The Way of Baseball

by Shawn Green

  He laughingly gave his approval. “Good plan. It’s never a strike.”

  I strolled up to the plate. The first pitch split home plate, straighter than a pitching machine could have thrown it. “Strike one!” the umpire yelled. I looked into the third-base dugout at old Yankee Stadium and saw Pat whispering something into teammate Chris Carpenter’s ear. The next pitch was the same thing, right down the middle. “Strike two!” This time Pat held his hands up in the air with a big smile on his face. I was still determined to follow my plan even though the count was 0-2.

  The next pitch was also straight and down the middle. I’d intended to take it, but with two strikes I managed a useless, feeble swing (commonly referred to as an excuse-me swing). The ball was already in the catcher’s glove as I made my half-wave of the bat. “Strike three!”

  Who knows, maybe Rivera was reading my body language! Maybe I was tipping my approach by the way I was standing in the box. I’ll never know, unless one day Mariano writes a book of his own.

  The at-bat against Rivera illustrates in extreme terms the danger of approaching a pitcher by relying on guessing rather than on full awareness. I didn’t go up to the plate with my full attention; instead, I went up there guessing with my mind rather than seeing with my eyes. That’s no way to hit, it had left me paralyzed at the plate, ending in a three-pitch strikeout.

  Carlos and I often talked about the way our own minds interfered with our at-bats. We viewed the phenomenon as being akin to the way Bugs Bunny is sometimes depicted with a whispering angel on one shoulder and a whispering devil on the other. Back in the dugout after freezing on a fastball down the middle of the plate for strike three, Carlos or I would dejectedly admit to the other, “The little man on my shoulder told me he was going to throw a slider.” Going hitless for a couple of games could invite the little man in, putting my awareness back into my mind rather than where it belonged—on the pitcher. Rigorous travel could do it. Even off the field dramas could do it. The mind is always there, incessantly spinning its web of thoughts, and any moment of weakness can let it back into places where it is unwanted. There is a reason why meditation is referred to as a discipline. It takes constant practice and dedication to maintain separation from the mind. Fortunately, I realized that as long as I remained locked onto the pitcher’s movements I could keep my awareness out of my mind. If I was on deck and the other team made a pitching change, I’d watch the new pitcher’s eight warm-up pitches in a semimeditative state—full awareness. In the dugout, I watched just as intensely, and so instead of only connecting with the pitcher for the brief duration of my four at-bats each game, I could connect even during my teammates’ at-bats.

  Before that season, I wasn’t even aware that a little man was ever on my shoulder, chattering and interfering. How would I know? Until I achieved separation from the mind, I’d known nothing but chattering. Still, even after I became aware of him, the little man continued to creep onto my shoulder from time to time. I’d hear his voice before the pitcher even looked in for a sign from the catcher. “Here comes a fastball, Shawn, on the inside part of the plate, hit it as far as you can,” at which time I’d flail away at a slider in the dirt, having been so geared up by my mind that I lost control of my own actions. The little man is persistent, but I developed defensive maneuvers.

  For example, I’d step out of the box and hit the sides of my cleats very firmly with my bat. Spectators probably thought I was mad at myself, but I was hitting my shoes to make my feet tingle, to feel my feet, to move my awareness into my feet, and out of my mind. From my body I could extend my awareness out to the pitcher, but I could never do so when my awareness was in my head. The master, Tony Fernandez, had a similar way of shifting his awareness. He’d tap with his fingers on his temples when he felt he wasn’t seeing the ball well. He said the tapping stimulated the nerves that connected his eyes to his brain. While his physiological explanation may be suspect, his tapping undoubtedly served to connect his awareness to his body, specifically his eyes. This shifting of awareness to parts of one’s body is a fast, simple way to get out of the mind.

  Another way I’d get out of my mind while at bat was to pretend I was watching an exciting movie starring the guy on the mound, sixty feet, six inches away. The movie started with his windup and continued as the ball moved toward me. In this way, I could take myself out of the at-bat and simply watch. If the pitch was good, the swing just happened with no doing on my part. This movie-watching approach was all about keeping my attention on the pitcher and out of my mind and became one of my strongest assets.

  I also came to realize just how haphazardly I had been watching as my teammates batted. I’d joke around with the guys in the dugout, flick sunflower seeds onto the field, or replay a previous play in my head. So, I didn’t actually see much. Now, I watched the pitcher with complete attention whenever our left-handed hitters—Delgado, Fernandez, Jose Cruz, Jr., or Darrin Fletcher—were at bat, because pitchers were likely to use a similar repertoire of pitches for me. On the other hand, if a righty was hitting—Alex Gonzalez, Ed Sprague, or Shannon Stewart—I’d let up, watching with about the same positive attention as a fan sitting in the stands. After all, I couldn’t remain hyperfocused for three hours straight. Besides, it’s important in any endeavor to know when to focus and when to relax, when to joke around and flick sunflower seeds, and I was finally finding the right formula.

  In time, watching allowed me to recognize pitchers’ patterns and to understand how they were trying to pitch. I realized that when most pitchers are in doubt, they rely on their best stuff, rather than allowing a hitter’s weaknesses to dictate what they throw. For example, sinker ball pitchers tend to throw sinkers when they need a ground-ball double play to get out of a jam, regardless of who’s hitting. Besides, no pitcher has every kind of pitch to choose from. The fastball cutting inside gave me the most trouble, but not all pitchers had that weapon in their arsenal. Thus, I began to have a good idea as to what was going to be thrown even by pitchers who didn’t tip their pitches.

  In the past, my mind analyzed opponents pitch by pitch. Now, I regarded the at-bats as a whole. Separated from the mind, I could perceive more. Like a man standing in an art gallery looking at a painting by Seurat, I was now able to step back and see the big picture, to see what it was all about, instead of being so close that I could see only different colored dots of paint.

  I began to keep a journal of individual pitchers’ patterns, which over the years would get more high tech and develop into a simple database. Between at-bats, I’d run inside to my locker and jot down notes. I had tried something similar my first year in the league, logging each at-bat, pitch by pitch, but because I didn’t yet know what I was doing, I’d wind up standing at the plate with my mind on fire: “Okay, last time he threw me a 1-1 slider, so he’s probably going to do it again.” And then he’d blow a fastball right by me. Rookie mistake. I’d learned the hard way that the old saying held true, “Analysis causes paralysis.” However, by ’98, I was ready to track pitchers in a more productive way. This time I made notes that helped me approach pitchers with a general plan, but not an analytical pitch by pitch plan. It was fluid. Sure, I used my mind to analyze the pitchers, but the analysis was done after the seeing, not during. I watched the pitcher with a quiet mind and only called upon my mind between pitches. Still, pitchers often confounded me, but I didn’t have to be right every time. If I correctly anticipated one changeup in an at-bat or two or three pitches in an entire game, I was bound to have a lot of success over the course of a season.

  I also realized that certain counts dictated pitch selections. As in other industries, baseball players follow trends. Some of the top pitchers of the ’90s—Greg Maddux, Tom Glavine, Pedro Martinez, and others—had great success with their changeups to left-handed hitters, which they particularly liked to throw in hitter’s counts, such as 1-0 or 2-1, when the hitters felt a little more aggressive. The pitcher didn’t want to fall further behind in the count
, but also didn’t want to groove a fastball, knowing the hitter was ready to take his fiercest swing. So, he’d throw a changeup down the middle of the plate either to get an easy strike or to get a left-handed batter to hit the ball weakly to the right side of the infield. As these top pitchers succeeded with the approach, most of the league followed.

  So, when I faced a pitcher who didn’t tip his changeup, but nonetheless tended to throw it in these hitter’s count circumstances, I’d watch for it. If he threw me a fastball instead, I’d just take it for a strike. Later, I’d likely find myself again in a hitter’s count, and more times than not would get what I was looking for. I wasn’t guessing; rather, I was following a plan that provided a few optimal pitches to hit each day. Sometimes I was wrong for an entire at-bat or for a whole game, but I was giving myself my best chance.

  I even came to realize that many guys pitch differently with a base runner on second than they do with a base runner on third. In both cases, the runner is in scoring position. However, with a runner on second, pitchers don’t have to worry so much about the hitter making contact, so to keep hitters off balance, pitchers tend to throw curveballs and sliders in the strike zone; with a runner on third and the prospect of simple contact resulting in a run, pitchers tend to throw more fastballs high and inside, as that’s a pitch often popped up or fouled back. Also, many pitchers throw fewer forkballs with a runner on third, because they don’t want to bounce one by the catcher. Others tend to throw the same pitch on a full count as they’ve thrown the pitch before, because they already have the feel for the pitch.

  These are but a few of the countless scenarios I logged.

  Still, each at-bat always unfolded in its own way. A checked swing or a 350-foot foul ball altered my game plan, because it was likely to have altered the pitcher’s plan. My notes provided a general framework each game, but the ever-changing game situations forced me to stay present. I went up to the plate with general guidelines regarding a pitcher’s tendencies. The pitcher still chose his pitches, but I felt I was in control because I had my plan. I waited for my pitch, not his. I didn’t sit on pitches in the manner other hitters often describe, which involves too much guessing and effort. Rather, I wanted to approach pitches with stillness, patience, and no thought, just waiting, watching, and seeing. This allowed me to respond to pitches, as opposed to my first few years in the big leagues, when I merely reacted to pitches.

  The difference between reacting and responding is subtle, but immense.

  In a game against the Angels in Toronto, I faced Tim Belcher, a smart pitcher I’d seen many times and against whom I was hitting less than .200. Now, I focused on what I wanted to hit—any pitch on the outer half of the plate. Belcher knew I couldn’t hit his inside cutter, so that day I decided to lay off any pitch that appeared to be over the middle of the plate (knowing it would likely break onto the inside corner). Some I took for balls and others for strikes, but I remained patient. Finally, he threw a cutter that stayed over the plate, and I responded by hitting it into the fifth deck of the SkyDome in right field. Only three other hitters had ever reached the fifth deck at that time: Jose Canseco, Joe Carter, and Carlos Delgado. I was no longer reacting but responding to each pitch in the manner that I wanted to.

  Until the summer of ’98, I’d approached hitting by just reacting to pitchers. My plan was simply to hit strikes and to take balls. If a pitcher threw a strike that was difficult to hit well (such as a curveball on the outer half of the plate), I’d swing at it even when I was ahead in the count and could have waited for a better pitch. Sure, I put a lot of balls in play, but I also wasted a lot of at-bats by hitting pitcher’s pitches. I had no choice because I was living and playing each game only on the surface—I could only react to whatever came at me, whether it was a baseball or an issue off the field, because on the surface everything happens so fast there’s no time to respond. Pitches coming at me … coaches breathing down my neck … the fans and media loving me, then hating me, based on my stats … So much surface distraction!

  To become responsive, I had to move my awareness off the surface, to move deeper. This was not limited to baseball, but applied to my life off the field as well. Like many of us, I had falsely believed that the superficial dramas of my daily life defined who I was. Lost in my own story, I was like an actor who thought the character he was playing was reality. However, as I disconnected my awareness from my mind and emotions, the surface of my being, things changed.

  Now, responding rather than reacting put me in control of my relationship with the pitcher. Common sense would tell you that the pitcher is always in control because he decides what pitch to throw, whereas the hitter isn’t supposed to know what’s coming. Of course, much of the time I did know what pitch was on the way, but even when I didn’t, I was still often in control of my at-bats. This is because I knew which pitches I wanted to hit, so I simply watched for those pitches. I didn’t sit on pitches or jump at pitches, as many hitters describe their calculated anticipation of a particular pitch. In my view, these practices rely too much on an effortful process of guessing and analyzing and reacting. I simply watched for pitches with no thought or action, just patiently waiting and seeing. And if I watched for my pitch with full attention, my swing happened spontaneously.

  Just as opening my eyes to the pitcher enhanced my success at the plate, opening my eyes to the world improved my life. My meditative work at the tee was the initial vehicle by which I’d begun to know myself, and to realize that I wasn’t an actor playing the role of Shawn Green, baseball player. Now, I was in touch with my deeper, true essence, which before had been lost in mind and emotion. The daily circumstances of life didn’t change, pitchers didn’t change, but my perspective changed and so now I could respond in my own way rather than merely react to both baseball and life. Now, my awareness controlled my life situations rather than life situations controlling my awareness.

  I finished the ’98 season, my first as an everyday player, with 35 home runs and 35 stolen bases, more than doubling both totals from any of my previous years. Under the tutelage of base-stealing legend Maury Wills, I became the first player in Blue Jays history to reach the 30-30 Club. Additionally, I topped 100 runs scored and 100 RBIs for the first time in my career. All these stats exceeded my wildest hopes from even a year before. And, more important, even on those nights when I went hitless I no longer felt the need to hunker down in my hotel room, watching Dumb & Dumber, anxious that my worth as a human being was defined only by what I had or had not accomplished on the field. The ’98 season served not only as a breakout for my career, but also as a breakout from my mind.

  That off-season, I jumped at the opportunity to see a bit of the world by traveling through Europe for a few weeks with Carlos Delgado. It was high time for me to take a break from my hard-driving life of public accomplishment, and time to cultivate the space between my true essence and Shawn Green, baseball player. Many people in their early twenties explore life before figuring out what path they want to pursue, whereas Carlos and I had both been signed to play baseball professionally as teenagers. Besides, we were young, unencumbered, and had a few bucks in our pockets. Why not enjoy the fruits of our labor?

  So, we traveled through France, Spain, and Italy as tourists. Exploring other cultures and landmarks was a rich experience; however, equally rich was the effortless distance I discovered from my identity back in the States as a major league star on the rise. Other than a couple of Canadians who recognized us as ballplayers, Carlos and I were viewed no differently than any other pair of twenty-somethings travelling Europe. Maybe that’s why people love vacation so much—it’s an opportunity to separate from our other lives, our public identities. Sometimes, the awareness of this separation brings more joy than any particular destination.

  I returned from Europe in late October and settled into my off-season lifestyle in Southern California. Like all professional athletes, I led two lives. During the season’s brutal schedule of games, planes,
and hotels, I lived as an adult with great responsibilities; during the off-seasons, when time was my own, I lived as a twenty-something-year-old kid who was largely indistinguishable from my lifelong friends.

  I dated casually, but hadn’t found love. Many people, including teammates, told me I was lucky to be single in the big leagues and that, if they were me, they’d be having the times of their lives. That’s not how I was wired. I longed for something deeper, something real. This had kept me always searching for that spiritual connection. Just as I had transcended the mind at home plate, I was now also beginning to find separation from it in my personal life. I suddenly understood that it was only my mind that dictated I seek a wife, just as it was my mind that continually said, “I’ll be happy when …” or “I need this or that …”

  The mind is closed and rigid, fixated on its desires; it manipulates all perceptions to fit into the paradigm it has created. Awareness, on the other hand, is open and fluid and offers a path to what is real. Awareness opened my eyes as a baseball player, enabling me to connect on the field, and now it was opening my eyes as a man, enabling me to connect to the world, to finally quit trying and to begin living. Pure awareness is wiser than the mind.

  That winter, Lindsay was twenty years old and worked part-time for the surfwear manufacturer Quiksilver while she was going to school. A friend of mine and long-time employee of the company, Jacquie, had a plan to fix us up, arranging for me to come into the office on a Monday. The week before, however, I walked into a local taco stand to grab a quick bite and discovered a beautiful blonde standing in line in front of me talking with another young woman.

  I made small talk.

  Thankfully, it was a long line. When we got our order numbers to place on our tables, I asked the girls if they’d mind my sitting with them, since I was by myself. They looked at each other with a glimmer of flirtatious interest and half smirks that indicated surprise at my forwardness. (The little man would have reacted in the past, talking me out of such forwardness by giving me many excuses to chicken out. However, by having learned to circumvent my mind at the plate, my new, expanded awareness now flourished in all areas of my life and I could sense right away that Lindsay was someone special. Fully alert, all I had to do was respond to the situation.)