by Shawn Green
Simon & Schuster
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Copyright © 2011 by Shawn Green
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First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition June 2011
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Designed by Akasha Archer
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Green, Shawn.
The way of baseball: finding stillness at 95 mph / Shawn Green,
Gordon McAlpine.
p. cm.
1. Green, Shawn. 2. Baseball players—United States—Biography.
3. Baseball—Philosophy. I. McAlpine, Gordon. II. Title.
GV865.G67A3 2011
796.357092—dc22
[B] 2010043438
ISBN 978-1-4391-9119-4
ISBN 978-1-4391-9121-7 (ebook)
To Lindsay, Presley, and Chandler:
The three loves of my life
CONTENTS
STILLNESS
SPACE AND SEPARATION
AWARENESS
EGO
PRESENCE
THE ZONE
NONATTACHMENT
GRATITUDE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE WAY OF
BASEBALL
STILLNESS
As I walked from the on-deck circle to the batter’s box at Miller Park in the late afternoon of May 23, 2002, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was about to get drilled by the next pitch. It was the ninth inning and I had already amassed five hits against the Milwaukee Brewers, including three home runs—in their own ballpark. I wasn’t so much worried about the pain of taking a fastball square in the back as I was curious as to how the day would turn out. Being this deep into the zone, I felt more like a spectator than a participant, watching my actions, rather than willing them. I had never had this kind of success in a single game, nor had I ever even seen anyone else achieve such heights, so I wasn’t sure what the protocol was.
I dug my back foot into the batter’s box and went through my usual routine (I silently debated whether to take a pitch to see where the pitcher, Jose Cabrera, stood in terms of baseball etiquette). As I settled into my stance, I realized I was still too locked in to burden myself with thinking. I’d simply look for my pitch and swing hard. The first pitch crossed the plate several inches outside; nonetheless, my body felt on time, as I’d felt all day. Ball one. The next pitch was a changeup that I recognized but missed with my fiercest cut. There’d be no backing down this at-bat; I had a once in a lifetime shot at history. The 1-1 pitch was a fastball thigh-high on the inner part of the plate. My timing was perfect and an all-out swing sent my fourth and farthest home run of the day over the fence. Effortless! I was six for six with four home runs and nineteen total bases … a Major League record.
Journeying around the bases, I relished the moment: a rare ovation from an opposing crowd and looks of amazement from the infielders as I trotted past. As I approached home plate, I made eye contact with a familiar face in the opposing dugout, Gary Matthews Sr., my former hitting coach. He gave me his characteristic military salute, for which he’d long before earned his nickname, Sarge. For two years in Toronto, he’d worked with me in batting cages across the American League, often four or more hours before game time. Now, Sarge’s salute was more than a mere acknowledgment of my record-setting performance. It was recognition for all the work I’d invested over thousands of hours.
As I shook hands with my teammates and acknowledged the standing ovation of the crowd, I reflected on the past. The fruits of my labor here at Miller Park had grown from seeds planted five years earlier, before Sarge had even been hired by my first team, the Blue Jays. In those days, a conflict created a painful rift in my game, my future, my world: a rift that I now understood had created the necessary space for these fruitful seeds to have been planted in the first place, beneath the SkyDome in Toronto.
TORONTO 1997
After two years in the big leagues, I’d already been labeled a slow starter. My hitting seemed to warm with the seasons, heating up in summer, so, along with most of the Blue Jays’ faithful, I suspected that ’97 would be no different. In May, with springtime almost over, my hitting was indeed still as frigid as the Canadian air, but I wasn’t panicked. June was on its way, July after that. Surely I’d find my stroke. This year, however, I faced a new obstacle—being benched—and my opportunities to heat up with the weather were seriously threatened.
Cito Gaston, our manager, had won two World Series and he was much loved by veteran players because of his loyalty to them, as well as his old-school attitudes. Cito viewed many younger players with suspicion. At twenty-four, I’d already accumulated sufficient credentials to be an everyday player (AAA batting title in ’94, voted among the top five American League rookies in ’95, career average in the mid .280s), but I’d never been given the chance. My rookie year with the Jays I hit .288 with 15 home runs on a last place team, yet I only got to play against right-handed pitchers. By mid-May of ’97, Cito finally won out over the front office regarding my playing time. Suddenly, my career prospects were slipping away as I was forced to sit day after day in the dugout watching all the games from the so-called best seat in the house.
After weeks of frustration, I met with general manager Gord Ash and asked him to trade me so I could play somewhere, anywhere. A week or two passed, and every day new trade rumors with my name attached floated around the league until at last Cito had to address it.
It was midafternoon at the Toronto SkyDome, four hours before a night game against the Yankees. I’d put on my uniform and was walking past Cito’s open office door when he called, “Hey, Green, come in here and have a seat. I want to talk to you.”
My heart thumped as I approached my boss’s desk and sat down.
“Look, Shawn, don’t think that I don’t like you, ’cause I do,” Cito said. “I think you have a lot of potential, but …” He stopped, considering, maybe searching out a rationale for benching me. “You need to improve your defense. No manager is going to chance it with you the way you play in the field.”
I began to squirm in my seat. My first couple of years I’d played scared in right field because, each time I erred, I couldn’t help focusing on the irritation on Cito’s face. Still, my defense was improving (within two years I’d win the league’s Gold Glove Award, though obviously I didn’t possess this evidence for the defense at the time).
“Also, Shawn, you need to learn how to pull the ball to hit more home runs because you don’t run well enough to steal bases,” Cito continued.
“How do you know I can’t steal bases if you never give me the green light to try?” I snapped. “And as for pulling the ball, I know how to turn on the inside pitch.”
For a left-handed-batter, pulling the ball means connecting with the pitch early and hitting to right field, increasing the chance of a home run. There was nothing I liked more than pulling the ball with power, but I knew that limiting myself to being a dead-pull hitter would reduce my productivity.
Cito wasn’t having it. “You can go on your way, Shawn. The meeting’s
over.”
After a few minutes, my heart rate returned to almost normal.
Cito hadn’t said anything that had taken me by surprise; still, this was the first time he’d told me point blank what he thought of me as a player. Now it was clear why I was sitting on the bench. I returned to my locker, grabbed my bat, and went to look for Garth Iorg, a minor league coach who was in town temporarily, to ask if he’d throw to me in the batting cage. When I found him he said, “Okay, but make sure you ask Willie.”
Willie Upshaw was the hitting coach and he generally marched in lockstep with the boss, Cito. I’d had enough of that regime for now. “I already looked and couldn’t find him, so let’s just head to the cage,” I lied. For the past few weeks, I’d been sneaking into the batting cage without Willie knowing. He was a good guy, but he wasn’t helping me become a better hitter.
When I’d started with the Jays in ’95, my hitting coach was Larry Hisle. He was a prince of a man who never forgot his own playing days and how hard hitting actually is. He was always encouraging to me. He’d say, “Oh, big man, if I had a swing like yours, I’d still be playing. Just keep working.” He stood up for me that year in a coach’s meeting, saying, “Why don’t we give the kid a chance to play every day, against lefties and righties? He’s doing great and we’re twenty-five games behind Boston. Let’s see what he can do. How can it possibly hurt?” But his advice was ignored and at the end of the season Hisle was replaced by Willie Upshaw.
When Willie arrived in ’96, a key component of his job was to convert John Olerud and me into power hitters, which in Willie’s eyes meant pulling the ball. Both Willie and Cito had preferred to pull the ball in their playing days, the 1970s and ’80s, when being late on a fastball was considered a knock on your manhood. So Oly and I often had to hit under Upshaw’s tutelage to work on hooking balls down the right field line.
One afternoon at SkyDome, Cito and Willie instructed Oly and me to stand extremely close to home plate when we were hitting so that every ball would feel inside and we’d have to pull the ball. Both of our performances had been subpar the first part of the season. Olerud had won the Major League batting title for the world championship team in ’93 and had chased .400 for most of that season. Now, his coaching staff was dictating that he give up twenty to forty points on his stellar batting average in hopes of hitting an extra ten home runs a year. Oly and I talked a lot about how lost we felt at the plate. It’s hard enough to get hits even when you’re not being forced to change your swing.
So, on that day in May ’97, I was anxious to get to the cage with Garth Iorg to get in some extra batting practice without overbearing instruction from Willie or Cito. Besides, I needed to take out some of the frustrations of my meeting with Cito—I needed to sweat out the pent-up energy.
As Garth and I walked down the clubhouse corridor, which was adorned with photos of the short but sweet Blue Jays’ history, we happened to pass an old photo of Willie Upshaw playing first base during his tenure with the Jays. At that moment, the door that led out of the clubhouse and into the undercarriage of the stadium swung open. It was Willie, ten years older than the photo but still in great shape.
There was no avoiding him. “Hey, Willie,” I said, “I’m heading to the cage with Garth to take some hacks.”
Confused and irritated, he responded with his gravelly baritone, “What’s the matter with me?”
“Nothing’s the matter with you, but Garth throws right-handed so I want to hit off him.”
Willie was not only a lefty, but he threw erratic batting practice.
He replied, “You’ve got to learn to hit against lefties sometime.”
That really pissed me off. My three years of platooning against only right-handers was a sore subject with me. I had hit well against lefties in the minor leagues, but had never been given the chance at the Major League level.
I snapped back, “I know how to hit lefties, Willie, but I never get to play against lefties. So, I want to hit off Garth.” Meantime, Garth could only awkwardly stand there, anxious for the tension to subside. He was no more comfortable with the confrontation than I was.
Willie’s next sentence left me dumbfounded. “No, you can’t go to the cage anymore without my supervision.”
After a moment of shocked hesitation, I snapped back, “Are you serious?”
He nodded yes.
I stormed off, feeling as if I’d been smacked across the face with my Louisville Slugger. Instead of going to the cage, I headed for the only other place I could take some swings. A shabbily carpeted pathway led from the clubhouse into the dugout, and just off the pathway was a batting tee, a bag of balls, and a net. There, guys would take five to ten swings before they went on-deck, especially in pinch hit situations, because the cage was too far to access during a game.
Now, for me, the tee and tiny net was the only place I could take unsupervised swings.
I grabbed the bag of balls and started hacking away. My swings were 100 percent brute and zero percent finesse. I swung hard not only to release my anger but also to let everyone know how pissed off I was. I didn’t say a word but just kept swinging. Many of my teammates and coaches walked past on their way to the dugout to prepare for regular batting practice on the field. Some of them may have already heard about what happened. By watching my furious swings, they knew something was bothering me. My head spun the entire time I was swinging. “How could Willie say that to me? Am I going to get traded? Cito thinks I’m a horrible player!” These thoughts and fears consumed me. I swung and swung until I was dripping sweat, then I grabbed my glove and headed out for the team’s four-thirty stretching session.
Out on the field I sat cross-legged, going through the team’s stretch routine, worried about my future with the Jays, and that my whole career might be in jeopardy. Though I got along great with my teammates, I knew now that Cito and a handful of others on his coaching staff were just waiting for me to slip up; if I ever got back into the lineup I’d better be on top of my game. The problem was that after my confrontation with Willie I wouldn’t be able to step into the batting cage again this whole season—a line had been drawn in the sand. My new challenge was to improve my swing while neither playing in the games nor working in the cage. All I had was the brief, daily team batting practice on the field and the modest little tee in the runway to the clubhouse.
The tee had to work.
Every day thereafter, I’d change into my uniform, grab my bat, and head to the tee and the tiny net. It didn’t take long for everyone on the team to know my situation with the coaches. At first, I took my swings at the tee with the same angry and fearful thoughts that had swirled in my head that first day. I was young and prideful, and thus I felt pretty cool for being rebellious for the first time in my life. I can see now that I initiated my tee work merely as a way to get loose and for a chance to parade my ego a little. However, four or five days into it something changed. I began to enjoy it. After the first fifteen or so swings, my mind would quiet and the swings would start to feel more fluid. I began to enjoy the twenty to thirty minutes I spent at the tee every day, even developing a routine of moving the tee to different places in the strike zone. I would visualize game situations and pretend I was facing all of the pitchers that I was currently being forced to merely watch from the distance of my seat in the dugout. I began to notice the sound of the ball swishing against the back net, like a perfectly shot basketball. I even made a ritual of placing the ball onto the tee the same way every time. My breathing became rhythmic: inhaling as I put the ball on the tee, holding my breath as I got in my stance, and exhaling as I took my swing. What was happening here? My tee work had started out as a form of punishment, yet suddenly it felt like something else, something more than just a hitting exercise.
Was it becoming a meditation?
As a senior at Tustin High School in Southern California, I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert Pirsig. The book’s Eastern perspective struck a re
sonant chord with me, particularly as I’d come to it wide open to exploring not only the world around me, but also the world within. I devoured other similar books, such as The Way of the Peaceful Warrior, Zen in the Art of Archery, and Siddhartha. Compelled by the promise of a more enlightened way of living, I continued my informal study of Eastern philosophies during my three years in the minor leagues and my first two seasons in the majors, developing a more meditative approach to the game of life, even as I worked with my coaches to develop a more efficient approach to the game of baseball.
Prior to that fateful day in ’97 with Cito and Willie, I’d dabbled in qigong meditation. In the winter months, I’d attended a small dojo in Newport Beach, where I learned to control my breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth—and worked on finding my qi, or vital energy, which flows through the body. I loved the calming effect of the work, taking special note of the altered taste in my mouth and the glassy-eyed feeling upon completion of a session. As a novice, I appreciated such physiological feedback to acknowledge my being on the right track. I intended to maintain the work through spring training and into the regular season, but I lost touch with the practice after just a few weeks of baseball and workouts in Florida. (It’s not easy dragging yourself out of bed at the crack of dawn to get to the training complex by seven, so setting the alarm for an even earlier hour to facilitate meditation proved no easy task; at the end of a full day of workouts in the hot sun, all I’d want was a quick dinner and the rest and sleep necessary to do it all over again the next day.) It’s the most common thing in the world to forfeit a fulfilling routine when one’s schedule becomes more demanding. Pouring myself into spring training, I was unaware that meditation could fit unobtrusively into my daily routine, even at the office. Only later in that ’97 season, at the batting tee, did my two worlds meld into one.
At first, it seemed accidental that I found my own meditation with a bat in my hand. I know now that there are no accidents—everything is as it’s supposed to be. The truth is that my banishment from the batting cage arrived at exactly the right moment. I’d obtained enough apprentice knowledge as a young major leaguer to recognize that my swing was better suited to hit to all fields. Also, I’d read enough books and spent just enough time working on meditation in the off-season to recognize the stillness that arises from transcending the noise of the mind. A couple of dozen sessions into my tee work, I began to notice the same stillness I had touched upon several months prior at the dojo, where I’d worked on qigong. Then, my meditations had been motionless, either seated or standing, whereas now they were centered on movement. I had swung a bat so many times in my life that I really didn’t need to think about it. In fact, I was soon to discover that I was better off doing it with no thought at all.