This November 5th feels a bit different for me than it has in recent years. Two years ago on this day, I drove around town buying as many different newspapers as I could in order to save all accounts of Barack Obama’s election the day before as 44th president of the United States. Last year, I did the same thing in order to save all accounts of the New York Yankees’ 27th world championship the day before against the Philadelphia Phillies.
But oh, what a difference a year or two makes. There was no reason to hit up the delis for newsprint today. Unless, of course, I want to chronicle the rise of Marco Rubio for my children. Or share the detailed accounts of the San Francisco Giants’ victory parade.
For a man who has found much inspiration from the slogans “Yes We Can” and “Let’s Go Yankees,” November 2010 is a rather downcast month. The Republicans are back in power and rarin’ to dismantle the president’s policies. And the Giants used rock-solid pitching to overpower a Texas Rangers team that had easily dismissed New York’s superstars a week earlier.
So what’s a Democrat in pinstripes to do?
I could join the crowd, turn on Obama and chide him for any number of reasons – from failing to turn around the runaway economic train in time for the midterm elections, to failing to communicate as effectively as he did while campaigning, to being too moderate/centrist/liberal/socialist (pick your label, then spin away). I could watch the cable stations, listen to the pundits, and let their words become my own.
As for the Yankees, I could blame manager Joe Girardi for his playoff pitching decisions. I could blame the overpriced hitters who didn’t hit in the postseason. Or I could chalk it up to a shortage of pitching, and hope that the teams spends the equivalent of a developing country’s entire GDP on Texas Rangers starter Cliff Lee.
I could complain, lower my head, and remind myself that fairy tales don’t last forever. I could retreat to cynicism, that safe harbor where we all can drop anchor and protect ourselves from ever having the audacity to hope. It’s an eerie place, that harbor, one where everyone hides inside a shell only to pop out every so often to shoot a spitball at somebody else.
I could go there, sure. But every April, when a new baseball season begins, I find myself unable to do such a thing as lose hope. I can’t ever stop believing in the Yankees, no matter what the lineup looks like. You simply can’t associate yourself with such a long, hard, unpredictable sport unless you’re willing to pour all the hope you’ve got into your team. The game will break your heart far more often than not, but the heartbreak is all worth it if you’ve followed those balls and strikes with passion.
Our nation’s government is exponentially more important than a baseball game. But the sport’s rhythms can serve as a guide for this cold November rain I’m feeling right now. When you’ve felt inspired and deeply moved by the words and ideas of an elected official, a few months of disappointment and defeat cannot be enough to turn your hopes into hardened bitterness. Like baseball, politics is a game of seasons, and when one season ends that simply means another is on its way. In between those seasons, we witness adjustments and reevaluations. We hear about new game plans, new supporting players, and new energy.
There have been very few politicians in my 39 years who have inspired me to become a better person through their words and leadership. Two years ago, I voted for one of those select few. I have hung my hat on President Obama, and that hat is staying right where it is. He is retooling now in the White House, just as the Yankees are doing in the South Bronx. The next season will differ from the previous one. The road map toward change looks different now, but that’s a result of the democratic process.
I stopped into a deli today and checked out the front pages: A few stories about the Tea Party. A feature on Conan O’Brien. Obituaries on Sparky Anderson, the legendary baseball manager. The post-election stories explained quite clearly that our political landscape looks much different than it did two days ago. But the remaining stories reminded me that life has gone on. There is still a country to lead, and still a need for inspiring guidance and encouragement.
This is not a time for quitting. Not for the president, and not for those who have placed their trust in him. You pick your head up, you look ahead, and you keep hoping. Can we at least do that? Yes, of course we can.
Showing posts with label Joe Girardi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joe Girardi. Show all posts
Friday, November 5, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Ahab in Atlanta (One Sixty-Two: Day 151)
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-One: Jason Heyward, Atlanta Braves (via Bobby Cox – and the Whale)
“Hast seen the White Whale?”
It’s either appropriate or insane that during the same summer in which I undertook 162 blog entries in 162 days, I also decided to read Moby-Dick. What, an English teacher who had never read Herman Melville’s Great American Novel? Indeed, guilty as charged.
But no longer. While I still have a week and a half left of the blog series, I did finish Moby-Dick last night – all 654 dense pages of her. It’s a fascinating book, from its detailed description of whales, whaling and nautical life, to its thrilling account of Captain Ahab’s pursuit of the mighty white whale.
In the 159 years since the novel’s publication, countless scholars have analyzed Moby-Dick to explore its structure and meaning. Most notably, readers have wondered just what Ahab and the whale symbolize. Do they represent greed? Good and evil? Race? Religion? Nature and humanity? Fate? Life itself? Or something else entirely?
These varied interpretations serve only to make this epic novel that much more interesting. I’ve spent the past two months reading the book, and now that I’m finished I can say that I know exactly what Ahab’s quest was meant to symbolize.
It was all about Bobby Cox.
Ahab was a whaling man for 40 years. Cox, the legendary Atlanta Braves manager, is in his 40th year as either a manager, coach or general manager. His next win will be the 2,500th of his career. Only three other major-league managers have won more. Cox and Joe Torre share the record for most playoff appearances by a manager, with an astounding 15.
There is no question that when Bobby Cox retires at the end of this season, as he has announced he will do, he will quickly find himself inducted into the Hall of Fame. But there’s another piece to this man’s managerial record, and this is the part where we find Ahab and the whale. Of those managers who have made the playoffs eight or more times, all have won multiple championships – except Bobby Cox. A manager like the Yankees’ Joe Girardi, now in just his fourth season as a skipper, has won as many titles as the 69-year-old Cox, who has 29 seasons as a manager under his belt.
It has been all of 15 years since Bobby Cox’s Atlanta Braves won their sole championship under his reign. That’s the equivalent of five 19th-century whaling voyages. You age an awful lot in 15 years, and your thirst for another sight of the white whale only grows fiercer. It’s no wonder that Bobby Cox has been ejected from 158 games as manager – far more than any other skipper in history. You blow a lot of fuses when you push onward with such passion in your quest for another baseball title.
So as young sailors such as right fielder Jason Heyward man the mast-head and sharpen their harpoons, Cox paces the deck and sets sail toward the equator. His Braves are currently 2½ games ahead in the National League Wild Card race. With just two weeks to go, Cox can taste that record 16th postseason appearance. If and when he gets there, the legendary skipper will have one last chance to claim that second title.
It’s been a long, long journey since Bobby Cox first captained a ship. He’s about ready to quit and go home, something Captain Ahab was never willing to do. But before he gets back to his own Nantucket, Cox is about to get one last shot at his ultimate goal. All signs indicate that he’s ready.
“Hast seen the White Whale?” you ask. Indeed, Bobby – there she blows! Man the deck, and lower the boats. You’ve got one more pass at the mighty beast.
Day One Hundred Fifty-One: Jason Heyward, Atlanta Braves (via Bobby Cox – and the Whale)
“Hast seen the White Whale?”
It’s either appropriate or insane that during the same summer in which I undertook 162 blog entries in 162 days, I also decided to read Moby-Dick. What, an English teacher who had never read Herman Melville’s Great American Novel? Indeed, guilty as charged.
But no longer. While I still have a week and a half left of the blog series, I did finish Moby-Dick last night – all 654 dense pages of her. It’s a fascinating book, from its detailed description of whales, whaling and nautical life, to its thrilling account of Captain Ahab’s pursuit of the mighty white whale.
In the 159 years since the novel’s publication, countless scholars have analyzed Moby-Dick to explore its structure and meaning. Most notably, readers have wondered just what Ahab and the whale symbolize. Do they represent greed? Good and evil? Race? Religion? Nature and humanity? Fate? Life itself? Or something else entirely?
These varied interpretations serve only to make this epic novel that much more interesting. I’ve spent the past two months reading the book, and now that I’m finished I can say that I know exactly what Ahab’s quest was meant to symbolize.
It was all about Bobby Cox.
Ahab was a whaling man for 40 years. Cox, the legendary Atlanta Braves manager, is in his 40th year as either a manager, coach or general manager. His next win will be the 2,500th of his career. Only three other major-league managers have won more. Cox and Joe Torre share the record for most playoff appearances by a manager, with an astounding 15.
There is no question that when Bobby Cox retires at the end of this season, as he has announced he will do, he will quickly find himself inducted into the Hall of Fame. But there’s another piece to this man’s managerial record, and this is the part where we find Ahab and the whale. Of those managers who have made the playoffs eight or more times, all have won multiple championships – except Bobby Cox. A manager like the Yankees’ Joe Girardi, now in just his fourth season as a skipper, has won as many titles as the 69-year-old Cox, who has 29 seasons as a manager under his belt.
It has been all of 15 years since Bobby Cox’s Atlanta Braves won their sole championship under his reign. That’s the equivalent of five 19th-century whaling voyages. You age an awful lot in 15 years, and your thirst for another sight of the white whale only grows fiercer. It’s no wonder that Bobby Cox has been ejected from 158 games as manager – far more than any other skipper in history. You blow a lot of fuses when you push onward with such passion in your quest for another baseball title.
So as young sailors such as right fielder Jason Heyward man the mast-head and sharpen their harpoons, Cox paces the deck and sets sail toward the equator. His Braves are currently 2½ games ahead in the National League Wild Card race. With just two weeks to go, Cox can taste that record 16th postseason appearance. If and when he gets there, the legendary skipper will have one last chance to claim that second title.
It’s been a long, long journey since Bobby Cox first captained a ship. He’s about ready to quit and go home, something Captain Ahab was never willing to do. But before he gets back to his own Nantucket, Cox is about to get one last shot at his ultimate goal. All signs indicate that he’s ready.
“Hast seen the White Whale?” you ask. Indeed, Bobby – there she blows! Man the deck, and lower the boats. You’ve got one more pass at the mighty beast.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Turtle Out of Water (One Sixty-Two: Day 66)
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-Six: Andre Ethier, Los Angeles Dodgers
We inched our canoe up to theirs, the two boys calling to us with wild-eyed wonder. Their father seemed pretty excited, too. They were pointing to the back of their canoe, imploring us to take a look. When we’d pulled up next to them, we looked inside and there it was – a beautiful brown turtle, no bigger than a shoe box.
I was out with my wife and girls for a Father’s Day treat at the Cranford Canoe Club, a legendary canoe -rental facility in central Jersey. The club dates back to the days in the early 20th century when canoe clubs were all the rage around here. Cranford, with numerous backyards abutting the Rahway River, was once referred to as the “Venice of New Jersey.”
It was a delightful two hours on the placid Rahway, paddling our way along while dragonflies followed us, fish swam around us, birds chirped at us and a deer glanced over her shoulder while eating on the river bank. But before we get too comfortable, let’s get back to that turtle for a second. When they called us over to their canoe, the boys and their father said they were planning to bring the turtle home as a pet. We nodded our heads and paddled on, knowing that the folks at the canoe club would not be letting these guys walk out of their boat with any pet turtles.
The turtle belonged in the water. Seeing him in some tank in a suburban bedroom would be all wrong. Seeing him trying desperately to climb out of the canoe was bad enough. Sometimes, you need to stay in your native environment.
Watching Joe Torre wearing a Dodgers uniform this weekend felt a little like watching that turtle inside the canoe. Torre looks like a New Yorker, he speaks like a New Yorker, and he did more to bring the Yankees back to prominence than anyone else in the past 15 years. His departure from New York after the 2007 season has been well-documented, and there’s no need to re-hash it here. Joe Girardi has led the Yankees to a world championship as manager, and New York has not fallen apart since Torre left.
Still, some people just don’t look right when they’re away from home. When the Yankees visited the Dodgers this weekend for an interleague series, Torre wore the interlocking “LA” on his cap while the visiting team sported that interlocking “NY.” His team did just fine, going after the Yankees with playoff intensity. Torre has led his club to the postseason each of the past two years, and L.A. is in the thick of another pennant race in 2010. But there are other men on this team who look much more the Southern California type than Torre does.
Take right fielder Andre Ethier, for example. Born in Phoenix, Ethier has that West Coast look – the curly locks dangling from behind his blue cap, the long sideburns, the on-again, off-again beard. Of course, it’s just a look – there’s nothing relaxed about Ethier’s effort on the field, as he’s quickly become the Dodgers’ premier clutch hitter.
But when you watch Ethier suit up for a game on another gorgeous night in Chavez Ravine, he looks like a player who’d be very comfortable hanging out on Venice Beach during an off-day. As for Torre, he looks like a man who’s dying for a decent slice of pizza and a copy of the New York Daily News.
Joe Torre has proven, to anyone who didn’t believe it, that his managerial magic extends beyond the South Bronx. He is holding together a franchise with serious ownership issues and gearing Los Angeles for another run at a division title. I hope he succeeds, and then I hope he gets out of Dodger blue this autumn.
Venice Beach is no more suited to Torre than that canoe was to the turtle we saw last week. Get that turtle back into the Venice of New Jersey; bring Torre back to the City That Never Sleeps. There’s a No. 6 to retire, and a lot of fans who never got to say goodbye.
Day Sixty-Six: Andre Ethier, Los Angeles Dodgers
We inched our canoe up to theirs, the two boys calling to us with wild-eyed wonder. Their father seemed pretty excited, too. They were pointing to the back of their canoe, imploring us to take a look. When we’d pulled up next to them, we looked inside and there it was – a beautiful brown turtle, no bigger than a shoe box.
I was out with my wife and girls for a Father’s Day treat at the Cranford Canoe Club, a legendary canoe -rental facility in central Jersey. The club dates back to the days in the early 20th century when canoe clubs were all the rage around here. Cranford, with numerous backyards abutting the Rahway River, was once referred to as the “Venice of New Jersey.”
It was a delightful two hours on the placid Rahway, paddling our way along while dragonflies followed us, fish swam around us, birds chirped at us and a deer glanced over her shoulder while eating on the river bank. But before we get too comfortable, let’s get back to that turtle for a second. When they called us over to their canoe, the boys and their father said they were planning to bring the turtle home as a pet. We nodded our heads and paddled on, knowing that the folks at the canoe club would not be letting these guys walk out of their boat with any pet turtles.
The turtle belonged in the water. Seeing him in some tank in a suburban bedroom would be all wrong. Seeing him trying desperately to climb out of the canoe was bad enough. Sometimes, you need to stay in your native environment.
Watching Joe Torre wearing a Dodgers uniform this weekend felt a little like watching that turtle inside the canoe. Torre looks like a New Yorker, he speaks like a New Yorker, and he did more to bring the Yankees back to prominence than anyone else in the past 15 years. His departure from New York after the 2007 season has been well-documented, and there’s no need to re-hash it here. Joe Girardi has led the Yankees to a world championship as manager, and New York has not fallen apart since Torre left.
Still, some people just don’t look right when they’re away from home. When the Yankees visited the Dodgers this weekend for an interleague series, Torre wore the interlocking “LA” on his cap while the visiting team sported that interlocking “NY.” His team did just fine, going after the Yankees with playoff intensity. Torre has led his club to the postseason each of the past two years, and L.A. is in the thick of another pennant race in 2010. But there are other men on this team who look much more the Southern California type than Torre does.
Take right fielder Andre Ethier, for example. Born in Phoenix, Ethier has that West Coast look – the curly locks dangling from behind his blue cap, the long sideburns, the on-again, off-again beard. Of course, it’s just a look – there’s nothing relaxed about Ethier’s effort on the field, as he’s quickly become the Dodgers’ premier clutch hitter.
But when you watch Ethier suit up for a game on another gorgeous night in Chavez Ravine, he looks like a player who’d be very comfortable hanging out on Venice Beach during an off-day. As for Torre, he looks like a man who’s dying for a decent slice of pizza and a copy of the New York Daily News.
Joe Torre has proven, to anyone who didn’t believe it, that his managerial magic extends beyond the South Bronx. He is holding together a franchise with serious ownership issues and gearing Los Angeles for another run at a division title. I hope he succeeds, and then I hope he gets out of Dodger blue this autumn.
Venice Beach is no more suited to Torre than that canoe was to the turtle we saw last week. Get that turtle back into the Venice of New Jersey; bring Torre back to the City That Never Sleeps. There’s a No. 6 to retire, and a lot of fans who never got to say goodbye.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Sammy Sou-sa
Throughout their lives, my mother’s parents shared a deep love for baseball with my brother and me. Warm, compassionate grandparents, they often expressed their love to us through animated conversations about the Yankees, Mets, or our own Little League and high school teams. One of the most enjoyable aspects of these baseball talks was my grandparents’ incredible ability to destroy the pronunciation of players’ names. This side of Babe Ruth, there wasn’t a player whose name they didn’t butcher.
That new outfielder the Yankees had just signed from Japan? Mat-soon-i. The home-run-hitting outfielder for the Cubs? Sammy Sou-sa. The clutch lefty pitcher in pinstripes? Penn-itte.
My brother and I would joke good-naturedly with my grandparents about this, and they’d laugh along with us. I wondered to myself whether these mispronunciations were due more to their education level (one had graduated from high school, while the other had left high school before earning a diploma), or whether it was due more to geography and ethnicity (a combination of Irish-German-English descent placed on the North Shore of Staten Island – a place where you’d hear many a native ask for earl and vinegar in a restaurant, and where you’d hear them say the gas was cheaper in Joisey). When I heard them say the words “Derek Jeey-ta,” I wondered whether this mispronunciation was due to a real deficiency in literacy or to a simple combination of genetics and learned behavior. Whatever the reason, I felt sure that my brother and I – writers both – would not have such struggles.
My grandparents have both passed away in recent years, leaving us with just memories of hearing about “Joe Gir-al-di” or “Jorge Po-san-a.” Until …
My mother. She was talking to me the other day on the phone. She wanted to know if I thought the Yankees would trade for that Cleveland pitcher.
“Which one, Mom?”
“Sa-na-thee-a.”
Silence.
“Mom, do you mean C.C. Sa-bath-i-a?”
“Yes, him.”
More silence.
“Mom, you’ve inherited it.”
“What?”
“The name gene.”
She is almost 62, and I see now that she is well on her way. My mom is fast becoming a major-leaguer at mispronouncing names. We shared a laugh over this realization, and then moved on to other things. But as I hung up the phone, I thought about it some more, and started to get nervous.
When will I start doing it?
I pore over the names in box scores, and say them over in my head. “Fukudome. Pierzynski. Francoeur. Gallardo.” I will not succumb, I say. Genetics or not, I can stave off this grammatical glitch.
From their lofty perch, my grandparents smile. “Just you wait,” they surely say. Just you wait.
That new outfielder the Yankees had just signed from Japan? Mat-soon-i. The home-run-hitting outfielder for the Cubs? Sammy Sou-sa. The clutch lefty pitcher in pinstripes? Penn-itte.
My brother and I would joke good-naturedly with my grandparents about this, and they’d laugh along with us. I wondered to myself whether these mispronunciations were due more to their education level (one had graduated from high school, while the other had left high school before earning a diploma), or whether it was due more to geography and ethnicity (a combination of Irish-German-English descent placed on the North Shore of Staten Island – a place where you’d hear many a native ask for earl and vinegar in a restaurant, and where you’d hear them say the gas was cheaper in Joisey). When I heard them say the words “Derek Jeey-ta,” I wondered whether this mispronunciation was due to a real deficiency in literacy or to a simple combination of genetics and learned behavior. Whatever the reason, I felt sure that my brother and I – writers both – would not have such struggles.
My grandparents have both passed away in recent years, leaving us with just memories of hearing about “Joe Gir-al-di” or “Jorge Po-san-a.” Until …
My mother. She was talking to me the other day on the phone. She wanted to know if I thought the Yankees would trade for that Cleveland pitcher.
“Which one, Mom?”
“Sa-na-thee-a.”
Silence.
“Mom, do you mean C.C. Sa-bath-i-a?”
“Yes, him.”
More silence.
“Mom, you’ve inherited it.”
“What?”
“The name gene.”
She is almost 62, and I see now that she is well on her way. My mom is fast becoming a major-leaguer at mispronouncing names. We shared a laugh over this realization, and then moved on to other things. But as I hung up the phone, I thought about it some more, and started to get nervous.
When will I start doing it?
I pore over the names in box scores, and say them over in my head. “Fukudome. Pierzynski. Francoeur. Gallardo.” I will not succumb, I say. Genetics or not, I can stave off this grammatical glitch.
From their lofty perch, my grandparents smile. “Just you wait,” they surely say. Just you wait.
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