Take the combined might of McGwire, Bonds, Sammy, and Canseco, multiply it by the entire membership of Cooperstown, toss in a couple of steroid needles, and place the Frankensteinian creation into digital form, and you have power equivalent to just the bottom third of the American Dreams’ lineup.
When it comes to pure offense, few teams (in any sport, baseball otherwise) sport a Hall of Fame starting lineup. It’s damned hard to lose when your roster consists of Hank, Babe, Joe, and Pete (OK, maybe not Pete. Politics, politics.)
Want to know how deadly the Dreams are? Every week during the summer recess of ’89 the neighborhood boys and I would have Baseball Stars tournaments that featured such luxurious grand prizes as a pack of Big League Chew or being granted the power to borrow a coveted action figure from a friend who was too selfish to lend it out under his own power. Brian chose the Japan Robins. Keith had the Ninja Blacksox. Miller tried his hand with the Ghastly Monsters. I swayed between the Lovely Ladies and World Powers (before annexing the Ninja Blacksox from Mr. Savoia at a later date). But one thing was certain: no one was to use the Dreams in tournament play. Ever. Or red, sugar-filled adolescent blood would be spilled.
This ban occurred after our first play session, when we quickly realized that anyone that used the Hall of Fame squad would have an automatic double digit victory. Miller, who had absolutely no skill at any sports game, squashed Keith’s Blacksox so hard in the first inning that the game’s mercy-rule went into effect and spared the 12 year old from further embarrassment. Then it happened to Brian. Then me. We were so taken my Miller’s effortless victories that we had him switch off to the Ghastly Monster and – - lo and behold! – - he returned to his regular “C’mon, let me catch up!” demeanor that we endlessly mocked.
Occasionally, a scrubby little brother would want to challenge one of us during a break in the action and we’d let the tyke use them. That’s right, the American Dreams were so awesome that they were the house’s handicap team.
The Dreams are deadly because three players have the maximum homerun power that the game allowed (15), and several others lingered not too far behind. Basically, if you’re an opposing pitcher, you’re facing Murder’s Row each inning. You have to deliver a perfect pitch toss after toss after toss; one mistake, one pitch that isn’t precisely placed, will end up on the other side of the fence. You need Rob Dibble-like heat and the ability to paint corners like Greg Maddux to contend with their bats.
Granted, the American Dreams aren’t flawless by any means. They have only average baserunning ability and the team defense is so-so, but when you can end the game in the first inning, who the fuck needs fundamentals?
It’s twenty years later, and despite our increased skills, whenever the boys and I take time out of our busy schedules to fire up Baseball Stars, the American Dreams are still banned. But it’s no longer fear motivating the decision; it’s outright respect for the team, and perhaps even more importantly, a hint of nostalgia clinging a bit to our sunny days of youth.
