Glenn Davis, 1993 Stadium Club #326

Alright, Astros. Let's lay our cards on the table here. You win tonight, and I'll forgive you for your part in the Glenn Davis trade. I need to know that I can enjoy the rest of the postseason without having to see Joe Girardi's puckered lemon face. You have that power. You can make it happen.

Glenn Davis, 1992 Fleer Ultra #1

January 10, 1991.

Never forget.

A few observations:

-Yes, I've already written about the Glenn Davis Trade on its anniversary, two years back. Considering that I have written over 1,800 blog posts in the past five years, it's a wonder I don't repeat myself more often. Besides, this trade was such a dud (and was further compounded by the ensuing Mickey Tettleton-for-Jeff Robinson swap) that I am considering making this a yearly thing.

-The juxtaposition of this event with yesterday's Hall of Fame voting, in which both Steve Finley (who received four votes and will be considered nevermore) and Curt Schilling (who received votes on 38.8% of the ballots cast, but probably deserved more) were eligible for the first time, is worth a bit of meditation.

Now I'm going to go stare at the bathroom mirror and say "Glenn Davis" 22 times.

Glenn Davis, 1991 Classic II #T6

Prepare yourself for some self-loathing from the fan of a perennial loser. It was written before tonight's win, but still applies. How bad is it gonna be? Does the invocation of Glenn Davis' image give you a clue?

Well, it took fully half of the baseball season, but the Orioles waited until they were sure that everyone was strapped securely to the bandwagon, and then pushed it straight off of a cliff. Next stop: Hell.

Am I being hyperbolic? Perhaps just a bit. I've been girding myself for the eventual tumble, knowing that the O's spent a few months winning in spite of themselves. They've allowed more total runs than they've scored for a good chunk of the season, the team defense could charitably be described as "1970s kitchen decor ugly", the hitters have been striking out and hitting into double plays like nobody's business, and the starting rotation could be summed up as "Hammel and Chen, and what happens then?". They say it's better to be lucky than good, and with a plus-.500 record that was built predominately on an improbable 10-game winning streak in extra-innings games, the Birds were playing with house money.

All the same, I've been a bit gobsmacked by the suddenness and totality of the team's collapse. All at once, Hammel is on the shelf with knee surgery, and every other non-Chen starter is a meatball-throwing bumbler. The bullpen is so overtaxed that no amount of Buck Showalter juggling can keep the relievers from wearing out and subsequently turning into arsonists. The errors that were a cause of frustration in the spring are now surefire backbreakers. And of course the offense is non-existent. Those blasted Yankees have scored at least 3 runs in each of their last 42 games, a franchise record. Meanwhile the O's have averaged 3 runs over their last 27 games, scoring 0, 1, or 2 runs 14 times in that span. When the Orioles fall apart, they don't do it halfway.

I've watched these losing skids year-in and year-out, and it's as discouraging as can be. Every day brings another game that seems destined to be another heartache, another early deficit turned into a sleepwalk or an early lead turned into a blown opportunity. The schedule is relentless, and you wonder how you could have ever enjoyed baseball. Any small measure of success - a winning record after 5, 20, 40, or even 80 games - gives you the flickering hope that this will be a new year. Maybe injuries and underperformance even drag the more talented teams in the league down close to Baltimore's level. The illusion kept itself going longer than usual this year, but here we are in July and I'm once again feeling like a chump.

Hooray baseball!

Glenn Davis, 1993 Triple Play #73

Welp, I'm on the disabled list under pretty embarrassing circumstances. Tuesday night, I got up from my couch too carelessly and whacked the instep of my right foot on the corner of my coffee table. It hurt like the wordsworth at the time (I'm sick of "hurt like the dickens"), but I didn't give it much thought until I took a walk on my lunch break yesterday afternoon. I had some soreness after that, but suddenly by the time I got home I couldn't put any weight on the foot. There was a red, angry-looking splotch just below the ankle, so I spent most of last night trying to keep the foot elevated and icing it. I figured that I could muddle through, but I woke up a few times during the night with throbbing pain in the foot. From 4:00 AM onward, I was unable to get back to sleep. After laying in bed for a few more hours, I got up and dressed and made breakfast on one foot, took some Motrin, and drove my sorry carcass to the doctor.

The diagnosis: a nasty contusion. Nothing broken, probably not even a sprain. All the same, I was sent home with anti-inflammatories, an Ace bandage, and crutches. I wish my bedroom and bathroom weren't on the top floor of the house.

If there's a baseball tie-in here, it's that I probably have little room to make fun of injury-prone bumblers who miss games after falling asleep in a tanning bed or getting nailed with a line drive while sitting in the dugout.

Glenn Davis, 1992 Topps Kids #65

Topps made some interesting choices with the composition of this card, chiefly the suggestion that one of Glenn Davis' teammates would rather sleep off his hangover than watch the first baseman do his thing. The other players are also wearing blue and white uniforms, which seems odd, and I'm not sure that it's very safe for the batboy to be chilling up against the backstop either.

There's a tinge of foreshadowing here as well. After breaking his jaw in a bar fight in Virginia on June 7, Davis was on the shelf for a couple of months. On August 1, he was back with the team and hoping to be activated. The Orioles were hosting the Red Sox at Camden Yards, and Jeffrey Hammonds lined a foul ball into the home dugout in the fourth inning. The ball struck Davis in the jaw and knocked him unconscious, and he was taken to the University of Maryland hospital for testing. They gave him the all-clear, but he never played another game in the major leagues.

Glenn Davis, 1991 Upper Deck #757

The next time you wonder how long the fine sports fans of Baltimore can carry a grudge, consider this: I have a friend who is a fellow card collector. He's been a diehard Orioles fan longer than I've been alive. Although it's been almost 20 years since the ill-fated trade that brought Glenn Davis to Charm City in exchange for three players (Steve Finley, Pete Harnisch, and Curt Schilling) who would go on to play for another 45 combined seasons in the major leagues, this friend throws away and/or destroys any Davis card that comes into his possession. The card you see above is the one and only exception to that rule. He spares this card only because it also features former O's manager and coach Cal Ripken, Sr., who does not deserve the indignity of the scrap heap. I can't argue with his logic, even if I have trouble throwing out any cards myself.

Glenn Davis, 1991 Studio #1

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Here's your turkey. Gobble gobble.