Woes of a Pinstriped Democrat

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

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

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

So what’s a Democrat in pinstripes to do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We Meet Again (One Sixty-Two: Day 161)

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-One: Grady Sizemore, Cleveland Indians

It had been nearly four years since Ron and I had gotten together. He had moved to a different state, made partner at his law firm, and traveled five days a week nearly every week of the year. To say his plate has been full would be an understatement. I have no idea when the man sleeps. In Ron’s life these past few years, getting in touch with friends was secondary to finding some time to actually eat, exercise, and rest.

But a few weeks ago, Ron got in touch. He asked if I’d like to go to a Yankees-Red Sox game with him. I told him I would love to go. And so, on a cloudy Sunday evening in late September, I met up with one of the best friends I’ve had in my life after missing his presence for the better part of my late 30s.

We hugged, exchanged greetings, hopped into my car and began the complex work of catching up on four years. I know the clock said we spent seven hours together, but it felt more like ten minutes. There was so much to discuss: Stories of family, work, friendships, travels, daily routines and personal growth. We talked in the car, on the subway, and on the street. We talked in Staten Island, Brooklyn, Manhattan, and the Bronx. And, of course, we talked at the ballpark.

The rhythms of a game provided the perfect backdrop for two friends who’ve attended several dozen games together, yet haven’t done so since the pinstriped unit played in a different home stadium. As we sat together in the new digs, Yankees-Red Sox in the South Bronx was as exciting as you’d expect, especially as this game saw New York win in extra innings. But, to be honest, Ron and I could have just as easily been sitting in Arizona, watching Indians centerfielder Grady Sizemore rehab his knee at Cleveland’s spring-training facility. The location didn’t matter, so long as there was baseball before us.

We talked eagerly of seeing each other again, and continuing the business of reconnecting. The vow to meet again soon was more than optimistic chatter. As I reflected on my visit with Ron, I realized that there was a time, earlier in my adulthood, when I would have felt more hurt, betrayal and anger at a friend who’d fallen out of touch with me. But the years have softened the demands I make of friends, and left me feeling grateful for whatever time I can get with them. There’s not enough hours in the day or space in the heart for those kinds of hard feelings. Just tell me what you’ve been up to, and let’s head out to a game.

Ron’s girlfriend is a Cubs fan. During the season, they walk from their home to Wrigley Field whenever they can catch a game. I look forward to joining them there, along with my wife. We’ll enjoy the game and the gorgeous ballpark, I’m sure. But mostly, we’ll just talk. That’s what friends do.

Who's All Washed Up? (One Sixty-Two: Day 139)

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-Nine: Jim Thome, Minnesota Twins (via Derek Jeter)

There’s been a lot of talk lately about Derek Jeter’s performance on the field, and whether or not the Yankee captain is beginning to experience an erosion of baseball skills. My thoughts on this are clouded by my fondness for the Yankees, of course, but as a baseball fan I’d say we underestimate a player like Jeter at our own peril. When you’ve performed at such a high level for so many years, a late-summer slump is probably not a sign that you’re finished. It’s likely just a slump.

Of course, Jeter’s situation is clouded by the fact that his gigantic 10-year contract comes to an end after this season, and he will be a free agent. The issue is not whether or not he’ll resign with the Yankees; New York knows it cannot let the face of the franchise go anywhere. The question is what kind of contract he signs. It’s important that the Yankees not play cheap with this man for a couple of reasons: First of all, Jeter should have plenty of superb baseball left in the tank; and secondly, his future impact on the team will not be felt solely during his time as a player.

First of all, keeping Number 2 in pinstripes assures that the Yankees-Jeter brand will last for as long as Jeter lives. Both teams have much to gain in terms of revenue and prestige from this partnership, just as the Yankees have experienced with men such as Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra. Secondly, it’s certainly possible that Jeter will decide he wants to manage someday, and I’m sure he’d be tremendous at it. If I were the Yankees, I’d want him managing in the South Bronx, rather than anywhere else. So what is to gain by trying to lowball Jeter’s contract this winter when you’re hoping that he leads to you future championships both during and after his playing days?

Some guys are just built to produce and win, and they exude a leadership that the rest of the team feeds off of every day. Jim Thome is another such example. Thome turned 40 a few days ago, and it’s true that he plays better now when he gets some extra rest. But last season, when Thome’s season home-run total dropped below 30 for the first time in a full season since 1995, the word on the street was that his days of glory were behind him.

So, as most American League teams looked elsewhere for designated hitters, the Minnesota Twins looked for Thome. In just 241 at-bats this season – the equivalent of a half-season – the lefty slugger has 22 homers. That, by the way, gives him 586 in his career. Oh, and as his Twins are surging toward the playoffs, Thome leant a hand this week with four home runs in three games. A strong September in Minnesota will give Thome the ninth postseason appearance of his illustrious career.

So, you know, go ahead and say the guy is a liability because he can’t play the field anymore, and because he doesn’t hit lefties as well these days. The Twins would love it if you keep knocking the guy, because then they might be able to sign him for less money again next year. And he’ll punch another 20 or more home runs over the wall – often in the late innings of late summer, when lesser players shrink under the pressure.

Jim Thome and Derek Jeter will both retire someday; they are mortal, after all. And they’ll stand in Cooperstown one July afternoon as well, holding their Hall of Fame plaques for the cameras. At that point, there will still be some people debating just how good they were in their later years. But neither man will be listening. They’ll just be smiling.

Johnny & Jude (One Sixty-Two: Day 116)

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 Sixteen: Johnny Damon, Detroit Tigers

For most of my 5-year-old’s life, she has asked my wife and me to sing her to sleep. It’s one of the most fulfilling moments of our day with Chelsea, as we kneel beside her bed and whisper a lullaby or love song to her. It typically takes just a couple of songs before her eyes close, her breathing grows heavier, and she drifts off into dreamland.

The songs we choose vary: My wife’s favorites include “You Are My Sunshine” as well as Laurie Berkner’s “Moon Moon Moon.” Mine include “Rainbow Connection” and “Oh! Susanna.” While the standards work like a charm for Chelsea, I’ve also incorporated some more modern songs into the bedtime rituals. The Beatles work well with this, as “Here Comes the Sun” and “Hey Jude” fit quite nicely into the mix. Chelsea has responded well to them so far, to her father’s delight.

“Hey Jude” is one of my favorite songs in the world, so it’s been sung and played in our house quite a bit over the years. My 8-year-old, Katie, is well aware of the song. And as you grow older, you remember more of the parts to your parents’ favorite songs. Then, when you’re placed in a bunk bed with your little sister and you hear your dad singing one of those songs to her, there’s a tendency to want to sing along.

This takes us to the evening a few weeks ago when, in the darkness of bedtime, I had reached the famous fade-out coda of “Hey Jude.” In a near whisper, I sang it: “Na na na, na-na na na / Na-na na na, hey Jude,” in the best Beatles-lullaby voice I could muster. But from the top bunk, I suddenly heard Katie chime in with a raspy: “Jude, Jude, a-Judey, Judey, Judey, Judey.”

In Katie’s mind, the song now includes McCartney’s ad-lib vocal fireworks in between the refrain. She has learned the benefits of adding a little sparkle to a song. The refrain is soothing and fun as is, but McCartney’s joyful screams turn a marvelous melody into a dynamic celebration. And really, what’s wrong with that? Even as she drifted off to sleep, Katie still found the energy for a little shout.

Tonight in the South Bronx, the New York Yankees hosted the Detroit Tigers for the first time this season. That’s particularly notable since this year’s Tigers feature a gentleman named Johnny Damon in their lineup. For four years, Damon was the spark inside a button-down Yankees lineup while men such as Hideki Matsui, Jorge Posada, Derek Jeter and Mark Teixeira brought stability and no-nonsense execution to the team. Damon waved to the crowd and bantered with the fans in left field. He gave tons of interviews with reporters and never took the field without a hop in his step. As the team evolved, players such as Nick Swisher and A.J. Burnett brought their own quirkiness to the pinstripes, and the Yankees began to incorporate more of Damon’s fun into all that success. By 2009, they were a pie-in-the-face group of champions.

Johnny Damon didn’t re-sign with the Yankees this past winter; he’s a Tiger now. As he stepped up to bat for the first time tonight, the New York fans gave Damon a warm welcome back to the stadium. They remembered all the spark, and all the “Judeys” he brought to the fade-out. They know that Johnny Damon took a glad song and made it better. So they let him into their hearts, and that hasn’t changed with his new uniform.

You don’t need to know a lot about baseball or music to know joy when you see or hear it. Sometimes, it even makes you sing out loud as you fall asleep.

Tough Love (One Sixty-Two: Day 90)

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: Maicer Izturis, Los Angeles Angels

A few things happen when you, a New York Yankees pitcher, give up a two-run home run to a weak-hitting shortstop in your own ballpark. First of all, you get to watch the 5-foot-8 singles-hitter jog around the bases – something he rarely gets to do. Then you see him greeted eagerly by his teammates in the visitors’ dugout. As he slips into the dugout, you see that one of the fans in the right-field seats has given up his or her souvenir by throwing the ball back onto the field. Finally, you hear a cascade of boos raining down upon you from all corners of the park.

Even if you’re an All-Star, this is the way it goes.

Phil Hughes has won 11 games so far this year as a starter for the New York Yankees, and his relief work last season was an invaluable part of New York’s championship run. However, Hughes has given up five or more runs in four of his last six starts. Yankees fans notice this, and they let you know. So as Maicer Izturis, who has 27 career home runs in seven big-league seasons, rounded third after his homer last night in Yankee Stadium, Hughes heard the Bronx cheer loud and clear.

It’s not as if Yankees fans suddenly despise Phil Hughes. They’d ask for his autograph in a second if they met him outside the ballpark, and they’d offer him all kinds of advice on how to get back on track. But in the moment, on that mound in a place where championships are expected, Hughes has no choice but to endure the boos. Yankee fans see it as their responsibility to let players know where they stand.

I can recall a game in the old Yankee Stadium during the early 1990s, when a surging Cleveland Indians club demolished what was at the time a struggling Yankees ballclub. At one point, an Indians hitter lined a shot off the leg of Yankees starting pitcher Mike Witt, who had been hearing the boos for quite awhile in this game. As the team chose to remove Witt from the game with an injury, the stadium crowd suddenly roared its approval to Witt’s departure from the game. As if the line drive hadn’t hurt enough, the sarcasm of this applause surely stung twice as hard.

Again, no personal offense was intended. It’s just a part of the atmosphere in the South Bronx. I was in the stadium when Mike Witt hobbled off that mound nearly 20 years ago, and I was in the stadium last night when Phil Hughes took his long walk to the showers in the sixth inning. Hughes may have nine inches and 70 pounds on Maicer Izturis, but he was the one knocked to the canvas last night. And until he can pull himself up and land some clean jabs again, Hughes will not hear much affection from the home fans. It’s just the way they do things here, on the field of tough love and trophy-hunting.

All-Stars Among Us (One Sixty-Two: Day 83)

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-Three: Brian McCann, Atlanta Braves

One of the first great lessons my parents taught me grew out of their friendship with George and Maurice. These two men, both my parents’ age, were over our house all the time – for birthdays, holidays, and regular days – and it was clear that they were extremely close with my parents. George, after all, was my godfather, while Maurice was my brother’s godfather. In addition to being two of the most grounded individuals I know, George and Maurice also are two of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met. My parents’ friendship with them stretched back to their days at Curtis High School on Staten Island, and I could see, even as a kid, that their bonds would stretch on into forever.

So the lesson I learned here was that my own interpretation of family need not be restricted to blood ties. If your relationship with a friend was so close that they knew what you were thinking before you said a word, that person was not merely a friend. He was your brother, your cousin, your uncle. Your family. And so it has been for my brother and me, as we’ve grown up with Uncle George, Uncle Reese (until he forced us, in our 20s, to call him Maurice) and numerous other uncles, aunts and cousins whom you will not find on our family tree.

In our own adulthood, my brother and I have adhered to this ideal, and it can be seen quite wonderfully in the ways in which my daughters now call some of our close friends “Uncle” and “Aunt.” The girls don’t question it, as they seem to understand the concept completely. This was evident again this past weekend, when they spent time with their Uncle Neil and Aunt Siobhan.

Neil was my brother’s best friend in high school, and has remained his closest friend throughout Eric’s life. As I came to understand what a remarkably compassionate and considerate individual Neil was, I was able to develop a very strong friendship with him as well. He is my younger daughter’s godfather, and he chose to marry an equally loving woman who, like him, finds limitless ways to reach out to her “family” every day. As Neil and Siobhan have grown together, they’ve become the rock around which their own families revolve. They are constantly there for their parents, siblings, nieces, nephews and cousins. Their umbrella of family extends far and wide, encompassing friends from high school, college, law school and work. They are the ones who get the calls from loved ones in need of help, or a listening ear, or advice. This can be a considerable weight to carry, especially now that they have their own child. But I don’t think Neil and Siobhan would have it any other way. It’s simply who they are.

I thought of these two last night, while watching baseball’s All-Star Game. The folks at Angels Stadium, along with People magazine, had a neat idea to welcome 30 everyday heroes to the pregame festivities. These individuals were dubbed the “All-Stars Among Us,” as they have contributed mightily to their communities through various service projects. Neil and Siobhan have spent many hours coordinating and working at the Mercy Center for women and families in the South Bronx. They know what it’s like to give of yourself freely for the greater good.

Then, as the game played itself out, I saw a man step out of the shadows and carry his National League team to victory when the moment called for it. Brian McCann of the Braves wasn’t an All-Star starter, but when he stepped to the plate with the bases loaded in the seventh inning, he had a responsibility to get the job done. And so McCann did it, with a bases-clearing, game-winning double off of Chicago White Sox reliever Matt Thornton. It was enough to earn the catcher this year’s All-Star Game MVP award.

So McCann was the rock on which the National League rested its hopes last night. And he delivered. On the baseball diamond, he did what Neil and Siobhan do every day, and what they will continue to do for as long as they live. As for me, I’m just one of the lucky ones who get to experience their friendship. My parents showed me a long time ago what family is. It’s the all-stars among us.

When the Boss Listened (One Sixty-Two: Day 82)

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-Two: Andy Pettitte, New York Yankees (via George Steinbrenner)

What is strong leadership? Is it getting the job done, no matter what the cost? Is it setting a standard for dignity and effort, with the knowledge that others will watch and follow your example? Must a successful leader rule by fear and intimidation, or is it possible instead to lead more effectively through quiet determination and clear communication?

As dozens of baseball players, managers, executives and media types commented today on the death of New York Yankees Owner George Steinbrenner, they said many kind words about a man who was driven to win. But as they spoke of Steinbrenner, the underlying discussion these folks were having was one on leadership. Was Steinbrenner a positive leader, one to be honored for all time? Or was he a pushy, overly involved boss who instilled more trepidation in his employees than trust?

I’ve followed the New York Yankees closely for 33 years, and in my formative years I watched Steinbrenner blow through managers, third-base coaches and front-office executives like a fussy homemaker ever dissatisfied with his living-room furniture. What’s more, Steinbrenner would constantly trade young prospects for veterans past their prime, and he would publicly berate his players time and time again.

This came to a head in 1990, when Steinbrenner was found to have paid a gambler in order to try and find incriminating information about his own player, outfielder Dave Winfield. Fay Vincent, who was commissioner of baseball at the time, banned Steinbrenner from the game for two years.

Yankee Stadium was a lonely place in 1990, as the home team was baseball’s worst franchise and fans could constantly be heard chanting “Steinbrenner Sucks” from the stands. I can recall feeling as though the suspension of Steinbrenner had given my team new hope. And indeed, that’s exactly what happened: The team’s front office executives worked to develop talented young players such as Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Mariano Rivera, Andy Pettitte and Jorge Posada. When these players matured, they were not traded, as had been the Steinbrenner way. Instead, they were inserted into the New York lineup.

By the time Steinbrenner returned, he could see that this plan was working. And so he did something that all good leaders do: He listened to his employees’ plan, accepted it, and changed his ways. By 1996, his Yankees were world champions again. Last year, New York won its fifth title in the past 14 years, three more than any other team has won in that time span.

In the early 2000s, Steinbrenner had one more relapse into his blustery ways, deciding strangely that Andy Pettitte – clearly his most reliable pitcher from 1995-2003 – was not worth signing anymore. He also went on to sign a few more of those big-name stars who looked good on paper but didn’t quite fit the Yankee mold. After he’d gotten Jason Giambi, Gary Sheffield and Randy Johnson out of his system and seen no titles as a result of it, Steinbrenner again listened as his general manager laid out a blueprint for developing from within and signing free-agent players who suited the Yankees’ needs. Again he listened, and agreed. So players such as Robinson Cano and Phil Hughes were not traded, and instead became All-Stars. Players such as CC Sabathia and, yes, Andy Pettitte were signed to free-agent contracts. Last year’s Yankees gave Steinbrenner one more championship – his seventh since buying the Yankees in 1973. Pettitte pitched the clinching game in all three rounds of the playoffs.

Today, as news of Steinbrenner’s passing spread throughout the country, Cano and Hughes and Sabathia and Pettitte all were in Anaheim to represent the Yankees as American League All-Stars. The plan is working, even if the Boss is not there to see it through anymore. I never met the man, so I can’t chime in on his character. But I think the sight of Andy Pettitte cruising through Inning 3 of tonight’s All-Star Game says something about this mercurial owner: He slowed down, shifted gears, and tried a new approach. He even stopped firing so many managers and coaches.

Ironically, early-21st century media have brought a reality-TV culture that thrives on intimidation, dismissed contestants and the words “You’re fired.” In the South Bronx, that’s so 1985. George Steinbrenner, dead at 80, learned patience. In doing so, he taught us all a lesson in leadership: It’s never too late to change.

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.

When the Mighty Fall

There are times when you just have to suck it up.

My sister-in-law writes on my Facebook wall: “Hey Warren, what do the NCAA Tournament and flip-flops have in common?”

I know, Lynn – they have no heels. No Heels. Ha. Ha. Ha.

When you root for a team that wins a lot, and then that team has a surprisingly terrible year, you’re going to hear about it, and you’re going to have to take some punches. Last year, North Carolina held aloft the Division I men’s basketball championship trophy. This year, the Tar Heels are 16-16, and will play no part in the NCAA Tournament.

Nobody’s cryin’ for you, buddy, so don’t even start complaining.

The barbs are even coming from your own students, who rely on your judgment for their grade-point averages. You know it’s a bad year when even they are taking swipes at you, reminding you of just how badly UNC lost to Duke last week.

I get it, kid. Take out your Hamlet book. You can play Polonius today.

Last year, the two sports teams for which I root passionately – the Chapel Hill men’s hoops team and the South Bronx pro baseball team – both won championships. Even for two of the most successful teams in American sports history, titles in the same year had never happened before last year. And it may never happen again. So for a fan like me, it was definitely a cool year in that way.

But in 2010, the mighty fell on that hardwood – or at least the mighty became reliant on freshmen who are still learning the college game. The Tar Heels will be back, but this year’s tournament will belong to other teams, with other fan bases. It’s still fun to watch, just without the personal connection.

To an extent, this year’s Flip-Flop Tournament has me turning my attention to Spring Training, to how the Yankees are shaping up. No need to worry about people telling me that New York is out of it this year. These defending champs are still wearing their navy-blue Grapefruit League uniforms, with the starters playing a couple of innings before the rookies get a look.

Baseball is waking up from its winter nap, and the excitement of a new season approaches. But it’s still kind of distant right now. Let’s be honest – college basketball is where it’s at in mid-March, and if I avoid the games it’s only out of spite.

My sister-in-law went to Siena, which has a far better men’s basketball team than North Carolina has this year. Now that is something truly rare. So enjoy, Lynn, and root for those Saints every step of the way. You never know.

Just remember this one, though, when you’re passing along the social-networking jokes. It’s an oldy, but I’ll take it any day.

Q: How do you know God loves the Tar Heels? A: He made the sky Carolina blue.

Redemption awaits. Even for the mighty.

The Tragedy of Alex, King of Ballparks

Next month, I’ll teach Hamlet to my seniors, as I always do this time of year. We’ll start by talking about Shakespeare, and what made him so profound a writer. Some of the kids will groan at the mention of his name, but then I’ll catch their attention by comparing Shakespeare to P. Diddy – both of them artists who figured out ways to make money several times over through their own work. I’ll also tell them that Shakespeare, like P. Diddy or any rapper, knew how to sample – in Will’s case, he used allusions to other works of literature and history to make his points clearer.

As we start reading, we’ll talk about the ways in which Shakespeare took well-known stories and turned them into masterpieces. We’ll watch him tap into the essence of human nature like no one else has ever done. We’ll read Hamlet and the kids will realize that the young man in this play is, in many ways, just like them – he’s struggling with adult figures, with love, with family, with future plans and, most of all, with himself. They’ll work through the difficult words and find a reason to remember the themes of this play for a long time.

At some point, I’ll ask them to tell me what Shakespeare would be doing were he alive today. Some will place him in L.A., others in Greenwich Village. Some will have him writing screenplays, and others will see him as a quiet poet. When it’s my chance to share, I’ll talk about the people I think he’d be writing about today. I’ll tell them that I don’t think Shakespeare would be pulling his material from the royalty of years gone by. No, not in 2009. There is simply too much complexity and drama within the life of the modern-day celebrity. Shakespeare would get his inspiration simply by reading the tabloids.

And nowhere else is there a riper Shakespearean drama right now than in the Bronx, N.Y., right around 161st Street, somewhere in the immediate vicinity of third base. Were the Bard alive and well in 2009, he would turn his attention to one Alex Rodriguez.

Glorious gifts are bestowed upon a young man. His early success is astounding, with overwhelming talk of unmatched potential. Fabulous riches are handed to him. The world is at his feet. And yet …

And yet, deep inside, he feels a need to soar even higher. To ensure that no one surpasses him. To protect his legacy from all others. So he turns, quietly, to Macbeth’s witches. They offer him a potion that will make his muscles stronger, without adding bulk. He thinks about it, and decides to seize the opportunity.

He dominates his game even more, smashing hundreds of home runs and earning even greater fame and wealth. And yet, when the tempest of postseason play swirls around him, he tenses up, and hits small ground balls to the pitcher. He hears the boos. Many question his ability to focus under pressure, and to excel in the chill of October. Like Hamlet, the gifted man is unable to get out of his own head.

He vows to improve. But those who watch him speak of his envy toward the young Romeo at shortstop, whom everyone adores for his clutch hitting, classy demeanor and dashing looks. The slugger strives to gain the level of acceptance that Romeo has found, but many see his desire for appreciation as yet another accomplishment, rather than as a genuine desire to be liked. His green eyes are filled with jealousy for that Romeo, and like Othello he comes to feel insecure far too easily for a man of his stature.

Alex Rodriguez, a man of Shakespearean complexity. The tabloids do their best to document the drama, with headlines like “A-Roid” and “A-Hole.” The columnists shine the spotlight on Rodriguez’s moments of hypocrisy and cast their piercing judgment. But in the end, they just scratch the surface. This story needs a Bard to pull its pieces together and help us see the true human story embedded within those pinstripes.

Shakespeare’s gift was in taking a tale whose plot looked like something out of Jerry Springer, then turning it into a multi-layered mirror. As we peer into that mirror, we find ourselves looking deeply at our own flaws, and perpending our own human nature. As Alex Rodriguez prepares to meet the bevy of reporters tomorrow in Tampa, and as we all prepare to pass our own judgment, we pine for a writer who can put the pieces together in a deeply human manner. Were he there, creating his own version of the Alex Rodriguez story, Shakespeare would, no doubt, lead us to think about the complex flaws we hold in common with Number 13, and just what we want to do about it.

The Moments That Matter

Tough economic times don’t seem to affect the New York Yankees, who have shelled out more than $400 million in recent days just to sign three baseball players. The Yankees may have ruined the Christmas plans of several other ballclubs in winning the bidding wars for those players, but no one is confusing the Steinbrenner family with Ebenezer Scrooge. No tightwads in the Bronx, that’s for sure.

But for those of us who have struggled with how much is too much in the realm of holiday giving, the Yankees’ decision to overpay for All-Stars encompasses a theme we know quite well. I’ve just said goodnight to my two girls on Christmas Day – a day in which they’ve received more presents than entire villages receive in many third-world countries around the globe. I helped select some of those gifts, and I feel some guilt that I’m helping to spoil my kids, as well as some concern that they’ll grow up to be takers more than givers. I want the joys of giving and receiving to be felt by everyone at this time of year, and in equal amounts. I want my girls to want that, too.

We’ve taken the girls caroling at the homes of elderly folks in our church, and they’ve helped us buy presents for people in need through our church as well. We’ve brought boxes of old toys to thrift stores with the kids in tow, and let them see the process by which their donations can be others’ blessings. I’ve taken them to events run by the community service club at my school, and they’ve watched teen-agers give of their time and energy to improve the lives of others.

They will get it, I’m sure. And my wife and I will figure out how many presents are enough. In the meantime, we snuggle together before bed and watch A Charlie Brown Christmas, listening to Linus put it all into perspective, and watching the mean kids find a heart in the end. We watch Charlie as he pays attention to the small details, and we think about the things that matter most.

We think about the moments that bring us together, for those are the gifts we can never replace or exchange. They are always on sale, and at great prices.

I think of the new student I have, who just moved to America from Egypt a couple of months ago. Last week, we looked outside our classroom window to see snow beginning to fall. She walked up to me and said, “Mr. Hynes, I’ve never seen snow before.”

I jumped up from my seat, and called the rest of the class to the front of the room. We all escorted this new student out to the school courtyard. I led her out and she looked up into the white sky. She smiled, and spread out her arms to catch the thick flakes as they fell on her. “I have to get a shovel!” she said to me. I told her she could try to catch them with her tongue as well, to taste them. She said she’d like to try snow angels when she got home.

We stood there for a few more minutes, watching this young woman in her moment of discovery and wonder. It was a true joy to be there, sharing this all with her. It was a joy that no stocking stuffer can provide. As you celebrate the holidays, may you experience many moments like these with those around you. Happy holidays.

A Wag of the Tail

We bought her in September of 1997, and carried her up the stairs to our tiny apartment on Staten Island. During her first week at the house, I can recall trying to potty-train her while hosting a house full of friends and family for Game 1 of the Yankees-Indians Division Series. During those early days of house-breaking, she’d get so excited when company arrived that she’d pee on their sneakers and leather shoes while greeting them at the door.

We named her Pumpkin – not a bad moniker for a golden retriever with plenty of orange-colored fur. We hoped she’d enjoy us, and perhaps even teach us a thing or two about parenting in advance of the real thing. We didn’t expect her to become a subject of devotion for four generations worth of family members. But that’s just what she did. She became a therapy dog of sorts for my grandparents, going for long walks with them in their final years of activity and allowing them to pet her for hours after the walks. She was an invaluable companion to all of our parents, staying with them when we went away and greedily munching on the treats they fed her. When Amy and I had kids of our own, Pumpkin even went away for “vacations” of her own with our parents, so she could be treated like the only kid in the house for a few days, and our folks could feel her warm body at their feet while sitting on the couch at night.

And, of course, she was an ever-present companion to Amy and to me. Whether it was a jaunt to the park, a gallop through the backyard snow, or just a lazy day around the house, she always had a way of making you feel as though she needed you and adored you for the care you gave her. Even when my own kids tried to ride her like a horse, she hung in there, trusting that we’d keep her safe. As she grew older, she lounged more, but always wagged that tail when we greeted her, and never failed to let us know when it was time for her meals. Even when we ignored her for too long in the midst of our hectic days, she never complained, and leaned her back toward us when we finally sat down to pet her. She never, ever gave up on us.

Last week, they found a mass on her spleen, the size of a softball. We talked it over, and decided that we would have the surgery done. She got through the operation well on Tuesday, but then there were some heart troubles on Wednesday. These seemed to subside, yet the following day her body began to fail her. Amy got to the hospital in time, and sat with her in her final moments last night. She told her that my grandparents were up there waiting for her, ready for another brisk walk – maybe this time through the clouds.

I had never had a pet before, and had no real idea what to expect from Pumpkin. I now know that an animal can ground you and give you a truer understanding of unconditional love – of what it takes to never waver in your dedication to family, even when they walk right past you or step on your tail. She taught me that it takes patience to love another fully, and that by simply being there for those you love, you can make their world so much more complete.

Caring for Pumpkin this week cost as much money as some of those pricey tickets for Sunday’s final ballgame at Yankee Stadium. I won’t be in the South Bronx on Sunday –I’ll be at home instead, watching the game on TV. It’s a week for goodbyes, I suppose.

Money is money – it comes and goes. Ballparks – even the great ones – reach an end, too.

Dogs die as well.

But love lives on forever. Pumpkin could have told you that, with one wag of the tail.