
In this regard, Musial was not unique then and he would not be unique now. But he'd come a lot closer.
Retired players whose magnificent careers are stained by performance-enhancing drugs didn't come close to getting in. And players with lesser numbers but sturdier reputations for playing the game the right way didn't make it either.
As MLB.com's Had Bodley, a voter, puts it: "“I think a strong message was sent about those players who have been connected somewhat to steroids,and I think the players that we thought were going to get elected probably got caught in the undertow of all that. I mean I think there was a very very strong message sent about this. . . . A strong message was sent that the baseball writers are very very cognizant of the game and the passion for the game and the credibility of the game."
College football stinks to high heaven.
Consider the college football story on page one of Friday's Tribune. It's by John Keilman, and it's about Adrian Arrington, who's only 26, and just a few years ago was playing in the defensive backfield at Eastern Illinois University. According to Keilman, Arrington says he was coached to play "hard, fast and without regard for safety." And he paid a price.
Now Arrington is suing the NCAA, claiming the concussions he suffered on the gridiron led to "memory loss, migraine headaches, depression and seizures" that keep him from holding a job and compromise his ability to care for his children.
Helping illustrate Keilman's story is a picture of Arrington back in the day. The caption: "Penn State running back Joe Suhey leaps over Eastern Illinois cornerback Adrian Arrington in 2009. Arrington was a star defensive player."
Who belongs in baseball's Hall of Fame? When the baseball writers of America tell us who they think does and doesn't, they're breaking an important news story. That's because the baseball writers don't just think, they decide: the immortality of Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, and every other candidate is in their hands.
The Tribune's Phil Rogers allows that he's perplexed. "In regard to knowing how to treat known users of banned drugs designed to enhance performance, the best we can do is follow outdated instructions that say 'integrity' is among the factors to be weighed," he wrote last week. "In terms of knowing who did what and who was clean—well, at least as clean as the guys who gobbled amphetamines and are already in the Hall (pretty much everyone who played after the Vietnam War)—this is truly an exercise in the blind leading the blind."

In fact, I'm pretty sure I didn't appreciate them at all.
It was more like Miller—who died a few days ago—was this cool-looking cat who looked a little Paul Newman and was sticking it to the robber baron owners of the baseball players I worshipped.
So I added him to my list of childhood heroes, an eclectic group consisting of Mike Royko, Norm Van Lier, Foxy Brown, and assorted other characters, real and fictional, who were sticking it to the Man. Even if in some cases—i.e., Clint Eastwood's Dirty Harry—they were the Man.

"Don't worry—they always kick ass when they have a new coach. They should be imploding the middle of next year."
"Those arrogant, sanctimonious pricks."
"Fuck me."
I don't think so.
About two decades ago, he and Bill Wirtz, who owns the Blackhawks, helped underwrite the cost of the United Center by getting the state to pass a law guaranteeing them a generous property tax break.
With the property tax break due to expire in 2016, what does Reinsdorf do?
He unveils snazzy plans to build a state-of-the-art practice facility just east of the United Center, as part of a larger development with retail, a restaurant, and other stuff.
That is, he'll build that practice facility if the state extends some portion of that tax break.

And why wouldn't we? The top-ranked Crimson Tide, the defending national champions, the powerhouse inspiring fear and loathing across the country, the perennial juggernaut coached by the brilliant and oily Nick Saban— those mofos were going down!
We were all A&M fans right then. Who'd have thought I'd be on the same side of anything as Texas governor Rick Perry?
But it wasn't over—I knew that all too well.

I end up at the bar talking with two other reporters I haven't seen in a while. They're smart, good people and up on current affairs. One is an otherwise nice girl who went to college at Florida. The other appears to be a onetime fan of what used to be called Big Ten football.
I mention these details because it turns out they know I cheer way too hard for my alma mater's team, the Northwestern Wildcats. That might be because I barrage even casual acquaintances with Facebook posts about that week's game and all the anxiety it's causing me on top of my normal anxiety.
Our conversation quickly goes awry. Something like this:
The occasion was our annual fantasy baseball draft, it was my turn to pick a player, and somehow the collection of experts in the room had all overlooked Sammy Sosa. As I said, this was some years ago, when Sammy, aided by a steady diet of Flintstone vitamins, was swatting homers by the dozens—making him a huge point-generator in fantasy leagues.