Lonnie Smith, 1994 Stadium Club #643

Sometimes you come across a story or a quote that makes you go, "Say WHAT?". That happened to me this morning when I was reading what Night Owl had to say about Lonnie Smith on his 1985 Topps blog. He included a link to a 2006 article about Smith from the Columbia, SC newspaper The State that detailed some of "Skates"' darker moments dating back to his famed cocaine addiction in the early 1980s. The outfielder had cleaned himself up with 30 days in a rehab clinic in 1983, but was not on good terms with Royals' GM John Schuerholz near the end of his time with Kansas City (1985-1987). He got the impression that Schuerholz disliked him for his high salary and did not believe that he had gone drug-free following the rehab stint, and accused the GM of badmouthing him to other teams in the league when he found himself without a job early in 1988. Lonnie was so upset, he entertained thoughts of murdering Schuerholz:

“If I couldn’t get back to baseball,” Smith says, “I was going to take him with me. I was going to fly out there, wait for him in the parking lot of the stadium and pop him. If I got caught, I got caught. If not, I’d come on back home.”

He got as far as purchasing a Taurus 9mm handgun from a pawnshop near his home in Spartanburg, SC. But Lonnie was a novice with firearms, and his first practice shot in his back yard left him with a cut on his right hand; he'd held his thumb too high and the hammer snapped back onto it. The following week, he had yet to put his destructive plan into action, and he buried any thought of it when then-Braves GM Bobby Cox called and offered him a contract. As fate would have it, Smith made the most out of his fresh start in Atlanta, and was still on the club in 1990 when Cox left the front office to become the Braves' field manager...appointing John Schuerholz as the new GM. Lonnie never did clear the air with his new old boss, but with his second wife Dorothy's help, he tamped down his violent impluses and usually tried to just avoid Schuerholz. It's a wild and fascinating story.

Tim Hulett, 1994 Stadium Club #430

Boring explanation: Tim Hulett is calling off Cal Ripken or another Oriole infielder on a pop-up. "I got it!"

More satisfying explanation: What look like flecks of dust from my scanner are actually rain drops falling from the sky, and Tim is taking a carefree run through the elements, arms flung wide in exultation.

Completely insane explanation: There is a sperm whale free-falling from miles above the stadium, and Tim Hulett has just noticed it and is frantically trying to call time out and warn everyone to run for cover. "VERY BIG WHALE!", Tim shouts. "We've got to get the hell out of here!"

"That's a good name - ground!", the sperm whale thinks. "I wonder if it will be friends with me? Hello ground!"

David Segui, 1994 Stadium Club #95

Topps put so much effort into making this David Segui bunt look dynamic. Of course, Segui does his part as well, letting out his best war yelp as he squares around with great intensity. Aren't you riveted?

Mike Mussina, 1994 Topps Stadium Club #488

This is my favorite Mike Mussina card, notable for its inexplicable and ridiculous composition. I guess Mike Mussina's got a cool, icy demeanor, but come on. What's with the three tiny ice picks near his right shoulder? The heavy-duty gloves and tongs next to his butt? Even in the midst of this goofy photo shoot, Moose plays it straight, ever the consummate professional.

I've been saving this card for a special occasion, and the news of Mike Mussina's retirement will do nicely.

Just when my animosity toward the O's greatest ex-pat started to thaw, he turned and headed home. Although he just won 20 games for the first time in his 18-year career, I expected him to retire. Actually, it's because of that great season that I anticipated this decision. Mike Mussina is a smart man, one of the brightest to play the game. Having reached 270 career wins, the temptation to hang on for 300 was surely great. But one of his finest performances came just a year after his worst - an injury-marred 11-10, 5.15 campaign. Moose was savvy enough to know that the chances for another 2007 were probably greater than the chances for another 2008. He left on his own terms, secure in his legacy. He won more games than Jim Palmer and Bob Gibson, struck out more batters than Warren Spahn or Don Drysdale. There was no need to tempt fate and risk serious injury and spend another year away from his family. Mike Mussina had the best conclusion to his career that a player can hope for, short of a World Series ring.

I don't think we'll hear from Moose much in his post-baseball life. But he'll pop up again in about five years. I believe deep down that he'll be wearing an Orioles cap on his bronze plaque, but I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

John P. O'Donoghue, 1994 Stadium Club #86

The John O'Donoghues are the only father-son pitching duo in Orioles history. There have been four such pairs of position players: Bob and Terry Kennedy, Don and Damon Buford, Dave and Derrick May, and Tim Raines Sr. and Jr. You might remember the elder O'Donoghue (John Eugene) as the taciturn, enigmatic Seattle Pilots bullpen mate of Jim Bouton in the excellent book Ball Four. John's son (John Preston) stood tall on the mound at an impressive 6'6" (three inches taller than his pa), making him the tallest Delaware native to play in MLB. He was a teammate of righthander Ben McDonald at Louisiana State University, and for a brief time with the 1993 Orioles. John signed with the O's in 1990 as an undrafted free agent, making his eventual ascent to the majors quite commendable. Though he allowed plenty of baserunners in his 19 and two-thirds innings, he had a strong strikeout rate (16 total) and his 4.58 ERA was only slightly above the 4.47 league average. He failed to earn a win in his brief 11-game career, leaving him in the shadow of his father's total of 39 victories.

Like the second John O'Donoghue, I tend to tower over my own father. (I'm 6'1", he's 5'8" - let's hear it for recessive genetics!) But in all honesty, I still look up to him. Nearly twenty years after dropping out of college, my dad found himself at a sort of career crossroads and took a shot at a new line of work that was more in line with his interests: teaching art. He was able to get his foot in the door at my Catholic elementary school on the basis of his portfolio and an agreement that he would continue his own education. Over the next decade, he would teach two to three days a week while taking a few classes a semester...and working full time at a warehouse (nights and/or weekends) to better support our family.

I cannot begin to imagine how grueling this schedule was for him, particularly when I think of the last few years of it. By then, he was student teaching so that he could complete his certification, and had an increased load of homework. Most days he would wake around six in the morning, go teach (or student teach - he was doing both) in the morning and take a college class in the afternoon (or vice versa), work at the warehouse from 3-11 at night, come home, and do homework until 2 or 3 AM, at which point he'd sleep in the living room for a few hours until it was time to do it all again. On one occasion, the chair of the art department at Towson University (where my father was earning his degree) ran into Dad on campus, took one look at him, and ordered him to go home and sleep. It was only after he'd made it through the ordeal and received his diploma that my father admitted that he'd been on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It must have taken a great amount of patience, strength, and faith for him to hang in there and see things through to the end. I don't know if I could do it now, in my mid-twenties, and he accomplished it in his mid-forties.

Happy Father's Day, folks. I hope you've had some time today to think about what it is that makes your own Dad remarkable.

Chris Hoiles, 1994 Stadium Club #451

Ah, "Tractor Mechanic". That's got to be one of the best nicknames ever given to a player by his teammates. You just have to take one look at Chris Hoiles, and it all makes sense. It doesn't require a convoluted two-part explanation, like "Pronk".

The world may never know what Chris Hoiles was saying to the home plate umpire at this particular moment, in the middle of a road game in 1993. Perhaps he was complaining about the lousy coffee at the hotel. Maybe he was asking him if he thought weather-stripping was a wise investment. Possibly he's asking him if he saw the series finale of "Cheers" the previous week. It could be that he's telling the ump the sad story of how his breakout 1992 season was interrupted when that dirty no-good cheater Tim Leary hit him in the wrist.

"Sure", says the ump. "I never get tired of hearing that one." He rolls his eyes and puts his mask back on.

I drive through York, Pennsylvania a couple times a year on my way to and from my family's summer cottage, and once or twice more to visit a friend who lives in Lancaster. Some day, I'll make a pit stop for a York Revolution game. Maybe I'll get the skipper's autograph on this card, and ask him what he was saying to the umpire.

He'll crinkle his brow, much like he did in this photo. He'll look at me like I'm some kind of weirdo.

"Heck, I don't know", he'll drawl in his aw-shucks, Ohioan dialect.

It's just as well. Whatever the truth might be, it's probably not as interesting as what I'd imagine.