Everyone loves to talk about Kirk Gibson — especially come October, and maybe more than ever this past October when The Dodgers rode Freddie Freeman’s bum ankle to a world championship. But even when The Dodgers are not contenders, the legend of Gibby’s pinch hit, walk off homer — limping his way to the plate, staring down the mustachioed villain who’d not allowed a homer in forever, yanking that sinker into the right field bleachers, and pumping his fists around the bases like a broken old locomotive willing itself ahead on steam power — serves as the image of World Series heroics. Alongside Bill Mazeroski’s 1960 walk off and Joe Carter’s 1993 series ender, Gibson’s long ball is among the most exciting events in baseball history — made all the more so on account of his excruciating injuries. It’s a story of triumph in the face of pain. A story of perseverance. It’s just a great goddam story.

The inverse of Gibson’s heroics would of course be Bill Buckner’s error in ‘86. When Mookie Wilson’s serpentine grounder rolled under Buckner’s glove, it did not actually end the World Series — that happened a day later at Shea when The Mets beat The Sox eight to five. It didn’t even end Buckner’s career — he’d go on to play four more seasons, including a brief and ignominious return to The Red Sox in 1990. But it did functionally erase the previous seventeen seasons of Buckner’s career. Seventeen seasons that included a batting title, some MVP votes, and a couple thousand games played on a mangled ankle and two wobbly knees.

Before ‘86, Bill Buckner was the consummate pro — showing up to work, making contact, avoiding strikeouts and driving in runs. He was too good to be called a “professional hitter” but also never (well, technically once) an All Star. He was a beloved teammate with a wide set of skills. Advanced statistics indicate that he was just barely better than a replacement level player, and yet he managed to sustain that “slightly better than average” level for over twenty seasons. If “The Eck Homer” exaggerated and enshrined Gibson’s greatness, “The Mookie Grounder” exaggerated and doomed Buckner’s legacy.

For most of the Eighties, and in fact for portions of the Seventies, Bill Buckner hobbled his way through every single inning of every single game, on an ankle that had been decimated by injury and two knees that had deteriorated beyond repair. If the Kirk Gibson of October 1988 raced against the Bill Buckner of 1986, I’d bet a lot of money on Gibson. That’s how bad Buckner’s ankle and knees were. Gibson gutted out an incredible at bat. But Buckner gutted out nearly two thousand games. If Buckner had been a football player, he’d have been on John Madden’s all-timer list. But because he he played baseball — and specifically because of that one ground ball — he became a punchline. A meme that answers the question: what’s the opposite of Kirk Gibson’s famous home run?

The misremembrance of Bill Buckner is a minor tragedy. But it’s not unique. There’s Shoeless Joe Jackson, who hit .356 for his career but who is remembered for his lifetime ban. There’s Carl Mays, who won over two hundred games but who’s exclusively known as the guy whose wild pitch killed Ray Chapman. There’s Wally Pipp, who twice led the league in home runs, but who’s best known as the guy who Lou Gehrig replaced. There are many instances wherein a good to great ballplayer’s accomplishments were mooted by a single event. But at the very top of that list of All Stars turned one liners is Robin Mark Ventura.

By many accounts, Robin Ventura was the greatest college baseball player of all time. A preternatural talent at the plate and at third base, Ventura first captured sports fans’ imagination in 1987 when he successfully hit in fifty-eight straight games — a Division 1 record that stands to this day. During his three years as an Oklahoma State Cowboy, Ventura hit over .400, slugged over .800, and earned himself a spot in the first round of the 1988 amateur draft. Barely a year later, he was up in the bigs with the White Sox, first for a cup of coffee, and then, in 1990, to stay.

While Chipper Jones’ peak value was higher, Robin Ventura was the most valuable third baseman throughout the Nineties. A .280, twenty homer, ninety RBI hitter who also won six Gold Gloves during the decade, Ventura was exceptional in nearly every aspect of his craft. And while his sweet, left-handed swing did not produce the same Ruth-ian results it had in college, it was still extremely potent — all the more so for an elite fielding third baseman. Ventura was never a true MVP candidate (the closest he came was sixth, in 2000, with The Mets). In fact, he was just barely an All Star (stuck in the voting behind Boggs and, later, Ripken). But Ventura had a remarkable career by almost any other standard. On account of his fielding, he accumulated near Hall of Fame level WAR. He hit almost three hundred homers and drove in over twelve hundred runs. But more than his career counting stats, Ventura stood out when it counted most — when the bases were loaded. Of his two hundred and ninety-four home runs, an astounding eighteen were grand slams. That number ranks fifth on the all time list, but first as a ratio of grand slams to home runs. Further, Ventura once hit two grand slams in one game. Further still, he once hit grand slams in each game of a double header. Further most of all, in the 2005 NLDS, he hit a walk off grand slam that was scored a single because the delirious celebration prohibited him from rounding the bases. 

The “grand slam single” would have been the most memorable event from almost any other player’s career. So would have the two grand slam game or the two grand slam double header. So would all those gold gloves. And that’s not to mention anything of the fifty-eight game collegiate hitting streak. Any one of those feats would have been a career hallmark for most ballplayers. But not so in the case of Robin Ventura who, on August 4, 1993, dared to charge the mound inhabited by one Nolan Ryan.

What happened next, of course, is basebrawl canon. After the hit by pitch, Ventura walked out of the box, considered the situation for a moment, threw off his helmet, dropped his bat, and charged the living legend. Ryan, not altogether surprised but slightly dismayed, gave Ventura the “I guess if this is gonna happen, let’s get it on” look as the third baseman made his approach. And then, all hell broke loose. Players from both sides rushed the mound. There was pushing and shoving and grabbing and “hold me back-ing.” There were legends and future legends everywhere — Ryan, Pudge Rodriguez, Joan Gonzalez and Rafael Palmeiro on one side and Ventura, Bo Jackson, Frank Thomas and Tim Raines on the other. The scrum waxed and waned. Tempers flared and then cooled. But, most importantly, there was what happened between the young hitter and the old pitcher. Ryan waited for his victim, put him in a headlock, and landed somewhere between two and six punches to Ventura’s face. It was not a TKO, but it appeared to be something close.

Moments later, Ventura walked off and dabbed at his fat lip, stuck between wanting a second round and knowing he should walk away. He chose the latter and eventually the game resumed without him. Ventura was ejected. Meanwhile, and amazingly, Ryan was not. In fact he went on to shut down The Sox and earn his three hundred and twenty second career victory.

But what followed — starting with the next day’s headlines, repeated into canon during the years that followed and memified for the rest of history — was the recasting of Robin Ventura. Whereas the day before he’d been an emerging star, by August 5th, 1993, Ventura had become the stupid kid who dared to mess with the old cowboy. Ryan, meanwhile, proved that “the old guy still had it.” That not only could he still throw ninety-five and win ballgames at the age of forty-six, but that he could handle any man (roughly) half his age who dared to charge the mound. Ryan’s headlock was a triumph for aging legends while Ventura’s flat lip was a blow for petulant twenty-somethings. Ryan was the conquering hero. Ventura was the disrespectful whipper snapper.

Ventura went on to play a dozen more seasons in the major leagues. His best years were ahead of him, full of many grand slams, multiple Gold Gloves, one World Series appearance and one incredible Mike Piazza impersonation during a 2000 rain delay. When he retired after the 2004 season, Ventura ranked in the top twenty of most offensive categories among third basemen. He’s not a Hall of Famer — during his one year of eligibility, he received just 1.3% of the votes. And yet, by almost any statistical measure, he is an all time great. He was not a college prodigy turned MLB flameout. He was not Bill Buckner — a very good player sadly remembered for his greatest mistake. And he was not simply excellent. He was an elite player who is misremembered for a single event which — had it occurred before the days of video and SportsCenter and, ultimately, social media — would have survived as a quaint story, if it survived at all. It’s far less interesting than Doc Ellis’ psychedelic no-hitter. It doesn’t hold a candle to Ed Delahanty’s fall into Niagara Falls. It’s even slightly less interesting than George Bell’s wild, flying karate kick to the side of Bruce Kison. But nobody talks about that fight anymore and everyone still talks about “Ryan vs. Ventura.“

But here’s the thing: it’s not the underappreciation of Ventura that irks me. Robin Ventura is fine. He got to manage the White Sox for five years. He’s been married for decades. Has four kids. He occasionally guest broadcasts College World Series games. By all appearances, he’s humble, affable and good humored. Robin Ventura doesn’t need appreciation, per se. That’s not the issue. The issue is that all this time we’ve gotten the event — the brawl — all wrong. It was not a TKO. Or at least not how we’ve come to think of it. Ventura was not the loser. He was not the petulant kid losing to the old man. He was the workmanlike teammate doing his job. He did the job bravely. Valiantly, even. In fact, I’ve come to realize that Robin Ventura was the victor.

Let’s start at the beginning — in 1990 — when journeyman infielder, Craig Grebeck took Nolan Ryan deep for the first of his nineteen career MLB home runs. The Rangers, Ryan included, did not appreciate Grebeck’s celebration, thus inciting years of simmering tension between the two clubs. Fast forward three years later, in the second inning of that August 5th game, Sox pitcher Alex Fernandez hit Juan Gonzalez with a pitch. Predictably, and in accordance with an unwritten baseball rule, Rangers’ starter Nolan Ryan was obliged to return the favor.

Ryan was no stranger to hit batsmen — he hit one hundred and fifty-eight during his career and was frequently among the league leaders in the category. His flirtation with the high and inside corner of the strike zone was essential to his success. But this particular pitch — the one that plunked Ventura — was not about strike zone ownership. It was retaliation — plain and simple. That being said, note that Ryan did not hit Tim Raines (too strong) or Ozzie Guillen (too unpredictable) or Bo Jackson (are you kidding?). He hit the mild-mannered, level headed college kid. This was not an act of Texas cowboy bravery. It was a job to be done. And Ryan did the job.

So did Ventura. Never known as a hot head (quite the opposite, Robin was analytical, droll and laconic), Ventura spent a moment considering his options. Do I really want to fight? Do I really want to incite a brawl? Do I really want to charge a guy old enough to be my father? But ultimately, he was a professional and professionals do their job. In this case, the job was to charge the mound. Ventura was well versed in the unwritten rules of baseball. Earlier that day, Bo Jackson had specifically advised him — should he get hit by Ryan — to keep his helmet on and to run through the pitcher as though he were a linebacker trying to drive the pitcher back towards second base. Notably, Ventura did neither of those things. He removed his hat and slowly jogged towards Ryan, no doubt assuming he’d get blocked or pulled aside and that any brawl would be broken up before he even reached the living legend.

Ventura’s assumptions were almost, partially correct. Catcher Pudge Rodriguez did jump onto his back. But not before Ventura jogged straight into Ryan’s waiting headlock. By that point, benches were clearing and Rodriguez — in full gear — was hanging from his opponent. In a matter of seconds, Ryan started landing uppercuts to Ventura’s chin. And soonafter the scrum started expanding to the point of chaos. Taunts became pushes became shoves. Uniforms began to blend. Fingers were pointed as warning signs. Fighters moved in only to be held back. The brawl had taken on an unwieldy life of its own.

But in all the melee the “A plot” got lost. Somewhere deep under the dome of Sox and Rangers, Robin Ventura escaped and then reversed the headlock. He gained leverage and then took hold of Ryan, nearly choking him out before forcing him to the ground. It looked not unlike a bull reversing the cowboy’s rope hold. If you study the tape closely — if you pore over it like a conspiracy theorist revieiwng the Zapruder film — the truth reveals itself. Nolan Ryan was moments away from being submitted by Robin Ventura.

Before that could happen, though, Ryan was fiercely defended by a swarm of teammates. For his part, Ventura was pulled away by a bunch of Sox, allowing him to take a beat and gather himself. From that point Ventura checked his fat lower lip, and — blood boiling — considered reentering the fray. But instead he looked around, did the calculations, thought better of it and opted to keep a safe distance. Ryan meanwhile looked nothing like the conquering hero. He looked like a rattled old man who got in a few nuggies before the tables were turned and shit started to get real.

To state the obvious, this is not the story that emerged. By the time SportsCenter ran that very night, the narrative was that the old man had bested the young man. That Nolan Ryan was playing by the unwritten rules of baseball and that Robin Ventura had overreacted and, moreover, underestimated his opponent. That young John Lawrence and The Cobra Kai had fucked with the wrong sensei. That, as a result, Mister Miyagi had given the young brat exactly what he deserved. The August 1993 brawl enshrined Ryan as the game’s greatest cowboy and Ventura as a much lesser player best known for his worst moment.

Except that it was not his worst moment. Notwithstanding his “grand slam single” Ventura had an atrocious postseason history. For his career, during the regular season, he posted an .806 OPS. But in the postseason that plummeted to .614. Normally an elite gloveman, he had experienced prolonged rough patches at the hot corner. In 1995, he committed ten errors in the first ten games of the season. In 2002, he led all AL third basemen in errors. And after 1999, arguably his finest season in The Majors, he never hit above .250 again. Ventura had plenty of terrible games and lackluster stretches. But his fight with Ryan was not among them. It’s not among them because it is a complete misremembrance. It is a factual distortion. It is a miscarriage of justice — a rewriting of history. 

But most of all, it obscures Ventura’s true greatness. Which were not his eighteen MLB grand slams. Or his walk off grand slam single. Or his Gold Gloves. Or that fifty-eight game hitting streak. It was not even that he bested Nolan Ryan in a fight — though, in fact, he did. No, it obscures the deepest, truest aspect of Robin Ventura — that he was a true professional. That he did his job, diligently, every day. He showed up and he hit the ball, he caught the ball and he threw the ball. He didn’t charge Nolan Ryan because he hated Nolan Ryan or because wanted to hurt Nolan Ryan. He wasn’t even mad at Nolan Ryan. He charged the mound because that was his job to do. It was the unwritten rule. But also it was the very clear, very explicit thing that his teammates expected him to do. Whoever got plunked — that guy had to retaliate. But also, it was Nolan Ryan, so he had to show respect.

You know who was the best man for that job? Robin Mark Ventura. More than a professional hitter. Better than Buckner. Steady. Reliable. A student of the game. Frank Thomas or Tim Raines would have beaten the crap out of Ryan. Bo Jackson might have killed the man. But Robin Ventura approached slowly, without a helmet or bat, let the old guy get a few shots in, and then, before it got bad, turned the tables and let the future Hall of Famer know the he was not a lightweight and that he and his team were not to be fucked with. A different twenty-six year old might have been enraged by the incident. But not Ventura. All things considered, Ventura kept his composure. He did the thing without doing any harm. He endured the actual jabs and then the decades of media jabs. He held no grudges. Even today, he’ll autograph photos of the incident. Even today, he’ll answer questions on the subject, without ever disparaging Ryan. Even today, when the joke should be less funny and the truth should have emerged, Ventura is never anything less than professional.

In 2012, Ventura was — to the surprise of many — named the manager of the Chicago White Sox. That season, he helmed the team to a respectable second place finish in the AL Central. But, over the next four years, an dfollowing a generous contract extension, he lost more games than he won. Which is why, at the end of the 2016 campaign, and despite the fact that the team was prepared to bring him back, Ventura resigned. It was, I suspect, tor the same reason that after sixteen years in The Majors, and despite the fact that he could undoubtedly still find, Ventura retired. He did so because he was no longer doing the job effectively. Not doing the job that he’d done for decades. Robin Ventura was neither a punchline nor a punching bag. Robin Ventura was always the best guy for the job. But perhaps never more so than on August 4, 1993.

by Matty Wishnow