The centenarian happened to win the American League MVP award in 1952, the year Topps had its first full-fledged baseball release.

Bobby is one of three players still alive who had cards in that landmark set (the others are Vern Law and Bob Ross).

So to celebrate 75 years of baseball products, Topps visited with Bobby and recorded a video of him opening the first pack off of the production line. Check out the awesome video.

Player A is Mike Trout, undoubtedly a Hall of Fame-caliber player.

Player B is Barry Bonds from 1986-1998.

A few hundred steals (and a few hundred walks) aside, the stats from the early and middle parts of their careers are eerily similar.

If you were to discount or discredit everything Barry Lamar “Sledgehammer” Bonds accomplished during the advanced chemistry phase of his career, he was still a first-ballot, inner-circle Hall of Famer.

Which is something I hope a panel of 16 voters is taking into account when they consider Bonds as part of the Contemporary Era ballot, the results of which will be announced on Sunday. If Barry gets 12 votes, he’s in.

Barry has had his detractors over the years for his surly behavior and connections to the performance-enhancing drugs cloud that enveloped the game in the 1990s and early 2000s.

I just can’t understand why anyone, at this point, still wants to keep Barry out of the Hall of Fame. Not after so many of his less worthy contemporaries, including those who’ve used PEDs themselves, have already been enshrined.

The most egregious enshrinee is Allen H. “Bud” Selig, who worked in car leasing before getting into baseball ownership and eventually, the commissioner’s office. Bud oversaw the game during a time of great change. Interleague. Wild card. Expansion. Salary explosion. That stupid tie in the All-Star Game.

But there was this other thing that he didn’t want to do anything about: performance-enhancing drugs.

Bud was asked repeatedly about PEDs usage in baseball. As he told Bob Nightengale in 1995, “If baseball has a problem, I must say candidly that we were not aware of it. It certainly hasn’t been talked about much. But should we concern ourselves as an industry? I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to bring it up again.”

Bud didn’t, in fact, find the time to bring it up.

For years and years.

By the time he shared his empty insights in that 1995 interview, some of baseball’s biggest stars were already part of an FBI investigation into a steroids ring, and MLB was warned about it but collectively shrugged.

Bud and the rest of the league stuck its collective heads in the sand, ostrich-like, leaving players to make a difficult choice for themselves: to use or not to use.

Players have been considering miracle drugs and improved performance long before the age of Bud, all the way back to the age of “Pud.”

James “Pud” Galvin, a 19th-century pitcher, was baseball’s first known juicer. Pud, in 1889, received injections of a substance obtained from animal testicles, a process known as Brown-Séquard Elixir, meant to improve vitality. No one batted an eye when Pud was enshrined in the Hall of Fame in 1965.

The pharmaceuticals improved across the 1900s. Greenies (amphetamines) helped players perk up and stay on the field. By the later part of the century and early 2000s, anabolic steroids and human growth hormone entered the chat and helped players build muscle.

Barry came into the height of his powers during that anabolic age, and with the help of a burly, shredded physique, set the single-season and all-time home run records.

The Hall of Fame never set parameters for how voters should handle players suspected of using PEDs. But since Barry became a poster child of a scandalous era, the voters wanted to make an example of him. Bonds topped out at 66% of the vote before falling off the ballot.

If there was a hard-line stance about keeping drug users and suspected users out of the hall, so be it. But by now there are dozens of players who used PEDs in the hall.

Some, like the great Hank Aaron, were open about trying PEDs. Willie Mays was accused of having “red juice” in his locker. David Ortiz, a clutch but statistically inferior contemporary of Bonds, failed a drug test but was still elected on the first ballot.

Waves of Barry’s steroids-aided contemporaries have been elected.

And yet, Barry remains on the outside, as he has for the past 12 years. The same goes for pitcher Roger Clemens, who’s also on the ballot for Sunday’s election results.1

It’s great to send a message that performance-enhancing drug use shouldn’t be rewarded. But the time to send that message was during Barry’s career, not retroactively.

Singling out Barry doesn’t have a purpose anymore, not with so many other confirmed, suspected or secretive PEDs users already enshrined.

More than a decade into this charade, the Barry Bonds Hall of Fame discussion is boring. At this point, there really isn’t anything to debate.

Unlike another baseball pariah, Pete Rose, who was banned from baseball for betting on the game and barred from Hall of Fame induction during his lifetime, Barry never broke a cardinal sin.

He was simply too good for too long.

There’s this idea that enshrining Barry would compromise the integrity of the Hall of Fame. Instead, I think the Hall of Fame’s integrity is compromised as long as Barry’s plaque is missing from the wall.

Currently, Barry is above the hall. Every election cycle when a Todd Helton or Scott Rolen gets enshrined, we compare them (unfairly) to this other player stuck in baseball purgatory who was so much better than they were.

Barry’s shadow looms so large over the hall because he’s superior to all but a handful of the players enshrined.

Maybe Ted Williams was better.

Maybe Babe Ruth.

… And that might be it.

There’s a reason why Barry is known as the G.O.A.T.

I’ve spent the past 15 years studying and talking to people about the era in which Barry played. Among the hundreds of people I interviewed are teammates and friends of Barry’s and opposing pitchers who gave up home runs to him.

They all agree that he’s a Hall of Famer. All it will take is 12 votes to confirm what we already know.

Rob Mallicoat kept battling.

He endured multiple shoulder surgeries to become a reliable bullpen arm for the Houston Astros in the early 1990s.

As Rob’s baseball career was ending, he sought a last-gasp opportunity as a replacement player with the Royals, then signed on with a team in Taiwan (he still owns the league record for the highest ERA), before walking away from baseball and launching a successful career in the tech industry.

And he spent the past half-decade completing round after round of treatment after being diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer.

Rob died Sunday at the age of 60. He is survived by his three children, his mother, and the love of his life, his partner Tracy.

I had the honor of connecting with Rob while working on my book about his buddy and baseball teammate Ken Caminiti, and we kept in touch over the years. We had a number of deep conversations in the past few months. I’m proud to call him my friend.

Robbin Dale Mallicoat, Jr. was born on Nov. 16, 1964 in St. Helens, Oregon and spent his childhood in Oregon with his parents Dale and Jo and sister Marni.

Early in life, he was inspired by two passions: baseball and technology. Baseball was the initial pursuit. Technology would stay in the background for a little while.

Rob was a thin and gangly kid.

“I resembled a Q-tip with curly hair and black-rimmed glasses,” he told me.

This Q-tip could pitch. His junior year of high school with Hermiston, the lefty helped carry his team to the doorstep of the state championship game. He was pitching in the eighth inning against a tough West Linn team.

Batting was a pitcher and power hitter named Mitch Williams (yes, that Mitch Williams, “Wild Thing” himself). Rob made a good pitch and Mitch popped up the ball to the catcher, but the catcher couldn’t hang on.

Rob reared back and fired a fastball. Right down the pike.

Williams crushed the ball to dead center. Home run. Ballgame. The guy who’d become infamous for giving up the big one tagged Rob for the big one a decade earlier.

After the season, Rob’s parents moved to the Portland suburbs for work opportunities (T-shirts and marketing would give way for pizza shops and RV supplies), and Rob pitched his senior year for Hillsboro High School. Hillsboro wasn’t a great baseball school, but Rob still got noticed—scouts saw him pitch while tracking an opponent, Mitch Lyden of Beaverton.

The Detroit Tigers came calling and drafted him in the eighth round of the 1983 MLB Draft. The 199th pick. Roger Clemens and Mike Trout’s dad were also drafted that year.

Rob didn’t sign. His dad wanted him to go to college for at least a year, so he enrolled at Taft College, a junior college in California.

During his freshman year, pro scouts circled yet again, and the Houston Astros selected Rob in the Major League Baseball winter draft. This time, he ended up signing.

There was a lot of bouncing around in 1984—a theme that would play out in the decade ahead. College ball in California. Pro ball in New York and North Carolina. Instruction in Florida and Arizona. And then winter ball in Barranquilla, Colombia.

Have arm, will travel.

Rob’s 1985 season pitching for Osceola of the Single-A Florida State League was his breakout. He went 16-6 that year, with a miniscule 1.36 ERA and 158 strikeouts.

Some pitchers are pure power. Others, finesse. Rob was a cerebral pitcher. He thought deeply not just about pitch sequences, but the science and mechanics of pitching.

Which made him prone to overthinking on the mound. He’d throw a damn good slider—a swing-and-miss strike—and tell himself, “I can throw it better.” If he threw up and in, he wanted to throw it a little further up and in.

He’d try to throw the perfect pitch, even if the perfect pitch didn’t exist.

Heading into the 1986 season, Rob was among the top pitching prospects in the Astros system, and maybe in all of baseball. He got invited to MLB Spring Training and was being considered as the Astros’ fifth starter. Doc Gooden had made the jump from Single-A to the bigs, and maybe Rob could, too.

If only. During a washout day that spring in rainy Florida, Rob chose to go golfing. He was striding over a gully when he got his spikes caught in loose sand.

He came down, hit a soft spot on his heel, immediately winced in pain and dropped five or six F-bombs. Something was wrong. An X-ray didn’t show a break … but X-rays aren’t great at showing soft tissue damage. So it didn’t reveal that Rob had blown his Achilles tendon.

With the injury undiagnosed, Rob was still pitching, wearing heated plastic inserts molded to his ankle and wrapped with tape. But without any power and without the ability to follow through, since he couldn’t push off, he was overthrowing with his shoulder.

Everything that had gone right the season before went wrong in 1986. He started in Triple-A before backsliding, getting demoted to Double-A.

Rob couldn’t win. He went 0-8 with a 5.13 ERA before he got shut down for surgery.

If only. If Rob had stayed healthy and continued pitching at his previous level, he would have likely gotten called up in 1986 and could have helped contribute to the Astros’ division title.

He bounced back from injury in 1987 and starred once again, this time for Columbus of the Double-A Southern League—reinforcing the hot-cold pattern his career would follow.

Rob and his pal Caminiti were the league’s top vote-getters in all-star voting and he got the ball to start the all-star game, throwing two scoreless innings. A Sequoia-tall, imposing Expos prospect named Randy Johnson, The Big Unit, came on in relief.

Rob was 10-7 that year for Columbus, with a 2.89 ERA. Randy went 11-8 with a 3.73 ERA.

It’s easy to look back 30 or 40 years later and consider Randy’s plaque in Cooperstown and how he was the better pitcher in the long run. But at the time, in terms of their skills and their abilities to get batters out, Rob and Randy were pretty close.

The bounceback season earned Rob a callup to the majors. He made his Major League debut on Sept. 11, 1987 against the Padres. He entered the game in the bottom of the fifth with San Diego up 10-0.

The crowd was deafening—53,000 were in the stands. The Astros wanted a lefty, and Rob got the nod. The bullpen door opened, and he made the long, lonely jog from right field as the San Diego Chicken ran around, riling up the fans.

No pressure … just the pitcher and catcher, just as it always was.

The ball got tossed around the infield, and there stood Caminiti flipping his pal the ball. Ken didn’t have to say anything, just a glance was enough. Let’s get some outs, lefty.

Rob got some outs, alright. He pitched three innings, giving up one run and striking out two.

A few weeks later, he got the starting assignment against the Reds, managed by one of Rob’s childhood idols, Pete Rose.

“I was amped up. My parents flew down to see me pitch. And pretty soon, the bottom dropped out,” he told me.

He started the game by giving up three singles, but was able to work his way out of trouble with only one run in the first.

The second inning got ugly. Flyball. Walk. Walk. Groundout. Walk. Single. Single. Walk. Rob’s day was done. He got the hook after 1 ⅔ innings pitched.

He wanted to hit and go deeper in the game.

Afterward, his teammate Nolan Ryan pulled him aside. The Ryan Express told Rob how he’d gotten bombed in his first big league start, too.

Of course, Nolan had 772 career starts after that.

Rob never had another one.

If only. The following spring training, 1988, Rob was shut down due to lingering shoulder trouble, a byproduct of his changed mechanics from trying to pitch through his Achilles/ankle injury from two seasons earlier. But the procedure wasn’t effective, leading to a full shoulder rebuild. He missed the 1988 and 1989 seasons recovering and spent 1990 slumming around in the low levels of the minor leagues making sure he could still pitch.

By age 25, he’d gone from prospect to suspect. And he was trying to show the Astros that he could still contribute.

After 1,415 days of waiting, 1,415 days of self-doubt, 1,415 days of fear and determination and grit, Rob returned to the bigs in 1991.

His greatest day in baseball came on Aug. 18, 1991, a sun-kissed summer day at Chavez Ravine, when Rob threw three scoreless innings against the Dodgers to get the save.

He entered the game facing Los Angeles slugger Darryl Strawberry.

Three swings, three misses. He got Straw to flail at air.

Hall of Famer Eddie Murray followed with a skyscraping flyout that momentarily turned speedy outfielder Gerald Young into an air traffic controller tracking the ball into his glove.

After a single by Juan Samuel, Gary Carter—another eventual Hall of Famer—came up to bat. Carter came away empty. Whiff.

Mallicoat pitched the game’s final three innings for his only MLB save. After the last out was recorded, Rob got some kudos from his teammates and tapped his catcher Craig Biggio, yet another future Hall of Famer, on the shoulder as he walked around the field and soaked in the moment.

Rob shuttled back and forth between Triple-A and the bigs in 1991 and 1992 and stuck in Houston long enough to get a Topps card of his own, the ultimate sign of making it.

If only. Late in the 1992 season, the shoulder started acting up again.

“I was pitching against Fred McGriff in San Diego when I threw my fast sinker down and in and felt something crackle,” Rob told me. “It didn’t hurt, but it felt numb.” When you’re pitching, things shouldn’t feel numb or crackle. But it did after that pitch.

Rob continued throwing through the end of the season and rested that off-season, but when he returned for 1993, the shoulder was still acting up, meaning another surgery and another lost season.

Rob tried to hang on as long as he could. He pitched in the minor leagues in 1994 and appeared in big league camp the following year as a replacement player—with the Major Leaguers on strike, MLB rosters were temporarily filled by has-beens, never-weres, and also-rans.

And Rob.

Rob respected his former teammates’ stance. He was at the end of the line and knew he wouldn’t get another chance at the majors. He wasn’t taking anyone’s job. He hadn’t gotten rich from his pitching career, and with a family at home, he couldn’t turn down the paycheck.

During Rob’s time in big league camp in 1995, then traveling to Taiwan to briefly pitch for the China Times Eagles, he wrote blogs that got posted to Swarthmore College’s website, a “replacement diary.” You can still find his “replacement diary” online.

It was a blend of his two loves—baseball and computers—and reflected his transition from one career to the next. Rob’s final blog post was written on June 21, 1995. In that post, he was clear-eyed about his career.

“I have given it one more try three times... and have cheated the baseball gods out of a few more memories and I thank them,” he wrote.

He wrote at the time about his plans to “somehow get into the computer industry... my love of computers and fiddling around has become well-known with my team-mates.”

“I am writing this and beginning to feel the separation from something that has been an integral part of my life for over two decades. I can say I will miss the game, the guys, the fans, maybe the umpires ;), and the feeling of being a team and working for something. But the one thing I won’t miss is the pain my shoulder has given me the past years... But looking back it was not all that painful because I was doing something I really love!!!!”

A lot of those sentiments also apply to Rob’s long, difficult cancer battle and passing.

Rob definitely did get into the computer industry after his baseball career ended, working for companies like BMC Software, Quest and Microsoft.

Some former players are defined by their glory days and talk about them often; Rob was more circumspect. He wanted to establish himself with computers, and since throwing a baseball didn’t have much to do with computers, he didn’t tell his tech co-workers about his earlier career.

His worlds collided when his colleagues at BMC attended an Astros game and sat near the field level. Nolan Ryan sat two rows behind them. A work buddy turned to Rob.

“That’s Nolan Ryan behind us.”

Uh huh. Rob turned to Nolan.

“Oh, what’s up Nolan?”

“Hey Malli,” Nolan said.

The work friend was shocked. “You know him?”

“Yeah, we played ball together for a minute.”

“Excuse me. You played baseball with the Astros?”

“Yeah, dude.”

“Why didn’t you ever freaking tell me that?”

“Because I didn’t think it mattered. It wouldn’t come up in a conversation with a customer looking for some solution. How would I jump from talking about my pro baseball career?”

He got more comfortable talking about baseball, and reconnecting with colleagues from his prior life, through social media (he was also liable to get into dust-ups if he disagreed with someone).

And then there was Tracy, who Rob met in his fifties. They dated and got to know each other and went to concerts and dinner and walks. They played with the dogs and met each other’s kids, and everything was right.

But as things finally clicked into place with his love life, there was this other thing.

If only. When you rely on your body like Rob did as a pitcher, you become an expert on describing pain by joints and tendons and ligaments and body parts and playing through it.

Hip pain? Back pain? Scar tissue? Just pop Tylenol and grit it out, and all of a sudden, everything is better again.

He could tie every bump or bruise or twinge to a past surgery or injury and brush it off.

That was the case with his restless legs and sore hips. He found himself shifting around in his seat more frequently and getting a seat warmer to warm his legs. He thought he was just sore from playing tennis.

Turns out, it was colon cancer. Stage IV. It had spread to his liver and lung.

Rob endured years of treatment and various procedures. The chemo left him spent and suffering from nerve damage.

Still, he kept rearing back and throwing his best pitches. He wanted to stay in the game as long as he could.

Earlier this year, Rob had a meeting with his care team. They were checking his markers, which had shot up. The cancer was spreading, and treatment was becoming less and less effective.

He could have endured more treatment. But the chemo might have made him unable to walk. And all for maybe a few additional months at most.

Instead of additional treatment, Rob made a different choice.

“Right there, in the doctor’s office, my mind was made up. No more. I wanted to live. I wanted to go in my car and drive and enjoy my remaining days,” Rob told me.

That’s exactly what he did. He lived. He watched the sunrises and sunsets. Took that extra moment to enjoy the things and people around him.

He’d take a good, sturdy yellow Whiffle Ball bat and hit rocks and feel one with the universe.

I can’t help but laugh (cry? both?) at the fact that he died amid his hometown Seattle Mariners playing meaningful baseball for the first time in a quarter-century.

If only.

Timing was never Rob’s thing. But in the face of setbacks, Rob always found a way to make the most of his situation.

Even if Rob’s dreams didn’t quite play out the way he’d hoped, they still happened. He found true love. He made a career out of playing with computers. And for a few fleeting moments, he stood in the sunshine and threw smoke.

A century is a long time. And a blink.

Today marks the 100th birthday for Robert Clayton Shantz, the 1952 American League MVP.

He’s the second-oldest living MLB player (after Bill Greason), the last surviving MLB player from the 1940s, the last surviving Philadelphia A’s player, and the oldest living MVP.

Bobby—who stood 5’6” in his prime—led an interesting career.

Eight Gold Gloves.

A World Series ring.

He struck out Jackie Robinson in the All-Star Game, started and won the first game played in Texas, was traded for one Hall of Famer (Lou Brock) and inspired another (Jim Kaat).

Bobby happens to be one of my favorite players.

When I was a teenager and my father was battling cancer, my father’s hospital roommate clued me into Bobby’s story. This patient grew up in 1950s Philadelphia, and he told us about his childhood self watching Bobby pitch at Shibe Park. Bobby was magical in 1952, going 24-7.

I had a reprint of Bobby’s 1954 Topps card in my baseball card collection, and I brought it with me the next day when we returned to the hospital. My dad’s roommate lit up when I gave him the card. It was a happy moment during a difficult time.

I sent Bobby a letter to share the story with him years later, along with his 1954 Topps card, and he sent me back the signed card and a kind letter in response.

“Thank you so much for the very nice letter. Very nice to hear from you. Sure is great to hear you and your Dad’s roommate heard of me. Love to hear things like you relayed to me in your letter. Thanks and best wishes to you always,” he wrote.

Fast forward to five years ago during a visit to the White Plains Card Show near where I live in New York.

The show often has a long list of signers, some of whom are free with admission.

Unbeknownst to me, Bobby was that show’s free signer. I hadn’t planned for this ... I needed to find something for Bobby to sign. I rummaged through displays of vintage baseball cards, found Bobby’s 1955 Bowman card at one of the booths, and waited in line for Bobby with my wife and young son.

After 45 minutes or so of waiting, it was finally my time.

And I was tongue-tied. Didn’t know what to say. The autograph line isn’t the best place to share a long-winded story, and every moment that passes intensifies the glares and stares of the people behind you.

“Thanks for everything Bobby, you’re the greatest,” I said.

He glanced at his younger self as he signed the card.

“This was a long time ago,” he said. Yes, I guess so.

As Bobby signed the card, he started talking to my son, who was 3 at the time. Bobby asked him his name and shook his hand, and they shared a friendly conversation.

It’s fitting that two of my connections to Bobby are through others’ childhoods.

Bobby had an interesting career. A pint-sized prep outfielder, Bobby served in the Army in World War II (he was initially rejected for military service due to his height) and was overlooked by scouts due to his size until the Athletics expressed interest. He made his major league debut in 1949.

Following his debut game, Bobby was optioned back to the minors. But before he reported to Buffalo, the club changed its mind. They called his home, but he’d already left. When Bobby arrived in Buffalo, he got a telegram ordering him to rejoin the team. He parked his car under the grandstand and took the train to Detroit to meet up with the Athletics.

A few days later, he was called on to replace starter Carl Scheib in the fourth inning. Philadelphia was down 3-1 and there was a runner on third.

No matter.

Bobby got out of the inning and kept going, matching zeroes with Tigers hurler Hal Newhouser.

The Athletics rallied in the eighth inning and tied the score following a rain delay.

Bobby kept throwing and kept getting outs. In fact, he’d pitched nine consecutive innings without giving up a hit.

Philadelphia won the game 5-4.

It was a sign of things to come. After inconsistent results in his first few seasons, Bobby came into his own in 1951, going 18-10 and making the all-star team for the first time.

And then there was 1952, when Bobby became the league’s best pitcher. At one point he strung together 11 straight wins.

One of the season’s highlights was a 14-inning thriller against the Yankees on May 30 in which Bobby held the Bronx Bombers to a single run, a solo home run by a player named Mantle.

In the All-Star Game that year, held in his home ballpark, with the rain clouds hovering, Bobby entered the game in the fifth inning to face Whitey Lockman, Jackie Robinson and Stan Musial. He struck out all of them before the skies open and the rain poured down, washing out the rest of the game.

As he wrote in his book “The Story of Bobby Shantz” with co-writer Ralph Bernstein, “My home-town fans cheered as if I had won the world series. I must admit I was a little proud of myself.”

Bobby became a national fascination that year in large part because of his height. How could this little guy be so good?

The magical MVP season came to a disappointing end on Sept. 23 when, batting against the Senators, he was hit by a pitch and broke his wrist.

Things weren’t the same for Bobby after 1952. Arm trouble limited his output in the years that followed, and the Athletics moved to Kansas City after the 1954 season.

Bobby was traded to the Yankees and spent four seasons in pinstripes before bouncing around between five different teams to end his career.

Through Bobby, the past and the future blend together.

Bobby’s first manager in the big leagues was Connie Mack, who was born in 1862, began his big league career in 1886 and started managing in 1894. His final big league manager, Gene Mauch, managed until 1987 and served as the bench coach for the 1995 Kansas City Royals.

Think about that for a second. Two men who managed the same player were in the dugout coaching players 101 years apart.

Bobby, due to his longevity, has become a torchbearer for an entire generation of players and his impact continues to carry forward.

If you play Immaculate Grid, the game that challenges you to select baseball players based on specific teams or accomplishments or categories, Bobby is one of the most useful players.

He suited up for the Athletics (in Philadelphia and Kansas City), Yankees, Pirates, Colt .45s, Cardinals, Cubs and Phillies; he won the MVP; was an all-star; won an ERA title; locked up eight Gold Gloves; and even played an inning at centerfield for the Yanks in 1958.

Friday’s grid (Athletics-Pirates) was a chance to use Bobby.

A recent grid showed Astros-Yankees (Bobby), Astros-A’s (Bobby) and Athletics MVP (Bobby) among the clues. Too bad you can only use the same player once on each grid!

Bobby has also been a steady and prolific autograph signer and enjoys signing through-the-mail autographs.

It’s difficult to quantify the sheer number of autographs he’s signed over the years.

Two hundred thousand?

Five hundred thousand?

Given the amount of years he’s been active and signing (more than 75) and the fact that he genuinely enjoys signing items, he’s probably among the most prolific signers in baseball history.

Across the years, his autograph hasn’t changed all that much.

Bobby hasn’t changed all that much, either.

A century later, Bobby is still Bobby. And that’s the long and short of it.

A black-and-white picture hangs on the wall at a local bagel shop.

The picture is from a movie, 1938's "Love Finds Andy Hardy." It shows a teen girl and lovelorn guy sitting at a soda fountain counter.

As soon as I saw it, I smiled.

Judy Garland is pictured on the left, while my pal Mickey Rooney is on the right.

OK, maybe "pal" is an exaggeration. But I share a connection with the screen and stage legend. I interviewed Rooney, then 88, in 2009 before he performed in concert in southern New Jersey.

I spent hours researching his life and roles ahead of our scheduled call, only to have him tank the interview with short answers (I was later told he wanted to eat his lunch, but given the elder abuse accusations that emerged following his death in 2014, who knows. Maybe it was just Mickey's way of getting out of an interview he really didn't want to do). Perturbed, and needing input to fill out my story, I called him again the next day and we had a more thoughtful conversation.

After the whole ordeal of jumping through hoops to talk to the man, his wife Jan invited me to their upcoming concert. I typically wasn't one to take free tickets, but my article wasn't changing either way, I felt this connection from all of the questions and coordination, and I thought it would be rude to reject the invite. Plus, who can say no to a night with Mickey Rooney, the number one star in the world and biggest box office draw from 1939 to 1941?

So, I went. I was the youngest person in the room by 35 years.

Mickey's boyish looks and vocal range had long since been sanded away. But still, the man could put on a show. He sang and played piano and performed alongside Jan. It was inspiring to see him still going strong.

Near the end of the show, Mickey was dancing when his shoe landed awkwardly on the stage, and he started wobbling. He grabbed onto Jan for balance, but alas, Mickey and Jan toppled over in a heap. For a moment, I wondered if I might have to file an article about an acting icon getting injured.

Thankfully, Mickey and Jan rose and finished the show in good spirits. Whew!

I decided to wait for them afterward and tell them hi, or thank you, glad you're OK ... something. Mickey passed in a huff — maybe he was hungry again, or just generally tired from a lifetime of putting on shows. Jan walked behind him, waiting to talk to the supporters who'd stayed behind. I introduced myself and mentioned the article, and Jan gave me a big hug.

"We loved the article, Jeff!" she told me. "You did such a great job."

I was glad she liked the article. But who was Jeff? I'm used to being called Dave or Don or Doug. But Jeff? Even though Dan and Jeff were nowhere close to each other, I had no desire to correct her. I took the compliment and wished her well, she said goodbye to "Jeff," and I, confused, was on my way.

I stopped for gas on the drive home and picked up a local newspaper on the newsstand, and was flipping through when I found someone else's preview of the concert.

It was written by Jeff. This was Jeff. This was the article she was referencing.

After all the trouble, did they even read what I wrote?

I'm still proud of my article (you can read it here).

I've told my Mickey Rooney story often in the ensuing years. But revisiting the story recently gave me new insight.

You see, in August 2009, Mickey and Jan filmed footage for a reality TV show, The Rooneys. While it was never developed into a full series, video still exists online.

At one point in the video, Mickey and Jan are eating at a restaurant when a woman approaches them.

"I just wanted to tell you, I've seen a lot of your movies," she says.

"Thank you," Mickey responds.

"And I think you're great."

"Thank you very much." Mickey says gruffly. He wants this conversation to end. Now. But the woman and Mickey's wife continue talking further.

"We just did our two-person musical in New Jersey," Jan tells her.

She's referring to the show I attended. That show in New Jersey. As the conversation continues, Mickey covers his forehead with his hand and grows more and more heated, as though he's going to turn into a volcano and explode.

The man just wanted to eat his meal in peace, which was the same lesson I learned when I first called him all those years ago.

It's interesting how we can interpret events and actions differently with the benefit of hindsight and more information.

And it's fitting that the guy who cared so much about his meals gets to peer down as I order my breakfast bagels.

Billy the Kid is finally a Hall of Famer.

Billy Wagner, a standout closer and seven-time All-Star, was elected Tuesday to the Baseball Hall of Fame on his 10th and final time on the ballot after garnering more than 82% of the vote. He's entering the Hall alongside Ichiro (who somehow didn't get unanimously elected), C.C. Sabathia, Dave Parker and Dick Allen.

Wagner broke down when he received the long-awaited call. He tended to have that same effect on the hitters he faced.

Billy the Kid was an unlikely southpaw. He broke his right arm as a boy growing up in Virginia, and while his natural right arm was healing, he taught himself how to throw left-handed, and that left arm took him to the height of the baseball world.

He broke in with the Astros in 1995 and quickly became one of the league's most unhittable pitchers. His career WHIP (0.998), strikeouts per nine innings (11.9) and opponents' batting average (.187) are all among the all-time best. Only seven other pitchers have saved more games than Wagner's 422. He even used the same walk-up music, Metallica's "Enter Sandman," as the era's other most dominant relief pitcher, Mariano Rivera (Wagner started using it first).

Wagner was great for a long time and with lots of teams. After his meteoric rise with Houston, he starred for Philadelphia and the Mets before pitching in Boston and rounding out his career in Atlanta.

His first standout season was 1999, when he saved 39 games for a division-winning Astros team, struck out 124 batters and walked a miniscule 23.

His last season, 2010, he was just as stellar, saving 37 games and earning his final All-Star nod. The then-39-year-old could have hung on for another season or two, but he was committed to being a husband and dad full-time.

As he told me years ago for an interview for my book on his Astros teammate, Ken Caminiti, "I enjoyed baseball for what it was, but I didn't want that to define me as a dad or an individual. So when I retired, I was done."

All of these years later, and after coming up just short in previous Hall of Fame votes, Billy the Kid finally got the call.

United States of Baseball interview

I had the honor of chatting with Graig Mantle for The United States of Baseball. We talked about my baseball background, journey as a fan, and shifting perspectives on 1990s baseball. You can check out the interview here.

Rickey was the greatest leadoff hitter ever.

Rickey was the superest of superstars.

Rickey was blindingly fast, the Man of Steal.

Rickey was a champion and a gamer.

Rickey had the best home run trot.

Rickey talked the talk and walked the walk (2,190 times), stole more often than the Dillinger Gang (his total of 1,406 steals is 50% higher than second-place Lou Brock's total), and scored more runs than any player in baseball history (2,295).

Rickey even made routine fly balls interesting with his snap catches.

Rickey famously talked about himself in the third person. Rickey's going to have a good day.

Rickey was the most quotable baseball figure this side of Yogi Berra. "If my uniform doesn't get dirty, I haven't done anything in the baseball game." The stories, both real and apocryphal, are attributed to "Rickey being Rickey." Like the story about the uncashed framed million dollar check (true) and John Olerud story (not true, but still great). And a million other stories. The one about him calling Harold Reynolds after Reynolds won the stolen base title is a classic.

Rickey was born on Christmas. How could he not be a gift?

Rickey was fit, flashy and fun at a time when most of the league was none of those things.

Rickey's crouch at the plate meant his strike zone was, as Jim Murray described it, "smaller than Hitler's heart."

Rickey's rookie card in 1980 Topps is one of the few truly iconic cards of the decade.

Rickey broke the all-time steals record on May 1, 1991, ripped the base out of the dirt, held it above his head and pumped his fist in adulation. Later that day, Nolan Ryan threw his seventh no-hitter. Both records are unlikely to ever be broken.

Rickey played seemingly everywhere, from his days with Oakland to New York (Yankees) to Oakland again, to Toronto, back to Oakland, to San Diego and Anaheim, back to Oakland once again, to New York (Mets) and Mariners, Padres, Red Sox and Dodgers, along with stints with the Newark Bears and San Diego Surf Dawgs.

Rickey was synonymous with Oakland Athletics baseball, and it's unfathomable that both he and the team are no longer here. Rickey was so alive. So present. So magic. He'd made public appearances in recent months and still looked great.

Rickey's larger-than-life persona and relative health made it hard to believe the rumors about his death at the too-young age of 65 bubbling up on social media Friday night and Saturday morning. Rickey? No! It couldn't be true.

It still doesn't feel true. Because Rickey was a legend. And legends are forever.

That fact was hammered home Sunday with the 24th pick of the MLB Draft, when the Braves selected left-handed pitcher Cam Caminiti, a two-way player who tore up Arizona high school baseball.

The last name should sound familiar. He's a cousin of Ken Caminiti's. And he was selected by the final team Ken played for in 2001.

While Ken passed away before Cam was born, it's special to see the 17-year-old Cam — one of the top high school players in this year's draft — carrying that torch forward.

“The next step in the journey, I couldn't be more excited,” he said after being picked.

My book Playing Through the Pain: Ken Caminiti and the Steroids Confession That Changed Baseball Forever is available wherever books are sold.

Cam's talent is similar to Ken's in some ways. They both are known for bringing the heat — Cam can reach the upper 90s from the mound, while Ken sported a cannon from third base.

Cam, like his cousin, is athletic, with pop in his bat.

While Cam was projected to get selected earlier in the draft, his wait wasn’t as long as Ken’s, who slid to the third round of the 1984 Draft.

There was something surreal for me, a full-circle moment, about seeing Cam being interviewed Sunday by MLB Network's Harold Reynolds. Three decades ago, Reynolds interviewed Ken about his most famous play — you know the one, when he rolled on the ground and threw a player out from his butt.

Ken reached the upper echelon of the sport, becoming a three-time All-Star, scooping up three Gold Gloves, and winning the National League MVP.

Cam Caminiti's professional baseball journey, meanwhile, is just beginning. And it will be so exciting to watch his journey unfold.

I’ve become a big fan of audiobooks.

It’s not always easy to find the time to sit down and read a book. Audiobooks, instead, allow you to digest a book’s information while driving or walking or cooking or doing other everyday tasks.

I’m proud to announce that the audiobook for “Playing Through the Pain,” my book about baseball star Ken Caminiti’s life and career, is available for only $10 — it typically sells for $24 — through June 3.

Check it out here.

The next baseball season is as fresh and pristine as newly-chalked foul lines.

Opening Day is here again, finally.

Thirty teams are vying for immortality. And for the first time, my favorite team, the Rangers, doesn't have to dream about the impossible. They already lived it.

Today, the team is unveiling its first championship banner.

No team has repeated as World Series champions since the 1998-2000 Yankees. It's the longest stretch without a back-to-back champ in the game's history.

I don't know what's in store for the Rangers, whether they're a 75-win underperformer or 95-win powerhouse. I don't know whether they'll return to the World Series or fall short of the postseason. The pitching rotation resembles a typical Rangers staff of yesteryear — a few key arms short, at least until Max Scherzer and Jacob deGrom can return. But the lineup can mash, and the rookies are exciting, and for the first time, there's a sense of true contentment in the Metroplex.

As the Rangers started to show the makings of a winning team over the past few seasons by adding free agents like Corey Seager and Marcus Semien, bringing on manager Bruce Bochy, and drafting future stars like Wyatt Langford, I had the feeling that 2024 would be the Rangers' season.

I figured they would still be a few pieces short in 2023.

But then they snuck into the playoffs and went and took it.

Maybe 2024 will still be the year. Or maybe it will be the year for another team.

No matter how it goes, I'm just thankful that Opening Day is here again.

I’m excited to launch a new project.

No, it’s not another book (but trust me, I’m still working on books! More on those at a later date).

Instead, it’s watercolor painting, something I enjoyed during my childhood and picked up again over the past half-year. You can find my watercolor prints, some original paintings, and gifts at my new art website, dangoodart.com.

I’ve always been drawn to art. It helped having a grandmother who was artistically inclined — my mom’s mom, Julie Zourides, enjoyed painting with oils and especially tinsel painting, in which she reverse painted on glass then added foil behind it.

My parents encouraged my passions, too. During my childhood, most of my art subjects were my favorite baseball players.

I became pretty good at art and received some art awards during my high school years.

But while I’ve carried art with me, it wasn’t something I was actively practicing until I went with my family to Oriole Park at Camden Yards in May 2023 to watch my favorite team, the Texas Rangers, play against the Orioles.

I took some awesome pictures of my son watching the game and wanted to turn them into artwork.

So I went to Michael’s and bought a bunch of watercolor supplies, including watercolor pencils and brushes, and got to work. The picture carries so much meaning — here is my son watching a game at a place that was central to my baseball fandom.

My son’s name is Dean, and one of his favorite players, Orioles pitcher Dean Kremer, was pitching that day. The artwork happens to show a tiny-sized Corey Seager batting; months later, he would become the World Series MVP in leading my Rangers to their first championship.

Making that picture came at a time when I was dealing with a stressful project, and working with watercolors helped me to mellow out after long days.

From there, I was drawn to painting other things. Flowers. Waterfalls. Houses. Beach scenes. I started seeing art in everything again.

But the more I compared my paintings against works by more established watercolor artists, I recognized a gap. My skills were coming along, but the brushes and paper I’d bought weren’t good enough to get the fine detail that I sought.

I reached out to a longtime friend, Carolann Van Wyen, my buddy Justin’s mom, who’s an established watercolor artist in central Pennsylvania (her artwork is amazing! You should check out her website here). She steered me to better supplies and worthwhile YouTube channels to follow and gave me guidance on establishing my website..

I’ve made a lot of strides by practicing with watercolors, being a student of the craft, trying new things and upgrading my supplies. After a lot of trial and error, I finally feel comfortable showing off my paintings.

I also started narrowing down my painting interests, from nature and city scenes to old black and white photos. I’ve purchased vintage photo albums on eBay that have inspired my artwork and allowed me to take a deeper look at life in mid-1900s America.

When reviewing 70- to 110-year-old family photo albums, they don’t feel so different from today’s Instagram feed. They represent the way people saw themselves and how they wanted people to see them.

Watercolor is a continuous challenge, a dance with the elements — water and air, color and value. With watercolor, control is fleeting. Too much paint or water could ruin an entire painting. You don’t always know how the paint will respond when you lay it down.

It’s a great challenge, and I’m here for it.

Beyond the enjoyment I get from painting, I’m also aiming to use my efforts for good — to donate a portion of the proceeds from each sale of my original paintings and giclee prints to meaningful charities.

My aim is for my art to help great causes.

If you head to my art website, dangoodart.com, you can sign up for my emails and stay up to date on my latest artwork, special offers and other updates!

Ken Caminiti is joining the Astros Hall of Fame, the team announced at their Fanfest on Saturday.

The honor carries so many emotions. Ken was adored by his Astros teammates and fans, and he established himself as a standout player from 1987 to 1994, especially on defense (he played with Houston again in 1999 and 2000).

Ken often felt like he didn't quite get the attention he deserved in Houston — that he was overshadowed or overlooked. Some of the reasons for that were self-imposed, some of them team-imposed, and some were just plain bad luck.

When Ken got shipped to San Diego after the 1994 season and became a superstar with the Padres, there was a bittersweet feel to it — from an Astros perspective, you wished more of his launch could have happened when he played in Houston, or that the Astros had kept him.

Saturday's announcement goes a long way in putting those feelings and frustrations to rest.

While Ken had his troubles and died at the much-too-young age of 41, I'm glad that the Astros — like the Padres have previously done — are honoring the man and player he was.

Ken was among the most special players in Astros franchise history alongside his buddies Jeff Bagwell and Craig Biggio, and now he's joining them with the team's ultimate honor. His Astros legacy has been affirmed.

And I can't stop smiling through the tears.

It's been special, as an author, to connect with people who were moved by my book about Ken Caminiti, even nearly a year and a half after the book's release.

One of the people I've had the pleasure to connect with is Barrett Snyder, a West Chester University graduate student pursuing a master’s degree in Exercise Science with a specialization in Sports Psychology.

I was honored to read Barrett's review of Playing Through the Pain in The Sport Journal.

As he wrote, "Good’s portrayal is unflinchingly honest, adhering to the principle of telling it like it is. However, a discernible undercurrent of empathy runs through the entirety of the 384-page narrative."

He continued, "Playing Through the Pain stands as an unflinching testament to the depths individuals can descend to either conceal their struggles or confront them with unhealthy vices. It serves as a poignant reminder that the private battles someone wrestles with behind closed doors, can forever elude the comprehension of even those closest to them."

You can read the full review here.

I've been waiting 30 years for this. And yet, I still can’t fully grasp that my favorite baseball team since childhood, the Rangers, finally won the World Series.

I've been so used to the bottom dropping out, of losing painfully, that it hurt too much to consider the possibility of the team winning it all.

When pitcher Josh Sborz got his second strike against the Diamondbacks' Ketel Marte in the ninth inning of Game 5 on Wednesday, and the Rangers were one strike away ... whoo boy. They were up 5-0 and in complete command and I still couldn't believe this was actually real. They'd been this close before, only to see the championship snatched away.

The tough times stick with you. And for a lot of my fandom, the Rangers have felt tortured.

I didn't recognize that, of course, when I became a Rangers fan in 1993. I was 9 years old and drawn in by ageless pitcher Nolan Ryan and young stars like Juan Gonzalez and Ivan "Pudge" Rodriguez.

The fact that I grew up in central Pennsylvania only isolated me further. It was Phillies and Orioles country, and here I was, rooting for the Texas Rangers?!

It took until 1996, the franchise's 36th season — 11 in Washington and another 25 in Texas — to reach the playoffs for the first time. Division titles followed in 1998 and 1999.

But each time, they ran into a Yankees buzzsaw. They couldn't compete. The Bronx Bombers were historically great, complete teams, and playing at another level.

Years of futility followed. I got used to my team being bad. They scored and gave up lots of runs. Pitchers didn't want to play there. Free-agent signings and trades backfired.

My team kept losing year after year.

Then 2010 happened, when the Rangers extinguished the dreaded Yankees in the ALCS to win their first pennant. While Texas fell short in the World Series, it felt great to reach that next level.

When they made it back the following season — a tough task, given the postseason’s random, streaky nature — it was time to make that final step.

To get the final strike.

The final out.

But the Cardinals and David Freese didn't get the memo.

Getting within one strike, only to come up empty, was all stick and no carrot. Every single thing lined up for a Rangers championship except for the outcome. That loss made Rangers fandom historically painful. Freese became shorthand for Buckner and Dent and Bartman and Boone and Joe Carter, moments that meant joy victory for one team and pure heartbreak for another.

Over the ensuing seasons, the World Series teams were ripped apart piece by piece. October collapses and Jose Bautista bat flips gave way for my yearly ritual of rooting for the ex-Rangers with other teams in the Fall Classic — Mike Napoli and Mitch Moreland and Asdrúbal Cabrera and Ron Washington ...

It became increasingly painful as other teams won. The Astros — for half a century a Rangers counterpart in misery — became a premiere franchise, winning two rings. The Cubs and White Sox and Red Sox all broke their long October droughts. The Dodgers broke their 32-year dry spell in 2020 at the Rangers’ ballpark, Globe Life Field, of all places, due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

Even though their home ballpark hosted a World Series, the Rangers kept on losing. Only the Phillies (77 seasons) and St. Louis Browns/Baltimore Orioles (63) had a longer existence without winning their first championship.

Over the past few seasons, the Rangers spent big to bring in major free agents like Corey Seager, Marcus Semien, Jon Gray, Jacob deGrom, and Nathan Eovaldi. But they'd spent big before on free-agents like Alex Rodriguez, Chan Ho Park and Prince Fielder, only to get burned. You can't buy your way to winning, but money — if spent wisely — can help get you closer.

The pieces started really falling into place under current GM Chris Young, a former Rangers pitcher.

Possibly the biggest addition came a year ago when the Rangers announced the hire of manager Bruce Bochy. Bochy is a proven winner, someone who guided the Giants to three championships (the first against the Rangers in 2010). He is also someone I'd spent a decade studying and appreciating for my book about his former player with the Padres, Ken Caminiti.

I gained so much respect for the way Bochy handled his teams and got the best out of his players (one of whom was Young for the 2006 Padres).

I interviewed Bochy in 2020. At the time, he didn't have a team to manage after leaving San Francisco the season before. Instead of going through the Giants media relations team, like I'd tried unsuccessfully in seasons prior, I pulled some phone numbers from online databases associated with Bochy and (gulp) called them.

One of the numbers rang. No one answered. I left a message. I saved the number in my phone: Bochy? I had no idea if my message would ever reach the manager.

A week or two later, I received a call from Bochy? Was it a wrong number? Or the man himself?

I answered the call, not knowing what to expect, and there, in my ear, was the gravelly-voiced manager.

We spoke in full a few days later. Bochy was engaging and helpful and thoughtful.

At the time, I was struck by his comments about managing and his inner drive. He didn't use the term "retired" when discussing his managerial career, but "pause button." He was still interested in managing again.

Losing the 1998 World Series had fueled him — but even after winning three rings with the Giants, he wanted one more chance.

"It just made me so hungry to want to get back, have one more shot, and so 2010, that happened. And so you think, 'OK, I did it,' but then you want to win another one because you heard you were lucky. So you want to validate the first one, and so we won the second one, and now it gets you even hungrier to even do it again. And even after '14, after three, I wanted one more shot. It's like an adrenaline drug. There's nothing like it," he told me.

He wasn't content with his three World Series wins.

Somebody of Bochy's stature had the chance to call his shot and pick the right environment for him. He wasn't going to just sign with any team with an opening. He would have to choose a place with a winning culture and a commitment to old-school and new-school baseball methodologies.

A team that would let him manage his way.

You don't hire Bruce Bochy to change him; you hire Bruce Bochy so he can turn your team into a winner.

My team hired the manager I trusted and respected the most, and was building a strong roster; but again, there were so many unknowns of how the experiment would turn out and a franchise history full of coming up short.

I’d gotten my hopes up too many times before.

The Rangers started the 2023 season at a blistering pace. Through the season's first 50 games, Texas was 32-18 and pounding opponents — their run differential (+122) put them on a historic trajectory.

But then came the downturn. The high-priced, high-performance team had a vulnerability, an Achilles heel — their bullpen was putrid.

Without a good bullpen, it's really tough to win.

The bats went cold for stretches, too. deGrom was lost for the season and other key players missed chunks of time with injury.

The Rangers stocked up on arms at the trade deadline, picking up Jordan Montgomery and Max Scherzer. But for a while, nothing seemed to be working. An August and September swoon made an early playoff exit seem all but inevitable (again).

Hope seemed lost (again).

I was ready to count them out (again).

To have my heart broken (again).

I started looking to next year (again).

But unlike previous Rangers squads, this team had some magic left. All of the letdowns and disappointments had made them resilient. They went into October with something to prove, and they gelled at the perfect time.

And this time around, they had one of the best in-game managers calling the shots.

They breezed through Tampa Bay, slammed their way past Baltimore, and squeaked past their division and in-state rival, Houston, in a gripping, dramatic seven-game series.

And then it was on to the World Series to face ... Arizona? It was the unlikeliest of matchups. I was expecting Atlanta, Los Angeles or Philadelphia to win the National League crown, but the D-backs were chasing their own October magic, which made them especially scary.

Even after the Rangers reached the World Series and stole Game 1 with clutch blasts by Seager and superhuman slugger Adolis Garcia, it was difficult for me to believe they might actually win this thing.

The Diamondbacks ran away with Game 2 to send the series tied back to Arizona, and the momentum seemed poised to swing back in Arizona’s favor.

The Rangers eked out a win in Game 3 and jumped out to a huge lead in Game 4, hanging on to take a 3-1 series lead.

Then came Game 5 on Wednesday, when the Rangers faced a magnificent Zac Gallen. Arizona’s ace didn't surrender a hit through six innings. It was the kind of performance that can shift an entire series.

Eovaldi was just as magnificent, stranding runners and getting out of jams in a sloppy but scoreless outing.

In the seventh inning, the Rangers finally got to Gallen. Seager squibbed a single to left for the Rangers' first hit, and Evan Carter, the rookie outfielder playing well beyond his years, followed with a double. DH Mitch Garver came up next and squirted a ball up the middle to break the scoreless tie.

The score remained 1-0 until the ninth, when Texas piled on, scoring four gargantuan insurance runs and breaking the game open.

The Rangers carried a five-run lead into the bottom of the ninth, and yet, I still couldn’t believe that the game was in hand. I was too used to seeing Rangers seasons end in soul-crushing ways. They were perpetually one strike, one player, one season, one arm or one bat away.

That was the case until the third and final strike settled into catcher Jonah Heim's mitt.

In that moment, the years of frustrations and emptiness, of wishing and wondering, washed away. The Texas Rangers are, at long last, World Series champions. The painful wait made it that much sweeter.

Wow.

Seriously, wow.

As a Texas Rangers fan, I wanted my team to make a statement and have an impact this postseason. But this?

Taking down the arch-rival Astros in Game 7, in Houston, to win the pennant?

Wow.

The Astros owned the Rangers during the regular season, especially during an impactful September series when Houston outscored their in-state rival by scores of 13-6, 14-1 and 12-3.

Those losses left Texas sputtering at three games back in a division the Rangers had led for most of the year.

At the time, the blowouts felt like the moment the season turned to dust. The Rangers were getting pounded, and the Astros were clearly the superior team.

It was over.

But in retrospect, it was the moment that set the stage for the Rangers' playoff magic. It forced the Rangers to make necessary adjustments and taught the team resilience.

Early in the Sept. 6 game, Texas right fielder Adolis Garcia landed awkwardly and grabbed his knee after trying to catch a Michael Brantley home run. I feared the worst— that he'd need surgery and his season was over. Without El Bombi in the lineup ... that was it.

Thankfully, the injury wasn't serious. But with Garcia on the shelf for a little while, the Rangers called up a rookie with only a handful of games at Triple-A, Evan Carter.

At best, I figured Carter would stem the bleeding.

"Full Count" Carter has become a revelation, helping the Rangers down the stretch and adding stability to the lineup during the postseason.

Carter saved Game 1 of the ALCS with a leaping grab of what, off the bat, looked like a sure Alex Bregman home run.

After Houston won three straight games to take a 3-2 ALCS lead, and especially after the emotion-spilling Game 5 loss, the Rangers didn't blink.

They just. Kept. Hitting.

That was the case in the first inning on Monday. After shortstop Corey Seager smashed a home run, Carter and Garcia kept the pressure on Houston pitcher Cristian Javier. Carter walked and stole second, then scored on Garcia's long single off the left field wall.

Garcia promptly stole second and scored, too, helping to bounce the ace, Javier, after he'd only recorded one out.

The outfielders were at it again in the fourth with Texas clinging to a 4-2 lead. Carter came up with the bases loaded against reliever J.P. France. The game was on the line. If Houston stopped the bleeding and got out of trouble, it would have been a huge boost to the 'Stros.

But that's not what happened. Carter plunked the ball just fair down the right field line, scoring two, while Garcia plated two more runners with a single to left. A two-run lead became a six-run lead like that, and the Astros never really threatened the game's outcome again.

And then it was time for the Rangers to hoist a trophy on enemy turf and sing along to Creed.

It's interesting, looking back at the series, to consider the parallels between this year's ALCS and the 2019 World Series between the Astros and Nationals.

In both series, the road teams won each game.

In both series, Game 7 was played in Houston.

In both series, Max Scherzer took the mound for the winning team.

It's notable, too, how "winning" the American League West unintentionally contributed to Houston's undoing.

The Astros and Rangers tied with identical 90-72 records to end the regular season, and the Astros were awarded the division crown due to the better head-to-head record.

Houston got home-field advantage. But Houston has struggled to win at home all season.

In a series where the home team never won, being at home became the ultimate disadvantage.

The Astros got the division title, but the Rangers are playing on for something bigger, the ultimate prize.

And all I keep thinking is wow.

This was the matchup I wanted.

My favorite team, the Texas Rangers, vs. the Houston Astros.

These teams have shared a lot of bad blood, from benches clearing and trash talk to media members and the team’s social media accounts pouring kerosene on the growing flames.

The in-state rivals wound up tied at the end of the regular season; Houston was awarded the AL West title by technicality from having a better head-to-head record.

At the time, I had hoped that the score between these teams could have been settled.

Winner takes it all.

Because Texas and Houston dismantled the rest of the American League playoff field, they are now facing off in a Lone Star Series for the ages with the pennant hanging in the balance.

It's fitting that these teams are still standing. The Astros have been a model of consistency, reaching the ALCS for seven consecutive seasons.

The Rangers, meanwhile, have been resurgent this season — and for stretches, the league’s best team — after being stuck in baseball's abyss for the better part of 12 years.

In order to return to the Fall Classic, the Rangers will have to slay the dragon and beat Big Brother.

This year reminds me a little bit of the Rangers' playoff run in 2010. The team acquired key contributors, leaned on out-of-nowhere rookie help, picked up a clutch, gutsy starting pitcher at the trade deadline, found a closer, and then had to vanquish a favored rival that had haunted them, in that case the Yankees, in the ALCS.

I recognize the history of other rivalries — Yankees and Red Sox, Giants and Dodgers, Padres and Dodgers, Cubs and Cardinals, Astros-Cardinals ... the Astros-Rangers rivalry has been relatively new, with Houston only moving to the American League in 2013. But this season, the Astros-Rangers rivalry has burned blue-flame hot.

This is the first seven-game playoff series featuring intrastate rivals since the 2002 World Series between the Angels and Giants, and before that, the 2000 Subway Series that pitted the Yankees against the Mets.

I don't know what's going to happen in this series. Houston's a scary team that has played well against the Rangers this year.

But the Rangers are a different team than the one the Astros previously beat. A team that's come alive in October.

During the course of their rivalry, these teams have passed a silver boot trophy back and forth to celebrate the team that won more head-to-head games.

The American League championship trophy would mean a whole lot more.

My favorite baseball team made the playoffs!

The Texas Rangers hadn't reached the postseason since 2016. It's been a rough few years for the Rangers. There's been a lot of rough years for the Rangers.

Texas led the A.L. West division for most of the season before cratering in August and September. In the season's final weeks, Texas — on the strength of a six-game win streak — briefly returned to the top of the standings, only to squander it by losing three of four games against the Mariners.

The Rangers and Houston Astros finished with identical 90-72 records, and Seattle finished two games back at 88-74.

Throughout baseball's history, teams that ended the regular season tied — such as the Astros and Rangers — participated in tie-breaker games for the chance to move on to the playoffs or to finalize playoff seeding.

But "Game 163," as it's known, was eliminated last year. Instead, tiebreakers are now decided through metrics and math.

Because Houston won more head-to-head games against Texas, the Astros were awarded the division title, while the Rangers earned a Wild Card spot. Thus, the Rangers are taking a trip to classy Tampa Bay to play the Rays in the super duper elimination round playoff spectacular1 while Houston gets to rest ahead of the Division Series, which begins about a week from now.

I get the reasoning for the change to the playoff format. Erasing Game 163 allows MLB to squeeze more teams into the playoffs. More playoff teams means more TV broadcast money and more playoff gear to sell.

But doing away with Game 163 means a lot less intrigue and excitement around the race to the postseason.

Do-or-die, rivalry-fueled games and series have spawned some of the most iconic moments in baseball history:

• Bobby Thomson's pennant-winning homer to lift the New York Giants over the Brooklyn Dodgers 72 years ago on Oct. 3, 1951.

• Bucky f'ing Dent, leading the Yankees over the hated Red Sox in 1978.

• Randy Johnson's complete game gem against the Angels in 1995.2

Those games were a lot more fun — and a lot more impactful — than tiebreaker math and Wild Card series, some involving third-place teams.

This season, meanwhile, there was almost no drama on the regular season’s final day. All of the postseason teams had been decided.

But here we are.

Yes, the Astros have completely owned the Rangers this season, going 9-4 against their intrastate rivals. But a one-game playoff between the Astros and Rangers would have been so epic.

Even with the likelihood that the Rangers would have lost a Game 163 against Houston, I would have appreciated the chance to see that game played and the score settled. Winner takes it all, instead of the division champ being decided on a technicality.

Calling the 2023 Astros division champs when they finished the regular season tied with another team? That, for me, is hot garbage.

The commercialization of the postseason stinks, too, but I’m admittedly not above it — you better believe that I ordered a Rangers playoff T-shirt.

Take October, it says.

It’s supposed to ship by Oct. 10. Will the T-shirt arrive before the Rangers' season ends?

The Human Vacuum Cleaner.

Is there a more perfect nickname than Brooks Robinson's? The Orioles third base legend, who died Tuesday at the age of 86, redefined the possibilities of defense at the hot corner.

He was an acrobat. A magician. Someone who turned sure doubles into outs.

A human vacuum cleaner.

Robinson, who played for Baltimore from 1955 until 1977, had cat-quick reflexes, good instincts to the ball, and a speedy release.

If you hit it in his vicinity, you might as well have walked back to the dugout.

His legacy was forged in the World Series, when he danced and dove his way into millions of living rooms. His Orioles won championships in 1966 and 1970, and he also played in the Fall Classic in 1969 and 1971.

The 1970 series against the Reds, Robinson was especially dominant, winning MVP honors with otherworldly defense and a .429 batting average.

In the ninth inning of the fifth and deciding game, Robinson lunged into foul territory to snare a ball hit by another eventual hall of famer, Johnny Bench, then secured the final out on a Pat Corrales groundout.

As Reds manager Sparky Anderson said while eating in the clubhouse, "I'm beginning to see him in my sleep. If I dropped this paper plate, he'd pick it up on one hop and throw me out."

Grainy highlights from the Fall Classics live on. But given the way he performed when the lights were brightest, it makes you wonder: how many other great plays did he make that didn't survive on video?

Statistics support the adoration — and 16 Gold Gloves — heaped on Robinson. In terms of defensive wins above replacement, or dWAR, Robinson is the top-ranked third baseman of all-time, with 39.1 — more than 12 dWAR ahead of Adrian Beltre. No other position features such a wide margin between the first- and second-ranked players.

Nolan Arenado, the best defensive third baseman in the game today, is at 19.1 dWAR.

The game has had a handful of other great defensive third basemen across the years, among them Clete Boyer, Graig Nettles, Mike Schmidt, Ken Caminiti, Matt Williams, Robin Ventura, Scott Rolen, Beltre, Arenado, and Manny Machado. But it feels like the best they could possibly do is remind you of Robinson. To do something that make you think of him.

Such was the case when Gary Tuck, a manager in the Astros system in the mid-1980s, approached Robinson to introduce him to an up-and-coming Caminiti.

“I took Kenny from our clubhouse over to the field and said, ‘Brooks, I’m Gary Tuck, the manager of the Columbus Astros. This is the next Brooks Robinson, Ken Caminiti,’” Tuck said. A decade later, Robinson would be crossing paths with Caminiti again to present him with a Gold Glove award.

But so many years after his career ended, Robinson remains in a class of his own.

If defense were Robinson's only legacy, that would have been enough, but he also happened to be the classiest guy the game has ever seen, someone whose goodwill and friendliness spanned across generations of fans. People who warn you never to meet your idols clearly didn't know about Robinson.

The Human Vacuum Cleaner just had a way of drawing you in.

Juan Gonzalez is one of the most special players in Texas Rangers franchise history.

And Friday, after nearly two decades away, he finally returned to a Rangers game for the first time since 2004.

He received his team Hall of Fame jacket, threw out the first pitch, and signed a bunch of autographs on the same night the team moved back into first place with an 8-4 win over the Mariners, coupled with an Astros loss.

It makes me really happy to see "Igor" back with the Rangers. Gonzalez, 53, was my favorite player growing up and a two-time American League MVP, an RBI machine who, during his prime, drove in more runs than games played.

He was never better than the 1996 American League Divisional Series against the Yankees, when he was a one-man wrecking crew, smashing five home runs in four games. Only a fellow named Gehrig had a higher slugging percentage in a single playoffs than Gonzalez’s 1.375 in 1996.

"Juan Gone," with his 434 career home runs, has stayed largely gone after his last MLB game in 2005. The team initially held off on electing Gonzalez to the Rangers Hall of Fame out of fear that he wouldn't appear at the enshrinement ceremony — and when he was voted in during the 2015 season, he did exactly that, having his son show up on his behalf instead.

But he was back on Friday, receiving not one but two standing ovations.

The fans were making up for lost time.

Baseball hates a rat.

The game's clubhouse culture is all about protecting fellow players — it's ruled by a code of Omertà. Which makes the news that Alex Rodriguez named names of fellow steroid users to the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration a decade ago all the more jarring.

My book Playing Through the Pain: Ken Caminiti and the Steroids Confession That Changed Baseball Forever is available wherever books are sold.

According to Mike Fish's reporting for ESPN looking back on the Biogenesis scandal, Rodriguez leaked the names of Ryan Braun, Manny Ramirez, and another All-Star player to the feds.

A-Rod was reportedly never the focus of the DEA's investigation. But he ratted out fellow players to protect himself.

Alex was the biggest of stars, a generational talent whose blend of power, speed and slick defense redefined the shortstop position. He was seen as the answer, the game’s savior, the player who would "cleanly" rewrite the steroids-tainted record books.

You're thinking about steroids in baseball all wrong

But he wasn't clean. Maybe ever. Even during his early MLB career with the Mariners, sources have told me, there was speculation that he was very knowledgeable, too knowledgeable, about steroids.

The Rangers didn't know that, or pay it any attention, ahead of the 2001 season, when they offered him the biggest contract in North American sports history up to that point — a 10-year, $252-million deal (PEDs were definitely not front of mind for the 2001 Rangers).

A-Rod put up wonderful numbers in Texas. Steroids-aided numbers, as we would later learn.

In 2009, cornered by results of a leaked positive test from years earlier, Rodriguez stated that "I was young, I was stupid, I was naive." According to Alex, he took steroids in the 2001-2003 window.1 He held a press conference apologizing to his teammates.

At the time, he said he learned his lesson. That he knew better.

But as it turns out, he didn't learn anything. Instead, after Major League Baseball stopped hand-stamping his PEDs exemptions, he started getting drugs through Tony Bosch, a shifty guy who ran a rejuvenation clinic in Miami.

When Biogenesis clients started failing drug tests and A-Rod surfaced as a longtime client, he went on a scorched-earth campaign against the league, trying to avoid suspension.

Then he turned around and sung like a canary to the DEA.

Former teammates of A-Rod's have faced death threats and seen their reputations tarnished just for admitting their own PEDs usage. Not for naming other players, but for voluntarily coming forward and talking about themselves.

Ken Caminiti was criticized for breaking the lid off of the game's steroids underground by admitting to using PEDs in a 2002 Sports Illustrated cover story. But he only implicated himself. He was a troubled man trying to find peace in his life. He didn't name names, even when asked.

Notably, Sports Illustrated removed a reference to A-Rod from one of Caminiti's quotes that appeared in the magazine.

Here was how Caminiti was quoted in an online story that broke the news ahead of the magazine hitting newsstands:

"Look at all the money in the game," Caminiti said. "A kid got $252 million. So I can't say, 'Don't do it,' not when the guy next to you is as big as a house and he's going to take your job and make the money."

Here's how the quote appeared in print:

"If a young player were to ask me what to do, I'm not going to tell him it's bad. Look at all the money in the game: You have a chance to set your family up, to get your daughter into a better school. ... So I can't say, 'Don't do it,' not when the guy next to you is as big as a house and he's going to take your job and make the money."

To Caminiti, Rodriguez's big contract was an open door for other players to consider using PEDs.

It's common, at publications like SI, for the legal and standards folks to pore over word choices for publication and to remove any stray references to others not directly involved in a story. I've been through that process numerous times. It's interesting, looking back now, to consider how careful everyone was to herald A-Rod as a clean player — and how ironic it is that Sports Illustrated removed a reference to a player whose entire career would be tarnished by his own use of PEDs.

Jose Canseco, another steroids user-turned-whistleblower, named names of fellow players, including Rodriguez's, in his books Juiced and Vindicated. Lots of people trashed Canseco, but his accusations have held up.

A-Rod brushed aside and sidestepped Canseco's claims at the time. He didn't want to stoop down to Canseco's level.

Turns out, he could stoop even lower.

At least Canseco has been consistent. Whatever you feel about Canseco, the former Bash Brother with his ax to grind, his words on this topic hold credibility. Alex, for all of his shifting accounts, for the lies piled upon other lies, and for breaking baseball’s Omertà, doesn’t have any credibility left.

Canseco came forward in large part because he felt blackballed by Major League Baseball. And given A-Rod's image rehabilitation, I can't blame him. Where many players caught up in the PEDs cloud have taken a back seat, there's Alex, still front and center on your TV screen, still peddling his brand of bullshit as a broadcaster on ESPN or Fox. He's shopping a documentary, too.

At this point, why should we believe anything he has to say?

Why would we want to listen to a rat?