I have been a fan of the Moody Blues since college. I discovered them about a thousand years ago while standing in line at the Harvard Coop waiting to pay for a book.
After hearing their breakthrough record, “Days of Future Passed,” playing over the Coop’s sound system, I was hooked. And I stayed hooked.
When the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame was created in the ’80s, I figured any group with their legacy would be a cinch. I was wrong. They, and their fans, waited. And waited. And waited. One of their founding members (Ray Thomas) even died waiting. Finally, five months after Thomas’ death, in 2019, they got the call.
Understand, they were not some novelty act, or one-hit wonder. Their “Nights in White Satin” may be one of rock’s greatest-ever ballads. And “I’m just a Singer” is still maybe the best response ever to fans who read too much into, or misinterpret, rock songs.
Why did it take them so long to get in? Jann Wenner of Rolling Stone magazine did not like them.
As a very proper Bostonian, I sat in amazement in 2004 when Curt Schilling, with blood seeping onto his sock as a result of an ankle injury, pitched seven innings in Game 6 of the ALCS and beat the Yankees. He also earned the reputation as one of the all-time clutch postseason pitchers.
He also earned the reputation of being a right-wing loudmouth, or, as my sister used to say derisively, “God.” The world’s foremost authority on everything.
The writers who selected the Baseball Hall of Fame candidates don’t have much use for “God.” His bellicose politics, absolutely, have something to do with him being snubbed. Admittedly, he’s borderline. But as the author of one of baseball’s iconic moments, along with his playoff and World Series chops, he should have skated into the Hall of Fame. But the writers who did the voting didn’t like him.
Now we come to Bill Belichick, perhaps the most egregious example yet of the silly prejudices of Hall of Fame voters.
There’s no question he is a jerk. He made postgame news conferences as much fun as having a root canal the way he grunted, snorted, and gave scornful non-answers. His fallback facial expression was the glowering scowl. And on a personal note, we once rode for seven floors up an elevator, just the two of us, and he didn’t even nod in my direction. And that’s after I very politely greeted him.
But he did win six Super Bowls as a head coach, three of them after that Spygate scandal that the voters who kept him from being a first-ballot Hall of Famer supposedly penalized him for (which is garbage; his sin was being a total churl as he was piling up the wins).
Not only is he first in Super Bowls (he also won two as a Giants assistant), first in postseason wins and second in all-time wins, he presided over a two-decade run of unparalleled excellence in the free-agent and salary-cap eras. And I don’t want to hear that he was nothing without Tom Brady. He drafted Brady and brought him along. You could say the same thing about Red Auerbach and Bill Russell; and Phil Jackson and Michael Jordan (and Kobe Bryant). Coaches don’t play, but they put players in positions to win.
You can justify Jann Wenner keeping the Moody Blues out of the Hall of Fame. Music is totally subjective. And you can perhaps justify keeping Schilling out based on your personal prejudices. He was never a lock, which means all of his pluses and minuses as a person can be considered fair game.
Belichick has a bookcase full of statistics that belie anyone’s prejudices. Every measurable coaching statistic save for gladhanding favors him as a first-ballot inductee. You just cannot fall prey to your prejudices so cavalierly and be allowed to ever vote again.
After the Patriots were accused of deflating footballs, Belichick was asked a few questions about air pressure and science he could not explain.
He answered that he was not the Mona Lisa Vito of the football world. The Hoodie was the most unlikely person to sneak a “My Cousin Vinny” reference into a football press conference.
He should be inducted just for that.
