I’m not certain Ichiro Suzuki is the right topic to begin my first blog. Not that the enigmatic Ichiro isn't worthy of my writing about him; he is worthy. But I didn’t consider Ichiro a serious subject until I ran into a friend at the Mariners-Indians game late last month.
With numbers like his, a debate about Ichiro’s Hall-of-Fame worthiness would border on pointless were it not for the era itself. But unlike Alex Rodriguez, Manny Ramirez, Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds and David Ortiz, Ichiro has been one of the rare superstars whose career hasn’t had the taint of steroids painted on it.
Hall-of-Fame worthy?
Close the damn building if he ain’t. If Cooperstown honors the best, what ballplayer whose biography doesn’t include a chapter on performance-enhancing drugs has had a better decade than Ichiro?
Albert Pujols … maybe?
Within reach of a fourth batting title, Ichiro is having a typical Ichiro-like season. His base hits just keep on coming. Each one brings him a step closer to baseball immortality alongside The Babe, Hammerin’ Hank, The Mick and Yaz.
A friend put it this way: “He should be a lock for the Hall of Fame ... best leadoff hitter or best hitter, period, of his generation ... single-season record for hits ... MVP award ... multiple gold gloves ... case closed!”
His last two words echo Jon Paul Morosi’s sentiments.
And so do I.
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