In a game all too often preoccupied and obsessed with black and white stat and data figures in a numbers crunch that treats the sweet science as if it were an individual sport and not a team pastime, there are no box scores for leadership ability, charisma and the magical humanity of special players who get the absolute best out of their ability by literally willing their teams to victory by sheer virture of their presence alone.
More than any other slugger in the last century save Babe Ruth, Reggie Jackson in the '70s was the poster boy for all that is dramatic and mystical in baseball. For in a career filled with mythical clutch performance, he was our Roy Hobbs "natural" whom the baseball Gods blessed with a place in history based more on character and personality than hand-eye coordination and physical gifts.
There are no Win Shares for human electricity, the charged current of aura and persona that supercedes all concrete measure of documented feats in sports. Just as there were many singers who had better pipes than Sinatra, there are many round tripper elite who outdid Jackson in long ball lore. But no one could touch his larger than life lust for triumph in the Fall. And I mean no one.
Stat/data-smiths can add up and compare numbers in career spread sheets. But you can't define ethereal greatness, that supernatural something in the air that makes lesser athletes win because they are greater men who somewhere deep inside find the emotional wherewithal to let it all hang out when it counts, under the championship spotlight when legends are made and destiny is at stake.
At the zenith of baseball there are two kinds of superstars. There are those who achieve the upper pantheon of immortality via an aloof arrogance that alienates and intimidates sports scenic satelites around them, be they press or fans. The late "Spendid Splinter", greatest hitter of all time bless his soul, fit this distinction, as does Bonking Barry Bonds, our Mr. Baseball of the modern era, love him or hate him.
And then there are giants of guts, gall and guile who exude such a worldly and congenial confidence, that it rubs off on almost everyone they come into contact with. They might have an 0 for 4 day...but still garner a respect that inspires a journeyman teammate to step up and carry the club in their absense. This happened in 1972 when Reggie missed the World Series due to injury and Gene Tenace became a virtual one man team for the mighty Oakland A's to spearhead the birth of a dynasty.
Jackson wore glasses to correct vision and was a strikeout king as well as a lumber jack jock. Yet almost everywhere he went -- his teams won. And that is why he goes down in history as perhaps the greatest post season "drink stirrer" who ever lived, sans juice chaser of course.
We all know about his Classic Fall exploits in 1977, the three home runs which lent a poignant Ruthian flavor to the sunset of baseball's comeback era. Yet even with the Angels of 1986, Reggie was there when they were one out away from October.
Reggie is my pick for the greatest TEAM PLAYER who ever lived. Because he was one of those rare gamers who could be a hot shot, exude self promotion and yet still make those other 8 guys around him play to win...and win to play. With no show or place in site save Reggie's star status.
So in a Fantasy Baseball post season, you the reader can have a team filled with 3 Ted Williamses, 3 Barry Bondses and 3 Whomevers. Take your pick. Me, I'll take 9 Reggie Bars and beat you most of the time. Once you get past the game of inches, stats and dough, it's the guys with the big hearts to go with the big bats who own the show. In October, Mister.
» Hank Festa has been a published scribe since the age of 21. If you like this article, he'd be glad to work for you.
Also by Hank Festa
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» Seasons In The Sun : Baseball In The 70s
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» In The Event Of A Strike...: The Time Off Must Be Used to Fix the Game
» More submissions
Copyright © 2002 by Hank Festa. Posted July 9, 2002.
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