Taking A Look At Yu

I’m one of the fortunate people who loves his job. However, it’s still a job; deadlines have to be met, specific things have to be covered and, occasionally, I have to do things I’m not crazy about. Covering baseball for the last decade hasn’t dampened my enthusiasm for the sport, but I do treasure the all-too-infrequent moments when I can follow the game and not have to work.

I’m currently in the middle of a six-week stint covering Kansas City Royals spring training. Saturday was the first official day of workouts for the position players – official workouts for the pitchers and catchers always start a few days earlier, since pitchers need more time to prepare – which also means physicals for the position players. As a result, the Royals workouts started in the early afternoon, about three hours later than usual. I made the short drive from my spring training residence and arrived at the Royals spring training complex in Surprise, Arizona around 9 am – late by spring training standards – did a couple of player interviews and then lounged in my black leather (or is it pleather?) chair in the Surprise Stadium press box. The Royals are co-tenants of their Surprise, Arizona spring training complex with the Texas Rangers, which means those of us covering the Royals share the press box with those covering the Rangers. And, those covering the Rangers have been a harried bunch, thanks to the arrival of Yu Darvish.

Never has so much money been invested in someone who’s never thrown a Major League pitch. The Rangers paid Darvish’s Japanese team, the Hokkaido Nippon Ham Fighters, over $51.7 million just for the right to negotiate with him before giving the righthander a six-year contract that guarantees Darvish $56 million. Granted, Darvish was a sensation in Japan – the caliber of play in Japan’s top professional league is somewhere between American AAA baseball and the American Major Leagues – and he’s only 25 years old, meaning his best years should be ahead of him. And, the Rangers already have an outstanding pitching staff, a staff that’s helped them to back-to-back American League championships, so Darvish isn’t coming into a situation in which he’s expected to be the savior, reducing the pressure on him somewhat.

Speaking of pressure, there’s no other player in Major League history who knows what it’s like to have a team spend nearly $108 million to get you AND to have an entire, baseball-mad nation watching your every move. Dozens of Japanese media members have been assigned to cover Darvish, leading to the creation of an auxiliary press area at the Surprise spring training complex just to house them. Having spent a year working for the New York City bureau of the Yomiuri Shimbun – the Japanese newspaper with the world’s largest circulation – I know how ravenous their media can be. Heck, when I spotted Darvish at the local Target a few days ago, I was surprised he wasn’t being trailed by a few scribes and cameras. When it comes to following their great baseball players once they come to the States, the Japanese media make the American paparazzi look more timid than housecats who hide in the attic when guests come over.

Saturday was a big day in Rangers camp because Darvish was going to throw – a five-minute bullpen session followed by five minutes of live batting practice. I had nothing else to do so, shortly before 10 am, I ventured over to the Rangers side of the Surprise spring training complex – a mirror image of the Royals side with Surprise Stadium serving as the mirror. The first thing I noticed were the signs – there were twice as many. Since several Japanese media are covering Darvish, signs have been printed in both English and Japanese. Most of the signs noted mundane details, like where the press box is located and where media are – or aren’t – allowed to go. The second thing I noticed were the crowds. The Rangers play in a bigger market and have been more successful recently than the Royals, so it would stand to reason there would be more fans on the Rangers side of the complex. But, it’s one thing to assume a larger fan presence and another to actually see it. There were so many folks to see the Rangers, gates and fences were strategically placed to help control the crowds and make it easier for the players to get on and off the fields, something that isn’t necessary on the Royals side.

The biggest crowds were around Darvish. I was able to secure a coveted spot next to the bullpen fence just as Darvish made his way to the top of the mound and was immediately surrounded by fans and media who also wanted a closer look. I heard a cell phone ring behind me, followed by a male voice saying “moshi moshi,” the Japanese equivalent of “hello.” Then I heard the unmistakable pop of the catcher’s mitt as Darvish began throwing. I didn’t have a radar gun, but I’ve covered enough baseball to make educated guesses on a pitcher’s velocity, and there was little doubt Darvish was throwing in the mid 90s. And, he made it look easy; most pitchers who throw that hard have elaborate deliveries with high leg kicks and look like they’re trying to throw the ball through the catcher rather than to the catcher. Darvish’s delivery was like a picture-perfect golf swing; everything made sense, each body part worked in concert with the others and not a single motion seemed wasted or rushed. The leg kick was high enough, the stride was just right and the finish was balanced. There’s no doubt pitching coaches at all levels will be recording Darvish’s delivery and showing it to their pupils.

After the bullpen session was done, Darvish was accompanied by a police escort as walked the 20 feet from the bullpen mound to the practice field where he would be throwing live batting practice to a handful of Rangers minor league hitters. I once again secured a post next to the fence, on the third-base side, and was once again enveloped by fellow onlookers. The L-screen was placed in front of the mound – the same screen used during pre-game batting practice to prevent BP pitchers from getting hit by line drives – and Darvish and his catcher let the hitter know what pitch was coming. I saw the effortless delivery again, but now I was in a better position to see the location of Darvish’s pitches, which gave me a chance to marvel at his impeccable command. I don’t think he threw one pitch above the batter’s knees and he worked his fastball effectively to both sides of the plate. I’d heard Darvish had an excellent split-fingered fastball, but I was more impressed with his changeup, which darted down and away from lefties. Not surprisingly, the minor league hitters were no match for Darvish, even though they knew what pitch was coming.

After his live batting practice stint ended, Darvish walked to a spot five feet from where I was standing, so he could be under the shade the dugout provided and drink from a bright orange water cooler. As Darvish drew water into a green Dixie cup, a 35-millimeter camera with a zoom lens went off next to my left ear, the photographer shooting pictures of Darvish refreshing himself in rapid-fire succession. Fans started pushing their way toward the field’s exit, getting their pens, Sharpies, balls and baseball cards ready for Darvish’s signature; they would be disappointed, as Darvish’s police escort helped lead him to another field for his post-throwing PFP – pitcher’s fielding practice – so the $108 million dollar man could work on how to properly cover first base on a ground ball hit to the right side of the infield. A few fans followed Darvish, but most dispersed, content to watch other players work or to seek more autographs. I walked back to the press box, jealous of the media who cover the Rangers; they would get to watch God’s gift to pitching every fifth day, and I wouldn’t.

I covered Royals camp later that Saturday and, for the first time, I noticed how peaceful it was. I love my job.

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Check Out My Cards

Several events helped me fall in love with baseball – evenings watching and discussing the New York Mets with my dad, poring over baseball articles and statistics in books, magazines and newspapers and using a split-fingered fastball grip to throw a tennis ball against a brick wall in the park across the street from where I grew up, just to name a few.

There was also the box. In the box were all 131 baseball cards that comprised the entire set of 1987 Fleer Update (card companies release “update” or “traded” sets to account for players who changed teams or were called up to the Majors after the companies released their initial card sets in January); I got the box from a friend of my mother’s the winter after I turned eight. I’d never collected baseball cards, nor had I shown much interest in sports before then. But, those cards fascinated me. Maybe it was the crisp, clean design on the front of each card: a picture of a baseball player framed by a light-blue border with white lettering, the logo of the player’s team in the lower right-hand corner. The back of the cards had a bunch of statistics I didn’t understand, but they also listed the players’ birthplaces and hometowns, which I did understand; I was a geography nut from an early age – I knew all 50 state capitals by the start of third grade – and was amazed at all the different states and Latin American countries baseball players called home. I was also amazed there were two players in the 1987 Fleer Update set who were born in New York City, my hometown: B.J. Surhoff and Stan Jefferson. Maybe I’ll run into one of them! I thought (I didn’t).

That winter, whenever I found myself in one of New York City’s ubiquitous bodegas and had money to spend (or was with an adult willing to spend money on me), I would get a pack of baseball cards. Most stores sold only Topps baseball cards, which were 50 cents a pack and included a stick of bubblegum; the gum was always stale and brittle and I always chewed it anyway. Some stores also had 69-cent packs of Topps, which contained a few more cards, but no bubblegum. I liked Topps more than Fleer, because Topps cards usually had an interesting factoid or two about the player on the back, along with his statistics (Fleer cards did tell you what pitches every pitcher threw, which I thought was neat). Donruss cards always had a lot of player facts too, but they only listed the stats for the last five years of a player’s career, whereas Topps listed every season, regardless of how long a player had been plying his trade in the Majors. Donruss cards were also harder to find than Topps.

As winter turned into spring, and baseball was once again on television, I asked my dad to explain the statistics on the back of the cards to me. I also paid more attention to games and, if I spotted a player whose baseball card I had, I’d immediately retrieve his card so I could learn more about him, making me feel like an expert. I learned about guys like Atlee Hammaker, a Lenoir City, Tennessee native, who pitched for the Kansas City Royals before joining the San Francisco Giants, and he throws a fastball, curveball, changeup and slider; Greg Gross was born in York, Pennsylvania, but now lives in Malvern, PA – not too far from Philadelphia, home of his team, the Phillies – and he was the Appalachian League Player of the Year in 1970; Candy Maldonado joined the Giants in a trade from the Los Angeles Dodgers for Alex Treviño after the 1985 season.

As my childhood progressed, so did my baseball-card collecting. I sorted my cards in a variety of ways: by players’ last name, by team, by year, even by card number; every few months I’d decide it was time to reorganize my cards in a new fashion. I treasured all the cards featuring players from the Mets, my favorite team, cards that always seemed to be in short supply in the packs I purchased. As I became more knowledgeable about the game of baseball, I became more knowledgeable about the worth of my cards; I knew rookie cards of good players were a treasured commodity. I also became more concerned with taking care of my cards, placing the ones I deemed most valuable in hard cases or in clear, plastic sheets. I became aware of how much my cards were worth, but I didn’t focus on getting only the most valuable cards; I needed to know the values of cards mainly so I could ensure I was getting a fair deal when trading cards with my friends (C’mon man, there’s no way I’m giving you my Carlos Baerga Topps rookie card for your 1990 Fleer Fred McGriff card!). I still saw collecting baseball cards as a sport, a fun hobby, a way to stay interested in a game I loved.

Just as I was getting immersed in the world of baseball cards, the industry was changing. No longer were cards viewed as inexpensive, cheaply-made pieces of cardboard designed primarily for children’s enjoyment. More card companies flooded the market in the 1980s (previously, only Topps was authorized to make official baseball cards), increasing competition and lowering profit margins. Instead of simple designs and features, card companies were competing to design the slickest-looking cards; by the early 1990s, nearly all baseball cards had holograms as a way to prevent counterfeiting. The holograms were a trend started by Upper Deck cards, which set many of the new industry standards. Not surprisingly, the prices of card packs increased and the bubblegum disappeared.

Initially, I welcomed the change. I loved Upper Deck cards: they always had a sharp, almost futuristic-looking design and pictures of the player in action on the back of the card as well as the front. Soon, Topps followed suit with their Stadium Club brand of premium cards, and I bought as many packs of those as I could as well. But, once I got to middle school, it became more difficult to find baseball cards; fewer corner stores and bodegas were selling them and most of my card shopping became confined to a small trading card and comic book shop in a second-floor storefront on Fordham Road, a few blocks from the Bronx Zoo. Also, as the price of packs of cards increased, it seemed like the number of cards per pack started to dwindle. Gradually, collecting seemed to become more about value and less about fun. By the time I enrolled in high school, my card-collecting days were all but over.

It’s been nearly 20 years since I bought any baseball cards, but I still have all of the cards I collected growing up, all 2,000 or so, arranged neatly in two shoeboxes and in one binder of clear, plastic sheets. Every now and then, I feel the need to peruse my collection, which always reminds me of a bygone era in baseball and in card collecting. Some cards bring back specific memories. My 1986 Topps Traded Barry Bonds rookie card was purchased as part of the complete Topps Traded set at a card shop in Cooperstown, New York, right after my first visit to the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum. My 1991 Topps Dwight Gooden came in a pack of cards my mother sent me while I was away at summer camp. I was excited to get Hal Morris’ 1990 Donruss rookie card because I thought he was going to be a star first baseman for years to come. I also thought Todd Van Poppel and Brien Taylor were going to be great pitchers and I tried to collect as many of their rookie cards as I could. Of course, when I opened a pack of 1992 Topps that featured a card of the Yankees’ most recent first-round pick – some guy named Derek Jeter – I didn’t think it would ever be worth anything.

Sometimes, when I’m in Target, I’ll check out their baseball card section, which is usually tucked away in a small corner or in an out-of-the-way nook. I pick up the packs, admire the designs and marvel at the variety; and, yet, I’m never tempted to buy a single pack of baseball cards. For one, the prices blow my mind; the card companies are clearly marketing toward adult hobbyists and not children, like they did when I was growing up. These days, card collecting is an expensive habit most kids can’t afford on their allowance, which breaks my heart. Baseball cards used to be a great way for children to learn about baseball and the men who played it. Nowadays, baseball cards are only seen as a great way to make a buck. At this point, card companies might as well go back to including baseball cards in packs of cigarettes, like they did in the early 1900s.

Perhaps my nostalgia for the baseball card industry of my youth is a reflection of my age; it’s common for adults to wax poetic about their childhoods once they hit their thirties. But, I really dislike the fact that baseball card companies seem to be ignoring children. I long for the day baseball card packs are once again prominently displayed on convenience store counters again, next to lollipops and bubblegum. And, while packs of cards should no longer cost 50 cents, they shouldn’t be several dollars either. I don’t expect the industry to change, but a man can dream, can’t he?

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I Will Always Love You

Whitney Houston’s death on Saturday made me think of several things. First and foremost in my mind is her music. I still get chills when I think about – let alone watch – her outstanding rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner before Super Bowl XXV in 1991. It was the height of the Gulf War, there was legitimate concern that terrorists would target the Super Bowl for an attack (leading to heightened security that foreshadowed the post-9/11 era), patriotism was as high as it had been in a generation and one of the biggest stars of the era belts out a flawless, moving National Anthem that, for some, superseded the Super Bowl itself. I sang “That’s What Friends Are For” as part of an assembly with my second-grade class. My fourth-grade class play – titled “It’s Up To You” and about how we could be anything we wanted to be when we grew up – featured one of my classmates dressing up as Houston and singing “One Moment In Time.” There aren’t too many people my age who don’t know most, if not all, of the words to “The Greatest Love Of All” and “I Will Always Love You.” Most of the songs Houston is best known for weren’t originally sung by her – Houston didn’t write most of what she sung – but they were made famous by her.

Following the last 20 years of Whitney Houston’s career mirrored following a loved one who’s suffering through addiction. Every time you see them, you study their face, their movements, their speech; after a while, only a glance is needed for you to figure out how they’re doing. “She looks good!” or “She seems happy!” you say to others, which is code for “I don’t think she’s using right now” and you hope it lasts. If she looks really thin, is acting jittery or something seems wrong with her speech, the report is “She’s not doing too well” or “I’m worried about her,” code for “She’s using again.” You think about the squandered talent and what might have been. You try to relate to and understand the power addiction has on her. Whitney Houston isn’t any more special or deserving of adulation than the millions of addicts who die prematurely every day because of their poor choices and their inability to deal with their addictions. But, I think so many can relate to her because she reminds them of someone they know: someone who’s talented, someone who’s touched many lives, but someone who can’t seem to exorcise her demons. You knew this day might come, the day when she would lose the battle with her addiction forevermore, but you try not to think about it, instead trying to root her on and hoping she kicks the habit for good; you never stop hoping and praying. Like with so many other addicts, it was hard not to like Whitney Houston. Maybe that was because of her talent; she could’ve focused solely on singing, acting or modeling and been legendary at any of the three. Maybe it was her stunningly good looks. Maybe it was the unassuming air she seemed to have about herself, like she was the only person in the room who didn’t know how extraordinary she was. Maybe it was all of those things. I do know that, while Houston’s addictions tarnished her image, those addictions didn’t ruin it or force her into the “bad girl” role, like they do with so many other celebrities.

Even though Whitney Houston’s music was commercially successful and, for the most part, critically acclaimed, there were always those who thought Houston strayed too far into pop music – giving her appeal with a wide variety of audiences – and that her music was never “black” enough. There have been many black artists who’ve faced such criticism and I’ve always thought it was an unfair burden for black performers to carry – even when you’re successful, you have to make sure you’re still “black” enough; otherwise, you’re a “sell out” or an “Uncle Tom.” It’s one thing to hear such criticism from people outside of your ethnic group; in those instances, it’s easier to write it off as sour grapes coming from someone who doesn’t understand you or your people. However, hearing your authenticity questioned by your own people is especially difficult and hurtful. And, once your “blackness” is questioned by your own people, it seems like there’s nothing you can do to shake the doubters.

I’ve always felt Houston’s marriage to singer Bobby Brown was a subconscious response to the criticism she faced for not being “black” enough; it was almost as if she were saying “you don’t think I’m black, huh? Well, I’ll show you by marrying a bad boy with three kids and a reputation for unruly behavior!” Of course, the doubters persisted; what’s a “good girl” like Whitney Houston doing with a “bad boy” like Bobby Brown? He’s going to ruin her, the doubters said. And, when reports surfaced that both Brown and Houston were drug abusers and that their relationship was rocky at best, destructive at worst, it seemed like the doubters were proven correct.

It’s always bothered me that, to too many black people, being black and successful isn’t enough; you don’t want to be “too white,” because that means you’re selling out. Instead, we should accept our people for who they are and what they’ve become, recognizing that black people are dynamic, have a variety of interests and lots of different stories to tell. I’ve grown up hearing things like “you speak so well” or “you don’t seem black” or “I never knew that black people could work in sports radio”; most of the time, those comments are uttered by fellow black folks and are usually followed with questions designed to uncover how “black” I really am. I better not reveal that I enjoy watching Frasier and Seinfeld or that Billy Joel is one of my favorite musical artists or that I dislike watermelon and hot sauce (separately or together). It doesn’t help that many of the stereotypes black people are expected to fit are negative and demeaning. But, what does it matter anyway? No one can take my blackness from me; your ethnicity is your ethnicity, and nothing will change that. If anything, black folks doing things that are “outside of the box” should be encouraged; why limit yourself and your people to a relatively narrow group of behaviors?

I don’t know if Houston’s struggles with addiction had anything to do with the difficulty of meeting everyone else’s expectations. But, I do hope she has found peace.

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The Science Of Sleeping (And Waking Up)

The whimper was sporadic and unmistakable. It was soft, and coming from my daughter’s room next door, but enough to wake me out of a deep, restful sleep. I could tell from the whimper’s sound that she likely changed positions in her crib, lost the warm cover of her blankets and was cold; putting the blankets back on top of her would stop the whimpering. Now, instead of a restful sleep, I felt paralyzed, my legs and arms stiff as a board under the brown comforter. My girlfriend, resting next to me, wasn’t budging either, so I knew I was going to have to be the one to stop the whimpering. Once I bent my right knee and placed my foot on the carpet, all of my other joints and muscles sprang to life, and I slid out of bed, slid into a pair of sweatpants and sauntered into my daughter’s room. She was huddled in a corner of her crib, still asleep, but whimpering nonetheless. Of course, she was lying atop both blankets, but I long ago mastered the art of pulling the blankets out from underneath my daughter without alarming her. I gently placed both blankets on top of her, softly closed her room door and shuffled back to the master bedroom, sliding the sweatpants off and sliding back under the covers. The apartment was silent. My girlfriend hadn’t moved an inch. I was wide awake.

*          *          *

I don’t know if everyone goes through phases of sleep, but I certainly did. As a youngster, I took a bath at 8:30 pm and went to bed at 9. Sometimes, if Mom was talking on the phone, I would stay in the bathtub for as long as possible, until every inch of my skin was wrinkled; then I would go to bed at 9:15, 9:30 or – gasp – 9:45! That bedtime gradually moved to 10 pm by the time I was in middle school.

Once I got to high school, Mom stopped mandating a specific bedtime and, once I realized this, I took advantage. If the New York Mets were playing on the West Coast, I’d stay up and watch or listen to the game until the sixth or seventh inning. Channel 11 showed repeats of The Odd Couple at midnight and I tried to watch every one; sometimes, I’d stay up long enough to watch The Honeymooners reruns Channel 11 aired at 12:30 am. I started having trouble staying awake at school and I’d be exhausted by the time I got home, leading to a lengthy early-evening nap – from which I usually awoke with drool all over my face and on whatever textbook I happened to pass out on – which led to me not being able to go to bed at a decent hour and staying up late, restarting the cycle.

In 10^th grade, I discovered power naps; I’d set the timer on my digital Timex Triathalon watch for 20 minutes, ensuring that my after-school naps wouldn’t take too much away from my evening sack time. I also realized I couldn’t stay up all night and expect to be productive the next day; I needed seven or eight hours of sleep. So, I began going to bed at 11:30, after watching the sportscasts on the local 11 o’clock newscasts on Channel 2, Channel 4 and Channel 7 (I knew exactly what time each sportscast aired every night and, since we didn’t have cable, it was the only way I could see highlights from my favorite teams’ games). Not surprisingly, my daily productivity and energy level increased.

By the time I got to adulthood, I was able to get seven or eight hours of sleep nearly every night. Working in baseball meant I had many late nights, but many late mornings as well; I rarely awoke before 9 am unless I had to; sometimes, I’d be up by 9, but would lay in bed for another 30-45 minutes, fiddling on my laptop or on my phone. And, if I got tired during the day, I was usually able to take a quick nap; I no longer needed a timer, as my body had been conditioned to wake up from a nap after 20 or 30 minutes elapsed.

Then, I became a parent.

I was in the delivery room when my daughter was born but, for a variety of reasons, we didn’t live in the same home until she was about one and a half months old. As a result, I missed most of the stretch in which my daughter woke up every couple of hours in the middle of the night; she started sleeping through the night shortly after she was two months old. Nevertheless, being a parent completely changed how I sleep. For one, it wasn’t easy to get my daughter to sleep through the night and, even after she started doing so, she didn’t always go to sleep right away, sometimes crying for nearly an hour. My girlfriend and I were both new parents, but we understood we needed to stay strong and that, save for occasional trips into her bedroom to try and soothe our daughter, we needed to go through this in order to ensure our daughter went to bed with ease as she got older.

Even once my daughter started sleeping through the night, I found myself not sleeping as well. When you have an infant, even the slightest sounds can disrupt a restful sleep. Was that my daughter that I just heard? Is she okay? Should I go check on her? And, on the infrequent occasions in which she would wake up in the middle of the night, I had difficulty getting back to sleep even after my daughter was consoled by me or my girlfriend because there was the worry that she was still unhappy and would start crying once again. Being a father changed my sleeping habits but, more than anything, it changed my wake-up habits. No longer could I sleep until 9 am after a late evening; even if my girlfriend is the one who’d get our daughter out of her crib and get her ready for the day, it’s still difficult for me to sleep in.

My daughter’s almost 20 months old now and sleeps fairly soundly at night. She usually goes to bed at 8 pm and, when my daughter does wake up, it’s usually easy to fix whatever disrupted her; she’s either hot, cold or congested. And, once the problem is solved, she usually goes back to sleep quickly. My daughter’s generally awake by 8 am, meaning I have to be awake then as well. My years of power nap experience has come in handy – I get reenergized when I doze off while she’s napping or while she’s watching television. Sometimes, my daughter helps me push through tiredness; I don’t want my daughter growing up thinking Daddy is always too tired to interact with her, so I try to never be too exhausted to at least talk to my daughter.

I’ve grown to accept my days of sleeping in are over, at least for the foreseeable future. While I do miss sleeping in, I love being a dad. And, changing my sleeping habits because of my daughter seems to be as good of a reason as any; I certainly wouldn’t change those habits for anything or anyone else.

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