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The Game from Where I Stand
A Ballplayer's Inside View
By Doug Glanville Henry Holt and Company
Copyright © 2010 Doug Glanville
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-4720-6
CHAPTER 1
BEFORE THE FIRST GAME
Had the front office lied to me? I seriously doubted it, but why was Lenny Dykstra, the wounded veteran whom I was to replace, in the batting cage looking like he was in midseason form?
I had just arrived at my first spring training with the Philadelphia Phillies in 1998 with a mixture of excitement, caution, and awe. I was lugging my old Chicago Cubs bag, the only one I owned that was major league caliber. In the sea of red that adorned the Phillies clubhouse, the Cubbie blue stood out like a deep-dish pizza in a buffet of cheese steaks.
My journey to Philadelphia had begun two days before Christmas when the Cubs traded me like a set of steak knives for second baseman Mickey Morandini. It was the first time I became exchanged goods, and, like every other player who has gone through the experience, I grappled with the idea of being wanted and not being wanted in the same transaction. It was difficult to process or put in perspective, particularly because my grandfather had passed away a few hours before I got the call from Cubs general manager Ed Lynch telling me of the trade.
Soon, however, I could appreciate the upside. I couldn't think of a better place to put on a new uniform. I would now be playing for my favorite team from childhood and in my college town.
The key word was playing. It looked like I'd be trading in the label of platoon player for starter, replacing the often-injured, thirty-four-year-old Dykstra. Thirty-four is not that old by most standards — even in baseball you should have a few more solid years in front of you — but Lenny was dealing with a degenerative back problem. With that knowledge, maybe the Cubs were doing me a favor by shipping me to a place where I could see my name in the lineup every day.
As a relatively young player, I couldn't fully understand what it was like to be in Lenny's spikes. He must have heard that this new kid from the Cubs was coming to be the next Phillies center fielder and thought, What about me?
A few years earlier, I had watched another veteran face the abyss. Willie Wilson was a legend who was nearing the end of his career but still had something to contribute. He had years of experience and had won a World Series with the Kansas City Royals, back when his speed and base-stealing abilities were second to none. His young rival at the Cubs spring training, Karl "Tuffy" Rhodes, personified the inevitable. Rhodes had just come off of an amazing year in the minor leagues, and all signs suggested that the center field job was his to lose.
Wilson was frustrated by even the possibility of being displaced. He did what he could to outplay Rhodes, but one time his uncertainty would spill into a shoving match between the two players. The veteran seemed to be looking for a fight at all times.
Our teammate, the veteran shortstop Shawon Dunston, discussed the Wilson-Rhodes battle with me, and his wisdom shone through. He spoke of what happens to players when that door is closing on them — how you feel when the game rips that uniform off your back before you quit, how the anxiety and panic begin when the game starts peeling off a small piece to get the process under way. The pressure can make any player lose it.
Time cannot be stopped, not for Willie Wilson, not for Lenny Dykstra. It eventually becomes someone else's turn, like it or not.
Dykstra continued to take solid swings in the cage, and I began to understand that I would be better off if I just played my game instead of worrying about how his back was doing.
When players are pitted against each other, they still have a relationship. It may be touch and go like Rhodes and Wilson, but Glanville and Dykstra got along fine. I had learned that Lenny liked Strat-O-Matic, a baseball board game that I played as a kid, so I had a set delivered to camp and shared with him the cards from the Phillies team of the previous year.
Lenny was the kind of player whose full worth to a team did not show up on a Strat-O-Matic card. He was "Nails" to the fans of Philadelphia, embodying grit and determination and a "do whatever it takes" approach to the game. Yes, he was a character — his lore preceded him, like the story of how he would discard his entire uniform for a new one if he didn't get on base in his first at-bat — but he was one smart cookie on the field and in the clubhouse. Many of those who loved his attitude and eccentricity often underestimated how well he understood the game and what a great tactician he was. He had amazing discipline at the plate and always seemed to be thinking a few steps ahead of his opponent.
When your physical abilities desert you, your savvy can keep you in the picture, at least for a while. Replacing a legend — even one with a bad back — is not easy. I knew I had to bring my best game to earn this job. The Phillies may have had a clear plan, but I needed to help myself by playing well, to make it an easier choice for them. Entrenched experience trumps anything a young buck can do in spring training. As our third base coach, John Vukovich, would say, "Let's see what the kid does when there is a third deck in the stadium."
I proceeded to play some of my best baseball that spring while staying as far below the radar as possible. The press and talk radio were at work trying to stir the pot about how this was the old versus the new, the gritty versus the graceful, the muddy versus the clean-cut. In many ways, Lenny and I were very different people, but in the end, each of us would take your head off on the baseball field if you were trying to take our job.
Just as on the first day of school, every player has an opportunity in spring training, and not merely the kind of opportunity that can propel you from the minors to the majors, but a chance to be someone new, a chance to reinvent yourself.
Spring training provides fertile ground for a metamorphosis, for rookies and veterans alike. A player often tries to transform himself into a new "me" — at least until he or someone else wants the old "me" back.
Thanks to having way too much time to think during the vacuum we call the off-season, players figure out the answer to just about every question under the sun. Thus they inevitably come into camp hopeful that they can turn over a new leaf and change perceptions and results just by showing up different in some way.
New leaves come in many forms. A player might report twenty-five pounds heavier — possibly from natural means, possibly not. He might sport a new batting stance or lose the mustache. As for me, during the spring of 1996, I decided to break out a new way to wear my baseball pants.
The expression goes: We all put our pants on the same, one leg at a time. For many years in baseball, team dress codes dictated that players also wore their pants (as well as the rest of their uniform) the same. There was a time, for example, when all the Minnesota Twins had to wear those stirrups that showed the Twin Cities emblem, a combination of the letters T and C.
I played with teams that talked about the "three-finger" rule: you had to get three fingers worth of stirrup showing below the bottom of your pants. But over time, these rules were relaxed — as were the no-facial-hair rules of the Cincinnati Reds and other teams — and dressing up or down became a free-for-all.
As history of any kind will tell us, when human beings get an opportunity to express their individual selves, a few selves will go completely over the top. As the baseball dress code waned, players waxed creative. They studied historical photos, they talked to clubhouse managers with sewing skills, and they even made up their own style. Project Runway had nothing on us.
Royce Clayton and Juan Pierre would wear their pants just below the knee to celebrate the history of Negro League players and to proclaim their style. Other players often unknowingly imitated George Hendrick, who played in the 1970s and '80s and wore his pants all the way down to the tops of his spikes. Hendrick had a style that was equally suited to the ballpark or to a wedding, wearing what appeared to be baseball "slacks." Still, the Hendrick experience became popular for a period of time. Mickey Morandini of the Phillies took the style to the next level, adding stirrups to the bottom of his pants.
Of course, there were some who pushed the envelope a little too far. The Pirates' Derek Bell introduced a style that would best be described as "late twentieth-century jester." He wore pants that had to be at least eight sizes larger than what he required. It would be safe to say that I could have fit inside one of his pant legs. The league eventually said, "Pittsburgh, we have a problem." The officials were probably afraid that if he ran into a ball girl chasing a ball down the line, she would end up engulfed in loose fabric.
My style of choice, "high waters" — so named because you could wear them in a flood and stay dry — was inspired by my time playing winter ball on the island of Puerto Rico. In the winter of 1995–96, the Mayaguez Indios provided only one pair of pants that adequately fit my waist. These pants were not too long, not too short, but unlike the bears' porridge, they weren't just right either. I looked as if I had left my pants in the dryer too long. But at the end of that winter league season, I was named the league's most valuable player, so high waters it was for spring training. I would wear my pants this way for the rest of my career.
Though some metamorphoses are permanent, any change a player decides to make in spring training is understood to be retractable. The superstitious nature of the game allows for full refunds and reversible epiphanies. One spring I decided to use black bats instead of my typical reddish-brown, Walker finish. After a horrible first week at the plate, my black bat phase officially ended.
Sometimes a player chooses to reinvent himself by changing his wheels. Literally. But the ability of a new car to transform you depends on your team. When I joined the New York Yankees for spring training in 2005, I knew the bar would be high. This was a roster full of All Stars and legends like Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez, Gary Sheffield, Jorge Posada, Randy Johnson, and Mariano Rivera. I had recently splurged on a Range Rover that had enough gadgets and gizmos to look like it had been designed by NASA. This will stand tall in the Bronx Bombers' parking lot, I told myself.
Not so fast. My new teammates were buying vehicles that were works of art. They boasted limited-edition numbers and custom colors that only a Picasso could paint. My teammate Rey Sanchez chastened me: "You have been in the league long enough, splurge! Why only one car?" I guess that would be one way to revamp one's image. As Ernie Banks might have said, "Let's drive two."
I came to understand that making a strong entrance is a powerful way to show you mean business for the upcoming season. Vanity plates, suits, jewelry, houses, or even rare animals can also do the trick.
During a caucus in the Cincinnati Reds' batting cages, I listened as Ken Griffey Jr. talked about his hobbies. He clearly loved living on the edge, and like most players, he liked to have something that no one else could have had first. He shared some stories about how he loved to ride his souped-up motorcycle and push the speed envelope. He also said that his son was following suit with some off-road action. But what caught my ear was when he mentioned the rare exotic shark he had in a tank in his house. While most people, upon hearing that, would certainly be impressed about the uniqueness of having a pet shark, ballplayers are different. Our competitive nature instead prompts us to ponder: "I wonder where I can pick up a unicorn?"
I once thought I saw a unicorn on the baseball field. It happened when I was standing on first base in a game against the St. Louis Cardinals. I looked down to shortstop, and there was Ozzie Smith, one of the few players in history whose glove would carry him to Cooperstown (although he could hit, too). Still a green rookie, I dreamed of a double-play ball that would give me the chance to take him out and become one of the elite few who had knocked the "Wizard" back to Oz while breaking up "two."
Sure enough, Mark Grace hit the next pitch on the ground to second baseman Mike Gallego, who flipped it to Ozzie. I was sure he was headed across the bag toward right field, so in anticipation I slid in, knees flying. My accelerated breathing — or was it the glow from the shortstop's mitt? — temporarily stunned me. Ozzie gloved the ball at the exact moment he touched the base, changed direction from where I was headed, immaculately removed the ball from his mitt, and threw to first. I could only look up from the dirt, a mile away from my target. The Wizard had worked his magic. Had he teleported? Was his glove made out of unicorn leather?
While I've never really seen a mitt made out of unicorn, I have seen metal trees bearing baseball gloves standing under a cloudless sky in the middle of the Arizona desert. Every spring training, representatives from the major glove manufacturers descend upon each team's camp to showcase their wares. On the designated day, players young and old buzz around the makeshift flea market, set up in the complex's parking lot or on the stadium concourse.
Those who don't have a contract with a company might be able to score a free glove or appropriate one for a son or nephew who has just started Little League. For those with an existing deal, this is the day you can choose the type of glove you want for the upcoming season or decide to stay with the status quo.
Growing up, I paid little attention to all the options. I just grabbed whichever glove had the autograph of one of my favorite players. I sought Steve Carlton, Mike Schmidt, or anyone on the great Phillies teams of the 1970s and early 1980s. Once I had made my pick, my brother would run it over with my mom's car to break it in.
When you turn pro, those days are gone. Selecting a glove is a complicated business.
What length do you want? There were small, medium, large, and extra-large options for varying tastes. This dictated the length of the fingers and/or the depth of the pocket, where the ball should come to a comfortable rest.
Do you want a glove that has been "pre–broken in"?
Do you want a finger hole so your index finger can stick out? In theory the finger-out option provides more room for the ball to land in a bigger pocket.
Since I was with Rawlings for the bulk of my career, I had more specific questions. H-web or Trap-Eze? Your webbing could look like just about any window you have ever seen. You could get the four glass panes (H-web), or the opaque tinted kind, solid all around, or perhaps add the blinds with treatments (Trap-Eze web).
Don't forget the foam padding. Wilson used to have a dial on the outside of the finger holes that allowed you to adjust it to the mold of your hand.
If you are an exceptional case, you can add some color beyond the typical tan, brown, or black, maybe even spice it up with a number or nickname — the glove's equivalent of vanity plates.
I kept waiting for the GPS option, but it never arrived.
Fortunately, most players only play one general position: outfielder, infielder, catcher, first baseman, or pitcher. The poor soul who plays multiple positions will need a wheelbarrow on Glove Day. Outfielders' gloves tend to be a little longer, allowing extra room to catch the escaping fly ball. Infielders' gloves tend to be small, so that it's easy to get your throwing hand into the pocket to facilitate a quick release.
Smaller gloves also necessitate staying low to the ground — the preferred stance for infielders. Catchers are in their own world; they need padding and more padding to catch those ninety-five-mile-per-hour fastballs. First basemen have the biggest pocket in the bunch, to catch throws from infielders that might rise above the head or skip in the dirt. The pitchers? Well, let's save that for later.
In the minor leagues, the glove hierarchy is divided between the prospects and the suspects. High draft picks often sign glove contracts the day they turn pro. Lower picks have to scrounge around a little.
As a prospect, my experience with Jimmy Piersall, the Cubs' minor league outfield coach, kept my selection fairly simple. If he thought a glove was too big, too colorful, or, worst of all, had a Trap-Eze web, he kicked it around the outfield with a running commentary that was every bit as colorful as the offensive mitt. Why no Trap-Eze? He thought it to be "style before substance." The Trap-Eze web, he instructed us, was too long to be effective in fielding ground balls in the outfield because the ball tended to get caught in its decorative webbing. As a result, you often had to reach for the ball more than once, and that split second could be the difference between out and safe on a throw to the plate.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Game from Where I Stand by Doug Glanville. Copyright © 2010 Doug Glanville. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
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