10 May 2011, by Eric
Tom Ley writes at Word's Finest. You can email him too, at leyt345(at)gmail(dot)com.
There he was again.
I was nine years old watching Andres Galarraga stride across the lobby of the Viscount Suites in Tucson for what must have been the sixth or seventh time in the last three days.
I was in Tucson part in what had become an annual family excursion to take in the Colorado Rockies spring training. Mom and Aunt Chris came down to bake in the Arizona sun, and us kids came down for one reason: to get as many autographs from as many players as possible. (It wasn’t always autographs, though. I may or may not be in possession of a half-full tin of Skoal that once belonged to Bruce Ruffin).
And we were good at it, too.
Equipped with backpacks full of freshly purchased baseballs and pockets full of black sharpies, we moved around Tucson like a well-trained tactical unit. We knew exactly which areas of Hi Corbett Field offered us the best chance to catch the players before and after games. We stayed at the same hotel as the players, and we knew precisely what time they passed through the lobby. We even knew when Vinny Castilla was likely to be found at the bar of the local TGI Fridays. We were exacting, methodical and relentless.
This particular year, poor Andres Galarraga continually found himself in our cross-hairs. We saw him everywhere we went, and every time we swarmed him with our arms extended expectantly, our small, sweaty fingers wrapped around baseballs and sharpies.
Looking back, it’s hard to understand why we continued to accost Galarraga even though, between the four of us, we must have had two dozen iterations of his signature. Why didn’t we just let him pass by after the tenth autograph?
I’m sure it had something to do with the “thrill of the hunt.” Our quest for autographs often required a great deal of discipline and patience, and so whenever an opportunity for a pay-off arose, we couldn’t help but take it. Each autograph, no matter how repetitive, was a conquest.
The more I think about it though, the more I begin to realize that there was another big reason why we kept descending on Galarraga.
We were little fish.
****
The Big Cat.
That’s what everyone called Andres Galarraga. It was a nickname that suited him well. His legs were huge, long, and powerful in a way that forced you to notice them anytime he stretched out from first base to scoop up a low throw or uncoiled his hips on a thigh-high fastball. He’d stand at the plate, locked into his wide, wide-open stance with his left leg, a pinstriped obelisk, extended out behind his torso. He’d lift it and move it calmly in line with the rest his body as the pitch was delivered, ready to plant his foot and pounce on the pitcher’s offering. You fixated on his legs the same way you fixated on those of a cheetah as it chases down a gazelle in one of those super slow motion action shots that make nature shows so hypnotizing.
Despite his size, Galarraga wasn’t exactly a commanding presence. He didn’t have that edge on the field, nor did he have the domineering personality off of it that is such a necessary component of the superstar formula. He was unassuming and reserved, but not mysterious—he smiled too much for that—he just showed up every day, played the game, and quietly knocked the shit out of the ball.
Given his demeanor, I never really felt like I “knew” Galarraga the same way that I felt like I knew Vinny Castilla or Larry Walker because I had seen them act silly during an interview or pump their fists enthusiastically after a home run. I liked it better that way, though, because the Big Cat’s performance on the field was all I had to judge him by. He was just a great, great player, nothing more and nothing less.
That would change in Tucson.
****
The Big Cat saw us coming.
The four of us had each given each other a questioning look as if to say, “Again? Should we really go after him again?” We doubted our singular purpose for a brief moment, until one of us snapped out of it said simply, “Let’s go.” I don’t remember who said it, but it was enough to get us out of our chairs and digging in our backpacks for balls with some white space left on them.
And so Andres Galarraga, slowly making his way across the hotel lobby, saw four familiar faces coming towards him. I have no doubt that he recognized us, as a look of solemn resignation came over his face, and he stopped to meet the inevitable.
My brother and his two friends got to him first and presented him with a sharpie and a ball the same way they had done four or five times previous.
“Andres, can we have your autograph?”
The Big Cat answered without speaking and bent down to accept their offerings, signing each ball carefully before handing it back. As he turned his attention towards me, my mom asked if he would take a picture with us kids. He looked past me for a moment, nodded his assent, and then reached down to receive the ball that I had hastily grabbed out of my backpack a few moments earlier.
He turned the ball over once in his hand and stopped to frown at something that had caught his attention. He hesitated for a moment, then looked up and gently handed the ball back to me.
“This already has me,” he said.
****
A joke:
Two little fish are swimming around in the ocean and along their way they happen across a much bigger, older fish. The big fish nods at them and says, “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” The big fish swims on without the little fish answering; who stay silent for a few moments after the big fish has left. Finally, one of the little fish looks at the other and says, “What the hell is water?”
If you’re familiar with this joke, it’s probably because you are a fan of David Foster Wallace and you recognize it as the beginning of the now famous commencement speech that he gave to the 2005 graduating class at Kenyon College (or you may recognize as a few lines amongst the many thousands from Infinite Jest).
The joke’s meaning becomes the nucleus of Wallace’s speech, in which he essentially pleads with the graduates to learn to take their awareness of the world beyond themselves.
In the joke, the little fish don’t know what water is because they have never taken the time to step out of their own minds long enough to notice the very thing that sustains them and keeps them alive every day. The little fish are the absolute centers of their own universe, and everything else that exists is rather inconsequential.
Wallace posits that it is our inherent nature to live our lives in the same self-centered fashion as these little fish. This frame of mind is the reason why when we see a mother struggling to quiet her screaming toddler in the supermarket we feel annoyed rather than sympathetic. It is the reason why when a co-worker begins to tell us a completely banal story about what they did last weekend we begin to feel impatient, and then eventually angry that they would dare waste our time with such drivel. We perceive everything in relation to how it immediately affects US.
We were very bad at seeing the water.
Andres Galarraga, however, was not.
****
“What a little shit,” he must have thought, at least for a moment, when he saw his signature staring back at him. How could he not?
Here he was, 37 years old, just trying to get through yet another spring training, an event that, after all these years, must have felt more like a hindrance than anything else.
Here he was, heading into what he must have known would be his last season with the Rockies . (Todd Helton, our hot shot 1B prospect was nipping at his heals). Knowing that at his age he’d need to have a big year if he wanted to secure another lucrative contract elsewhere.
Here he was, just trying to get to his hotel room so he could relax for a bit and get a good night’s sleep before having to drag himself out into the blazing sun again tomorrow.
And here we were, again. Why did it seem like we were there no matter where he went? It was as if we always knew precisely where he was going to be. It was almost like we were stalking him for Christ’s sake. And we wanted more autographs? How many did we possibly need from the same guy?
He had every right to wave us off with a dismissive, “Sorry, not signing today,” (as so many other players had done that week) and continue on his way. Even after agreeing to sign our baseballs once again, he could have easily refused our request for a picture. I mean sure, he loved his fans, but how much was he really expected to give to us?
And then to top it all off, this little shithead hands him a ball that already has his fucking signature on it. What a waste of time. After handing the ball back to me, he could have easily rolled his eyes or shaken his head in disappointment, he could have curtly stated that there would be no picture today after all, and walked off. No one would have blamed him.
That isn’t what he did, though. Instead, he took one big step backwards, and beckoned for us to scrunch up next to him and pose. The four of us followed his lead, and a few moments later the picture was snapped and Andres retired to his hotel room. The picture came out well. Andres had a big smile on his face.
When I think about that smile, and the gentleness with which Andres had returned the round white source of shame to my hands, it becomes clear to me that he could see The Water. He could see that I was just a kid, and that no matter how inane my need to collect trophies from my favorite players may have seemed to him or any other adult, doing so made me happy. In that moment, he was willing to put my happiness, the happiness of a complete stranger, ahead of his own.
Yes, it was a small thing that Andres did that day, but I think that is precisely why it is worth praising. We often forget that the smallest of actions can determine how moments become imprinted onto other people’s memories. In no time at all, just enough for a few synapses to fire and a few facial muscles to contort, we can give someone a moment that is either remembered fondly, or with shame and mortification. Andres, either consciously or subconsciously, seemed to understand this.
And so he took the picture, the Big Cat that I think of as the Big Fish, posing graciously with four of us little ones.
10 May 2011, by Ted
Playwright Larry Herold, out of Dallas, Texas, is a co-founder of Times Square Playwrights in New York City and a member of the Playwrights’ Center and the Dramatists Guild. His play, The Sports Page, won the 2010 Texas Playwriting Competition, as well as numerous additional honors. Learn more about Larry and his work at larryherold.com.
So Rafael Palmeiro gets drafted in the first round by the Cubs in ’85. Not as a first baseman, but as an outfielder. That’s how he makes the All-Star team in ’88, as a reserve outfielder. But the Cubs need a closer, so they ship Palmeiro – 6-feet, 180 pounds, hitter of 25 home runs over 3 seasons – to the hapless Texas Rangers for Mitch Williams. Williams gets 36 saves, Cubs make the playoffs, good for them.
Meanwhile, down in Texas, the Rangers install Palmeiro at first base. From the stands he looks like a very likable guy. Easy-going. Harmless. A manly moustache, a smile now and again, and a pretty darn good glove. With Bobby Valentine managing, Nolan Ryan winning 16, Palmeiro starts 142 games at first for Texas and hits 8 home runs.
Four years later, in ’93, the Rangers are still hapless and Palmeiro, now known as Raffy, hits 37 home runs. We don’t know exactly how Raffy jumped from 8 home runs to 37. What we do know is this: on August 31, 1992, Jose Canseco was traded from the Oakland A’s to the Texas Rangers.
However Palmeiro did it, his timing was perfect: he was a free agent. And the Rangers let him walk. The next five years, using whatever magical combo of maturity, weight-lifting, Canseco supplies and diluted expansion pitching you care to believe, Raffy hits 182 home runs, all of them for the Baltimore Orioles. In other words, the free-swinging Rangers had one of the very best-hitting first basemen in the game, and they let him get away.
This would become a theme for the boys from Arlington. Let’s take a quick walk down the trail of tears that is former Texas first basemen: in ’01, Carlos Pena played 16 games at first for Texas and hit 3 home runs. Last weekend he slapped #233 over the ivy at Wrigley. Travis Hafner played 3 games at first for the boys in ’02 and hit a single home run. Last month, in a different uniform, he launched #180. In ’04 and ’05, Adrian Gonzalez started 17 games at first for Texas and hit 7 home runs. Sunday, making like Roy Hobbs, he drove #172 off the light tower above the Green Monster.
Anyway, Texas lets Raffy go in ’93. People say he’s soft. Never growls. Never spits. Thinking they finally have a shot at the playoffs, Texas replaces him with a very serious cat from the National League. He has black stuff under his eyes and something in his lower lip. His uniform fits a little too snug, his jaw is set on go. He doesn’t seem to enjoy playing exactly. He’s more like Sgt. Rock charging up a hill through a hail of shrapnel. Plenty a time for smilin’ when we’re done, ladies. He’s the ultimate badass, Will Clark.
Weird thing #1: a few years before this, Clark and Palmeiro were teammates at Mississippi State. Word is, they didn’t get along. Show of hands if you’re surprised. Anyone? Bueller?
So now Clark is 30 years old, Juan Gonzalez is 24, Pudge Rodriguez is 22. Here we go. The strike gets in everybody’s way, but in short order Texas gets a new stadium, a new manager and in ’96 they win the AL West. Holy smokes, Texas is in the playoffs. Clark, with a stare that says, “You want some of me?”, starts 116 games at first, knocks in 72 runs and the Rangers are no longer mired in mediocrity.
In 1998, a person of questionable judgment, Tom Hicks, takes over the team, but the Rangers win 88 games and the West. Clark drives in 102. But his contract is up and suddenly, 23 home runs and 169 hits are insufficient. They let him go. But who will play first for the bulked-up Rangers? Let’s see, there’s a free agent who hit 43 home runs last year. Let’s get him! What’s his name? Rafael Palmeiro!
So Raffy, no longer a skinny outfielder, returns in ’99, hits 47 home runs, somehow wins a Gold Glove as a DH and part-time first baseman, is an All-Star who finishes fifth in the MVP race. All hail the amazing Raffy and the Rangers win the West yet again. (Alas, the joy in Mudville is short-lived. If you want to know why Texas beating the Yankees in 2010 for the AL crown was so sweet, you have only to look at their 90’s run: Texas made the playoffs 3 times and all 3 times lost to the Yankees, winning only one single bleepin’ game.)
Don’t you love how baseball folds back on itself, the names crossing and re-crossing until you end up with Ted Williams being pushed aside as manager of the Rangers by Whitey Herzog, who is himself soon replaced by Billy Martin? Weird thing #2: the Orioles, having let Palmeiro go back to Texas, need a first baseman. Of course they sign Will Clark, who spends a lonely year in Baltimore. Never accused of using drugs to improve his performance, Clark is hired by the Cardinals to fill in for an injured – wait for it – Mark McGwire. Clark takes a curtain call and at 36 walks away from the game, his unwillingness to hang on and pile up some numbers probably keeping him out of the Hall of Fame.
And Raffy? He labors in Texas for five years, then heads right back to Baltimore. He gets his 3000 hits and his 500 home runs, and on March 17, 2005, tells a Congressional hearing, “I have never used steroids, period.” In August of that year – weird thing #3 – Baltimore’s “Rafael Palmeiro Appreciation Day” has to be cancelled when the honoree tests positive for steroids.
Now that, my friends, is a steep fall from grace. What are we supposed to make of it? I don’t know. But in refreshing my memories of Raffy, I found something interesting.
Did you know he was born in Cuba? Neither did I. His father Jose was a center fielder with 11 years of amateur ball under his belt. In 1965, he didn’t like the way the wind was blowing in Havana. He asked the Cuban government if he could leave, and six years (!) later they said yes. The Palmeiro family escaped the desolation and poverty of Castro’s Cuba for Florida, in part so that Rafael would have a shot at playing baseball for money.
In 1989, the year he hit 8 home runs for Texas, Raffy earned $212,000 playing baseball. Ten years later, he hit 47 home runs and earned $8.8 million. Think about it. If you could increase your annual salary by 41 times, no matter what you had to do, wouldn’t you at least consider it?
Thanks to a 2005 Chicago Tribune article by Fred Mitchell, the always amazing Baseball-Reference.com, the USAToday salary data base, and the fount of knowledge that is Wikipedia for helping me fill in the gaps.
There are many potential narratives surrounding John Jaha’s major league career. None can do the man justice. The Brewers drafted Jaha in 1984; however, the most Orwellian aspect of his life was the middle name “Emil”—Lime spelled backward. Jaha reached the majors in 1992 following years of toiling in the minors, but not before spending time playing for the Diakyo Dolphins of the Australian Baseball League. The American man (Oregonian, more precisely) who goes down under then brings back the thunder makes for a good movie, however Jaha’s teammate—Dave Nilsson—would likely steal the show. Even casting Jaha as a baseball-playing, walk-taking, home run-hitting robot designed to shut down as Y2K occurred seems a bit dishonest, as he did play, albeit briefly, after the turn of the century. Actually, Jaha had his best individual season in 1999—even garnering an All-Star bid and a Most Valuable Player award vote—and that came after signing with Billy Beane, so perhaps the robot vibe is genuine. Power, burliness, a goatee, and a quick descent from the peak: Jaha is the first baseman of the 90s.
My choice for first baseman of the 90s is easy: Mark Grace. The best first basemen have a certain grace. They may be slow (which Grace certainly was), but they shouldn't be lumbering. Grace was smooth and elegant both at the plate and around the bag, rarely made mistakes and had the most hits in the majors during the decade.