I think Rodney King best summed it up with his prophetic words, "Can't we all just get along?"
Who is in the Hog Hall of Fame, who isn't, who should be? Does it really matter? We all wore that famous "14" jersey. So if one of us gets in and has his jersey enshrined, we all get in.
There is no need to waste words in an argument with someone nicknamed The Straw because the truth is he got that nickname because he sucked.
Who cares if the banjo swinging, razor blade shitting, shoulder dipping, singles hitting Areno was shamelessly allowed to walk into the Hall.
Needless to say, I did not "Walk" into the Hall of Fame. Not in my 595 lifetime at-bats, and not when I legged out a right field looper for a home run to leg it right into The Hall.
Not even that pop-up specialist Pung could argue the greatness of my contribution to Hog History.
In my own humble opinion my great hitting accomplishments can only be exceeded by the Great Bee-Bob Kopp.
It would be tantamount to keeping Rickey Henderson out of the Hall of Fame because he didn't hit for power. My blinding speed was a threat no pitcher could take for granted. There was no way they could ever double me up or prevent me from tagging up and scoring easily from second base on a fly ball.
We must also acknowledge we played in different eras. Those that came after us cannot imagine how hard it was to play against the likes of real competition. When you have to slug it out with the TNT prison guards, shut down those behemoths Buff & Biff of Harlans Beverage and give them their only two defeats in an otherwise perfect season, or absolutely own perennial champions 1810 Barn and go head to head with softball legends like The Lump of Peerless Paper, you had to be made of sterner stuff.
Today, the Hogs play against Jerry's Kids, The Little Sisters of the Poor and The Jerky Off Boys. Half the teams they play against have women on them. This is not real competition, but a figment of softball's lowest imagination.
I was there during those tough years, grinding out losses and making sure we stayed under .500 where I earned the moniker Macos Hustle.
But it is for that buffoon brother of yours that I save my most reconciliatory words. It is always amusing to hear the ramblings of your brother Corky Sommers. I hope he had a nice summer at Lambs Farm (a.k.a. Tardville).
Hearing his random babbling reminds me what your mother once told me years ago, "There is no cure for retardation. The fucking idiots only get dumber as they get older." Truer words were never spoken.
If only brother Corky knew how we padded his stats to make him feel good. I always thought it was kind of you to record a hit for him if he somehow found his way to first base on a ground out. I still makes me smile to remember him sitting on the bench with his coloring book eating his crayons, picking his nose and munching on boogers.
I knew it broke you heart to see him suddenly sit up straight, get that stupid grin on his face and watch him poop his pants. Then he would break the team up by telling you he made a "double" in his pants. Maybe one day they will find a cure, but I am afraid it will do little to help brother Corky. I hope he can at least remember to not eat his doodie. Like your mom said, the fucking idiots only get dumber as they get older.
Finally, I have little time and no energy to waste on those who chose the "Kissing your Sister" path to first base.
I could have easily racked up better stats if I didn't have to take cuts at balls when pitchers where trying to pitch away from me. It's fucking slow pitch. That is just one step above T Ball. Grown men, standing there with a hefty bat glued to their shoulders is such a sad sight and a sign of weakness. I personally think the stats should call a reduction of one hit for every walk someone in slow pitch took. Then the greatness of my achievements could be fully appreciated.
But as I said in the beginning, I think it is time we all get along and let those that have achieved greatness bask in the glory of their achievements.