My favorite Cleveland Indian as a kid was Albert Belle. In an era where you had a big friendly oaf, a happy-go-lucky slugger and an ever-grinning, wall climbing center fielder, somehow I was drawn to a pillar of pure fury. Nothing Belle did was calm, he was simply anger barely restrained, then unleashed in the batter's box. I either didn't process or care about the bad times that surrounded Belle, I just liked his battery of baseballs.
So naturally, I continue to be bothered to this day about his being snubbed for the AL MVP in 1995. For a man to hit .