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 Eleven: Jorge Posada, New York Yankees
We’ve got some friends over the house, and my wife is on her way home. She calls to tell me she’s picking up the pizza, and that I should call to order. I say no problem, and hang up.
I look for the pizzeria menu we keep in our kitchen drawer, but I can’t find it. And it’s at this point that our friend Stan and I begin some distinct 21st-century behavior. I dial up my wife again, because I know she has the pizzeria number on her cell phone. Stan, meanwhile, takes his BlackBerry out of his pocket. As my wife takes my call, she pulls over to the side of the road to get me the number. By the time I hang up with the number written down, Stan is holding his phone up to show me the number he’s found on-line.
In the next room, a rarely-used phone book sits on a shelf next to our computer. It’s got the pizzeria’s phone number in it, and it’s completely ready for use, anytime. Yet, I didn’t even think of using it until after I’d gotten the number via cell phone and Internet.
Simplifying life. We keep saying we need to do so, yet every year we add more layers of complexity. From smart phones to laptops to GPS devices to iPods to DVRs to 3G networks, we can’t help ourselves. We need to be wired everywhere, and connected to everything. We Facebook, Twitter, text, e-mail and play video games with people in Dubai. It never stops.
But once in awhile, when we find ourselves drowning in data, it hits us. There is a life outside of all the computer chips. We can live in this world without WiFi. We take our inspiration wherever we can.
Take Jorge Posada, for example. The Yankees catcher has never walked up to the plate wearing batting gloves. Almost every baseball player alive wears the gloves to enhance their grip on the bat. But not Jorge. Just a little pine tar and a strong grip is all he asks. As for his helmet, Jorge doesn’t need a sparkling new one every week. He’s got the same weathered helmet he’s been wearing for years. He’s a bit old school in that way, and he doesn’t seem to mind at all.
I would imagine that Jorge has pizza delivered to his home. But when he calls, I bet he’s used that phone book every so often. He’s washed off the pine tar by now, so he can flip through the pages just fine.
It’s OK to simplify, and it always will be. These days, though, most of us seem to be missing that message. We’ve got the batting gloves on, and we’re ready for what’s next.
Showing posts with label Jorge Posada. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jorge Posada. Show all posts
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Just a Number (One Sixty-Two: Day 87)
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-Seven: Jason Giambi, Colorado Rockies
Yesterday, I hit the halfway point in my final year as a 30-something. There’s no turning back now, like it or not. The age-39 roller coaster is in that moment of uneasy calm between the ominous climb and the terrifying fall.
Oh, it’s not that bad, I know. Forty is just a number. Of course, it didn’t help that my haircutter told me yesterday that she was skipping the step of thinning my hair after the cut, since it appears that the thinning process is now happening naturally. Nice. Thanks, here’s your tip.
So many people fret over 40 because they know that they will probably experience the aging process more distinctly during the next 10 years than they did during any of the previous four decades. There are reasons why most pro athletes retire around this age, if not earlier. And yet, there’s no one saying you can’t look and feel great while also accommodating the changes that will be there. And life in our 40s brings all kinds of exciting moments with family, careers, vacations and community involvement.
It’s just a number; that’s my mantra. Baseball-Reference.com has a list of all the big-league players born in 1971, and it shows that 14 players of that birth year have played in the majors this year. They range from Ivan Rodriguez of the Washington Nationals to Billy Wagner of the Atlanta Braves to Jorge Posada of the New York Yankees. Most of the players who are still around are either veteran catchers, like Rodriguez, Posada or Gregg Zaun of the Milwaukee Brewers, or specialized relief pitchers, like Wagner, Jose Contreras of the Philadelphia Phillies or Ron Mahay of the Minnesota Twins. In fact, there is only one active 1971 baby who doesn’t play either pitcher or catcher.
It’s a bit ironic that this individual is Jason Giambi, now a backup first baseman and pinch-hitter for the Colorado Rockies. For the past six years, Giambi’s name and his overall health have been sports-headline material, much of it related to steroid investigations taking place in and around baseball. The left-handed slugger has experienced severe blows to his reputation and career statistics over these half-dozen years, enough to ensure that his 412 career home runs, .405 career on-base percentage and seven years as a New York Yankee will not be enough to land him in the Hall of Fame. The latter half of Giambi’s career has not been without its highlights – he did, after all, slug 32 or more homers three out of four years from 2005-08 – but his life as a 30-something will always be connected with what-ifs and whys.
And yet, here he is, still suiting up to swing for the playoff contenders in Denver. Come January 8 of next year, Giambi will turn 40. While his career may be winding down, a new decade might provide him with a chance to contribute more positively to baseball, and perhaps to improve his overall reputation in the game. Maybe Giambi will coach a team’s hitters, and give them advice fueled by his own mistakes, successes and incredible batting eye. Perhaps he will find a way to pass along the competitive fire that guided him through those tough at-bats against Pedro Martinez back when the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry was white hot. Or maybe he’ll move away from baseball altogether, and instead help individuals who live their lives outside the white lines.
A few days after Giambi turns 40, I will follow suit. I don’t have a baseball career to look back on, nor have I ever found my name on the back page of the tabloids. That’s OK, actually. I’ll be moving on in my own way, as a teacher, writer, father, husband, son, friend. There’s so much to do, and so much to look forward to, that I wonder if I’ll even have time to count the years. Maybe the real number that matters when you start your fifth decade is 24 – as in the number of hours each day carries in it. If you’re as busy as many of us are at this age, you may find yourself wishing for 40 hours in a day more than you find yourself wishing against 40 candles on a cake.
Day Eighty-Seven: Jason Giambi, Colorado Rockies
Yesterday, I hit the halfway point in my final year as a 30-something. There’s no turning back now, like it or not. The age-39 roller coaster is in that moment of uneasy calm between the ominous climb and the terrifying fall.
Oh, it’s not that bad, I know. Forty is just a number. Of course, it didn’t help that my haircutter told me yesterday that she was skipping the step of thinning my hair after the cut, since it appears that the thinning process is now happening naturally. Nice. Thanks, here’s your tip.
So many people fret over 40 because they know that they will probably experience the aging process more distinctly during the next 10 years than they did during any of the previous four decades. There are reasons why most pro athletes retire around this age, if not earlier. And yet, there’s no one saying you can’t look and feel great while also accommodating the changes that will be there. And life in our 40s brings all kinds of exciting moments with family, careers, vacations and community involvement.
It’s just a number; that’s my mantra. Baseball-Reference.com has a list of all the big-league players born in 1971, and it shows that 14 players of that birth year have played in the majors this year. They range from Ivan Rodriguez of the Washington Nationals to Billy Wagner of the Atlanta Braves to Jorge Posada of the New York Yankees. Most of the players who are still around are either veteran catchers, like Rodriguez, Posada or Gregg Zaun of the Milwaukee Brewers, or specialized relief pitchers, like Wagner, Jose Contreras of the Philadelphia Phillies or Ron Mahay of the Minnesota Twins. In fact, there is only one active 1971 baby who doesn’t play either pitcher or catcher.
It’s a bit ironic that this individual is Jason Giambi, now a backup first baseman and pinch-hitter for the Colorado Rockies. For the past six years, Giambi’s name and his overall health have been sports-headline material, much of it related to steroid investigations taking place in and around baseball. The left-handed slugger has experienced severe blows to his reputation and career statistics over these half-dozen years, enough to ensure that his 412 career home runs, .405 career on-base percentage and seven years as a New York Yankee will not be enough to land him in the Hall of Fame. The latter half of Giambi’s career has not been without its highlights – he did, after all, slug 32 or more homers three out of four years from 2005-08 – but his life as a 30-something will always be connected with what-ifs and whys.
And yet, here he is, still suiting up to swing for the playoff contenders in Denver. Come January 8 of next year, Giambi will turn 40. While his career may be winding down, a new decade might provide him with a chance to contribute more positively to baseball, and perhaps to improve his overall reputation in the game. Maybe Giambi will coach a team’s hitters, and give them advice fueled by his own mistakes, successes and incredible batting eye. Perhaps he will find a way to pass along the competitive fire that guided him through those tough at-bats against Pedro Martinez back when the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry was white hot. Or maybe he’ll move away from baseball altogether, and instead help individuals who live their lives outside the white lines.
A few days after Giambi turns 40, I will follow suit. I don’t have a baseball career to look back on, nor have I ever found my name on the back page of the tabloids. That’s OK, actually. I’ll be moving on in my own way, as a teacher, writer, father, husband, son, friend. There’s so much to do, and so much to look forward to, that I wonder if I’ll even have time to count the years. Maybe the real number that matters when you start your fifth decade is 24 – as in the number of hours each day carries in it. If you’re as busy as many of us are at this age, you may find yourself wishing for 40 hours in a day more than you find yourself wishing against 40 candles on a cake.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
When the Boss Listened (One Sixty-Two: Day 82)
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-Two: Andy Pettitte, New York Yankees (via George Steinbrenner)
What is strong leadership? Is it getting the job done, no matter what the cost? Is it setting a standard for dignity and effort, with the knowledge that others will watch and follow your example? Must a successful leader rule by fear and intimidation, or is it possible instead to lead more effectively through quiet determination and clear communication?
As dozens of baseball players, managers, executives and media types commented today on the death of New York Yankees Owner George Steinbrenner, they said many kind words about a man who was driven to win. But as they spoke of Steinbrenner, the underlying discussion these folks were having was one on leadership. Was Steinbrenner a positive leader, one to be honored for all time? Or was he a pushy, overly involved boss who instilled more trepidation in his employees than trust?
I’ve followed the New York Yankees closely for 33 years, and in my formative years I watched Steinbrenner blow through managers, third-base coaches and front-office executives like a fussy homemaker ever dissatisfied with his living-room furniture. What’s more, Steinbrenner would constantly trade young prospects for veterans past their prime, and he would publicly berate his players time and time again.
This came to a head in 1990, when Steinbrenner was found to have paid a gambler in order to try and find incriminating information about his own player, outfielder Dave Winfield. Fay Vincent, who was commissioner of baseball at the time, banned Steinbrenner from the game for two years.
Yankee Stadium was a lonely place in 1990, as the home team was baseball’s worst franchise and fans could constantly be heard chanting “Steinbrenner Sucks” from the stands. I can recall feeling as though the suspension of Steinbrenner had given my team new hope. And indeed, that’s exactly what happened: The team’s front office executives worked to develop talented young players such as Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Mariano Rivera, Andy Pettitte and Jorge Posada. When these players matured, they were not traded, as had been the Steinbrenner way. Instead, they were inserted into the New York lineup.
By the time Steinbrenner returned, he could see that this plan was working. And so he did something that all good leaders do: He listened to his employees’ plan, accepted it, and changed his ways. By 1996, his Yankees were world champions again. Last year, New York won its fifth title in the past 14 years, three more than any other team has won in that time span.
In the early 2000s, Steinbrenner had one more relapse into his blustery ways, deciding strangely that Andy Pettitte – clearly his most reliable pitcher from 1995-2003 – was not worth signing anymore. He also went on to sign a few more of those big-name stars who looked good on paper but didn’t quite fit the Yankee mold. After he’d gotten Jason Giambi, Gary Sheffield and Randy Johnson out of his system and seen no titles as a result of it, Steinbrenner again listened as his general manager laid out a blueprint for developing from within and signing free-agent players who suited the Yankees’ needs. Again he listened, and agreed. So players such as Robinson Cano and Phil Hughes were not traded, and instead became All-Stars. Players such as CC Sabathia and, yes, Andy Pettitte were signed to free-agent contracts. Last year’s Yankees gave Steinbrenner one more championship – his seventh since buying the Yankees in 1973. Pettitte pitched the clinching game in all three rounds of the playoffs.
Today, as news of Steinbrenner’s passing spread throughout the country, Cano and Hughes and Sabathia and Pettitte all were in Anaheim to represent the Yankees as American League All-Stars. The plan is working, even if the Boss is not there to see it through anymore. I never met the man, so I can’t chime in on his character. But I think the sight of Andy Pettitte cruising through Inning 3 of tonight’s All-Star Game says something about this mercurial owner: He slowed down, shifted gears, and tried a new approach. He even stopped firing so many managers and coaches.
Ironically, early-21st century media have brought a reality-TV culture that thrives on intimidation, dismissed contestants and the words “You’re fired.” In the South Bronx, that’s so 1985. George Steinbrenner, dead at 80, learned patience. In doing so, he taught us all a lesson in leadership: It’s never too late to change.
Day Eighty-Two: Andy Pettitte, New York Yankees (via George Steinbrenner)
What is strong leadership? Is it getting the job done, no matter what the cost? Is it setting a standard for dignity and effort, with the knowledge that others will watch and follow your example? Must a successful leader rule by fear and intimidation, or is it possible instead to lead more effectively through quiet determination and clear communication?
As dozens of baseball players, managers, executives and media types commented today on the death of New York Yankees Owner George Steinbrenner, they said many kind words about a man who was driven to win. But as they spoke of Steinbrenner, the underlying discussion these folks were having was one on leadership. Was Steinbrenner a positive leader, one to be honored for all time? Or was he a pushy, overly involved boss who instilled more trepidation in his employees than trust?
I’ve followed the New York Yankees closely for 33 years, and in my formative years I watched Steinbrenner blow through managers, third-base coaches and front-office executives like a fussy homemaker ever dissatisfied with his living-room furniture. What’s more, Steinbrenner would constantly trade young prospects for veterans past their prime, and he would publicly berate his players time and time again.
This came to a head in 1990, when Steinbrenner was found to have paid a gambler in order to try and find incriminating information about his own player, outfielder Dave Winfield. Fay Vincent, who was commissioner of baseball at the time, banned Steinbrenner from the game for two years.
Yankee Stadium was a lonely place in 1990, as the home team was baseball’s worst franchise and fans could constantly be heard chanting “Steinbrenner Sucks” from the stands. I can recall feeling as though the suspension of Steinbrenner had given my team new hope. And indeed, that’s exactly what happened: The team’s front office executives worked to develop talented young players such as Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Mariano Rivera, Andy Pettitte and Jorge Posada. When these players matured, they were not traded, as had been the Steinbrenner way. Instead, they were inserted into the New York lineup.
By the time Steinbrenner returned, he could see that this plan was working. And so he did something that all good leaders do: He listened to his employees’ plan, accepted it, and changed his ways. By 1996, his Yankees were world champions again. Last year, New York won its fifth title in the past 14 years, three more than any other team has won in that time span.
In the early 2000s, Steinbrenner had one more relapse into his blustery ways, deciding strangely that Andy Pettitte – clearly his most reliable pitcher from 1995-2003 – was not worth signing anymore. He also went on to sign a few more of those big-name stars who looked good on paper but didn’t quite fit the Yankee mold. After he’d gotten Jason Giambi, Gary Sheffield and Randy Johnson out of his system and seen no titles as a result of it, Steinbrenner again listened as his general manager laid out a blueprint for developing from within and signing free-agent players who suited the Yankees’ needs. Again he listened, and agreed. So players such as Robinson Cano and Phil Hughes were not traded, and instead became All-Stars. Players such as CC Sabathia and, yes, Andy Pettitte were signed to free-agent contracts. Last year’s Yankees gave Steinbrenner one more championship – his seventh since buying the Yankees in 1973. Pettitte pitched the clinching game in all three rounds of the playoffs.
Today, as news of Steinbrenner’s passing spread throughout the country, Cano and Hughes and Sabathia and Pettitte all were in Anaheim to represent the Yankees as American League All-Stars. The plan is working, even if the Boss is not there to see it through anymore. I never met the man, so I can’t chime in on his character. But I think the sight of Andy Pettitte cruising through Inning 3 of tonight’s All-Star Game says something about this mercurial owner: He slowed down, shifted gears, and tried a new approach. He even stopped firing so many managers and coaches.
Ironically, early-21st century media have brought a reality-TV culture that thrives on intimidation, dismissed contestants and the words “You’re fired.” In the South Bronx, that’s so 1985. George Steinbrenner, dead at 80, learned patience. In doing so, he taught us all a lesson in leadership: It’s never too late to change.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mom & Matsui (One Sixty-Two: Day 17)
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.
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.
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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