by Jorge Posada
I think that both of us just made a show of fighting after that. We resumed our wrestling and clinching, but after a few minutes he worked his arms inside of mine and pushed me away. That was the end of it. I walked over to the far wall to put our gloves away, turning my head slightly so I could watch him get up. He denied me the pleasure of seeing him struggle and offering him help. He stayed down, made it seem like there was something on the floor he was searching for.
“Get ready for lunch,” he said, waving me away.
I did as I was told, but the farther away I walked the smaller the thrill of that punch grew. By lunchtime my father was back to himself. Though we would continue to put the gloves on and go at it, I don’t think I ever again did so with the same level of anger.
That was a big moment for me, not because I hurt my dad, but because I made a connection that stuck with me throughout my life: I always performed my best when I was angry, and I developed a real I’ll-show-you mentality. Wanting to make my dad proud and to prove to others who doubted me drove me my whole career—even at the peak of my days playing with the Yankees. It would take some time, but I eventually figured out that my dad was truly and completely on my side.
The thing is, my dad and I spent an enormous amount of time together. On days when we didn’t have practice or a game—and sometimes even after we did—he’d take me out to field ground balls he hit to me. I also never felt like I didn’t have the things that I needed or wanted. He was a great provider for our family, and I did appreciate that. I would be much older before I realized that some dads aren’t around a lot for their kids. Even when my dad was scouting, he was still around most of the time. Maybe it was when I had kids of my own and I was gone for so much of the time that I realized even more just how lucky I was to have a dad who had played such a big role in my life. I didn’t always like his methods, but in time I couldn’t argue with the results they produced. I wasn’t always the best at anything I did in sports, but I worked as hard as anybody I knew, and I certainly hated to lose more than anyone I competed against.
Despite the tension between us, there was one big exception: cycling. If most things my dad and I did together were a competitive struggle with the two of us butting heads, cycling was the one thing we both did with great joy. If baseball hadn’t been the love of my life, cycling would have been not just the rebound girl but the one I would have happily settled into a different kind of life with. My dad loved to ride his bike, and from the time I was able to safely negotiate the roads with him, I went along with him on his workout rides, often covering as many as 20 miles.
You have to remember that these were the pre–Lance Armstrong days when next to no one in the United States or Puerto Rico really paid much attention to the sport. Yes, people rode bikes, but they didn’t care or even know about the competitive side of it. In 1981, when I was 10 and pedaling around the area with my dad, Greg LeMond was the first American (and now the only one) to win the Tour de France. If I had asked my friends back then if they knew who he was, they would have shrugged their shoulders or maybe thought I was mispronouncing the name of one of the Allman Brothers. But I did know who Greg LeMond was because my dad was a big fan of what are called “The Grand Tours”—races like the Tour de France, Vuelta a España, and others. He was interested in them because he’d been a cyclist in Cuba and even participated in the Cuban version of a Grand Tour, the Vuelta a Cuba. Like the other races, the Vuelta is a multiday stage race with riders covering hundreds of miles all over Cuba. The first one was held in 1964, and the race still goes on in February each year.
Along with 100 other riders, my dad competed in that first Vuelta. The first day of the event was held in Santiago de Cuba at the southeastern end of the island. It began with a fierce climb that offered a prize to the first to reach the top. The rest of that day’s stage then took the riders up the spine of the country into Camagüey. Over the course of the next five days, the riders enjoyed the flat sections through the sugar plantations and endured the punishing climbs through the Escambray Mountains and eventually into Havana. Of the 100 riders who started, only 45 finished the event—my dad among them. Through the towns and villages, crowds cheered them on, but for long stretches they rode alone with the exception of the support vehicles.
My father didn’t do any real training for the grueling event. He rode his bike everywhere, up to 20 or so miles a day. All his friends thought that he was crazy, but he really didn’t have much choice. He couldn’t afford a car and any money spent on bus fare was money he wouldn’t be able to spend on food. He was 25 years old and living entirely on his own with no real hopes that his financial situation was going to suddenly improve.
My dad was proud of his cycling career. His cousin Leo was also a cyclist, and the two of them would sit around and reminisce about the good old days. My dad was good enough to win a few races, and his prize was often a bike. He’d given those away to my uncle and to friends, and he really felt good about being able to do that for them. Even as a kid, I recognized that my father was a very generous man, someone who gave his time and attention to other people. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe what my dad told me himself about his days in Cuba, but it was fun later on when I spent more of my time in Miami and got to know some of my dad’s friends who lived in the area. They’d tell me all the time about what a great athlete my father was, how he excelled in cycling but also in basketball, baseball, swimming, and track.
For my father and me, cycling could always bring us together. My dad’s two greatest loves were baseball and cycling, and they became mine. At a time when most kids are starting to drift away from their parents, when they enter their teens, my relationship with my dad actually began to get better. I was growing up, of course, and seeing things a bit differently, and that’s not to say that there weren’t still times when I felt like some of my dad’s methods went overboard, but we seemed to enjoy being together and doing the same things.
I can still remember my first ten-speed racing bike, an all-white flyer: the seat, the handlebar tape, the brake lever hoods, and the frame were all the same color. I was the only one around who rode a bike like that. Bicycle motocross, or BMX racing, had traveled all the way to Puerto Rico from its roots in California, and all of my friends were on those small-framed, small-wheeled bikes and were into doing jumps and stunts. I couldn’t do any of those things, and I sometimes struggled on my skinny-tire bike when we rode in sand or dirt, but once we hit the pavement I was so far out ahead of them, they were specks on the horizon behind me. I loved the feeling of speed I got while riding. In fact, I enjoyed the sun on my face and the wind blowing across my skin so much that I didn’t even mind the bit of teasing I got from friends about wearing cycling shorts.
I was in my teens by the time my dad and I started to ride regularly, making the trip from home to Isla Verde regularly and also riding to the club nearly every Saturday and Sunday. That was very good training for baseball and for another event that, looking back on it now, had a big effect on me and helped to shape my competitive streak.
For three years, from 1983 to 1985, Casa Cuba held a kind of age-group Olympics for the young people among its membership. We participated in five events, so I guess you could call it a pentathlon, but it wasn’t like the official Olympic event. Instead, we competed in a mini-marathon (a mile run), one-on-one basketball, a 200-meter beach sprint, squash, and a 100-meter swim. We earned points based on where we finished in each event, and then eventually an overall champion was determined.
The first year I didn’t bother to train for the Casa Cuba Olympics. After all, we were all so active all the time that we were in pretty good shape and were playing all these sports anyway. I was excited to compete in them and looked forward to the event, but I didn’t get too crazy about it. Kids have a way of kind of picking out a batting order among themselves—figuring out who is good at what and where they fit on a scale of the best athletes. For us, the number-one guy was Kike Hernandez. (Today his son Enr
ique plays for the Los Angeles Dodgers.) He was my number-one rival as a result. Kike and I were buddies, mostly because we were both pretty good at all the sports we played and that’s how friendships mostly worked—you hung out with the guys who were at the top of the heap.
Kike kicked my butt that first year, and I wound up finishing second to him. We had a little awards ceremony, and as we stood up there I had to pretend I was happy, shaking Kike’s hand when he got the trophy.
I can’t say that I obsessed about losing too much, and I didn’t rededicate my entire life to training for the event the following summer, but I did do some things to prepare.
In 1984 I walked up to the starting line of the mini-marathon more determined than ever to beat Kike. The gun went off, and I took off as fast as I could. I could feel the hot clay coming up through my Nikes, and that seemed to make my feet move even faster. After lap one of four, I had built up a lead of ten yards or so. I was feeling good, and though I slowed a bit once the after-burn of my adrenaline rush was complete, I was still in the lead as lap two concluded. By the time we got to lap three, the fact that I couldn’t feel my legs at all and my mouth felt like I was sucking the insole of a shoe made me realize the error of my ways. I’d gone out too fast too soon, and as we rounded the top of the home stretch Kike came past me looking fresh compared to my barely-holding-it-together stride. I did finish second, and ultimately that’s where I was at the end of the day. I beat him in the sprint, though that was no real consolation.
The next year I not only trained a bit more but thought more strategically about how to approach each event. I figured I wasn’t going to beat Kike in the mini-marathon, so I should conserve some energy. I’d go out at Kike’s pace and stick with him and then hopefully outsprint him to the finish. When the race started, I did exactly as I planned. I was like Kike’s noon-hour shadow, right there with him the whole way. My plan worked perfectly, and we came around the last turn dead even. I was still a pretty scrawny little guy, but all that cycling had put some muscle into my legs. I managed to get ahead of Kike and crossed the line in first place. He finished just ahead of me in one-on-one basketball, so we were essentially tied after two events. I liked my chances in the sprint, and for the third year in a row I beat him. With two events to go, I had a slight edge on Kike.
I didn’t want to get too far ahead of myself, but I felt like I had a good shot at finally winning. Also, I had a secret weapon that I hoped would pay off.
I don’t know if Kike and I were looking too far ahead, but neither of us got to the squash finals, both of us losing in an upset in the semifinals. I remember, as I was stretched to full length, watching the ball pass my racket and feeling that grenade-going-off-inside-me emptiness when I lost.
The championship of the club came down to the swim. As I toed the starting block I looked over at Kike, who was in the next lane. I felt a bit sorry for him. He didn’t know what was about to hit him. Okay, I’m making that up. I didn’t feel a bit sorry for him, and I couldn’t wait to unleash my secret weapon on him. The gun went off, and we both dove headlong into the water. I always felt comfortable swimming, and spending a bunch of time in the pool and in open water had contributed to that—so did hanging out with my surfer family in the Dominican. As we neared the end of the pool Kike and I were dead even. I watched the lane marker go from a line to a bit of a T, and I revealed my secret weapon—a flip turn. In the previous years, I’d just gotten to the wall, touched it with my hand, and then pushed off. Not this time, suckers!
That first flip turn earned me the lead, and I was going nuts. The second one wasn’t as good, but I was still in the lead. All I had to do was stay calm and finish the next 40 yards or so and victory would be mine. As I approached the last of the turns I did what the legendary Satchel Paige said not to do. I looked behind me to see who was catching up to me. Kike was within a body’s length of me. Distracted, I mistimed my flip, and when I was back upright, I kicked out, expecting to meet solid wall, but all I felt was water.
I panicked.
I kicked and kicked, but I wasn’t going anywhere. Finally, I gave in and went backward a bit, then shoved water away from me with a fearsomeness I normally reserved for water wars. I made contact with the wall and pushed off, knowing that it was pointless now. Kike had a couple of seconds on me, and I couldn’t make that up. I swam the last length of the pool with my hands balled into fists, punching at the water, the pool feeling like it was filled with my tears. When I finally got to the finish wall, I punched at it too, giving it a glancing blow. I barely had the energy to climb out of the pool. My chest was heaving, not from exerting myself but from anger and humiliation. I’d messed it all up.
When the awards ceremony started, I didn’t want to go up there. I stood wrapped in a towel, chewing on its edge, shivering in frustration. When my name was called as the second-place overall finisher, I wanted to run to the car. I felt my mom’s hand on my back nudging me forward. I walked up there, head down, looking at all the big and little shrimp shapes of our footprints, feeling a lot like a little fish who was about to be swallowed up by shame and disappointment. I took my medal instead of letting the club president put it over my head. I didn’t want to wear that symbol of failure.
I don’t know why the club didn’t hold that event again. Secretly, I was relieved that we weren’t going to have a contest that would show how we were really stacked up. Kike and I remained friends, and we are to this day. Every time I’m back in San Juan and I drive past Casa Cuba, I pick up my phone and thumb my way through my contacts, thinking that I should ask Kike to meet me there and to bring his swim trunks, running shoes, and squash racket. Since I’ve retired from baseball, I’ve had a chance to work on a few things. I like my chances on the court and in the pool.
People say that you learn more from losing than you do from winning. I loved to win, but from one perspective, I think that back then I needed to lose—not just at the Casa Cuba Olympics but at Ping-Pong and hitting from both sides of the plate. Painful as it was, I needed to understand what losing did to me. Losing was no fun at all, and I’m not exactly proud of the struggles I had, but I didn’t give up. I kept at it, and over time I’d see that I was improving. If I had given myself a break back then, acknowledged that as a preteen I was pretty small for my age and shouldn’t have expected so much of myself, I don’t think I’d have developed the passion and the drive that I did.
I wasn’t a great student in the classroom, but outside it, I was learning some valuable lessons. It’s tough to be patient, but back then I had little choice. Still, something inside me told me that I’d get there. I just had to dig deep and keep pedaling hard.
CHAPTER THREE
No Pain, No Gain
Riding bikes with my dad to get to the club made me feel special—few of the other guys I knew shared that kind of experience with their dads. Still, it wasn’t like we rode side by side and spent the time bonding, with him giving me tips about the best way to go up hills. He rode ahead of me, expecting me to keep up as best I could. To be honest, though, I didn’t mind that. I knew the route, and the sight of his body crouched over the handlebars gave me a goal to shoot for.
Of course this activity also had to come with a lesson. One weekend morning, I got a flat while my dad was well out in front of me. I still had about a half-mile to Casa Cuba. By then, my dad was quickly disappearing as the road wound down toward the beach. I couldn’t yell for him to come help me. I hefted the top tube of the bike’s frame over my shoulder and walked the rest of the way.
Later, after lunch, we were going to ride over to my grandparents’ house for the rest of the afternoon and for dinner. When we got to the bikes, my dad looked the situation over. He reached into a small pack he carried underneath his seat and pulled out a new tube and a couple of plastic tire levers.
“Here you are,” he said, setting the stuff down on my bike seat. “I’ll see you when you get there.”
“Wait. I haven’t done this before,”
I said, whining more than I intended. “Aren’t you going to do this or help me?”
“You’ve seen me do it before. I need to get there. Your grandmother has something she needs me to do. Don’t be late for dinner.”
With that, he mounted his bike and rode away, leaving me to figure it out on my own and expecting that I would still make it to my grandparents’ house.
I would have forgotten the incident except that recently I was getting ready to go for a ride with my son, Jorge. The racing bikes we use have very narrow, very low-profile tires, even skinnier than the ones my dad and I rode on. I was filling them up for both of us. More than 100 pounds of pressure is a lot, and I wasn’t prepared for what happened when one of them let go. It sounded like a gunshot. Jorge and Laura came running into the garage to see what had happened, and their worried looks made me laugh. I couldn’t help it. I pointed to the tire and then said, “I guess I don’t know my own strength.” Laura rolled her eyes and shook her head, then smiled before walking back into the house.
Jorge stuck around, and I showed him how to remove the tire so that we could either replace or repair the tube. I admit that I’m not the most patient person in the world. Waiting in lines, being stuck in traffic—all the little irritants of life get to me. But in working with Jorge, whether it’s with his baseball or teaching him to fix a flat on his bike, I try really hard to be calm, especially when I see in him some of that same impatience I’ve always struggled with. For this reason, it was interesting to sit there in the garage with him and show him how to fix the tire. I was trying to give him the clearest set of instructions I could about how to remove the tire from the rim, but I could see him getting frustrated with me. Finally, tutorial incomplete, I said, “Here, just try it.” I told him that he had to learn to do this himself, especially if it happened out on the road when I wasn’t around.