In the long, storied history of Major League Baseball, a number of handsome, heroic-looking men have taken the field in pursuit of glory and/or a big, fat paycheck, depending on the player and the era.
Kevin Youkilis is not one of them.
It’s the rare occasion I agree with Matt Taibbi, but his devastating description of Youkilis’ unfortunate physical appearance, which ran in
Men’s Journal last year, is, as the Pulitzer committee would say, spot on. Allow me to quote in full:
Then there’s Kevin Youkilis. Youk has only three body parts, all hideously oversized: an enormous set of gnomish, bushy forearms; a massive, casaba melon–size white head; and a cauldronlike belly. He has a truly awesome bristle of thick red chin hair that makes his face look like a cross between a vagina and something out of The Hobbit. At the plate he disgustingly gushes sweat by some means previously unknown to science in which the moisture travels upward along his body, racing in a cascade from his balls and armpits up his neck, over his head, and back down over the bill of his helmet to shower the plate. Whereas a guy like Teixeira was born with a swing so gorgeous you want to paint it, Youkilis fighting a middle reliever to a nine-pitch walk looks like a rhinoceros trying to fuck a washing machine.
Suffice to say, despite
his cameo in Milk Money, Youkilis will never be mistaken for Ed Harris, the star of the film.
As ballplayers go, though, Youkilis is one of the better ones. His at-bats, usually drawn out over 5 or 10 tense minutes, are at once admirable and effective, sapping the opposing pitcher of valuable energy and patience. Not to mention the hurler’s sacrosanct pitch count. I'm not going to front: Youkilis is a ball player, plain and simple, and I respect his game. (I
still maintain he was a more worthy AL MVP candidate, in 2008, than teammate Dustin Pedroria). If it weren’t for his ugly mug and Lou Albino facial hair, I’d gladly welcome Youkilis on the Yankees, a team for which
handsomeness,
manscaping and
musculature are requirements for position players seemingly on par with OPS, UZR and WARP. While that particular pipedream will most likely never come to pass, I can still enjoy Youk from a far, unlike
the fackers over here who harbor an irrational, albeit good-humored, hatred of the man known in parts up North simply as Youk.
Although, like most baseball fans, I recognize Youkilis' immense talents, what I admire most about him, I think, is the fact that he seems to take his Neanderthal-like looks in knuckle-dragging stride. "It is what it is," he once said, although, in fairness, he could have been talking about anything, from a league-imposed preseason trip to Japan to his recent
dust up with Tigers pitcher--and Jersey native--Rick Porcello. His looks, or total lack thereof, are the last thing on his mind. To wit, this season, Youkilis is letting fans decide how he should shape his man-bush for only a buck a vote.
I actually love this idea. Although not my particular cup of tea, facial hair-- like Cracker Jacks, Tim McCarver, the Wave, and HGH--is, for better of for worse,
a longstanding baseball tradition. We might as well embrace it, even if the idea of coming into contact with Youkilis' sweaty, hairy maw is about as appealing as a day-night double header in Pittsburgh. At present, I'm leaning toward No. 2, which just screams "man with a van,"and would probably prohibit Youkilis' re-entrance into the United States after a weekend series against the Jays.
I'm late in responding to this post because I've been away in Florida, during which time I caught the first 7 innings of the Sox' spring training game against the Rays. For those who haven't experienced it, it will come as no surprise that spring training baseball can be a pretty desultory affair: a very pleasant outdoor atmosphere, peanuts and cracker jacks, and, by and large, a game whose outcome doesn't matter, and form which the big-name players depart by the third inning. And I will say that that's mostly how it felt: a relaxing afternoon, but not really a traditional sports experience.
But one player, even in the senior-citizen-laden, low-impact environment like this one, cannot fail to rouse a passionate fan response: Kevin Youkilis. As quiet as the crowd was, each time Youk came to bat, he was greeted by a full stanza worth of rehearsed, coordinated chanting, culiminating in the loudly bellowed word "Youkilis." Apparently the low and lusty bass notes of "Yooooouuk" weren't enough.
Why bring this up? Because, no matter how focused he may be on grinding out at bats, there is simply no way Youkilis could've missed this chant. He may not have understood it--I certainly didn't--but he had to know it was intended for him. And when you're a public figure, what choice do you really have? You've got to embrace your image.
So it's comforting to hear that Youkilis is embracing the baseball world's odd relationship to his physical appearance. Yours is not the first Boston-hating voice to speak up on the subject of Youk's yeti-ish mien. And it's not hard for me to see why he'd be totally infuriating to all but the Boston faithful. As I've said to friends before, Youkilis is far and away the baseball player most likey to bring a pet tarantula to the clubhouse. This is somehow apparent from the way he runs. And I can't explain it any better than that.
I must disagree with your friend Mr. Taibbi about one thing: Youkilis is defined by his massive ass, not his belly. I'm actually not even convinced he *has* a belly; only the extreme front of his ass. But I suppose this is a digression.
As for the facial hair? I'll say mustache, which is really the only inspired choice on the board. I'll take my act over to Hits for Kids and see if I can't make this happen.
