The Way of Baseball

by Shawn Green

  Usually, injuries and illnesses occur when we are lost in time and least capable of being in the moment. Perhaps injuries, illnesses, and failures are sometimes our bodies’ way of telling us that it’s time to refocus our attention.

  This is what happened with me.

  My swing had been my form of active meditation until my ego intervened, physically pulling me off balance and into the nonexistent future. Fortunately, the Dinger enabled me to hold my body where it needed to be, and everything else followed. Soon, my daily sessions of stillness with space and separation permeated other areas of my life, as they had back in Toronto. In the weeks leading up to spring training I made changes in my life. I moved back to Newport Beach, having gained sufficient separation from the ego to realize that I didn’t need to be a local Los Angeles hero, but was all right being wherever I was most comfortable. And Lindsay and I worked through our issues and were better than ever.

  By the time we left for Vero Beach, we did so as an engaged couple.

  I headed into the season with a much deeper understanding of stillness. It had been one thing to discover it as a young, unencumbered player in Toronto, but it had been a greater challenge to rediscover it after losing it the year before in Los Angeles.

  It takes discipline to remain present. Before I lost it, I took it for granted.

  I embarked on the new season as a more grateful and humble person.

  I’d rediscovered stillness in my swing and it felt good; nonetheless, it didn’t pay immediate dividends in games. A third of the way through the season my numbers tracked below my disappointing 2000 season. In the past, I’d have panicked. But now, I kept my mind out of the equation and simply immersed myself more deeply in my daily rituals. When I was doing my tee work, I was only doing my tee work. When I was fielding ground balls during BP, I was only fielding ground balls. Even when I was putting on my jersey and spikes prior to a game, I was only putting on my jersey and spikes.

  Having gone painfully wrong in 2000, I’d come to appreciate the value of maintaining complete attention throughout the day. I’d learned that true happiness doesn’t come from achievement or acquisition but from losing oneself in one’s actions (which inevitably serves to keep the ego under control). I maintained the same focus on each small task at the ballpark, regardless of what my statistics might say about me on any given day. In the process, tasks that used to be just work were now enjoyable.

  Chop wood, carry water.

  At the plate, my swing and balance were good, but my timing remained imperfect. This was something I couldn’t work on at the tee or during BP, but only in actual games, because only there does the ball move at full speed. So, I had to just allow it to show up. You can’t force a flower to bloom or fruit to ripen on the vine; it needs to happen when it is supposed to happen. In the meantime, I absorbed myself in my activities and remained ready. If my mind grew impatient with the process, I’d go to the cage before BP and hit to the point of exhaustion, swinging for as long as possible without stopping. Maybe fifteen minutes, maybe twenty … until I was dripping sweat and couldn’t take another hack. It was during those last swings, when I was too exhausted to think anymore about my mechanics, that I’d lose my mind and find my way back to the present moment, where impatience for results doesn’t exist.

  Being fully absorbed is the key. While absorption has never been easy to find, today’s multitasking world makes it more challenging than ever. Email, Twitter, Facebook, texting, cell phones …

  Remember, a simple definition of Zen is “doing one thing at a time.”

  Simple, but not easy.

  Another technique I employed to overcome my mind’s attempts to pull me out of the moment was to allow myself to think about a bad at-bat only as long as I kept wearing my batting gloves. When the gloves came off in the dugout, I let go of the bad at-bat. And my use of batting gloves in my spiritual practice didn’t stop there.

  My practice of throwing my batting gloves to kids in the stands every time I hit a home run at Dodger Stadium began as an accident in April 2000. While on deck in one of my first home games with my new team, I noticed a big tear in one of my gloves. I didn’t have time to run inside and grab a new pair, so I went to the plate. Coincidentally, I hit a home run and afterwards tossed the torn gloves into the stands. The Dodgers’ legendary broadcaster, Vin Scully, wondered on the air if this was something the new guy did after every home run. When I heard about Scully’s comment, I thought it sounded like a good idea and soon it was something the new guy did after every home run.

  By my second season in Los Angeles, the practice began to serve as more than just a fun way to connect with young fans; for me, it served as a reminder to remain connected to the present moment and detached from my ego. Just as I didn’t want to dwell for long about a bad at-bat, I didn’t want to allow myself to get too caught up in home runs either. The victorious jog around the bases was plenty. By throwing the heroic gloves to the stands, I notified my ego that the home run was over. Becoming attached to success is just as dangerous as becoming attached to failure.

  By June of the 2001 season, my patience paid off.

  We began the month with a seven-game road trip. Both Gary Sheffield and Eric Karros were hurt, and so more than the usual offensive load fell onto my shoulders. Fortunately, my hard work and presence in the cage, along with the patience that had allowed me to wait without panic for my timing to arrive, were rewarded in Houston.

  We were facing Scott Elarton, a tall right-hander. In my first at-bat, with two strikes, he threw me a fastball up and away. I took an effortless swing and lofted a high pop-up that nonetheless made it into the stands of the short porch in left field (one of the shortest home runs of my career). Distance notwithstanding, I knew my timing had arrived, not because of the result, but because of the feel. My stride had landed in that ephemeral moment I thought of as “the last bit of early,” and my swing suddenly had optimal separation and space.

  Two days later, I had three hits: a single, a double, and a home run, this round-tripper being one of the farthest of my career, ricocheting off a rarely conquered sign twenty feet over the 435-foot mark in centerfield. By the time we completed our road trip I’d amassed five homers in seven games, which was the first time since Toronto that I’d gotten home run hot.

  That week of games marked a turning point for me as a Dodger, not only because I rediscovered my timing, but also because I finally began to truly feel like a Dodger, not a Blue Jay. Working as a team in adverse circumstances (without our number three and five hitters) had evoked a sense of camaraderie as well as a sense of responsibility. I once again felt like a player my teammates could rely on. It felt great.

  I was now a wiser version of the player I’d been in Toronto. Of course, I knew better than to think I had it all figured out (especially as there was nothing to figure out, at least not with the mind, since my rediscovering success at the plate had been about getting out of my head and into the moment). As a Blue Jay, my ego would jump in to take the credit for my success as if I’d done something great. Now, I knew that there wasn’t any doing with which to credit myself; instead, there was only allowing. My job as a wiser hitter was just to take my swings with the proper balance, separation, space, and presence. I needed to do this as my daily, disciplined routine without any further motive or purpose. By creating this environment, I allowed it to show up. I didn’t will it to show up, but allowed it. If it never showed up, I like to think that would have been okay too and I’d have kept on with the daily work regardless.

  But it did show up and in a big way.

  I played the game from a deeper place than ever before. As a result, my statistics improved and everyone loved me again. This time, however, I didn’t buy into a false, egocentric sense of myself but just kept on chopping away at the tee every day (occasionally pulling out the Dinger if I felt my balance drifting forward). Pride serves as a warning that we are connecting to our egos, which we should only ever do with full aware
ness. This is why I paid close attention to the feelings of pride that accompanied my being the current Ironman in Major League Baseball, possessing the longest consecutive-games– played streak at 415. Though Cal Ripken’s all-time Major League record of 2,632 consecutive games played wasn’t in jeopardy of being broken, I was proud of my accomplishment and status. After having fought to become an everyday player during my first three seasons under Cito, I was happy to have played in every game since Andy Petitte broke my wrist midway through the ’99 season. I had never ducked tough pitchers or taken a few days off for a sore back when I was slumping at the plate, as many players do.

  But on September 26, 2001, I had a decision to make.

  For the first time in my career, the holiest Jewish holiday, Yom Kippur, conflicted with a game against our rivals, the Giants. I am not a very observant Jew; still, I was a notable Jewish athlete and I wore the same uniform as the great Sandy Koufax, who’d set an important precedent when he sat out a World Series game for the high holiday. I wanted to acknowledge my respect for my Jewish heritage. However, sitting out the game meant giving up my consecutive games streak as well as missing a game against a team we trailed by just two games with ten to play. And with two more home runs, I’d reach fifty for the season.

  Tempting … but I had learned over the past few years that circumstances often provide us with clues and opportunities as we navigate our twisting paths. I knew exactly what I was going to do.

  I had to let go of this streak in the same manner that I let go of my batting gloves after each home run. I needed to maintain distance from my statistics so I wouldn’t fall back into my 2000 mindset, when I fruitlessly chased that one hundredth RBI and twenty-fifth home run all the way to the last at-bat of the year in San Diego. I had managed to remain present all season long and yet now that I was nearing a nice, round 50 home runs, was I going to allow my ego to take over yet again? No.

  While publicly acknowledging Yom Kippur was not a strictly religious decision, it was nonetheless of enormous spiritual importance to me. I wanted to show respect for the customs of my heritage. Additionally, sitting out the game further severed connections to my ego, allowing me to let go of my label as Major League Baseball’s current Ironman. In the Jewish faith, Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement. I was grateful it came along just when it did, as my public observance furthered my pursuit of “at-one-ment,” being at one with the present moment.

  From a personal standpoint, the season ended well, my connection to the present new and improved. Almost incidentally, my statistics reflected all that was now right with my swing. My 49 homers surpassed Duke Snider and Gary Sheffield’s all-time Dodger single-season home run record. I drove in a career high 125 runs and batted .297, the second highest average of my career.

  I was a hero again with the fans and in the press. From my perspective, these numbers’ real significance was that they reflected my ability to overcome the ego and to reconnect to the beauty of the present moment, the beauty of chopping wood and carrying water.

  THE ZONE

  I find it amusing when baseball experts extrapolate statistics for an entire season as early as May. Sure, they’ll admit that spring training is too disjointed a time to evaluate where a team or player might be. And in April everything remains a blur, with half the players trying to settle into new homes in new cities and many of the games being played in adverse weather (rain, cold, and occasional snow). Further, a hitter’s batting average in April can drop a hundred points just by having a bad doubleheader. But by May there are news stories about guys on pace to hit 80 home runs and 200 RBIs. Local media hit the panic button when their first-place team has a shaky first month, while the one or two last-place teams that start the season with a winning record shock and excite local fans. But players know that by the end of the season water always finds its level.

  I never got off to a torrid start (except for that ’99 season). Tall, lanky power hitters often start slowly, as longer arms and legs equate to longer swings that require nearly perfect timing. Lacking the brute strength of thicker power hitters, I never had the luxury of muscling homers. Timing was fundamental for my swing, so my hitting was often a matter of feast or famine. By late May 2002 I had experienced six weeks of intense famine (hitting .230 with just three home runs). Nonetheless, I had learned my lesson about getting caught up in results, so I remained disciplined, maintaining my chopping-wood approach to keep my attention on the present moment.

  Unfortunately, my bosses and the media weren’t so patient.

  During a home stand in mid-May I went 0 for 9 against the Mets without hitting a ball out of the infield. Before one of those games, I happened to be standing on the field with a golf club doing a photo shoot for a magazine when Los Angeles Times columnist T. J. Simers arrived with a big smile on his face. He’d come to the stadium to prepare his next article, which was to be about my poor start. Simers’ relentless scrutiny left many players fuming and unwilling to talk to him, but I didn’t mind his criticism. I understood that his columns aimed to incite emotion both in his victims and his readers. Now, I couldn’t help but laugh. There I was, standing with a golf club in my hand even as he’d come to the stadium to ask me why I was currently so horrible at swinging a bat; this scene was custom made for him.

  “T. J., this article’s going to be too easy for you!” I said, acknowledging the golf club.

  He laughed. “Isn’t that the truth! There are so many ways I can go with this.” He began questioning me as I finished the photo shoot. “Are you any better at swinging a golf club than a bat?”

  “Believe it or not, I actually am worse at golf.”

  “Wow, I’d have to see that to believe it,” he said with a grin. “Tell me, Shawn, did you know that so far this season you have more strikeouts than hits?”

  “No, I actually didn’t know that, but now I do. Thanks.”

  This was how our interview process went over the years—a lot of sarcasm, but all in good fun (at least until I’d read his scathing articles).

  “What’s been your problem? Are you getting soft now that you’re a newly married man?” he asked.

  Lindsay and I had married the previous November. My personal life couldn’t be better. “That must be it, T. J. It’s all her fault!”

  “When you’re playing bad how come you never throw your helmet or show us that you care?” he continued. “You know I refer to you as the puddle due to your lack of emotion.”

  “Where’s the competitive advantage in my getting lost in my emotions?” I answered. “The best thing I can do to help my team is to take it one at-bat at a time. Anger and rage aren’t going to help me get more hits. Being focused will help. That’s all I can do.”

  T. J. wrote his less than complimentary article at the end of the week and I continued with my 0-fers, going hitless on Thursday and Friday against the visiting Expos, still unable to get a ball out of the infield. Fans who’d chanted “MVP! MVP! MVP!” when I came to bat eight months before, started booing me now whenever I made an out. I even began to hear groans after missing a pitch for strike one. The booing, T. J.’s highlighting the fact that I had more strikeouts than hits, manager Jim Tracy’s frustration with my performance … it all began to get to me, and I felt myself shifting my attention away from chopping wood and onto the need for better results. Suddenly, I was staring down a road of trouble.

  Tracy called me into his office, which was located between the clubhouse and the showers.

  I took a seat.

  “I think it might be best if I give you a breather tomorrow, Flaco,” he said. Flaco means “skinny” in Spanish, and it had become my nickname during my first year with the Dodgers.

  “You’ve been scuffling pretty bad and I think you could use a day to relax,” he continued. “Show up tomorrow, throw on the uniform, and watch the game. Look, if we’re going to have a chance this year, we need you for the long haul. So take a break and come back ready to get rolling.”

  I coul
dn’t argue with his logic. At first glance, it might seem that one day off can do little good. But even one day without having to gear up for the intensity on the field allows a struggling player to put on his uniform with a new lightness. Sometimes, that’s enough to break a negative cycle. I left Tracy’s office and began my hour-long drive home at eleven o’clock that night, thinking about how to keep from falling back into the snare of the ego. As I navigated south, traversing one freeway to the next—the 110 to the 5 to the 605 to the 405 to the 73—I thought about the roadmap of my approach to hitting so far that season.

  I’d navigated different drills. Over the first seven weeks of the season, I’d used the tee every day. Sometimes, I mixed in the Dinger. I tried some flips from hitting coaches Jack Clark and Manny Mota, and I took extra batting practice. I even went to the extreme of hitting right-handed in the cage in hopes that when I turned around to my natural side it would feel better by comparison. These tactics helped, but I still didn’t find that elusive timing of my stride, the most delicate and enigmatic part of the swing.

  Of course, it may seem that with all the experimentation, discovery, analysis, and practice I’d already devoted to hitting, I should have permanently conquered its technical aspects by now. But that wasn’t so and could never be. Like every other complex activity, hitting is dynamic, which is what makes it not only a continual challenge but a great teacher. Besides, no one’s body or awareness is ever 100 percent the same from one at-bat to the next; similarly, no two pitches are ever truly identical. Thus the act of hitting, like life, is always a work in progress. One must master a skill, and then master it again in a different way for new circumstances, on and on … Yes, sometimes it’s frustrating, but it’s always enlivening and ultimately beautiful.