Opportunities Missed, Opportunities Gained

            I have a long history of missed opportunities at Yankee Stadium. There was that game against the Royals that my brother and I decided to skip back in 1996, only to miss a walk-off, two-run homer by Darryl Strawberry. There was the playoff game against the Mariners in 2001, when I landed tickets only to fall ill the day of the game and miss it entirely, including a home run by my favorite player, Bernie Williams.

There was the game against the Red Sox back in 1993, when my friend Stew and I drove to Yankee Stadium to see then-Red Sox stars Roger Clemens and Wade Boggs take on the Yankees only to realize when we got there that Stew’s automatic car window wouldn’t close on the driver’s side. He said there was no way he was leaving his car window open in a city parking lot, so we drove home.             And, to top it all, there was that Billy Joel concert at the Stadium back in 1990, when Amy and I had field-level seats but got caught in so much traffic that we arrived in time for the second encore. We stood on the field and sang along to the final three songs.

            When you go to events, you’re bound to miss some things. I obviously have. But I don’t get to Yankee Stadium as much anymore, so there’s not much room for any regrets. If I go to a game, I stay until the end and enjoy every minute. That was the plan last weekend, when I went to the big ballpark in the Bronx with my family.

            My mother had a tough summer health-wise, and we’re all thrilled that she’s feeling much better. So we decided to celebrate her birthday with a game at the Stadium. We arrived in our upper-deck seats behind home plate in time for the Saturday matinee, with six of us excited to watch the game together – my mom, my brother, my wife, our two girls, and myself.

            By the time the first inning had ended, the game was one hour old. The Yankees held a 3-2 lead in this sloppy contest, and our younger daughter was already wondering when the game would be over. But the girls settled down and started to enjoy the details of this ballpark, from the foul poles to the flags atop the stadium to the groundskeepers dancing to the Village People’s “Y.M.C.A.” Unfortunately, the Yankees and their opponent, the Oakland A’s, had not come ready to play their best baseball, and they dragged a 5-5 tie into extra innings.

            Our oldest daughter got caught up in the excitement of the late-innings drama, and we hung in there through 12 innings. When the 13^th inning began, we’d been in Yankee Stadium for five and a half hours. Everyone was hungry, and the girls were restless. By the time we’d made our way down to the lower level, the A’s had started the 13^th inning with three home runs, taking a 9-5 lead and sending us out of the park with no regrets. True, the Yankees would have last licks in the bottom of the 13^th, but we had seen enough for one day.

            We took the D train downtown, and got off on West 4^th Street to stop for dinner before driving home. As we walked toward the Italian restaurant we’d chosen for dinner, I passed another restaurant that had its windows wide open on this beautiful evening. As I glanced at the tables and diners to my left, I noticed a wide-screen TV behind them. And on that TV, I saw a live shot of Yankee Stadium. Atop that image was a score: A’s 9, Yankees 9.

            Say what? My mouth dropped. I turned to my mom and told her what I’d seen. She called out to the others, who found another restaurant window in time to stand on the sidewalk and watch the Yankees score yet another run in the 14^th inning to win by a score of 10-9. We stood beside a man who’d left the game himself, back in the eighth inning, and he shared high-fives with us after the winning run crossed home plate.

            Sigh.

So yes, the Yankees did execute the ultimate comeback while we were cruising along an underground tunnel in Manhattan. And yes, we missed it all. Add it to the list, right?

            But I have to say, I have a different spin on those missed opportunities at age 41. Sure, I wasn’t there to see the end of the game, and it was chaotic and dramatic and wonderful for the home fans. But remember, this day was never really about a baseball game. It was about a family celebrating a birthday, a mother, and good health. The only missed opportunity would have been to not go at all.

            And that’s how it’s always been. The day my brother and I missed the Strawberry home run? We actually spent that afternoon hanging out together at the Jersey Shore. The time I missed that playoff game because I was ill? I got to relax at home with my wife, and she pampered her sick husband. The day that Stew and I missed a game because of his window malfunction? We ended up taking another car to enjoy a nice dinner together that night.

            The Billy Joel concert? Well, that just stunk however you look at it. No silver linings there.

            But last weekend, as the Yankees gathered around home plate to celebrate their win, my family stepped into a fabulous restaurant on Houston Street to cap our day together. The girls had perked up, they were hanging out with their uncle and grandmother, and my mom was telling stories. The pizza arrived at our table, and we dug in hungrily.

            It was a success, however you look at it. There are no regrets about quality time with the people you love. And hey – somehow in the midst of it all, our baseball team had won a ballgame. Go Yankees. Go Mom.

Dollars & Dust (One Sixty-Two: Day 154)

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

Day One Hundred Fifty-Four: Jose Bautista, Toronto Blue Jays

She called me at work today with one of the major announcements of her 5-year-old life.

“Hi Daddy,” Chelsea said on the phone. “I lost my first tooth.”

Whoa! And the crowd roared its approval. Or, rather, the Daddy roared in excitement. When I saw her later, she opened wide and showed me a gap in the bottom row of teeth. Chelsea said it was much easier to chew now, and that she looked forward to munching on carrots again.

At night, she tucked her little plastic tooth holder under the pillow, and asked me assorted questions about how the Tooth Fairy operates as I sang her to sleep. “Magic,” I kept whispering, “magic.” My wife, meanwhile, was out securing a bag of fairy dust to place in that plastic holder, along with some cold, hard cash. It was a good day to be 5 and toothless.

Magic. It happens, you know; don’t lose faith just because you’ve got your wisdom teeth. For the first six years of his major-league career, Jose Bautista never hit more than 16 home runs in a season, never drove in more than 63 runs and never posted an average higher than .254. This year, in his second full season as a Toronto Blue Jay, Bautista has mashed his way to the title of baseball’s home run king. Today, in a 1-0 win against the Mariners, Bautista blasted his 50th home run of the season. He’s driven in 115 runs, his batting average is over .260, and his slugging percentage is well over .600. There has been no breakthrough in 2010 quite like that of the 29-year-old Bautista.

You can say all you want about the guy tweaking his batting stance, or working out more in the off-season. As for me, I’m going with the fairy dust, the baseball ghosts, and the unexplainable magic that turns a utility player into an MVP candidate.

Jose Bautista lost all his baby teeth long ago, so there are no dollar bills under his pillow tonight. But after home run number 50, the Blue Jays slugger can rest assured that there will be some very large checks headed his way this winter. The reward for losing a tooth may be dollars and dust, but the prize for becoming a superstar is one that can be deposited, saved and invested.

I Still Do (One Sixty-Two: Day 147)

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

Day One Hundred Forty-Seven: Felix Hernandez, Seattle Mariners (via Ken Griffey Jr.)

My baseball memories of Autumn 1995 are dominated by the image of delirious Seattle Mariners baseball players diving atop Ken Griffey Jr. on an evening in early October. They tackled Griffey because, in the bottom of the 11th inning, his slide home had defeated the New York Yankees in the deciding game of the very first American League Division Series. I remember the sinking feeling that came with watching Edgar Martinez lace a Jack McDowell pitch into the left-field corner, and the shouts that followed the sight of both Joey Cora and Griffey dashing around the bases to claim Seattle’s first-ever playoff series. For a Yankees fan who’d gone 14 years without seeing his team in the playoffs, it was a sorry sight.

But that memory, dismal as it may be, is about the only thing that went wrong in my life during that fall a decade and a half ago. This was, after all, the September in which Amy and I were married. Fifteen years ago today, she walked down the aisle with her father and we said a couple of I do’s. Fifteen years ago, we danced and hugged and smiled for the cameras in a glorious celebration of life and commitment. It’s hard to believe that it’s been this long, but life does chug along pretty quickly – sometimes, it seems, about as quickly as that Ken Griffey sprint in October 1995.

After 15 years, I am amazed at how many things I’m still learning about my wife. I’m proud of how resilient we’ve been in working through challenges together. I’m impressed by the passion and effort we’ve given to parenting. I’m thrilled about our mutual willingness to try new journeys, both together and independently. And, more than anything, I’m fascinated by the ways in which my love for her deepens with each year.

If you take away all the team allegiance stuff, there really isn’t a much better sight in baseball history than Griffey’s dash home in ’95. The perfect ballplayer made the perfect run and the perfect slide, then flashed the most perfect smile baseball had seen in a long time. I watched it again today, and as I viewed it I didn’t feel much in the way of Yankee-fan sadness. Instead, it reminded me of the fact that I had watched that play in the bedroom of my new apartment, folding clothes next to a woman to whom I had just been married a few weeks earlier. It wasn’t the play I thought of; it was Amy. She was there with me, that day and the next day and thousands more days after.

Fifteen years. Wow. Ken Griffey has retired now, and Felix Hernandez is the perfect player in Seattle these days. The Yankees have made the playoffs nearly every year since then, and both teams have provided thrills aplenty.

And that’s all just fine. But for me today, 15 years means just one thing: I still do, honey. Today, tomorrow, and forever.

A Gray Day (One Sixty-Two: Day 135)

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 Thirty-Five: Brian Bannister, Kansas City Royals

I was just washing my hands in a museum bathroom. I didn’t expect anything special out of that. But when I glanced in the mirror, I got a glimpse of what I’d been dreading.

There they were, clear as day: Two gray hairs.

White, to be more precise. Both to the right of my forehead, where the hairline meets the temple. Even for a guy taking a quick glance at himself in the bathroom, this was unmistakable.

I stepped away from the mirror, left the room, and walked over to our friend Elizabeth, whose family was at the museum with us. I asked her if she’d ever found any gray in her own hair. Elizabeth, who is younger than me, said indeed, she had many. She explained that her husband had specifically asked that she not dye her hair and leave those gray hairs just as they are. Elizabeth and her husband, Brent, are two of the most compassionate individuals you’ll find on the face of the earth. So the fact that Brent found beauty in Elizabeth’s gray hair and that she seemed so accepting of her grayness was of no surprise to me.

And then Elizabeth showed us her gray hair, and as Amy and I looked, it was shocking to me how beautiful it really was. Her brown hair dominated, but the occasional strands of gray blended in with the expressionistic splash of a Jackson Pollock painting. I told her that I couldn’t imagine straight brown hair looking better than that. Amy agreed.

So as I welcome these flecks of white to my own brown hair, I think of Elizabeth and the promise that can come with this “crown of splendor,” as the Bible calls gray hair. It’s true that I’m not a kid anymore – heck, I have watched Brian Bannister pitch for the Kansas City Royals, and I’ve also watched Brian’s father, Floyd, pitch for the Seattle Mariners. So I’ve been around for a while.”Let’s face it, Daddy,” my 8-year-old said to me on the way home. “You are getting old.” Thanks, kid. Much appreciated.

Getting older has a lot of benefits, patience with your oh-too-honest children being one of them. Right now, though, I’d like to think about the ways in which age equals beauty. I don’t have long hair like Elizabeth, so I’ll look to embrace more of the George Clooney gray-hair look.

I checked the mirror again when I got home. Still there. Deep breath. Exhale. You can do this, kid. Old kid. Old guy. You can do it just fine. Gray is the new black.

Here I Come to Save the Day (One Sixty-Two: Day 125)

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-Five: Ryan Franklin, St. Louis Cardinals

There is a small rack of batteries at the front of an aisle in a Staples store on Route 22 in Springfield, N.J. It’s nothing you’d notice while on your way to make copies or buy a three-ring binder. But on a drizzly summer evening, this little rack held a saving grace for a man wearing gym clothes and holding a driver’s manual in his hand.

I kept clicking the car alarm sensor, and it just would not beep. I opened the plastic sensor case, took out the tiny battery, and placed it back in the case. Still no beep. Searching for another way to disarm the alarm, I unlocked the car door and grabbed the driver’s manual out of the glove compartment. Ten minutes later, with the alarm blaring throughout the Bally Fitness parking lot, I gave up that idea. I soon set out on foot through a few neighboring lots alongside hectic Route 22.

As I reached Staples, a red-shirted employee directed me to that rack of batteries. It was here that I found the one-inch-long alkaline battery I needed. A few minutes later, I had disarmed my car and could drive it home. Two dollars, 17 cents and a less-than-scenic walk – that was all it took to save the day.

A few years ago, there was a generally mediocre pitcher toiling in the Cincinnati Reds’ bullpen. His name was Ryan Franklin, and his career numbers were the kind you’d easily flip past while looking through a baseball magazine. In the 2004-05 seasons, for instance, Franklin’s combined record with the Seattle Mariners was 12-31. But as the St. Louis Cardinals prepared for the 2007 season, they needed some help in their bullpen. So they spent a few dollars on Franklin, and signed him up in the hope that he could turn things around.

After almost four seasons in St. Louis, Ryan Franklin has given the Cardinals far more than a little battery power. He has risen up the ranks to team closer, and has saved 76 games for the team over the past three years. Last season, Franklin earned a spot on the National League’s All-Star team. This year, he’s striking out five times as many batters as he’s walking.

A closer’s most important job is to preserve a win in the final inning. When he does this, he’s credited with saving the game. When Franklin takes the mound in search of a save, he – like the rest of his teammates – dresses in red. Same as the guys at Staples. And like a battery you never knew you’d need, Ryan Franklin has hopped off the shelf, shut down the alarms, and made the ride home a lot smoother for the fans in St. Louis.

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.

New Stars (One Sixty-Two: Day 85)

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-Five: Evan Meek, Pittsburgh Pirates

For me, one of the coolest things about baseball’s All-Star Game is seeing a virtually unknown player announced during the pregame player introductions. At least once a year, a player comes out of nowhere to produce a great first half and earn a spot on either the National League or American League team. As a result, that young man earns the right to line up, tip his cap, and stand alongside superstars.

When I was younger, I collected the entire set of each year’s Topps baseball cards, as well as the free Yankees cards I got at Burger King. Still, I didn’t know every player – and even if I’d heard of the player’s name and seen his baseball card photo, I might not have watched him play on the field before. So in 1981, for instance, when Cleveland Indians catcher Bo Diaz suited up for the All-Star Game, he was a newcomer to me as well as to most of America. Same for Jim Presley, the Seattle Mariners third baseman who earned a spot in 1986. And Mike Sharperson, the Los Angeles Dodgers second baseman who was named in 1992. And Lance Carter, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays relief pitcher, who was an All-Star in 2003.

This year, the out-of-nowhere award goes to Pirates reliever Evan Meek. I had first heard of Meek a few weeks ago, when the fantasy-baseball sites started crowing about his great work as a middle reliever. But I’ve never seen him pitch. This is Meek’s second full year in the majors, and thus far in 2010 he has a 1.11 earned-run average in 40 games pitched, to go with nearly a strikeout per inning. After years in the minor leagues, the guy has dazzled this season for a losing team, and it did not go unnoticed.

So when he stepped forward during the All-Star introductions to tip his cap, Meek was this year’s unknown. At 6 feet tall and 225 pounds, he looked like a man who had built up strong legs in order to power himself off the pitching rubber. Unfortunately, no one got to see Meek pitch on Tuesday, as he was not used in the game. But if he keeps it up, perhaps Meek will be back for another try next July.

I’ll be keeping my eyes out for a chance to spot Meek on the mound, maybe during some baseball highlights or perhaps even in a televised Pirates game. Until then, I’ll add Evan Meek to the list of ballplayers who got that unexpected chance to step into baseball’s midsummer spotlight. He tipped his cap, smiled for the fans, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the greatest baseball players in the world. It’s not a bad way to spend a summer’s night. Not bad at all.

I Want to Win (One Sixty-Two: Day 78)

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-Eight: Roy Oswalt, Houston Astros

“I’m going to take my talents to South Beach,” LeBron James said. “I think it will give me the best opportunity to win, and win for multiple years.”

For a man with all the money he could ever need, the focus turns to winning. So as the fans in Cleveland fume, and some even turn to burning his No. 23 jersey, James leaves his hometown for the sunny skies of Miami, and the opportunity to play with Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh under the tutelage of Pat Riley. It’s a winning combination, one that will likely bring these men some NBA titles.

Ho-hum. The rich get richer – again. What’s new?

We see it in sports all the time – players who’ve made more money than most of us could ever dream of choose a franchise with a tradition of winning over another that lacks said tradition. They search for the best chance to claim a title, and leave their old team without much hope. LeBron James did this last night, but he’s not the first. Nor will he be the last.

Roy Oswalt is 32 years old, and he’s in his 10th season pitching for the Houston Astros organization that drafted him. Oswalt has won 143 games for the Astros, one shy of the franchise record for career wins. Oswalt’s right arm helped lead Houston to its only World Series appearance in 2005, and to playoff appearances in ’04 and ‘01. But in 2010, the Astros are well on their way to their third losing season in the past four years. And Oswalt, who has earned approximately $75 million during his 10 years in Houston, is ready to leave the Astros behind.

It happens every year. Oswalt won’t be the only big-name baseball player traded this month – Seattle Mariners pitcher Cliff Lee could be traded as soon as today. But like LeBron James, who played seven seasons with the Cavaliers team that drafted him, Oswalt wants to win now. That means leaving behind the franchise that had been his home.

So if you’ve got a No. 44 Astros jersey, wear it today. Tomorrow, it might be out of date. Someday, after he retires, the Astros might bring Oswalt back and retire that number. But for now, in July of 2010, that number is about to be exchanged for Double-A prospects.

Oswalt wants to win. If he could shoot from the outside, the Miami Heat would love to have him. But he’ll settle instead for a pennant race. In a new town. It’s kind of like shopping in a mall – you feel no connection to the place, and there’s nothing there that feels like home. But you get what you want, and you go home with stuff.

Everyone wins, in a way. Except that no one establishes roots. And when there are no roots – when you don’t hang with a place long enough to live through the ups, downs and everything in between – it’s hard for you to ever become what the greatest of our athletes and coaches have been called:

A legend.

The Valley of Ashes (One Sixty-Two: Day 69)

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 Sixty-Nine: Cliff Lee, Seattle Mariners

As the No. 4 train pulled up to 161st Street last night, I wondered what state of disassembly the old Yankee Stadium was in, 21 months after it last hosted a baseball game. I wasn’t aware that the ballpark was gone entirely, that the cranes and pulleys had torn the stadium apart already. So as the elevated train crawled to its stop, I had trouble believing my eyes.

I looked west and saw a vast, empty lot the size of three city blocks. The lot was coated with a ghost-gray dirt cover and surrounded by a makeshift blue fence. Instead of looking like the House That Ruth Built, this looked more like the Valley of Ashes in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. As I walked down the stairs from the train tracks, I stopped and took another look. This dirt pile over here was right field; that one was left field. Only my imagination could help me see the old stadium that had framed my childhood. Out toward 157th Street, beyond the lot, I could see the old, 138-foot-tall replica of a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. This was where I would meet my brother or friends when we were arriving separately for a game. It was the only remnant left.

Of course, as I descended the stairs, I walked across 161st Street and into Jay Gatsby’s house itself. This monstrous hulk of a stadium now houses all the Yankee home games. It was a beautiful early-summer’s evening, and the pinstriped club was hosting the Seattle Mariners. The fans had filled this mansion up, as they do every night. They were walking around the open concourse, shopping in the souvenir shops (they even have a women’s-specialty store, with lots of Yankee pink), and eating at the Hard Rock Café. I was fortunate enough to sit for a few hours with my brother, Eric, and our dear friend, Neil. They had an extra ticket and had invited me. As we sat in our upper-deck seats, we took it all in – the 101-foot-long video screen, the groundskeepers dancing to the Village People’s “YMCA,” and the cascading levels of seats, running all the way down to the “premium” seats at field level, where one seat costs more than the per-capita income of about 50 countries. In those box seats, Gatsby comes over and serves you dinner.

Out in centerfield, I could barely see the monuments and retired Yankees’ numbers beneath the giant, black-tinted Mohegan Sun Sports Bar. Over in right field, I could see the No. 4 train pass through the small opening between the bleachers and upper deck. But the train now passes that spot after it departs, northbound, from the 161st Street stop. So if you’re riding that train from Manhattan, you don’t get that breathtaking, momentary view of the green field while pulling up to the platform. It’s a view that defined the magic of this place. But times have changed.

Seattle’s ace pitcher, Cliff Lee, shut down New York with a complete-game victory last night. The home team rallied in the ninth, then folded. After saying goodbye to Eric and Neil, I crossed the street on my way back to the train station. As I walked up 161st, that blue wall was beside me again. When the makeshift wooden planks offered a slight opening, I caught a glimpse of the Valley once more. Gray, and barren. On the wall, the words “Post No Bills” were printed in white stencil. A man with a saxophone played a slow blues tune in front of the old park. A funeral hymn, perhaps.

I reached the station, and climbed aboard the No. 4. It had been another grand party at Gatsby’s house, with lots of new money all around. I had enjoyed the company and the entertainment.

The atmosphere, though, had left me empty. It always does in this place.

Going for Three (One Sixty-Two: Day 67)

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 Sixty-Seven: Ichiro Suzuki, Seattle Mariners

I think I’ve finally broken through. At long last, I have come to appreciate soccer. And baseball has shown me the way.

I’ve tried, every four years, to lose myself to soccer. I’ve watched those graceful, gritty Brazilians, Argentinians, Germans, Dutch and Italians, as they’ve glided up and down the pitch in search of the goal that will bring their country untold glory and honor. I’ve watched these men’s World Cup matches, and, to be honest, I’ve struggled. Struggled to find enjoyment in 90 minutes without a single score. Struggled to understand just what these soccer fans out there are seeing. Wondered if they were seeing something that I just couldn’t see.

As I’ve watched pieces of this year’s 2010 World Cup, I haven’t had an epiphany, where I now see every facet of beauty in the game. High-definition is good, but not that good. Yet, I have figured some things out, and I’ve done it by viewing soccer through the prism of my own passion of cowhide and red stitches.

The one thing I’ve always known about soccer is that there are very few moments in sport as thrilling as the scoring of a goal. The electricity of the goal is on par with the boxing knockdown, the horseracing photo finish, the basketball fast break, the hockey breakaway, and the football “Hail Mary” pass. In baseball, the most exciting play I’ve ever seen is the triple. And it is here that I see my way into soccer.

When you’re at a ballgame, there is nothing like it – a line drive is hit in the gap, it splits two outfielders, and the ball rolls all the way to the wall. As the runner nears second base, he makes a quick, aggressive decision and kicks his legs into another gear. The fans pop to their feet and shout, “He’s going for three!” The outfielder grabs the ball and throws to his cutoff man, who then fires a line drive to third. The runner dives head-first, the umpire keeps his eyes glued to the white base, and a cloud of dust kicks up on the left side of the diamond. We look to the man in black, who makes the call.

So imagine, if you will, a baseball game in which teams can only score a run if they hit a triple. Think about that for a second – no home runs, no stolen bases, no ground-rule doubles, no singles. Just triples, or else you’re out. And teams would still be required to play their nine men in the traditional defensive positions, or else they’d be called offside. It would be a much, much lower-scoring affair, but teams would have to strategize on how to hit the ball in ways that make a three-bagger more possible. They’d also set their defense in order to defend better against the triple.

So there would be no home-run heroes, with bulging triceps and slow trots around the bases. There’d be no stolen-base thieves, who turn singles into doubles. Instead, the sport’s heroes would be men who could manipulate the bat to shoot the baseball into those gaps, or along the foul lines. These heroes also would have speed on the basepaths and in the field, and perhaps even a strong arm to throw out those runners on their way to third.

In a game like this, a man like Ichiro Suzuki of the Seattle Mariners would be a dominant player in his sport. With his 70 career triples, his ability to maneuver the bat like a magician (2,132 hits in 9½ years), and his rocket arm (nine Gold Glove awards in nine years), Ichiro has all the tools needed to produce and stop triples. He would join the likes of Carl Crawford of Tampa Bay, Shane Victorino and Jimmy Rollins of Philadelphia, and Jose Reyes of the Mets as baseball’s most important players.

It would be a lower-scoring sport, all right, but what a roar you’d hear when those triples appeared. Instead of the “Goal!” calls we hear now, it would be a “Three!” Some fans would complain that the sport is too slow. But others would call it pure, gorgeous, and brilliant. Ichiro, who is arguably the world’s most famous baseball player already, would be even more popular across the globe.

So that’s my in – I’ve selected the most beautiful part of the sport I love, and connected it to soccer. I’m still not sure what a yellow card means, nor do I get the whole offside thing. But it takes a lot of strategy, skill and speed to score those gorgeous goals. I can see that, at least. I’m getting there. My appreciation of soccer hasn’t completed its circuit yet, but I’m standing on third base. And I like the view.

Throw Away the Book (One Sixty-Two: Day 55)

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 Fifty-Five: John Jaso, Tampa Bay Rays

I was leaving a local library yesterday when I passed a display of old books for sale. The last thing our house needs is another book. But of course I stopped.

And I almost walked away. But then an old hardcover caught my eye: How to Steal a Pennant, by Maury Wills with Don Freeman. I knew that Wills was an infielder and base-stealing master with the Los Angeles Dodgers back in the 1960s and ‘70s. I also had a faint recollection of Wills managing the Seattle Mariners for a while in the early ‘80s. But as I looked at the book, I realized that it consisted of Wills’ philosophy on managing – before he ever had the chance to do so. Published in 1976, How to Steal a Pennant featured a retired ballplayer’s ideas on how to manage baseball better than the men he’d been watching in the dugouts while working as a TV analyst.

Wills’ No. 1 advice for managers was simple: Throw away “the book” that tells you how you’re supposed to manage a game. Instead, Wills advised, think outside the box – er, book. If you’re losing a game by four runs, Wills wrote, don’t wait for the grand slam. Chip away – bunt a runner over, scrape for runs here and there, and claw your way back into the game. Don’t hesitate to steal bases, don’t hesitate to let a lefty reliever throw to a righty hitter, and don’t hesitate to throw a strike on an 0-2 count.

I’m sure that when he watches ballgames today, Maury Wills admires the work of Joe Maddon, manager of the Tampa Bay Rays. There is no “book” in the Maddon managerial code. This is a man who starts a catcher in the leadoff spot, even though that catcher – rookie John Jaso – has just one stolen base. So why does Jaso lead off? The reason is simple: Because he gets on base 40 percent of the time. To Maddon, getting on first is more important than one’s ability to steal second.

But that doesn’t mean Maddon hesitates to let his runners steal bases. Not at all. Outfielders Carl Crawford and B.J. Upton both have more than 20 steals already this year, and slugging third baseman Evan Longoria has swiped 10 bases. The Rays lead their league in stolen bases by far this year.

And thinking different doesn’t stop there for the Rays – while Maddon has a bona fide closer this year, he hasn’t hesitated in the past to use a closer-by-committee approach to finishing games. Rather than put the game in one man’s hands, Maddon has let the best matchup determine who finishes the game. Just go with what works.

This time of year, we hear a lot of graduation speeches encouraging young people to take the road not taken. Maury Wills was encouraging that nearly a quarter-century ago. I found his book, and heard his advice to throw away “the book.” Joe Maddon hears this advice, too. And he follows it. Maybe that’s why no team in baseball has a better record this year than the Rays.

Unhappy Endings (One Sixty-Two: Day 38)

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 Thirty-Eight: Kendry Morales, Los Angeles Angels

It’s your wedding day, and after the beautiful ceremony, the lovely first dance, the hugs from relatives, and the delicious dinner, it’s cake-cutting time. As you cut that first slice, the knife slips, you feel a sharp pain in your finger, and suddenly you’re off to the emergency room for stitches.

It’s your graduation day, and after the diploma and the cheers and the speeches, you toss your cap in the air. You reach up to catch it, but instead catch an elbow in the mouth. Instead of dinner, your family gathers with you at the dentist’s office.

It’s your birthday. You’ve gone out to eat, taken calls from family members, and eaten some of the cake your mom baked. On your way to bed, you don’t see the dog on the floor, you slip, and now you’re spending the night with an ice cap on your knee.

Horrible.

To finish a beautiful day with such a sudden twist of fate is something we all hope to avoid in any way possible. But there are times when it happens. And all it really does is remind us of how fragile, how human, we are – even in our moments of triumph.

It’s the bottom of the 10th inning, game tied 1-1, with Los Angeles Angels first baseman Kendry Morales up at the plate against Seattle Mariners reliever Brandon League. Morales crushes League’s offering well over the left-centerfield wall for a game-winning grand slam. As the 26-year-old first baseman rounds third and heads for home, Morales sees his teammates gathered around home plate, ready to pounce on him in the kind of “dog pile” celebrations that have become popular around baseball. Morales tosses his red helmet into the air and leaps. He lands on his left foot, slips, and falls.

His leg breaks right there, on home plate, with giddy teammates trying to pound his helmet. But these teammates gradually realize that instead of celebrating, they have to cart their best hitter off the field. He is writhing in pain.

The ballgame is over, and so might be Morales’s season. All because he slipped on home plate while trying to enjoy the moment.

There’s no right or wrong to it. The Angels will not celebrate this way at home plate again, as their manager, Mike Scioscia, has said. They’ll try and learn from it. Right now, there are surely a lot of heads hung low in that team’s clubhouse.

Life will absolutely go on, and there will be much better days ahead. But the wedding cake will never taste as good as it might have. The graduation pictures won’t bring back the kinds of memories we hoped they’d bring. The birthday cards won’t elicit the same smiles. The ending didn’t match the day, and it’s hard to forget that.

Racing to the Top (One Sixty-Two: Day 36)

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 Thirty-Six: Franklin Gutierrez, Seattle Mariners

New Jersey, like so many states across America, is seriously considering major education reform. The federal “Race to the Top” grant program, championed by President Obama and Education Secretary Arne Duncan, has dangled $4.3 billion in educational funding in front of cash-starved states with one critical caveat: In order to win a piece of the federal funding, states must institute major educational reforms.

Merit pay. Charter schools. Data-based performance assessments. Challenges to tenure systems.

Movement toward educational reform is coming from both Democrats and Republicans, and teachers’ unions find themselves wondering just how much they can hold the line on some of these issues. For the first time in years, many individuals are stepping back from their traditional lines in the sand and taking a good, hard look at the ideas that educational reformers have presented. Is it worth changing the way we do things in order to “Race to the Top”? Can public schools really operate better than they do now? It’s a question many are asking.

Changes can be uncomfortable and strange sometimes, but there are moments when you realize they’re coming whether you like it or not. Many teachers across America are deciding to get involved in these conversations about reform, rather than ducking for cover. Over in the world of baseball, similar changes have altered the way teams look at run production.

For years, the prevailing thought around baseball was that you built a quality team through offense. But now that our technological revolution has given us a way to crunch numbers on the defensive side of the game, teams have had a collective epiphany: They’ve realized that some players save so many runs through their play in the field that they need only be adequate offensively in order to contribute mightily to the team’s success.

So a team like the Seattle Mariners trades for centerfielder Franklin Gutierrez, locks him up on a long-term deal, and lets him roam the outfield freely. Gutierrez catches balls all over the place, with tremendous range, and the baseball world of 2010 values this man far more than it had during the steroid era. Throw in Gutierrez’s 18 home runs, 70 runs batted in and 16 steals in 2009, and you’ve got a poster boy for baseball reform.

So merit pay has come Franklin Gutierrez’s way. His salary improved by more than 400 percent from last year to this year. The data supported it, so the Mariners gave it to him. It’s a new era, Franklin, and the reformers adore you.

Settling for Less (One Sixty-Two: Day 35)

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 Thirty-Five: J.J. Putz, Chicago White Sox

There are so many complications to an economic recession, experienced on many different levels. One of the current recession’s drawbacks is the fact that many people are working at jobs for which they are overqualified. When your upper-management position is eliminated, you may have to settle for a mid-management job. When you graduate with a degree in teaching and there are only a dozen teaching openings in your county, you may find yourself grateful for a job as a teacher’s assistant.

You know that economies operate in cycles, and you eagerly await the day when the job markets will improve. But it’s not easy to wait. Not only has your income taken a hit, but so has your self-esteem.

J.J. Putz knows what it’s like to settle for a job. Three years ago, Putz was the most dominant closer in baseball, saving 40 games for the Seattle Mariners with a 1.38 earned-run average. Over a two-year span in 2006-07, Putz struck out 186 batters in 150 innings, while walking only 27. He was nearly unhittable. But a couple of injuries and an economic downturn later, Putz now finds himself as a middle reliever for the Chicago White Sox. He’s been effective this year, striking out batters at a high rate once again. But Putz is not the head man in his team’s bullpen anymore.

There is hope, of course. Putz’s team is struggling, and there will be teams shopping around for closers in the weeks ahead. Perhaps one will offer the White Sox some prospects in exchange for the former relief ace. Maybe then Putz will get his shot once more at a job he knows he can do – a job he’s proven he can do.

Maybe those Help Wanted ads will fill up again soon, too. Maybe the call will come – “We’d like you in for an interview” or “We’d like to offer you …” Until then, those who are overqualified for their jobs try to find solace in the reality that it could, indeed, be worse. J.J. Putz may be an undervalued middle reliever, but at least he’s got work.

Sleeping in Seattle (One Sixty-Two: Day 20)

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: Ken Griffey Jr., Seattle Mariners

I woke up in the middle of the night last week, my heart pounding. I had just dreamed that while my school’s principal was observing my class, I’d fallen asleep and left my co-teacher to take care of things. I had looked up from my desk after a half-hour, mumbled something about my students completing their journals, then conked out again. In the dream, my boss had watched intently as I snoozed the whole period.

Sleep. So often, those of us in our 30s and 40s are unable to get as much shut-eye as we know we need. Work, parenting, household duties, overall stress – they team up to sandwich themselves between us and the rest we crave. Just two nights ago, I set the timer on the bedroom TV, as I always do before going to sleep. But my wife got to bed far too late after a long night’s work, and the TV was off already. So she turned it back on, watched some news, and set no timer. A little while later, I began dreaming of partisan politics. When I awoke at 3 a.m., MSNBC greeted me with a tense debate about the news on Capitol Hill.

All of this brings us to Ken Griffey Jr., the 41-year-old Seattle Mariner whose Hall of Fame accomplishments have been overshadowed in recent days over a question of sleep. A Tacoma (Wash.) News Tribune report quoted two unnamed teammates as saying the great lefty slugger had slept through a potential pinch-hitting opportunity the other day in Seattle. Was Griffey really asleep in the clubhouse when his manager called his name? Or is this all just a tall tale?

I don’t know, and I don’t think we need to send the Law & Order crew to Seattle to investigate this. As the aforementioned dream attests, none of us wants to be caught napping on the job. I will say this, though: For the past two decades, Ken Griffey Jr. has given thousands of youngsters lots of reasons to dream through their sleepy nights beneath the covers. For many budding ballplayers, nothing was more soothing than a vision of Junior’s long, loopy swing sending a ball on a long journey into the night sky. And what was cooler than the sight of Griffey soaring above the centerfield fence to grab a ball before it landed over the wall?

For all the sleep he has helped procure throughout his extraordinary career, I say Ken Griffey Jr. gets a pass on the “Sleeping in Seattle” controversy. I see that he pinch-hit today and drove in a run. That makes for 1,835 RBI, along with 630 home runs over 21 seasons. The guy will have to sleep through a lot worse to ruin his reputation. Even if his boss is watching.