In my experience, who your favorite baseball player is can feel a bit arbitrary. Typically, you have to be a good baseball player to be folks’ favorite, but even that isn’t always strictly necessary. It helps if you’re a star, but many people also prefer to root for underdogs. It helps to be distinctive, but given that baseball has varied jobs and accommodates many diverse body types, distinction could come in almost any form. My first favorite baseball player was Doug Mientkiewicz, who I initially liked because he played the same position as me; first base. But if it were not for numerous idiosyncrasies—pine tar on his helmet, his penchant for splitz-like catches, his iconic bubble gum—I probably would not have become his devoted fan. I enjoyed Johan Santana at first because he shared my birthday, and then because he was quite literally the best pitcher in baseball. Watching the terrible Twins of 2016 I became fond of Max Kepler, the child of German ballerinas who improbably patrolled the rightfield corner of Target Field. Although the Twins roster now boasts several genuine superstars including Carlos Correa, Byron Buxton, and Royce Lewis, I most loyally root for Bailey Ober, a towering Carolinian whose fastball doesn’t touch 95 MPH and whom I affectionately call—for reasons I won’t bother to explain—the “spicy noodle monster.”
I’m thinking about favorite players because my grandpa Bob died a year ago today. If memory serves, he and my grandmother took me to my first game at the Metronome, a game against the Pirates in June of 2001. He was also a childhood fan of the Cleveland Indians and in his youth, he got to watch the Indians win their most recent world series in 1948. Their team that year was absolutely star-studded, featuring six hall of famers including the fireballer Bob Feller, prodigy Lary Doby, and none other than Satchel fricken’ Paige. None of the three hall of fame bats in the their lineup were Bob’s favorite, however: that honor was reserved for leftfielder Dale Mitchell.
Mitchell, like Ober, was a good player overshadowed by the stars around him. When author Luke Epplin immortalized the 1948 team in his 2021 book Our Team, Mitchell barely received passing mention and appears only three times in the index. “I remember expecting [Mitchell] to hit line drives at every at-bat,” Bob wrote, demonstrating the good memory that he retained until the end. Mitchell must have indeed hit many line drives because he led his championship team in hits (204), trailed only shortstop-manager Lou Boudreau for the team lead in doubles (30), and only outfield companion Doby for the lead in triples (8). During the peak of his career between 1947 and 1953 only three players in the league, all hall of famers, collected more hits than Mitchell. There are few players in the modern game that resemble Mitchell’s commitment to the single in particular, with the possible exception of Luis Arraez who also possesses an almost preternatural capacity for collecting hits. It was response to me bombarding Bob with information about Arraez that he mentioned Mitchell in the first place.
A couple months after this email exchange I went to my last ball game with Bob; a September Twins game against the Royals that included my fiancé Emily, as well as my dad and his aunt and uncle. Luis Arrez began the Twins offense that day with a hit, a swinging bunt infield single.
When I reflect on the folks I’ve lost I find I often linger on their personal taste. Bob was well-liked by many, and it was heartening it the days and weeks and months after his death to hear condolences from his neighbors and reflect on his many virtues with my family. But a list of virtues isn’t a person. Bob liked Dale Mitchell because he hit a lot of line drives. Watching Mitchell do that was fun for him. Baseball is something that, for some reason, means a lot to me, and knowing not just that Bob liked it too but how he liked it, what he liked about it, makes me feel a little closer to the grandpa I loved who’s gone.
Solo Homer 