After all, who knew Roy Halladay better than his own wife and children, asks

That is, other than Inky columnist Bob Ford, who acknowledges Brandy’s statement but spends the rest of the 800 or so words of this batshit column following his gut in several bad and dumb directions:

Roy Halladay was a gracious man. He wouldn’t want to insult the Toronto Blue Jays. But, in my heart, having been around him, I believe he would want his Hall of Fame plaque to portray that grim, unflinching stare that batters knew so well. And, above the brim that shaded his eyes, I think he would want a “P.”

Ford’s reasoning is based mostly on his own assertion that five playoff starts in Philly were more meaningful to Halladay than the 11 full seasons he spent playing for the Blue Jays.

In support of this assertion, Ford imagines up a scenario where Halladay is allowed to relive a moment from his career, and then positions this wildly uncomfortable hypothetical as the primary criterion that Halladay would’ve used to choose which team to represent in the Hall. It’s all very presumptuous and gross:

Halladay was never more engaged as a player, never more fully alive in a moment, than during the final act of his first playoff start, as he stared in at Brandon Phillips of Cincinnati, already ahead 0-2 in the count, one pitch away from recording just the second no-hitter in postseason history.


Halladay wouldn’t have gotten [into the Hall of Fame] without the 148 games he won for the Blue Jays, but if he were with us today and given the chance to relive one of his 395 career starts, the choice would be easy. Halladay would pick one of the five he started for the Phillies in the postseason. It wouldn’t even need to be one of the three wins. The winning and losing were up to the cards that evening. Just put him on the mound in that situation, with that chance to try.

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