "I was going to protest. From where I was standing it looked like there were two men up there. But now I see that it's only Fatty."
In a blind rage, Fothergill, who detested his nickname, whiffed at strike three and then chase the laughing Durocher all over the field with his bat.
More than any other position, pitching lends itself to a diverse assortment of bodies. Pitchers can wear prodigious amounts of weight quite well. There have been numerous pitchers over the years who would be worthy additions to this team. C.C. Sabathia, David Wells and Rick Reuschel come to mind. Surprisingly, Kent Tekulve and Ewell Blackwell did not make it. I should note that many people felt that Gaylord Perry was rather rotund in his later years. This was a misconception caused by the fact that he routinely took the mound with enough lubricants, oils and jellies to stock a complete pharmacy--and they were all hidden under his shirt.
If anyone ever inspired an alliteration-loving hack to refer to him as a portly portsider from Portland (Oregon), it was Mickey Lolich. Lolich is another of those guys whose stats grew along with his waistline. He was a good pitcher in the 1960s, although overshadowed by the charisma and antics (and 31 wins) of Denny McLain. He gained eternal fame for winning three games in the 1968 World Series. Then, in the early '70s, shaped like a walrus, he was simply one of the best pitchers in the league.
For Lolich, the flab around his midsection became like hair for Samson--his strength and endurance grew in perfect proportion with his gut. He ate innings the way he ate cheeseburgers--in great quantities and with gusto. In 1971 he threw the astounding total of 376 innings while winning 25 games. Modern pitching-count gurus should note that the work hurt his arm so much that in 1972 he was only able to throw 327 innings and win 22 games.
Totally unrepentent in his lack of dietary discretion, Lolich revelled in his girthiness and liked to refer to himself as "the drinking man's idol."
After retiring from baseball, he devoted time to his great love, spending several years running a Detroit-area doughnut shop. While the rumor that he ate up all the profits is greatly exaggerated, it was certainly not because of a lack of effort.
LaMarr Hoyt had a few great seasons with the White Sox in the early 1980s. In 1983, he won the Cy Young Award while going 24-10 and was unbeatable the second half of the year--the White Sox won all of his last 15 starts and he got the decision in 14 of them. In addition to an ample waist line, he had impeccable control, rarely walking more than one batter per nine innings.
His catcher, Carlton Fisk, said about Hoyt after a great playoff performance: "He did a big favor for everybody that doesn't work out, because they'll take a look at his body and go eat anything they want."
Another time, spotting Hoyt walking out of the showers wearing only a grossly inadequate towel, Fisk remarked to reporters, "You have to admit LaMarr has a lot of stomach--I mean guts."
Catcher: Smokey Burgess
Although every Little League coach mistakenly sticks the fat kid behind the plate, major league catchers are not usually overweight--they just look like it because of the funny way they walk. It's not really their fault--you try squatting a hundred times a night all summer and see how you look walking. Most catchers were great athletes originally and they often lose large amounts of weight during the season from all that squatting. That being said, there have been many catchers who possessed particularly peculiar looking, oddly shaped bodies, like Yogi Berra, and there have been a number who could be accused of approaching obesity.
Smokey Burgess was a pretty good catcher in the 1950s, but he seemed to grow larger each year. Surprisingly, the larger he grew, the better he hit. When he could no longer squat with the assurance of being able to get back up without the help of a wench, he became a pinchhitter and would have continued pinchhitting forever except that he finally decided to give up baseball to collect his social security check. He was actually still an active player when this picture below was taken, but he was not, as he looks, 85 years old. He was only 39.
He was described in print at other times as looking like a "walking clothes bag" and "not even fit enough to play Moose Lodge softball." With testimonials like that, who am I to argue.
Pinch Hitter: Gates Brown
Once, Gator was sneaking a hot dog in the dugout when the call came for him to pinch hit. Rather than lay the ketchup-laden dog down (you can't trust anyone in a dugout), he stuffed it in the front of his pants. He proceeded to rap a base hit and belly-flopped into second base. The umpire, worried at seeing red all over the front of his pants, told him, "Stay down Gator, you're bleeding." This episode alone earned him a place in the eating Hall of Fame.
John Kruk wasn't in as bad of shape as a player as he's had the good sense to joke about on television, but he makes this team, if nothing else, for his immortal line: "I ain't an athlete, I'm a baseball player."
Rusty Staub, like most guys on this team, could flat out hit. And like most guys on this team, he loved to eat. Unlike the others, however, he was a great cook. And I don't just mean that he could heat up a leftover deep-dish pizza in the oven. He was an accomplished gourmet chef; so good that he opened his own restaurant in New York which stood on the quality of its food more than the quality as a player of its owner--no small feat.
Every team needs a manager and this one is no different, if for no other reason than to be the guy to pick out where to eat after every game. There have been many mangers over the years who have made us question why baseball insists on that ridiculous tradition of having the old guys squeeze into those uniforms and be thankful that other sports didn't pick it up--no one would have wanted to see John Madden, for example, prancing along the football sidelines in tight polyester. For sheer love of eating, I have to go with Tommy Lasorda. Lasorda may indeed have bled Dodger blue, as he often liked to say, but you can be sure that, along with that blue, there was plenty of garlic, butter and oregano coursing through his veins. Lasorda's career is a testament to the power of optimism and pasta. He once said, "When we win, I'm so happy I eat a lot. When we lose, I'm so depressed I eat a lot. When we're rained out, I'm so disappointed I eat a lot." What more needs to be said.
So there you have it. Baseball's All-Time All-Eating team. These guys were the best. Just don't get between any of them and the post-game spread.