Pack #1: Leadoff bunting

The first pack of the first box of cards, and I guess my first thought is, "well it's nice to have pulled the Griffey, but I'm sorry Kid, I don't think it gets much better than this Brett Butler bunting beauty."

A man whose career and legacy could arguably be defined by the bunt for a hit, I doubt there could be a better photo for a Brett Butler card to start the dive into the decade: his eyes locked on the ball, bat firmly held in front of the plate, his body ready to launch for first as soon as he sees that ball hit the ground (a brief aside to contradict what I just wrote and note that the '91 Leaf photo may have the edge here--nearly the same shot but the ball is right there in the corner of the frame, and he's in the uniform he'd spend the majority of the '90s in).

At 5'10" 160 pounds, maybe I'm only drawn to his style of play because it's easier to see myself in his shoes than, say, Dale Murphy's, but his game just seems so damn fun, and ain't that what it's all about?

Hits for contact. Walks more than he strikes out. A whole lot of bunting. A whole lot of stealing. Caught stealing...a bit more than you'd like.

Yeah I know that last one isn't great but, damn, if it isn't fun!

A leader in triples in both leagues, first in the NL in 1983 with Atlanta, and then in the AL with Cleveland in 1986, Butler's speed was such an asset--probably the thing, along with his tenacity, that kept him around the majors for as long as he was. 

And his bunting skills can't be understated--complete bunting data isn't fully available for the duration of his career, but for seasons it is available, he led the majors a handful of times, and consider this: in '92 he had 42 bunts. Butler alone was bunting more in his heyday than any single franchise has in any season in the past decade plus (you have to go back to the 2011 Angels, who laid down 43, to, as a team, surpass that '92 season).

1990 was a pretty good year for Butler--he led the league with 192 hits and slashed .309/.397/.384, and the timing of his "new look" free agency due to owner collusion a few years prior set him up for landing the Dodgers deal (also in this pack, Daryl Strawberry, would join him in the outfield, having made a splash of his own with a big contract a month earlier with the Dodgers).

And while he's there, enshrined on cardboard, bunting from the lefty's batter box, I can't help but wonder: what if he was right handed? His left-handedness was an asset with his hitting at the top of lineups I'm sure, but imagining him and his quickness if he could have slotted in at second base does make me wonder if history would see him and consider his game just a little bit differently.

At any rate, it's awesome to consider a man who defies the stat-head obsession with what value bunting brings as it relates to run production and all the somewhat silly arguments in the realm of statistical calculation, in part because Butler epitomized the realm of possibility, the possibility that hangs between the moment you realize the bunter is squaring up to do so and the moment the ball is on the ground, in play.

And putting the ball in play is something that most of us just hope we can do.

Welcome to the Cardboard Millennial

Friday, July 20, 1990.

I’m three and a half years old.

At 10:30 am Eastern Daylight Time in Rochester, NY, a new cry breaks forth onto the ears of the world. My sister is born. 

At 5 pm Central Daylight Time in Kansas City, Rookie Kevin Appier takes the mound in the first game of a Friday night doubleheader, the start to what will be a three-hit complete game shutout for him in front of the home crowd, just two starts after pitching a one-hit shutout in Detroit.

Two hours and 34 minutes later, a cry of a different kind resounds when Appier strikes out Tom Brunansky to end the game, veers off the mound toward the first base line, slaps his glove, and shakes catcher Mike Macfarlane’s hand as he is handed the game ball.

If not for the thunderstorms that moved through Kansas City back on Tuesday May 15th, when this game was originally scheduled to take place, maybe this never happens. 

Maybe after seven innings Roger Clemens isn’t stewing in the dugout as reliever Rob Murphy gives up two runs and is replaced by Jerry Reed, who gives up another on a wild pitch before getting out of the inning with a Kevin Seitzer groundout, a sad performance capping Clemens’ fourth loss in a row, Appier’s muted double fist pumps further unnerving him. 

Maybe Clemens doesn't find himself watching the second of the twi-night games, muttering under his breath, vowing to carry that loss into his next two starts—two complete-game shutouts of his own—remembering that sting, in fact, in his final 10 starts of the 1990 regular season when the Red Sox drop only one of those games, Clemens posting a .92 ERA and delivering 76 Ks over that stretch. 

But that, all of that, does happen.

In the 1990 postseason, the Red Sox get swept by the Athletics in the ALCS, but Appier and the rest of the Royals are watching from home, their 75-86 record putting them 27.5 games behind the A's. Clemens pitches masterfully in a game-one battle against Dave Stewart, but the bullpen and offense do him no favors, and his anger builds, culminating in a wild game-four ejection.

Later that year, tucked away on the back of a shelf, or up in an attic, or on the floor of a closet, somewhere just out of sight, a couple of boxes of 1990 Leaf baseball cards sit and accumulate dust, forgotten.

And now, after a long 33 years, Reader, we get to find out what’s in them together. Welcome to the Cardboard Millennial, a blog about baseball cards and mixed metaphors by an aging Millennial—hope you enjoy your stay.