I never could get into comic books as a kid. I tried, but they were always too confusing for me, I think. But there was a book, I was maybe seven at the time, that captivated me in the same way comic books can. I used to walk to the library and check it out like every other month. Honestly, the library should have just given it to me for all the times I walked there and got it. I maybe read the whole thing once but the pictures were damn good. I can still smell that glossy hardcover smell.

What was the book?

This was my comic book. Sports Stars: The Big Hurt. The story of a huge guy who crushed baseballs. A larger than life figure who overcame Georgia, played football, and won the MVP. He had a nickname. He had a perfect smile. He had a cool Godzilla-like magazine cover. He had his own video game (bunt with Durham, bunt with Raines, home run with Thomas worked EVERY time). He even had a sidekick. His baseball cards were in the special locked-up glass case. He swung fucking rebar.

The way baseball pants used to fit on him is very much akin to Superman’s tights, in my eyes. The stance and the menacing eye black are something even greater. All I wanted as a kid was to be as big as Frank. I got the height part. Unfortunately, I got Chris Sale's build.

If you ever wanted to know that #35 played on 35th street, you should’ve asked me as a child. I would’ve told you like fifteen times. And you better believe I had a slightly closed batting stance for no other reason. It’s very possible I would have been a Brewers fan had it not been for Thomas. Growing up in the southeast corner of Wisconsin, The Big Hurt was the only thing keeping me from being really into Jeromy Burnitz.

I once wrote on here how Paul Konerko was the most beloved player of my lifetime (born in 1990). I was told I was wrong and rightfully so. I let the 2005 jubilation and Big Hurt’s post-Sox breakup cloud my vision. Frank was the man, is the man, and always will be the man. Okay, fine: Oso is the man, too, but he’s not The Man until he has a couple MVPs. Actually, let me backtrack, don’t talk to me about Abreu being the man until he shows up on Letterman with a flattop and a khaki-colored suit or yells for Bret Saberhagan to get him his lasagna on an awesome Married with Children episode. And Konerko is a true badass and captained us a trophy, but Frank Thomas was there to free the people from the horrors of ’86, ’87, ’88, ’89, and the badness of New Comiskey. Plus, let’s be real with ourselves, without Frank’s 0.4 WAR in ’05, the Sox probably choke and miss the playoffs. He did it.

This wouldn’t be a Frank Thomas HOF piece without talking about stats and steroids, so I’ll touch on them briefly.

From a motivation standpoint, there are two things that stand out to me from Frank’s career that could lead a guy to dope: Getting screwed out of a Triple Crown possibility in ’94 and being in the same locker room as Albert Belle and the same city as Sammy Sosa after a down season in ‘98. Oh, it’s also very possible his head got bigger so that’s a little suspicious. But still, did he use steroids? Doubt it. His sister died when he was ten and his Mom worked at a mill. He got cut from his high school varsity team at one point, didn’t get drafted out of high school, and wasn’t selected to the U.S. Olympic team even though he hit .385 at Auburn. He was a humbled boy who outworked people. Not to mention, he was probably too sensitive to ever experiment with anything illicit because he knew it would’ve killed him if he got caught. Er, I mean, superheroes don’t use drugs.

Frank once said he didn’t play for the money, he played for stats. Well given how there’s literally hundreds of articles out there detailing his statistical achievements, I’ll just add that it’s kinda unfair to have someone that big, with that swing, and that plate recognition. Also, hitting a ball 519 feet in a home run derby is insane. Giancarlo Stanton murdered a ball this year and it went 510 feet. Frank had the power of Stanton, the bat control of Mike Trout, and the eye of Adam Dunn. How dare anyone mention Frank and Jeff Bagwell in the same sentence, I don’t care when their birthdays occur.

It’s worth noting that my fandom of Frank as a kid was not really about the baseball itself. I have very few memories of him actually playing. What I remember is wanting high-top Reebok cleats, using him as a hidden character in NBA Jam: Tournament Edition (still the coolest thing ever), and walking into any card shop with the comfort that there will be at least three copies of his Topps rookie card in there. So it’s pretty neat I can go on the internet now and re-experience Frank, now trying to figure out how he was able to stay so balanced on his front foot as his back leg soars off the ground. Walt Hriniak was a sick man.

So now what do you do when you find out your superhero has a weird record company, a bogus beer, retweets birthday wishes, and mostly adds nothing as an analyst? You watch his Cooperstown speech, reflect, and wish we never grew up. When Frank had his statue erected at U.S. Cellular, John Mellencamp’s "Hurts So Good" played as he circled the field. That pretty much does it. If he cries during his speech, I don’t stand a chance.