Baseball

My grandfather, Gan-gan, began grooming me for the Big Leagues as soon as I could throw. Never having had a son of his own, I was his surrogate and he was deadly serious about baseball. Fingers on his left hand were crooked from having been broken while playing catcher with a work glove before protective mitts were available in rural Arkansas (he also wiped his ass with corncobs).

We practiced every day. Gan-gan wouldn’t even let me go swimming because he thought it would deplete my energy (I never learned to swim). In grade school, he told me not to play softball because it would throw off my timing for baseball (eventually I played softball anyway).

When I was six, I joined my first Little League team. Opposing pitchers almost always walked me because I was so small. So the manager pinch hit me when he needed a runner. Then he placed me in right field, the least demanding position. But once I caught a fly ball that was hit directly at me. Everyone was thrilled, none more so than I.

After we moved to Dallas, I became a Little League super star. Due to all my advanced training, my legs were relatively strong and I was very fast. In the fifth grade, there was only one student in my class faster than me, and he was barely faster. During recess, my class would play a chase game. One person would be “it” and run after others. When he touched one, the two of them would go after others and so on, until everyone had been touched. John and I would usually be the last ones standing. Often I’d be the very last.

Partly due to my speed, I soon graduated to shortstop. One year we were playing on live television. The commentator was a pro on the Dallas minor league team. On a ball hit to the middle of the field, I ran to my left, caught the ball, whirled, threw to first, and got the runner out. When I came home, Mother told me the commentator said, “That kid’s going to be a big leaguer.”

His comment confirmed what was already a firm conviction. I was not only absolutely convinced I was going to make it to the majors. I was certain I was going to be first-string shortstop for the New York Yankees.

But Gan-gan never had me do strengthening exercises, partly because that was not the norm back then. Two brothers who were pitchers used a device to strengthen their wrists. They probably learned that from their father, who had been a minor league player and was now our Little League coach. But most players only did brief calisthenics and I was not genetically strong in my arms. And I wasn’t very limber, which is important in batting. So I hit poorly, hardly ever for extra bases.

But I was a great bunter and would sometimes drag a bunt to get on first. When I was at the plate with a runner on third and less than two out, the manager would often signal for a “suicide squeeze” (the runner runs toward home before the pitch is thrown and is tagged out if the batter misses the bunt). I almost always got the bunt down to score the run. Those were the most exciting moments of my Little League career.

At school, when we’d pick teams to play softball, I was always a captain who would choose players. I was very intense, serious, and hyper-competitive.

As a quiet, timid coward, my hero was Ty Cobb. In addition to being a great hitter, Cobb was a terror on the base paths, very fast and aggressive. He was notorious for getting an edge by sliding with his cleats high, more than willing to cut opposing players with his cleats, which would cause them to shy away.

One spring, the first baseman from another school irritated me and I decided that when we played them again, I would get on first, take a long lead, and slide back into first like Ty Cobb, and lacerate his legs. I practiced this plan for an hour or so. Come game time, I was intent on following through, but soon realized it wasn’t practical.

When we moved to South Oak Cliff, I switched teams. My new manager was Buddy Nix. His hero may have been Ty Cobb as well. He was a small, pugnacious, high-strung individual: a manifestation of the worst aspects of youth athletics. The film Bad News Bears captured the scene perfectly.

Every summer, the team would go to Houston to play a game. Driving there, the fathers raced each other, passing against the yellow line while going uphill. Their recklessness scared me to death, but they never had an accident.

Even worse than the ride down, our pants and shirts were wool and Nix insisted we wear our complete uniform, including long sleeve cotton jerseys, in the humid heat of Houston. I’ve never cared for Houston ever since.

One summer in a very important game, while playing shortstop, I made an error in the last inning that cost us the game. I was devastated. Walking to the car, I was crying when Nix walked up to me and said, “Stop crying like a baby. Take it like a man.”

By the eighth grade, I was no longer an outstanding player. My peers had caught up with my early training and our bodies began changing. I was no longer among the fastest runners. And when three players in my class were selected to play on the ninth grade team and I was not one of them, I was alarmed. My confidence was shaken.

When we practiced double plays, the third baseman would lean back, wind up, and throw the ball as hard as he could, rather than releasing the ball with a sidearm throw that would get the ball more quickly to second base, where I played. The manager should have told the him to make the throw properly but didn’t and I was nervous about it. Then one day, while the ball was headed my way I stepped on top of the bag, which raised my body relative to my glove, and the ball, which did not sink on its trajectory as much as most balls thrown by eighth graders do, hit me in the mouth. After oral surgery, my teeth appeared normal, but down deep, my plans for pro ball were fading.

Shortly thereafter, our team was playing a game and the school principal was watching. Another hard-driving sports enthusiast, he’d go on and on about “intestinal fortitude” during pep rallies.

Early in the game, I made it to first base. Hoping the coach would give me the steal sign, I took a big lead. As soon as the pitcher started to throw to first to pick me off, I’d dive back in headfirst. Then the pitcher, seeing he couldn’t get me out, would only throw the ball softly. This sequence repeated a few times, but I wanted to get as big a lead as possible and avoid any chance of getting picked off. So I kept sliding back headfirst.

From his perch, the principal yelled at me, “There’s no need to do that, son.” His comment prompted my grandfather (who was at every game) to stand up and shout to the principal, “Don’t you tell my grandson how to play baseball.”

A short while later, maybe 30 minutes, Gan-gan collapsed from a stroke and was taken to the hospital. When I arrived home, my uncle took me to a game with the Dallas team (a rare treat) and when we came home, I was told that my grandfather was dead. I assumed I was responsible because he had gotten so angry at the principal, who was angry at me.

I was in shock. The anchor in my life, the source of my meaning, was suddenly gone. But Nix had taught me his lesson. I did not cry.

Years later while a sophomore in college I went to the mental health clinic to talk about sex. After I entered his office, the psychiatrist never spoke. I don’t think he even said hello. So I just sat there not saying a word for almost the entire hour. On the second visit, I soon started talking about my grandfather’s death and my feeling that I was guilty. The psychiatrist immediately told me there was no possibility that I was responsible. An enormous orgasmic relief spread over my entire body (but I still wonder if I contributed to Gan-gan’s death).

Though I performed fairly well in other sports, I only tried out for baseball and never even thought about playing football, for I was disinclined toward violence.

When I was fourteen or so, my best friend bought some boxing gloves. We went into his garage, took off our shirts, put on the gloves, and started to box. After less than a minute, he hit me in the solar plexus and I doubled over in pain, out of breath. That was the end of boxing for me.

Even without Gan-gan encouraging me, I continued playing on my schools’ baseball teams and in college I proudly wore the letter jacket that I earned my senior year. But I played largely out of habit. The passion was gone. The dream of making it to the Yankees had evaporated and I was more interested in chess and books.

In high school, my homeroom was assigned the last row at the back of the auditorium for mandatory assemblies and pep rallies. And even though the baseball coach stood right behind us with the other coaches, I sat down during the school song to protest being forced to go to those events, which struck me as stupid. I feared the coach would punish me for my rebellion, but I don’t believe he did. I wasn’t good enough to deserve a starting position until my senior year, and even then the coach may have rewarded me for having been persistent.

I never became friends with any of my teammates, who probably viewed me as an oddball. Once I had a confrontation with Karl Sweetan, who later became a pro football quarterback and had reportedly, while still in high school, hit someone over the head with his pool stick in a fight at a pool hall. As the starting second baseman, after practice he was supposed to bring second base into the locker room. But one day while walking in, he threw the bag at me, hitting me in the chest, and told me to bring it in. I left it on the ground and worried he would beat me up for refusing. But he didn’t and got into trouble with the coach.

That’s pretty much all I remember about my high school baseball career. Not much excitement there.

But I really enjoyed intramural softball in college. My student co-op, Ridge House, fielded a team and I was the coach. One year it rained so much other teams couldn’t practice because the fields were so wet. But a parking garage being built nearby provided us with a convenient dry place to practice. So we practiced incessantly, knowing that we were gaining on the competition.

One day while hitting infield practice I knocked the ball over the fence and across the street into the back yard of the Chancellor’s mansion. I went to retrieve the ball, knocked on the front door, was let in by the Chancellor himself, walked through his house with my wet shoes, got the ball, and went back to practicing.

Even though it was fast-pitch softball and we didn’t have a very good pitcher, that year we almost won the championship.

Professional baseball fell of my radar, however. The San Francisco Giants competed in the World Series in early October 1962 but immersed in Berkeley and obsessed with sex, I hardly noticed. In the 1970s I went to a few Giants games but Candlestick Park was far away and the team fared poorly. So few fans were in the crowd I twice retrieved foul balls.

But in the late 1980s, with Roger Craig as manager, the Giants started winning and I caught the fever. Craig’s catchy motto was “Humm Baby.” On occasion, he’d have a runner on third steal home, one of the most exciting plays in baseball.

In 1989, I was standing behind home plate in the eighth inning of the final playoff game against the Chicago Cubs. The score was tied 1-1, two runners were in scoring position, and Will “the Thrill” Clark, the Giants best hitter, was batting against the Cubs’ great closer, Mitch Williams. He fouled off several two-strike pitches. The crowd was going crazy. Then Clark singled and sent the Giants to the World Series for the first time in decades.

But the Loma Prieta earthquake spoiled the excitement and eventually the Giants lost to the Oakland As in four games.

The Giants’ next manager was Dusty Baker, a soulful African-American man who often expressed his insights with homespun aphorisms. He was a new breed, a “players’ manager” who treated his team with respect and encouraged them to play music in the clubhouse, including reggae. While he was manager, each year their record improved and they did better than expected. Three times Baker was elected National League Manager of the Year.

But in 2000 in a playoff game in New York, Baker decided not to bring in a relief pitcher at a key point and the pitcher gave up a hit to lose the last game of the series. The Giants principal owner, Peter Magowan, and many fans strongly disagreed with his decision. Before consulting with Baker about his reasons, Magowan spoke with the press and criticized Baker.

After the game and on the plane ride back to San Francisco, Magowan stayed at the front of the plane and never spoke to Baker or congratulated him on a successful season. Baker was insulted, especially by Magowan’s public criticism, and let others know it.

I considered Baker’s decision not to bring in another pitcher a close call. Second-guessing such decisions is a favorite pastime, but fans tend to forget that about three times out of ten the batter is going to get on base regardless of what decision the manager makes. And managers have at their fingertips all kinds of statistics about the players involved and how they’ve done against one another in the past. So I tend to be restrained in such criticism, especially prior to hearing the manager explain his reasoning. For Magowan to have criticized Baker publicly before talking with him was outrageous.

Magowan may have resented Baker receiving so much credit for the team’s improvement, but he extended Baker’s contract through 2002 and in 2002 the Giants made it to the World Series again, against the Anaheim Angels. My sister, Mary, and I went to my first World Series game ever, at the Giants’ new downtown park.

But the excitement of being at a World Series soon wore off. We were in the left field bleachers and sitting in front of us were two large bikers from Anaheim (I never knew Anaheim had bikers!). Whenever the Angels did well, they stood up, blocked my view, and engaged in good-natured “trash talk” with nearby Giants fans. The worst part, however, is that the bikers were very quick, sharp, and witty. They won every exchange – aided by the fact that the Angels won the game handily. Not my best introduction to World Series baseball. And the Angels went on to win the series.

During the off-season, Magowan and Baker had a war of words in the media and Magowan never even offered Baker a new contract, so Baker moved to Chicago and then Cincinnati where he’s been a successful manager.

Furious at Magowan, I went to the Giants’ office to communicate my anger. The security guard wouldn’t let me upstairs, so I took off my Giants’ cap, to which I had attached several memorabilia pins, tossed it on the guards’ desk, and told him, “Give this to Peter Magowan.”

I stopped rooting for the Giants until Magowan stepped down. The Giants at that time were all about Barry Bonds anyway, and I never liked Bonds, even before the steroid controversy. To friends who said he was the greatest player ever, I argued, “No. He’s not. He’s never won a World Series because his attitude undermines team morale.” He was such a prima donna, he wouldn’t even show up for the annual team photo, which irritated players who would have liked to show the team photo to their grandchildren and say, “See. I played with Barry Bonds.”

The psychology of sports fascinates me. Since being “in the zone” is key, thinking gets in the way. In baseball, “see ball, hit ball” is the axiom. Concentration is fundamental. Some players report not even being aware of the crowd noise. Confidence and fearlessness are fundamental to success.

But perhaps most important is a primary commitment to the team rather than one’s own individual self-interest. In recent years, it seems I hear more stories about how players cultivate in each other a deep dedication to the team. This factor may be especially important in baseball, for players are with each other almost every day for eight months.

Fostering team spirit is a delicate matter. There are no tricks how to do it. But Dusty Baker seemed to have a magic touch. And after Bonds quit, the Giants learned it.

In 2010, I finally had my ultimate World Series experience. The Giants had won the League Championship with an endearing “band of misfits” that perfectly reflected San Francisco and captured the town’s love. Tim Lincecum, busted for marijuana possession. Brian Wilson, the notorious performance artist with YouTube videos that went viral and elicited praise from Governor Arnold Swarzenegger. Aubrey Huff, with his “rally thong” that he wore throughout the end of the season and displayed at the victory parade and rally.

Prior to the Series, the Giants first offered tickets to their season ticket holders. I assumed they would sell out and tickets on the secondary market would be too expensive. But one day I was home in the afternoon and received a bulk email to fans announcing that a few tickets were still available at regular prices. I jumped on it, got a seat on the first row of the upper deck right behind home plate (the best seat in the house), and got to see Tim Lincecum win the first game! Incredible!

The Giants then went to Texas and with George Bush sitting in the first row next to the field (which added a sweet touch to our victory), the Giants won the Series and I joined the celebration at AT&T Park in San Francisco.

The day of the victory parade, I took a folding chair to the parade route, which was near where I was living, and got a front row seat. More jubilation! The first ever World Series victory in San Francisco!

Baseball is my favorite sport. There’s no clock, so the pace is not frenetic. Even at the last minute, the losing team can still win. Many different skills are involved. Even very small players can be successful. There’s a balance between action and reflection. The moment-by-moment tactical decisions are intriguing. The critical subtleties of team dynamics are a challenge.

And then there’s the sense of community. Complete strangers on the street will talk with fellow fans wearing Giants’ gear, a “uniform” that signifies belonging to the community. And at games, fans, oblivious to various socio-economic characteristics, are all members of the same family and share camaraderie with one another.

It’s a shallow sense of community. But it’s fun and in a world characterized by increasing isolation, I’ll take any community I can get.

So each winter, I wait for baseball season to begin, knowing they’ll start as soon as weather permits and keep playing until it starts snowing. Play ball!