Bill Pecota

I guess this was the best photo Fleer could find in 1991. What is he looking at?

Why we like him: Bill Pecota defined what it means to be a Kansas City Royal (as you can clearly see in the photo above). He couldn't hit. He couldn't hit for power. He couldn't play defense. He couldn't settle in a single position. He couldn't even be photographed doing anything successful. He was even included as an afterthought with Bret Saberhagen that brought the great Gregg Jefferies to KC from the Mets.

No, but seriously. He was a career .249 hitter with 22 home runs who pocketed almost $800,000 for his 1992 performance in New York that saw him bat .227 and slug .297. Shrewd bit of business by the Mets.

Ladies and gentlemen, Bill Pecota, ballplayer.

Glenallen Hill

Running from a spider.

Why we like him: Glenallen Hill was essentially a homeless major leaguer. He was clearly talented, as he played for 13 seasons and posted a .271 average and slugged .482, but he simply could not find a place to settle in and play. He played seasons for the Cubs (two different stints), Giants, Indians, Blue Jays, Angels, Yankees, and Mariners, and didn't stay at any of those clubs for more than three consecutive years.

During his playing days, Hill was somewhat of an imposingly hulking figure, standing 6'3" and listed at 210. He also had an intimidating aura about him too, as he always seemed to look angry no matter the situation, which was probably a result of the 'roids. I mean, he was in the good ol' Mitchell Report. The intimidation factor definitely didn't help him out in the postseason. He is the not-so-proud owner of a .074 (occasional 1-for-10) postseason batting average.  He did, however, earn himself a World Series ring on the 2000 Yankees, despite an 0-for-3 series.

The real reason we all love Glenallen Hill is because he's kind of a weirdo. Hill once found himself on the 15-day disabled list due to having a nightmare about himself being covered in spiders causing him to pop out of bed, smash a glass table and cut himself, and the fall violently down the stairs. And he didn't even come up with a fake story to tell his manager. His teammates also enjoyed the incident, giving Hill the loving nickname of "Spiderman."

Welcome to the home of the random ballplayer, Mr. Hill. Despite a semi-tainted career due to steroids and a mediocre career, you have no chance of even sniffing the Hall of Fame, but we'll gladly give you our respect. We hate spiders too. So enjoy your home here. We'll leave the closet light on for you.

Ladies and gentlemen, Glenallen Hill, Ballplayer.

Jose Offerman

Make me an offer, man, and I'll probably chuck it into the stands.

Why we like him: I wouldn't say I like Jose Offerman, but I do like to think about him.  As far as my memory goes, Jose was undoubtedly the single worst defensive shortstop from my childhood.  He managed to hang in there and boast a career that spanned 15 seasons and 7 different clubs.  You didn't want seats down the first base line with this guy at shortstop unless you had a hardhat, kevlar vest, and proof of insurance.  As the old joke goes:  How do you spell 'Offerman?'  An 'O,' two 'Fs,' and 230 'Es.'

Offerman came up with the Dodgers in 1990 where he didn't exactly light the box score on fire, posting a .155 average in 29 games in 1990 before finding his crap-tastic groove in 1991 and hitting .195 in 52 games.  I can honestly say I have no idea what Tommy Lasorda was thinking by keeping him around.  He was a shortstop that couldn't hit sand if he fell off a camel, he couldn't catch the swine flu, and he was a candidate to hit an elderly fan in the thorax with an errant throw on any given play, and somehow he made the All Star team in 1995.

Watching a routine grounder to shortstop with Offerman out there was like watching a 1990 Honda CRX with racing slicks try to navigate an icy road near a crowded playground.  There was a possibility that everything would be fine at the end, but there was also the possibility of something horrible happening.  Bleeding bystanders crying all the way to the Dodger Stadium exits, carnage so epic that Brett Butler would swallow his chaw, you name it.  He was that bad.

After six seasons of that caliber of play, anyone would be headed for Kansas City, and that's exactly what happened in 1996.  Offerman spent three seasons in the world's barbecue capital where his coaching staff had the revelation that maybe a guy who can't catch or throw probably should be at shortstop.  The Royals played him all over the field--second base, in the outfield, first base--and his defense was convincingly less horrible.  When the Red Sox took a flyer on him for the 1999 season, he was at least a productive batter, posting near-.300 or better averages from 1995 until 1999.  By the time his career was winding down in the early 00s, he had settled into his role as an emergency first baseman/outfielder/designated hitter who did what he could and didn't worry too much about his glove.

So what was Jose Offerman's appeal?  I think it's about respect.  You don't make 230 errors by accident.  You make 230 errors by giving it your best shot every time out, only your best is just slightly terrible.  We salute you, Jose Offerman, and give you 230 Es for effort.

Ladies and gentlemen, Jose Offerman, Ballplayer.