The Way of Baseball

by Shawn Green

  I took the first pitch for a ball. The next pitch was a changeup that I missed for strike one. Then he threw a fastball down and in and I unloaded on it, my farthest homer of the day, deep into right-center field. This time around the bases, I couldn’t help but smile. Today was a once in a lifetime experience, so I allowed myself to relish it. Six for six with four home runs. As I rounded third and was jogging toward home plate (and the Brewers’ dugout), I made eye contact with Sarge. I think he was trying as hard as I was to hold back a smile. The look on his face said, “Are you kidding me?” He’d been with me for two of my best years in Toronto, so he knew all of the wood chopping that had created this special moment. As I crossed home plate, Sarge gave me his signature salute. It felt good. I then made my way into the sea of high-fives in our dugout as the crowd showed their appreciation with a standing ovation.

  I was physically spent.

  Nothing feels better than exhaustion after a full day absorbed in the moment.

  Now, as I sit on the plane to Phoenix, just a few hours removed from hitting that fourth home run, I still feel the intense alertness that carried me through the day. I’m beat, but I’ve never felt more alive.

  Finishing up this journal marks the end of today’s historic game. When I move back a few rows to where the guys are anxious for me to join their card game, I will have officially let go of patting myself on the back. My ego would love to live in this day forever, but the truth is it’s over. All that matters is right now, sitting here on the plane.

  I’m going to wake up in the morning, head to the ballpark, and face Curt Schilling and the defending world-champion Diamondbacks. My four-homer game won’t help me tomorrow. The only thing that will help me is to play with the same presence that I played with today.

  Arizona

  May 25, 2002

  Two days since my big game and not much has changed. I’m in a different city playing against a better team but that hasn’t mattered. The first pitch yesterday from Curt Schilling, one of the best pitchers in the game, I lined over the wall in right field. That homer represented my seventh consecutive hit, five of which were home runs. I struck out swinging my second time up, and then stroked two more singles, going three for four in the game and nine for my last ten.

  Tonight, I faced Rick Helling, a pitcher who has historically given me trouble. No matter, my hot hitting continued. He throws a cut fastball, which is my least favorite pitch. But when you’re in the zone, you’re in the zone. I walked my first at-bat. (They’re finally realizing they shouldn’t give me too many pitches to hit in certain situations.) I grounded out my second time up and then launched a three-run homer the next at-bat. For my fourth at-bat, I just missed a home run as I hit a very high fly ball to right field, scoring Dave Roberts for the sacrifice fly. Then, against lefty Eddie Oropesa, I hit a two-run homer to left-center field, finishing the night at two for three with six RBIs and two more homers.

  What was amazing about that last home run was that I broke my bat. I’ve had a handful of broken-bat home runs during my career, but never 400 feet to the opposite field. It’s too bad that my best piece of lumber is now out of commission, but what a great bat it was! Over the last three games, that piece of wood helped me go eleven for thirteen with seven home runs and fourteen RBIs. And that’s not including two home runs in the first game in Milwaukee on Tuesday and a triple Wednesday. All in all, I’ve hit nine home runs in the last five games after hitting just three home runs during the first forty-plus games of the entire season! It’s safe to say this bat died a hero. As much as I’d like to keep it for myself, I promised the Hall of Fame that I’d send it to them once I was done with it (after Thursday’s game in Milwaukee, they came calling). Now that it’s got a little crack on the handle it’s off to the Hall.

  Now, it seems to me that saving the bat would merely have served as a way for my ego to hold on to that day forever. One of my favorite quotes from Zen in the Art of Archery by Eugene Herrigel occurs after the master honors his pupil’s years of training by giving him his best bow. The pupil is humbled. But the master warns him of the ego’s desire to become attached to the bow and its representation of accomplishments and advises that “… when you have passed beyond it, do not lay it up in remembrance! Destroy it, so that nothing remains but a heap of ashes.”

  The truth is that while I was in the zone, I moved beyond the whole competition aspect of hitting. Absorbed in the act, it no longer mattered to me what team I was playing against or who was on the mound. There was only this: The ball came at me in slow motion, and I hit it. As the pitcher released the ball there was no me, no him, no bat, and no ball. All nouns were gone, leaving only one verb: to hit.

  In such circumstances, I almost wanted to laugh as pitchers stood 60 feet, 6 inches away from me shaking off signs, full of self-importance and purpose, thinking they could get into my head by making me guess what pitch they were about to throw. How could they get into my head if I wasn’t in it myself? In my more compassionate moments, I felt like calling timeout and running to the mound to tell them not to waste their time and energy trying to strategize about what to throw next because it wasn’t going to matter!

  In sports, if one player is competing and the other has transcended competition, who’s going to win? The answer is obvious. A lot of people talk about the best players being those who compete best. They talk about players whose minds are toughest. They reason that whoever wants it more will win. Yes, there’s a time and a place for this mentality, but it was never what I was after (I relied on it only when I was off my game). What I preferred was to be effortless. Meditation and presence during my daily routines aided me in this. Still, I was never in control of the zone. Rather, it passed through me as it pleased. I was only its vehicle. Top athletes play a different game than others. They have a knack for being in the zone, whether they can explain it or not. These athletes are fun to watch, not just because of their ability to win but because of the grace and presence of their actions. That week in 2002, I was one of them.

  Los Angeles

  May 27, 2002

  I’m home after six days on the road.

  I finished up the last game of the trip with a couple more singles. Today, I put on my white home uniform for the first time in a week. The last time I wore this jersey I was immersed in a horrific start to the season. The fans were booing me and I was beginning to grow impatient. The little man was threatening to get my attention.

  Six days later, everything’s changed.

  Now, I’m among the league leaders in home runs and RBIs, and everyone loves me. My crazy successes on the field last week have swept away the negativity that surrounded my start to the season. With critics no longer breathing down my neck, it’s easier to chop wood and carry water. But just as failure evokes the little man, success can do the same.

  In today’s game, my first back at Dodger Stadium, I fell out of the zone. I got caught up in the emotions of returning home after my historic week. I felt resentment every time I received loud ovations from the crowd, for these were the same fans who had booed me last week. I went up to the plate with too much of the I’ll-show-you attitude rather than with the purposeless presence with which I’d stepped up to the plate throughout the road trip. The little man wanted me to continue my tear at home, for all to see and worship. So my stride was jumpy as I tried to hit the ball a mile. Last week, I wasn’t trying at all; I was just hitting, but today it was gone. Nonetheless, I managed to topspin a solo home run on my last at-bat against Jose Cabrera, the same guy who gave up my fourth home run of the historic game last week in Milwaukee. As I rounded the bases to a standing ovation, I cynically considered foregoing my ritual of tossing my gloves into the stands. My ego wanted to communicate to the fans that they’d hurt my feelings last week with their booing. But hanging onto resentment is no way to go, so why start now? As I headed into the dugout, I tossed the gloves up to one of the younger fans above our dugout (I like to target the smaller, less aggressive k
ids).

  Still, today was a slip-up. My awareness became connected to the emotions and desires associated with playing in front of the home crowd and my connection to the zone slipped away. But the zone isn’t absolute black or white, there are shadings, and I’m still in a good place. I’ll let today serve as a reminder that I need to be vigilant and disciplined with my daily routines and try to apply complete attention to every action. That’s the only way I can keep the door open for it to enter once again.

  • • •

  Over the last four months of the 2002 season, I continued my streaky ways. For the most part, I retained my discipline of chopping wood each day and kept my attention away from results. I was like the surfer who patiently sits on his board, immersed in the present moment. Out of nowhere, a big set would roll in and an intense ride commence. After a while, the big waves would disappear and it’d be time to sit again.

  My “big waves” coincided with the months on the calendar. After a small slump upon returning from my historic road trip, I regained my presence through my daily work and another huge “set” rolled in. During June, I hit twelve more home runs and had twenty-four RBIs. Included in that month was a stretch in which I homered over four consecutive at-bats against the Angels (my last two at-bats one game and then my first two at-bats of the next). During July, I was back to sitting on my board waiting for the waves to return. The following two months finished up my seesaw year with a productive August and a hungry September. Now, I realize that my epic stretches were actually by-products of my bad stretches. The reason I had ten- and twelve-homer months was that I was willing to accept the three- and four-homer months. By not tweaking my approach every time it disappeared, I enabled it to eventually reappear.

  The zone isn’t something that can be controlled. It is a force of nature—a force of the universe. It shows up when it shows up, and it comes packaged in an infinite number of ways. A great afternoon at the beach with friends, a belly laugh with your kids, and a deep conversation are all examples of it showing up. You can try to plan these moments or try to recreate them at a later date, but they can rarely be controlled or anticipated. Still, we live for moments like these. In the end, all you can really do to ensure them is absorb yourself fully in every moment and be patient. By doing so, the Zone will arrive more frequently in your life, work, and activities than ever before.

  NONATTACHMENT

  Unfortunately, the following season, 2003, featured little time spent in the zone. Instead, it offered the greatest physical challenge I faced in my career. Life is always a work in progress and just about the time you think you’ve got it all figured out … During the last month of the ’03 season, Los Angeles Times beat writer Jason Reid broke a story about something I’d been hiding, that I’d been playing all year with an injury. I hadn’t wanted to make excuses for having only 12 home runs and 61 RBIs at a late stage of the season, but my closest friend on the team, Dave Roberts, grew frustrated with the harsh criticism directed at me in the media and so, after much prodding by Reid, he’d told him about my injury. Now, seven of us from the organization were crammed into the tiny training room office, some sitting on a beat-up couch that had likely been part of the Dodger organization for as long as Tommy Lasorda, while others crumpled in office chairs or leaned on the cluttered desks.

  “I called this meeting so we can all be on the same page today when the media asks about Shawn’s injured shoulder,” said Dan Evans, the team’s general manager.

  I knew the front office didn’t want to expose itself to further criticism for having failed to shore up our hitting. Everyone knew we had the best pitching in the league and the worst offense; for this reason, the L.A. papers had been hammering me for failing to perform up to expectations. After all, I was the guy making lots of money to hit home runs. The fans’ frustration peaked in early July during a Saturday game against the Arizona Diamondbacks. Our pitcher Odalis Perez took a no-hitter into the eighth inning at Dodger Stadium and like every other defender I was on my toes, willing to do whatever I could to keep the no-hitter intact. Shea Hillenbrand of the Diamondbacks hit a low line drive between me and the right field line. I charged, ready to dive, but the ball was well beyond my reach. Sure, I still could have uselessly dived for show to please the fans (demonstrating what Mel Queen used to call “false hustle”), but then if the ball got past me our eighth inning 2–0 lead would have been placed in serious jeopardy. It was a clean base hit, nothing more, nothing less. Nonetheless, the stadium erupted in boos, all directed at me. I knew that only a small portion of the fans’ disapproval was actually related to my not having dived. Most of it was about my subpar hitting that season.

  Believe me, if you want to experience terrible solitude try standing alone in right field with forty thousand people targeting their negativity at you. Of course, verbal abuse from fans in the bleachers is part of the job for all outfielders, but I’d rarely been booed in the field by my home crowd and never with such uniform ferocity. That July day at Dodger Stadium it seemed an entire city was enraged by my disappointing performance that season. Of course, they didn’t know that in my efforts to be a selfless, egoless player, I had kept a shoulder injury a secret, at least until now.

  The meeting in the trainer’s office continued.

  “How are we going to handle it when the media asks if the shoulder injury is the reason for Shawn’s struggles this year?” the general manager asked.

  I jumped in. “Look, I don’t want to make excuses. Remember, I didn’t reveal this to the media. Obviously, the injury affects my swing. But if a player’s healthy enough to be in the lineup, then he’s healthy enough to produce. No excuses.”

  The meeting concluded with the team’s legendary orthopedic surgeon Frank Jobe laying out the medical details of my recent MRI. He spoke with a deep, authoritative voice. “Shawn can continue for the remainder of the year, though he has fraying of the labrum, which we’re likely going to have to clean up with surgery after the season.”

  As the room emptied, I asked Dr. Jobe if he had a minute. He was a great man and always very accommodating to the players. He shut the door and said, “Sure, Shawn. What can I do for you?”

  “What exactly is going on in my shoulder?”

  “In simple terms, it’s gotten chewed up, or frayed. It’s like you have a bunch of tiny, stabbing hangnails in there.”

  “It’s always sore,” I said. “But it bites me especially hard on high pitches and pitches I hit out in front of the plate, like changeups. Still, I don’t remember any particular moment when I hurt it.”

  “Sometimes a player hurts himself on a specific swing or throw. Other times, the injury occurs as a result of years of overuse and repetition. All those swings you take every day in the cage have finally caught up to you, Shawn.”

  The first image that popped into my head was my prized possession—the batting tee. “Are you saying that this injury is the result of the extra work I’ve done with my batting tee over the years?”

  He nodded. “It doesn’t matter if the ball is moving or sitting on the tee. This comes from the thousands of swings you’ve taken and the torque you’ve placed on that labrum.”

  I thought of the drill in which I put the tee up to its highest point, level with my armpits. And I recalled the drill in which I put the tee far out in front of home plate and then would reach as far as I could with my right arm to hit an imagined pitch back up the middle. Lately, those swings had evoked the most pain. But these drills were the root of my practice …

  After Dr. Jobe left, I stayed in the office, alone.

  Was my extensive and dedicated tee work, the staple of my career actually the cause of my injury? The tee had transported me from a solid major-league player into one of the game’s most productive hitters over the last five seasons. And more, the tee had transformed my whole life! Those daily fifteen-to twenty-minute sessions were my meditation. There, I’d learned to separate my awareness from my mind and move it into my body and ultima
tely into the present moment. There, I first began to understand what it means to chop wood and carry water. The tee was a good thing, right? So, how could you overdo a good thing? Was this disillusionment?

  Or was the tee presenting me with yet another important lesson?

  Sitting on that old couch behind the closed door, I dove deeper and asked myself a hard question.

  Why had I really chosen to keep the injury to myself?

  One reason was that if I was going to play, I didn’t want the competition to change the way they pitched to me because of my injury. That not only would have affected my at-bats, but also would have altered the strategic way other teams pitched to the guys directly before and after me in the lineup. A second reason was that I believed the pain would go away on its own. In the past, I’d felt less intense pain in the same shoulder for days at a time before it would indeed disappear (as an everyday player, you rarely feel 100 percent, but learn to work through aches and pains). However, the most important reason I kept the injury to myself was that I had privately regarded the pain as an opportunity to destroy my own ego.

  During my time in Los Angeles, I’d experienced the give and take between staying in the moment and getting caught up in the ego. Each time I thought I had it figured out, the little man would come up with a new way to wedge himself between me and the present moment. And each time I’d eventually find my way back again by chopping wood during my daily routines. But as I struggled through the first half of the 2003 season, I came to believe that the more pain I endured the more my ego might be diminished. I thought suffering would bring me what I was looking for.