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 Sixty-Two: Mariano Rivera, New York Yankees
When I was taking journalism courses in college, I studied many of the great American sportswriters. It didn’t take long for Roger Angell to quickly become a favorite. Angell’s breathtaking New Yorker essays showed me the extent to which baseball writing can be literature. I studied Angell’s stories and noticed his attention to detail, as well as his willingness to go beyond balls and strikes and into the larger stories taking place in a ballpark every day.
Thanks to writers like Angell and the incomparable Gary Smith of Sports Illustrated, my life as a sports fan, sports reader and sports writer is framed by the dual observations of the game itself and the stuff of life surrounding that game. My heart pounds when Mariano Rivera enters a Yankee game in the late innings of a playoff matchup: He’s out there, after all, because New York is trying to protect a razor-thin lead against a formidable foe. But amid the nail-biting suspense, I try and see the big picture as well. I view the cool with which a man like Rivera goes about dispatching elite hitters every day, and wonder how different his nerves are from those of a man who welds together steel beams 100 stories above Manhattan, or a woman who defuses bombs for a living. As Rivera finishes off a hitter for the final out, I wonder what it says about the man that he is able to smile and shake hands while also maintaining a composure that seems to say, “The win was great, but it’s not everything.”
When Rivera closes a game, as he’s done better than anyone in history, he seems to enjoy the moment while also looking ahead. Even after he’d finished off the Philadelphia Phillies in last year’s World Series, Rivera stood on the dais at Yankee Stadium and announced that he was ready to play ball for another half-decade. The man can finish things, but he knows that every ending is really just another beginning.
“Baseball is not life itself, although the resemblance keeps coming up,” Roger Angell wrote in his book Season Ticket. The great part about this aphorism is that you don’t have to force it. My wife bought some Turkey Hill ice cream today at Stop & Shop, and it came in a Yankee-themed box with a flavor titled “Pinstripe Brownie Blast.” Now that is an example of a forced baseball-to-life connection. We didn’t need the brownie blast to see baseball and life interweaving – clearly, my wife had gone food shopping without eating a full breakfast today, and her hunger had left her buying food items in a manner befitting George Steinbrenner’s free-agent splurges of the 1980s: She was eagerly snatching up the fancy-looking stuff, buying on impulse rather than deliberate planning. Amy may not like this ice cream in the end, but for the moment it was a headline-grabbing purchase in our house.
Another arduous regular season draws to a close this weekend, with the playoffs set to begin in a few days. Sometime during the week, I’m sure Amy and I will find ourselves sitting in our living room, watching nervously as Mariano Rivera takes to the mound in the ninth inning. Our hearts will race a bit, but I’m sure we’ll calm ourselves down with a nice bowl of Pinstripe Brownie Blast. It will taste good enough to remind us both that baseball, like life, is about far more than the drama of the moment. In my final days of life, I don’t know that I’ll be able to recall what the Yankees did in 2010. But I know I’ll be able to remember what it felt like to sit next to my wife, eating some ice cream with her, while watching a ballgame together in our home.
In the end, it’s always about the connections – with those we know, with those we meet, and with our own selves. It’s always more about the hug Rivera just gave to his catcher than it is about the final pitch he threw. You don’t build a relationship with a pitch. But you can do it just fine with a hug.
Showing posts with label Sports Illustrated. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sports Illustrated. Show all posts
Friday, October 1, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Hunting Wabbits (One Sixty-Two: Day 102)
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-Two: James McDonald, Pittsburgh Pirates
When we brought our dog home five months ago, we named her Daisy. A more fitting name would have been Elmer Fudd.
Throughout this summer – both at our own house and at my parents’ home – there has been an abundance of rabbits in the backyard. Daisy, like most dogs, is fascinated by any animal smaller than her. But as a golden retriever, she is trained to carry dead birds to her owners. Today, during a walk, she lifted up a dead bird with her mouth and turned to me. “No!” I said sharply, and she dropped the bird gently to the ground.
But as for rabbits, well, I honestly think Daisy is either secretly afraid of them or rather sympathetic toward them. I say this because her percentage of “wabbit” kills is in line with that of Mr. Fudd.
When she sees the rabbit, her eyes open wide and her muscles grow taut. She takes a quick first step toward the bunny, appears to have a shot at the animal and then – for reasons she cannot explain to me – Daisy hesitates. Her stutter-step gives the rabbit just enough time to dart through a hole in the fence and into safety. Daisy arrives a second too late, every time, and spends the next 15 minutes staring intently through the fence at the one that got away.
“You’ll get ‘em next time, Daisy,” we say to her. She’s the Brooklyn Dodgers of rabbit-hunters: Always falling short, only to hope that she’ll be a step faster the next time.
Of course, the Dodgers did have 1955. There was a year when the hope was rewarded with a championship. Daisy may have her day, too. For the rabbits’ sake, I certainly hope not. I was never one to root for Elmer Fudd over Bugs Bunny.
The Pittsburgh Pirates have felt like a bunch of Elmer Fudds and Brooklyn Dodgers over the past two decades, with the main difference being that Fudd and the Dodgers actually came close to attaining success. As I wrote in a blog post last fall (http://thepitchbaseballlife.blogspot.com/2009/09/beauty-and-bucs.html), and as Sports Illustrated’s L. Jon Wertheim wrote a few weeks ago, there is a huge disparity between the majestic beauty of the Pirates’ home stadium and the gross ugliness of the baseball that has been played in that park. The Pirates’ struggles predate the 2001 opening of PNC Park by nearly a decade, as they now hold the longest losing streak in the history of major North American team sports. A game in this stadium, with its backdrop of rivers, bridges and skylines, is worth every penny. Unfortunately, this year’s Pirates will become the 18th straight Pittsburgh team to finish with a sub-.500 record.
As usual, the Pirates traded away veterans at this year’s trading deadline. But unlike years past, when Pittsburgh was criticized for accepting mediocre prospects for their veteran players, the Pirates picked up a couple of talented youngsters when they dealt their closer, Octavio Dotel, to the Los Angeles Dodgers. One of those prospects, pitcher James McDonald, will start for the Pirates this week. Pittsburgh also managed to send a few veterans past their prime to the Arizona Diamondbacks in exchange for a very serviceable catcher, Chris Snyder.
Add this to the small group of superb young players on the Pirates’ team – Andrew McCutchen, Pedro Alvarez, Neil Walker – and there is at least something there. The Pirates are not going to start winning division titles next year. But the team claims it is working hard to spend its money wisely, trying to build a contender despite its small-market status. If this is true, then there might just be a year in this next decade when the people of Pittsburgh finally get to follow a pennant race. With the rabbit in sight, the boys in black and gold will try to do what my dog cannot – make a full sprint toward their goal, with no acceptance of failure this time. It’s got to happen someday. Next year can’t last forever.
Day One Hundred-Two: James McDonald, Pittsburgh Pirates
When we brought our dog home five months ago, we named her Daisy. A more fitting name would have been Elmer Fudd.
Throughout this summer – both at our own house and at my parents’ home – there has been an abundance of rabbits in the backyard. Daisy, like most dogs, is fascinated by any animal smaller than her. But as a golden retriever, she is trained to carry dead birds to her owners. Today, during a walk, she lifted up a dead bird with her mouth and turned to me. “No!” I said sharply, and she dropped the bird gently to the ground.
But as for rabbits, well, I honestly think Daisy is either secretly afraid of them or rather sympathetic toward them. I say this because her percentage of “wabbit” kills is in line with that of Mr. Fudd.
When she sees the rabbit, her eyes open wide and her muscles grow taut. She takes a quick first step toward the bunny, appears to have a shot at the animal and then – for reasons she cannot explain to me – Daisy hesitates. Her stutter-step gives the rabbit just enough time to dart through a hole in the fence and into safety. Daisy arrives a second too late, every time, and spends the next 15 minutes staring intently through the fence at the one that got away.
“You’ll get ‘em next time, Daisy,” we say to her. She’s the Brooklyn Dodgers of rabbit-hunters: Always falling short, only to hope that she’ll be a step faster the next time.
Of course, the Dodgers did have 1955. There was a year when the hope was rewarded with a championship. Daisy may have her day, too. For the rabbits’ sake, I certainly hope not. I was never one to root for Elmer Fudd over Bugs Bunny.
The Pittsburgh Pirates have felt like a bunch of Elmer Fudds and Brooklyn Dodgers over the past two decades, with the main difference being that Fudd and the Dodgers actually came close to attaining success. As I wrote in a blog post last fall (http://thepitchbaseballlife.blogspot.com/2009/09/beauty-and-bucs.html), and as Sports Illustrated’s L. Jon Wertheim wrote a few weeks ago, there is a huge disparity between the majestic beauty of the Pirates’ home stadium and the gross ugliness of the baseball that has been played in that park. The Pirates’ struggles predate the 2001 opening of PNC Park by nearly a decade, as they now hold the longest losing streak in the history of major North American team sports. A game in this stadium, with its backdrop of rivers, bridges and skylines, is worth every penny. Unfortunately, this year’s Pirates will become the 18th straight Pittsburgh team to finish with a sub-.500 record.
As usual, the Pirates traded away veterans at this year’s trading deadline. But unlike years past, when Pittsburgh was criticized for accepting mediocre prospects for their veteran players, the Pirates picked up a couple of talented youngsters when they dealt their closer, Octavio Dotel, to the Los Angeles Dodgers. One of those prospects, pitcher James McDonald, will start for the Pirates this week. Pittsburgh also managed to send a few veterans past their prime to the Arizona Diamondbacks in exchange for a very serviceable catcher, Chris Snyder.
Add this to the small group of superb young players on the Pirates’ team – Andrew McCutchen, Pedro Alvarez, Neil Walker – and there is at least something there. The Pirates are not going to start winning division titles next year. But the team claims it is working hard to spend its money wisely, trying to build a contender despite its small-market status. If this is true, then there might just be a year in this next decade when the people of Pittsburgh finally get to follow a pennant race. With the rabbit in sight, the boys in black and gold will try to do what my dog cannot – make a full sprint toward their goal, with no acceptance of failure this time. It’s got to happen someday. Next year can’t last forever.
Monday, July 26, 2010
The Cool-Down (One Sixty-Two: Day 95)
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-Five: Derrek Lee, Chicago Cubs
For the first time in weeks, those of us in the New York area awoke to a light breeze this morning. It’s been the warmest summer here in more than a decade, with temperatures roaring above 90 degrees nearly every day, coupled with stifling humidity. Today, however, the humidity was nowhere to be found, and the sparkling sunshine didn’t feel nearly as hot as it has this July.
The glorious morning felt a bit like the falling action in the plot of a dramatic film, right after the climax. You know the scene – the main characters have hit rock bottom, realized something deep and profound about their flaws, and learned what they must do to make it back to a state of grace. It’s Boogie Nights, after Mark Wahlberg, Julianne Moore, John C. Reilly and Heather Graham all have hit their lowest of lows. Writer/director Paul Thomas Anderson queues up The Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows” while we see the characters toning down their excesses and moving into a place of deeper self-awareness and maturity.
It was an appropriate morning for Carlos Zambrano to speak. There have been a number of outbursts in Zambrano’s career, but none as outlandish as the one he unleashed on his teammates June 25. When Zambrano lost his cool in the Cubs’ dugout that afternoon, he looked like a man in need of help. After the Cubs suspended him, Zambrano began anger-management sessions, according to his interview today with ESPN. “Thank God the Cubs have sent me to the doctor for anger management,” Zambrano told ESPN. “I've had three sessions already.”
Last month, Sports Illustrated reporter Pablo S. Torre wrote an excellent article about the number of baseball players who have sought help in the area of mental health throughout the past few years. For decades, Torre writes, baseball players were expected to be above issues such as anxiety, depression and anger issues. But when the National Institute of Mental Health reports that more than 57 million Americans – or 26 percent of Americans 18 and older – suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in a given year, it seems impossible that baseball players would somehow be immune to such concerns themselves. So Major League Baseball has taken important steps in recent years to assist players who are struggling with mental-health issues.
And several athletes have chosen to step forward and seek help. Players such as Zack Greinke of the Kansas City Royals, Joey Votto of the Cincinnati Reds and Milton Bradley of the Seattle Mariners have been placed on the disabled list in recent years in order to seek assistance for mental-health issues. This past month, during his suspension from the Cubs, Carlos Zambrano did the same. According to Torre’s story, Greinke, Votto and Bradley all received considerable support from their teammates upon returning to their ballclubs. As Zambrano prepares to return to the Cubs this weekend, his teammates must decide if they are willing to give him another chance and try to help him in his attempt to “be more quiet,” as the 29-year-old termed it in his interview today.
Derrek Lee, the soft-spoken first baseman who seemed to be the target of Zambrano’s outburst last month, will be in an interesting position as the pitcher returns. Lee’s teammates will surely watch how he interacts with Zambrano, and many, I’m sure, will follow his lead. While it is imperative that Zambrano not lose his cool again on his teammates, it’s also essential that he be supported as he seeks treatment for his illness. Lee, I’m sure, will say and do all the right things. He will do what he can to help his colleague in recovery.
A month ago, Carlos Zambrano’s heat index was off the charts. But he seems to have cooled down in his month away from the game. He is in that moment where the clouds have parted and a slight breeze is blowing. The hard work is only getting started, but he may have begun his ascent from rock bottom. It’s time for the director to give us a happy song, and for the actors to flash a smile or two. Where Carlos Zambrano goes from here, God only knows. But it’s a new day, and he seems to be taking the right steps. When we struggle with mental-health concerns, we often hurt both ourselves and the ones we care for the most. As we climb back, their support can mean the world to us. Here’s to Derrek Lee and his Cubs teammates, as they prepare to help a co-worker in his time of struggle.
Day Ninety-Five: Derrek Lee, Chicago Cubs
For the first time in weeks, those of us in the New York area awoke to a light breeze this morning. It’s been the warmest summer here in more than a decade, with temperatures roaring above 90 degrees nearly every day, coupled with stifling humidity. Today, however, the humidity was nowhere to be found, and the sparkling sunshine didn’t feel nearly as hot as it has this July.
The glorious morning felt a bit like the falling action in the plot of a dramatic film, right after the climax. You know the scene – the main characters have hit rock bottom, realized something deep and profound about their flaws, and learned what they must do to make it back to a state of grace. It’s Boogie Nights, after Mark Wahlberg, Julianne Moore, John C. Reilly and Heather Graham all have hit their lowest of lows. Writer/director Paul Thomas Anderson queues up The Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows” while we see the characters toning down their excesses and moving into a place of deeper self-awareness and maturity.
It was an appropriate morning for Carlos Zambrano to speak. There have been a number of outbursts in Zambrano’s career, but none as outlandish as the one he unleashed on his teammates June 25. When Zambrano lost his cool in the Cubs’ dugout that afternoon, he looked like a man in need of help. After the Cubs suspended him, Zambrano began anger-management sessions, according to his interview today with ESPN. “Thank God the Cubs have sent me to the doctor for anger management,” Zambrano told ESPN. “I've had three sessions already.”
Last month, Sports Illustrated reporter Pablo S. Torre wrote an excellent article about the number of baseball players who have sought help in the area of mental health throughout the past few years. For decades, Torre writes, baseball players were expected to be above issues such as anxiety, depression and anger issues. But when the National Institute of Mental Health reports that more than 57 million Americans – or 26 percent of Americans 18 and older – suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in a given year, it seems impossible that baseball players would somehow be immune to such concerns themselves. So Major League Baseball has taken important steps in recent years to assist players who are struggling with mental-health issues.
And several athletes have chosen to step forward and seek help. Players such as Zack Greinke of the Kansas City Royals, Joey Votto of the Cincinnati Reds and Milton Bradley of the Seattle Mariners have been placed on the disabled list in recent years in order to seek assistance for mental-health issues. This past month, during his suspension from the Cubs, Carlos Zambrano did the same. According to Torre’s story, Greinke, Votto and Bradley all received considerable support from their teammates upon returning to their ballclubs. As Zambrano prepares to return to the Cubs this weekend, his teammates must decide if they are willing to give him another chance and try to help him in his attempt to “be more quiet,” as the 29-year-old termed it in his interview today.
Derrek Lee, the soft-spoken first baseman who seemed to be the target of Zambrano’s outburst last month, will be in an interesting position as the pitcher returns. Lee’s teammates will surely watch how he interacts with Zambrano, and many, I’m sure, will follow his lead. While it is imperative that Zambrano not lose his cool again on his teammates, it’s also essential that he be supported as he seeks treatment for his illness. Lee, I’m sure, will say and do all the right things. He will do what he can to help his colleague in recovery.
A month ago, Carlos Zambrano’s heat index was off the charts. But he seems to have cooled down in his month away from the game. He is in that moment where the clouds have parted and a slight breeze is blowing. The hard work is only getting started, but he may have begun his ascent from rock bottom. It’s time for the director to give us a happy song, and for the actors to flash a smile or two. Where Carlos Zambrano goes from here, God only knows. But it’s a new day, and he seems to be taking the right steps. When we struggle with mental-health concerns, we often hurt both ourselves and the ones we care for the most. As we climb back, their support can mean the world to us. Here’s to Derrek Lee and his Cubs teammates, as they prepare to help a co-worker in his time of struggle.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
The Big Red Hybrid (One Sixty-Two: Day 23)
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-Three: Joey Votto, Cincinnati Reds
I’ve been enjoying Joe Posnanski’s The Machine, a deliciously detailed book about the 1975 Cincinnati Reds. Posnanski, who writes for Sports Illustrated, has crafted a vibrant chronicle of one of the great seasons any team has had in baseball history. The Big Red Machine, as the Cincinnati club was called at this time, was a thoroughly dominant club, yet had to win one of the closest World Series of all time in order to claim the championship it craved.
As I read The Machine, I’m inspired to learn of the belief that so many Reds players had in one another, as well as the tremendous confidence that manager Sparky Anderson had in his club. As the team struggled in mid-May, Anderson unloaded on his players before a game in Montreal: “I’m sick and damn tired of hearing that the Big Red Machine is dead,” Posnanski quotes Anderson as saying. “That’s what they’re saying out there. That we’re dead. Well, let me tell you something, we ain’t dead. We’re gonna win this thing. We’re gonna win because this is the best damn team in baseball.”
Star players such as Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, Johnny Bench and Tony Perez responded to Anderson’s leadership in a big way, leading the Reds to 108 wins on the year, including 90 wins in their last 125 games, followed by that classic seven-game World Series win against the Red Sox. The Reds would follow their amazing ’75 season with another championship in 1976.
From 1970-76, the Cincinnati Reds won four pennants, claimed two titles, and made the playoffs five times. Yet in the 34 years since then, the Reds have made the playoffs just three times. Cincinnati has not been a part of the postseason at all in the past 15 years, and has not finished with a winning record since 2000. They don’t use terms like Big Red Machine when speaking of this ballclub anymore.
The Cincinnati Red Stockings were baseball’s first professional team in 1869, and the city of Cincinnati has played an essential role in the history of the game. Part of baseball’s greatness lies in its tradition and history, and it is time that the tradition of winning returns to the city of Cincinnati.
Joey Votto is where it all begins. The 26-year-old first baseman is one current Red who would have done just fine on the Big Red Machine. Votto hits over .300, drives in runs, hits homers over the wall and smacks doubles off the wall. He takes his walks, steals the occasional base, and fields his position. As with so many stars of the post-steroid era, Votto is more of a hybrid than a diesel engine – he quietly, steadily, and efficiently gets the job done.
The Reds are not yet a team full of Joey Vottos. But one can only hope that sooner rather than later, the franchise will find a way to surround Votto with a roster capable of winning it all. It can be done. As Votto himself proves, these modern times don’t require a machine. Just a lot of clean, energy efficiency. Like doubles off the wall.
Day Twenty-Three: Joey Votto, Cincinnati Reds
I’ve been enjoying Joe Posnanski’s The Machine, a deliciously detailed book about the 1975 Cincinnati Reds. Posnanski, who writes for Sports Illustrated, has crafted a vibrant chronicle of one of the great seasons any team has had in baseball history. The Big Red Machine, as the Cincinnati club was called at this time, was a thoroughly dominant club, yet had to win one of the closest World Series of all time in order to claim the championship it craved.
As I read The Machine, I’m inspired to learn of the belief that so many Reds players had in one another, as well as the tremendous confidence that manager Sparky Anderson had in his club. As the team struggled in mid-May, Anderson unloaded on his players before a game in Montreal: “I’m sick and damn tired of hearing that the Big Red Machine is dead,” Posnanski quotes Anderson as saying. “That’s what they’re saying out there. That we’re dead. Well, let me tell you something, we ain’t dead. We’re gonna win this thing. We’re gonna win because this is the best damn team in baseball.”
Star players such as Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, Johnny Bench and Tony Perez responded to Anderson’s leadership in a big way, leading the Reds to 108 wins on the year, including 90 wins in their last 125 games, followed by that classic seven-game World Series win against the Red Sox. The Reds would follow their amazing ’75 season with another championship in 1976.
From 1970-76, the Cincinnati Reds won four pennants, claimed two titles, and made the playoffs five times. Yet in the 34 years since then, the Reds have made the playoffs just three times. Cincinnati has not been a part of the postseason at all in the past 15 years, and has not finished with a winning record since 2000. They don’t use terms like Big Red Machine when speaking of this ballclub anymore.
The Cincinnati Red Stockings were baseball’s first professional team in 1869, and the city of Cincinnati has played an essential role in the history of the game. Part of baseball’s greatness lies in its tradition and history, and it is time that the tradition of winning returns to the city of Cincinnati.
Joey Votto is where it all begins. The 26-year-old first baseman is one current Red who would have done just fine on the Big Red Machine. Votto hits over .300, drives in runs, hits homers over the wall and smacks doubles off the wall. He takes his walks, steals the occasional base, and fields his position. As with so many stars of the post-steroid era, Votto is more of a hybrid than a diesel engine – he quietly, steadily, and efficiently gets the job done.
The Reds are not yet a team full of Joey Vottos. But one can only hope that sooner rather than later, the franchise will find a way to surround Votto with a roster capable of winning it all. It can be done. As Votto himself proves, these modern times don’t require a machine. Just a lot of clean, energy efficiency. Like doubles off the wall.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mom & Matsui (One Sixty-Two: Day 17)
Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day Seventeen: Hideki Matsui, Los Angeles Angels
Every year, my mother picks a new favorite Yankee. It’s not an indecisive thing, nor is it a Susan Sarandon-in-Bull Durham kind of selection; it’s merely her way of christening the new season. She sprinkles good luck on one Yankee, goes ahead and roots for them all, but gives an extra little cheer for her “guy.”
If the Yankees knew of her track record, they would pay my mom money not to select a favorite player. Just about every year, the player she has chosen has ended up hurt – often for long periods of time.
Dawn chooses Jorge Posada, and he goes down. She selects David Justice, and he’s soon disabled as well. Robin Ventura: same. Shane Spencer – yup, even him. This year, she picked Andy Pettitte. After his tremendous April start, Pettitte suddenly developed elbow trouble and is now missing his start tomorrow.
But perhaps no Dawn Hynes selection was as crippling as the one she made four years ago, when she chose Hideki Matsui, then the Yankees’ left fielder. Matsui entered 2006 having played in every game for each of his first three seasons in the big leagues. But that wasn’t the half of it: Matsui had actually played in more than 1,700 straight games when counting his career with the Yomiuri Giants in Japan. The guy hadn’t missed a game in nearly 13 years. This was surely a can’t-miss pick. That is, until Matsui dove for a line drive at Yankee Stadium in May and fractured his left wrist as it struck the outfield ground.
It was a gruesome sight, and it left Matsui out of action for most of the year. Of course, he would come back and finish that season, while also playing three more with New York. Last year’s World Series MVP performance made my mom and plenty of other Yankees fans proud. As Matsui plays this year for the Angels, he is missed in New York.
For years, many athletes have talked about the Sports Illustrated jinx. When you’re on the cover of SI, legend has it, you’re doomed. Injuries, slumps, mishaps – they come your way when the world’s most famous sports magazine shines its spotlight on you. In my family, Dawn’s “Yankee Guy” is in that same category of unintended black magic.
Of course, the irony is that my mother couldn’t possibly carry better intentions than she does. Her compassion for other human beings extends far and wide, and includes everyone from her family to her neighbors to her friends to those she doesn’t know well, or at all. The secretaries of her doctors, the family of the man who’s renovating her house, the owners of countless stores and restaurants in the town where she and my dad live – all of them receive heavy doses of Dawn’s sunshine when they see her. As for my brother and me, we know for a fact that our mother is thinking about us numerous times in the course of each day.
My mother does a lousy job of jinxing Yankee players. But aside from that, she is an extraordinary model of compassion, selflessness and love. I could not ask for more from a mother; I can only hope she knows just how much I love her back. Happy Mother’s Day, Dawn. Go Yanks.
Day Seventeen: Hideki Matsui, Los Angeles Angels
Every year, my mother picks a new favorite Yankee. It’s not an indecisive thing, nor is it a Susan Sarandon-in-Bull Durham kind of selection; it’s merely her way of christening the new season. She sprinkles good luck on one Yankee, goes ahead and roots for them all, but gives an extra little cheer for her “guy.”
If the Yankees knew of her track record, they would pay my mom money not to select a favorite player. Just about every year, the player she has chosen has ended up hurt – often for long periods of time.
Dawn chooses Jorge Posada, and he goes down. She selects David Justice, and he’s soon disabled as well. Robin Ventura: same. Shane Spencer – yup, even him. This year, she picked Andy Pettitte. After his tremendous April start, Pettitte suddenly developed elbow trouble and is now missing his start tomorrow.
But perhaps no Dawn Hynes selection was as crippling as the one she made four years ago, when she chose Hideki Matsui, then the Yankees’ left fielder. Matsui entered 2006 having played in every game for each of his first three seasons in the big leagues. But that wasn’t the half of it: Matsui had actually played in more than 1,700 straight games when counting his career with the Yomiuri Giants in Japan. The guy hadn’t missed a game in nearly 13 years. This was surely a can’t-miss pick. That is, until Matsui dove for a line drive at Yankee Stadium in May and fractured his left wrist as it struck the outfield ground.
It was a gruesome sight, and it left Matsui out of action for most of the year. Of course, he would come back and finish that season, while also playing three more with New York. Last year’s World Series MVP performance made my mom and plenty of other Yankees fans proud. As Matsui plays this year for the Angels, he is missed in New York.
For years, many athletes have talked about the Sports Illustrated jinx. When you’re on the cover of SI, legend has it, you’re doomed. Injuries, slumps, mishaps – they come your way when the world’s most famous sports magazine shines its spotlight on you. In my family, Dawn’s “Yankee Guy” is in that same category of unintended black magic.
Of course, the irony is that my mother couldn’t possibly carry better intentions than she does. Her compassion for other human beings extends far and wide, and includes everyone from her family to her neighbors to her friends to those she doesn’t know well, or at all. The secretaries of her doctors, the family of the man who’s renovating her house, the owners of countless stores and restaurants in the town where she and my dad live – all of them receive heavy doses of Dawn’s sunshine when they see her. As for my brother and me, we know for a fact that our mother is thinking about us numerous times in the course of each day.
My mother does a lousy job of jinxing Yankee players. But aside from that, she is an extraordinary model of compassion, selflessness and love. I could not ask for more from a mother; I can only hope she knows just how much I love her back. Happy Mother’s Day, Dawn. Go Yanks.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Numbers & Intangibles
In the spring of 2003, the world was introduced to a movement that had been budding within baseball for several years. Michael Lewis, author of The Blind Side, wrote a baseball book that year titled Moneyball. The book followed the career of Billy Beane, general manager of the Oakland Athletics, who had helped usher in the use of statistical analysis to guide baseball decisions. For more than 100 years, the eyes of baseball scouts had served as the primary tool for determining a ballplayer’s value. But as a new century dawned, Beane and other front-office executives determined that statistics could tell you more, in many cases, than any set of eyes ever could.
Nearly seven years after Moneyball was published, statistical analysis has overtaken baseball. There are number-crunchers and computer experts in every team’s offices, and there are highly educated programmers constantly improving the matrixes used to analyze baseball skills. The newest innovation: Computer programs that can break down defensive skills, to tell you how quickly a player gets to a ball in the field, how often runners advance on that player’s arm, and how well that player performs compared to another player of average skills. This new focus on defensive numbers has led some poor defenders, such as Johnny Damon and Jermaine Dye, to find themselves without a team just two weeks before spring training begins.
Computer-generated numbers rule the game now, and the naysayers such as ESPN analyst Joe Morgan find their voices drowned out by the drumbeat of keyboard taps and mouse clicks. Since so many Americans are captivated by fantasy baseball – which is also guided by numbers – there is little argument from fans against this Moneyball revolution. Many of those fans will likely flock to movie theaters if the movie version of this book is ever released (Brad Pitt has signed on, and the script is undergoing revision).
As convincing as the numbers are, there are still moments when they can’t tell us the whole story. The poster child for this point has long been Derek Jeter, the Yankees shortstop and captain. Sports Illustrated did not select Jeter as its ’09 Sportsman of the Year solely because the guy hit .334 last year and scored 107 runs. The people who write about Derek Jeter often talk about the intangibles attached to his game. They talk about his ability to position himself in the right place for a cutoff throw, or his penchant for hitting a pitch toward right field when he’s having trouble getting around on a hard fastball. They tell you about his quiet leadership on and off the field, from the pat on the back he’ll give to a nervous pitcher during a touch inning to the kind words he often has for both teammates and opponents. They rave about Jeter’s model behavior, the absence of any link between him and performance-enhancing drugs, and the close relationship he has with his parents.
These are characteristics that statistics just can’t reveal, some will argue. They say you can’t judge a player completely based on the numbers because baseball – like life – always demands more from us than any math computation can contain.
I was thinking about this debate earlier today, when I was outside clearing the white stuff from my driveway. Humility aside for a second, I am a tremendous snow- shoveler. The statistics could tell you this – my shoveling average (amount of snow per over-the-shoulder toss) is strong, as is my overall shoveling time. My VORS (Value Over Replacement Shoveler) is top-of-the-line, and the accuracy of my tosses is spot-on. So yes, the numbers support my dominance as a shoveler. But do they tell the whole story?
Do the statistics tell you that I broaden my shoveling beyond the driveway and into the street, so that all the parking spots we might need are completely free of snow? Do they reveal the fact that I wait until the plows have gone by, so that we don’t get another sheet of snow in front of the driveway after I’m done? Do the numbers speak to the friendly conversations I have with neighbors, to keep their spirits high when their lower backs begin moaning? Do they tell you how free I am from performance-enhancing products such as snow blowers and snow plows?
No, they don’t. You can’t fully appreciate my shoveling prowess unless you watch with your own eyes. And since no one does that, I’m left to reflect on my own abilities as I sip some hot chocolate and marvel over the job well-done.
Moneyball is real and here to stay. There’s no debating that. But please, don’t forget to watch for the intangibles. They are everywhere, from shortstops to shovelers.
Nearly seven years after Moneyball was published, statistical analysis has overtaken baseball. There are number-crunchers and computer experts in every team’s offices, and there are highly educated programmers constantly improving the matrixes used to analyze baseball skills. The newest innovation: Computer programs that can break down defensive skills, to tell you how quickly a player gets to a ball in the field, how often runners advance on that player’s arm, and how well that player performs compared to another player of average skills. This new focus on defensive numbers has led some poor defenders, such as Johnny Damon and Jermaine Dye, to find themselves without a team just two weeks before spring training begins.
Computer-generated numbers rule the game now, and the naysayers such as ESPN analyst Joe Morgan find their voices drowned out by the drumbeat of keyboard taps and mouse clicks. Since so many Americans are captivated by fantasy baseball – which is also guided by numbers – there is little argument from fans against this Moneyball revolution. Many of those fans will likely flock to movie theaters if the movie version of this book is ever released (Brad Pitt has signed on, and the script is undergoing revision).
As convincing as the numbers are, there are still moments when they can’t tell us the whole story. The poster child for this point has long been Derek Jeter, the Yankees shortstop and captain. Sports Illustrated did not select Jeter as its ’09 Sportsman of the Year solely because the guy hit .334 last year and scored 107 runs. The people who write about Derek Jeter often talk about the intangibles attached to his game. They talk about his ability to position himself in the right place for a cutoff throw, or his penchant for hitting a pitch toward right field when he’s having trouble getting around on a hard fastball. They tell you about his quiet leadership on and off the field, from the pat on the back he’ll give to a nervous pitcher during a touch inning to the kind words he often has for both teammates and opponents. They rave about Jeter’s model behavior, the absence of any link between him and performance-enhancing drugs, and the close relationship he has with his parents.
These are characteristics that statistics just can’t reveal, some will argue. They say you can’t judge a player completely based on the numbers because baseball – like life – always demands more from us than any math computation can contain.
I was thinking about this debate earlier today, when I was outside clearing the white stuff from my driveway. Humility aside for a second, I am a tremendous snow- shoveler. The statistics could tell you this – my shoveling average (amount of snow per over-the-shoulder toss) is strong, as is my overall shoveling time. My VORS (Value Over Replacement Shoveler) is top-of-the-line, and the accuracy of my tosses is spot-on. So yes, the numbers support my dominance as a shoveler. But do they tell the whole story?
Do the statistics tell you that I broaden my shoveling beyond the driveway and into the street, so that all the parking spots we might need are completely free of snow? Do they reveal the fact that I wait until the plows have gone by, so that we don’t get another sheet of snow in front of the driveway after I’m done? Do the numbers speak to the friendly conversations I have with neighbors, to keep their spirits high when their lower backs begin moaning? Do they tell you how free I am from performance-enhancing products such as snow blowers and snow plows?
No, they don’t. You can’t fully appreciate my shoveling prowess unless you watch with your own eyes. And since no one does that, I’m left to reflect on my own abilities as I sip some hot chocolate and marvel over the job well-done.
Moneyball is real and here to stay. There’s no debating that. But please, don’t forget to watch for the intangibles. They are everywhere, from shortstops to shovelers.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Holiday Giving
It was no surprise to me that Michael Phelps won Sports Illustrated’s “Sportsman of the Year.” His record-breaking performances and superhuman abdominal muscles have earned him every letter of that title. But if you had asked me for my pick … well, I would have suggested taking it in a different direction.
I would have chosen the Central Washington University softball team. You might remember them from back in April. The Wildcats were playing against Western Oregon University, trying to keep their season alive. But then Sara Tucholsky of Western Oregon smacked the first home run of her career – high school or college – with two runners on base. Tucholsky was thrilled, so much that she missed first base. As she doubled back to touch the bag, she collapsed to the ground with a serious knee injury.
There was no way that Tucholsky could stand up and round the bases. If her teammates picked her up, she’d be called out. If a pinch-runner was called in for her, she’d have to settle for a single. And so, with a golden opportunity to hold Western Oregon to fewer runs than it really deserved, the Central Washington players huddled up and …
Well, they asked the umpire if they could pick Tucholsky up and carry her. The ump said there was no rule against that. So pick her up they did, rounding the bases with her, and allowing her to touch each base.
Tucholsky completed her three-run homer. Western Oregon won the game by two runs, eliminating Central Washington from conference-title contention. The Wildcats’ postseason hopes were lost. But they had won so much more than a ballgame.
Holiday season, 2008: There are people shooting each other in department stores. There are people stampeding a Wal Mart employee to death in their pursuit of big-screen TVs and GPS devices. There are, allegedly, people asking for six-figure holiday presents in exchange for U.S. Senate seats.
It is supposed to be a time of giving. That’s what my parents told me when I was growing up. That’s what I tell my girls. That’s what I see when I look at the students who show up for community-service club meetings in my school, and give of their time and energy. But it is so easy for so many of us to slip into the greed.
America is at a place right now where large numbers of individuals are choosing – or at least considering – the virtues of service and sacrifice. I read of record numbers of young adults applying to Teach for America. I read of teen-agers starting successful non-profits. I hear the president-elect announce plans to present more such service opportunities. When I read of the stampedes and the shootings and the bribe requests, I have to believe that such greed is too weak in the face of compassion.
So as we celebrate the holidays in this most difficult of years for so many families, I look forward to more moments like that softball game in April. It was a brief moment in the lives of these young women, but they won’t forget it. They probably knew it before, but they definitely know now that it doesn’t take much to make a difference. It doesn’t take much to inspire another person to care. Sometimes, you just have to pick a kid up off the infield dirt, and carry her around for a while.
I would have chosen the Central Washington University softball team. You might remember them from back in April. The Wildcats were playing against Western Oregon University, trying to keep their season alive. But then Sara Tucholsky of Western Oregon smacked the first home run of her career – high school or college – with two runners on base. Tucholsky was thrilled, so much that she missed first base. As she doubled back to touch the bag, she collapsed to the ground with a serious knee injury.
There was no way that Tucholsky could stand up and round the bases. If her teammates picked her up, she’d be called out. If a pinch-runner was called in for her, she’d have to settle for a single. And so, with a golden opportunity to hold Western Oregon to fewer runs than it really deserved, the Central Washington players huddled up and …
Well, they asked the umpire if they could pick Tucholsky up and carry her. The ump said there was no rule against that. So pick her up they did, rounding the bases with her, and allowing her to touch each base.
Tucholsky completed her three-run homer. Western Oregon won the game by two runs, eliminating Central Washington from conference-title contention. The Wildcats’ postseason hopes were lost. But they had won so much more than a ballgame.
Holiday season, 2008: There are people shooting each other in department stores. There are people stampeding a Wal Mart employee to death in their pursuit of big-screen TVs and GPS devices. There are, allegedly, people asking for six-figure holiday presents in exchange for U.S. Senate seats.
It is supposed to be a time of giving. That’s what my parents told me when I was growing up. That’s what I tell my girls. That’s what I see when I look at the students who show up for community-service club meetings in my school, and give of their time and energy. But it is so easy for so many of us to slip into the greed.
America is at a place right now where large numbers of individuals are choosing – or at least considering – the virtues of service and sacrifice. I read of record numbers of young adults applying to Teach for America. I read of teen-agers starting successful non-profits. I hear the president-elect announce plans to present more such service opportunities. When I read of the stampedes and the shootings and the bribe requests, I have to believe that such greed is too weak in the face of compassion.
So as we celebrate the holidays in this most difficult of years for so many families, I look forward to more moments like that softball game in April. It was a brief moment in the lives of these young women, but they won’t forget it. They probably knew it before, but they definitely know now that it doesn’t take much to make a difference. It doesn’t take much to inspire another person to care. Sometimes, you just have to pick a kid up off the infield dirt, and carry her around for a while.
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