Can't Hide the Sizzle (One Sixty-Two: Day 153)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day One Hundred Fifty-Three: Chris Young, Arizona Diamondbacks

The heavens opened up in New York City during the final hours of summer, unleashing a torrent of rain in what had been an extremely dry, hot season in the Northeast. It was the warmest summer on record in both the Big Apple and Philadelphia, as well as in New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia and six other Eastern states. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which provides these numbers, also reports that 2010 was the fourth-warmest summer ever in the contiguous United States.

There were enough hot and dry days this summer to leave our lawns brown, our dogs panting, and our electric bills spiked with air-conditioning voltage. So tonight of all nights, just as summer waves goodbye, this season of sizzle has the nerve to drop a bunch of raindrops on us? Please, spare the hypocrisy.

Don’t pretend to be something you aren’t. Don’t bring out a seasonal disguise as you head for the exits. If you were all about breaking the record for 90-degree days in a summer, then a little thunder and lightning show on September 22nd isn’t going to change our impression of what you were.

We know how things work. Take Chris Young here, the talented centerfielder for Arizona’s Diamondbacks. All season long, Young has been the best player on his team, by far. In this, his breakout year, Young has hit 25 home runs and stolen 27 bases. He’s driven in 85 runs and scored 87 runs. The Diamondbacks have struggled all season long, but it’s been no fault of Young’s.

And yet, few players are having as bad a September as Young is right now. He’s batting just .179 on the month so far, with only 10 hits and one stolen base. For a man who was hitting over .270 for much of the season, these past few weeks have seen his batting average dip below .260.

So if you look only at the end of summer, you might not be impressed with Chris Young. You can see that he’s cooled off considerably, and has brought an autumn chill into his lineup earlier than he needed to bring it. Perhaps Young started chugging apple cider before his September games, and his body clicked into offseason mode as it smelled McIntosh trees and pumpkin patches.

Or maybe he just got tired of the longest, most grueling regular season in American team sports. Whatever the reason for his recent slump, Chris Young did not have a bad season. His poor September numbers are a lot like that storm we felt here in New York tonight. You don’t always get a fitting ending to a season, but the numbers don’t lie. Just ask your weatherman.

The Beauty of the Basics (One Sixty-Two: Day 129)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day One Hundred Twenty-Nine: Barry Enright, Arizona Diamondbacks

She positions her right hand on the white keys, and slowly but surely she plays a scale. Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do. Later on, after her scales, she practices playing “Happy Birthday.” She plays the song over and over, rushing nothing. After about 45 minutes, she stands up from the piano to take a break. Katie is practicing the basics, and for now that’s plenty.

It was an unexpected gift – an upright piano, given to us by neighbors who are moving tomorrow. As we rolled the black piano down our street, up the driveway and into our basement, my 8-year-old was overjoyed. She has been practicing throughout this past week, and has declared herself ready for lessons. I’ve been impressed with her “first-things-first” approach, as she seems content with mastering the basics before aspiring to tackle Beethoven.

There have been very few symphonies played this year at Chase Field in Phoenix, as the Arizona Diamondbacks fell out of contention months ago. However, one of the benefits to the occasional down season is the opportunity it brings to try out your younger players. As the Diamondbacks give their prospects a look, they’ve been handling the ball to a 24-year-old pitcher every five days, one who has shown a penchant for taking care of the basics. Barry Enright has started 11 games at the big-league level, and so far his starts have been solid if not spectacular: He’s pitched 66 innings, given up just 56 hits, and delivered a 2.44 earned-run average and 5-2 won-loss record. Enright has pitched seven or more innings just twice, and he’s struck out more than five batters just once. But in those 11 starts, Enright has never given up more than three runs. He’s kept his team in the game every time he’s stepped on the mound. That’s a first-things-first approach if I ever heard of one.

Barry Enright seems to be showing the Arizona Diamondbacks that he’d like to be up in the big leagues for good. Enright is doing this by staying within himself, not trying to do too much, and focusing on the things he can control – keeping runners off base, working out of jams, and avoiding high pitch counts.

Whether or not Enright can become the next Greg Maddux someday is beside the point – that’s like saying my daughter will play the piano as well as Alicia Keys when she’s grown. It’s too early in Enright’s career to consider just how good he can be. What is clear right now is that he’s doing a superb job of handling the basics. It’s kind of like hearing a little girl play her scales. And seeing in her eyes a realization that this first step is something for which she should feel nothing but pride.

What to Toss, What to Keep (One Sixty-Two: Day 98)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day Ninety-Eight: Justin Upton, Arizona Diamondbacks

A stack of old receipts. A bag of solidified rock salt. A crate of near-empty bathroom-cleaning sprays.

Gone. Tossed. Cleansed.

For many of us, there comes a point during the summer when we have time for cleaning. And I don’t just mean vacuuming and dusting – I mean getting rid of stuff. This past week, I found a few hours with some time on my hands. So I went ahead and parted with some possessions.

As the bags of garbage and recyclables mounted, I felt the house grow lighter and nimbler on its feet. I could walk through areas of the home and garage without feeling claustrophobic, and I could see us starting school in a month with a livable home to return to each day.

Over in Phoenix, the Arizona Diamondbacks are in the midst of some serious summer cleaning. They’ve got some work to do, as a 37-64 record has left them 23 games out of first place. For a team that played in the National League Championship Series just three years ago, this is unacceptable. So the team’s management has decided to go ahead and trade as many veterans as possible for young prospects who can help the team return to prominence.

Arizona started by unloading left fielder Conor Jackson, then fired the team’s manager and general manager. This past week, the team shipped out its ace starter, Dan Haren. Several more players are likely to leave Phoenix within the next 48 hours, all of them in exchange for young prospects. These trades will give Chase Field a new look, albeit one that might seem a bit foreign to the home crowd.

Even though it can be refreshing to throw stuff out, some things don’t get moved around when we clean. They are the staples of our home, the pieces we have no interest in getting rid of: the grandfather clock, the fine china, the family photos on the wall. We might dust them, but they’re going nowhere.

In Phoenix, the prized furniture at Chase Field sits in right field. His name is Justin Upton, he’s 22 years old, and he signed a six-year contract with the team in March. Some teams would give up most of the players on their roster in exchange for one Justin Upton. While he’s been stuck in a bit of a slump this season, Upton has an extraordinary ability to hit for average, to hit for power, to steal bases, and to hit with patience. He has Hall of Fame potential, and the Diamondbacks certainly are hoping to build their franchise around him.

So Upton remains, written into the Arizona lineup in Sharpie marker. As for the rest of the team, manager Kirk Gibson is likely using pencils for their names right now. The trash bags are out, the cleaning is under way, and the Diamondbacks will not look the same come Saturday. That’s not always a bad thing, as long as you don’t end up with an empty room when you’re done. But Justin Upton will ensure that the Diamondbacks’ home is never without some sparkle.

Shot to the Heart (One Sixty-Two: Day 52)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day Fifty-Two: Mark Reynolds, Arizona Diamondbacks

I got one, and didn’t even see it coming. And my, did it ever make my day.

It started with a line drive over the wall. Katie and Chelsea were outside, and I asked if they wanted to hit some balls. “Sure,” Katie said. I took out a half-dozen Wiffle balls and a bat, and Katie stood at the plate. The 8-year-old knocked a few pitches the opposite way, and realized that she could see the ball much better when she kept her back foot in place.

Chelsea followed next, and when she faced the right way, the 5-year-old took some decent swings as well. She even hit one all the way back to her dad. But after a couple of minutes, Chelsea had hit enough.

Now it was my turn. Katie grabbed a few balls and threw me some pitches. I saw one down in my wheelhouse, and just couldn’t help myself – off the little plastic ball went, gliding over the fence like a Mark Reynolds home run out in Arizona. (Last night, the mighty Diamondbacks slugger launched his 15th of the year.) As we watched the ball fly over the wooden fence, Katie and I smiled. Time for a walk around the block.

We took the dog with us and walked together to retrieve the ball from our neighbor’s yard. On the way, we talked about the birthday party Katie had attended earlier in the day. We spoke with a closeness that seemed forged in part by our batting practice in the yard. We had only played ball for a few minutes, and our walk was just as short. But Daddy had pulled himself away from the computer, the grading and the household chores for a while and played some ball with his girls.

So as we turned the corner on our way back home, Katie looked over her shoulder at me. “I love you,” she said.

Bam – a shot to the heart, stronger and more majestic than any home run I’ve ever seen. I told her I loved her, too. We walked together, in the fading sunlight. We were finished playing ball for the night, and it was time for dessert. As for me, I’d received something sweeter than anything we could eat. I got an “I love you.” And I kept it.

It's All Relative (One Sixty-Two: Day 13)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day Thirteen: Edwin Jackson, Arizona Diamondbacks

It was a gorgeous day in the mid-Atlantic today, the kind that would have found my friend Bill Reel walking through his beloved Clove Lakes Park on Staten Island. (For a tribute to Bill, see the entry above.) Days like this remind us why so many couples schedule May weddings, and why colleges hold their graduations outdoors. With blue above us and green all around us, we send our kids scampering across baseball diamonds and playgrounds, and we take a deep, satisfying breath.

For a baseball player who has endured the twists and turns of April weather, a 75-degree May afternoon can put an extra hop in the step. Finally, the cold is gone, and the player can look forward to more days like this. But what, I wonder, about the baseball player who suits up for games in Phoenix, Arizona?

What kind of hop will Edwin Jackson have in his step when he steps on the mound tomorrow at Chase Field, with a high of 95 degrees forecast for Phoenix? How do you handle the spring when your May equals the depth of summer for most other areas in the country? Does Edwin dream of azaleas when he’s passing those cacti on the way to work? Does he long for a day when he can pitch at home with a nice, three-quarter-length shirt beneath his uniform top?

Or does he do what so many of us must – adjust, deal with it, and enjoy what you’ve got? After all, when I was grappling with the snow and rain this winter, Edwin’s place of work was, well, kind of like my May. All relative.

Rebirth, Renewal, Reset

Katie took the lead, and we dutifully marched behind her on the red trail. She held the map out in front of her and looked closely for red squares painted to the trees of the Watchung Reservation. My mom carried the water, my dad held the puppy’s leash, and I balanced the 5-year-old on my shoulders.

It was just a little half-mile trail through the woods, and there was some mud to maneuver around. But we were ready and willing to go wherever Katie led us. Our reason was simple: There’s this orb, known to many as “the sun,” and it had finally returned from hibernation to shine gloriously on us in the clear blue sky. On top of that, the thermometer told us it was 70 degrees. Indeed, all was good with the world.

Spring is a time for starting over – or, as our president might say, hitting the “reset button.” But we’re not talking here about resetting a domestic agenda, or a relationship with Russia. Spring is about hitting “reset” on life. Just a few days ago, another torrent had turned our yard into a small pond. Many of us were cursing the alleged spring that was supposed to have arrived. The heavy snows of February had turned into the furious rains of March, and I dared to wonder what April might have in store.

We’re just a couple of days in, but the month known for its showers has started off quite auspiciously. And when spring arrives in all its glory, with the tulips and the buds on the trees and the robins flying from here to there, everything changes. These are the days when you just forget all about the shoveling and the ice scrapers and the sump pumps. You can’t even bring yourself to think about the difficult weather days you’ve had.

You just want to go for a walk, and follow your kid along the red trail. No need to reflect on what has been. Spring is all about looking forward, with rose-colored optimism all the way. Might February let us down again next year? Absolutely possible. Will March get all angry on us again? Wouldn’t surprise me.

But right now, as the birds chirp and – Katie, look up from your map! – a half-dozen deer trot gracefully in front of us, our thoughts turn toward rebirth, possibilities, and hope.

Thirty teams, all of them tied for first place. That’s the way April opens for baseball teams. Some 750 players, all of them equally capable of making the All-Star game right now. Last year’s triumphs and struggles are chronicled on newsprint that’s already been recycled. It’s a new day.

In Phoenix, the Arizona Diamondbacks have a young centerfielder named Chris Young. At age 26, Young is beginning his fourth season in 2010, and it’s also the fourth year in which baseball experts have marveled over his talents. The only problem is, in each of his first three seasons Young has struggled mightily as a hitter. He’ll hit a towering home run one day, then strike out three times the next. Will Young ever find a way to put his power and speed together and dominate the game like so many believe he can?

It’s hard to say. But one thing is clear on this pristine April day – Chris Young, as well as the rest of us, have hit that reset button. We’re spring cleaning, and that includes bad memories as well. Anything’s possible. Just take us along the trail, Katie, and let the flowers bloom.

Rooting for the Wrong Ending

It’s OK to root for my school, I’m telling myself. It’s not un-American.

Seven and a half years ago, I was rooting passionately for the Yankees to defeat the Arizona Diamondbacks in the World Series. I’d have done that anyway, but the events of September 11th placed the World Series storyline in a whole different light. The Bombers weren’t just playing for themselves, it seemed – they were playing for an entire city, one in need of all the inspiration it could get.

When Luis Gonzalez’ bloop single won the Series for Arizona in the last inning of the deciding game, it seemed as though someone had sabotaged the script and ended everything all wrong. Who really needed to see people hootin’ and hollerin’ in Phoenix at that time? Why was New York facing a sports-related heartbreak after all it had endured that fall? It was like leaving Dorothy in Oz with no good witch to save her, just Toto and a bunch of Munchkins.

Of course, the beauty of sports is that there is no set script (1919 World Series notwithstanding) and the thrill of the unexpected brings its share of joys and sorrows to the die-hard fan. We can write all we want about what a certain victory would mean to a town, a city, or a region, yet the facts remain that there’s a game to be played and symbolism doesn’t suit up to play; he just watches in press row.

So that takes us to tonight, in Detroit, when the North Carolina Tar Heels take on the Michigan State Spartans for the NCAA Division I men’s basketball championship. It is true, there has been incredible suffering among auto workers in Michigan and among those residents of Detroit itself. Only the heartless would lack sympathy for the thousands of unemployed in this area, or for the auto workers who are about to sacrifice portions of their precious pensions just to keep their jobs, or for the residents of Detroit who walk past empty storefronts and long for a new day. No matter how we feel toward the auto companies themselves, it has been a long, hard road for the people of Detroit, and they could use a pick-me-up as much as anyone this side of New Orleans.

It is most serendipitous that Detroit was able to host the Final Four this year, at a time when its economy could use a real jolt. Even more exciting for Michigan, though, is the fact that the Spartans are playing in the title game. As they suit up tonight, Tom Izzo’s players will try to win for themselves, for their school and for their region.

It sounds like a great, great story. The only problem here is that I went to the other school, the one that Michigan State is playing. I’d really like to see North Carolina win. And I have nothing against Detroit, auto workers or anyone in the Midwest. I just really like Carolina basketball. I feel somehow ashamed of that today, as I know the preferred plot favors the local guys winning one for Motown.

So if indeed the championship trophy is bathed in Carolina Blue tonight, I might just do one thing: I might forgive Luis Gonzalez. He didn’t mean to bruise my heart when he touched up Mariano Rivera with that well-placed single in November of ‘01. Neither did the Arizona fans. It’s just a game, and you don’t get to pick the ending. You just root for your guys, then get back to the literary devices of your own life.