"Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far." - President Theodore Roosevelt, in a letter dated January 26, 1900
Pay attention, kids. History class is in session.
I will be the first to admit that when I heard the news of Baines being elected to the Hall of Fame by the Veterans' Committee, I was as stunned as anyone.
Not because I feel he isn't worthy of the Hall, but instead, because I'm likely in the minority when it comes to sports writers who feel he belongs. I never thought I'd see the day, at least not in my lifetime, where this happened.
Before I go any farther, be forewarned. I'm not going to turn this column into a silly referendum on what's right or wrong, or how this player or that player has been snubbed over the years. Or how guys who allegedly cheated the game belong.
That's not happening today.
Instead, my case for Baines is made up of Baines' numbers and Baines' numbers alone. They speak for themselves, even during an era where Internet math wizards and Millennials will throw sabermetrics in your face like a 96 MPH Nolan Ryan heater up and in.
And ironically, it was Baines' unique hitting style in which he was almost as far away from home plate in the batter's box as you can possibly be --- and miraculously was only hit by pitches 14 times in 11,092 plate appearances during his 22-year career --- that allowed him to thrive like few others before him.
Baines was an offensive beast. A hit machine as consistent as they came. During 22 seasons with the Sox, Orioles, Indians and A's, he racked up a whopping 2,866 hits. Only 45 players who have ever lived have accumulated more career hits in the Majors. And every single one of those 45, with a handful of exceptions, are in the Hall.
Their names are Adrian Beltre, Ichiro Suzuki, Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez and Albert Pujols, who aren't eligible yet. And Omar Vizquel, who is. The other three are Pete Rose, Barry Bonds and Rafael Palmiero, all three of whom have serious ethical question marks hovering over their respective careers.
The list of Hall of Famers Baines has more hits than is a staggering one, as well. Harold has more hits than:
Ted Williams, Willie McCovey, Joe DiMaggio, Willie Stargell, Mike Schmidt, Enos Slaughter, Mickey Mantle, Kirby Puckett, Ryne Sandberg, Frank Thomas, Jim Thome, Ernie Banks, Reggie Jackson, Joe Morgan, Tim Raines, Lou Gehrig, Billy Williams, Chipper Jones, Andre Dawson, Luke Appling, Brooks Robinson, Roberto Alomar and Ken Griffey Jr.
According to Baseball-Reference.com, 19,183 players have been in the Majors since 1871. At No. 46 all-time, Baines isn't just a 1-percenter. He's in the top TWO-TENTHS of the top one percent in career hits.
I know what everyone's argument against Baines will be. He was a designated hitter.
I don't care. Hitting a baseball is perhaps the single hardest thing an athlete can try to master. And Baines didn't make up the DH rule. He just played by that rule.
Consistency was Baines' trademark. No, he never had a 200-hit season or scored 100+ runs. Nor did he win a World Series ring, despite posting a career .324 postseason average and .378 on-base percentage in 113 plate appearances. But Baines was feared and respected by pitchers like few others, as evidenced by his 187 career intentional walks.
That's an average of 8.5 intentional passes a season.
From ages 23-30, Baines had eight consecutive seasons with 72 or more RBIs. He was a career .289 hitter with a .356 OBP who hit better than .280 in 16 different seasons. And the lone reason he wasn't an all-star more than five times was because MLB didn't elect a DH to the all-star team until nine years after he retired.
Like a fine wine, Baines got better with age. From ages 32-40, he posted 63 or more RBIs seven times, including during the 1996 season, when he returned to the White Sox at age 37, and posted a .311 average and .399 OBP --- to go with his 22 homers and 95 RBIs.
One of my fondest memories of Baines came back on May 8, 1984. I was only seven years old. But I remember it like it was yesterday.
The White Sox were in the bottom of the 25th inning against the Milwaukee Brewers, and my father, who was in the Navy at the time, stood in our driveway repairing his car. He had the Sox game on the radio while cranking that heavy silver wrench back and forth under the hood with his right hand.
Baines cracked a walk-off game-winning homer in the eighth hour and sixth minute of the contest, which still marks the longest game in MLB history. My dad, a Sox fan, went absolutely berserk.
The other thing I recall about Baines, whom teams began scouting in Maryland at age 12, is that he rarely, if ever, talked. Hence my quote at the beginning of this column.
One sunny afternoon about a decade ago, long after Baines had retired, I walked down toward the field behind home plate at then-U.S. Cellular Field, and attempted to take a photo of Baines when digital cameras were still all the rage.
Baines, who had sunglasses on and a scowl on his face, took his sunglasses off before I could snap a picture, then spoke to me for the first time ever.
"What the heck do you think you're doing?" Baines asked me.
I was immediately taken aback, and completely caught off-guard, which almost never happens.
"Can I take your pic---," I said.
But before I could get the final word out, he interrupted me, then let out a smile that almost blinded me. I'm not sure who Baines' dentist is, but he or she should get a huge raise.
"I'm just messing with you, dude," Baines said. "Go ahead."
That joke connected in a huge way with me, much like his bat connected with the baseball countless times over the course of his 22-year career. Baines, you see, never struck out more than 67 times in a season during his final 11 years.
In an era of launch angles, and MLB executives always trying to find new and creative ways to measure a player's heart and talent to get a competitive edge, Baines just flat-out produced, routinely striking the ball crisply to the opposite field more than almost any player I've ever watched.
Even in today's game, I don't know of a better opposite-field hitter than Baines was.
It wasn't flashy. He didn't flip his bat when he crushed one of his 384 career longballs. He didn't tap his chest, flash peace signs or blow kisses to the crowd after homering under questionable circumstances, either.
Harold Baines was the epitome of what you'd want from a ballplayer in your dugout. Never mired in scandal. Never overwhelmed by the moment. He just let his play do the talking.
Frankly, this generation could use a few more Harold Baines' in their locker rooms.
