Baseball and Writing and Life

by Patrick J. Walsh

Here's something I'm particularly grateful for today: my video Pitching Diamonds: Cy Young's First No-Hitter (http://youtu.be/QNsFJ7cxVR4) has just passed the 5,000 views milestone.

I am so appreciative for everyone who has checked it out over the course of the past two and a half years, and I am grateful for all the views, comments and feedback I've received on all my video efforts.

I first posted the Cy video in the very early hours of April 6, 2012 -- the overnight following Opening Day of the 2012 season for my New York Mets. That day, Mets ace Johan Santana returned from shoulder surgery to pitch a masterful five innings while helping to secure a 1-0 win over the Braves.

Later that season, Johan would pitch the first no-hitter in Mets history. I watched both of those games on TV, with my Mom.

Looking back on them now, and reflecting on all that has happened since — to my team, and in my life — I cannot help but smile when I think of how lucky I am to have had so many great experiences as a baseball fan, and as a writer.

The Cy video marks my first step beyond the Five Minutes in Space series — the first time I've posted a video intended for a broader audience. I had originally launched my YouTube channel in January, 2011 as a way to communicate with like-minded fans of space exploration — the folks who might know me as the author of Echoes Among the Stars or Spaceflight.

When I started researching my baseball project about a year later, it was awesome to have the ability to transform one small slice of the research into an 'instant' short-form documentary that I could immediately share online. It allowed me to reach out to other baseball fans, and to give everyone who might be interested in my writing a chance to see a little bit of my work in progress.

Given the length of time it often takes to put together a big project, and the fact that I am pretty much always working on a whole raft of different writing projects at the same time (like pretty much every other writer I know), it's an especially good thing to be able to quickly, concisely, and continuously share a sample of my work with anyone who'd like to know, you know, "so what are you working on now?"

There were 10 years between the publication of my first book (Echoes, in 2000) and my second (Spaceflight, 2010), and that's a really long time to have to try to describe your current project, again and again, in a manner that's succinct and vivid enough to capture someone's interest. Especially when the project is constantly evolving, or as you shift your attention from one project to another.

Having a video sample helps me to honor the question, and to provide a meaningful answer for those who are kind enough, or interested enough, to ask about my work. I am always grateful for both the interest and the support, as writing can often be a fairly solitary pursuit, and it's important to stay plugged into those who care the most about your work.

Which brings me, not coincidentally, back to the game of baseball.

In baseball, as in writing, as in life itself, there is so much joy to be found in being part of something larger than yourself: a team, a city, a sport, a life, a history…

I like to think that my own experiences of that feeling of joy, however personal or humble, have given me some small idea of what it's like for those who are at the heart of the greatest moments in the history of the game.

Just as time passes and those moments are transformed into memories, all the little joys we experience first-hand remain as near as our connections to the times we shared, and to the people who shared them with us along the way.

And as we remember and record and pass along the stories of those moments, we also pass along a little bit of each of us. Clapping, cheering, breathing right along with our favorite team or favorite players, we all take our seats in the stands as the game rolls on, helping to shape some small part of a day, or a season, or a lifetime.

That's baseball, and history, and life. And I'm grateful for the chance to share it with all of you.

A Certain Kind of Anger: Reflections on Baseball’s Great Late-Season Pitching Heroics

[This is an excerpt from the introduction to my baseball project, which focuses on late-season pitching heroics from the earliest days of the game right up to the present day. Using the same research, I’ve also created the short documentary, “Pitching Diamonds,” which chronicles Cy Young’s September 18, 1897 no-hitter, and which is now available online at my YouTube channel.]

By Patrick J. Walsh

...And then, on some days, there are those rare games in which the time of year intersects with the particular circumstances of the team or the individual to dictate that a given starter must try to will himself to a level of play that is painful to reach and debilitating to maintain, but necessary for the circumstances of the moment...

Sometimes, a certain kind of anger becomes almost a necessity, as a key to unlocking the inner reserves. But it is a particular kind of anger, a productive exasperation with one’s own limitations. It is not the anger of Proverbs, or the wrath of the Seven Deadly Sins. It is in fact more like its juxtaposed virtue in modern Catholicism, which contrasts the deadly sin of anger with the blessed virtue of patience.

Anger is, after all, ugly in all its forms but one: that in which it is employed in the struggle against indignity. In that one instance, in the extreme titanic struggle as the twilight shadows lengthen and the final innings draw near, in the proper hand guided by the right heart, it can be utilized -- transformed, as a beautiful sort of anger whose features are polished with courage, determination, and self-respect.

Conjured by a skilled athlete in response to the sudden arbitrary meanness of circumstance, it is an emotion that is carefully controlled and precisely applied, only in the measure necessary to achieve the objective of the moment, without malice or rancor.

As the days grow shorter, and some games take on a special urgency, there are sometimes those individuals who by the nature of their unique position get the opportunity to achieve a greater sort of victory than the kind reflected on the scoreboard. They win by simply refusing to be bettered, by giving their all to the effort, and by playing smart and tough and angry.

It is a task like those few that arise in any lifetime that provides an opportunity to concentrate the frustrations that come from constantly bumping up against the limitations of endurance and age and circumstance, and transform them into a weapon against the arbitrary whim of fate.

And it is a special gift of baseball: for a given game, late in the season, one particular player is given a chance to overcome all the lost chances of the whole long year that have finally, suddenly conspired to demand so much and yet promise so little. In victory, he emerges with his dignity intact, and the gratitude of those who depend upon him.

There are a multitude of examples of late-season pitching heroics throughout baseball history... Some are stories of great pitchers who helped their teams avoid defeat and live to play another day -- often famously going on to success in the playoffs and the World Series. In other cases, the triumph is more individual in nature. But in all accounts, it is the furious will to win that distinguishes each individual performance, and provides a remarkable example of courage in the face of adversity.

© Patrick J. Walsh

Say Something Nice About The Mets

by Patrick J. Walsh

Like so many other fans of the game, and particularly, fans of the team, I was disappointed to hear the recent comments that Fred Wilpon, the patriarch of one of the families that own the New York Mets, made recently about several of his team’s star players.

In perhaps his most revealing and most discouraging remark, Mr. Wilpon said of his long-time star outfielder Carlos Beltran:

“We had some schmuck in New York who paid him based on that one series. He’s 65 to 70 percent of what he was.”

He is referring to himself, of course, as the “schmuck” who proffered a seven year contract worth $119 million to Beltran after Beltran hit eight home runs and scored 21 runs in 12 post-season games while playing for the Houston Astros in 2004.

It is not entirely difficult to understand or even to sympathize with Mr. Wilpon’s frustration as an employer whose company has underperformed, or as a baseball fan who has a particularly acute desire to see his team win a championship.

But his dilemma in the first instance, as the ultimate authority responsible for the direction of a business enterprise worth hundreds of millions of dollars (a recent published estimate put the Mets current value at $747 million), pretty severely mitigates against any sympathy he might be due in the second.

And yet it is difficult not to feel some measure of sympathy for Mr. Wilpon, even if it is far easier to sympathize with the players about whom he had such “interesting” things to say.

To begin with, his comment about the foolhardiness of signing a player based on one particularly productive period undercuts the positive aspects of the particular signing he’s talking about, while at the same time revealing how huge, long-term contracts can result in frustration and disappointment even for those who are most responsible for making them a de facto part of the modern game.

It is of course ridiculous in a team sport to bemoan the fact that one good player cannot ensure a team’s success. Even a star player making an extraordinary salary can do little beyond working hard, playing honorably and doing the best he can to perform as well as possible -- regardless of how well the team performs as a whole.

In the particular case of Carlos Beltran, it is important to note that Beltran has played well during his time with the Mets despite several serious injuries, and it is not unreasonable to suppose that he has been injured because he has consistently tried to play at a level that honors the commitments implied by his contract.

He has also played with great courage, and his struggle to stay on the field has been one of the most inspiring -- and least recognized -- stories in the recent history of the team.

Beltran’s ability to perform well when injured has provided a fine example for anyone struggling to overcome infirmity or fear, and those in a position to view the larger context of his time in New York would do well to comment on that aspect of his performance as well as on his stats and his contributions to the team’s successes and failures.

Of course Mr. Wilpon’s fortunes are more intimately intertwined with his players’ well being and performance than those of anyone observing the results from a distance, so it is also not unreasonable to interpret his “buyer’s remorse” about Beltran’s contract as a comment on the state of the game as a whole.

I suppose it might even be charitable to interpret his opinion as implying some recognition that he, as an owner of one of the highest spending teams in the sport during the past few years, has been part of the problem inherent in the creation of contracts whose terms sometimes seem absurd, given the risks involved in any given player’s ability to avoid injury and to perform at a consistently high level over an extended period of time.

But it is finally in the second part of Mr. Wilpon’s remark -- the notion that Carlos Beltran is now “65 to 70 percent of what he was” -- that the real sadness of the owner’s odyssey intersects with that of his players and the team’s fan base.

Time does after all march on, and even the greatest player must face the eventual weathering of his skills by the passing seasons, hastened further by injuries large and small and by the successes and failures of his teammates and the management and support personnel whose work ultimately provides the context in which he asserts his own abilities.

Carlos Beltran -- like Jose Reyes, or David Wright -- or you or me, for that matter -- is after all seven years older than he was when he signed that very lucrative contract with Mr. Wilpon’s team seven years ago.

On the other hand -- and to the credit of all those who recognize the fact -- even if Beltran is indeed “65 to 70 percent” the player he was at that time, he is still far more skilled than a vast majority of other players who are now employed by major league clubs, or who have been so employed in the history of the game.

Both issues -- the big contract and the diminution of a player’s skills over time and as a result of injury -- really bespeak the absurdity of the business side of the sport.

If a team’s executive management is willing to concede the necessity of offering long-term contracts worth tens of millions of dollars in order to sign a given player, those individuals who make or approve those decisions must also take ownership of them.

If they are unhappy with the idea of paying players that much money in order to be competitive, they can invest instead in younger, less expensive prospects, or simply offer less money and accept the risk that they may as a result be less competitive. Or they can simply sell their interest and pursue some other business endeavor that has different requirements and different risks.

But it is shameful to blame players for the injuries they sustain while trying to play the game at a level that honors the terms of the contract they have been given, and it is unrealistic to assume that the skills of any player will not diminish to some degree with the passage of time. These are the obvious concerns of any scout and any front office personnel in any sport, and it is odd to think that anyone could misunderstand the risks that they represent, for the ownership as well as for the player.

It is also tiresome to hear fans blame players for signing astronomical contracts whose terms are ultimately decided by those owners who are willing to approve such arrangements in the first place, and it is troubling to hear that sort of thing from as prominent, well-respected and fundamentally decent an individual as Mr. Wilpon.

Consider this: for any employee to make “too much” salary, isn’t it a given that there must be an employer willing to pay that salary?

In the final analysis, it may well be that the best thing a fan might take away from this recent episode is simply the recognition that the frustration he or she feels about the club’s fortunes during the most recent arc in its history is shared in even the most unexpected quarters -- including the offices of the team’s owner.

Such realization leaves one saddened less by the harshness of Mr. Wilpon’s comments than by his unstated incredulousness that the team has not performed better, even with players as exceptional as Carlos Beltran and Jose Reyes and David Wright -- about whom his disparaging remarks may well be interpreted as a comment on the abilities of the team’s executive management as well as on their own.

© 2011 Patrick J. Walsh

   

So Long, Oliver

I will miss Oliver Perez now that he has been cut from the Mets.

I know his time in New York was marred by bad press, uneven performance, and way too much interest in the three year, $36 million contract he signed two seasons ago, but my lasting images of him will always reflect the endearing, likable side of this earnest young man who worked his way, for better or worse, into the small group of the best paid practitioners of his profession.

When I think of Ollie, I will remember the Mother’s Day performance of several years ago (2006, I’m pretty sure), when he pitched remarkably well and then talked about how glad he was to have done well to honor his Mom on that special day. It was a lovely moment, indicative of both the sweet nature of the individual and the genuine passion he has for the game. I remember thinking about how proud his family and friends must be of him, and having known him through all the years of his youth, how they must cherish his every appearance in the big leagues, win or lose.

On that day and in the years since, I am happy to say that I have shared that feeling. I’ve rooted for Ollie on every pitch; I’ve groaned along with him when he struggled, leapt off the couch when he’s struck someone out, and prayed for his speedy recovery when he was injured and underwent surgery.

I can also recall a fair number of post-game interviews when an exhausted Oliver would stand beside his locker, squinting into the television lights, listening intently to some reporter’s question, when he would nod carefully at each point and at every nuance, as though carefully considering how to reply. Then, when the guy would finally trail off and wait for a response, Ollie’s expression of deep interest would suddenly go blank, and he’d reply, “huh?”

I cannot count the number of times I’ve seen something really dumb on TV, or been approached by someone selling something, or had someone unfairly criticize me or badmouth someone who I admire, when I have simply stared and said “huh?”

I owe that to Ollie :)

As a Mets fan, of course, I am glad to see the team win, and feel bad for the players when they lose. In Ollie’s case, though, I always saw a larger dimension to the story that played out on the field whenever he pitched. The mere fact that his exceptional talent had led him from his small hometown in Mexico to the biggest stage in Major League Baseball was compelling; and the fact that his personal journey had led him through a long string of difficult seasons before he came to New York was testament to his passion and persistence in the face of adversity.

From the first time I saw him pitch, I have always thought of Oliver Perez as a sincere, hardworking young man trying to maintain his dignity in the face of difficult circumstances, as his ability is admittedly unreliable at times. Despite the unevenness of his performance, he always appeared to be competing to the very limit that his ability would allow, and I think that is to his great credit.

I hope it provides him some comfort to know that he gave his best during his time with the Mets, and even in those moments when his considerable talent betrayed him, he maintained his dignity and did nothing to betray the faith of those fans who care for him and wish him well, wherever his life next leads.

© 2011 Patrick J. Walsh

The Spirit of Baseball Past

Sometimes the holiday season brings the most unusual gifts...

I want to start off this blog with a few reflections about watching a baseball game... a game that was played years before I was born, of which a copy was made at the time and then forgotten for decades, only to be found and aired some five decades later, in a whole new era...

In mid-December, I was lucky enough to catch Game 7 of the 1960 World Series, which was aired for the first time since the game was originally played, a little more than 50 years ago.

The very fact that a copy of the game was found after so many years is remarkable, and the story of how it came to be preserved, forgotten, and then rediscovered last summer in Bing Crosby’s personal film collection is a wonderful tale in and of itself.

But the joy of actually seeing the entire see-saw battle for the championship between the Yankees and the Pirates -- and watching players like Roberto Clemente, Yogi Berra and Mickey Mantle playing in a complete game, as opposed to glimpsing brief highlights, was a truly thrilling experience.

Although many of the great Yankees who played in that era were retired or at the end of their career when I was growing up, I have intensely visceral memories of the great Roberto Clemente. At the latter part of his career he was still a formidable nemesis for the early 1970s Mets, who I adored as a child; but his sheer grace and skill taught me an early lesson about admiring people and their talents regardless of their uniform. As a result, although I’ve remained a Mets fan all my life, I can also honestly say that I am a fan of all baseball as well, and of great effort, great skill, and great spirit in all sports.

And of course, the tragic death of Roberto Clemente on New Year’s Eve 1972, while he was engaged in a relief mission for Nicaraguan earthquake victims, taught me many other things, too -- particularly about the true nature of heroism.

Seeing him play in Game 7 of the 1960 World Series, though, brought this larger-than-life figure from my childhood somehow closer, as I realized anew the fact that he was a consummate athlete who overcame the circumstances of his time to play the game he loved, every summer day, for many years...

As I watched the game, he was again Roberto Clemente the ballplayer, as well as the tragic hero, the historic icon, and the man whose great play against my hometown favorite team challenged me to applaud greatness wherever I might be lucky enough to find it.

What a wonderful gift: a game, a man, a baseball legend, and the little boy within me, thrilled as much as I was on every long-ago childhood Christmas Eve...

© 2010 Patrick J. Walsh