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

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

Day Seventy-One: Dustin Pedroia, Boston Red Sox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pixie Dust and Pinstripes

So fairies are the new princesses in the wonderful world of Disney. I just finished watching the film “Tinker Bell” with my 3-year-old, and I also saw her eyes light up when she received a Tinker Bell sweatshirt, children’s book and T-shirt for Christmas. Perhaps Disney has finally milked all it could out of the “Princess” phenomenon that has connected Snow White, Cinderella, Belle, Ariel and friends for the past decade, and must now turn to little creatures who create magic with their pixie dust.

But let’s face it: Princess and fairy tales are the kinds of stories we were raised to love. Is it part of our genetic DNA or is it learned behavior that causes so many of us to seek out the happily ever after? Whatever the cause, it is what we root for. Whether it’s the girl with the glass slipper or the untested rookie pitcher, we all seem to find ourselves pulling for the underdog.

Last year, I watched the Tampa Bay Rays shock the baseball world for six months, winning game after game with a team full of young, talented and unseasoned kids. These players soared all the way to Game Seven of the American League Championship Series. And then, when the Boston Red Sox had the Rays’ backs fully against the wall, Tampa Bay even brought out a prince of its own – take away the “N” and you’ve got his name, David Price. This rookie phenom, with just a few innings of major league ball under his belt, blew away the mighty Red Sox hitters and led his new Rays teammates to the World Series.

It was quite a story, and it’s one that baseball fans will surely remember for some time. But fascinating as I found the Rays’ rise, I remain very much a New York Yankees fan. I like the fairy tale stories, but when the 2009 season begins I will be rooting for the Disney Corp. of baseball. I’m a die-hard fan of a multimedia conglomerate. Yay! I know, there’s no real charm to that. As the new stadium opens, and many of us are boxed out of affording tickets, it seems illogical to be cheering for such a business.

Rooting for the Rays would make more sense if you’re looking for some pixie dust in your sports appetite. But if you’re honest with yourself, you know that entertainment, at its best, invokes a connection to the dreams and imaginations of our childhood. I can go on and on about the Yankees being a might giant – an Evil Stepmother, if you will – but it doesn’t change the fact that I grew up idolizing the players on this team. It doesn’t change the fact that the sight of those pinstripes reminds me of my own youthful innocence and joy, as I made believe I was Graig Nettles at the plate or Ron Guidry on the mound.

Say what you want about the media giants, but they know what they’re doing. A 20-year-old can take a college class in economics and turn all cynical on the might and manipulation of Disney. But slip “The Lion King” into a VCR player, and that 20-year-old turns to mush, singing “Hakuna Matata” with sheer joy.

So bring on the fairies. And the new pinstriped millionaires. I’ve got my critical business eye trained on the Yankees. But I’ve also got the wide-eyed wonder. And as far as I can tell, the latter isn’t going away.