You Can’t Tell The Story of 90s Baseball Without Albert Belle

Belle’s Final At-Bat Was a Statement

October 1, 2000.
Camden Yards. Final game of the season.

Albert Belle steps to the plate.

His hips are shot. He’s in pain. Everyone knows it. He knows it. This might be it.

It is it.

Belle’s final career at-bat. And he turns on the pitch.

Home run. A 340’ bullet down the left field line.

No drama. No farewell tour. Just one last violent swing into the Baltimore sky. Then a slow jog around the bases, a few high-fives, and silence.

No one knew it was the end.
Well, Belle probably did.

And still—he went out the only way he knew how: Destroying a baseball.

That’s why you can’t tell the story of 90s baseball without Albert Belle.

He wasn’t just a slugger. He was the storm middle relievers prayed they wouldn’t have to face. The guy who made Cy Young winners question pitch selection. The player who showed up after the strike—when fans were done, owners were scrambling, and baseball felt like it might never come back—and said, “Watch this.”

One Historic Season Baseball Tried to Forget

In 1995, Albert Belle didn’t just return to the game.

He resurrected it.

50 home runs. 52 doubles.
No one in Major League Baseball history has ever done that—not before, not since.

He didn’t do it on PEDs.
He didn’t do it for applause.
He did it because that’s what Albert Belle did—obliterate baseballs.

And somehow, baseball erased him for it.

I Wasn’t Supposed to Collect Him. So I Did.

I didn’t grow up in Cleveland. I grew up in Connecticut. I wasn’t supposed to care about Belle. My card shops carried Drew Bledsoe and Mo Vaughn. Griffey and Thomas were on the magazine covers.

But every once in a while, the Indians came to Fenway or the Bronx. You’d catch a few seconds of highlights on the 11PM news, or find his name in the box score—2-for-4, HR, 3 RBI.

He wasn’t marketable. He wasn’t polished.

He was dangerous. Explosive. Electric.

And I couldn’t stop watching.

His cards were hard to find in Connecticut—especially that one: 1993 Fleer Ultra Home Run Kings. Black sky. Rainbow arc. Belle mid-swing like he’s trying to tear a hole in the universe. Not valuable. Just honest.

That was the card. That was the feeling.

And now? Now I’ve got the means and eBay exists, so I’ve got the collection I couldn’t get as a kid. And I’ve got a campaign—because the question that keeps coming back is:

Where the hell is Albert Belle’s legacy?

How did we let it vanish?

The media will tell you he was difficult.
Writers will tell you he was hostile.
Baseball will tell you… nothing. Because they don’t tell his story at all.

1994: The Season That Could Have Been

Let’s talk about 1994.

Belle was already rolling when the strike hit. He was on pace for another monster year—and baseball shut down. Fans were done. Disgusted. Checked out.

And Albert Belle gave them a reason to come back.

The very next season, he stepped in and wrecked the league:
50 homers. 52 doubles. 121 RBIs. OPS over 1.000. No PEDs. No corked bat. No asterisk. Strike shortened season. Just over and over: doubles and home runs.

He brought baseball back to life—and they thanked him by turning their backs.

He Didn’t Play the Game. He Beat It.

You want to talk about steroids? Okay—let’s talk.

McGwire? Juiced.
Sosa? Juiced.
Belle? No juice.

But who got the attention? Who got the headlines? The love? The endorsements?

Belle didn’t fit the mold. He didn’t charm reporters. He didn’t kiss the ring.

He hit. And hit. And hit.
And they hated him for it.

Ask the pitchers.
Pedro. Clemens. Randy. Nolan.

Ask them who they’d rather face:
Pujols or Belle?
Sosa or Belle?
Griffey or Belle?

Watch their face. Feel the pause.
They know.

They remember the grand slam against the Orioles in the 1996 ALDS. Belle fouling off pitch after pitch, wearing “Orioles hero” Armando Benitez down, then plastering one to left center like it was personal—because it was always personal with Belle.

They remember the cleanup spot in that Cleveland lineup that made grown men sweat.

Belle became baseball’s first $10 million man in 1997. Eight-year contract. $10M per year. Off to the White Sox. Belle’s deal changed the economics of the sport.

And still—no recognition. No celebration.

Just silence.

Then 2000. One last bomb. And then—just like that—he was gone.

Thirty-three years old. Career over.

You Can’t Erase a Legacy This Loud

Now let’s talk numbers.

If Albert Belle had played 22 seasons—like Hank Aaron—his career pace puts him at:

3,165 hits
699 home runs
2,270 RBIs
.295 AVG / .933 OPS

Let’s compare:

Hank Aaron: 3,771 hits, 755 HR, 2,297 RBI
Babe Ruth: 2,873 hits, 714 HR, 2,214 RBI
Albert Pujols: 3,384 hits, 703 HR, 2,218 RBI
Ty Cobb: 4,189 hits, 117 HR, 1,933 RBI

These aren’t just Hall of Fame numbers.
These are inner-circle Hall of Fame numbers.

Who’s Responsible for His Disappearance?

So—who’s to blame?

Some of us for sure.

The fans who let the memory fade.

The collectors who followed the hype machine.

The media consumers who believed the narrative.

But the real silence?

That belongs to the Baseball Writers’ Association of America.

The Veterans Committee.

The owners who cashed his checks and have said nothing.

Some of the pitchers who faced him—guys who knew exactly what he could do—have served on Hall of Fame committees.

They had a chance to speak up. Most didn’t.

And all the while, Cleveland remembers.

Belle didn’t just play for there. He gave there. Quietly. Intentionally.

He supported youth programs. Donated his time and money. He lived in the city. He showed up. Not for headlines. For impact.

And that should’ve meant something. It still can.

So yeah, I collect Albert Belle. And no, I’m not selling.

This isn’t profit. This is preservation.

This is reminder. This is refusal to let him be forgotten.

Albert Belle: The Original 50/50 Man