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A little stupid voting simply goes with the territory; always has, always will. There was 1967, when one addled character gave Cesar Tovar his MVP vote denying Carl Yastrzemski unanimous selection the season he fashioned "The Impossible Dream".

Clark
Booth

Awards season is upon us. With it comes all the usual conflict, controversy, and recrimination. In baseball, the dispensing of precious laurels is a venerated and hallowed process bloated with more than a century of precedent.

Blunders committed in 1913 still fester. How could they have given that season's Chalmers Award to Jake Daubert, slick but singles-hitting first sacker of the lackluster and sixth-place Dodgers. If Daubert led the NL in hitting, at .350, he was hardly as feared as the Phillies' Gavvy Cravath at .341 and leader in both homers and ribbies, nor as vital as 25-game winner Christy Mathewson of the NL champ Giants; already a legend in his own time. Somewhere, there's a stat-obsessed baseball curmudgeon hidden in his garret and buried in frayed record books still bickering about that one.

The Chalmers was the original MVP citation and much prized with that distinguished auto company gifting the winner one of its fanciest horseless carriages, quite a novel gem in 1913. When Chalmers bankrupted a couple years later so did the business of presenting annual awards and peace prevailed in baseball until the late-20s when the baseball writers invaded the act establishing the MVP laurels we agitate over annually.

Added since then have been annual awards for Rookies, Managers, Executives, Humanitarians, even "Comebacks." There are silver coated baseball bats for sluggers, gold-leaf iron mitts for fielders, the Cy Young for pitchers, and fireman's hat for relievers. Plus, all those bennies the Sporting News has been presenting for 80 years and don't forget the postseason trophies which include a flashy sports-car, hot off the lot. Lastly, there's those wrenching Hall of Fame canonizations allocating ultimate honors. No industry does baubles, bangles, and beads more devoutly than Baseball, not even Hollywood.

Which brings us to the 2016 sweepstakes. Many picks have seemed reasonable, particularly the Manager of the Year choices -- Terry Francona in the AL and Dave Roberts over Joe Maddon in the NL. So too is the AL Rookie of the year pick -- Detroit's Mike Fullmer over New York's Gary Sanchez. However difficult, it's fair.

But temperatures are deservedly running high on other choices. Anaheim's Mike Trout gets the AL MVP and in Boston they're whining about Mookie Betts getting robbed. Boston's Rick Porcello gets the AL Cy Young and in Detroit they're blaming two Tampa writers who didn't even rank runner-up Justin Verlander among the league's top five hurlers; unquestionably dubious judgment.

If they are hardly huge controversies -- not in this cantankerous age -- each illustrates basic problems that have long bugged these annual imbroglios and about which efforts to correct -- ongoing fully a century now -- have been insufficient.

On the Cy Young question, the issue of erratic voting even downright incompetence by electors is something you just gotta live with. Who's likely to do it better than baseball's beat-writers? The players, the fans? Heaven help us! A little stupid voting simply goes with the territory; always has, always will. There was 1967, when one addled character gave Cesar Tovar his MVP vote denying Carl Yastrzemski unanimous selection the season he fashioned "The Impossible Dream." Or 1947, when Joe DiMaggio won even though Ted Williams clobbered him in every statistical category; the difference in the result being the Boston scribe who despised Williams and denied him any consideration. Although it's noteworthy some still believe the fact DiMaggio's Yankees won everything while Williams' team finished a distant third was relevant.

In the MVP thing, the basic notion of what constitutes a "most valuable player" -- that is, how do you define or recognize one, and/or what qualities must one have to even qualify -- have never been clearly established. So in the end, the player with the best numbers as measured by the ever varying schools of statistical analysis ends up winning, and if a chap with good numbers happens to have starred for a team that excels, his chances are greatly enhanced. Within reason, that's reasonable.

But it's that last factor that's now annoying Red Sox nationals. They argue Betts marched his team into the postseason whereas Trout, his consistent brilliance notwithstanding, was powerless to lift his team out of the caller. Welcome to the shaky premise that baseball is a one man game. If indeed you agree, maybe you should blame Betts for his team flopping in the playoffs.

Which, of course, would be dumb. Trout alone was unable to save the Angels this season any more than Williams on his own near divine charisms was able to deliver the Red Sox over the Yankees in 1947. The Yankees in '47 had a pitching staff that included Allie Reynolds, Spud Chandler, Vic Raschi and Joe Page while the Red Sox countered with a gallant Joe Dobson and three guys with sore-arms plus Denny Galehouse. That in '47 was the difference, not Joe's alleged superiority over Ted. The writers got it wrong in 1947. But they got it right in 2016. Dandy as he is and infinite as may be his promise, Mr. Betts is not now as valuable as Mr. Trout. Just ask the other 28 general managers.

Clark Booth is a renowned Boston sports writer and broadcast journalist. He spent much of his long career at Bostonís WCVB-TV Chanel 5 as a correspondent specializing in sports, religion, politics and international affairs.

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