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-One: Jason Heyward, Atlanta Braves (via Bobby Cox – and the Whale)
“Hast seen the White Whale?”
It’s either appropriate or insane that during the same summer in which I undertook 162 blog entries in 162 days, I also decided to read Moby-Dick. What, an English teacher who had never read Herman Melville’s Great American Novel? Indeed, guilty as charged.
But no longer. While I still have a week and a half left of the blog series, I did finish Moby-Dick last night – all 654 dense pages of her. It’s a fascinating book, from its detailed description of whales, whaling and nautical life, to its thrilling account of Captain Ahab’s pursuit of the mighty white whale.
In the 159 years since the novel’s publication, countless scholars have analyzed Moby-Dick to explore its structure and meaning. Most notably, readers have wondered just what Ahab and the whale symbolize. Do they represent greed? Good and evil? Race? Religion? Nature and humanity? Fate? Life itself? Or something else entirely?
These varied interpretations serve only to make this epic novel that much more interesting. I’ve spent the past two months reading the book, and now that I’m finished I can say that I know exactly what Ahab’s quest was meant to symbolize.
It was all about Bobby Cox.
Ahab was a whaling man for 40 years. Cox, the legendary Atlanta Braves manager, is in his 40th year as either a manager, coach or general manager. His next win will be the 2,500th of his career. Only three other major-league managers have won more. Cox and Joe Torre share the record for most playoff appearances by a manager, with an astounding 15.
There is no question that when Bobby Cox retires at the end of this season, as he has announced he will do, he will quickly find himself inducted into the Hall of Fame. But there’s another piece to this man’s managerial record, and this is the part where we find Ahab and the whale. Of those managers who have made the playoffs eight or more times, all have won multiple championships – except Bobby Cox. A manager like the Yankees’ Joe Girardi, now in just his fourth season as a skipper, has won as many titles as the 69-year-old Cox, who has 29 seasons as a manager under his belt.
It has been all of 15 years since Bobby Cox’s Atlanta Braves won their sole championship under his reign. That’s the equivalent of five 19th-century whaling voyages. You age an awful lot in 15 years, and your thirst for another sight of the white whale only grows fiercer. It’s no wonder that Bobby Cox has been ejected from 158 games as manager – far more than any other skipper in history. You blow a lot of fuses when you push onward with such passion in your quest for another baseball title.
So as young sailors such as right fielder Jason Heyward man the mast-head and sharpen their harpoons, Cox paces the deck and sets sail toward the equator. His Braves are currently 2½ games ahead in the National League Wild Card race. With just two weeks to go, Cox can taste that record 16th postseason appearance. If and when he gets there, the legendary skipper will have one last chance to claim that second title.
It’s been a long, long journey since Bobby Cox first captained a ship. He’s about ready to quit and go home, something Captain Ahab was never willing to do. But before he gets back to his own Nantucket, Cox is about to get one last shot at his ultimate goal. All signs indicate that he’s ready.
“Hast seen the White Whale?” you ask. Indeed, Bobby – there she blows! Man the deck, and lower the boats. You’ve got one more pass at the mighty beast.
Showing posts with label Atlanta Braves. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Atlanta Braves. Show all posts
Monday, September 20, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Turning the Corner (One Sixty-Two: Day 141)
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 Forty-One: Martin Prado, Atlanta Braves
My mind knows I’m off from work today for Rosh Hashanah, and that it’s OK to sleep later. But my body, which has readjusted to the school-year schedule, was ready to go at six.
September.
A pristine 70-degree day is concluded with a pink sunset, then followed by a cool breeze. We sit and savor the wind’s whisper while talking about our plans for the days to come. As dusk turns to darkness, we feel the buzz of mosquitoes on the prowl.
September.
The morning newspaper that awaits us on our driveway has a few acorns atop it. We open to the sports section and read about last night’s U.S. Open tennis matches and this weekend’s college and pro football games. There’s not much time to dawdle over the paper, though, as there is much work to be done.
September.
We have turned that corner, watching the hand of summer slip out of our grasp and feeling the crunch of fall beneath our feet. It’s a time for school years to click into gear, for mercury to drop on thermometers, and for calendars to congest with things to do. In sports, it’s a thrilling time in which football begins, America’s premier tennis tournament concludes, and the baseball pennant race hits its homestretch.
Football in September is all about promise, while tennis in September is a fleeting thrill. But baseball in September is all about turning points and falling action, which is the prime rib of any plot. After five months and 140 games, teams are fighting for their lives, and seasons hang in the balance every night. In the National League East, for instance, it’s entirely possible that only one team will make the playoffs. That means every night is critical for the Philadelphia Phillies and Atlanta Braves, who are currently separated by only one game.
Some of the players on these two teams, such as Jimmy Rollins of the Phillies and Billy Wagner of the Braves, are accomplished veterans who know what it takes to fight through the grind of September. Others, however, are new to this playoff hunting season. So that raises the question of how they will handle the pressure. Take Martin Prado, for instance. The 26-year-old Braves infielder is having a breakout season in this, his second year as a full-time player. He’s hitting .314 with 15 home runs, 63 runs batted in and 93 runs scored. But mid-September is different from any other time in this long season. Prado is surely feeling the fatigue, yet the games mean even more right now. Can he maintain his focus, composure and nerves, all the while lifting his game to a higher level? Will he relish the opportunity to play for a pennant, leading his team out of September’s breeze and into October’s chill?
It’s a time for changes: pencils, briefcases, sweatshirts, harvests. And, best of all, pennant races. Kick aside the acorns, and swat those mosquitoes out of the way. There’s a game to watch, and it’s gonna be a good one.
Day One Hundred Forty-One: Martin Prado, Atlanta Braves
My mind knows I’m off from work today for Rosh Hashanah, and that it’s OK to sleep later. But my body, which has readjusted to the school-year schedule, was ready to go at six.
September.
A pristine 70-degree day is concluded with a pink sunset, then followed by a cool breeze. We sit and savor the wind’s whisper while talking about our plans for the days to come. As dusk turns to darkness, we feel the buzz of mosquitoes on the prowl.
September.
The morning newspaper that awaits us on our driveway has a few acorns atop it. We open to the sports section and read about last night’s U.S. Open tennis matches and this weekend’s college and pro football games. There’s not much time to dawdle over the paper, though, as there is much work to be done.
September.
We have turned that corner, watching the hand of summer slip out of our grasp and feeling the crunch of fall beneath our feet. It’s a time for school years to click into gear, for mercury to drop on thermometers, and for calendars to congest with things to do. In sports, it’s a thrilling time in which football begins, America’s premier tennis tournament concludes, and the baseball pennant race hits its homestretch.
Football in September is all about promise, while tennis in September is a fleeting thrill. But baseball in September is all about turning points and falling action, which is the prime rib of any plot. After five months and 140 games, teams are fighting for their lives, and seasons hang in the balance every night. In the National League East, for instance, it’s entirely possible that only one team will make the playoffs. That means every night is critical for the Philadelphia Phillies and Atlanta Braves, who are currently separated by only one game.
Some of the players on these two teams, such as Jimmy Rollins of the Phillies and Billy Wagner of the Braves, are accomplished veterans who know what it takes to fight through the grind of September. Others, however, are new to this playoff hunting season. So that raises the question of how they will handle the pressure. Take Martin Prado, for instance. The 26-year-old Braves infielder is having a breakout season in this, his second year as a full-time player. He’s hitting .314 with 15 home runs, 63 runs batted in and 93 runs scored. But mid-September is different from any other time in this long season. Prado is surely feeling the fatigue, yet the games mean even more right now. Can he maintain his focus, composure and nerves, all the while lifting his game to a higher level? Will he relish the opportunity to play for a pennant, leading his team out of September’s breeze and into October’s chill?
It’s a time for changes: pencils, briefcases, sweatshirts, harvests. And, best of all, pennant races. Kick aside the acorns, and swat those mosquitoes out of the way. There’s a game to watch, and it’s gonna be a good one.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
A Rainbow in the Parking Lot (One Sixty-Two: Day 124)
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-Four: Casey Coleman, Chicago Cubs
I don’t often stop to take in the scenery at a strip mall. But one night last week, I found myself doing just that.
It was after dinner, and my older daughter and I had driven over to the Watchung (N.J.) Square Mall to buy a couple of things at the bookstore. As we stepped out of my car, Katie and I glanced up and stopped in our tracks. We saw a complete rainbow, starting on the northeast horizon and soaring up into the sky before diving down and stretching to the southwest. We pointed at it, smiled to each other, then leaned back against the car and marveled at this giant gift of nature.
I showed the rainbow to a few other bookstore customers, and they stopped in the parking lot as well. As we counted the colors that stood out before the blue backdrop, I put my arm around Katie and allowed myself to slow down, if only for a few minutes. I didn’t notice any shopping carts, or honking cars, or receipts and cigarette butts on asphalt. Just this spectrum of light, far above the Borders, Stop & Shop and Home Depot signs.
Sometimes, things are not as ugly as they seem. On Sunday, the Chicago Cubs fell to 23 games below .500, and their legendary manager retired after the game. Lou Piniella, who has been either a player, manager, front-office executive or TV commentator in this game for five decades, took off his No. 41 uniform and went home to care for his ailing mother. The Cubs were given an interim manager to help guide them through the rest of this season, a year that will extend their string of years without a championship to 102.
Sunday’s final game under Piniella did not bring Sweet Lou his 1,836th win; instead, the Atlanta Braves crushed the Cubs by a score of 16-5. “This’ll be the last time I put on a uniform,” Piniella said through tears afterward. “It’s been very special to me.”
As the Cubs began their post-Piniella era Monday in Washington, there were surely a lot of North Side faithful wondering what else lay in store for them. Would there be a few season-ending injuries on tap for this week? Or perhaps a 20-run loss?
But as Monday night’s game began, a 23-year-old youngster made his second major-league start for Chicago, and he held the Nationals to just three hits while pitching into the seventh inning. Casey Coleman is not the hottest young prospect in Chicago’s farm system, but on Monday he was plenty good enough. And his team supported Coleman with nine runs, including one driven in by Coleman himself.
The Cubs’ 2010 season has been about as pretty as a strip mall. But yesterday, a kid from Florida – the same state to which Lou Piniella returned to begin his retirement – stepped on the mound and drew the Cubs a rainbow. It lasted for a couple of hours, and then it was gone. But while it lasted, Coleman’s piece of beauty gave Chicago fans something to watch, and point at, and chat about with the neighbors. He gave them something they don’t see every day.
And, dare I say, he gave them a reason to hope.
Day One Hundred Twenty-Four: Casey Coleman, Chicago Cubs
I don’t often stop to take in the scenery at a strip mall. But one night last week, I found myself doing just that.
It was after dinner, and my older daughter and I had driven over to the Watchung (N.J.) Square Mall to buy a couple of things at the bookstore. As we stepped out of my car, Katie and I glanced up and stopped in our tracks. We saw a complete rainbow, starting on the northeast horizon and soaring up into the sky before diving down and stretching to the southwest. We pointed at it, smiled to each other, then leaned back against the car and marveled at this giant gift of nature.
I showed the rainbow to a few other bookstore customers, and they stopped in the parking lot as well. As we counted the colors that stood out before the blue backdrop, I put my arm around Katie and allowed myself to slow down, if only for a few minutes. I didn’t notice any shopping carts, or honking cars, or receipts and cigarette butts on asphalt. Just this spectrum of light, far above the Borders, Stop & Shop and Home Depot signs.
Sometimes, things are not as ugly as they seem. On Sunday, the Chicago Cubs fell to 23 games below .500, and their legendary manager retired after the game. Lou Piniella, who has been either a player, manager, front-office executive or TV commentator in this game for five decades, took off his No. 41 uniform and went home to care for his ailing mother. The Cubs were given an interim manager to help guide them through the rest of this season, a year that will extend their string of years without a championship to 102.
Sunday’s final game under Piniella did not bring Sweet Lou his 1,836th win; instead, the Atlanta Braves crushed the Cubs by a score of 16-5. “This’ll be the last time I put on a uniform,” Piniella said through tears afterward. “It’s been very special to me.”
As the Cubs began their post-Piniella era Monday in Washington, there were surely a lot of North Side faithful wondering what else lay in store for them. Would there be a few season-ending injuries on tap for this week? Or perhaps a 20-run loss?
But as Monday night’s game began, a 23-year-old youngster made his second major-league start for Chicago, and he held the Nationals to just three hits while pitching into the seventh inning. Casey Coleman is not the hottest young prospect in Chicago’s farm system, but on Monday he was plenty good enough. And his team supported Coleman with nine runs, including one driven in by Coleman himself.
The Cubs’ 2010 season has been about as pretty as a strip mall. But yesterday, a kid from Florida – the same state to which Lou Piniella returned to begin his retirement – stepped on the mound and drew the Cubs a rainbow. It lasted for a couple of hours, and then it was gone. But while it lasted, Coleman’s piece of beauty gave Chicago fans something to watch, and point at, and chat about with the neighbors. He gave them something they don’t see every day.
And, dare I say, he gave them a reason to hope.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
For What It's Werth (One Sixty-Two: Day 119)
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 Nineteen: Jayson Werth, Philadelphia Phillies
The legendary pitcher Satchel Paige once said, “Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.” Many of us struggle at times with the impulse to retrace our steps and reflect on choices we’ve made in life. Was it smart to have taken this job over that one? Did we pick the right house, neighborhood or state in which to live? Have we made the best choices in terms of raising our kids?
We know that looking back and thinking through our choices often leads us to more stress than we already have. Looking ahead, on the other hand, often feels much more healthy and exciting. We’ve only got this one life, so why spend most of it second-guessing ourselves?
Plus, the one thing about major life decisions is that you can’t keep score of your personal successes solely by analyzing the things you choose to do. Doing this fails to acknowledge the other kinds of decisions: the things we choose not to do. Sometimes, the things we opted not to do end up being far more important to our life’s journey than the things we did decide to do. There’s that job lead we had that we didn’t pursue – it ended up being a terrible job, after all, but we don’t know that because we didn’t even bother going for it. There’s that blind date we canceled way back when – it ends up she was just the kind of girl we might have fallen for, yet for all the wrong reasons. And there’s that house we decided not to look at when we were out with the realtor – we would have loved its historic charm, but it ended up being a money trap. We filter our decision-making faculties all the time, and sometimes that filter works really well.
Back in July, the Philadelphia Phillies were struggling mightily. As the July 31st trade deadline approached, they toyed with the idea of selling one of their top players rather than trading for veteran contributors. Outfielder Jayson Werth, who will be a free agent this winter, was dangled before teams. Salivation ensued: Werth, who was struggling at the time, has the ability to hit a grand slam, make a great catch and steal home in the same game. But in the end, the Phillies decided not to sell. Instead, they bought, trading some key minor-league prospects to the Houston Astros for starting pitcher Roy Oswalt.
In their last 25 games, the Phillies are 20-5. Since the All-Star break, Jayson Werth is hitting over .350. He is crushing doubles, scoring runs, and taking all the walks he’s given. Werth has anchored the Phillies’ lineup amid injuries to superstar teammates Chase Utley and Ryan Howard. As the Phillies inch ever closer to the Atlanta Braves in the National League East, Werth is leading the charge.
So in July of 2010, the Phillies decided to acquire Roy Oswalt. His numbers will speak for themselves, and plenty of fans will use them to second-guess the decision that Philadelphia made. The Phillies’ organization will choose instead to move forward without re-visiting their choice to pick up this pitcher. But in the end, the most important thing that happened in Philadelphia last month was the thing that didn’t happen. The decision not to trade Jayson Werth has made the Phillies a much better team as the 2010 stretch run begins.
They decided not to hold a summer yard sale, and it turned out that there was a valuable gem inside that pile of stuff to sell. He’s out in right field now, and he’s not looking back.
Day One Hundred Nineteen: Jayson Werth, Philadelphia Phillies
The legendary pitcher Satchel Paige once said, “Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.” Many of us struggle at times with the impulse to retrace our steps and reflect on choices we’ve made in life. Was it smart to have taken this job over that one? Did we pick the right house, neighborhood or state in which to live? Have we made the best choices in terms of raising our kids?
We know that looking back and thinking through our choices often leads us to more stress than we already have. Looking ahead, on the other hand, often feels much more healthy and exciting. We’ve only got this one life, so why spend most of it second-guessing ourselves?
Plus, the one thing about major life decisions is that you can’t keep score of your personal successes solely by analyzing the things you choose to do. Doing this fails to acknowledge the other kinds of decisions: the things we choose not to do. Sometimes, the things we opted not to do end up being far more important to our life’s journey than the things we did decide to do. There’s that job lead we had that we didn’t pursue – it ended up being a terrible job, after all, but we don’t know that because we didn’t even bother going for it. There’s that blind date we canceled way back when – it ends up she was just the kind of girl we might have fallen for, yet for all the wrong reasons. And there’s that house we decided not to look at when we were out with the realtor – we would have loved its historic charm, but it ended up being a money trap. We filter our decision-making faculties all the time, and sometimes that filter works really well.
Back in July, the Philadelphia Phillies were struggling mightily. As the July 31st trade deadline approached, they toyed with the idea of selling one of their top players rather than trading for veteran contributors. Outfielder Jayson Werth, who will be a free agent this winter, was dangled before teams. Salivation ensued: Werth, who was struggling at the time, has the ability to hit a grand slam, make a great catch and steal home in the same game. But in the end, the Phillies decided not to sell. Instead, they bought, trading some key minor-league prospects to the Houston Astros for starting pitcher Roy Oswalt.
In their last 25 games, the Phillies are 20-5. Since the All-Star break, Jayson Werth is hitting over .350. He is crushing doubles, scoring runs, and taking all the walks he’s given. Werth has anchored the Phillies’ lineup amid injuries to superstar teammates Chase Utley and Ryan Howard. As the Phillies inch ever closer to the Atlanta Braves in the National League East, Werth is leading the charge.
So in July of 2010, the Phillies decided to acquire Roy Oswalt. His numbers will speak for themselves, and plenty of fans will use them to second-guess the decision that Philadelphia made. The Phillies’ organization will choose instead to move forward without re-visiting their choice to pick up this pitcher. But in the end, the most important thing that happened in Philadelphia last month was the thing that didn’t happen. The decision not to trade Jayson Werth has made the Phillies a much better team as the 2010 stretch run begins.
They decided not to hold a summer yard sale, and it turned out that there was a valuable gem inside that pile of stuff to sell. He’s out in right field now, and he’s not looking back.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Fundamentally Sound (One Sixty-Two: Day 88)
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 Eighty-Eight: Tim Hudson, Atlanta Braves
I’ve written in previous blogs about my grandfather, Warren Mueller, and the profound impact he had on me and my brother. Warren was a good father, husband, son and brother, and an even better grandfather. He also was a terrific baseball player years ago, and as he grew older he shared his passion for the game with his daughter and grandkids. We used that mutual passion for baseball as a vehicle through which we could connect about much larger life issues.
Today, Warren would have been 92. He lived for 88 years, passing away in November 2006 after a battle with melanoma. During his 20s, Warren pitched in the Boston Braves’ minor-league system before moving over to the semi-pro ranks. He pitched against Joe DiMaggio and Jimmie Foxx, and was known as one of the best pitchers ever to come out of Staten Island, N.Y. In the mid-1940s, while pitching for two different semi-pro teams each week, Warren threw out his left arm and was forced to quit pitching. He still played first base, though, and soon enough had his own semi-pro club after purchasing a White Rock soda business.
While watching a game with my grandfather, I always had the privilege of viewing the matchup through the eyes of a ballplayer. He watched the pitcher’s windup, arm angle and follow-through, then looked to see how close each pitch came to the catcher’s target. Warren’s eyes honed in on heads-up base-running, proper execution of bunts, and defensive positioning. We'd talk about this as he grabbed us a couple of sodas out of the "icebox," as he called his fridge.
In essence, Warren Mueller believed that you won ballgames by executing the fundamentals. And, aside from the home-run-fueled years of the steroid era, he was right. This season, as offensive numbers have fully retreated to their pre-steroid levels, the game is looking more and more like the one my grandfather played.
I think he would enjoy watching Tim Hudson of the Braves pitch in 2010. Hudson, like Warren Mueller decades before him, pitches for the Braves organization. And Hudson, like my grandfather, experienced a serious injury to his throwing arm. The last 65 years have seen tremendous medical advancements, though, so Hudson is back on the mound after major reconstructive elbow surgery. What’s more, he’s pitching better than he has in seven years. Throughout his career, Hudson has been a gutsy pitcher who doesn’t take his team out of ballgames: He’s won nearly twice as many games as he’s lost, he strikes out more than twice as many hitters as he walks, and he fields his position quite well. At 35, Hudson was again an All-Star this season.
In short, he’s the kind of player an old-timer loves to watch – the kind of pitcher who knows how to grab the ball and find a way to win. So in honor of my grandfather, I salute Tim Hudson today. You’ve got to have players out there who work extra hard on the fundamentals, and who never give in to the opponent. Without them, it’s not really a game worth watching. At least that’s what my grandfather told my brother and me. We listened to him closely, and still hear his commentary today, from the ballfield all the way to the icebox.
Day Eighty-Eight: Tim Hudson, Atlanta Braves
I’ve written in previous blogs about my grandfather, Warren Mueller, and the profound impact he had on me and my brother. Warren was a good father, husband, son and brother, and an even better grandfather. He also was a terrific baseball player years ago, and as he grew older he shared his passion for the game with his daughter and grandkids. We used that mutual passion for baseball as a vehicle through which we could connect about much larger life issues.
Today, Warren would have been 92. He lived for 88 years, passing away in November 2006 after a battle with melanoma. During his 20s, Warren pitched in the Boston Braves’ minor-league system before moving over to the semi-pro ranks. He pitched against Joe DiMaggio and Jimmie Foxx, and was known as one of the best pitchers ever to come out of Staten Island, N.Y. In the mid-1940s, while pitching for two different semi-pro teams each week, Warren threw out his left arm and was forced to quit pitching. He still played first base, though, and soon enough had his own semi-pro club after purchasing a White Rock soda business.
While watching a game with my grandfather, I always had the privilege of viewing the matchup through the eyes of a ballplayer. He watched the pitcher’s windup, arm angle and follow-through, then looked to see how close each pitch came to the catcher’s target. Warren’s eyes honed in on heads-up base-running, proper execution of bunts, and defensive positioning. We'd talk about this as he grabbed us a couple of sodas out of the "icebox," as he called his fridge.
In essence, Warren Mueller believed that you won ballgames by executing the fundamentals. And, aside from the home-run-fueled years of the steroid era, he was right. This season, as offensive numbers have fully retreated to their pre-steroid levels, the game is looking more and more like the one my grandfather played.
I think he would enjoy watching Tim Hudson of the Braves pitch in 2010. Hudson, like Warren Mueller decades before him, pitches for the Braves organization. And Hudson, like my grandfather, experienced a serious injury to his throwing arm. The last 65 years have seen tremendous medical advancements, though, so Hudson is back on the mound after major reconstructive elbow surgery. What’s more, he’s pitching better than he has in seven years. Throughout his career, Hudson has been a gutsy pitcher who doesn’t take his team out of ballgames: He’s won nearly twice as many games as he’s lost, he strikes out more than twice as many hitters as he walks, and he fields his position quite well. At 35, Hudson was again an All-Star this season.
In short, he’s the kind of player an old-timer loves to watch – the kind of pitcher who knows how to grab the ball and find a way to win. So in honor of my grandfather, I salute Tim Hudson today. You’ve got to have players out there who work extra hard on the fundamentals, and who never give in to the opponent. Without them, it’s not really a game worth watching. At least that’s what my grandfather told my brother and me. We listened to him closely, and still hear his commentary today, from the ballfield all the way to the icebox.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
All-Stars Among Us (One Sixty-Two: Day 83)
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 Eighty-Three: Brian McCann, Atlanta Braves
One of the first great lessons my parents taught me grew out of their friendship with George and Maurice. These two men, both my parents’ age, were over our house all the time – for birthdays, holidays, and regular days – and it was clear that they were extremely close with my parents. George, after all, was my godfather, while Maurice was my brother’s godfather. In addition to being two of the most grounded individuals I know, George and Maurice also are two of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met. My parents’ friendship with them stretched back to their days at Curtis High School on Staten Island, and I could see, even as a kid, that their bonds would stretch on into forever.
So the lesson I learned here was that my own interpretation of family need not be restricted to blood ties. If your relationship with a friend was so close that they knew what you were thinking before you said a word, that person was not merely a friend. He was your brother, your cousin, your uncle. Your family. And so it has been for my brother and me, as we’ve grown up with Uncle George, Uncle Reese (until he forced us, in our 20s, to call him Maurice) and numerous other uncles, aunts and cousins whom you will not find on our family tree.
In our own adulthood, my brother and I have adhered to this ideal, and it can be seen quite wonderfully in the ways in which my daughters now call some of our close friends “Uncle” and “Aunt.” The girls don’t question it, as they seem to understand the concept completely. This was evident again this past weekend, when they spent time with their Uncle Neil and Aunt Siobhan.
Neil was my brother’s best friend in high school, and has remained his closest friend throughout Eric’s life. As I came to understand what a remarkably compassionate and considerate individual Neil was, I was able to develop a very strong friendship with him as well. He is my younger daughter’s godfather, and he chose to marry an equally loving woman who, like him, finds limitless ways to reach out to her “family” every day. As Neil and Siobhan have grown together, they’ve become the rock around which their own families revolve. They are constantly there for their parents, siblings, nieces, nephews and cousins. Their umbrella of family extends far and wide, encompassing friends from high school, college, law school and work. They are the ones who get the calls from loved ones in need of help, or a listening ear, or advice. This can be a considerable weight to carry, especially now that they have their own child. But I don’t think Neil and Siobhan would have it any other way. It’s simply who they are.
I thought of these two last night, while watching baseball’s All-Star Game. The folks at Angels Stadium, along with People magazine, had a neat idea to welcome 30 everyday heroes to the pregame festivities. These individuals were dubbed the “All-Stars Among Us,” as they have contributed mightily to their communities through various service projects. Neil and Siobhan have spent many hours coordinating and working at the Mercy Center for women and families in the South Bronx. They know what it’s like to give of yourself freely for the greater good.
Then, as the game played itself out, I saw a man step out of the shadows and carry his National League team to victory when the moment called for it. Brian McCann of the Braves wasn’t an All-Star starter, but when he stepped to the plate with the bases loaded in the seventh inning, he had a responsibility to get the job done. And so McCann did it, with a bases-clearing, game-winning double off of Chicago White Sox reliever Matt Thornton. It was enough to earn the catcher this year’s All-Star Game MVP award.
So McCann was the rock on which the National League rested its hopes last night. And he delivered. On the baseball diamond, he did what Neil and Siobhan do every day, and what they will continue to do for as long as they live. As for me, I’m just one of the lucky ones who get to experience their friendship. My parents showed me a long time ago what family is. It’s the all-stars among us.
Day Eighty-Three: Brian McCann, Atlanta Braves
One of the first great lessons my parents taught me grew out of their friendship with George and Maurice. These two men, both my parents’ age, were over our house all the time – for birthdays, holidays, and regular days – and it was clear that they were extremely close with my parents. George, after all, was my godfather, while Maurice was my brother’s godfather. In addition to being two of the most grounded individuals I know, George and Maurice also are two of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met. My parents’ friendship with them stretched back to their days at Curtis High School on Staten Island, and I could see, even as a kid, that their bonds would stretch on into forever.
So the lesson I learned here was that my own interpretation of family need not be restricted to blood ties. If your relationship with a friend was so close that they knew what you were thinking before you said a word, that person was not merely a friend. He was your brother, your cousin, your uncle. Your family. And so it has been for my brother and me, as we’ve grown up with Uncle George, Uncle Reese (until he forced us, in our 20s, to call him Maurice) and numerous other uncles, aunts and cousins whom you will not find on our family tree.
In our own adulthood, my brother and I have adhered to this ideal, and it can be seen quite wonderfully in the ways in which my daughters now call some of our close friends “Uncle” and “Aunt.” The girls don’t question it, as they seem to understand the concept completely. This was evident again this past weekend, when they spent time with their Uncle Neil and Aunt Siobhan.
Neil was my brother’s best friend in high school, and has remained his closest friend throughout Eric’s life. As I came to understand what a remarkably compassionate and considerate individual Neil was, I was able to develop a very strong friendship with him as well. He is my younger daughter’s godfather, and he chose to marry an equally loving woman who, like him, finds limitless ways to reach out to her “family” every day. As Neil and Siobhan have grown together, they’ve become the rock around which their own families revolve. They are constantly there for their parents, siblings, nieces, nephews and cousins. Their umbrella of family extends far and wide, encompassing friends from high school, college, law school and work. They are the ones who get the calls from loved ones in need of help, or a listening ear, or advice. This can be a considerable weight to carry, especially now that they have their own child. But I don’t think Neil and Siobhan would have it any other way. It’s simply who they are.
I thought of these two last night, while watching baseball’s All-Star Game. The folks at Angels Stadium, along with People magazine, had a neat idea to welcome 30 everyday heroes to the pregame festivities. These individuals were dubbed the “All-Stars Among Us,” as they have contributed mightily to their communities through various service projects. Neil and Siobhan have spent many hours coordinating and working at the Mercy Center for women and families in the South Bronx. They know what it’s like to give of yourself freely for the greater good.
Then, as the game played itself out, I saw a man step out of the shadows and carry his National League team to victory when the moment called for it. Brian McCann of the Braves wasn’t an All-Star starter, but when he stepped to the plate with the bases loaded in the seventh inning, he had a responsibility to get the job done. And so McCann did it, with a bases-clearing, game-winning double off of Chicago White Sox reliever Matt Thornton. It was enough to earn the catcher this year’s All-Star Game MVP award.
So McCann was the rock on which the National League rested its hopes last night. And he delivered. On the baseball diamond, he did what Neil and Siobhan do every day, and what they will continue to do for as long as they live. As for me, I’m just one of the lucky ones who get to experience their friendship. My parents showed me a long time ago what family is. It’s the all-stars among us.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Voice (One Sixty-Two: Day 80)
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 Eighty: Derek Jeter, New York Yankees (via Bob Sheppard)
Now batting, number two, Derek Jeter. Number two.
His voice echoed throughout the vast stadium, bouncing off the façade and into your bones. “Every time you heard it, you got chills,” Derek Jeter said. Truer words were never said.
The man with the voice was Bob Sheppard, and he served as the most famous and most accomplished public-address announcer in America. His booming, eloquent delivery of names and numbers filled Yankee Stadium from 1951-2007, introducing players from DiMaggio to Mantle to Jackson to Mattingly to Jeter. He also worked New York Giants games for 50 years, as well as a host of other teams, from St. John’s University to the New York Cosmos. On Sunday, Sheppard died at home at the age of 99.
There will never be another voice like Bob Sheppard’s, but sadly there are very few stadiums today willing to allow a public-address announcer’s voice to be the dominant sound effect in the park. Most baseball teams have a sound-effects employee who pushes buttons in between each pitch to give us a recording of some pop-culture sound, such as the clapping intro to “We Will Rock You” when the bases are loaded or the sound of a window shattering when a foul ball lands outside the stadium.
We are a short-attention-span nation, and we don’t listen nearly as well or as attentively as we once did. The imagination can do a lot with a perfectly enunciated name – you can hear those names in your head when you’re playing in the backyard, and they can add considerable drama and excitement to the Wiffle ball you’re about to throw.
"A voice that you hear in your dreams, in your sleep," Chipper Jones of the Braves told a reporter when asked about Sheppard.
Our imaginations need these voices, much more than they need the cheap sound effects. When the voices talk to us, they take us places we never thought we’d go. They give us chills.
Every time Derek Jeter walks to the plate at Yankee Stadium, a recording of Bob Sheppard’s voice is played. Every time at bat in the ballpark, Jeter is introduced by this man. Close your eyes, and listen. It’s still magical. Still the stuff of dreams.
Day Eighty: Derek Jeter, New York Yankees (via Bob Sheppard)
Now batting, number two, Derek Jeter. Number two.
His voice echoed throughout the vast stadium, bouncing off the façade and into your bones. “Every time you heard it, you got chills,” Derek Jeter said. Truer words were never said.
The man with the voice was Bob Sheppard, and he served as the most famous and most accomplished public-address announcer in America. His booming, eloquent delivery of names and numbers filled Yankee Stadium from 1951-2007, introducing players from DiMaggio to Mantle to Jackson to Mattingly to Jeter. He also worked New York Giants games for 50 years, as well as a host of other teams, from St. John’s University to the New York Cosmos. On Sunday, Sheppard died at home at the age of 99.
There will never be another voice like Bob Sheppard’s, but sadly there are very few stadiums today willing to allow a public-address announcer’s voice to be the dominant sound effect in the park. Most baseball teams have a sound-effects employee who pushes buttons in between each pitch to give us a recording of some pop-culture sound, such as the clapping intro to “We Will Rock You” when the bases are loaded or the sound of a window shattering when a foul ball lands outside the stadium.
We are a short-attention-span nation, and we don’t listen nearly as well or as attentively as we once did. The imagination can do a lot with a perfectly enunciated name – you can hear those names in your head when you’re playing in the backyard, and they can add considerable drama and excitement to the Wiffle ball you’re about to throw.
"A voice that you hear in your dreams, in your sleep," Chipper Jones of the Braves told a reporter when asked about Sheppard.
Our imaginations need these voices, much more than they need the cheap sound effects. When the voices talk to us, they take us places we never thought we’d go. They give us chills.
Every time Derek Jeter walks to the plate at Yankee Stadium, a recording of Bob Sheppard’s voice is played. Every time at bat in the ballpark, Jeter is introduced by this man. Close your eyes, and listen. It’s still magical. Still the stuff of dreams.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Flying the Flag (One Sixty-Two: Day 75)
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 Seventy-Five: Matt Wieters, Baltimore Orioles
When you walk around a Jersey Shore town, every once in awhile you’ll pass a house with the Maryland state flag hanging outside. It’s not a long drive from Maryland to Southern Jersey, especially if you take the ferry from Lewes, Del., to Cape May. Whenever I pass such a house, I am reminded of just how gorgeous that flag is.
There’s no state flag like it, both visually and historically. The flag is broken up into quadrants, yet only two images are drawn on the flag – each of them on diagonally opposing quadrants. One image depicts a red and white cross, while the other depicts a yellow and black diamond pattern. When viewed altogether, the dueling images make for a striking flag display. Historically, the images mean a lot to Maryland, as this is the only state flag whose design is based on heraldic emblems. The two images depict the coats of arms of the Calvert and Crossland families, founders of the Maryland colony back in the 17th century.
They take their images seriously in Maryland, from the state flag to the muscle-bound turtle on University of Maryland Terrapins T-shirts, to the slick, elongated bird on Baltimore Ravens helmets. In terms of sports, though, no Maryland image is as impressive and iconic as the simple, yet elegant bird on Baltimore Orioles hats and T-shirts. It’s a detailed Oriole of black and orange, and he calls to mind both the natural environment of the region as well as the proud history of a baseball franchise.
It’s one thing to look good, of course, and yet another thing to execute. While every Baltimore Oriole looks sharp in white, orange and black, not many Orioles have appeared all that capable on the field in the past decade and a half. This year’s Orioles, owners of the worst record in baseball, are on their way to a franchise-record 13th straight season with a losing record. This from a franchise that once ran off a string of 18 consecutive winning seasons, from 1968-1985. From the mid-1960s to the mid-1980s, no American League team was as consistent as Baltimore. Manager Earl Weaver fielded a team of great pitchers and solid hitters, and Orioles fans respected and admired their clubs. World Series were won here, and Hall of Fame players were honored to suit up for the Birds.
After the 1992 opening of Oriole Park at Camden Yards, one of the great ballparks in Major League Baseball history, the Orioles went on another winning streak, fielding competitive teams for a half-dozen years in the ‘90s and making the playoffs twice. But after a surprising playoff loss to the Cleveland Indians in 1997, the Orioles have come up empty year after year ever since.
This year’s team has a lot of exciting young players, none more highly touted than catcher Matt Wieters. And yet, the Orioles are 25-57, a whopping 26 games out of first place. Wieters is hitting just .239, and the team as a whole is hitting just slightly better than that. The Baltimore manager has already been changed, giving the O’s their sixth manager since this lengthy losing streak began. By comparison, the Atlanta Braves – the Southeast’s other big-league team – have had just one manager over the past 20 years. With Bobby Cox’s consistent leadership, the Braves have produced a losing record just twice in the past two decades.
So when will the losing stop in Baltimore? When will the fans be given reason to return to Camden Yards? Word is that Baltimore is talking with Buck Showalter, the ESPN analyst and former manager who has helped turn around the fortunes of all three teams he’s led. Perhaps Showalter will have the winning touch here as well.
Until then, the Maryland flag will keep on waving outside those Jersey Shore vacation homes. They do sell Orioles flags, and they can be flown outside your house, too. It’s just that winning makes every flag a bit prettier, and a bit more desirable. Until the losing stops, Marylanders will stick with their coats of arms.
Day Seventy-Five: Matt Wieters, Baltimore Orioles
When you walk around a Jersey Shore town, every once in awhile you’ll pass a house with the Maryland state flag hanging outside. It’s not a long drive from Maryland to Southern Jersey, especially if you take the ferry from Lewes, Del., to Cape May. Whenever I pass such a house, I am reminded of just how gorgeous that flag is.
There’s no state flag like it, both visually and historically. The flag is broken up into quadrants, yet only two images are drawn on the flag – each of them on diagonally opposing quadrants. One image depicts a red and white cross, while the other depicts a yellow and black diamond pattern. When viewed altogether, the dueling images make for a striking flag display. Historically, the images mean a lot to Maryland, as this is the only state flag whose design is based on heraldic emblems. The two images depict the coats of arms of the Calvert and Crossland families, founders of the Maryland colony back in the 17th century.
They take their images seriously in Maryland, from the state flag to the muscle-bound turtle on University of Maryland Terrapins T-shirts, to the slick, elongated bird on Baltimore Ravens helmets. In terms of sports, though, no Maryland image is as impressive and iconic as the simple, yet elegant bird on Baltimore Orioles hats and T-shirts. It’s a detailed Oriole of black and orange, and he calls to mind both the natural environment of the region as well as the proud history of a baseball franchise.
It’s one thing to look good, of course, and yet another thing to execute. While every Baltimore Oriole looks sharp in white, orange and black, not many Orioles have appeared all that capable on the field in the past decade and a half. This year’s Orioles, owners of the worst record in baseball, are on their way to a franchise-record 13th straight season with a losing record. This from a franchise that once ran off a string of 18 consecutive winning seasons, from 1968-1985. From the mid-1960s to the mid-1980s, no American League team was as consistent as Baltimore. Manager Earl Weaver fielded a team of great pitchers and solid hitters, and Orioles fans respected and admired their clubs. World Series were won here, and Hall of Fame players were honored to suit up for the Birds.
After the 1992 opening of Oriole Park at Camden Yards, one of the great ballparks in Major League Baseball history, the Orioles went on another winning streak, fielding competitive teams for a half-dozen years in the ‘90s and making the playoffs twice. But after a surprising playoff loss to the Cleveland Indians in 1997, the Orioles have come up empty year after year ever since.
This year’s team has a lot of exciting young players, none more highly touted than catcher Matt Wieters. And yet, the Orioles are 25-57, a whopping 26 games out of first place. Wieters is hitting just .239, and the team as a whole is hitting just slightly better than that. The Baltimore manager has already been changed, giving the O’s their sixth manager since this lengthy losing streak began. By comparison, the Atlanta Braves – the Southeast’s other big-league team – have had just one manager over the past 20 years. With Bobby Cox’s consistent leadership, the Braves have produced a losing record just twice in the past two decades.
So when will the losing stop in Baltimore? When will the fans be given reason to return to Camden Yards? Word is that Baltimore is talking with Buck Showalter, the ESPN analyst and former manager who has helped turn around the fortunes of all three teams he’s led. Perhaps Showalter will have the winning touch here as well.
Until then, the Maryland flag will keep on waving outside those Jersey Shore vacation homes. They do sell Orioles flags, and they can be flown outside your house, too. It’s just that winning makes every flag a bit prettier, and a bit more desirable. Until the losing stops, Marylanders will stick with their coats of arms.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Promise (One Sixty-Two: Day 73)
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 Seventy-Three: Chipper Jones, Atlanta Braves
On this day, Americans gather to celebrate the most famous press release in the history of the world. When it was signed on July 4, 1776, the Declaration of Independence announced to the colonists, the mother country, and the rest of the world that America was going to become its own nation, no matter how much bloodshed this required.
In drafting this announcement, the Founding Fathers elaborated on the kind of country they wished to create. It would be a nation based on the principles of liberty and equality, they told us. When writing the words “all men are created equal,” the Philadelphia patriots chose to make this Declaration more than just a pronouncement. They chose to make it a promise.
Throughout the past 234 years, Americans have harkened back to the Declaration whenever they’ve found our country failing to deliver on that sacred promise. The boldness and beauty of “all men are created equal” has stood watch over the decisions we’ve made as a nation. After decades of slavery, Abraham Lincoln cited the Declaration as the country moved to turn things right. After nearly a century and a half of women lacking the right to vote, the Seneca Falls Convention used the Declaration to show us where America had fallen short. After nearly 200 years of discrimination and segregation toward African-Americans, Martin Luther King quoted from the Declaration in his “I Have a Dream” speech at the Lincoln Memorial in the summer of 1963.
The United States of America was founded on the highest standards of freedom and acceptance. And in reaching for those standards, we the people have often taken two steps forward, followed by one step backward. From race to gender to class to disability, our nation has expanded its guarantees of equality in many ways over the years. But at the same time, we find individuals across our nation reminding us of the many ways in which we’ve denied equality. In recent years, for instance, we’ve heard from immigration activists in Arizona, from gay-rights activists across the country, from advocates for the poor in our inner cities, and from Arab Americans facing discrimination across the country.
We are a complex people, with a complex history. Take today’s Atlanta Braves home game in Turner Field, for instance. When the Braves host the Marlins today, they will do so in an integrated Southern city, where any visitor can pay a visit to the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site. The Braves will field a team featuring white, Latino, African-American and Asian players. The team’s makeup features everything Thomas Jefferson might have hoped America could become.
And yet, at the same time, the Braves will play today’s game in a state that just nine years ago chose to remove the Confederate Battle Flag from part of its own state flag. What’s more, when the Braves take the field they will wear an image of a tomahawk on their jerseys – a weapon of choice for the Native Americans who had their own freedom and humanity stripped from them in the early years of this republic. Finally, if the Braves start a rally during their game today, and star third baseman Chipper Jones steps to the plate, the fans will no doubt begin their famous “Tomahawk Chop.” With this chop, the fans will move their right arms downward like tomahawks, to depict the scalping that they hope their Braves will inflict on those Marlins. This, in spite of the fact that vast numbers of Native Americans still live on isolated reservations, in a constant struggle with poverty and substance abuse.
It’s a complex nation, all right. We have a hard time delivering consistently on that promise of 234 years ago. There are times each day when we see ourselves and others falling far short of the expectations inside that press release. And yet the promise remains. It always has, ever inching us forward.
In our best moments as Americans, we look for ways to work together in hopes of taking that next step. In those moments, we march together in the direction of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Our unalienable rights. The promise of a nation. It is there, in Turner Field and every field. From sea to shining sea. Beckoning us onward, where liberty stands ready to shine.
Day Seventy-Three: Chipper Jones, Atlanta Braves
On this day, Americans gather to celebrate the most famous press release in the history of the world. When it was signed on July 4, 1776, the Declaration of Independence announced to the colonists, the mother country, and the rest of the world that America was going to become its own nation, no matter how much bloodshed this required.
In drafting this announcement, the Founding Fathers elaborated on the kind of country they wished to create. It would be a nation based on the principles of liberty and equality, they told us. When writing the words “all men are created equal,” the Philadelphia patriots chose to make this Declaration more than just a pronouncement. They chose to make it a promise.
Throughout the past 234 years, Americans have harkened back to the Declaration whenever they’ve found our country failing to deliver on that sacred promise. The boldness and beauty of “all men are created equal” has stood watch over the decisions we’ve made as a nation. After decades of slavery, Abraham Lincoln cited the Declaration as the country moved to turn things right. After nearly a century and a half of women lacking the right to vote, the Seneca Falls Convention used the Declaration to show us where America had fallen short. After nearly 200 years of discrimination and segregation toward African-Americans, Martin Luther King quoted from the Declaration in his “I Have a Dream” speech at the Lincoln Memorial in the summer of 1963.
The United States of America was founded on the highest standards of freedom and acceptance. And in reaching for those standards, we the people have often taken two steps forward, followed by one step backward. From race to gender to class to disability, our nation has expanded its guarantees of equality in many ways over the years. But at the same time, we find individuals across our nation reminding us of the many ways in which we’ve denied equality. In recent years, for instance, we’ve heard from immigration activists in Arizona, from gay-rights activists across the country, from advocates for the poor in our inner cities, and from Arab Americans facing discrimination across the country.
We are a complex people, with a complex history. Take today’s Atlanta Braves home game in Turner Field, for instance. When the Braves host the Marlins today, they will do so in an integrated Southern city, where any visitor can pay a visit to the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site. The Braves will field a team featuring white, Latino, African-American and Asian players. The team’s makeup features everything Thomas Jefferson might have hoped America could become.
And yet, at the same time, the Braves will play today’s game in a state that just nine years ago chose to remove the Confederate Battle Flag from part of its own state flag. What’s more, when the Braves take the field they will wear an image of a tomahawk on their jerseys – a weapon of choice for the Native Americans who had their own freedom and humanity stripped from them in the early years of this republic. Finally, if the Braves start a rally during their game today, and star third baseman Chipper Jones steps to the plate, the fans will no doubt begin their famous “Tomahawk Chop.” With this chop, the fans will move their right arms downward like tomahawks, to depict the scalping that they hope their Braves will inflict on those Marlins. This, in spite of the fact that vast numbers of Native Americans still live on isolated reservations, in a constant struggle with poverty and substance abuse.
It’s a complex nation, all right. We have a hard time delivering consistently on that promise of 234 years ago. There are times each day when we see ourselves and others falling far short of the expectations inside that press release. And yet the promise remains. It always has, ever inching us forward.
In our best moments as Americans, we look for ways to work together in hopes of taking that next step. In those moments, we march together in the direction of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Our unalienable rights. The promise of a nation. It is there, in Turner Field and every field. From sea to shining sea. Beckoning us onward, where liberty stands ready to shine.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
A Trusty Rabbit's Foot (One Sixty-Two: Day 27)
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 Twenty-Seven: Eric Hinske, Atlanta Braves
For some, it’s a beaded bracelet. For others, it’s a necklace. Still others choose a keychain. And, yes, some still carry a trusty rabbit’s foot.
Good-luck charms. We can say we’re not superstitious, but in the end we know we are. We allow little rituals and possessions to remain in our lives as comforts of sorts – a reminder that despite the twists and turns of life, there are some things that remain the same. And if we hold onto them tightly enough, we might just make it through to the other side.
Baseball has more superstitions than you can possibly list. From jumping over foul lines to spitting on batting gloves to taking a certain number of practice swings at the plate, ballplayers will do anything to lure a little luck their way. Right now, though, the most prominent good-luck charm in baseball is not a thing, but a person. His name is Eric Hinske, and he plays infield and outfield for the Atlanta Braves.
After winning the Rookie of the Year award with the Blue Jays in 2002, Hinske played a few more seasons with Toronto before he was traded to the Boston Red Sox in 2006. The following season, he served as a valuable bench player on a world-champion Red Sox team. In 2008, Hinske found himself on the Tampa Bay Rays, a team that had never made the playoffs in its history. But by October, Hinske was again in the World Series, where the American League-champion Rays fell to the Philadelphia Phillies.
Last year, after starting out with the Pittsburgh Pirates, Hinske was traded in mid-season to the Yankees. Once again playing a vital role off the bench, Hinske helped New York claim another world title. Now 32 years of age, the man has been on a roll. And he’s got rings to show for it.
In 2010, the Atlanta Braves are playing mediocre baseball. They certainly have some talent, and could make a move toward the playoff picture. But if they don’t, the Braves will surely trade Hinske in July. They’ll send him off to a contender in need of pop off the bench, and they’ll receive a minor-league prospect in return.
If that happens, then whichever team trades for Hinske will immediately feel lucky. The coaches and front-office staff will know that they have acquired the official Major League Baseball rabbit’s foot. Hinske’s teammates will treat him like a king, and will keep him as happy and healthy as possible. You don’t mess with good-luck charms; you just hold on tight, and send them up to pinch-hit.
Day Twenty-Seven: Eric Hinske, Atlanta Braves
For some, it’s a beaded bracelet. For others, it’s a necklace. Still others choose a keychain. And, yes, some still carry a trusty rabbit’s foot.
Good-luck charms. We can say we’re not superstitious, but in the end we know we are. We allow little rituals and possessions to remain in our lives as comforts of sorts – a reminder that despite the twists and turns of life, there are some things that remain the same. And if we hold onto them tightly enough, we might just make it through to the other side.
Baseball has more superstitions than you can possibly list. From jumping over foul lines to spitting on batting gloves to taking a certain number of practice swings at the plate, ballplayers will do anything to lure a little luck their way. Right now, though, the most prominent good-luck charm in baseball is not a thing, but a person. His name is Eric Hinske, and he plays infield and outfield for the Atlanta Braves.
After winning the Rookie of the Year award with the Blue Jays in 2002, Hinske played a few more seasons with Toronto before he was traded to the Boston Red Sox in 2006. The following season, he served as a valuable bench player on a world-champion Red Sox team. In 2008, Hinske found himself on the Tampa Bay Rays, a team that had never made the playoffs in its history. But by October, Hinske was again in the World Series, where the American League-champion Rays fell to the Philadelphia Phillies.
Last year, after starting out with the Pittsburgh Pirates, Hinske was traded in mid-season to the Yankees. Once again playing a vital role off the bench, Hinske helped New York claim another world title. Now 32 years of age, the man has been on a roll. And he’s got rings to show for it.
In 2010, the Atlanta Braves are playing mediocre baseball. They certainly have some talent, and could make a move toward the playoff picture. But if they don’t, the Braves will surely trade Hinske in July. They’ll send him off to a contender in need of pop off the bench, and they’ll receive a minor-league prospect in return.
If that happens, then whichever team trades for Hinske will immediately feel lucky. The coaches and front-office staff will know that they have acquired the official Major League Baseball rabbit’s foot. Hinske’s teammates will treat him like a king, and will keep him as happy and healthy as possible. You don’t mess with good-luck charms; you just hold on tight, and send them up to pinch-hit.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
October 1993
It was the fall of ’93, and I was busy typing up resumes and cover letters in my parents’ basement as my stereo pumped out the music of Pearl Jam and Nirvana. I had just graduated from college, and was hungrily looking for my first newspaper job. With our country crawling out of a recession, I was casting a wide net, firing out resumes to papers in every mid- and major-size city in America, as well as to papers in Ireland, England and Canada. It was a time of anticipation and hope for a 22-year-old. While doing all this, I had half an eye on the TV screen, where the Chicago White Sox were playing the Toronto Blue Jays in the American League Championship Series, and the Philadelphia Phillies were taking on the Atlanta Braves for the National League pennant. Bo Jackson was challenging his White Sox teammates to bring their games to a higher level, while the Phils’ Curt Schilling was pitching like a man who knew what the postseason was all about.
I’ve been thinking of that period, 15 years ago, as I reflect on the impending reality that 2008 will mark the first autumn since’93 that Major League Baseball is holding a postseason and the Yankees are not a part of it. Like any baseball fan, I’m disappointed that my favorite team doesn’t seem to have enough muscle to push their way into the playoffs. And yet, as I think back on 1993, I remember surviving that year just fine. So as I think ahead to next month, I also see much room for personal fulfillment even without a Yankee playoff game.
As a baseball fan, I’m eager to see young teams like the Brewers, Twins, Rays, Diamondbacks and Cubs vie for a playoff spot and a title. As a Yankee fan, I’m looking forward to watching the team unload some of the high salaries and re-tool. And I must say, some of the New York playoff rituals were getting a bit tiresome – the Irish tenor singing “God Bless America,” Rudy Giuliani clapping from his seat behind home plate, the Joe Torre investment commercials, even – dare I say it – the Jeter fist-pump.
When I think back to ’93 and the Yankees, I remember that being a year in which the team’s future started to unveil itself. We realized that year that it wouldn’t be long before New York returned to the playoffs for the first time since ’81, as the superb young players they’d grown from within had actually not been traded during George Steinbrenner’s two-year exile from baseball. The organization had realized that if you drafted great talent and nurtured it, you could be in pretty good shape once you added the right mix of veterans. In 1993, no Yankees player epitomized the future more than the guitar-playing center fielder, Bernie Williams.
Number 51 was still figuring out how to avoid pickoffs on the bases and when to lay off the breaking pitches at that time. But man, he could hit and run. And as time passed, we realized that this man possessed a brilliant combination of talent and class. He was the kind of player who could hit a walk-off home run in a tension-filled playoff game, then put his head down and run the bases without showing off the opposing team. He was a man who seemed to know that his intense passion on the field would only be maintained by having other interests (such as classical guitar) off the field. He never showed up the fans, and always maintained his cool under the hot lights.
As the Yankees close up their old ballpark and prepare for the new one, there has been no tribute to Bernie Williams. The old center fielder last played in the major leagues during the 2006 season and had a falling out with the team during spring training last year. Whatever was said during that time, the Yankees organization should be fully capable of moving beyond it and retiring No. 51 before the stadium closes. When a man helps his employer make billions of dollars with skill, effort and integrity, he deserves to be honored. When he’s not, the employer looks ungrateful.
Until I see No. 51 hanging up in left field with the other retired numbers, I won’t be too teary-eyed about the Yankees missing out on any playoff series. I’ll keep an eye on Ryan Braun, Alfonso Soriano, Evan Longoria and Chris Young, as they vie for a title. I’ll listen to my music – more Wilco and Beck these days than the grunge music of ’93. I’ll keep up my writing and my teaching. And life will indeed go on.
I’ve been thinking of that period, 15 years ago, as I reflect on the impending reality that 2008 will mark the first autumn since’93 that Major League Baseball is holding a postseason and the Yankees are not a part of it. Like any baseball fan, I’m disappointed that my favorite team doesn’t seem to have enough muscle to push their way into the playoffs. And yet, as I think back on 1993, I remember surviving that year just fine. So as I think ahead to next month, I also see much room for personal fulfillment even without a Yankee playoff game.
As a baseball fan, I’m eager to see young teams like the Brewers, Twins, Rays, Diamondbacks and Cubs vie for a playoff spot and a title. As a Yankee fan, I’m looking forward to watching the team unload some of the high salaries and re-tool. And I must say, some of the New York playoff rituals were getting a bit tiresome – the Irish tenor singing “God Bless America,” Rudy Giuliani clapping from his seat behind home plate, the Joe Torre investment commercials, even – dare I say it – the Jeter fist-pump.
When I think back to ’93 and the Yankees, I remember that being a year in which the team’s future started to unveil itself. We realized that year that it wouldn’t be long before New York returned to the playoffs for the first time since ’81, as the superb young players they’d grown from within had actually not been traded during George Steinbrenner’s two-year exile from baseball. The organization had realized that if you drafted great talent and nurtured it, you could be in pretty good shape once you added the right mix of veterans. In 1993, no Yankees player epitomized the future more than the guitar-playing center fielder, Bernie Williams.
Number 51 was still figuring out how to avoid pickoffs on the bases and when to lay off the breaking pitches at that time. But man, he could hit and run. And as time passed, we realized that this man possessed a brilliant combination of talent and class. He was the kind of player who could hit a walk-off home run in a tension-filled playoff game, then put his head down and run the bases without showing off the opposing team. He was a man who seemed to know that his intense passion on the field would only be maintained by having other interests (such as classical guitar) off the field. He never showed up the fans, and always maintained his cool under the hot lights.
As the Yankees close up their old ballpark and prepare for the new one, there has been no tribute to Bernie Williams. The old center fielder last played in the major leagues during the 2006 season and had a falling out with the team during spring training last year. Whatever was said during that time, the Yankees organization should be fully capable of moving beyond it and retiring No. 51 before the stadium closes. When a man helps his employer make billions of dollars with skill, effort and integrity, he deserves to be honored. When he’s not, the employer looks ungrateful.
Until I see No. 51 hanging up in left field with the other retired numbers, I won’t be too teary-eyed about the Yankees missing out on any playoff series. I’ll keep an eye on Ryan Braun, Alfonso Soriano, Evan Longoria and Chris Young, as they vie for a title. I’ll listen to my music – more Wilco and Beck these days than the grunge music of ’93. I’ll keep up my writing and my teaching. And life will indeed go on.
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