Master of Stories

            Most of the time, life’s moments seem to pass by in fast-forward. We find ourselves standing at the counter at 10 p.m., making the kids’ lunches and wondering where another day has gone. The list of things to do and places to be is ever-growing, and the social media overload vies for any free time we might have.

            In short, 21^st-century society is desperately lacking in downtime – in a chance to reclaim ourselves and reconnect with life beyond that to-do list. Perhaps that’s why, despite the BuzzFeeds and Snapchats and Twitters, many Americans have been reaching for podcasts and longform journalism in recent years. It’s as though they are saying, “Enough is enough,” and crying out for the power of deliberate storytelling.

            We all have known people in our family, friend group, school or workplace who knew how to tell a story. We have sat down and listened to these people share details and narratives that painted pictures in our minds. For my brother and me, our grandparents were the key storytellers in our early lives. Our dad’s mom told us about her Norwegian mother and Icelandic father immigrating to America and adjusting to this new world. Our mom’s mother regaled us with tales of her brother, who could light up a room, yet had passed away before we were born.

            Our dad’s father died when we were young, but not before he had told us all about his favorite baseball player as a child, Zack Wheat of the Brooklyn Dodgers. And our mother’s dad, who lived until we were in our 30s, filled our lives (and tape recorders) with tales of his brothers and sisters, minor-league baseball career, marriage to our grandmother and battles with alcoholism. He was our personal podcast before there were any, giving us stories we could file away and download when life called for it – stories that were by turns gritty, nostalgic and at times hilarious.

            Our grandparents, and their generation, are almost all gone now. But not completely. Sunday, an 88-year-old California man bid goodbye to his job as baseball’s premiere storyteller. His name is Vin Scully, and he called Dodgers ballgames for 67 years, from 1950 all the way to this past weekend. His longevity is unparalleled in baseball, but Scully’s gift was much more than sheer perseverance. He was the best storyteller in a sport flush with them, and he could make even a passing baseball fan feel enraptured in tales about players’ lives, American history and the unique quirks of baseball.

            There were a number of years in which Scully called World Series games for NBC, and many of us heard him add stamps of literary brilliance to dramatic October moments. For those who lived in Brooklyn and then Los Angeles, Scully’s voice was part of the soundtrack to spring and summer, guiding them through three score and seven years of Dodgers: from Jackie Robinson to Sandy Koufax to Maury Wills to Steve Garvey to Fernando Valenzuela to Mike Piazza to Clayton Kershaw to Corey Seager. And for those who used streaming or cable services to subscribe to every Major League Baseball broadcast, Scully’s voice could still be heard across the nation as he called Dodgers home games by himself in the broadcast booth.

            I listened to Scully’s final broadcast on Sunday, as he told stories of great Dodgers-Giants rivalries of old, while calling a game in which the San Francisco Giants defeated the Dodgers to earn a playoff berth. Scully had grown up rooting for the Giants, then spent more than three-quarters of his life working for the Dodgers. It was a perfect sendoff for the great broadcaster, and he signed off in class modest style, telling his listeners that he always needed them much more than they needed him.

            He also departed by paraphrasing a quote from Dr. Seuss, telling us not to be sad that it’s over, but rather to “smile because it happened.” With these words, Scully was connecting his career with the essence of storytelling. We do tell stories so that we can smile about the things that have happened, and this in turn helps assuage the losses we experience, as well as the relentless passage of time. These stories give us moments we can’t forget, and which we will pass along to those younger than us. Be it a grandparent, a teacher, a good friend or even a broadcaster, storytellers give us the chance to press pause on life, and savor what is richest and most beautiful about this time we get on Earth.

            Vin Scully is still very much alive, and he will keep sharing stories with his children, grandkids and great-grandchildren. He might even pop into a broadcast booth now and then. But wherever he goes, he will leave us all much richer for the time he spent with us, turning a nine-inning ballgame into the fabric of life.

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.

Woes of a Pinstriped Democrat

This November 5th feels a bit different for me than it has in recent years. Two years ago on this day, I drove around town buying as many different newspapers as I could in order to save all accounts of Barack Obama’s election the day before as 44th president of the United States. Last year, I did the same thing in order to save all accounts of the New York Yankees’ 27th world championship the day before against the Philadelphia Phillies.

But oh, what a difference a year or two makes. There was no reason to hit up the delis for newsprint today. Unless, of course, I want to chronicle the rise of Marco Rubio for my children. Or share the detailed accounts of the San Francisco Giants’ victory parade.

For a man who has found much inspiration from the slogans “Yes We Can” and “Let’s Go Yankees,” November 2010 is a rather downcast month. The Republicans are back in power and rarin’ to dismantle the president’s policies. And the Giants used rock-solid pitching to overpower a Texas Rangers team that had easily dismissed New York’s superstars a week earlier.

So what’s a Democrat in pinstripes to do?

I could join the crowd, turn on Obama and chide him for any number of reasons – from failing to turn around the runaway economic train in time for the midterm elections, to failing to communicate as effectively as he did while campaigning, to being too moderate/centrist/liberal/socialist (pick your label, then spin away). I could watch the cable stations, listen to the pundits, and let their words become my own.

As for the Yankees, I could blame manager Joe Girardi for his playoff pitching decisions. I could blame the overpriced hitters who didn’t hit in the postseason. Or I could chalk it up to a shortage of pitching, and hope that the teams spends the equivalent of a developing country’s entire GDP on Texas Rangers starter Cliff Lee.

I could complain, lower my head, and remind myself that fairy tales don’t last forever. I could retreat to cynicism, that safe harbor where we all can drop anchor and protect ourselves from ever having the audacity to hope. It’s an eerie place, that harbor, one where everyone hides inside a shell only to pop out every so often to shoot a spitball at somebody else.

I could go there, sure. But every April, when a new baseball season begins, I find myself unable to do such a thing as lose hope. I can’t ever stop believing in the Yankees, no matter what the lineup looks like. You simply can’t associate yourself with such a long, hard, unpredictable sport unless you’re willing to pour all the hope you’ve got into your team. The game will break your heart far more often than not, but the heartbreak is all worth it if you’ve followed those balls and strikes with passion.

Our nation’s government is exponentially more important than a baseball game. But the sport’s rhythms can serve as a guide for this cold November rain I’m feeling right now. When you’ve felt inspired and deeply moved by the words and ideas of an elected official, a few months of disappointment and defeat cannot be enough to turn your hopes into hardened bitterness. Like baseball, politics is a game of seasons, and when one season ends that simply means another is on its way. In between those seasons, we witness adjustments and reevaluations. We hear about new game plans, new supporting players, and new energy.

There have been very few politicians in my 39 years who have inspired me to become a better person through their words and leadership. Two years ago, I voted for one of those select few. I have hung my hat on President Obama, and that hat is staying right where it is. He is retooling now in the White House, just as the Yankees are doing in the South Bronx. The next season will differ from the previous one. The road map toward change looks different now, but that’s a result of the democratic process.

I stopped into a deli today and checked out the front pages: A few stories about the Tea Party. A feature on Conan O’Brien. Obituaries on Sparky Anderson, the legendary baseball manager. The post-election stories explained quite clearly that our political landscape looks much different than it did two days ago. But the remaining stories reminded me that life has gone on. There is still a country to lead, and still a need for inspiring guidance and encouragement.

This is not a time for quitting. Not for the president, and not for those who have placed their trust in him. You pick your head up, you look ahead, and you keep hoping. Can we at least do that? Yes, of course we can.

A Misplaced Moniker (One Sixty-Two: Day 126)

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-Six: Homer Bailey, Cincinnati Reds

I have written in the past about the temptations of fantasy baseball, and the ways in which I’ve fought the urge to spend hours on make-believe lineups of baseball players. I find it fun spending a few minutes each day on a diversion such as this, and to let my mind escape for a bit. But fantasy baseball only benefits me when I give it a little drawer in my life, rather than a walk-in closet.

This week, I probably leaned a little more toward the closet metaphor than the drawer. Maybe it was all that rain, or maybe it was just my desire to elude two young girls who really need to go back to school. Whatever it was, I spent more time tinkering with this virtual lineup than I have at any point this year. And when I tinker, I tend to overthink the whole thing, and make player moves that don’t really make sense. Then I get frustrated.

Now if you’re looking for a new pitcher for your fantasy baseball team, one universal rule should be that you never select a pitcher whose name is Homer. It just doesn’t compute that you’d get help from a pitcher whose name bespeaks the very thing you least want him to produce while on the mound. So really, who would pick up a guy with that name?

I would, for one. It’s been six years since the Cincinnati Reds selected David “Homer” Bailey with the seventh pick of the amateur draft. In his four years as a big-leaguer, Bailey has shown flashes of brilliance followed by significant struggles. He’s walked a lot of batters, given up loads of runs, and won just 15 games against 15 losses. These are not the results the Reds were hoping for when they drafted the young man out of high school.

But in August 2010, Homer Bailey is still only 24 years old. And in his first two starts since returning from the disabled list this month, Bailey gave up just one run over 13 innings. He won twice and helped the Reds maintain their lead in the National League Central division. So, with the offensively inconsistent San Francisco Giants playing the Reds yesterday, I went ahead and added Bailey to my team.

At some point in the afternoon, I looked at my computer and noticed that ol’ Homer was winning 11-3. Sounds like a good pick, I thought, then went on with my day. When I checked my e-mail during the evening, I stole a glance at the baseball scores. The fact that the Reds still won didn’t mean anything to me. The final score of 12-11 did.

About the only thing Homer Bailey didn’t give up yesterday was a home run. But there were plenty of hits and walks, enough to let the Giants back into the game. After Bailey left with an 11-5 lead, his teammates promptly gave up six more runs and left him unable to earn a win. It was back to the drawing board for Homer. His odyssey toward greatness continues, very much unfinished.

As for me, I dropped Bailey from my fantasy baseball team as soon as I saw the score. I didn’t pick up anyone else to replace him, because I realized that I’d been spending too much time thinking about teams that don’t really exist. So I sat down to write, and read my book, and talked with my parents.

Homer Bailey has a lot of talent, and I hope he can navigate his way to stardom someday. But the next time I find myself overthinking the fantasy baseball stuff, I’m going to pick a pitcher with a nickname like Big Train or Rocket. Something that denotes speed, efficiency and dominance. I’ll leave Homer to the hitters. And the epic journeys.

Broomsticks & Bobby (One Sixty-Two: Day 123)

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-Three: Edgar Renteria, San Francisco Giants (via Bobby Thomson)

In 1951, my grandparents lived with my mom in an apartment on Victory Boulevard in Tompkinsville, a working-class neighborhood on the North Shore of Staten Island. Their landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Nellis, lived above them and rooted passionately for the Brooklyn Dodgers. My grandparents gave them a hard time in September of ’51, as the New York Giants stormed back from 13½ games back to force a three-game playoff with the Dodgers for the National League pennant.

On October 3rd, when Bobby Thomson hit a three-run home run in the ninth inning of the deciding Game 3, my grandparents couldn’t help themselves. They picked up a broomstick and started banging on the ceiling. They, like almost all of New York, had been following this pennant race closely. Thomson’s home run had them whooping and hollering, while it had their landlords sobbing. Neither landlords nor tenants were alone in their reactions.

Bobby Thomson died a week ago at age 86, and he spent a lot of time over the last 59 years of his life talking about that home run. Not many people know what it’s like to electrify the world with one swing. But Thomson knew.

There have been players who’ve experienced the thrill of ending a postseason series with a game-winning hit. Bill Mazeroski and Joe Carter have clinched World Series titles with home runs, while Aaron Boone has, like Thomson, launched his team into the Fall Classic with one. Luis Gonzalez, Edgar Renteria and Gene Larkin have clinched world championships for their teams with singles. All of these hits are among baseball’s most exciting moments ever.

But when you’re talking about New York City in 1951, it’s a bit different from Minnesota in 1991, Miami in ’97 or Phoenix in 2001. There has never been a more fascinating setting for baseball than Gotham in the 1950s, as countless sports writers and historians have explained through books and articles over the years. And to think that of the three New York baseball teams, one was already in the World Series in October ’51, while the other two were playing a three-game series in order to get there and face the Yankees. That’s a level of excitement never experienced before, and never since.

I met Bobby Thomson once, while covering the unveiling of a postage stamp that commemorated his famous home run. Thomson seemed humble, reserved, and still in love with the game of baseball. He seemed to understand just what his “Shot Heard Round the World” meant to people, but he also surely knew that he would have never gotten the chance to hit such a historic homer were it not for so much amazing baseball played that season by Giants and Dodgers players alike.

To the people of New York, Thomson’s homer brought tears of joy, tears of sadness, screams of all kinds, and pandemonium in the city that never sleeps. It led to broomstick-knocks from the apartment below you, as your tenants shouted with joy while you covered your face to hide from the truth.

Bobby Thomson brought the frenzy of 1950s New York City baseball to its nirvana. He delivered it, savored it, and heard about it for six decades afterward. It was the kind of day that you don’t mind reliving for the rest of your life. Or telling your grandkids about. It was, most assuredly, the kind of day you remember forever.

What to Pack (One Sixty-Two: Day 114)

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 Fourteen: Pat Burrell, San Francisco Giants

My mother-in-law has taken some flack throughout the years for her packing habits. Her vacation prep consists of folding up half of her wardrobe and stashing it in her minivan. She’s been known to pack her car full of plastic storage bins – the kind normally used for holiday ornaments – with loads of shirts, pants and enough shoes for a small village inside those bins. This year, her daughters counted 21 pairs of Capris packed for a 14-day vacation.

My wife and I joke with her mom about this, but a closer look at our own suitcases shows that we’ve got our own issues with overpacking. We typically stash twice as many clothes as we need in our duffel bags, and we never seem to change our ways, even as we find ourselves lifting piles of untouched clothing from our bags back into the dresser.

It’s human nature to want to make sure you’ve got enough for a trip, even if that means overpreparing. Of course, it’s also human nature to forget things. We may pack six more sweaters than we need, yet forget to bring along our toothbrush in the process. Even with long checklists, we still find it hard to pack perfectly.

There can be packing problems in sports, too. A team bent on winning at all costs can stock up so much talent that the club loses the critical element of team chemistry along the way. The 1994 North Carolina men’s basketball team was one of the most talented college basketball teams in recent memory, but the club had so many go-to guys on the court that players struggled to figure out their roles; in turn, the team was upset early in that year’s NCAA Tournament. The 2005 New York Yankees had more home-run hitters than most championship teams, but the Bronx Bombers didn’t have enough table-setters to get on base for the power hitters and do the little things that every strong offense needs. As a result, the Yankees lost in the first round of that year’s playoffs.

This year’s San Francisco Giants have been trying to add some offense in recent weeks to supplement their excellent pitching and remain in the National League West divisional race. But in trying to do this, the Giants have placed right-handed sluggers Pat Burrell and Jose Guillen in the corner outfield spots. While these guys might help the Giants score some runs, they could actually cost more runs than they produce because of their defensive deficiencies. ESPN.com’s Rob Neyer pointed out that Burrell and Guillen are two of the worst defensive outfielders in the game. In a closely-matched division, run-prevention becomes at least as important as run-scoring.

In trying to bolster their hitting, the Giants may have overpacked, and forgotten something essential along the way. If so, they’ll find their season ending by late September. By that time, the San Francisco players will have a lot of time available for vacations. I would just suggest that if they do go away, they avoid those plastic storage bins. You’ve got to pack light eventually.

Mr. Unlucky (One Sixty-Two: Day 97)

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

Day Ninety-Seven: Matt Cain, San Francisco Giants

Cain is able. He just can’t catch a break.

Each year, without fail, a handful of starting pitchers are unlucky. These are the guys who put together great seasons, only to see their teammates fail to score runs almost every time they’re on the mound. This season, pitchers such as Roy Oswalt of the Houston Astros, Felix Hernandez of the Seattle Mariners and Johan Santana of the New York Mets have suffered from dismal run support, and their low win totals reflect that.

Out in San Francisco, though, the Giants have a young starting pitcher who can beat anyone’s woeful tale of low run support. His name is Matt Cain, he’s 25 years old, and he throws a fastball that can blow a hole through a wall. In his five full seasons, Cain has developed quite nicely from a thrower into a pitcher. But Cain arrived in San Francisco at the tail end of the Barry Bonds years, and his Giants have not yet built a formidable offensive club in the post-Bonds era. Hence, Cain has received very little hitting support throughout his career. To put it in perspective, his career earned-run average of 3.47 is ninth among active pitchers. And yet, his career won-loss record is 52-59.

That’s right – he gives up three and a half runs per nine innings, and he loses more games than he wins. By comparison, Andy Pettitte owns a 3.87 career earned-run average – .40 points higher than Cain’s. And yet, in his first five seasons in the majors, Pettitte had a won-loss record of 81-46. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Pettitte was pitching for the Yankees during those years. Indeed, Pettitte has never had a losing record in his career, even going 14-11 with a 4.70 ERA in 1999. By comparison, Matt Cain went 7-16 with a 3.65 ERA in 2007 and 8-14 with a 3.76 ERA in ’08.

Despite a slightly improved offense this year, Cain is still not getting the run support he surely craves. His ERA is at 3.14, but his record stands at just 8-8. The Giants as a whole have such strong pitching this year that they’re in second place, just behind the Padres, in the National League West. As Saturday’s trade deadline nears, Matt Cain is surely hoping to see his team pick up a potent bat from another team. Should they do so, and should rookie catcher Buster Posey continue hitting the cover off the ball, the Giants might be able to give Matt Cain the one thing he undoubtedly craves more than his own victory total – a trip to the playoffs.

In the October spotlight, Cain would have the chance to introduce himself to the scores of fans who don’t know him from Adam. His own Giants fans and teammates know him quite well, though. And they’d like nothing more than to ride that golden right arm into the promised land.

Babes & Busters (One Sixty-Two: Day 79)

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-Nine: Buster Posey, San Francisco Giants

This year, the National League has one of its most impressive rookie classes ever. From the outfield to the pitcher’s mound to the backstop, rookies are playing crucial roles on several big-league teams. America’s modern youth sports system expects young athletes to specialize in one sport early on, and to play that sport all year long. So when a 22-year-old arrives in the big leagues today, he’s a lot more experienced and ready to contribute than the typical rookie of previous generations. This year’s rookies are likely to play deciding roles in determining who wins the league’s pennant. Come November, it will be awfully tough to determine who this season’s NL Rookie of the Year should be.

Despite their enormous talent, there’s one problem with most of these talented National League rookies: Their first names are too dull. There’s Stephen Strasburg, Jason Heyward, Michael Stanton, Matt Latos, Mike Leake, Pedro Alvarez. Jaime Garcia, Ike Davis. All right, Ike isn’t a name you’d see every day, but the rest are just so ordinary. Where are the nicknames? Ever since the early days of pro baseball, nicknames have been such a colorful part of the game. Where are they now?

Until these youngsters find a more colorful moniker, my Rookie of the Year vote goes for the 23-year-old who catches for the San Francisco Giants and answers to the name of Buster. His given name is Gerald Posey, but this Georgia native is the one rookie who’s following that time-honored baseball tradition of grabbing hold of a cool nickname. Buster Posey: Once you hear the name, you can’t forget it.

Creative nicknames add to a ballplayer’s mythic lore, and offer the sportswriters more color to work with when describing the players’ exploits. Back in the old days, when sports fans learned about their athletes from newspaper articles rather than SportsCenter highlights, these nicknames helped paint a picture of the player in each reader’s mind.

Who needed a Lawrence Berra when you could call the Yankee catcher “Yogi”? And why call the outfielder plain ol’ Joe Jackson when “Shoeless Joe” sounded so much better? The great home-run hitter’s name was George Ruth, but how ‘bout just calling him “Babe”? And on it goes, from James “Cool Papa” Bell to Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown to Joseph “Ducky” Medwick. And that’s not even counting all the men named Lefty or Red or Whitey or Hack or Goose or Smokey.

According to the San Jose Mercury News, Posey’s father, Demp, was called “Buster” as a kid. When he had his own son, Demp named his child Gerald Dempsey Posey III, but chose to call the kid by the same nickname he had known as a child. "It stuck with him," Demp Posey told the Mercury News. "It's just kind of him. He's just ol' Buster."

So let Stephen Strasburg strike out the world, and let Jason Heyward hit home runs to the moon. As for me, I’m voting for the rookie who’s hitting .333, driving in runs and leading the defense for San Francisco. He’s a gamer, and he’s a Buster. They named him just right.

The Journey Begins (One Sixty-Two: Day 76)

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-Six: Mike Murray, Arizona League Giants

We take a break today from the big-league players in order to drop down a few levels. Today’s focus is a Rookie League player fresh out of college. Mike Murray is not a Major Leaguer yet – give him a couple of years. But Murray is a former student of mine, and he’s playing professional baseball, and that’s worth writing about.

As a junior, Mike was an active participant in our English class at Westfield (N.J.) High, often voicing his opinions on the quality of books I selected (thumbs-up for The Great Gatsby, thumbs-down for The Bluest Eye). When I had him again as a senior, Mike helped brighten a first-period English class by starting class discussions while others were still yawning and rubbing their eyes. It’s not often that you have a student for two straight years, but in those two years I realized that Mike was a natural leader. It was no surprise, then, when I learned that he was a catcher. An All-State and All-American one, at that.

In the spring of his senior year, Mike chose college over the amateur baseball draft, and he spent four years studying and playing ball at Wake Forest University. As a senior, he co-captained the Demon Deacons and hit .345, driving in 53 runs in 54 games. This past spring, Mike signed a contract to play in the San Francisco Giants’ minor-league system. He’s got a .333 batting average so far, playing for the Arizona League Giants in sunny Scottsdale, Ariz.

You hear stories, time and again, about the challenges of adjusting to the minor-league lifestyle. The travel, the down time, the expectations, the loneliness. As Mike Murray begins his minor-league journey out West, I’m sure he’s got plenty of support from his family and friends. But for what it’s worth, may he also know that there’s a high school English teacher back East thinking of him, and wishing him a summer filled with joy, good health, strong throws to second and doubles in the gap.

The Mound-Walk (One Sixty-Two: Day 29)

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-Nine: Tim Lincecum, San Francisco Giants

”Daddy, can you grape-dance?” Chelsea asked me.

We were watching Michael Jackson’s This is It, so I think she meant break-dance. As the girls and I viewed the film’s footage, we saw Jackson rehearse for the concerts he did not live to perform. As we watched, it was difficult to believe that a human being could perform some of the moves Jackson pulled off on stage. There were times when the man seemed to be floating, and other times when his arms and legs seemed to be operating on springs. And this was at age 50.

No, Chelsea, I cannot break-dance. Although I used to practice the moonwalk in front of my mirror, with little success. Some people, however, do move with a kinesthetic brilliance that you can only stare at in awe. Jackson was one such person, and hence his reputation as one of the great showmen in the history of entertainment.

Over on the diamond, the best show in baseball takes place every five days wherever the San Francisco Giants are playing. It starts when a 5-foot-11, 170-pound right-hander stands atop 10 inches of dirt and starts throwing 98-mile-per-hour fastballs. Tim Lincecum, the best pitcher in baseball, has been called “The Freak,” which is a baseball way of saying that he does things no one else can do.

As he kicks his left leg, Lincecum’s head tilts toward first base, his left arm flies up in the air and his right arm rears back. His left leg follows with an enormous, 7½-foot stride toward home plate. His right arm then whips around overhead, unleashing rawhide and stitches with uncommon fury.

At 25 years of age, Tim Lincecum has a career record of 45-17, and has won two straight Cy Young Awards. He has given up fewer than three runs per nine innings pitched in his career and has struck out 10 batters per every nine innings. Now 5-0 this year, Lincecum has been even more unhittable and has struck out an even higher percentage of batters than his career average.

Lincecum, like Michael Jackson before him, has a lean and flexible physique that can bend in ways most of our bodies cannot. And, like an early-1980s Jackson, Lincecum appears to be still rising toward his highest levels of brilliance. If the past few years were his Off the Wall, perhaps the next few will be his Thriller. Wherever that electric delivery takes him, Lincecum can be sure that baseball fans will be watching. “The Freak” might lack the regal ring of “The King of Pop,” but the man is a dancer nonetheless. Call his show the mound-walk. Without the white glove.

Pitchers & Pension Plans (One Sixty-Two: Day 28)

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-Eight: Livan Hernandez, Washington Nationals

We had a pair of financial advisors over the house tonight, to begin talking about how we might manage our money when we actually have some. During the course of our conversation, the advisors asked, as they do all their clients, when Amy and I would like to retire.

We had to laugh at that. Retirement couldn’t seem more distant or impossible than it does at this point. But we understood the reason for the question, as these gentlemen were there to help us start thinking ahead, rather than just in the moment. All we could do was take a guess about a preferred retirement age, based on what we might like in an ideal world. I would imagine that’s all they were asking.

Retirement doesn’t come at an early age for public-school teachers to begin with, and in 21st-century America it might come quite a bit later than it did for previous generations. We’ll have to wait and see. As for baseball players, well, their career arc is quite different than that of teachers. A successful pro career can leave many players set for life by their late 30s, and ready to either retire or begin a second career with no real need for additional income. As for those who do not make many millions, they too will be forced to leave the game at a young age, only to find themselves entering another area of baseball (coaching, front office, scouting) or a different career altogether.

I would have guessed, a couple years back, that Livan Hernandez would be retired by now. Maybe not in 1997, when as a 22-year-old rookie he led the Florida Marlins to their first world championship. And definitely not in 2000, when at 25 he led the San Francisco Giants to the playoffs with 17 wins. Not in 2003, either, when a 28-year-old Hernandez managed to win 15 games for a Montreal Expos team that scored fewer runs than it allowed. Hernandez’s reputation was that of a pitcher who could throw a ton of innings, and who could usually keep his team in the game for as long as he was out there.

But during each of the last two years, Hernandez seemed to lose his steam quite steadily. Pitching for four different teams from 2008-09, Hernandez gave up just under six runs per nine innings, and he lost more games than he won. His weight seemed to be an issue, and he just couldn’t seem to keep runners off base. It seemed as though teams were signing Hernandez based on reputation, hoping he’d recapture some of that past glory instead of coughing up a few runs in the first.

There are a lot of players in their mid-to-upper-30s who’ve been forced into retirement recently because of a terrible economy and a movement toward youth in baseball. But because he shows up to pitch every five days and never seems to get tired, Livan Hernandez found a job again this spring. And as a starter for the Washington Nationals, Hernandez has quietly strung together as good a month and a half as almost any pitcher in baseball so far this year. With a 1.62 earned-run average, he is keeping his team in every game he pitches. He’s not striking guys out anymore, but he’s also not giving up a lot of hits. And, to top it off, the typically awful Nationals are winning some games, including four of the ones Hernandez has started.

So at age 35, with tens of millions in earnings, Livan Hernandez is not yet a retiree. No need for him to dip into that pension plan yet. Just get him on the mound, and don’t worry about pitch counts. The man’s in the bonus, and he’s pitching like a kid again. Living in the moment.