Any Questions?

There it was, in one of the volumes of my Charlie Brown’s ‘Cyclopedia: cigarettes contain nicotine. Nicotine is a drug. Therefore, cigarettes must be bad for you. I ran into Mom’s bedroom. She was on the phone, but that didn’t stop me from shoving the book into her lap. Apparently, Mom already knew cigarettes had nicotine. So, why would she smoke them? I wondered. I never liked cigarettes – I thought the smoke and ashes were unpleasant – but it never occurred to me that they might be harmful. I was only seven years old, but several adults I knew and trusted – Mom, my godmother, Grandma, my aunts – smoked, so I figured cigarettes must be okay. But, after reading about nicotine, I badgered Mom about quitting. A few months later, she did; it’s been more than a quarter century since I’ve seen Mom slide a thin, white cigarette out of a green Salem package before lighting it. I don’t know how much my badgering weighed into Mom’s decision to quit, but I do know Mom’s erstwhile habit turned me off from smoking anything for good.

I grew up in the “Just Say No!” generation, the first generation to get a comprehensive and vivid education about drugs, the effects they have on our bodies and brains and why they are hazardous to our health. “Crack Is Wack” posters were in the windows of storefronts in my neighborhood. Weekly Reader talked about the high school graduating class of 2000 – the group of kids three years younger than me – becoming the first generation of 17-year-olds who didn’t smoke cigarettes. There aren’t too many people around my age who hear “this is your brain on drugs” or “I learned it by watching you!” and don’t immediately hearken back to the non-stop anti-drug public service announcements of our youth. It was drilled into our heads: taking drugs leads to terrible things and, if someone offers us drugs, we are to say no.

When I look back on my childhood, I find the “if a stranger offers you drugs, you must say no” message in the myriad anti-drug PSAs to be the oddest. Who accepts anything from a stranger, let alone illegal drugs? I think most people would hesitate to take a stick of chewing gum from a random person on the street. Not to mention, most kids are taught at an early age not to talk to or take anything from strangers – we performed a skit revolving around that very theme during my kindergarten graduation ceremonies, right before we sang We Are The World – so I don’t think too many children would accept a crack rock or a marijuana cigarette from an adult they don’t know. Also, strangers trying to get kids to do drugs is a scenario that almost never happens. I was never offered drugs by strangers when I was a child and I don’t know of anyone I grew up with who was. And, I was raised in the Bronx, a place where illegal drugs aren’t hard to find.

We were warned about peer pressure when it comes to drugs; the friend, acquaintance or relative who uses drugs and offers them to us can be hard to resist, we were told. And, our educators were right about that. In middle school, a couple of my friends started smoking. By high school, I had several friends who smoked cigarettes and/or weed and I knew a few others who used ecstasy and heroin. In college, about half the parties I attended featured people smoking weed and a handful had people slipping off to the bathroom to partake in hallucinogens. But, never did someone make fun of me or imply I was not cool because I rejected their overtures to smoke a cigarette or to try an illegal drug, which is what we were led to believe as kids. I’m sure such pressure has been exerted on some, but my friends who did drugs respected the fact I didn’t. However, I found the pressure to try drugs to be implicit, rather than explicit. Seeing people you know and like doing drugs – and appearing to have a good time – makes experimenting with drugs very tempting, even if no one asks you directly to partake. I don’t think our educators focused enough on that implicit peer pressure when it comes to drugs. It’s easy to say we should avoid being friends with anyone who does drugs, and that seemed to make sense when we were kids; after all, everyone who does drugs must be a monster! But, as we get older, we learn not all drug abusers are monsters. We all have flaws and bad habits and, sometimes, the fact someone likes to do drugs doesn’t overshadow that person’s positives for us, even when it should.

When I look back, I’m not exactly sure why I didn’t try any drugs other than alcohol, despite ample opportunities. Because I despised Mom’s cigarette smoking, the idea of smoking anything didn’t appeal to me. The thought of using a needle or snorting something up my nose terrified me. Taking something orally, or through my skin, whose effects on me were unknown frightened me. But, I know plenty of others who expressed similar fears who still did drugs. The older I get, the more I realize anyone can become a drug addict; given the right circumstances, the right mixture of people and events, we could all succumb to drugs, especially when we’re in our very impressionable teens and early 20s. Of course, due to a variety of factors, some are more prone to drug abuse than others. The fact any of us could become addicts doesn’t excuse the behavior of those who do abuse drugs, but it’s helped me realize how fortunate I am. Some of my good fortune has to do with getting a proper education on the evils of drugs, growing up in a nurturing, mostly drug free environment (Dad smoked a tobacco pipe for many years, which I also disliked, even though the smoke from pipe tobacco smelled better to me than cigarette smoke), and living a life that, so far, has been free of any major trauma. But, luck has played a big role as well.

Now that I’m a parent, it’s frightening to think about my two-year-old daughter one day dealing with the same implicit peer pressure to try drugs that I faced. Will she be able to say no? I wonder. I plan on being very candid with her about drugs and the risks involved in taking them. I want her to be educated about the different types of peer pressure she will face. But, I also know that a lot of my daughter’s decisions will be out of my hands; all I can do is give her the information I think she needs to make intelligent and informed choices. Hopefully, she’ll make the right decisions and will have the strength to say no.

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Getting Started

After an hour-long subway ride, 25-minute ferry ride and 20-minute bus ride, I was in a room with about 40 people. We were all around the same age – late teens and early 20s – and we all had the same goal of working for the Staten Island Yankees. I’d been looking for an opportunity to work in baseball, and this seemed as good of a chance as any. The woman I’d spoken with on the phone a few days earlier told me anyone interested in working for the team needed to show up at their offices for an interview. I’d returned to New York City after my sophomore year of college a couple of weeks earlier and was planning on working as a tour guide for school and camp groups at the American Museum of Natural History in Manhattan for the second straight summer. However, I felt I had to explore any possibility of working in baseball, even if it meant a nearly two-hour commute. The Staten Island Yankees were about to embark on their first season as an affiliate of the New York Yankees in the short-season New York-Penn League, playing from late June through Labor Day, a schedule that dovetailed with my summer break.

It was my turn to go into the office. The gentleman sitting behind the desk noted that I was a college student and also that I lived in the Bronx. He asked me why I’d want to work in Staten Island. I told him I wanted to work in baseball and that the lengthy commute wouldn’t be an issue. They were looking for people to work in foodservice and run the concession stands, he said. That wasn’t what I had in mind, and he knew it.

“We’ve already hired all of our interns for the season,” he said. “If you’re interested in an internship next year, you should start looking in the winter.”

It hadn’t occurred to me to start looking in the winter for work in a sport that played all of its games in the spring and summer. I thanked him for his help and started the long trek home. A few weeks later, the Staten Island Yankees called and asked if I was still interested in working in concessions for them that summer. I told them I wasn’t. My dream of working in baseball would have to wait at least another year.

Growing up in New York City, I knew very little about minor league baseball. My focus was always on the Major Leagues. Every now and then, I’d read or hear something about a prospect who was doing well in Tidewater, or in Binghamton, or in St. Lucie – the top three minor league affiliates of my favorite team, the New York Mets – but I had no idea what that meant. As I started to get a better understanding of what Major League Baseball was all about, that was my focus. After all, who cares about who’s playing well in the minors? I thought. Most of those guys never make it to the big leagues anyway. It probably didn’t help that many of the Mets’ top prospects during my formative years – Bill Pulsipher, Grant Roberts, Butch Huskey and Alex Ochoa, to name a few – didn’t turn into superstars once they got to the Majors.

As I worked my way through high school and college and tried to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up, I realized I wanted baseball to be a part of my career in some fashion. I covered sports for my high school newspaper, which eventually led to me majoring in broadcast journalism at Syracuse University. I watched my first minor league baseball game early in my freshman year of college, when I took two buses from campus to see the Syracuse SkyChiefs, the top affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays, host the Rochester Red Wings, a Baltimore Orioles farm club, on the final day of the 1997 season. I was fascinated by the entire experience: the smaller ballpark, seats behind home plate for less than $10, the endless promotions and the good, but not quite Major League caliber, play on the field. When the 1998 season began, I cut class to attend the SkyChiefs’ home opener, a tradition I upheld all four years I went to Syracuse, and I followed the SkyChiefs closely.

After the advice I got from that Staten Island Yankees employee, I spent the winter of my junior year keeping a close eye on the New York-Penn League team New York Mets owner Fred Wilpon purchased and planned to move to Brooklyn. A stadium would be built in Coney Island, in the southern part of the borough but, in the meantime, Wilpon’s new team would have to spend at least one year playing at a temporary site. Initially, that site was to be at Brooklyn’s Prospect Park, but community opposition led to that idea being tabled. Several other options – including the team playing their games at Shea Stadium when the Mets were on the road – were explored before St. John’s University in Queens agreed to host the team for a season. In return, Wilpon and the Mets essentially paid for a new baseball stadium at St. John’s, redoing the surface, adding lights and installing new bleachers. Wilpon’s team would be known as the Queens Kings.

I finished my junior year of college without a summer job lined up. However, I was convinced I would find work with the Kings. I was home for a week before I located a working phone number for the Kings and, after leaving a message, my call was returned, an interview was scheduled and, before the interview was over, I was hired as an intern.

My summer with the Kings was fun, even though I worked long hours, had a two-hour commute that involved two subways and a bus and our attendance wasn’t great. I told the Kings’ general manager I wanted to work in broadcasting, so I either emceed on-field promotions or served as the public address announcer for every Kings home game. When the Kings weren’t playing, I was doing everything from ticket sales to chasing down starting lineups to pulling the infield tarp to writing articles for the game program. Not only did I learn a lot about the inner workings of a minor league baseball team, but my internship with the Kings confirmed my belief that, not only did I want to work in baseball, but that I could work in baseball. Working in for the Kings also made it easier for me to apply for broadcasting jobs in the minors, because I had a better idea of what teams were looking for and a better idea of what to expect.

People always ask me about the best way to get a job in baseball or broadcasting. There’s no one way to go about it, but you have to do your homework, seize whatever opportunities come your way and seek advice from those in the business. Every experience, even the unsuccessful ones, can help lead you down the right path. The journey to find the career that best suits you is always worth it. Even if that journey involves a ferry ride.

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Rules Of The Road

I learned how to drive from my father. When I was six years old, Dad got married and moved from Queens to Maryland, outside of Washington DC, where his new wife lived with her two children. I lived with Mom in the Bronx, so Dad purchased a 1985 Renault Alliance to make the eight-hour, round-trip drive. I was an only child who got to spend plenty of time with Mom and, when I’d go to Maryland, I had to share Dad with his wife, my step-siblings and, later, my half-sister, so those drives along the New Jersey Turnpike and Interstate 95 were the only times I had Dad all to myself. He called me his co-pilot and, in between stories about his career in the music business and about my grandfather, who died before I was old enough to remember him, he would explain the basics of driving to me. But, I learned more about how to drive just by watching Dad. He was never the fastest guy on the road, and was always within 10-15 miles per hour of the speed limit; not once did he get pulled over by the police in all of the hours we spent in the car together. Dad was always in control behind the wheel; rarely was he flustered or surprised by what he saw. Sometimes, Dad would get upset about what another driver was doing, but he rarely cursed or raised his voice, usually resorting to sarcastic retorts that became funnier to me as I got older.

As the years passed, Dad moved to New Jersey, got divorced, moved to Manhattan, moved to Brooklyn, and remarried. But, our time together in the car was constant. Dad was very analytical about driving, especially driving in New York City. I knew to be quiet when the traffic report came on the AM news station, always on the eights – Dad would plan his route based on that report – lest I be shushed. He would plan his days around New York City’s nefarious alternate-side parking regulations, ensuring that he always got a coveted parallel-parking spot within a block of his residence. Dad would brag about his parallel-parking skills and his peripheral vision, claiming he developed the latter during his years as a high school and junior college point guard. He started talking about me learning to drive someday, but I didn’t share his eagerness. Dad mentioned taking me out to the eastern end of Long Island, where my grandmother lived, and letting me drive on rarely traveled roads and in empty lots, but that plan never came to fruition; it probably would’ve happened had I pressed the issue.

When I turned 18, I decided I wanted to learn how to drive. New York City, with its endless public transportation options and hazardous driving conditions, doesn’t allow residents to get their learner’s permit until they’re 18 – 16-year-olds are allowed to get their permit everywhere else in New York State and everywhere else in the United States. I figured I’d learn how to drive over the summer, after my senior year of high school ended in mid June and before I enrolled at Syracuse University in late August. In Syracuse, New York, where the public transit options aren’t as plentiful, having my license would be beneficial, I reasoned.

I signed up for lessons with a driving school that was run by Hector, an elderly Latino man, and his wife. I told him I wanted to take my road test before I enrolled at Syracuse. He told me I was better off waiting until the fall, but I was steadfast and he promised to accommodate me. Hector was impressed that I knew a lot of the driving basics, but I felt uneasy. My lessons went okay and I didn’t make any critical errors, but I never felt comfortable. I figured I’d get more acclimated the more I drove, but I didn’t make any effort to drive outside of those lessons. Mom, who’d gotten her driver’s license in her 30s, had purchased her first car a few years prior, but I was reluctant to ask her to let me drive.

I was expecting to take my road test in late August but, after a few weeks of lessons, Hector told me he’d gotten me a road test appointment in mid July. Everything seemed rushed, but I figured I’d be able to pass a road test; how hard could it be?

After waiting in a long line of cars for about an hour, my turn came. A middle-aged black woman with curly hair, long nails and a clipboard replaced Hector in the passenger’s seat. She instructed me to drive to the next intersection.

“You’re too far away from the parked cars,” she said.

What is she talking about? I thought. If I drive any closer to the cars by the curb I’ll hit them. She asked me to perform a driving maneuver – I’ve since forgotten what that maneuver was – but I didn’t perform that maneuver to her satisfaction and it led to an argument between me and the woman whose job it was to determine whether or not I was a good enough driver to get a New York State driver’s license. Right after the brief tussle, it was over.

“Make a u-turn and go back to where we started, if you can do that,” she said, her voice dripping with exasperation and sarcasm.

Hector was waiting. He knew I was done too quickly to have passed. Off I went to college, without a driver’s license.

I didn’t even attempt to drive again until the summer after my junior year at Syracuse. I signed up for lessons at a different driving school and, as soon as I sat in the car for my first lesson, I immediately felt at ease. I was ready. Mom has never been crazy about driving, so it didn’t take much prodding for me to get her to hand the keys to her 1995 Toyota Corolla over to me. Mom let me drive everywhere that summer, and I loved it; when we went away for a family reunion, she even let me drive the rental car. Mom helped me become a better driver, but I found myself channeling Dad, especially when I found myself making sarcastic comments about the poor driving habits of others on the road. Because of all the practice I was getting, my hour-long driving lessons were a breeze.

Instead of trying to squeeze my road test in at the end of the summer, I scheduled one for a Friday in the fall, making arrangements to travel from Syracuse to the Bronx for that weekend. I wasn’t nervous as I watched the line of cars inch forward and, when it was my turn, I was at ease. It was cloudy that day, but the bald, goateed man administering my test wore sunglasses. I handled my right turn, left turn and broken u-turn with ease. When I was asked to park, I did so expertly, even though I knew I was a couple of feet away from the curb, since I was always told hitting the curb leads to automatic failure (I didn’t know if that was true, but I wasn’t about to find out the hard way). When I was done, I barely listened to what the test administrator had to say, because I knew I passed.

While I was in college, Dad had a stroke which, among other things, weakened his right side and affected his vaunted peripheral vision. Dad and his wife got rid of their car, but took Dad a few years to come to grips with the fact he would no longer be able to drive. Several months after I got my license, Dad rented a car so we could drive to Virginia to see my sister. The 14-hour round-trip drive brought back memories of the many drives Dad and I took to Maryland, except Dad was now the co-pilot. Near the end of our drive back to New York City, Dad said something I’ll never forget.

“You drive like me.”

I smiled. I knew exactly what he meant, even though I don’t brag about my peripheral vision. However, I am an excellent parallel parker.

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Who Cares?

Jonathan Sanchez hasn’t had a very good year.

A lefthanded starting pitcher in his first season with the Kansas City Royals, Sanchez has posted a 6.75 ERA in 11 starts. He’s struggled to throw strikes, walking 43 in 52 innings to go along with 58 hits allowed. Not surprisingly, Sanchez has had difficulty going deep into games, pitching into the sixth inning only three times and posting just one quality start – six or more innings pitched while allowing three or fewer earned runs – and even in that game, he walked four (including one with the bases loaded), hit two batters and was charged with two throwing errors in a Royals loss. Never a pitcher with great command, Sanchez had moderate success with his former team, the San Francisco Giants, winning 13 games for them in 2010 and helping them to a championship. However, the average velocity on Sanchez’s fastball is down this year by about three or four miles per hour – a significant drop, by Major League Baseball standards – and the Royals thought the diminished velocity might be the result of an injury, leading them to put Sanchez on the disabled list for a month. But, Sanchez’s velocity hasn’t increased since his return. Nor have the results changed.

Entering 2012, the Royals have posted losing records in 16 of their last 17 seasons, so their fans are accustomed to poor performances and lousy play. But, the ire directed by the fans toward Sanchez has been different than the ire directed at most other struggling Royals players and has been fueled in part by the way he carries himself. On the field, Sanchez is emotionless and dispassionate. In a few of his post-game interviews after his starts, the soft-spoken Sanchez has deflected attention from his lackluster results; in one instance, he suggested that the opposition’s success against him that day was largely due to luck. Oftentimes, Sanchez has reiterated that he’s pitching the same as he did in the past, when he was more successful, even though the results have been subpar. On my Royals post-game radio show and on Twitter, I’ve heard from several Royals fans who assume Sanchez doesn’t care. Some say his pitching has been lousy because he never wanted to play for Kansas City in the first place. Others say Sanchez would be more tolerable to them if he showed some emotion and showed that his struggles were getting to him. A few others have mentioned their disgust over the fact he rarely tweets about baseball on his personal Twitter account.

So, is Jonathan Sanchez apathetic? Does he not care about baseball? Is he mailing it in, since he knows he will make $5.6 million this season, regardless of how he pitches? All are legitimate questions. However, it’s extremely doubtful that Sanchez is simply going through the motions.

I understand why fans latch onto things like body language and post-game interview responses, especially when a player isn’t performing well; fans are trying to figure out why a player is struggling and those are the easiest things to pick on. Most fans aren’t going to notice issues with mechanics or pick up on things like significant drops in velocity or slight adjustments in batting stances. Many media who cover a team on a daily basis won’t observe such things on their own either, but media have the opportunity to get specifics and explanations from players and coaches. I also understand why fans sometimes see the struggles of a player or a team and pin them on a lack of effort or assume that the winning team simply “wanted it more.” But none of those things could be farther from the truth.

If Sanchez were pitching well, his lack of emotion on the mound would be considered a “game face” and a way for him to conceal his intentions to his opponents; Sanchez would be praised for having the same demeanor regardless of what was happening around him. And, his post-game press conferences wouldn’t be an issue; after all, if a player is doing well on the field, fans rarely concern themselves with what that player is saying to the media. But, the fact of the matter is, Sanchez isn’t pitching well and, as a result, fans and media alike are going to dissect his on- and off-field actions even more. Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean those actions are indicative of his lack of success.

What if Sanchez took the opposite tack? Sanchez could bash water coolers with a baseball bat after a bad outing, angrily kick the dirt when he gave up a key hit, throw his glove against the dugout wall after a rough inning or be extremely critical of himself in post-game interviews. However, none of those actions would change the results of his pitching performances. And, while fans may initially rave about the fact that Sanchez seems to really care and seems to be accountable, that act wears thin if Sanchez’s pitching doesn’t improve. Then, Sanchez would be criticized for boorish behavior. Body language and interview skills are important for athletes, but performing well between the white lines is what matters most.

There are a handful of athletes who are gifted enough to coast and to have success in the Majors based on ability alone, but success for players who rely solely on innate skills tends to be short-lived. Baseball players who aren’t putting in their work are noticed by their teammates, manager and coaches and are likely to be called out by at least one – if not all – of those entities if they aren’t playing well and, sometimes, they’ll be called out even if they are producing. In order to get to the Major Leagues and to stay there, players have to constantly work to refine and maintain their skills because there are always others waiting to take their jobs from them if they slip. A player could set his family up for life financially with even just a handful of serviceable Major League seasons, so the monetary incentive is there as well (In Sanchez’s case, he’s a free agent after this season and even a mediocre 2012 campaign could net him a multi-year contract worth well into the millions of dollars). Over the course of a long season, players will get frustrated and some will struggle to put forth the same effort consistently. Not all players approach their on- or off-field actions with the same level of care and dedication. But, the idea that a player or a team is struggling because of a lack of effort or because they don’t care is patently absurd. Generally speaking, the team that plays the best on any given day will win. And, the teams that win more often do so because they have more talent, the right amount of experience and ample depth to withstand injuries and other issues that affect a team’s consistency over the course of a season. The gap between the most talented and least talented Major League Baseball teams and players is rather narrow, and even the most gifted will struggle if they’re unable to maintain a consistent level of play. A lack of consistency or a lack of talent isn’t the same as a lack of desire or a lack of concern.

I don’t know if Jonathan Sanchez will turn things around or whether the Royals will continue to give him opportunities to sort things out at the Major League level. I don’t know Sanchez well enough to have an opinion on his passion for the game. But, I do know it’s very difficult to become good enough even to be a lousy Major League player by being complacent or by lacking desire. Regardless, carefully studying Sanchez’s body language, interviews and tweets won’t be enough to determine his commitment to baseball. When you see a player or a team struggle to have success or to maintain success, it probably isn’t because they don’t care enough or don’t work hard enough. More than likely, that player or team simply isn’t good enough. And, right now, Sanchez isn’t good enough.

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