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 Seventeen: Hideki Matsui, Los Angeles Angels
Every year, my mother picks a new favorite Yankee. It’s not an indecisive thing, nor is it a Susan Sarandon-in-Bull Durham kind of selection; it’s merely her way of christening the new season. She sprinkles good luck on one Yankee, goes ahead and roots for them all, but gives an extra little cheer for her “guy.”
If the Yankees knew of her track record, they would pay my mom money not to select a favorite player. Just about every year, the player she has chosen has ended up hurt – often for long periods of time.
Dawn chooses Jorge Posada, and he goes down. She selects David Justice, and he’s soon disabled as well. Robin Ventura: same. Shane Spencer – yup, even him. This year, she picked Andy Pettitte. After his tremendous April start, Pettitte suddenly developed elbow trouble and is now missing his start tomorrow.
But perhaps no Dawn Hynes selection was as crippling as the one she made four years ago, when she chose Hideki Matsui, then the Yankees’ left fielder. Matsui entered 2006 having played in every game for each of his first three seasons in the big leagues. But that wasn’t the half of it: Matsui had actually played in more than 1,700 straight games when counting his career with the Yomiuri Giants in Japan. The guy hadn’t missed a game in nearly 13 years. This was surely a can’t-miss pick. That is, until Matsui dove for a line drive at Yankee Stadium in May and fractured his left wrist as it struck the outfield ground.
It was a gruesome sight, and it left Matsui out of action for most of the year. Of course, he would come back and finish that season, while also playing three more with New York. Last year’s World Series MVP performance made my mom and plenty of other Yankees fans proud. As Matsui plays this year for the Angels, he is missed in New York.
For years, many athletes have talked about the Sports Illustrated jinx. When you’re on the cover of SI, legend has it, you’re doomed. Injuries, slumps, mishaps – they come your way when the world’s most famous sports magazine shines its spotlight on you. In my family, Dawn’s “Yankee Guy” is in that same category of unintended black magic.
Of course, the irony is that my mother couldn’t possibly carry better intentions than she does. Her compassion for other human beings extends far and wide, and includes everyone from her family to her neighbors to her friends to those she doesn’t know well, or at all. The secretaries of her doctors, the family of the man who’s renovating her house, the owners of countless stores and restaurants in the town where she and my dad live – all of them receive heavy doses of Dawn’s sunshine when they see her. As for my brother and me, we know for a fact that our mother is thinking about us numerous times in the course of each day.
My mother does a lousy job of jinxing Yankee players. But aside from that, she is an extraordinary model of compassion, selflessness and love. I could not ask for more from a mother; I can only hope she knows just how much I love her back. Happy Mother’s Day, Dawn. Go Yanks.
Showing posts with label Hideki Matsui. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hideki Matsui. Show all posts
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Caring Like a Centerfielder
During baseball’s off-season, Yankee fans spent a lot of time discussing the losses of two key outfielders. In a couple of months, however, these same fans will be spending far more time talking up the newest pinstriped outfielder.
Johnny Damon is in Detroit now, and Hideki Matsui is in Anaheim. But Curtis Granderson now mans one of the most revered positions in sports – centerfield for the New York Yankees. Hall of Famers Earl Combs, Joe DiMaggio and Mickey Mantle have played there, as have perennial All-Stars Bobby Murcer, Bernie Williams, Rickey Henderson and Damon. Now Granderson, an All-Star in his own right, gets a turn at the expansive green grass of Yankee Stadium.
Granderson will hit, he’ll run, and he’ll make great plays in the outfield. But that’s just part of the reason why New Yorkers will be wearing his No. 14 all over the city in the months ahead. They’ll like those homers he plants in the short porch in right field, but they’ll also notice how agreeable he is to interviews, and how personable he seems. Even more important, though, they’ll notice how much work Granderson does for individuals in need.
Giving back is something many of us have done, athletes included. But in the difficult economic climate of 2010, it’s tempting to think more of ourselves than of others, particularly when our own finances are not what they have been, or when our family and job responsibilities seem overwhelming.
And yet, great societies always survive and thrive due in part to the compassion we show toward one another. Winston Churchill once told us, “We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.” Using Sir Winston’s equation, Curtis Granderson has made quite a life for himself. His Grand Kids Foundation has worked to improve education and youth baseball opportunities for inner-city kids. He has served as an “ambassador” for Major League Baseball, traveling to Europe, China and South Africa to promote the game. Last month, he stood alongside Michelle Obama as MLB’s representative in support of The White House’s anti-obesity program. The University of Illinois graduate has even written a children’s book encouraging kids to chase their dreams. It’s no wonder that in 2009, MLB players voted Granderson winner of the Marvin Miller Man of the Year Award, given to the player whose on- and off-field performances most inspire others to reach higher.
This is quite a man we’ve got here in New York, and I for one can’t wait to learn from his compassion. I was thinking of Granderson yesterday as I stood on Springfield Avenue in Newark with a group of high school students. It was 75 degrees and sunny – by far the nicest day of the year so far – and these teen-agers had chosen to spend four hours handing out lunches and clothes to homeless and other low-income men, women and children at two locations in Newark. They were talking with the individuals we met, and listening closely as one man offered them advice on life across the street from Newark Penn Station.
My students all hail from a suburban town where poverty exists, but is often hidden by the abundance of wealth teeming from the renovated houses and ritzy storefronts throughout town. The kids could have been shopping in those stores yesterday morning, our lounging at home with their iPods or PlayStations. But instead they were giving, and giving earnestly. When we finished, the smiles on their faces told you the story. Giving felt good, as it always does, and these kids would gladly do more. Some, in fact, were back at work today – this time painting a mural in their town’s community center. It’s no wonder this club keeps growing in new and exciting ways; more kids keep experiencing the fulfillment that comes from reaching out, like a centerfielder chasing a long drive, and extending their reach into areas of need.
There’s one other thing you should know about Curtis Granderson – he’s got a fabulous smile. It’s a genuine, ear-to-ear grin. I think I understand where he gets it from; I saw that grin yesterday in Newark.
Johnny Damon is in Detroit now, and Hideki Matsui is in Anaheim. But Curtis Granderson now mans one of the most revered positions in sports – centerfield for the New York Yankees. Hall of Famers Earl Combs, Joe DiMaggio and Mickey Mantle have played there, as have perennial All-Stars Bobby Murcer, Bernie Williams, Rickey Henderson and Damon. Now Granderson, an All-Star in his own right, gets a turn at the expansive green grass of Yankee Stadium.
Granderson will hit, he’ll run, and he’ll make great plays in the outfield. But that’s just part of the reason why New Yorkers will be wearing his No. 14 all over the city in the months ahead. They’ll like those homers he plants in the short porch in right field, but they’ll also notice how agreeable he is to interviews, and how personable he seems. Even more important, though, they’ll notice how much work Granderson does for individuals in need.
Giving back is something many of us have done, athletes included. But in the difficult economic climate of 2010, it’s tempting to think more of ourselves than of others, particularly when our own finances are not what they have been, or when our family and job responsibilities seem overwhelming.
And yet, great societies always survive and thrive due in part to the compassion we show toward one another. Winston Churchill once told us, “We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.” Using Sir Winston’s equation, Curtis Granderson has made quite a life for himself. His Grand Kids Foundation has worked to improve education and youth baseball opportunities for inner-city kids. He has served as an “ambassador” for Major League Baseball, traveling to Europe, China and South Africa to promote the game. Last month, he stood alongside Michelle Obama as MLB’s representative in support of The White House’s anti-obesity program. The University of Illinois graduate has even written a children’s book encouraging kids to chase their dreams. It’s no wonder that in 2009, MLB players voted Granderson winner of the Marvin Miller Man of the Year Award, given to the player whose on- and off-field performances most inspire others to reach higher.
This is quite a man we’ve got here in New York, and I for one can’t wait to learn from his compassion. I was thinking of Granderson yesterday as I stood on Springfield Avenue in Newark with a group of high school students. It was 75 degrees and sunny – by far the nicest day of the year so far – and these teen-agers had chosen to spend four hours handing out lunches and clothes to homeless and other low-income men, women and children at two locations in Newark. They were talking with the individuals we met, and listening closely as one man offered them advice on life across the street from Newark Penn Station.
My students all hail from a suburban town where poverty exists, but is often hidden by the abundance of wealth teeming from the renovated houses and ritzy storefronts throughout town. The kids could have been shopping in those stores yesterday morning, our lounging at home with their iPods or PlayStations. But instead they were giving, and giving earnestly. When we finished, the smiles on their faces told you the story. Giving felt good, as it always does, and these kids would gladly do more. Some, in fact, were back at work today – this time painting a mural in their town’s community center. It’s no wonder this club keeps growing in new and exciting ways; more kids keep experiencing the fulfillment that comes from reaching out, like a centerfielder chasing a long drive, and extending their reach into areas of need.
There’s one other thing you should know about Curtis Granderson – he’s got a fabulous smile. It’s a genuine, ear-to-ear grin. I think I understand where he gets it from; I saw that grin yesterday in Newark.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
The Promise of a Nation
My grandfather passed away two years ago at the age of 88. He had lived a long life, and in doing so had grown quite a bit in his outlook toward those of different races. I can recall, some 30 years ago, sitting in the car with him while he told me that black players were ruining baseball. He said that guys like Reggie Jackson and Dave Parker, with their “cocky” attitudes, were bringing the game down. I can remember feeling an uncomfortable pang in my gut while he told me this, hoping his diatribe would end soon.
Maybe it was his memories of Mr. Henry that brought about the changes I’d see later on in my grandfather’s life. Mr. Henry was a black man, a teacher, at PS 12 on Staten Island. One day, nearly 80 years ago, Mr. Henry asked my grandfather if he wanted to try pitching during a baseball game. Some 15 years later, my grandfather was earning a living as a minor-league ballplayer. He’d go on to play semi-pro ball for years. His success in baseball gave him self-esteem and business contacts that would affect his life forever.
So while my grandfather may have had trouble figuring out what to make of Dave Parker, he knew deep down that labeling a race wasn’t the way to go. As he grew older, our baseball talks often centered around our mutual appreciation for African-American players such as Derek Jeter and Bernie Williams, as well as other players of color, from Mariano Rivera to Hideki Matsui. As he told me stories of his youth, he spoke with fondness of Mr. Henry.
My grandfather still had his blind spots, but he had seen so much change, so much growth, in America that he was willing to reevaluate things. I thought of him on Monday, when Madelyn Dunham, the grandmother of Barack Obama, passed away at age 86. Obama has spoken about his grandmother’s racial blind spots as well, but he has also spoken with such gratitude for the devotion she showed in helping to raise her African-American grandson. Her views toward race were imperfect, but in the end deeply compassionate and deeply hopeful.
I think my grandfather would have had a great time talking with Mrs. Dunham. They would have had a lot in common – pride in their grandsons, and pride in America. They would have talked about the changes they’d seen around them, and about the need to understand and adapt.
Because sometimes, the change we need is a kind that requires growth and acceptance and, yes, equality. There comes a time when the best candidate for the most important job in our country is indeed African-American. And when that time comes, we ask, can we push past those blind spots? Can we take that step forward? Instead of calling this black man “cocky,” or something far worse, can we just call him “Mr. President”?
Yes. We. Can.
Yes we did. On November 4, 2008, there were so many people, with stories just like my grandfather’s and Barack Obama’s grandmother, who took that step forward. They cast a ballot not only for the best candidate we could have hoped for, but also for the promise of the Declaration itself. It is a promise that, in our very best moments, guides the moral compass of this nation with breathtaking beauty. It is the kind of promise I will gladly share with my own grandchildren.
Maybe it was his memories of Mr. Henry that brought about the changes I’d see later on in my grandfather’s life. Mr. Henry was a black man, a teacher, at PS 12 on Staten Island. One day, nearly 80 years ago, Mr. Henry asked my grandfather if he wanted to try pitching during a baseball game. Some 15 years later, my grandfather was earning a living as a minor-league ballplayer. He’d go on to play semi-pro ball for years. His success in baseball gave him self-esteem and business contacts that would affect his life forever.
So while my grandfather may have had trouble figuring out what to make of Dave Parker, he knew deep down that labeling a race wasn’t the way to go. As he grew older, our baseball talks often centered around our mutual appreciation for African-American players such as Derek Jeter and Bernie Williams, as well as other players of color, from Mariano Rivera to Hideki Matsui. As he told me stories of his youth, he spoke with fondness of Mr. Henry.
My grandfather still had his blind spots, but he had seen so much change, so much growth, in America that he was willing to reevaluate things. I thought of him on Monday, when Madelyn Dunham, the grandmother of Barack Obama, passed away at age 86. Obama has spoken about his grandmother’s racial blind spots as well, but he has also spoken with such gratitude for the devotion she showed in helping to raise her African-American grandson. Her views toward race were imperfect, but in the end deeply compassionate and deeply hopeful.
I think my grandfather would have had a great time talking with Mrs. Dunham. They would have had a lot in common – pride in their grandsons, and pride in America. They would have talked about the changes they’d seen around them, and about the need to understand and adapt.
Because sometimes, the change we need is a kind that requires growth and acceptance and, yes, equality. There comes a time when the best candidate for the most important job in our country is indeed African-American. And when that time comes, we ask, can we push past those blind spots? Can we take that step forward? Instead of calling this black man “cocky,” or something far worse, can we just call him “Mr. President”?
Yes. We. Can.
Yes we did. On November 4, 2008, there were so many people, with stories just like my grandfather’s and Barack Obama’s grandmother, who took that step forward. They cast a ballot not only for the best candidate we could have hoped for, but also for the promise of the Declaration itself. It is a promise that, in our very best moments, guides the moral compass of this nation with breathtaking beauty. It is the kind of promise I will gladly share with my own grandchildren.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Sammy Sou-sa
Throughout their lives, my mother’s parents shared a deep love for baseball with my brother and me. Warm, compassionate grandparents, they often expressed their love to us through animated conversations about the Yankees, Mets, or our own Little League and high school teams. One of the most enjoyable aspects of these baseball talks was my grandparents’ incredible ability to destroy the pronunciation of players’ names. This side of Babe Ruth, there wasn’t a player whose name they didn’t butcher.
That new outfielder the Yankees had just signed from Japan? Mat-soon-i. The home-run-hitting outfielder for the Cubs? Sammy Sou-sa. The clutch lefty pitcher in pinstripes? Penn-itte.
My brother and I would joke good-naturedly with my grandparents about this, and they’d laugh along with us. I wondered to myself whether these mispronunciations were due more to their education level (one had graduated from high school, while the other had left high school before earning a diploma), or whether it was due more to geography and ethnicity (a combination of Irish-German-English descent placed on the North Shore of Staten Island – a place where you’d hear many a native ask for earl and vinegar in a restaurant, and where you’d hear them say the gas was cheaper in Joisey). When I heard them say the words “Derek Jeey-ta,” I wondered whether this mispronunciation was due to a real deficiency in literacy or to a simple combination of genetics and learned behavior. Whatever the reason, I felt sure that my brother and I – writers both – would not have such struggles.
My grandparents have both passed away in recent years, leaving us with just memories of hearing about “Joe Gir-al-di” or “Jorge Po-san-a.” Until …
My mother. She was talking to me the other day on the phone. She wanted to know if I thought the Yankees would trade for that Cleveland pitcher.
“Which one, Mom?”
“Sa-na-thee-a.”
Silence.
“Mom, do you mean C.C. Sa-bath-i-a?”
“Yes, him.”
More silence.
“Mom, you’ve inherited it.”
“What?”
“The name gene.”
She is almost 62, and I see now that she is well on her way. My mom is fast becoming a major-leaguer at mispronouncing names. We shared a laugh over this realization, and then moved on to other things. But as I hung up the phone, I thought about it some more, and started to get nervous.
When will I start doing it?
I pore over the names in box scores, and say them over in my head. “Fukudome. Pierzynski. Francoeur. Gallardo.” I will not succumb, I say. Genetics or not, I can stave off this grammatical glitch.
From their lofty perch, my grandparents smile. “Just you wait,” they surely say. Just you wait.
That new outfielder the Yankees had just signed from Japan? Mat-soon-i. The home-run-hitting outfielder for the Cubs? Sammy Sou-sa. The clutch lefty pitcher in pinstripes? Penn-itte.
My brother and I would joke good-naturedly with my grandparents about this, and they’d laugh along with us. I wondered to myself whether these mispronunciations were due more to their education level (one had graduated from high school, while the other had left high school before earning a diploma), or whether it was due more to geography and ethnicity (a combination of Irish-German-English descent placed on the North Shore of Staten Island – a place where you’d hear many a native ask for earl and vinegar in a restaurant, and where you’d hear them say the gas was cheaper in Joisey). When I heard them say the words “Derek Jeey-ta,” I wondered whether this mispronunciation was due to a real deficiency in literacy or to a simple combination of genetics and learned behavior. Whatever the reason, I felt sure that my brother and I – writers both – would not have such struggles.
My grandparents have both passed away in recent years, leaving us with just memories of hearing about “Joe Gir-al-di” or “Jorge Po-san-a.” Until …
My mother. She was talking to me the other day on the phone. She wanted to know if I thought the Yankees would trade for that Cleveland pitcher.
“Which one, Mom?”
“Sa-na-thee-a.”
Silence.
“Mom, do you mean C.C. Sa-bath-i-a?”
“Yes, him.”
More silence.
“Mom, you’ve inherited it.”
“What?”
“The name gene.”
She is almost 62, and I see now that she is well on her way. My mom is fast becoming a major-leaguer at mispronouncing names. We shared a laugh over this realization, and then moved on to other things. But as I hung up the phone, I thought about it some more, and started to get nervous.
When will I start doing it?
I pore over the names in box scores, and say them over in my head. “Fukudome. Pierzynski. Francoeur. Gallardo.” I will not succumb, I say. Genetics or not, I can stave off this grammatical glitch.
From their lofty perch, my grandparents smile. “Just you wait,” they surely say. Just you wait.
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