It is one of the eternal injustices of the world that greatness on the upper lip so rarely coincides with greatness on the ballfield. A man — and here I expressly exclude such god-spawn as Eddie Clarence Murray — only has so much energy to give. Who among us has not wished to lift a timeless mouthbrow from its prosaic confines? To grant a thing of beauty the immortality toward which it forlornly strives? Why, we ask, must a masterwork like Ross Grimsley’s be stuck straining Ross Grimsley’s soup?
There is a way. Before you lies an Olympus of great mustaches, and the mortal, frail, broken faces from which they arose. Also before you lie some ballplayers of repute, who kept themselves hairless through inexplicable choice or sheer frailty. All you will need to set the universe aright is a pair of scissors, some tape*, and a crippling sense of cosmic responsibility. (Click to very bigly embiggen)