“That’s Greg Dobbs,” I said to somebody sitting next to me on the couch one day. I for some reason announced each Phillies at bat as if everyone in the room was clueless as to what was going on. But in this case, Roommate and I had a friend who was not as in touch/often furious about baseball as we were.
“He was the best pinch hitter in baseball, two years in a row,” I added, as Greg swung with all his might at the first pitch and immediately dribbled out to third.
“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Roommate replied. “I don’t think that it’s true.”
I was on the internet within seconds, and shouting the truthfulness of my factoid across the room within a few more seconds.
“Okay, whatever,” Roommate sighed, eying the 3/4 empty whiskey bottle at my feet.
Why do I remember this so distinctly? Because of Greg Dobbs’ echoing clang against the legacy of pro ball had an irreversible affect on me? No. Because it was one of the only times I’ve been right in a baseball debate. This was a moment between several prolonged ages of wrongness on my part, and would be significantly squelched soon enough; probably before the game was over.
Greg is gone now, but even when he was still here, he was pretty much gone, too. His .196 average as a Phillie and .210 average as an Ironpig last year are indicative of a downward slide due to less playing time and I don’t know what. But regardless, he’s gone: his bat, his heroics, his being the topic of conversation when I was right that one time. And the Marlins have picked him up, creating a new chapter in Greg Dobbs’ descent into madness.