Fraters Libertas

This Week in Gluttony

Frank Pastore’s brief tenure in Minnesota was not the stuff of dreams. Nor was it the stuff of nightmares. Instead, it was the stuff of a short, uneventful nap. The kind where you lay on the couch on a Saturday afternoon to watch golf and are slowly dragged over the edge of unconsciousness by the drowsy voice of Sean McDonough, then drawn back toward semi consciousness by a muffled gallery cheer inspired by a 12-foot Fred Funk putt, then lulled back to sleep by the soft leprechaun intonation of David Feherty, until finally you’re permanently roused by the frenzied barking of your neighbor’s Golden Retriever (who seems to have a major problem with the UPS guy). Then you get up and make a salami sandwich. That’s Frank Pastore’s career in a nutshell.

Perhaps some of you still don’t remember him. Or maybe some of you are confusing him with Juan Agosto, who had a similarly nap-like career in Minnesota (the only difference being when you’re finally awaken, you get up to make a microwave burrito).

In summary, Frank Pastore was a serviceable middle relief pitcher acquired by the Twins (from the Reds), right before the 1986 season. Before getting injured, he had decent, but unremarkable numbers (3-1, 2 saves, 4.01 ERA in 33 appearances), for a team that would finish last in its division. (All together now - yawn.)

For those of us who do remember him, it’s only because he was one of the warm bodies in the bullpen that helped convince management to finally banish Ron Davis, the tyranny that was his 9.08 ERA, and the ghost of Jamie Quirk once and for all. (And for that, he still has my eternal gratitude.) But since the entire Twins season of 1986 will forever languish in the shadows of a World Series championship won the very next year, nobody in Minnesota thinks about Frank Pastore anymore.

In fact, I’m sure I hadn’t thought about him since 1986. That is, until yesterday when I was sitting there minding my own business, reading an article from the Washington Post about people in a Texas restaurant attempting to eat a 4-1/2 pound, 5,200 calorie steak in under an hour, and who comes waddling back into my consciousness? Frank Pastore. A man who not only accomplished this feat, he holds the all-time speed record.

...more than 35,000 people have taken the Big Texan's challenge, but no more than 6,000 have succeeded. Past winners include a 69-year-old grandmother, an 11-year-old boy and Frank Pastore, a pitcher for the Cincinnati Reds in the early '80s, who set a speed record by downing the whole meal, side dishes included, in 9-1/2 minutes.

Shrimp cocktail, baked potato, salad, a dinner roll, and 72 ounces of grilled sirloin. In 9-1/2 minutes. In case you need a visual to better appreciate this feat, check out the Big Texan’s Web site. And if you feel you’re up to the challenge, you can order your own 72 ouncer, shipped right to your front door for a mere 72 dollars.

Say what you will about Frank Pastore’s baseball career, but these are staggering numbers, Hall of Fame worthy statistics. The baseball historians tend to agree. I’m happy to announce I’ve just completed successful negotiations with the fine folks over at the Baseball Almanac and they have agreed to include Frank Pastore’s eating statistics as the lead item on his biographical page.

In my continuing mission to preserve baseball history, my next assignment is to make sure the career of Ron Davis is properly memorialized. To the Baseball Almanac, I hereby propose the following quote from another guy who knew how to enjoy a steak. Calvin Griffith, upon learning Ron Davis won his arbitration hearing in 1983:

I’m so sick about Davis winning I feel like vomiting.

Bon appetit.