Baseball brawls are rarely actually “brawls.” In reality, they are almost always closer to “melees” or “skirmishes,” notable for finger pointing and chest puffing more than actual battle. Shouting is the primary tactic, followed by pushing, followed by glancing blows. In the long history of baseball, there have been many hundreds — probably thousands — of these dustups, most of them initiated by an aggrieved, recently beaned batter. Everything that occurs after the stray pitch lands — batter stalks pitcher, benches line up, batter runs at pitcher, benches clear — can be anxious or exciting or scary or all of the above. But it is almost always more bark than bite.

There are, of course, exceptions. For example, in 1965 Giants’ ace, Juan Marichal, was convinced that Dodgers’ catcher, John Roseboro, was trying to hit him in the head with his throws back to the mound. When tensions boiled over, Marichal opted to use his bat instead of his fist as the weapon of choice. The beating left Roseboro terribly bloodied and baseball fans equally shaken. Nothing so terrifying has happened on a major league baseball field since.

Not that brawls have gone away. In 1995, after being hit by pitch and after several steps of contemplation, Robin Ventura made the ill-fated decision to charge Nolan Ryan on the mound. Forty-six year old Ryan just stood there, pivoted slightly, put Ventura in a headlock, and landed several humiliating blows on the much younger third baseman. Though Ryan was a first ballot Hall of Famer who holds many major league records, those punches have endured every bit as much as his seven no-hitters and five thousand seven hundred and fourteen strikeouts.

In 2003, the Red Sox and Yankees — who never needed much provocation to fight — were battling it out in the ALCS. After Pedro Martinez hit Karim Garcia with a very high and extremely inside fastball, former Red Sox and then Yankees ace Roger Clemens threw a very high and only barely inside fastball to Manny Ramirez. And though the ball was at least eighteen inches from Manny’s body, the Red Sox slugger took immediate exception with the pitch. Manny charged the mound, both benches cleared and many profanities regarding opposing players' mothers were hurled.

Allegedly, the most vicious of those slurs came from seventy-two year old Don Zimmer, who waddled slash rushed towards thirty-one year old Pedro looking for some action. Pedro, thinking nothing of his opponent’s age or health, grabbed Zimmer by the face and threw him to the ground. For a split second, most of the viewing audience feared Zimmer dead. Fortunately, he survived and The Bronx Bombers went on the win the series. A year later, the Sox would get their historic revenge, but Pedro would be forever marked as the guy who beat up an old man.

These three “basebrawls” are legendary — among the sea of many more bloviating, less pugilistic fights — on account of their high stakes and the celebrity of those involved. But, on the basis of pure combat, none of them hold a candle to the most magical, most galling fight in baseball history. The battle to which I am referring is not widely remembered, nor is it frequently cited in the canon of basebrawls. Its climax lasted barely two seconds. But, nearly forty years later, it remains the most superheroic baseball feat I have ever witnessed.

It was June 23, 1985 and, having been hit by a high, inside fastball from Red Sox starter Bruce Kison, Blue Jays’ outfielder George Bell transformed into a maniacal cross between Bruce Lee and Muhammed Ali. 

The backstory to the event is vague, but relevant. Kison liked to throw inside. He hit a lot of batters during the course of his, slightly better than replacement value, fifteen year career. In one game, while still in the minors, he hit seven batters. And, apparently, while with the California Angels, he’d taken issue with the young, upstart Blue Jays. According to Bell’s retelling, Kison had thrown at Damaso Garcia and Lloyd Moseby the previous year and was known to use brushback pitches compensate for his lack of “stuff.” For his part, Bell was highly sensitive to high and inside pitches. While in the minors, he’d nearly had his career ended by an errant pitch that broke his jaw. And though he did not need much provocation — Bell despised all pitchers and most umpires — on that day, he seemed uniquely ready to throw down. 

In the fifth inning, almost as predicted, the strapping twenty-five year old star took the impact of the wily veterans’ failed brushback. Seething, Bell looked down, dropped his bat and proceeded to rush the mound. It was a scene that I’d witnessed dozens of times before. The benches quickly readied themselves. The announcers’ voices went up an octave. But then, it happened. While a full four feet away from Kison, with catcher Rich Gedman in hot pursuit, George Bell hurled himself into the air and landed a flying side kick to the pitcher. Then, with cat-like reflexes, he turned and nailed Gedman with a left-handed roundhouse punch and then an overhand blow to the head. By then, having connected on all three of his swings, and with benches now on the field, George Bell hopped away towards the safety of his dugout and the umpire’s inevitable rejection.

That was George Bell — a man fueled by radical competitiveness and capable of astounding feats. He could turn on a fastball as quickly as he would turn on his perceived opponents. Bell’s brilliance flashed fast and bright. His machismo stewed until it burned. But when he faltered, he collapsed. HIs cold streaks were as famous as his hot ones. In fact, his dry spells were one of the primary reasons why the ascendant Jays of the 80s never make it all the way. Playing alongside Lloyd Moseby and Jesse Barfield in the outfield, Tony Fernandez at short and Dave Stieb on the mound, Bell was the best hitter on the best young team in baseball. But, at the height of his powers, he buckled. Then he regressed. And then, one day, he just left. Poof. Disappeared. Vanished. Gone.

Though I remember his infamous flurry against the Red Sox in 1985, when I think of George Bell, I mostly think of all of 1987 and opening day of 1988. Between 1984 through 1986, he had distinguished himself as one of the best power hitters in baseball. During that stretch, he averaged nearly thirty home runs and one hundred RBIs per year while his average inched its way closer to -- and then beyond -- .300. Bell had a violent swing, with an upward trajectory, that uncoiled every inch of his six foot one, one hundred and seventy pound frame. It was an exuberant swing — the swing of a player who did not like to walk or strike out. George Bell’s swing was uniquely designed to either destroy baseballs or top the them into slow grounders. When it was right, however, George Bell’s swing was the most exciting split second in 80s baseball. Compared to him, Brett, Boggs, Schmidt, Ripken, Yount and all the other guys seemed kind of — well — boring.

For most of the 1987 season, George Bell was right as rain. He just kept. on. hitting. By year's end, he was batting over .300 with an astounding forty-seven home runs and over one hundred and thirty RBIs. But it wasn’t just Bell — most of the Blue Jays were on fire. Tony Fernandez hit .322. Moseby and Barfield each hit over twenty-five home runs. Rookie Fred McGriff was crushing the ball. Jimmy Key had a sub 3.00 ERA. Every indication was that this was going to be their year.

With just seven games to go, the Blue Jays held a three and a half game lead over the Tigers. They needed just two more wins to clinch the division and move on to the postseason. But they couldn’t do it. They didn’t win two games. They didn’t win one game. They went 0 and 7. Bell’s bat went ice cold. The Tigers passed them. The baseball world was in complete shock. 

That offseason, George Bell won the MVP, edging out Alan Trammell in one of the closest races in award history. Advanced statistics, which were rarely employed at the time, have since suggested that Trammell was far more valuable than Bell that year. But, to my teenage eyes, George Bell was the guy. He hit towering home runs and batted over .300 and led the league in RBIs and wore his cap on the tippy-top of his hair so as to not disturb his well-tended, lightly greased, semi-afro. That affect, with the hat perched up so high, reminded me of Apollo Creed ahead of his fight with Ivan Drago in “Rocky IV.” Like Creed, Bell’s hat “floated upon” more than it “fit on” his head. Like Creed, Bell did not want to muss his hair. And, like Creed, Bell’s external confidence betrayed some deep, inner terror.

Obviously, I did not know this at the time. I did not know that 1987 was the beginning of the end. To the contrary, I was convinced that September of 1987 was a fluke — the exception. I was certain of it. And I didn’t need to wait very long to have my suspicions confirmedm. On April 4, 1988 — opening day of the season — Bell hit three home runs. Three home runs! On opening day! Against Royals’ ace and Cy Young award winner, Bret Saberhagen! I knew, logically, that Bell would not hit four hundred and eighty eight home runs. But I was convinced that one hundred bombs were not out of the question. 

I cannot recall ever being so certain of a player’s merit as I was on that day in 1988. But, within a matter of months, my confidence was shaken. George Bell did not hit one hundred home runs in 1988. Nor did he hit fifty. Or forty. Or thirty. Or even twenty-five. He finished the season with twenty-four home runs and a .269 batting average. The Blue Jays fell to third place and many fingers (some of them middle ones) pointed in Bell’s direction.

In addition to his offensive regression, Bell incurred the ire of fans by refusing to DH that season. Manager Jimy Williams’ case was solid — Bell was a below average outfielder with deteriorating knees. The DH was created specifically for a player like George Bell. Bell, however, disagreed. Passionately. And, in public. The cold war between manager and star outfielder simmered throughout 1988, amid Bell’s lackluster performance and evident complaints. Meanwhile, Bell DH’d just seven times that year. In 1989, when the Jays won their division only to be steamrolled by the A’s, Bell played DH nineteen times. In 1990, his last and worst full season with the team, George Bell DH’d thirty six times. That’s sixty-four times over three years. And, according to Bell, it was sixty-four too many.

Due to his regressing offense, awful defense and the headaches he caused the Jays’ front office, George Bell never got his “max contract.” His defiance with Williams got worse his relationship with local media went from lukewarm to completely sour. Eventually, as his errors mounted and the home runs did not follow, fans turned on his as well. According to advanced metrics, the former MVP was worth one win above a replacement level player in 1990. That same year, while on his way out of Toronto, Bell told the city that they could “kiss [his] Dominican ass.”

During a very rare interview with Peter Gammons for Sports Illustrated, and while driving Bell’s Mercedes around San Pedro, the slugger and the writer approached a group of teenage boys crossing their path. When one of the boys took a little too much time getting out of the way, Bell accelerated dangerously, hitting the brakes at the very last moment, just as the young boy leapt for safety. Speechless, Gammons looked at the All-Star for an explanation. Bell’s response was alarming, if telling:

"That guy stood there like he was saying. 'I don't have to get out of the way for nobody,' " says Bell, giving a glimpse of the emotionality that plagues him in Toronto. "Nobody pulls that stuff on me."

In 1991, George Bell signed a three year, ten million dollar contract with the Cubs. He played left field all season and was very marginally better than he’d been the year before. By then, however, it had become clear to me — this is who he was: a guy who would hit about .270 with twenty-five home runs, who would rarely walk and was a liability in the field. The Cubs realized this as well, trading him that offseason to The White Sox for a younger, freer swinging, Dominican born slugger named Sammy Sosa.

The year after George Bell left the Blue Jays, they’d acquired Joe Carter and won their division. The next season, they won the World Series. One year later, Bell was out of baseball. His knees were done. But, also, he was done. Done fighting. Done avoiding interviews. Done defending himself. Done hating pitchers. The guy who’d once hit forty-seven home runs in a season and who I thought was capable of twice that amount, ended his career with two hundred and sixty-five home runs, one thousand and two RBIs and a whole bunch of advanced stats that suggest he was a very good, but not outstanding, baseball player. 

Thirty years later, George Bell is something of a ghost. His marks on the game are invisible. Unless you saw him play back in 1987, you might not even know that he exists, much less that he was once considered the most complete power hitter in the sport. Or that he was the first Dominican born player to win the MVP award. Since Bell’s coronation, Albert Pujols won the award three times. A-Rod has three MVPs as well. Sosa hit over six hundred home runs. Vlad hit over four hundred. In the twenty-first century, Dominican baseball excellence has been the norm. In comparison to more recent stars, the numbers on the back of George Bell’s baseball cards look merely quaint. 

In 2022, Bell is considered the twenty or thirtieth best Dominican-born player of all time, sandwiched somewhere between Tony Pena and Jose Bautista. His value, however, has been discounted in the age of advanced analytics. All of the things that Bell could not do well — namely field and walk — have become more accurately valued since he retired. With each passing year, his name and numbers slip deeper into the recesses of history. Baseball Reference suggests that Bell was most similar to players like Ben Oglivie, Ryan Klesko and Raul Mondesi. And though I know that, statistically, those comparisons are accurate, it’s still hard for me to fathom. Those men were briefly excellent players. For 156 games in 1987 and one game in 1988, I was sure that George Bell was the absolute best.

More than for his on field accomplishments or for that time he took on two Red Sox in a single bound, George Bell is exceptional for how he has disappeared. He has very occasionally appeared at pro-am golf events with his friends. He has (seemingly) reluctantly showed up for inductions into the Blue Jays and Canadian Baseball Halls of Fame. But, otherwise, George Bell has simply gotten older and gone away. Fellow Dominican David Ortiz lives in Massachusetts. Manny Ramirez lives between LA and Miami (I’ve heard). Sammy Sosa bleached his skin, moved to the United Arab Emirates and appears on social media. But not George Bell. He just disappeared.

Of the nearly eighty men who have won an MVP award in the last fifty years, five are deceased (Ken Caminiti, Rollie Fingers, Willie Stargell, Joe Morgan and Thurman Munson). Nearly every other person in that exclusive club, though, is either a celebrity, a hall of famer, an employee of a professional baseball organization or, at the very least, a public figure. Even the most obscure names on the list are associated with charitable foundations or social media pages or…something. They are all locatable — they have agents and they make appearances. 

The 1987 AL MVP is the exception. He simply does not exist in the public discourse. At least not in America. It seems likely that he resides in Casa de Campo, a uniquely private and luxurious resort in the DR that hosts heads of state, Kardashians and various major league baseball players. Bell’s name once appeared in a press release for David Ortiz’s charity golf tournament, which was hosted at Casa de Campo. Similarly, Peter Gammons’ 1990 article references the Bell-Griffin foundation’s golf tournament — also hosted at the posh resort. Unsurprisingly, I was unable to find any wire images of Bell at either event and my light internet sleuthing turned up nothing on Bell-Griffin foundation.

To be clear, I’m not suggesting anything nefarious. I don’t think that Alfredo Griffin is party to a cover up. And I don’t think that there is a concerted effort to obscure the accomplishments of a once great, but perennially cranky, outfielder. If anything, I’m saying something much more banal — something that I could not understand in 1985 when George Bell morphed into Spiderman and which I still could not grasp, in 1988, when he hit three home runs on the first day of the season against one of the best pitchers in the game. That thing that I did not understand was simply this: nothing is certain and everything disappears.

by Matty Wishnow