I remember, when I was a really young kid, the final word in amazing fielding was the great Baltimore Orioles third-baseman, Brooks Robinson, now a much-deserving Hall of Fame member. Robinson was nothing short of an attack vacuum. Balls repeatedly seemed to be pulled into his center of gravity, then absorbed into the black hole of his waiting mitt. He could dive, twist, leap, and turn with equal composure, the coolest player to ever man the hot corner.

The weird thing about Robinson was that he looked like your dad, or like some guy who should have been pitching for an insurance company’s city league team. But several times a year, he’d make a bare, back-handed catch or something, and you’d be re-reminded that he was a living God. Robinson won the American League Gold Glove Award for third basemen sixteen times in a row! That’s just crazy.

I like a player who can make a fantastic catch. But a lot of guys can’t field the ball to save their lives, and most fans, homer-gasmic as they are, don't seem to care. In the 1960s, there was actually a hard-hitting first baseman named Dick Stuart whose nickname was “Dr. Strange-glove.” As monickers go, that's several steps more creative than "Pee Wee" or "Lefty," but I don't see the humor. If you're a professional baseball player, you should be able to catch the damn ball!

I’ve always preferred watching Ken Griffey, Jr. make an absurd catch at the wall over hitting another homer. Any fat guy who gets enough wood on a pitch can possibly hit one out. I appreciate someone who climbs up the padding, hangs his torso half-way over the fence, and nabs a fly ball when he’s not even sure where the ball is. If Prince Fielder were dumb enough to try something like that, either Fielder or the fence wouldn’t survive the ordeal.

The cherry on top is when players stare into their mitts in awestruck wonder after a great catch, like they’re Mira Sorvino holding an Oscar. You feel as if you’re watching something impossible happen right in front of you when they manage these things, and that defines a sports highlight, as far as I’m concerned.

So let’s hear it for guys who can handle the leather. I mean, in a baseball sense, of course.

                                                ***

But getting back to Grady Sizemore. So far this season, the Indians haven’t been playing up to their considerable abilities— Detroit, a team that’s already entered a bizarre, early-season free-fall, whipped the tar out of them shortly after Grady had the clubhouse boy stick that big, gold trophy in his locker.

The Tribe may not win the Series again this year, but you never know for sure until you know for sure. I trust, however, that they’ll get their mojo workin’ soon enough. And, when they do, Grady and his play-making, aw-shucks vibe will be a pivotal part of the mix.

I’d lay money the guy smells like Bazooka bubble gum.

Paul Tatara