When you're named Buster, you meet dozens and dozens of dogs and cats that share your name. But the only adult human I've met with the same name as my own is Buster Posey, who called me in 2010, at the request of his agent, for a story I was working on.
"Hey, Buster ... it's Buster," he said.
"Buster, how are you doing?" I responded. He doesn't show it often, but Posey has a very dry sense of humor, and so we have continued to awkwardly greet each other in that manner ever since. (Even though this first name has been handed down in his family, I'd venture a guess that he, like I, has probably greeted more pets named Buster than people.)
Luckily, even though we're both Busters in baseball, the facts of our jobs and lives have been different enough that we're not often confused. Sure, there have been many times that I've been introduced on television or radio as Buster Posey -- including by Scott Van Pelt on SportsCenter -- but it's never gone farther than a clear misidentification. Posey is one of the best athletes of his sport, a former college shortstop converted to catcher whose Cooperstown candidacy may lead to a broader reassessment of Hall of Fame credentials for the position, and I am -- well -- me.
At least until five or six years ago, when the most difficult podcast interview I've ever had happened. A really, really famous star -- unnamed here, to protect the innocent -- enthusiastically (and surprisingly) agreed to join the show. And about one or two questions into our conversation, I realized that this really, really famous star thought he was speaking to podcast host Buster Posey, championship catcher, not Buster Olney, schlubby sportswriter.
The really, really famous star had gotten up very early to talk to Buster, and I did not want to embarrass him as he told his stories. So I very carefully structured my questions in such a way to lead him away from referring to Buster Posey. It was an exhausting 15 minutes, but the great payoff was telling Posey that story the next time I saw him. He laughed out loud. The great irony was that given Posey's devotion to time with his family and his personality, he probably is the ballplayer least likely to host a podcast, ever.
In part because of that importance he places on his home life and the devastating injuries Posey has experienced in his career, he announced his retirement today, even at a time when he probably could play another two or three years and pad some of the counting stats on his résumé.
Posey finishes with exactly 1,500 career hits, 158 homers and 663 runs, much lower than many current Hall of Famers. His career WAR of 44.8, per Baseball Reference, is lower than that of Manny Machado or Andrew McCutchen. But for a period of five to seven years, he was either the best at his position (or second best, depending on how you would calculate the importance of Yadier Molina's defense at the position), and Posey checks so many boxes.
Rookie of the Year in 2010. An MVP in 2012, after leading the league with a .336 batting average. A seven-time All-Star. The catcher for three championship teams, in 2010, 2012 and 2014. In the seven years from 2012 to 2018, he averaged 165 hits and 33 doubles, while batting .311 with a .380 on-base average. For most of Posey's career, he batted third or fourth for San Francisco, with the same incredibly simple approach to hitting that he had in college: He'd mostly hit fastballs to the opposite field and pull breaking balls.
"It's just so rare to have your best hitter being your catcher," former Giants manager Bruce Bochy wrote in a text Thursday morning. "It's the toughest spot to find offensive help from in the lineup, so it was a huge advantage for us. It's so much easier to find that offense from other positions."
Bochy wrote that he didn't hit-and-run with Posey as much as he did with Tony Gwynn when he managed that late, great Hall of Famer, "but he was right up there with Tony on the hit-and-run with his ability to make contact."
He was an excellent catcher and a beloved team leader. One of the stories that follows him is how he watched the Giants' go through a sluggish early-morning fielding drill in spring training, and he turned to a teammate nearby and said, "Watch this." With that, Posey whipped a throw to an infielder, a message tied to the extra velocity he put on the ball: We need to do this full speed. With that, the metabolism in the Giants' work that day immediately spiked. He worked with a special attention to detail that undoubtedly helped his work in the postseason, when he caught 14 shutouts -- six more than any other catcher in MLB history, as MLB's Sarah Langs noted.
"His leadership was there daily in how he prepared for the game," Bochy wrote while headed to San Francisco for Posey's news conference. "Having a game plan for the pitcher he was catching that night -- he just developed so much trust with his pitchers. If he felt it was needed, he would call out a player or the team, but would do it in a professional way."
The best historic parallel to Posey might be Sandy Koufax, who struggled for control of his fastball for a lot of his career before putting together six remarkable seasons from 1961 to '66. Elbow trouble forced Koufax to retire at age 30, with 165 wins and 2,396 career strikeouts, numbers that don't seem that extraordinary when cast against other starting pitchers in the Hall.
But Koufax was so good in the prime of his career -- he was the most dominant player at his position -- that he was elected easily in his first year on the ballot, with 86.9% of voters supporting him that first year. Posey may be on a similar path, for similar reasons.
Only 16 catchers have been inducted into the Hall of Fame, the second fewest at any position; 15 third basemen have been honored in Cooperstown, although Adrian Beltre is likely to be elected as soon as his name appears on a ballot.
If Posey is elected to the Hall of Fame (an aside: his speech would be one of the most understated ever), then he probably would provide voters a different context for catcher candidacies. His would be an induction that could help Thurman Munson, Jorge Posada and others. Munson generated numbers and accolades very similar to those of Posey -- 1,558 career hits, Rookie of the Year, MVP, postseason success -- before he was killed in a plane crash in 1979.
Posada was a victim of the Hall of Fame's Rule of 10 -- only 10 players can be named on any ballot, and Posada squeezed off the ballot quickly because of the logjam of steroid era candidates. Posada's career totals of 275 homers, 900 runs and 1,065 RBIs dwarf those of Posey, and he, like Posey, gave the Yankees an advantage because he was an elite offensive player at a position usually filled with light-hitting defenders.
It wouldn't be the first shift in how the voting body assesses positions, and perhaps Posey will become for catchers what Bruce Sutter meant for relievers. Before Sutter was inducted, voters seemed to struggle in weighing the importance of bullpen pieces. In his first year on the ballot, Sutter received 23.9% of the vote. But 12 years later, he reached the 75% threshold as voters gradually acknowledged the emergence of relievers as crucial to pitching staffs. Mariano Rivera, Goose Gossage, Lee Smith and Trevor Hoffman have followed.
The same may be true with Posey, who will hit the ballot after Joe Mauer and before Yadier Molina. They have been the best of the best at their position -- and maybe the last great catchers before the electronic strike zone is implemented and allows teams to fill the spot with good hitters rather than superlative pitch framers.
His parents told me years ago that when Posey was in grade school, he told them that he preferred to be called Demp -- another family name. His parents politely said no, you're Buster, and that was the end of that conversation.
And that is why -- to the delight of dog, cat and human Busters everywhere -- the name "Buster" will be embossed on a Hall of Fame plaque.