Rick Dempsey, 1987 Fleer #567

Your quote of the day, from a Roch Kubatko interview with Rick Dempsey:

"I go back to 1986 when at the end of the season with the Orioles, I had to get an elbow operation," Dempsey said. "The Orioles weren't going to pick up the option on my contract, and I was so freaking hurt. They were bringing in Mickey Tettleton to play every day, a big home run hitting catcher. I got in a big contract dispute with (general manager) Hank Peters. I was so upset they didn't call me in to talk about this transaction that I said I'd sign with the worst team at the minimum salary rather than come back to the Orioles, and God was listening. I went to the Cleveland Indians."

The bit about the Indians is worth a laugh, but Dempsey's been holding that grudge for so long he doesn't even remember the details about his departure. Tettleton wasn't signed until 1988; it was Terry Kennedy that the Orioles acquired after the 1986 season. Let it go, Rick. If you read the rest of his quotes, he also seems to be in denial about his ability to play regularly in the early 1990s, when the Brewers and Orioles both put him at arms' length in short order. It must be tough to be an aging professional athlete; I've heard before that guys like Dempsey are often the last to know when they're finished.

Mike Flanagan, 1987 Fleer #470

I wish that I didn't have a reason to write today's post. For the second time in as many years, a former Orioles player has taken his own life with a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Last year, it was Mike Flanagan committing suicide in August. Now, we've heard that Ryan Freel killed himself at his home in Florida yesterday. The former outfielder, who batted .133 with a .350 on-base percentage in a brief 9-game stint in Baltimore in 2009, was 36 years old. He leaves behind a wife and three young daughters, and does so right in the midst of the holiday season. Just awful news all around. I don't know what else to say.

Brad Havens, 1987 Fleer #472

During baseball season, I often take for granted the daily glut of Orioles news. Whenever I need a quick idea for a blog entry, I can turn to the day's game results, or discuss the recent performance of a player (good or bad), or even take a look back at memorable O's occurrences on that particular date in team history. But more often that not, there's just nothing going on in the winter months. There's only so much hot stove rumor-mongering to be done, especially when the hometown team doesn't seem likely to be throwing around free-agent dollars. What's a workaday blogger to do? Stare off into the distance in an empty stadium like Brad Havens, waiting for a long toss that won't come for five more months?

Tonight, I'll fill the void by telling you what I plan to do in these long and lonely months until April 6.

I've already turned my rooting energies toward the Ravens. Thought they haven't won the Super Bowl since 2001, I certainly haven't taken their regular-season and early-round playoff success for granted. Baltimore's football organization is as professional and competent as its baseball team once was. With Sunday's heart-stopping win in Pittsburgh securing a season sweep of the hated Steelers, I'm optimistic that the Ravens will have another strong chance at the Lombardi Trophy.

I'll be getting my money's worth out of Netflix. I finally broke down and subscribed to their wireless streaming service earlier this fall, and it's given me a chance to see plenty of movies I should have gotten to sooner - everything from Shutter Island to Being John Malkovich. I've got a few dozen more waiting in my Instant Queue, and that's before I get to their selection of TV shows. I don't have the patience to follow many television series, especially when it comes to playing catchup on top-rated shows that I didn't latch on to at the beginning. I've nearly finished with Arrested Development, and it's bittersweet knowing that I only have three new-to-me episodes left. Next I'll probably take on Mad Men, to see what all the fuss is about. If you've got other recommendations, drop 'em in the comments.

Maybe I'll do some long-overdue home improvements. Finally get around to hanging pictures in the bedrooms, finishing up the last of the trim work...all that stuff that I put off indefinitely once I finally moved into my house last year. I was hoping that if I waited long enough, the cats might chip in and do their share...I guess I adopted a couple of freeloaders though.

For the next few months, the holiday hub-bub will keep me busy as well. I'm already giddy for a rare Friday off for Veteran's Day, and I'll be celebrating with either a shopping trip to Lancaster or a visit with friends a bit farther north in Philadelphia. Maybe both, depending on how things unfold. Thanksgiving as usual at my aunt and uncle's up in the sticks of Harford County, probably followed by a  journey to M & T Bank Stadium that night to root on the Ravens with my sister. As for Christmas...I may have mentioned before that I am a Yuletide sap. So that'll keep me going throughout December. By the time New Year's Day gets here, it'll be mere weeks until pitchers and catchers report!

Oh, and I shouldn't need to tell you that I'll still find time for buying, trading, cataloging, and organizing baseball cards. There is no offseason for that.

Eddie Murray, 1987 Fleer #636

This is another card from the parcel of 1980s Orioles that Randy sent last week. I had never seen this one before, and I was astounded by the horrifying juxtaposition of the worst first baseman in O's history standing alongside the best. As Randy noted in a Post-It affixed to the front, this card was surely a bad omen. I'm always glad to point the finger and assign blame for the disastrous trade that brought Glenn Davis' brittle body to Baltimore, and now I have a brand new scapegoat. Surely the powers that be at Fleer planted the first foul seeds of that ill-fated deal when they photographed Davis alongside the great Eddie Murray and produced this card, treating the two as players on equal footing.

In the winter of 1990-1991, with Murray in Dodger blue and the Birds looking to bolster the middle of their lineup, General Manager Roland Hemond sifted absent-mindedly through a stack of scouting reports on his desk and a small rectangle of cardboard fell out. It was one of his grandson's baseball cards. Hey, Glenn Davis! He's productive and talented! It says so right on the back there. Oh, and how about this? He was raised by the family of Storm Davis! It's like a homecoming or something. He was the power source for the National League Western Division champion, you say? 31 home runs and 102 RBI? Why, no one's put up those kind of numbers in Charm City since Eddie Murray in the mid-1980s. It was meant to be! Gloria, get the Houston Astros on the phone!


Thanks a LOT, Fleer.

Juan Bonilla, 1987 Fleer #464

I just can’t seem to quit while I’m ahead, so I’ve gone and started another card blog…well, it’s on Tumblr, and I think you can substitute “Tumblr” for “blog” for some reason. They’re very good with their branding, even though they did that stupid Web 2.0 thing where you drop a vowel from a common word for no good reason.

But I’m getting sidetracked. My newest pet project is called Bad Touch Baseball, and it’s a much more minimalist endeavor than this blog and my 1965 Topps Project. As I’ve branched off into a more vintage-heavy collection in the past couple of years, I’ve been drawn to the hypnotic aesthetics of the 1970s: the brightly-colored polyester uniforms, the giant eyeglasses and sunglasses, the scraggly or teased-out hair, the oh-so-macho sideburns, mustaches, and beards (both bushy and wispy), the laughable Topps airbrushing, and of course the lack of quality control that led to unflattering poses and facial expressions being immortalized on cardboard. Each day, I will post a card from my collection that fits the criteria listed above. Of course, bad fashion and weird photos are not the exclusive property of one decade, so contenders from the 1950s, 1960s, 1980s, 1990s, and the current century will all receive their just due. But the primary targets are the 1970s and the spillover of the 1980s.

I hope that those of you looking to waste another 30 seconds of your day-to-day lives will stop by frequently to have a cheap laugh. If you’re a member of the Tumblr, you can follow me. If you’re not, you still might could tell your friends to stop by. I also hope that everyone understands that the site itself and the captions on each photo are nothing more than lampoons. I would never carelessly accuse a ballplayer of being a sex offender…unless they were convicted as such. Somewhere, Mel Hall’s ears are burning.

Tom O'Malley, 1987 Fleer #477

Once again, a Merry Christmas to one and all, and a happy 50th birthday to Tom O'Malley, one of three ex-Orioles born on this momentous day (1950s pitchers Charlie Beamon and Mike Blyzka are the others).

This year brought a blend of traditions new and old for me and my family. Last night, I joined my parents and my brother-in-law's parents at my sister and her husband's house for a fantastic dinner. This is their first year in the house and my sister's first Christmas Eve dinner, and she aced it. We watched "It's A Wonderful Life" and then went to midnight mass. I've been under the weather for the last week, so I gratefully collapsed into bed as soon as I got to my parents' house at 1:30 AM. They were kind enough to let me sleep in, so I roused myself at 9:30 for a home-cooked breakfast of turkey bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast. My folks and I exchanged gifts and prepared the house for dinner. The extended family trickled in between 3:00 and 5:00 for dinner. We totaled 17 people this year, and the house was loud and warm for several hours while all of our favorite Christmas movies played on DVD (A Christmas Story, Elf, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, and A Muppet Christmas Carol). We wrapped up with a Secret Santa gift exchange, and everyone seemed quite pleased. I finally loaded up my car and got back home a little over an hour ago.

I made out really well. My big gift was a Keurig single-cup coffee and tea brewing machine, which is optimal for the lazy gentleman who's always in a rush before work. I also received a black Ray Rice Ravens jersey, a snazzy dark gray Orioles t-shirt, a Nintendo Wii Points card (which will be redeemed for downloadable Rock Band tracks), DVDs of Superbad and the third season of 30 Rock, a couple CDs (The Beatles' remastered "Help!" and Counting Crows' "This Desert Life"), and a couple baseball card-centric books: Cardboard Gods and Mint Condition. Oh, and there were four packs of 2010 Topps Update in my stocking, which filled a few set needs and provided me with two more Million Card Giveaway codes. I did as well as could be expected, receiving a 1968 Bill Henry and a 1981 Al Oliver when I redeemed them.

Now to finish unpacking and enjoy my plunder...

Ken Dixon, 1987 Fleer #468

Hey, whaddaya know? Ken Dixon has a place in baseball's record books. According to this post on the Baseball-Reference Blog, Ken is one of just 16 pitchers in the modern era (1901-present) to allow more home runs than walks in a season (with a minimum of 20 HR). In 1987, one of the most homer-happy seasons of all time, the righty served up 31 gopher balls while issuing only 27 free passes in 105 innings. To give you some indication of how many longballs were hit that year, Dixon's 31 didn't even place him in the top ten of the American League. He was edged out for the tenth spot by teammate Eric Bell, who let 32 hitters touch 'em all. In related news, the Orioles lost 95 games that year.

Jim Traber, 1987 Fleer #482

Why do I watch just any old baseball game, as long as it's televised? It's a question that my family often asks. But you never know what you'll see or hear. Take for instance tonight's Cubs at Astros game on WGN, which has carried on into the tenth inning as I type. A few innings ago, the announcers were discussing the Astros' demonstrative closer, Jose Valverde. Former Arizona manager (and current WGN color man) Bob Brenly shared an amusing anecdote involving Jim Traber, who has called some games out in the Copper State. When Valverde was throwing smoke for the Diamondbacks, Traber got caught up in the excitement and coined a new nickname for the pitcher: Papa Grande. In his mind, he undoubtedly thought that if David Ortiz was Big Papi, Jose was the new big thing. Grande does sound cooler than Big, to be fair. But if you know your Spanish, you've already figured out that Papa Grande actually means "Big Potato". As far as nicknames go, that's pretty hilarious, and "Papa Grande" stuck with Valverde. I wonder how much pride Jim Traber takes in coining the moniker.

Scott McGregor, 1987 Fleer #475

Scott McGregor is peering in for the sign. But maybe he's looking for something else. The look on his face is one of confusion, uncertainty, perhaps even disgust. Maybe he's trying to recapture something he's lost.

Three years before this picture was taken, Scott McGregor experienced the greatest moment of his career, standing on the mound in Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia as Cal Ripken, Jr. caught the final out of the clinching game of the 1983 World Series. Catcher Rick Dempsey ran to the mound and embraced McGregor, who had shined on the biggest stage of them all, shutting out the Phillies on five hits and two walks with six strikeouts. He'd avenged a Game One loss in which he'd been almost as strong (four hits and two runs in eight innings), but was undone by an Oriole offense that mustered only a Jim Dwyer solo home run. You could have made a strong case for Scotty as Series MVP, but that honor went to Dempsey for his unlikely offensive surge (.385, 4 2B, 1 HR). But personal accolades didn't matter as the two were engulfed by their jubilant teammates.

But three years had passed in the blink of an eye. In 1986, the Orioles were suffering through their first losing season in two decades. McGregor was suffering as well, logging his first losing record since his rookie campaign in 1977 (11 wins, 15 losses). He's staring into the catcher's glove, and wondering where those three years went. He's wondering where he goes from here. The answer would be less than promising. After another subpar season in which he was relegated to the bullpen, he would get pummeled in his first four starts of the disastrous 1988 season. On May 2, 1988, he suffered the indignity of being released by the only major league team he'd ever played for, his career over at age 34.

Similarly, I'm sitting here today wondering where the last three years have gone. In Spring of 2005, I took a job that was supposed to be a stepping stone, something to pay the bills for a year or two while I found something that I really wanted to do (and could do) for a living. All of a sudden, I'm approaching my three-year mark in this job, and I'm no closer to moving on. I still don't know what to do, and I've got no leads.

Meanwhile, change is occurring all around me. Since October of last year, there have been four engagements in my circle of friends. Last night, my roommate Mike informed me that he'd be looking for his own place in June when our apartment lease ends. He and his girlfriend figure to be engagement number five before too long. I'm honestly not surprised; they've been together since college and she's almost done with graduate school. But Mike and I lived together for two years in college and have shared an apartment for the last - you guessed it - three years. It's going to be a tough change. I have three months to figure out where I'm going to be living, and who I'll be living with. This is of course complicated by my desire to find another job. If I don't know for sure where I'll be working and how much money I'll be making, that throws a major kink into my plans. I feel like I had three years to prepare for this moment, and I fell asleep at the switch.

Scott McGregor did land on his feet after the rocky conclusion of his playing career. He's led a life of faith, serving as a minister in the Baltimore area, and ultimately returned to the Orioles organization as a minor league pitching coach. This year, he returns to the Aberdeen IronBirds, for whom he coached in their inaugural season in 2002. Hopefully I'll find my own path before another three years have passed.