Today’s bittersweet announcement that Ron Santo will finally be inducted into the Hall of Fame is really just a swift kick to the decomposing crotch of the Cubs legend who died almost a year ago to the day.
I’m far from biased here. Santo played well before my time and was easily the worst broadcaster I’ve ever heard (although swingin’ Dick Stockton is giving him a run for his money these days) so I don’t have a horse in this race, but the numbers don’t lie. I won’t bore you with yet another examination of his career statistics because it’s clear his numbers have always been Hall of Fame-worthy—otherwise, he wouldn’t have been elected now. So what the hell was the holdup?
I’m not a big fan of the pomp and circumstance associated with awards and ceremonies in general, but to deny the man the joy and satisfaction of joining the Hall and then posthumously deem him deserving is simply cruel and vindictive. The fact that he was elected almost unanimously (15 of 16 votes) now that he’s dead and buried proves that the Baseball Writers Association and especially the pompous Veterans Committee are just a pathetic group of pretentious elitists who are abusing their perceived power to spite people they think they are better than.
What’s really sad is the enormous amount of time and emotion Santo devoted trying to join such a miserable organization. So for that—National Baseball Hall of Fame, Baseball Writers Association of America and the Veterans Committee—you are all a bunch of assholes.