Sometimes when you’ve been blogging about funny names as long as I have, you’ll wake up with a funny name on the tip of your tongue. That’s what happened to me. I kept thinking “Pickles Dillhoefer… Pickles Dillhoefer… Pickles Dillhoefer”. Oh, don’t you envy being inside my mind?!
But I couldn’t quite place it, so… I went on the computer* and found out that Pickles Dillhoefer was a baseball catcher a hundred years ago and decided that he needed to be the subject of today’s post.
*I’ll never be able to use that phrase ever again without thinking of Vin Scully’s famous musing on Troy Tulowitzki’s mullet. See the bottom of this post for more details.
His real name was William Martin Dillhoefer, and his teammates quickly realized that was a stupid name and he needed to be called Pickles. Because Pickles is not a stupid name. It’s a tremendous one. Outstanding!
So here’s the part where I channel Rob and describe baseball in a distinctly basebally way (or at least do my best… I’d say I’m the third-most-qualified baseball writer on here, maybe even fourth behind Amb if you count trying really hard and putting pictures of actors in jockstraps into your posts as part of the criteria).
The young backstop served in five major league campaigns sharing duties in calling the shots for big league hurlers as a member of the Cubs, Phillies and Cardinals’ organizations, hitting at a .223 clip, including a career-best .263 in his penultimate season in the league. Although he never recorded a tater as a big leaguer, he did manage to log ten three-baggers during his career.
You know what? That’s exhausting! I have a lot of respect for what Rob and Mark have to go through… let me just steal a phrase from some crumpled up piece of paper I found online.
He divides with Clemons in backstopping for the Mound City aggregation. Is a clever general and fair batter.
Ahh, much better!
There’s something awesome and charming about baseball being the only American sport being chronicled during the days when people actually wrote like that. I can see why it has its fans.
Anyway, Pickles Dillhoefer died in 1922, aged 28, and didn’t have the chance to really establish himself as one of the game’s premier players. The worst part: Pickles had only gotten married six weeks prior 😦 Poor guy (and gal!) But he was missed.
For the rest of the post, in honor of a great man, I have assembled a virtual museum of pickle imagery. I hope you enjoy! Happy Monday!