I wanted to write something beautiful here, or at least attempt to do so. But I can't. I feel so helpless. For the first time in my life the Hall of Fame elections actually mean something - really define a chapter of my life. But I can't say anything, because I know that I will be disappointed. And yes, I will be girlish and get tears in my eyes when the announcement comes at 2pm and Barry Larkin is not among the names. It's only my childhood at stake, after all.
I had sort of fooled myself into thinking that the whole large market-small market dichotomy had been a recent phenomena, a twenty-first century creation born out of the bosom of Bud Selig. I knew better. I knew that the Cincinnati Reds Baseball Club died the day free agency was born. I knew that when Pete departed, he left a bunch of putrid, rotten roses behind.
If Barry had played in a big market, he'd get into the HOF no doubt. His numbers, which are pretty much the same as Alomar's, warrant it. But he played in a small market, and the world has changed. No longer is there such thing as capitalism. It's corporatism, the leviathan, and it eats teams like Cincinnati for breakfast.
I have no doubt my heart will be broken. It already is just thinking about it. Yet Phil Rizzuto is there. Barry Larkin blows him out of the water, yet he's in the Hall. (I know - Veterans Committee. Still...)
They should make admissions to J-School much stricter, because some of these baseball writers don't know how to think.