The Final Out

            The evening chill has added its November bite, the jack-o’-lanterns are starting to sag, and the darkness is upon us an hour earlier. This can mean only one thing: Another baseball season has ended. Indeed, the parade has already been held in San Francisco, where the Giants are world champions once again. And a season-ending celebration has taken place in Kansas City, where the Royals took pride in going from also-rans for 29 straight years to World Series runners-up in 2014.

            For all who follow baseball, though, the end of a season is sad no matter which team you follow. The odyssey that began with Spring Training in mid-February has wound its way through a six-month, 162-game regular season, followed by another month of Wild Card games and three full rounds of playoff series. And now it’s over.

            The bitter chill arrives. Bundle up, and bake some cookies.

            While the season’s end brings a kind of mourning for many of us, it’s also a time of more poignant regret for those who made their teams’ final out of the year. Those players have the added bonus of reliving a moment of failure again and again, wondering what might have happened had they taken a different swing, or managed their at-bat differently. Salvador Perez of the Royals will see his ninth-inning pop-up to Giants third baseman Pablo Sandoval on repeat in his mind, wishing he had just made better contact. But he didn’t, and he can’t get that moment back again.

           

            In our family, we’ve got a ballplayer who made her team’s final out of the year. Chelsea, our 9-year-old, enjoyed her travel team’s fall season very much, and she clubbed her share of hits for her team, the Wolves. But on a drizzly Monday evening a few weeks ago, Chelsea found herself up at bat with her team trailing in the last inning of a single-elimination playoff game. The Wolves were down by three runs, the bases were loaded, and there were two outs. As her team cheered her on, Chelsea smacked a shot toward second base. And then … the ball landed right in the glove of the opposing team’s second baseman.

            As the teams congratulated each other and the winning club celebrated, Chelsea felt the tears begin to stream down her cheeks. Her coaches assured her that there was nothing to feel sorry about, that she had done a great job all year. But Chelsea had wanted to win, and she felt embarrassed that she had made the last out.

           

            When we got home that night, I told Chelsea that some of the best hitters in baseball history have made the final out in playoff games. I showed her the line drive that Hall of Famer Willie McCovey hit to second base to end Game 7 of the 1962 World Series. I showed her Bob Welch’s strikeout of Reggie Jackson to end Game 2 of the 1978 World Series. This at-bat is one of the more electrifying playoff encounters you’ll ever see, and Chelsea found herself captivated by the competitive fire of that moment.

This week, I shared with her the news that another player had made his team’s last out. Perez popped up to third with the tying run on third base, 90 feet away. Perez was an All-Star this year, and he started more games at catcher in one season than any player in Major League history. He had been hit in the knee with a pitch earlier in Game 7, making it difficult for him to stride at full strength. Perez’s season was anything but a failure. And yet, here he was, making that dreaded last out – just as Mike Trout, baseball’s best player, had done two weeks earlier against Perez’s Royals in the Division Series.

The best thing about baseball is that there is always another season ahead, another set of games to play. But for a few dark months between November and March, there is no baseball. And that is sadder than any final out – the reality that balls and strikes and pitches and swings are gone for now.

Chelsea has her uniform ready for the spring softball season. She wants her glove to be oiled some more, and she’d love a new softball bag. The final out was a sad one for her, but it was also a motivator. She’ll keep practicing. And somewhere out there, beyond the darkness, spring awaits. There will be more games, and more chances. Whether you’re the Royals or the Wolves, you know it’s true. Baseball never dies.

Turning Tom Seaver

It was full-blown baseball nerdiness, but we enjoyed it anyway. It was the kind of thing you’d never figure out unless you lived in our world. And we only did it whenever one of us had a birthday.

My brother Eric, my friend Ron and I had a mutual passion for baseball that far exceeded anything our mid-1980s world had to offer. So we expanded that world on our own. We went to stores and had our T-shirts silkscreened with Yankee uniform numbers and names long before sporting goods stores started selling those shirts. We joined fantasy baseball leagues long before those statistics could be compiled by web sites. We played Wiffle Ball for hours with make-believe lineups made from major-league teams.

And then there was this birthday thing. Instead of saying “Happy 17th, Warren,” my brother and friend would say to me, “Hey, you’re Mickey Rivers this year.” Instead of being 23, I was “Don Mattingly.” And instead of wishing one of them a happy 31st, I’d tell them they’d reached “Dave Winfield.” I guess when you’ve got so many uniform numbers floating around amid your baseball memories, you’d might as well find a use for them. So, during each birthday, we’d connect our years-old to the numbers worn by those pinstriped heroes we used to cheer for every summer night.

And during those years when there were no great Yankee uniform numbers attached to our new age, it was even more fun to try and remember lesser-known players who’d worn those digits. “You’re Bob Shirley,” one of us would say when we’d reached age 29, harkening back to the left-handed reliever of the mid-1980s. Or “Happy birthday, Kevin Maas” when we turned 24, referring to the slugging first baseman who started off his Yankee career like a superstar, then quickly became a much more pedestrian hitter.

I am pretty sure that the woman who would eventually marry me heard some of these conversations, and yet she chose to remain with me. You’d have to ask her why. I guess the important thing to tell you is that as I stand two days shy of 41 years of age, I do not partake in this nonsense anymore. I don’t sit around and think about the ballplayers who have worn the number my aging body will be donning throughout the year. That’s really kids’ stuff, to be honest.

Tom Seaver. Eddie Mathews. Sterling Hitchcock.

OK, so maybe I do think about it a little bit. Just for a minute. Then I move on to other, more mature stuff. Like writing a blog about baseball and life.

Number 41 is not a big Yankee number. There have been somewhat effective pitchers with the number, such as Hitchcock and some guys from my childhood, like Joe Cowley and Shane Rawley. But it’s not a number you’ll see on a pinstriped uniform for sale at Modell’s. Over in Queens, however, Number 41 means an awful lot. Even more than it does in Atlanta, where Eddie Mathews’ number 41 is retired. Mathews was a great player, but he played nearly all of his career in Milwaukee, before the Braves moved south. For the Mets, however, Number 41 represents the only player in team history ever to have his number retired.

They called him “Tom Terrific,” and Tom Seaver lived up to every bit of that nickname. In a 20-year career, Seaver won more than 300 games and became one of the best pitchers of his era. He spent 11 of those years with the Mets, and most New York fans will tell you that the Mets should never have let him go. As a Yankee fan, I always followed Seaver from a distance, except when he showed up as a Yankees broadcaster after his retirement. But when I’d go out on the field to pitch, I’d always hear coaches comparing my delivery to that of Seaver. I had the full windup, the “drop and drive” delivery that saw my right knee scraping the ground and my right foot pushing off the rubber, followed by the overhand delivery with the good follow-through. Just like Seaver.

Of course, that delivery was the only similarity you could find between my pitching style and that of Tom Seaver. Once the ball left my hands, you might compare me to, say, Charlie Brown. But for an average pitcher, I was apparently pretty to watch. A vague reminder of a classic.

So that brings us to age 41 – a little more vintage than I envisioned myself being back in my pitching days. But here I am, Tom Seaver in age. I’m not dropping and driving anymore. Just workin’ for a livin’, raising a couple of kids, and still in love with the cute redhead I met back when I was still pitching and making those corny birthday jokes.

It’s not the kind of thing they retire uniforms for, I guess. But I’ll take it. And as for the growing older bit, why worry? There’s lots to look forward to. After all, I’m only one year away from Mariano Rivera. Three away from Reggie Jackson. And five away from Andy Pettitte.

Plenty of numbers to throw around for a good long while. Baseball nerds unite. And blow out your candles.

Fielding Grounders from the Ground (One Sixty-Two: Day 71)

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-One: Dustin Pedroia, Boston Red Sox

It was just a small item in yesterday’s New York Times, but the headline grabbed me right away:

“With a Broken Foot, Pedroia Fields From His Knees.”

The story, written by The Associated Press, focused on Boston Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia and his actions before Wednesday’s game with Tampa. Just five days after fouling a ball off his left foot and breaking a bone in that foot, Pedroia was on his knees at the edge of the infield grass before his team’s game. The former MVP was fielding ground balls and having a catch. The 26-year-old was wearing a protective boot over his left foot, as the injury is expected to keep him out for six weeks. After the practice, Pedroia had to use crutches to get off the field.

But he still got in his work. And his baseball. “He’s pretty unique,” said Boston’s manager, Terry Francona.

It’s obviously quite impressive to see the dedication Pedroia has for his job. The Red Sox are very lucky to have a player like this. But for those of us who feel the pulse of baseball within our veins each day, it’s not entirely surprising to see this kind of behavior. While Pedroia’s work ethic is obviously amazing, I’m sure he was also fielding grounders because he needs the game. He can’t just sit there.

It was the spring of 1979, and I was on crutches due to a broken right femur and hip bone. I was a lucky little boy, as I’d been hit by a car and could easily have sustained a much greater injury. After six weeks in the hospital, I was sent home in mid-May. My schooling would be done by tutor that spring, and my Little League career would have to wait and start the following year.

So as my grandmothers watched me each day, I got down to business. I drew up lineups – Yankees versus Red Sox was the usual matchup. I grabbed my glove and a ball, and hobbled out to our backyard.

I sat on the edge of our cement patio, my right leg outstretched, with the lineups and a pen to the right of the leg. I wore a baseball glove on my left hand, and held either a tennis ball or racquet ball in my right. I faced the back of our house, which had 18 inches of white-washed concrete beneath its white, wooden siding. I reared back and threw the ball at the concrete, and the ball shot back at me – either as a grounder, if it had hit the concrete on a fly, or as a pop-up, if it had hit ground before concrete. I reached for each ball, and if I fielded it cleanly, it was recorded as an out in my scorecard. If I bobbled it, or if it landed out of my reach, it went in as a hit or error and a man was on base.

So there I was, Graig Nettles, reaching for Rick Burleson’s fly ball to third. When Reggie Jackson was up at bat, I might throw the ball just a bit harder, so that it landed just outside my glove for a double. If the Sox were winning in the later innings, I might orchestrate a late rally for New York. It’s hard to be completely objective when playing off-the-bottom-of the house baseball. You can manipulate the score.

Dustin Pedroia wasn’t born yet when I was fielding those hot shots off the house in a tiny backyard on Staten Island. And he wouldn’t have appreciated the regularity with which the Boston Red Sox lost to the Yankees. But other than that, I think he would have understood quite well what I was doing out there. It is, after all, the life he’s living right now.

When those red stitches are woven around your heart, you can’t stop playing ball. It doesn’t matter what kinds of bones are broken; the games must go on. Just hit me a grounder, please. I’m ready.

Cracking 'The Lineup' (One Sixty-Two: Day 18)

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 Eighteen: Jason Bay, New York Mets

There’s a neat show on the MSG Network titled “The Lineup,” in which a panel of experts debate the best players at each position in the history of New York baseball. Although Babe Ruth was the clear-cut choice for right field on last week’s show, he had plenty of esteemed company: Reggie Jackson, Darryl Strawberry, Willie Keeler and Roger Maris, to name a few. Tomorrow’s show takes on center field, and the debate here is an extraordinary one: Who do you pick from among Joe DiMaggio, Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle and Duke Snider? Whew.

But in left field, the candidates are not quite as impressive as at the other two outfield spots. Sure, you’ve got Hall of Famers Dave Winfield and Rickey Henderson, but they played most of their careers outside of New York. The top two choices are probably the Giants’ Monte Irvin, who would have had much more impressive career numbers had baseball not maintained a color barrier prior to 1947, and Zack Wheat, the Hall of Fame Brooklyn Dodgers outfielder.

As I said, though, no one really stands out. That’s what makes the Mets’ signing of slugging outfielder Jason Bay this past winter that much more interesting. Bay is 31 years old, and in six full seasons he has averaged more than 30 home runs and 100 runs batted in per season. If Bay averaged the same over another 10 years, he’d be both a Hall of Famer and the greatest New York left fielder of all time. Toss in a Mets’ championship and he might even have a retired number.

But such lofty goals can only be achieved one game at a time. So far, Jason Bay is starting off slowly, with just a home run and 14 runs driven in this year. The Canadian native is not exactly lighting up Citi Field quite yet. But the season is a marathon, and there is time to turn things around. When he does begin lifting balls out of the park, Bay might even brush up on his New York baseball history. He’ll find that there is plenty of room for new legends in left field.

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.