The Way of Baseball

by Shawn Green

  Lindsay stammered, “Sit with us? I guess so …”

  I was already smitten by the light of her green eyes.

  As we three ate our tacos, I asked where they worked. Lindsay said, “Quiksilver.”

  The lightbulb came on in my head, illuminating what my intuition had suggested when I first laid eyes on her. She was the one I was supposed to meet the following Monday. I debated whether to let her in on my little revelation or to surprise her a few days later when I showed up in her office. I opted to lay my cards on the table. “That’s weird,” I said, “a friend of mine is supposed to set me up with a girl there next week.”

  Lindsay smiled. “It’s you?”

  I’d found love when I stopped looking for it with my mind.

  Signs and serendipities such as this began popping up everywhere for me after that. Why did it suddenly seem as if the world was guiding me through my journey, taking me by the hand?

  This is why: I had learned to move out of my mind, which enabled me to see things that I had never before been able to see. My eyes were open to life for the first time and so I was immersed in the world. A year before, I’d been completely absorbed in developing my swing and my meditation at the tee. In the time since, I’d transcended my mind and connected with my true essence both on and off the field.

  And now, to top it off, I’d effortlessly found the love of my life.

  EGO

  I entered the ’99 season with a new sense of balance, happy to be exactly where I was. However, it hadn’t been the reaching of key goals in my career and personal life that provided this happiness. After all, as soon as goals are reached the mind tends to immediately create a subsequent goal and then another and another, rarely ever satisfied. Rather, I was happy because I had gone beyond my mind and was able to simply enjoy the present, not obsessing about the future or the past.

  And on the field it showed.

  For the first time in my career, I got off to a hot start, finishing April with nine home runs and a batting average well over .300. Throughout May, I continued on a similar pace, hanging with the league leaders in home runs, batting average, and RBIs. Things couldn’t have been better, but then the Yankees came to town.

  I had my sights on making my first All-Star Game, but my chances were nearly shattered on May 28, thanks to an errant Andy Pettite fastball that broke a tiny bone in my left hand. At first, I didn’t know it was broken and headed to first base; I stole second on the next pitch, thinking, “If he’s going to hurt me, I’m going to hurt his ERA by scoring a run.” At the end of the inning, we returned to the field and it was then that I discovered I was unable to throw the ball.

  A team doctor and a member of the training staff took me (in uniform, dirt and all) to the local hospital for an X-ray, and when they gave me the news I thought my chances of making the All-Star team had been demolished. In retrospect, I understand now that I’d have been wise to ask myself why such honors mattered to me so much. Now, I know I ought to have recognized my disproportionate disappointment as the emergence of my ego and taken heed of it as a warning of worse to come. At the time, however, I only knew I felt disappointed.

  I left the hospital that night and grabbed a late dinner with one of our team’s physicians, Glenn Copeland. Over the past few years, he’d become a close friend, as well as my medical advocate. I was in my twenties, with my entire family living on the other side of North America, so it meant a lot to me that he and his family treated me as one of their own, especially during the Jewish holidays. On this night, we settled into our booth at Gretzky’s, a restaurant partly owned by the legendary Great One, and Glenn helped to soften the smarting pain of my injury, not so much from a medical perspective, but from an emotional one.

  “This little injury won’t slow you down at all, Greenie,” he said. “You’ll be out for about ten to fifteen games, and then you’ll be back in the lineup as if nothing ever happened.”

  I shrugged. “Doc, I’ve dreamed of playing in the All-Star Game since I was five years old. If I miss too much time, I’ll fall out of the league leaders in home runs and RBIs. I don’t want to miss this chance.”

  “Torre will put you on the team either way,” Glenn said. “You’re having a great season.”

  I wasn’t so sure. “You’re forgetting how hard it is to make the All-Star team at my position,” I said. “Most of the guys putting up big numbers are outfielders. There’re a lot of great hitters to choose from.”

  Just then, the team trainer, Tommy Craig, walked up to our table. If anyone could cheer me up, it was Tommy (Glenn had told him to meet up with us after his work at the stadium was done). He greeted me with his nasal, almost incomprehensible Southern accent, “How’s it feeling, Greenie?”

  “Sore, but not too bad.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he snorted. “You’ll be swinging a bat again in a week. Besides, isn’t that hot little girlfriend of yours coming out tomorrow? She’ll nurse you back to health. When I first met her, I told Doc she was a keeper. Mark my words.”

  Tommy was right on all counts. Lindsay was coming to Toronto for the first time. Other than a couple of weeks together in Florida during spring training, she’d been exposed to little of my professional world—only my laid back, off-season lifestyle at the beach. I was excited to immerse her here in my other life. And, in light of my injury, she couldn’t be arriving at a better time. Of course, her family was a little leery of her having given up a full-time job offer at Quiksilver to follow me around for the summer. But we were in love, and nothing was going to get in the way of that.

  Glenn and Tommy and I hung out for another hour, eating a late dinner. Afterward, we headed to a nearby bar to meet up with Carlos, Alex Gonzalez, and a couple of my other teammates. We talked and laughed that night, and I thought to myself how lucky I was to have such great friends. And soon I’d have my girl in town. Sure, I was walking around with a broken bone, but life was still pretty damn good—it just took a little shift in my perspective to remember.

  I missed only two weeks as a result of the injury, then picked up where I left off, reclaiming my position among the league leaders in several offensive categories. When Joe Torre selected his team, I got the nod. The All-Star Game, held at historic Fenway Park, was particularly memorable, as it was the last of the century, and featured appearances from most of the game’s all-time living greats, including Ted Williams and Willie Mays.

  Afterwards, my momentum at the plate continued and, spanning the entire month of July, I put together a 28-game hitting streak, the longest in Blue Jays’ history (yet still only half of DiMaggio’s famous 56-game streak!). Our team remained right in the wild card race up until the final three games of the year.

  My ’99 numbers finished up as follows: I batted .309 with 42 homers, 45 doubles, 20 stolen bases, 123 RBIs, and 134 runs scored. I was awarded both the Gold Glove and the Silver Slugger awards, which recognized me as both the top hitter and the top fielder in my position in the American League. This success actually served to complicate my status with the Jays. The organization wanted to lock me into a long-term deal, as I’d be eligible for free agency after the following season. If I was unwilling to sign a long-term contract, they’d trade me to avoid the risk of losing me to free agency without getting anything in return. I had a decision to make.

  As much as I loved my teammates and the fans in Toronto, it was time to move on.

  At twenty-six, I didn’t want to commit the prime of my career to a team that didn’t seem capable of spending the money to acquire the talent necessary to win in the ferocious American League East. Also, at season’s end, I learned that my three favorite coaches would not be back: Mel Queen, Jim Lett, and Sarge. I was also ready to try my hand in a larger market.

  The circumstances of my contract allowed me to basically choose where I wanted to play. The Dodgers were my first choice. I liked the idea of coming home, playing in a big market, and the prospect of solidifying my relationship with Lindsay.
In November of ’99, the trade was completed. My agent, Jeff Moorad, negotiated a six-year contract totaling $84 million. Wow! Not only had I won the lottery, but I was coming home to play for one of the most storied franchises in baseball history. I received fond farewell phone calls from many of my teammates and coaches, two of which stand out in my memory.

  The first call was from a guy I consider a class act and sincere friend—Pat Hentgen. He was a pitcher who’d won the Cy Young Award in 1996, and had been a key contributor to the ’92 and ’93 world championship teams. I always admired the way he took the mound every fifth day, ignoring the kind of aches and pains that led to missed starts for many other pitchers. He was also a mentor to our talented young staff, including future Cy Young Award winners Chris Carpenter and Roy Halladay. Even though I was a position player with a different set of responsibilities, I often bounced ideas off him in the dugout between at-bats. He provided a pitcher’s point of view, which was invaluable to me as game situations changed. My admiration for him extended to more than baseball alone. Four years my senior, he led the sort of life I aspired to; he was a good family man with a house full of children. His farewell call meant a lot to me. We talked for five to ten minutes as I sat on the couch with Lindsay at my home in Newport Beach. We said our goodbyes, and then he threw out a casual, “Love you, man,” at the end of the call. None of my friends had ever said that, so I didn’t know how to respond. He froze me in the same way that his big curveball so often froze hitters across the American League.

  I just said, “Okay, take care Pat.”

  After hanging up, I explained to Lindsay what had happened. I thought she’d find it funny—she’s got a great sense of humor. I explained to her, “There’s no way to respond to a ‘love you, man’ from a friend. It doesn’t sound right to say, ‘love you too … man.’ Am I right?”

  I was laughing as I spoke, but she wasn’t laughing as she listened.

  She said, “Shawn … you pick that phone up right now and call him back and tell him you love him, too!”

  “What?” I was shocked. “You’re saying I should call him back and say, ‘Hey Pat, it’s me and I forgot to say that I love you too’? You’re crazy, Lindsay!”

  “But he put himself out there and you left him hanging,” she said, half pleading and half laughing. By now, she knew she wasn’t going to win this discussion.

  “I don’t think he’s going to lose any sleep over it, babe.”

  We both still laugh about that; it was like something out of Seinfeld or Curb Your Enthusiasm. Lindsay is an old soul, someone who gets it. I’d been attracted to her at first because she was beautiful, but I fell in love with her for this kind of sweetness and depth.

  Before we had even finished laughing at the awkwardness of the “I love you, man” situation, the phone rang again.

  “Hello?” I said, picking up.

  “Shawn …”

  I immediately recognized the grizzly voice on the other end of the line: It was the coach who knew me best, Mel Queen. An old-school, salty baseball man, Mel was in his late fifties and had spent most of his years in professional baseball. As a player with the Cincinnati Reds in the late ’60s, he’d been converted from an outfielder to a pitcher without ever being sent down to the minors to learn his new craft. As a result, he knew baseball from all angles and was the wisest coach I ever knew as a professional. Along the way, he groomed Cy Young Award winners Pat Hentgen, Chris Carpenter, and Roy Halladay (not to mention Roger Clemens, who won the award both years Mel was his pitching coach), and he developed numerous All-Star position players as well, including Jeff Kent and Delgado. He was the one coach whose opinion I always listened to because he was more aware than others as he watched the game.

  “Shawn, let me tell you something and listen closely.”

  Mel had taken me in as a raw nineteen-year-old and groomed me for three years in the minor leagues as well as four of my five years in the majors. Now, over the phone, he spoke with the same no-nonsense tone he’d taken with me back at the minor-league practice facility in Dunedin, Florida, whenever I misplayed a ball in the gap. “Look Shawn, you just signed a ridiculously large contract and you’re heading into a much bigger market than Toronto. Not to mention, you’re going to have to deal with the difficulties of playing at home in front of all of your friends and family. Critics are going to be watching your every move. The minute you go zero for ten, you’ll have microphones in your face demanding answers. With the kind of money you’ll be making and with the numbers you put up the past couple of years in Toronto, you’ve set the bar very high. So let me give you one final piece of advice while I’m still sort of your coach.”

  “Of course, Mel,” I responded. He was more than a coach to me, having groomed my game from the day I signed as a professional. “You know I always appreciate your advice.”

  His words are etched in my memory. “Don’t change the way you approach the game, Shawn. Don’t try to be the hero. Don’t feel like you need to live up to anything you’ve done in the past or to the expectations everyone has for your future. Just play the game. Take each pitch one at a time. Things may be different all around you, but remember the game is still the same.”

  “Thanks, Mel. But I think I’ve got all that under control.”

  There was a long silence. At last, he said: “Okay, I’ll be watching you. And even though we’ll be wearing different uniforms don’t be afraid to call me any time.”

  After the call, I thought about Mel’s words. Good advice, as always. But wasn’t it stuff I already knew? Over the last couple of years, hadn’t I already figured out enough about myself, my life, and the game of baseball to avoid the pitfalls that Mel warned against?

  I concluded that Mel was a great mentor and friend, and thus just hadn’t been able to keep from being a bit overprotective.

  After all, I was on top of the world. What could possibly go wrong?

  A year later, a world away … a lot had gone wrong.

  I walked toward home plate in San Diego for my last at-bat of what had been a long, disappointing 2000 season with the Dodgers. I knew that if I could reach the bleachers one more time I might yet salvage some small vindication for my first year in Dodger blue. My name rang out over the PA system, and I glanced up to the Qualcomm Stadium scoreboard: batting average of .269 with 24 HR and 99 RBI. With two men on base, one home run would round my stats up to .270 with 25 HR and 102 RBI, and the critics (myself included) would have to admit, “Well, that’s not such a bad first year for a guy switching leagues,” rather than, “Wow, the Dodgers spent all that money on a guy who didn’t even hit .270 or drive in 100 runs … what a mistake!”

  Over the past year, my statistics had come to define my sense of self. Not good. I dug in against the Padres’ Trevor Hoffman, one of the best closers in baseball. Like a junkie, I needed a home run and any perceptive observer could see by my jumpy, overanxious strides that this desire would dictate my last at-bat (as it had too many other at-bats throughout the season). I’d lost separation from my desire, my mind, and my emotions, all of which added up to the loss of separation from my ego, a term I use here to mean “one’s consciousness of one’s own identity,” rather than “an inflated feeling of pride in one’s superiority to others.” Full of expectations, I lost my ability to be the act of hitting, the essential ingredient of my success in Toronto. This is why as I dug in against Trevor Hoffman I was consumed by thinking: “All I need is one more home run, and then I’ll be happy.”

  The little man on my shoulder, who’d returned months before, whispered into my ear, assuring me that I needn’t settle for knocking in the runners but could surely hit that twenty-fifth home run, a difficult chore with Hoffman, who was smart and aware on the mound. The little man continued whispering: “He’s going to throw a first pitch changeup to get ahead with runners on base.” Instead, Hoffman threw an eighty-nine miles per hour fastball right across the plate. Strike one. The next pitch was another fastball and I lunged anxi
ously at it. Crack! The ball headed down the right field line, far enough to be a home run, but hooked foul. Strike two. All year, my jumpy, lunging stride had caused me to pull balls. Now, I was 0-2 against a tough pitcher, and it was time to just put the ball in play and settle for the 100 RBI mark. Hoffman came set and threw a changeup, too close to take with two strikes. I swung feebly and grounded to the third baseman, who threw me out at first. My season was over—I’d failed. What a miserable, yet appropriate, way to end the 2000 season.

  After saying my goodbyes in the clubhouse, I threw everything into my bag, grabbed a box of bats, and headed out to my car. I looked forward to separating from baseball for a while and getting back to working on my relationship with Lindsay, which was another aspect of my life that had gone rocky during that first year with the Dodgers. I pulled out of the stadium parking lot and made my way north on Interstate 5, my foot heavy on the gas. I wasn’t focused on driving. Instead, I was lost in my chaotic mind, until a rapidly approaching sea of taillights at the border patrol checkpoint at Camp Pendleton jerked me back to the present. I hit the brakes hard.

  My heart pounded.

  There’s nothing like a frightening moment to bring you back in touch with your body. Actually, it was the best I’d felt all day, as if the universe was shaking me out of a deep sleep. The Sunday evening traffic slowed to a crawl, then stopped. Suddenly, I could feel my hands on the steering wheel and my foot on the brake pedal. I looked around and began to see the world again. I no longer felt the need to be home but was fine being just where I was. And from a place much deeper than my mind a realization hit me: I had played the entire 2000 season in the same manner I’d just been driving the car—hurried and distracted.