Routine Moments in Baseball History: July 24, 1979

Welcome to Routine Moments in Baseball History, a running weekday feature that looks back at plays that have been ignored by the history books because history books only talk about things that are important or interesting. Today's installment is "Mario Mendoza Flies Out to Third."

Thirty-five years ago today, Mario Mendoza lofted a ball weakly to the third baseman while playing the first game of a doubleheader in Baltimore's Memorial Stadium. It was unfortunate, just like a lot of things that happened to the shortstop, then playing for the Mariners. When listing his problems, you could start with the way he looked, with those clunky glasses and curly hair peaking out from under his cap—in his baseball card photos, his mouth is always open and he's always squinting into the sun like he's in the middle of figuring out what's coming toward him and whether he should hide from it. Then you'd go on to mention his utter ineptitude as a batsman, how a batting average of .200 became known as the "Mendoza Line" after him because he was so often beneath it. (The term is one of those things people say without really knowing who said it first, and some claim it was actually coined in honor of Minnie Mendoza, a career minor-leaguer who played on the Twins briefly in 1970). In 1979, he played in 148 games (his most ever) and had a batting average of .198, an OBP of .216, and an OPS of .466. Those number are insane. On most teams that would be enough to get you banished to the minors, but, well, he was playing for the Mariners.

As the Orioles' third baseman Doug DeCinces waits patiently for the ball to land in his glove, we'd do well to reflect on Mendoza's many accomplishments. By all accounts he was a terrific fielder at his position in an era when shortstops often weren't very good hitters. He's also a member of the Mexican Professional Baseball Hall of fame; in his home country, reports Wikipedia, "he earned the nickname Manos de Seda, or Silk Hands, for his fielding prowess." If he couldn't hit major league pitching, so what? Neither could you or I.

When considering Mendoza, we should also remember that he had plenty of help in making the 1979 Mariners bad enough to lose 95 games. The franchise was in its third year and wouldn't have a winning season until 1991; that '79 squad only had one hitter bat over .300 and one starting pitcher with an ERA below 4.00. It was a lousy team limping along numbly through a montage of fly balls hit weakly to third and rallies that sputtered and pitchers watching as home runs went over the fence. Just about the only thing history remembers them for—well, maybe "remembers" is too strong a word—is Mendoza, his sub-.200 season, and the bit of slang it spawned. Bad baseball is boring more often than it is fun. If you're going to be bad, why not be legendarily awful?

According to one online article that quotes a Sports Illustrated piece I couldn't find anywhere, Mendoza came around to this point of view, that fame for being uniquely bad at hitting a baseball was better than no fame at all. "Mario said that when Chris Berman mentioned it and people started to laugh, he was angry," a Mexican broadcaster reportedly said, "but now he enjoys the fame of the phrase Mendoza Line." We should all embrace our fates so easily.

This has been Routine Moments in Baseball History. Follow Harry Cheadle on Twitter.