We have our first upset. Dave Winfield obviously wasn’t taking the whole thing very serious and Warren Brusstar glared his way to victory. Maybe Winfield was ranked too highly, or maybe he was just bored, or maybe it was October in his world, but Brusstar’s constipated fire beat the sated mmplops look. Maybe that says something about our bathroom preferences.
Anyway. It’s time to move on. This week we have two classic Mets figures going head to head. Could we have another fire and ice pairing? Looks like it.
#2 1981 Donruss Keith Hernandez
Listen, the stratedery is clear. I’ve got an ace in the hole, and that’s one fact. I’m Keith Hernandez. Sure, I’m not coming through so clearly in this picture. Sure, this dang card lists the fact that I hit .351 for Triple-A Tulsa as one of my achievements. Sure, these baby blue Cardinals uniforms are an affront to well-dressed men everywhere. I’m Keith Hernandez. I can look good in anything. This guy? He looks a little angry. I could go down there and give him a good spanking if he needs it. He looks like he does need it. You know why I don’t wear batting gloves? I’m no sadist or masochist. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not those. Well, the jury is out I guess. You know how smooth I am? My mustache has a trash-talking app. Yeah, there’s an app for that. You know what? I’m not worried about this. Let’s go get some tootsie roll pops.
#7 1983 Fleer Wally Backman
Hardy har you frigging ass-kissing corporate booth hound, hardy har. I’d like to stifle a yawn at your yammering if I wasn’t ready to bust your teeth into your stomach. Goddam mustache. I could have a mustache too you don’t see me bragging about the thing. My five o’clock shadow is about a million times tougher than nose rat you got going. Did you know? I’m an avid hunter that bagged a 1,500 lb Elk last fall. The card doesn’t say that I ran that sucker down and killed it with my bowie. You really want a piece of this? Look how soft you look. I’m a goddam piece of granite. Look at your smirk. I’m three seconds from a fight, you’re three seconds from ending up in bed with some chick. You’re soft, Keith, and I got your tootsie roll pop right here. Come and frigging get it you pussy.
With a phone full of pictures of pitchers' fingers, strange beers, and his two toddler sons, Eno Sarris can be found at the ballpark or a brewery most days. Read him here, writing about the A's or Giants at The Athletic, or about beer at October. Follow him on Twitter @enosarris if you can handle the sandwiches and inanity.