I wrote this particular episode a few months ago, when Tony Gwynn was merely a PROSPECTIVE Hall-of-Famer. Growing up in San Diego in the late 80s, Tony Gwynn rated on the schoolyard hierarchy of demi-gods somewhere above M.C. Hammer and somewhere below Gallagher (I remember a friend solemnly wishing that Gallagher would come to his house, kick his father’s ass, and then, by right of conquest, claim him as his own son.)
I’m pretty sure Gwynn could have claimed El Cajon as his own personal fiefdom had he so chosen. However, Washington-like, he turned down his rightful kingship and settled down to a quiet life of deep spiritual contemplation. I still have my 1983 Topps Gwynn rookie lying around here somewhere (the one where his butt dominates 73% of the frame), and I think part of me believes that it protects the household from peddlingsmen.
– DvL