Jeff Osborne

Lou Whitaker should be immortalized beside Alan Trammell in Cooperstown. I’m not sure any player was ever shafted worse by the writers. Sweet Lou received a paltry 2.9% of the vote and was off the ballot in one year. That’s an unfunny joke and more people need to talk about it.

Super Sky Point to Bob Horner. He was the NL Rookie of the Year and an All-Star but if you were around back then you know he was more than that. Much more. He was a fixture in the homes of millions of us through the miracle of cable television during those epic childhood summers that seemed like they’d never end. I was a fan for over 40 years but had never met Bob until I interviewed him last December about Dale Murphy’s Hall of Fame case. As you’d expect, Bob was a fierce advocate for his fellow Fulton County basher. How could he not be? They were Murph and Horner. Horner and Murph. The Hall and Oates of the Launching Pad. You know, these sky points all suck to write but this one hurts more than most. The four-homer game, the bad perm, Chief Noc-A-Homa waiting by his teepee for another Horner long ball. I have tweeted a lot about Bob Horner through the years and it’s because he represents to me, and I suspect many of you too, something far bigger than baseball: WTBS coming out of the magic box on top of my 400-pound Zenith, cool air coming through my bedroom window after another afternoon of Wiffle Ball, and Rick Mahler (probably) toeing the rubber at about 7:05 while hoping to keep the Braves in it with smoke and mirrors long enough for Horner and Murph to do some damage. And me sprawled out on green and yellow shag carpet in Kentucky paying 100 times more attention to Skip Caray, Ernie Johnson, and Pete Van Wieren than any of my teachers. Farewell, you sweet slugging bastard. Tell St. Peter you brought your glove for the hot corner and to write you into the cleanup spot. #RIP