The art of being “sent down”...er..."moved"

I’m sorry. “Sent down” isn’t the right terminology. I was told it’s simply a “roster move.” I guess that sounds less like a demotion than “sent down.”

This has been a particularly busy month for roster moves, it seems. There doesn’t seem to be an emergent pattern in terms of why it’s been so busy; it’s the typical “so-and-so is on the 15-day DL; such-and-such was recalled” or “this guy has completed his rehab stint; the other guy has been optioned to AAA” kind of stuff. It isn’t as if Tonya Harding hired someone to run through clubhouses with a crowbar (although all the broken pitchers of late might not be shocked to hear she did).

In any case, there’s clearly a different arsenal of feelings when a player is called into the manager’s office first thing in the morning in the big league clubhouse than when a player is called into the manager’s office first thing in the morning across town, across the state, across the country in the AAA clubhouse. And it trickles down the levels. When someone is moved from one team, it inevitably leaves a hole on another. That hole gets filled by guys from somewhere, and it’s not always a joyous occasion.

Nevertheless, I was reminded of something recently. As long as I’ve been around the game, I’ve always admired players’ ability to line that cloud with sparkling silver threads even as it carries them back to places like Mobile, Alabama, or Jackson, Mississippi. My conversations with recently-moved players were a refresher in positivity, and I think I really needed that right now. I’m sure some of you might need it, too, so I’ll pass on the wisdom of being “moved” through a couple parables. Names, positions, teams, and details may have been changed for poetic license or to retain player anonymity.

The Interview. A rookie infielder made the big club out of Spring Training for the first time. He wasn’t supposed to be there. At least not this year. The everyday third baseman got hurt, though, and a team needs a third baseman. So it turned into an opportunity, but the rookie knew when the veteran returned, he’d find himself back on the farm. Sure enough, in early May, that very thing happened, and the local television affiliate saw fit to interview the rookie almost the moment he left the manager’s office. It went like this:

-Reporter: “How do you feel about this decision?”

-Player: “Well, I’m disappointed I didn’t play like I’d hoped I would, but I’m grateful I got to open the season with this group of guys. Making the club out of Training was something I didn’t think would happen, so I’m just glad I was here.”

-Reporter: “Will you still play third in AAA, or are you going to go back to second?”

-Player: “I’ll play where they tell me, but Skip said they want me at third to work on a few things—like balls down the line, making the throw every time, you know. Whatever they decide, though, I’ll do it. If I’m in the lineup, I’m in the lineup.”

-Reporter: “Any regrets?”

-Player: “You’re kidding, right? I just played a month of Major League Baseball. I’ve waited all my life for this chance. I can’t regret anything I did, and I won’t. I’m just going to work on a few things, get my body and my head on the right path, and hopefully, I’ll get to come back and help the team again. For now, I have another team to help. It’s just part of the game.”

It is part of the game. We aren’t perfect, and even when we’re playing Major League Baseball, we’re not perfect. Instead of seeing this as a blow, the rookie saw it as a chance to go to a team with a little less pressure on him and make some improvements. Since most of us aren’t baseball players, the best way to live this lesson is to take a step back from time to time. Reevaluate our strengths and weaknesses. Impose a self-inflicted rehab assignment. Like this guy, sometimes there’s something we need to work on, and since no one is going to option us to Triple-A, maybe we should option ourselves.

Call It Being Moved. Another friend was optioned to Triple-A the other day for similar reasons as the third baseman above. He, too, was a surprise opening day addition, included on a pitching staff that needed all the help it could get. When I talked to him about it, he kept referring to the optioning to AAA as “being moved” instead of the “sent down” I'd calling it. I had never really thought about the words used to talk about a player’s movement within a system, but in that moment, it changed the whole way I viewed it. 

Before I talked to him, I was sad and a little frustrated that his Major League service had been interrupted not by his inability to do what he was there to do but simply by another player’s seniority. See, he was one of three guys basically holding spots until the regular pitchers healed and were ready to go. That never changed the excitement nor did it diminish the fact he and those other two rookies got a chance to play in the Show.

I think knowing about his long road to the top made it seem a bit more frustrating when the move was made that sent him to the farm team, but like I said, talking to him took the sting out. He never once said it was a backward move nor did he indicate he was disappointed in himself. I’m sure he was; who wouldn’t be? Nonetheless, he, too, was viewing it as just another part of the job, another thing he had to do to become the pitcher he knows he can be. All of this was evident in one simple sentence: “I knew I was the guy to get moved.” Not “sent down.” Not “demoted.” Not “sent back.” Nothing more than “moved.” He’s still part of the organization, and he knows this is simply a way to ensure he’s an even more valuable part in the future.

So when we hit an obstacle, maybe it's more helpful to avoid calling it an “obstacle.” Instead, talking about it as a necessary step in the longer process might make it sting less, might make it seem more beneficial, and might make us view it with more positivity and dedication. For example, those A- grades a lot of my colleagues and I seem to find from time to time don’t mean we weren’t good enough. Instead of looking at the “minus” sign, maybe we should look at the “A.” Call it, “I made an A-,” instead of, “I didn’t make an A.” Our words convey our attitude, our outlook, our confidence; sometimes they telegraph our success. If he calls it “getting sent down,” maybe he doesn’t work as hard as he would if he calls it “getting moved.” Being moved allows him to focus, like the infielder, on the things that need work. “Being sent down” sounds like a failure, and it absolutely is not. When we hit a setback, it couldn’t hurt to take a cue from a guy who didn’t get “sent down” but got “moved.” Our words do matter.

The Money’s a Little Tighter. Instead of a “save for a rainy day” lesson here, I much prefer the other lesson I got from a player who was moved this week. I don’t like to think about money when it comes to baseball because I love the game in spite of the millions and millions of dollars being thrown around in it. I never know what my friends are making in the various stages of their careers, but it’s always the first question other people ask me. I simply do not know. I simply do not want to know.

So when another friend (seems knowing me might be bad luck for rookies) was moved to Triple-A from a Major League roster this month, another (non-player) friend asked if that affected his contract. I said I had no idea in his case, and she was surprised we hadn’t talked about it. I said, “You know, it didn’t occur to me. I was more worried about whether or not he was okay with the move.”

When I did talk to him again, he briefly mentioned that “money is a little tighter,” but quickly shrugged it off, adding, “I still get to pitch, and that’s all I care about.” He’s been in the Minors for a while; he knows what it’s like to ride buses for hours and to toss and turn in half-assed hotels with a snoring roommate. Each lost hour of sleep, each mile, he remembers he plays freakin’ baseball for a living, that he gets to do the very thing he loves every day, and suddenly the hard bed in the La Quinta is just a little softer. The roommate’s snoring becomes a reminder he’s surrounded by other people who love this game. And the bus moves along just a little more smoothly to the next park, the next game, and another day of doing what he loves. 

Money be damned.

While we all want to know our bills are paid, talking to him and to other Minor League friends reminds me that sometimes finding our own personal Zen is far more important than making a pile of money. I’ve never actually made a pile of money, so maybe I’d feel differently if I had, but when I see the dedication and passion he and so many other guys play with—regardless of the level—it’s painfully obvious a pure and honest love of the game is more important than anything else.

Now I’m not stupid. I’ve known many players over time who were motivated by the money first and the game second, and to be honest, there’s a lesson to be learned there, too. If you want something badly enough, keep at it until you get there. If it’s the millions you want, then chase the millions. Being good at baseball for those guys is the ticket to financial success; it's no different than what the rest of us might pursue for financial success. Most of those guys, even the ones who love the money, have put in their hard labor hours and had their hard knocks; all that’s different is their payoff.

For my friend, though, the privilege of getting to do the thing he loves most in this world every single day is worth whatever pay cut comes with his move to Triple-A. More so than that, he knows what it’s like to get there, to play in the Majors. He’s been in the swanky hotels with the all-white rooms, relaxed on the charter jet with his teammates, driven (and almost bought) the fast cars through the city, and he will fight that much harder to get back up there so he can have both the money and the game. But the game comes first.

We should remember that, too. If we do something we love, we do it with more devotion and more care. Instead of looking for a payday, if we look for happiness, the payday will be there. For most of us, a payday will never have seven—or even six, for the most part—digits, but there will be success. There will be peace.

In any case, these three guys and the rest of the players who were moved this week have gotten to do something great, if only for a moment thus far, and most of them have a career still ahead of them where they might get to do it again. The rookie infielder will start to haul in those hot shots down the line. Maybe the pitcher will add another pitch to his arsenal. The guy with the money will wake up happy in a nicer hotel. But if not, they can always tell Meat to keep his head on straight because “I was in the Show.”

Credit where credit is due.

Read this. And this.  

No, no. Go on. I'll wait. 

I'll see you in a bit. 

You're back? Great. Let's talk.

I'm guilty of calling Puig a punk, a baby, and a liability. I say the same things about Bryce Harper. I love watching both of them play, but I don't think I'd date either of them...or let them date my friends. I'd have a beer with Puig before Harper, though. That would certainly be a night to remember.

However, in the end, who cares what I think of two guys I don't know? That goes for all of us. What we should care about in Puig's story is the fact his story exists in the first place. This is bigger than baseball and bigger than any of us. Being held captive in a seedy motel in Mexico does not excuse Puig from not running the bases, showing up on time, or driving the speed limit now that he's a Major League Baseball player. It does, however, indict a politics so difficult to comprehend that one can begin to see these behaviors as expressions of relief or even a kind of reacquaintance with humanity. 

Think about this for a moment. 

Most of us, while perhaps not gifted with every privilege, have probably never been approached by anyone offering us sanctuary from the very places we call home. We've likely never been faced with the choice of abandoning our families, friends, and all we've known just for a chance to live freely. The idea is so foreign to us that even reading about it when it happens to someone else conjures only fractured images of what that transaction might look like. Presumably, the images are informed by a mix of Hollywood movies, news media messages, written accounts, and our own individual imaginations. The meetings between Despaigne and Pacheco and then Puig and Despaigne, in my own mind, happened in open air bars with dingy floors and dingier glasses, where dogs and men languish side by side in the stifling Cuban heat. Sweat trickled down the men's brows as they spoke in low tones, passersby may or may not have suspected foul play. Those who did, well, might not be eager to be involved for their own safety. That's only my interpretation. Maybe yours is different, but I'll bet it's just as menacing. 

As dark as any of this sounds, it is nothing compared to the resultant journey, one that, while vividly described by both Katz and Eden, can never be wholly and completely conveyed through words. The thoughts, fears, anticipation, and confusion that must have consumed these travelers' brain cells will always, no matter how many times the tale is told, belong only and completely to those who were there. Making it through that level of treachery just to be hired to do what he's been training to do all his life is a process we will never understand. Job hunting is agonizing in its own right, but I don't think any of us will face machetes, death threats, and cramped boats to get the job we've always wanted. Maybe the slow trots around the bases are a public middle finger to the entities who made his journey that much harder, the only way he can retaliate against the obviously dangerous and far-reaching enemy who promised to help him and ultimately caused him and his companions additional stress. Maybe the bat flips are just his body's reaction to the relief and joy that must come with finally being here and finally being able to live a dream that—regardless of where you're from—so very few people ever get to live. Maybe the fast cars and late nights are because he's just flashy, flamboyant, utterly pleased with himself. Maybe he's just a kid in the world's biggest candy store.

Katz described Puig's awe at things we take for granted—"The Three Stooges," Denny's steak and eggs, and driving a car. Furthermore, "He had to learn not just English but the basics of modern consumerism: to tip, to use an ATM, to read labels, to pump gas." When was the last time you were enamored, enraptured, confounded, or confused by these things? Without getting into the deep and mind numbing theory of cultural adaptation, Americans tend to believe anyone who moves to the US needs to assimilate. People expected Puig to become as American as the pastime he loves and the apple pie that accompanies it in the infamous saying. While there ideally should be a healthy give-and-take when people enter another cultural space, the pressure on Puig is to be so grateful to the US and Major League Baseball that he does things "our" way. That's quite the thing to ask of a guy who, just two years ago, had his limbs and appendages threatened by a rusty weapon in a damp and sordid Mexican motel. He might be a little bit of a show off (okay, a lot of one...), but the problem is deeper than that. Instead of various people with varying degrees of power over him telling him he should be grateful for the opportunity and shut up, maybe it would help him grow if someone bothered to ask him if his "showboating" is just his way of showing gratitude. Few seem to have taken the time to get to know who Puig really is (not that he makes it easy by dodging interviews more often than not); what looks like hot dogging to outsiders might be what he thinks he should do so fans, players, and other interested parties know he's thankful to be here. What if someone said, "Yasiel, what do you think of when someone tells you to be thankful? How do you do that?" I wonder what he might say. The kid is relearning how to act and how to carry himself; this new world—despite being his oyster—is probably still a damned scary place.

Let's try that...maybe when the death threats die down. For now, let him have his time to heal. If he refuses an interview, maybe he's still uncomfortable with the language or the cultural conventions. Maybe he's afraid the wrong person will see him or he'll say the wrong thing. Maybe he's still broken. We can't possibly know how deep the wounds from his journey go. He may have arrived in the US with all his fingers and toes, both arms and both legs, and his eyeballs, internal organs, and the hairs on his head intact, but we can never know how much of his heart and soul they took without ever making a single cut.

Puig has publicly declared he will not comment on the story, a move I wholeheartedly support. In a town and in a modern sporting landscape where no one lives privately, he deserves this one piece of his identity. Because he survived it, he has earned the right to shut down on the topic. Even as the details have been recounted in a public forum, Yasiel Puig's defection story still remains entirely his own. He did not inform the articles himself, and he has no obligation to do so. In a short career filled with bad decisions, this one is thus far his smartest. It shows there is hope for maturity, that though he may be a punk right now, he shows signs he can "grow up." In fact, living through what was described in the articles means he's probably more grown up than we will ever be. He just shows it differently. He'll find the balance. He found his way here, didn't he?

Ham and eggs

Earlier, I declared my inability to write without a baseball game on. Naturally, my friends were genuinely concerned for my condition and began to immediately offer their assistance. I have such great friends. The following was the result of suggesting that I might be able to operate at the Dr. Seuss level with the proper initiative.
Thanks, Kenny Porter! I would link to his Facebook, but I hear there are a number of international organizations trying to find him, and I just can't have his capture on my shoulders. Here's his incredible motivational piece. 

Bonus points for anyone who knows what "ham and eggs" is in baseball.

I am Erin Erin I am That Erin-I-am! That Erin-I-am! I do not like that Erin-I-am Do you like Verlander and ham? I do not like them, Erin-I-am I do not like Verlander and ham. Would you like them here or in there? I would not like them here or there. I would not like them even with your glare. I do not like Verlander and ham. I do not like them, Erin-I-am. Would you like them on a mound? Would you like them on the grounds? I do not like them on a mound. I do not like them on the grounds. I do not like them here or there. I do not like them even with your glare. I do not like Verlander and ham. I do not like them, Erin-I-am. Would you see them in a tux? Would you take them to the Luxe? Not in a tux. Not to the Luxe. Not on the mound. Not on the grounds. I would not take them here or there. I would not like them even with your glare. I would not watch Verlander and ham. I do not like them, Erin-I-am. Would you? Could you? In a bar? Watch them? See them? Here they are. I would not, could not, In a bar. You may like them. You will see. You may like them sign your cleat! I would not, could not sign my cleat. Not in a bar! you let me be. I do not like them on the mound. I do not like them on the grounds. I do not like them in a tux. I do not take them to the Luxe. I do not like them here or there. I do not like them even with your glare. 
I do not like Verlander and ham.
I do not like them Erin-I-am. On grass! On grass! Could you, would you on the grass? Not on grass! Not my cleat! Not in a bar! Erin! let me be! I would not, could not, in a tux I could not, would not take them to the Luxe. I do not like them on the mound. I do not like them on the grounds. I do not like them here or there. I do not like them even with your glare. I do not like them, Erin-I-am. Say! With a ring? Here, with a ring? Would you, could you, with a ring? I would not, could not, with a ring. Would you, could you, in the spring? I would not, could not in the spring. Not with a ring, not on grass, not in a bar, not on my cleat. I do not like them, Erin, you crass. Not on the mound, not in a tux. Not on the grounds, not at the Luxe. I will not cheer them here or there. I do not like them even with your glare. You do not like Verlander and ham? I do not like them, Erin-I-am. Could you, would you, with a bribe? I would not, could not, with a bribe. Would you, could you, with my vibe? I could not, would not, with your vibe. I will not, will not, with a bribe. I will not in the spring. I will not on the grass. I will not with a ring! Not even on my cleat! Not in a bar! You let me be! I do not like them in a tux. I will not take them to the Luxe. I do not like them on the mound. I do not like them on the grounds. I will not cheer them here or there. I do not like them even with your GLARE! I do not like Verlander and ham! I do not like them, Erin-I-am. You do not like them. So you say. Try them! Try them! And you may. Try them and you may I say. Erin! If you let me be, I will cheer them. You will see. Say! I like Verlander and ham! I do! I like them, Erin-I-am! And I would like them with your vibe And I would like them with a bribe… And I would like them in the spring. And with a ring. And on the grass. And in a bar. And on my cleat. They are so good, so good you see! So I will see them in a tux. And I will take them to the Luxe. And I will see them on mound. And I will see them on the grounds. And I will see them here and there. Say! I will see them without your glare! I do so like Verlander and ham! Thank you! Thank you, Erin-I-am!

Justin Verlander is now officially unstoppable

I could do this all day.

He does nothing half-assed. Not just his FIRST hit but his first multi-hit game.

I'm such a fan. As if that were ever in question.

Congrats, JV!

The cleat chaser conundrum--Part Two

Before you read this, go back to yesterday's post. 

Now let’s try this. Picture the following conversation first with the first group of women from yesterday and then with the second:

The three women take their seats with their beers and watch the team warm up. “Johnson’s starting tonight. Hope it’s a better outing than last time,” says the brunette. The redhead nods, “He said his elbow feels a lot better after skipping a couple starts.” The brunette concurs, adding, “Let’s just hope 10 days on the DL is enough and it doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass.” The blonde intently watches two outfielders play catch but does not join the conversation.

Did the conversation seem more of a surprise with one group over the other? Don’t lie to me. It happens every night. Let’s take the first scenario again; allow me to tell you the rest of how that went down. We got our beers and headed for our seats. As we were settling in, a woman in the row behind us whispered—or so she thought, “I wonder whose girlfriends THEY are.” Her friend sighed and said, “So high maintenance for a game.”

We sat directly in front of her and had the very conversation I described about Johnson (only the real pitcher’s name is irrelevant). It continued for a few more minutes, extending to an analysis of his warm-up, whether the change up would be as effective as it had been in previous games, how much it would suck if he was really hurt and ended up out for the season, and so on. Our blonde friend wasn’t much for the discussion, but I give her the benefit of the doubt since she was openly just learning the finer points of the game. She’d grown up in a conservative and traditional home where the ladies did lady things, and lady things did not include knowing a circle change from a head gasket. Being around us allowed her to discover that she loved the game itself, and she graduated from dutiful spectator and attractive companion to rabid fan. I take only half the credit.

As the game wore on, a brand new pitcher was called into relief. My friends and I realized we’d never seen him pitch and knew nothing but his name, so I turned to the group of people behind me, the one that included the judgmental women, and asked, “Who’s this guy? Anyone familiar with him?” The two women shared glances, and one of their male companions said, “He just got here last night to replace Castrovedes,” and then proceeded to tell me how Minor League Baseball worked. I stopped him and said, “Yeah, yeah, so he’s up from A-ball since they sent Castrovedes to Triple-A. Cool. Thanks.” Then I turned back around. I let the male need to explain baseball to me roll off my back, but it doesn’t mean I obediently listen so the guy can save face. Nope. I am cutting you off.  

His response was one I hear often. He tapped me lightly and said with a hint of (maybe?) sarcasm, “So you know the game, don’t you? Are you dating one of these boys?” Even though I was, I told him no and said I had grown up playing.

“You played softball?”

“No,” I said with feigned patience, “I played baseball.”

He chuckled from the gut. Big gut. Big chuckle. “I see.”

I’m sure you don’t. I turned back around and the guy who had been sitting to our left was coming back from a beer run and said, “I just overheard you tell that guy you played baseball. That’s awesome! Johnson was on fire tonight. Dude is deceptive as hell. He always looks the same.”

I laughed and told him Johnson would have made me look like an idiot, and he said, “Me, too. Of course, I was a pretty shitty hitter anyway. No timing. That’s why I’m sitting here watching now.”

My friends and I kept talking to him, discovering that he had played Minor League ball—AA for a short period—in the early 2000s but that his bat did him in before he was ready to quit. He never once asked if we were involved with the players nor did he belittle our knowledge, avoid baseball jargon, or try to explain the concepts of the game. Maybe he’d heard me tell the guy behind us that we weren’t, in fact, dating the team; maybe he wasn’t socially aware enough to think we might not “get it.” I doubt both of those things. He sat down after the dating question, and he was too good at conversation to be lacking the requisite social skills.

More than likely, it was the thing. The thing that happens time and again at ballparks—college, minor league, major league—in which somebody assumes that the way a woman dresses or looks is intrinsically tied to her knowledge or investment in the game. (Quick disclaimer: Before anyone goes on a “what about gay fans and players?” rant, that’s entirely different because it is so much less obvious at first glance. I recognize that there are plenty of homosexual fans, players, and other roles at the ballpark, but that conversation is not the same as this one. Maybe another day).

The term “cleat chaser” gets thrown around a lot. The first entry on Urban Dictionary defines the term as: “a promiscuous woman who follows athletes (baseball or football) usually on the college level, in the hopes of having intercourse with one of them,” and follows with this example: “Yo, that bitch is a cleat chaser, the whole team has nailed her.” I quite prefer the second definition, but I'll let you go read that one yourself. Women have either taken pride in this term or tried to reclaim it, but in either case, its connotations are dangerous.

Before I go on, I know some of you embrace this lifestyle and are just having fun. That's fine. I don't judge you for that; in fact, I commend your honesty if you ARE being honest. I commend and respect your decisions. I'm more concerned with the false labels and dangerous assumptions. I worry about the misguided women I know who think calling themselves a "cleat chaser" is a great way to get that hot outfielder to fall in love with you. If you are a cleat chaser and you are okay with it, that's your prerogative. We can talk when you slip up and fall for one of them and can't understand why he doesn't feel the same. For now, girls, carry on. Just be smart. 

Otherwise, ladies, this is NOT a compliment. It’s not something you want the guys to call you if you want to be taken for anything more than a post-game pit stop. I don’t care what YOU think it means, they have your picture up in the clubhouse and every time you bang one of them, they autograph it. This is not an accomplishment so stop calling yourselves cleat chasers. Stop with the Twitter accounts, the Pinterest boards, and the t-shirts. Don’t advertise this.

On the other hand, no. Do. Please. By all means, label yourself clearly so that the rest of us who aren’t living this label can exist in peace and enjoy the game. Maybe people will stop assuming we’re all the same and just let your stupid labels do the talking.

Players, stop assuming that we’re at your games only to nail you. We don’t know your WAR, ERA, or WHIP because we want to see you naked. Trust me. The two ARE mutually exclusive. If we meet you in a bar and tell you that we were impressed with the 7 innings of 2-hit ball you just threw, this is not code for, “Meet me in the bathroom with your pants off.” It genuinely means that we enjoyed watching you play. This is also true if we don’t know you are a ballplayer when we meet you but when you tell us, we’re excited. We might just be thrilled to meet someone who has the same interests as us and with whom we can actually have a conversation in a bar that isn’t about sex or beer or that weird guy dancing with himself in the corner (although that’s pretty awesome, too). That’s right, guys. When we say, “Wow! That’s great! I’d love to see you play,” the chances that we simply mean, “we would like to see you perform on the field,” outweigh the chances that we mean, “We would like to see you perform in the bedroom,” by about three to one.

Surrounding fans, you’re judgmental assholes. Stop thinking that every girl who isn’t in sweats is there to land a player. Sometimes we go out after games and want to avoid going home to change. Sometimes we just want to look like we woke up and took some time on ourselves that day. Stop assigning feminism, independence, and strength only to women who shirk the traditional ideals of feminine beauty. I hate doing my hair in the summer humidity, and I don’t wear full makeup on any given day, but if I have on some mascara and curls, it doesn’t make me any less knowledgeable about the third baseman and his terrible range. Ultimately, who cares why we’re not dressed down? It’s not always because we want or because we have a ballplayer; most of the time it is in no way related to baseball. In either case, it’s not your business.

Everyone, don’t automatically assign the label to any woman you see at the ballpark. This is especially true of the women who are dating players. There are at least as many women who date players because we legitimately have so much in common with them (namely, THE GAME OF BASEBALL) as there are women who date players because they’re “cleat chasers” (self-proclaimed). Not all relationships can be easily broken down into your narrow labels, and it isn’t fair to the woman you judge nor to the player who cares about her. It complicates two already very complicated situations: 1) dating and 2) female sports fandom.

People who don’t do any of these things (players, fans, ladies, etc.), thanks. Thanks for being evolved.

The bottom line is this: This is my game as much as it’s your game. This game belongs to the cleat chaser as much as to the fan who judges her. It belongs to the carefree single player as much as to the married-guy-with-two-kids. It belongs to all of us. Equally. Regardless of your reasons for being there. All I ask is that you stop categorizing and dismissing us. If you let us talk, you might learn something about the new center fielder who hit .317 with 25 home runs and 90 RBIs in independent ball last year before the Blue Jays bought his contract and gave him a shot in the system. Then next season when you see him on MLB Network as an All Star rookie, you can thank us.

Because you listened.

Or you might find out she does only like the tight pants. And in the end, that's fine, too. 

But we're not all the same. 

The cleat chaser conundrum -- Part one

A trio of young women—a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette—walk into a AA baseball stadium in a southern city an hour before first pitch (no, this isn’t the opening of a joke). It’s a hot July night, and the girls are dressed for the weather. The redhead is wearing a white sundress and blue wedge heels. The blonde is in white shorts and a pink top with sandals; the brunette is in a green and tan patterned sundress with tan thong sandals. The redhead wears a messy side braid and light eye makeup; the brunette sports a windblown ponytail, lipstick, and mascara. The blonde wears full powder and dramatic eye makeup with red lipstick. Before they make their way to the second row of seats down the right field line by the home bullpen, they stop at the beer stand and grab a couple cans before the game starts.

What are your first thoughts about these women?

Great. Now keep reading.

It’s the same night, same game, alternate reality. The same three women enter the park. This time, however, the redhead wears a loose-fitting Under Armour tank, black compression fit bottoms that hit below the knee, and running shoes. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail; the flyaways are held at bay by an elastic headband. The blonde wears pink Nike running shorts and a fitted tee with colorful trainers, her hair pulled haphazardly into low pigtails. The brunette is in black volleyball shorts, a loose-fitting tank, and running shoes with a high ponytail. None of the girls are wearing makeup. They are still an hour early and their seats are in the same place; they still grab a beer before they sit.

What do you think about them now? 

I know there are only 20 of you, but comment away. I'm going to tell you my thoughts and the rest of this experience tomorrow, but let's see what you've got first. 

"Baseball was made for kids, and grown-ups only screw it up." --Bob Lemon

Today, I worked with Major League Baseball’s Pitch, Hit & Run event here in town. Go like them on Facebook. I don’t get all thrilled about kids in general, but I LOVE little baseball players. I was initially slated as the coordinator for the event, which meant I would float and get to see all the stations in action. However, it was scheduled for yesterday, and it rained yesterday, so we were shorthanded. Ultimately, then, I was positioned at the pitching station. Pitching + Me = Perfect. So despite not getting to see everyone, here are some of today’s highlights. These are some of the things that made me think that while we’re gearing up for today’s stars to kick off their season (tonight or) tomorrow, these kids are the game’s future. If that’s the case, baseball’s future is as bright as it can be.

1. The “baseball players.” When I first got to the park, a gaggle of kids was simultaneously signing up and punching each other. They were wearing matching fitted caps with elaborately embroidered logos, and I instantly recognized them as the guys who live, eat, and breathe this game. The caps were from a travel team, and their coach was not far behind them. They were 13-14 years old, and they’d decided—bar none—that they were baseball players.

As they filled in the forms, they asked me a bunch of questions, from, “Do I have to sign this?” to, “What happens if I win?” I answered them and noticed that they were ribbing each other for every single question.

One kid asked if he had to use a heavier bat than he normally did. My answer, “Well, yeah. This is MLB. You have to use Prince Fielder’s bat.”

“Who’s Prince Fielder,” the kid asked.

His team was DONE. Over it. That kid will never live that down. They laughed at him, and it reminded me of the “Some lady named…Ruth” scene from The Sandlot. The one kid even said, “Dude, SHE knows who Prince Fielder is!” and indicated me. I told him I knew more about baseball than they all did combined, and that started the next wave of ribbing as they started to ask questions and realize I was, in fact, right.

I instantly gained a fan club. I like having fans. Even if they are jerky little kids with 70 mph fastballs at 14 years old. See number two.

2. “Hey, Verlander, good job beating your big-mouthed buddy over there.” When that group came to the pitching station, they were still at each other. One guy stepped on the back of another guy’s shoe when he was warming up, immediately sending him into orbit. Another guy called his teammate “too fat” to pitch and promptly got his ass kicked. It was their schtick. I loved it.

So the first of their group toed the rubber and nailed the zone four times out of the allotted six. It made that heavenly “POP” noise that a well-oiled fastball makes, and I thought, “I’m watching my own friends ten/fifteen years ago.” It was that moment right as they started to rise above the other kids they played with, and you can always tell the ones who have a shot. These were the ones.

The next guy came up and zinged it about ten miles per hour faster than his predecessor. It moved the strike zone poster and pushed the L-screen off balance a little. I wasn’t sure what to say to this kid who just blew my hair back. His teammate, though, knew exactly what to say: “I’d take you YARD on that, man!” followed by a quick mime of just what it would look like when he did. The kid pitching kicked some dirt in his teammate’s (Babe Ruth from now on; he had that kind of air) general direction and went back to work. The next pitch was high and inside, the kind of thing that would have made a right-handed high school kid pee just a little bit. I know it made ME.

Babe Ruth had a field day with that. “Charge the mound! Charge the mound!” and the other teammates laughed. The pitcher shot him a look and set again, this time sizzling the ball right down the pipe. People at the running station and people walking by both stopped to watch.

The next three were all on the mark, almost identical to the first two strikes. All just as hard. If this kid has a curve ball and a good change, he is set to be lights out. His five strikes led the day, and when he finished, Babe Ruth was a bit quieter.

So when they walked by me to leave, I said, “Hey, Verlander, good job beating your big-mouthed buddy over there.” The rest of the team sent a collective, “Ohhhhh,” followed by, “She called you Verlander!” They bounded away, the kid with the arm at the center. He looked back at me and waved.

One day, I’ll say I saw him before he was even a high school varsity player. No one will believe me. That is, if he doesn’t throw his arm out hitting 98 by 16 years old.

3. “Holy crap. He hit it out!” and “Does this say 6 seconds?” When I first met with the coordinator of the event, he showed me the scorecard, which doesn’t go beyond 275 feet for the hitting score or lower than 6 seconds for the girls’ running score. I asked him if anyone had ever made them have to rethink the scoring, and he said, “Nah. Not even close.”

Today, that changed. One of the kids I’d befriended earlier cleared the fence, and his tale made its way through all the stations and all the parents almost instantly. This reedy kid with huge feet and shaggy hair just OWNED a baseball and scored so high that math had to be done to determine how to score it. 

Then a girl made it from second to home in six seconds flat and immediately bounded into the pitching line like it was something she did every day. It probably is. She was 12. She was a lousy hitter and an even worse pitcher. I’d never discourage someone from playing ball, but it might not be too late for her to call up some Olympic coaches and start talking track. On the other hand, she’s young enough to learn to hit, and who needs to pitch when you’re setting base paths on fire? 

4. “Do it like I showed you.” Early in the pitching event, twin girls walked up to the line. I noticed them right away because one was wearing Under Armour baseball pants and a Yankees tee, had a dirty broken-in glove and even dirtier cleats. Her face and hands, pants and tee shirt were covered in clay, and the day had just started. While they waited, she had her glove resting on her cocked hip like it was an extension of her arm. She walked like a young athlete and watched the other players with intent.

On the other hand, her sister—identical in every biological feature—was her polar opposite in presentation. She was dressed in skinny jeans, sandals, and a black fitted tee. Her hipster glasses were perched on the end of her nose, and her hair was significantly shorter than her sister’s but was carefully styled. She stood with her feet crossed and her arms folded, shifting once in a while and looking mostly at the ground. 

When the first twin approached the line, she looked natural in her set, her windup, and her delivery. She hit the strike zone twice, which was good for her 11- and 12-year-old group, and casually walked back to watch her sister. Her work was not done. 

The skinny-jean sister hesitated as Under Armour handed her the glove she’d been wearing. She took it and fumbled to put it on her hand. She wasn’t sure what to do at the rubber, so her sister whispered and gestured, “Do it like I showed you. Come on. You can do it.” The girl sighed and nodded at her encouraging sister and awkwardly approached the rubber. She took another deep breath and set, wound up, and…

…nailed the center of the strike zone.

Her reaction? Nothing.

Her sister was visibly amused. On the next one, she set up just as awkwardly as the first and let another strike fly. It was almost outside and high, but it got in there. Painting the corners. 

She missed the next one. Then the next one. Neither time was her miss a big one. No flying over the L-screen or rolling on the ground. They were the kind of misses any pitcher experiences. The girl was totally unfazed. 

Her final tally was four, and she quietly walked off with her sister who was simply ecstatic for her sibling. She was patting her on the back and leaping alongside her, replaying each pitch as if her sister hadn’t been the very one who threw them all. 

I wonder if the first sister talked the second one into joining the team.

5.  “I’m sorry it’s dirty.” Toward the end, a small blond boy wandered up with his arm outstretched, scorecard dangling from his hand. As he handed it to me, he looked at me sideways and said, “I’m sorry it’s dirty,” in the sweetest voice to ever come from a child’s mouth. He was genuinely sorry his score card had gotten dirty on a baseball field. His body language showed me that he was greatly disappointed in himself and expected the same from me. I said, “Eh, no worries. If it’s not dirty, you’re not playing hard enough.” His posture and demeanor instantly changed, and he flashed a huge smile and suddenly became the most confident kid on the field. He proceeded to hit the strike zone twice, and I am convinced that if I hadn’t been such a fan of his clay-covered score card, that final tally would have been a zero. I learned something about kids in that moment. They just want someone to be on their side. That’s all. It was so simple to do. 

6. “Eh, why not?” While the boys had a large number of contestants with 3, 4, and 5 strikes in their final scores, the girls weren’t as consistently high. Most would hit once and then miss the next five in grand fashion. The older girls, of which there were very few, were more likely to hit the target, but the younger girls just didn’t have the confidence in their aim that the boys and the older girls did. I can’t speculate on the forces that cause such a discrepancy, but I have my theories.

At the very end, when every player in line had taken a turn, we started to clean up. That’s when I noticed the young girl hanging back a bit, kicking the grass. I said, “Did you pitch?” She looked caught. That’s the only way I could describe it. It was like she had been hoping to get by without throwing the ball, and I had called her out. I immediately felt bad so I said, “Come on. I’ll throw if you do.” There were no more kids around. It was just me and the other volunteers. She thought about it for a moment and then said, “Eh, why not?”

Then she proceeded to throw five strikes in a row. And hard. She looked completely surprised. She looked at me, and I smiled at her and said, “You just didn’t want to show the other kids up, did you?” She laughed and said, “Yep!” and threw her final pitch, missing by only inches.

As I filled out her card and gave it to her, she said, “I’ve never pitched before. That was fun!” And a new pitcher was born. I gave her a high five and told her to keep it up.

I hope she does.

7. “She’s never thrown a softball in her life.” And finally, my favorite moment of the day, the one that simultaneously took me back and made me think ahead. A couple years ago, Major League Baseball and Pitch, Hit & Run decided to limit baseball activity to boys and softball activity to girls, regardless of what type of team the player plays with regularly. Trust me. I argued this one. I was not alone in my objections.

About halfway through, a tiny girl walked up to the line. She was dressed in baggy grey baseball pants, dirty cleats, and a black jersey with her long, curly brown hair hung haphazardly from beneath her ill-fitting cap. She was an adorable caricature of every representation of every little baseball playing girl in every story ever told.

I felt like I was looking in a mirror.

As she approached the station, she nonchalantly reached out for a ball.

It was a baseball.

Boy, am I glad I wasn’t the one who had to tell her the rules. The guy I was working with sweetly explained to her that she was to throw the small softballs, and her dad, hovering nearby, turned to me and called, “So she has to throw softballs? She’s never thrown a softball in her life.”

I was sympathetic to his concern. He reminded me of my own dad saying the same kind of things so many years ago.

I apologetically but firmly told him it was a Major League Baseball rule and that I had questioned it, too. Then I turned to the girl and said, “Hey, listen. If you can throw that baseball like I’ll bet you can, this softball will be nothing for you to handle for one day. You’re aces. You got this.”

She smiled slightly and palmed the ball. She was still not convinced.

“I’ll tell you what, champ,” (yeah, I called her “champ”), “if you throw that softball six times, you can pitch baseballs to me later. I’ll be your catcher.”

Now she beamed, looked at her dad, and took her place on the line. She did alright, hitting the strike zone only once, but I can assure you it was because of the sheer size and awkwardness of that yellow planet her tiny hands were hurling through the air. It was a familiar feeling. I vehemently congratulated her and told her I’d be around if she still wanted to pitch.

Then I tried not to cry my eyes out.

Neither the shy girl nor the little baseball player girl took me up on my offer to throw with them. I'm a little disappointed that the little one didn't find me and the sneaky pitcher didn't make me hold up my end of the bargain, but in the end, it was a great experience, and I hope to stay involved with the event in years to come. I feel so at home on a diamond, and there’s something cool about seeing kids who still just play because it’s so damned fun to do. I want to see every single child who came out today play for their entire lives. I wanted to tell every single one of them to stay with it, no matter how hard it got and to remember that they were the masters of their own destinies, and if they wanted to play the game—if they truly loved the game—they should put every bit of themselves that they could spare into it and never apologize, never let anyone make them question it. It’s a beautiful game—the most beautiful game—and those kids deserve to fall in love with it as much as I have. They’ll be better people for it.