Enough Harold Baines talk! Lee Smith is a stinkin hall of famer. One of my earliest childhood memories was the day I learned the n-word. My grandfather moved over from Scotland and had a thick Scottish brogue. When the cubs would get into trouble in the 8th he would yell as only a Scotsman can “Brrrring in the big N—.” Grandpa understood high-leverage situations much better than he understood human equality. He was old-world blue collar (a tank mechanic in the British army during WW2), it was 1983 and I was 6. Grandpa loved Lee Smith. This second round draft pick meant hope for the future. He loved the Cubs. It was better than having to hear about those bloody Irish. He’d put the rabbit ears up on the tv in his garage to catch WGN (in South Bend, IN) and sit with his pipe and his beer and watch the game shirtless every afternoon after getting off from the factory at 2:30. He usually only caught the last few innings, but that was fine by him, that when his favorite player, Smitty, pitched. My mother was second generation, rejected her heritage and embraced this crazy thing we Americans call civil rights. She didn’t know grandpa shared his vocabulary and his Miller with me. Lee Smith is a legend from my childhood. I admired his raw strength, his sweaty brow, his max effort delivery, and that he was something good about a 5th place Cubs team. The next year he saved 33 games and the season. Lee Smith made me a Cubs fan. He was also instrumental in causing me ask, “mommy what does n- mean,” just before getting my mouth washed out with soap. Grandpa passed 8 years ago yesterday, but he would be happy to know that his favorite player made it to the hall.