If Jeff Kent belongs in the Hall of Fame, I hope there is a quiet corner in Cooperstown where his plaque may be concealed and that he is not one of the Hall of Fame’s Disneyland-like player attractions.

He will not drip with false emotion or come equipped with a Harold Reynolds-told-me-so sound bite, his own feel good biopic, his own home shopping special.

I hope we will not be able to press a button beneath his display and hear his voice, or perhaps in the not-so-distant future, watch a holographic automaton of Kent thanking us for stopping by to and to be sure to visit the gift shop on the way out the door.

That wasn’t his style in the past and it will not be his style in the future.

Throughout the last decade of his career, there have been two characterizations of one of the most prolific offensive second baseman, and the latter has detracted from what should matter. Production is only what mattered to Kent, not disposition.

One version is a media-induced creation of a surly clubhouse character who was the proverbial grumpy guy at the corner locker. He didn’t care to mingle. He was not the locker room socialite. He never came early, never came late, but he always came on time. When the games were over and he was not pleased, he would not hesitate to speak his mind, if he was in the mood to speak.

In the sterile world of major league baseball, inside a cultural parameter where covering one’s own hide is paramount, Kent didn’t care if what he said rubbed the star player or the star reporter the wrong way. He ordered his priorities and did not care who did not agree.

Then there was another Jeff Kent.

This was the one who took ground balls for years to become a solid infielder. This was the one who always took his extra swings. This was the one who turned himself from a 20th round pick into a potential Hall of Fame second baseman. This was the one who did these things in solitude, his preferred companion on a baseball field.

This was the player who was amicable when he believed that he was around company that was not judging him solely on what he perceived to be false status. This was the professional ballplayer who was proud to be what he had set out to become. He didn’t care about celebrity, and for a player of his stature and achievements, this almost automatically made him a self-imposed outcast in his workplace.

And of course he didn’t care how that made some people feel, which rubbed some people the wrong way.

This was a ballplayer who saw baseball as a vocation and not a hobby, as a profession and not as an outlet to enhance his social status inside a locker room. He played baseball to play baseball, not simply because it allowed him the capital to buy dirt bike dealerships. This was a player who played the game like he had an obligation to play it well.

As Kent aged, this chasm widened. He chaffed at older players who he perceived to be frat boys with big contracts. He didn’t care if it was Barry Bonds or young position players or veteran pitchers who dressed across from him in Los Angeles. This is where the two versions of Jeff Kent collide, and this is where his immediate legacy and reputation are found.

Kent deserves the generic throwback title, but not simply because of his game style. He deserves it because he was the wrong player in the wrong era. His idiosyncrasies were scrutinized and became larger than his already voluminous production for his position.

Jeff Kent played in the wrong era to be Jeff Kent. He was too reliable to create news, so speculation about his moods, his temperament, his personality, his motives, his ambitions, and his perspectives all grew beyond the scope of ordinary players. He gave the Dodgers his last 100-RBI season in 2005, no matter if the club overspent for an aging player four years removed from his last 120-RBI season and his 2000 National League Most Valuable Player Award. He gave the Dodgers exactly what they were projected to overpay for in a player signing his last big contract.

And when Kent was himself – using the only stature he ever cared about, that credibility that his production afforded him – to call out teammates, be it Bonds or kids in Los Angeles, his words automatically became more important than his bat.

That is what Kent feared most and what made his final years in Los Angeles more combative than they should have been. He was portrayed as a clubhouse cancer, which made him an easier target as his skills declined. Some of this, undoubtedly, Kent brought upon himself, yet he was also in a no-win situation.

When he spoke, he was wrong. When he was quiet, he was wrong. And when he was a fraction of what he had once been, he was cornered.

If Kent is elected to the Hall of Fame, I hope his plaque is placed in a corner somewhere. He would like it that way. He is deserving of letting his career speak for itself. His career should speak for the kind of player he aspired to be. Kent achieved what he set out to become and he exceeded expectations. A player should not be punished because he is misunderstood or, in the case of Kent, seemed to feel that understanding his personality is completely inconsequential to the body of work.

Five years from now, let those who are more gifted than I at statistical analysis debate his place, but don’t assume Kent will hop off his dirt bike to make his case. His case has been made. A player’s accessibility or his friendly face or his off-the-field habits have nothing to do with his body of work.

As a point of fact, Jeff Kent doesn’t care what I think and I think that’s just fine. If it happens, I’ll tip my cap to the plaque in the corner. And if not, I’ll get the hell off the road before he runs me down.