For a pitcher, deciding who gets the “Intimidator” label is easy: Guys like Gibson, Clemens, R. Johnson, Pedro. Guys who throw 95, with a mean streak.  Guys who throw with skull-cracking menace. Guys who stand you up, then knock you down.

It’s harder to define an intimidating hitter. It’s not about who the “best” hitter is—or else the list might begin and end with Ted Williams. Wade Boggs, Rod Carew and Tony Gwynn were superb hitters, but they were more frustrating than intimidating to pitchers. Sammy Sosa averaged 60 HR a season for four years, but his hop and smile didn’t intimidate anyone – meanness counts. At his peak, Edgar Martinez had no weakness as a hitter, but his preternatural calm seemed designed to lull, rather than panic. And it’s not just about size: Adam Dunn, Jose Canseco, and Dave Kingman could each launch a ball 500 feet; they were also out machines.

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Rick Porcello went from league-average starter to Cy Young winner in one year. Unfortunately, it was a year too late to save Red Sox GM Ben Cherington’s job.
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“Big Ed” Walsh, HOF right-hander for the Chicago White Sox, was an ornery sort. He wasn’t the type of guy who went in for small talk. If he had a problem with you, you knew it – and you didn’t want a problem with Big Ed. He intimidated opponents and teammates alike (he once threatened to kill his third baseman for misplaying a bunt – and his third baseman didn’t think Walsh was speaking figuratively).

He was also tougher than glove leather. Joe McGinnity, a stalwart contemporary, might have been known as the “Iron Man” – but Walsh was at least his equal in terms of endurance. In 1908, Walsh started a third of Chicago’s games, winning 40 and pitching 464 innings.

Big Ed was even better in 1910, leading the league in ERA (1.27), adjusted ERA (189), WHIP (0.820), SO/W (4.23), and saves (only five, but still). He fashioned seven shutouts, racked up 369.2 innings and generated 10.9 pWAR. For his efforts, he was rewarded with an 18-20 record, leading the league in losses (and, one assumes, withering glares at one’s teammates).

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“Colby Jack” Coombs was one of the best pitchers in baseball in 1910.

He was the luckiest pitcher in baseball in 1911. Maybe the luckiest of all-time.

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The gaunt, sad, sullen face of John Evers, the Chicago second baseman who had the metabolism of a hummingbird, the temper of a wolverine, and a near-pathological need to win; Ty Cobb upending Jimmy Austin at third-base, the Georgia Peach arriving with the force and intent of a mortar round; Honus Wagner, looking like he was sutured together by a grave-robbing mad scientist: Enormous hands at the end of long, stove-pipe arms; broad shoulders and barrel chest; a short torso supported by severely bowed legs that suggested he spent the off-season in the saddle.

These evocative images – and thousands more – are available… READ THE FULL STORY AT PLATE COVERAGE

As the author of a book about the most controversial MVP ballots of all time, I am often asked: “Which is the single worst MVP vote of all time?”

If you rank your terrible MVP selections based on the level of dishonesty, hypocrisy, or bureaucratic incompetence attendant to a vote, there is only one choice for the worst MVP vote of all time. READ THE FULL STORY AT PLATE COVERAGE

Gary Sheffield: The swagger, the malice in the “bat wag,” the quickest, most violent swing in the game. Astonishingly, Sheffield also had one of the most level, controlled swings in the game. He was a hitting machine.

How bad was he with the glove? Put Manny Ramirez and Gary Sheffield in the same outfield, and you’re hoping they hit it to Manny. WAR estimates that over the course of his career, Sheffield’s defense rated 29 games worse than that of a replacement-level player. Of the 18,918 players cataloged on Baseball-Reference.com, only Adam Dunn rates worse.

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He’s one of the 25 greatest hitters to ever step in the batter’s box. But when playing the outfield, Manny Ramirez looked like a man trying to remember where he left his keys. (READ MORE AT PLATE COVERAGE)

“…The argument, made by several chroniclers of the game, is that there was no standout performance by a starting pitcher in the AL this year, opening the door for a standout reliever to claim the prize. The voters are literally saying “since we can’t pick between the two best pitchers in the league, we’ll give it to a third pitcher who wasn’t as good.”

It’s an absurd argument. Detroit’s Justin Verlander and Cleveland’s Corey Kluber were both excellent. Both have a claim as the best pitcher in the American League. Were they historically good? No. But they were the two best the league had to offer in 2016 (lest we forget, the Cy Young is a single-season honor, and players can only judged by their performance relative to the league that year). In other words, in what universe does it make sense to penalize a pitcher for being the best, but only the best by a little bit? Michael Phelps gets the gold whether he wins by .10 seconds or .01 seconds…”

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“Holder of many home run and other batting records.”

Sure, you could say that. But why would you say it like that? This is saying Bill Gates “was successful in the computer business,” that Shakespeare “wrote a number of well-received plays.”

“Greatest drawing card in the history of baseball. Holder of many home run and other batting records. Gathered 714 home runs in addition to fifteen in World Series.”

In retrospect, it seems impossible that the Hall of Fame thought these 28 words did justice to the Babe’s career. Did the writer decide that Ruth’s accomplishments were just too numerous to list? Was the terse inscription a sly wink – or rebuke – to Ruth’s out-sized personality and Rabelaisian appetites?  (Read More at Plate Coverage)