This is one of the most exciting times of the year in sports. U.S. Open tennis and college football begin this week, and the NFL begins next weekend.
What are the biggest sporting events in the NFL every year? It can depend on your perspective and rooting interest. These 10 are undeniably a major part of the American Sporting calendar every year.
Florida Marlins president David Samson has no shortage of critics these days in Miami-Dade County. He can thank Deadspin.com for his troubles.
On Monday, August 23, Deadspin.com obtained the financial records of the Marlins covering the 2008-09 seasons, and the fallout was not pretty.
When the Marlins approached Miami-Dade County officials for financial help in constructing a new baseball facility, they contended that the Marlins only break even financially year after year, the centerpiece argument for obtaining local government funding.
In fact, documents show the Marlins could have covered a substantial amount of the new stadium’s construction themselves and still turned an annual operating profit.
Documents obtained by Deadspin.com revealed that the Marlins had an operating income of over $50 million in the last two fiscal years.
Further documents that were recently revealed have shown that the Marlins paid out a “management fee” of $5.4 million over that same two year period to a company called Double Play.
According to the Florida Department of State, Division of Corporations, Double Play is owned by both Marlins owner Jeffrey Loria and Samson, effectively paying themselves for the period shown.
Loria and Samson have been crying poverty to anyone who would listen over the course of the last several years. The leaked documents prove otherwise, and now both men are scrambling to explain to the public why they should be entrusted with their fans’ hard earned money to provide sound entertainment value.
You can follow Doug on Twitter, @desertdesperado.
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The sport of Major League Baseball has seen its share of gambling controversies, most notably, the scandal surrounding the 1919 World Series and the Chicago White Sox, famously known as the Black Sox Scandal.
However, not one scandal gained more notoriety than the allegations levied against Major League Baseball’s all-time hits leader, Pete Rose.
On August 23, 1989, through an agreement reached with then baseball commissioner A. Bartlett Giamatti, Pete Rose voluntarily accepted a lifetime suspension from the game of baseball.
Rose, at the time the manager of the Cincinnati Reds, had been reported to have been betting on baseball, and more specifically games in which the Reds were involved.
Rose was questioned in early 1989 by Giamatti, who was president of the National League at the time, and by current commissioner Peter Euberroth.
Later in the year, Euberroth stepped down as commissioner, and Giamatti was unanimously selected by MLB owners to replace him. During this time, lawyer John M. Dowd was retained to investigate the allegations against Rose.
In mid-August, the investigation was completed, and its findings submitted to commissioner Giamatti. In his report, Dowd concluded that Rose indeed had bet on baseball games, and had specifically on at least 50 Reds games in 1987, at a minimum of $10,000 per day.
On August 23rd, after several days of negotiations with commissioner Giamatti, Rose agreed to the lifetime ban. Ironically, eight days after the announcement, Giamatti suddenly died of a heart attack at his summer home in Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts. He was just 51 years old.
At the time, Rose had vehemently denied that he bet on baseball games. In 2004, fifteen years later, he finally revealed in his book, “My Prison Without Bars”, that he did bet on baseball.
Rose has applied for reinstatement several times, but the ban is still in place today. He has only been allowed back on the baseball field once, in 1999, when he was elected to the All-Century team, and he appeared with the team on the field at the All-Star game at Fenway Park.
Rose has arrogantly displayed his disdain for the decision on several occasions, setting up shop outside the confines of the Baseball Hall of Fame at Cooperstown, New York during induction ceremonies, and at autograph signing sessions throughout the country.
Rose had his own radio talk show for years during the 1990’s, and his lifetime suspension was frequent fodder for Rose and his guests.
If Rose could have simply accepted the ban, worked to ingratiate himself positively with baseball owners and executives, and publicly admit his wrongdoings, his suspension likely would have been lifted.
Instead, Rose chose the tact of displaying complete arrogance and constant denials until fifteen years after the fact, and those acts alone have not only kept him out of baseball, but also kept him out of the place where he truly feels he belongs—the Hall of Fame.
Arrogance has never been a successful act of defense. Rose should have chosen the path of humility.
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It wasn’t a typical skirmish in the Reds-Cards showdown, and it symbolized the wildest brawl in the history of sports, as each team was unable to stay above the fray when a verbal altercation initiated a physical altercation.
It was utterly amazing that Cincinnati Reds second baseman Brandon Phillips, an agitator who caused tempers to flare and blatantly singled out the St. Louis Cardinals with verbal trash talk, merely was handed a fine for escalating and instigating an ugly war between two teams with bad blood.
In truth, the animosity triggered a benches-clearing brawl that was so untypical at a time peace is spreading unity in the game. Besides, a brawl very seldom materializes unless it’s Yankees-Red Sox in UFC melees, which are mundane and viewed as traditional tussles.
This week, the most controversial issue happened, as usual, when Major League Baseball issued suspensions for players’ involvement in a repulsive and unorthodox brawl, but mishandled imposing a befitting penalty for the instigator who was the cause of the ugly incident.
How utterly compelling that we continue to ignore the causes and effects in life and deny the visible evidence, finding someone else liable for wrongdoings in a tawdry and uncontrollable rumble.
But this is the era we live in currently, a sport blinded by the truth in regards of steroid scandals, awful no-calls or calls or even an asinine brawl, as the majors are showing nepotism and remains unsuccessful in inflicting a valid punishment.
Whether he wants to admit it or not, Phillips should be dropping his head in shame, and blaming himself for prompting the dispute and adding to the hostility.
When he publicly lashed out on the Cardinals the other day, the abhorrent remarks backfired and cost his teammate and starting pitcher Johnny Cueto a seven-game suspension for his actions during Tuesday night’s game.
Few believe, however, that Phillips broke baseball’s unwritten rule and suggested that he should have served a suspension. All of his talk led to absolute nonsense, as Phillips became famous for publicly calling out the Cardinals unpleasantly and starting a fight, similar to the heated, back and forth feuds that explode at nightclubs or even in sports, such as this deranged fracas.
The theory is, of course, play nice boys and perform the task with strong persona and good sportsmanship. Have they ever heard of playing nice?
Sometimes I wonder and gush over the significance of sportsmanship and respect for peers and teammates, whereas sharing the wealth and spreading reconciliation harmonizes the atmosphere at a friendly, relaxing night at the ballpark. Point is, it was a hilarity scene with no purpose, endearing what could have been a harsher punishment.
And since Phillips said he despises the Cardinals on Monday, it had the fuming antagonist emotionally livid during a matchup that has turned out to be appealing, capturing baseball devotees who are now anxious to witness a rematch of the Reds-Cards in the NLCS.
It’s suddenly the dream matchup? From contamination to physical knockouts, baseball has suddenly turned into a Wrestlemania or Ultimate Fighting spectacle?
If there is any excitement or buzzing noise in the majors come October, it would be a hostile meeting between two heated, ill-tempered rivals, and would be the equivalent of all the outrageous Jerry Springer brawls, or fights that take place on the playground during recess.
When the news first surfaced, it strictly revolved around Phillips and no other player or manager. As of recently, he was overly talkative in his public rant that obviously broke the hearts of the Cardinals, but had the initiative and stronger minds without responding to Phillips’ fighting words. Yes, words that were foolish, words that were an explanation of antipathy.
“I’d play against these guys with one leg. We have to beat these guys. I hate the Cardinals. All they do is [beep] and moan about everything, all of them, they’re little [same bleep, plural], all of ‘em. I really hate the Cardinals. Compared to the Cardinals, I love the Chicago Cubs. Let me make this clear: I hate the Cardinals.”
Oh, he clearly elaborated and stated how he felt about the divisional rivals. The harsh words probably made the Cubs speechless. The spiteful words probably opened many eyes. The insulting words probably awakened the Cardinals and have inspired the team to come out with much fortitude, strength, and firepower.
It’s very interesting to see whether the Cardinals ride the emotional surge from Phillips’ latest bickering, and maybe this was a momentum push to increasingly expose the unbeatable, invincible, unstoppable mindset.
But if anything, the recent incident was mishandled and managed wrongly, failing to acknowledge the core of the problem and issue standards to fairly suspend Phillips, who impelled the much-anticipated altercation.
It’s very surprising to some degree that only three players were suspended in the brawl, when there were evidently more than three players involved in the tragicomic hysteria.
This is unfortunate in a way, as Cueto is hit with seven games, and we all know why. But I have a problem with the Reds starter forced to sit out seven games, as the enforcers were harsh and denied any convenient excuses.
In some way, Cueto could have gotten away with kicking as if he was a whiny baby stuck in a stroller, in a brawl that drifted towards the fence behind homeplate. At that point, players were pinned against the backstop netting, including Cueto, who showed off some of his Kung Fu motions. From a sensible viewpoint, he used self-defense.
In perspective, this is one martial arts expert who is being used as an example, and he’s fortunately projected to miss one start and will appeal the suspension, subsequently for landing several kicks to the back of Cardinals’ Chris Carpenter and the ribs of catcher Jason LaRue, who suffered a mild concussion and sore ribs, according to manager Tony La Russa.
So now, the insults of Phillips isn’t the vital problem and has receded as the storyline. And now, we are focused on Cueto’s actions. The peeving nonsense is why the majors are so corrupted and battered in a crisis, very rampant to whereas it’s gradually turning millions away. How Phillips receives a fine, and not a suspension? This is another nightmare in baseball, but perhaps only this time it involves a brawl.
While La Russa and Dusty Baker were suspended two games a piece, Phillips, Carpenter, Yadier Molina and Russ Springer were all fined. What? That’s all? They were all in the brawl and just as liable as Cueto.
There’s a clear understanding that Phillips is being labeled as the victim even when he prompted a face-to-face shouting dispute with Molina and taunted him with his bat. Wow! Really, you forgot that fast. How could you, it just happened a few days ago.
In my mind, it is insanity when Phillips is not accused of any wrongdoing.
Read more MLB news on BleacherReport.com
I want you to ask yourself this, what Major League Baseball players deserve to be in the Baseball Hall of Fame? Does Pete Rose deserve to be in the Hall of Fame? How about Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, or Roger Clemens? Maybe even one day New York Yankess third baseman Alex Rodriguez, who is on the eve of hitting home run No. 600?
While watching Hall of Fame outfielder Andre Dawson give his speech after his induction into Cooperstown on Sunday, he said some things that struck a chord with me and became the inspiration for this article.
“Do not be lured by the dark side. It’s a stain on the game. A stain gradually being removed. But that’s the people, not the game. Nothing wrong with the game. There never has been,” Dawson said.
He then continued with, “Baseball will, from time to time like anything else in life, fall victim to the mistakes that people make. It’s not pleasant and it’s not right.”
However, the quote that made the most impact in my mind was, “Individuals have chosen the wrong road, and they’re choosing that as their legacy. Those mistakes have hurt the game and taken a toll on all of us.”
Dawson was clearly taking a shot at all players who have been accused or have openly admitted to using performance-enhancing drugs while playing baseball.
Ironically, those comments were coming from a man who endured 12 knee surgeries over an impressive 21-year major league career; a man who was an eight-time All-Star, with 438 career home runs, 2,774 hits, 1,591 RBI, and 314 stolen bases.
Dawson also spoke highly of Pete Rose, but didn’t lobby for his induction to the Hall of Fame.
Rose has been permanently banned from baseball since 1989 and thus keeps him from being enshrined in the one place he deserves.
That’s right sports fans, Pete Rose deserves to be in the Hall of Fame!
Pete Rose, aka Charlie Hustle, was the definition of a baseball player. Over his 23-year career, Rose was a three-time World Champion, 17-time All-Star (at five different positions: 2B, LF, RF, 3B, and 1B), two-time Golden Glove Award winner, 1963 NL Rookie of the Year, and 1973 NL MVP. He also holds a record that in my mind may never be broken—4,256 career hits.
Rose, however, was deemed permanently ineligible by then-Commissioner A. Bartlett Giamatti for allegedly betting on baseball games. He would later admit in his 2004 autobiography My Prison Without Bars that he did bet on baseball and other sports while he played for and managed the Cincinnati Reds. He also admitted that he bet on the Reds, but never bet against them.
Though Pete Rose may have bet on baseball games, including games he managed, he never cheated, something many of the great baseball players over the last decade have done.
Players such as Alex Rodriguez, Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, and Roger Clemens all have been linked to using performance-enhancing drugs. Among those players, only Alex Rodriguez and Mark McGwire have come forward and admitted that used medications that improved their play.
Last time I checked, anytime you use a substance that helps you enhance your performance would be considered…CHEATING!
Pete Rose isn’t a cheater. He never did anything to enhance his physical performance.
This article isn’t solely about who has cheated and who hasn’t.
A professional baseball player’s induction into the National Baseball Hall of Fame shouldn’t be determined solely on what records a player has broken, or what feats that player has accomplished, but what that player has given to the game of baseball itself. It needs to be about what that player has given to the fans of baseball as well.
Below are three outstanding baseball players, who have done wonderful things for the game of baseball, but because of their poor lack of judgement (i.e. Pete Rose) they too may never see the Hall of Fame.
Mark McGwire
Mark McGwire was first eligible for the Hall of Fame in 2007. He can be remembered as one of the famous Bash Brothers (along with Jose Canseco) of the Oakland Athletics, McGwire broke the single season home run record for rookies in 1987 with 48 home runs. He was a 12-time All-Star, 1990 Gold Glove Award winner, three-time Silver Slugger Award winner, and the 1987 AL Rookie of the Year.
Eleven years later, in 1998, McGwire would gain national notoriety along with Sammy Sosa as they pursued the single season home run record the same way that Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris did in the summer of 1961.
Mark McGwire would finish the 1998 season with 70 home runs, nine more than Roger Maris hit in 1961.
However, McGwire’s amazing feat, toppling a record that stood for 37 years, would be tarnished by revelations that he used androstenedione, an over-the-counter muscle enhancement supplement, in order to shorten the time needed to recover from the physical wear on his body.
Although he never admitted to using steroids during the 1998 season, McGwire would admit in 2010 that he had used steroids during his playing career.
Barry Bonds
Do Barry Bonds’s stats alone give him enough credibility to be voted in for the Hall of Fame? Yes. Will the BALCO scandal and steroids be his downfall? Absolutely!
During Barry Bonds’s 21-year career he was a 14-time All Star, eight-time Gold Glove Award winner, 12-time Silver Slugger Award winner, and seven-time Most Valuable Player. He is also the single-season home run leader with 73 home runs, and is the career home run leader with 763 round trippers.
Bonds also had 2,935 career hits, 1,996 RBI, and 514 stolen bases.
His accomplishments alone should make him worthy of a first ballot induction to the Hall of Fame in 2013, however his involvement in the Bay Area Laboratory Co-operative (BALCO) may have tainted that.
Bonds was accused and indicted by a grand jury about his involvement with BALCO around the time he was chasing the single season and career home run records. Reports had been leaked on Bonds’s grand jury testimony contend that he admitted to unknowingly using “the cream” and “the clear” both being anabolic steroid supplements.
Roger Clemens
Roger Clemens will also be eligible for the Hall of Fame in 2013 and his accolades and feats match that of Barry Bonds and then some. In his 23-year career, Clemens was a 11-time All-Star selection, seven-time Cy Young Award winner (having won the award in both American and National leagues), and the 1986 AL MVP.
Clemens is a member of the 300 win club, 3,000 strikeout club, 4,000 strikeout club, 300 wins-3,000 strikeout club, and in 1997 and ’98 won the pitching Triple Crown (wins, ERA, and strikeouts).
But, Clemens’s accomplishments will be marred by his alleged use of performance-enhancing drugs. Clemens’s former personal strength coach, Brian McNamee, came forward an admitted that he had injected Clemens with steroids during the 1998, 2000, and 2001 seasons.
Clemens was also mentioned in former US Senator George Mitchell’s report on steroid use in baseball 82 times; however Clemens still denies that he had ever used steroids or performance-enhancing drugs.
In conclusion, I believe that if any one of these players, including Alex Rodriguez (who will probably hit 770 home runs, and openly admitted to use performance-enhancing drugs) should be inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame, that Pete Rose also be given a fair chance for reinstatement.
We all need to remember that baseball is a game a majority of us loved while growing up, and that all these youngsters who have dreams of one day making it to the Majors and maybe even the Hall of Fame will get there, with hard work and determination.
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While many baseball fans will get wrapped up in the allure of Evan Longoria playing next to Derek Jeter on the left side of the infield or Hanley Ramirez swinging for the fences in the Home Run Derby, it is former Major Leaguer and longtime Angels broadcaster Rex Hudler who is really going beyond baseball at the 2010 All-Star game by highlighting a cause close to his own heart.
The allure of home field advantage, dream lineups, and majestic blasts over the terraced bullpens in the outfield may help craft this week’s headlines, but Hudler is in Los Angeles promoting volunteerism and celebrating some very special all-stars among us who don’t receive the fanfare they deserve.
Hudler’s first son Cade was born with Down Syndrome 13 years ago, and it was the Wonder Dog who was on hand to emcee a heartwarming game between youngsters with special needs to kick off All-Star weekend in southern California on Friday.
Down syndrome is a genetic condition that affects one in 733 babies—approximately 4,000 children each year—and causes delays in a child’s physical and mental development, according to the National Down Syndrome Society.
Hudler, who spent 30 years playing and commentating on professional baseball, created the non-profit Team Up For Down Syndrome charity with his wife Jennifer in 1997, and he said he was thrilled to work with the MLB and Bank of America to support the Little League Challenger Division. The LLCD is a branch of Little League which enables children with physical and mental challenges to enjoy America’s national pastime.
“To see the joy on my son’s face, it just lit me up like a tree,” Hudler said, when talking about watching Cade play baseball. “I was so excited to see how much joy it brought him.
“It wasn’t as structured as Little League, but they played. They went to the plate and the coach flipped a ball up there and they hit it and ran and they did the best they could to throw them out and catch the ball.”
For Hudler, who has three other children besides Cade, it was just one more reminder that youngsters with special needs can do just as many things as typical children.
“I had the typical dreams that a dad has of his kid becoming a big league player, but they [the doctors] told us three days after we had Cade that we had a child that had Down Syndrome.
“It didn’t change the way that I felt at that moment because he was healthy and felt good and was a typical child as far as I knew, but then the reality set in that he did have Down Syndrome. We had to let go of the dreams we had for a typical child, and we had to change our dreams around a child with a disability.
“I have to tell you 13 years later that it can be tough and it can be challenging at times because he is a little more emotionally delayed, but he gives more joy, more unconditional love, than I ever imagined possible. We are blessed to have three other kids besides him, he not only enhances my life, but his other siblings’ lives as well.”
With this year’s midsummer classic set in and around the Los Angeles area, Bank of America and the Little League Challenger Division have been providing an abundance of opportunities to highlight these inspirational athletes.
They donated more than 3,000 tickets to LLCD programs in Orange, Riverside, and Los Angeles counties and are hosting an exhibition game between two LLCD teams to mark the official opening of MLB All-Star FanFest.
“My son wanted to play baseball,” Hudler, 49, said. “They didn’t have a Little League that could take care of him when he wanted to play baseball, but I found out that there was a league called Challenger League for children with disabilities. So we drove him across town and he played with other kids with disabilities.
“Challengers are starting to sprout up everywhere because kids with disabilities love to play baseball just like typical kids, and it’s more exciting to watch them play because of the joy they have on their face.
“The typical kids in the league get to shadow and buddy up with the kids with disabilities and they help them play baseball. It gives the typical boy a perspective on life and how thankful they are to be able to walk, and catch a ball, and talk and it makes overall life better.”
But it’s not just the children who learn valuable life lessons about living, playing, and working with people with disabilities. For Hudler, it meant literally re-writing his idea of parenthood and changing his perceptions of being a father.
“As a parent you always strive for patience,” he said. “That’s one thing as human beings that a lot of us are short on, but I’m getting better. I’m not where I want to be, but I’m learning how to breathe two or three times before I react.
“Most males have a hard time when the kid spills the milk or breaks a pane of glass or drops a plate or something like that, but I’m learning how to take a take a few deep breaths and not say anything which is hard for me being a ‘Type A’ high-strung male like I am. So I’m learning a lot about patience but also about unconditional love, how to love people unconditionally.
“I’m learning about differences in people all the time. People are different, things are different, and my acceptance level is at a much greater spot, a much higher level of accepting differences, so that’s a big impact my son has had on my life.”
With Hudler knowing first hand just what impact special needs children can have in families and societies, he said it was fantastic that a corporate sponsor such as Bank of America had teamed up with the charities to raise awareness of the condition.
This week alone, 275 Bank of America associates will devote 1,200 volunteer hours to community projects—including a series of Little League Challenger programs—as part of their goal to donate one million hours in 2010
Bank of America staff also helped baseball fans attending the MLB All-Star FanFest on Friday discover local volunteer opportunities. Everyone who visited their booth and committed to donate their time was entered for a chance to win a pair of tickets to Tuesday’s All-Star game.
Hudler, who played for six different teams including three years with the California Angels in the mid ’90s, added, “They’re not just writing a check. Bank of America is a great sponsor and they have their people out there in the community doing stuff and that’s what we’re excited about…getting some corporate sponsorship and raising awareness of these Challenger Leagues.
“Pick out something that is worthwhile to you. Maybe it’s something in your family, maybe you want to get involved with the environment. By getting involved you can make the world a better place, and I really mean that.
“I’m loving giving back because I’m learning more about myself and I feel good about myself as a human being. It’s about giving back, it’s not about ourselves. If you want to grow as a person, reach out and do something for someone else.”
• To contact Team Up For Down Syndrome, call 714-665-TEAM or 1-888-4-TEAMUP. You can also visit the charity’s website here or get involved by contacting the NDSS here.
Read more MLB news on BleacherReport.com
Both the calendar page and the greeting card companies dictate that the one day per year we are allowed to “honor thy father” (at least in this country) is the third Sunday of June. Since 1910, children around the globe have annually taken a mere 24 hours out of their busy lives to “celebrate fatherhood, paternal bonds, and the influence of fathers in society” by dousing Dads with a collection of humorous cards and never to be worn ties.
If nothing else, Father’s Day acts to provide a fitting and opposite book end to the prior month’s holiday, Mother’s Day.
As a father of five, who, like most Dad’s, has regrets about not spending enough time with my quintet of off-spring, I like to take every opportunity, whether on Father’s Day or not, to bring to the forefront each loving relationship I stumble across that holds the Daddy-Daughter relationship in the brightest of lights.
I recently had the pleasure of catching up with Leigh Radatz, daughter of the Boston Red Sox late, great pitcher, Dick “The Monster” Radatz. After losing her larger-than-life Dad to an in-home accident in 2005, Ms. Radatz admits, “That there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish he was here with us. He was loving, caring, understanding, funny, and a role model in so many ways.”
After connecting with Leigh, via Facebook, over the past year, I encouraged her to share stories of her life growing up with the legendary Red Sox reliever with friends and fans who miss her Dad greatly following his untimely exit from Red Sox nation in 2005.
Leigh had been somewhat reluctant to share tales of her famous father in an effort to respect the Radatz family privacy, but after an occasional Facebook poke, she graciously agreed to speak of life with her Dad in the following Q and A interview.
With the help of her brother, Dick, Jr. and her sister, Kristine, Leigh shares some stories with her Father’s fandom of what it was like growing up with Fenway’s real-life Monster.
Todd: Did you ever participate in sports with him, specifically tossing the ball around the yard and as a result of this, how were you as an athlete as a result of this?
Leigh: Definitely! We grew up in the 60s, when my Dad was still playing, so a game of catch or pickle in the yard was standard. We all inherited a bit of Dad’s height and, my brother, I, and my sister are 6’, 5’9”, and 6’1” respectively.
My brother played baseball from a young age, so he was out there at dusk with Dad a bit more than my sister and I were, but we all had our own baseball gloves. I got a new one from my boyfriend as a gift for my high school graduation.
My brother was Captain of his college baseball team and a four-year varsity letter-man. I played mostly intramural basketball and volleyball in high school and then played slow-pitch softball during college summers. I was a catcher who got mowed down by girls much bigger than my 5’9” frame. My sister, similarly, played a bit of basketball in high school.
TC: What is your earliest memory of Dad as a baseball player?
Leigh: I remember being in the grandstands at Fenway with my Mom and brother. We knew Dad was on the field pitching, but were pretty young to have an understanding. I remember during spring training in Scottsdale, Arizona and, then in Winter Haven, Florida, tons of reporters and cameras always outside our front door and not really understanding why.
I remember my Dad meeting us on the concourse underneath Fenway after games were finished and heading out to the player’s parking lot, having everyone wanting my Dad’s attention and then mobbing our station wagon as we drove out. Unfortunately, I don’t remember him pitching specific games.
TC: Who were you able to meet as a result of Dad being a pro player?
Leigh: All three of us have been fortunate to meet many, many past and present players and personnel over the course of our lives and we continue to do so. It’s a wonderful thing to have so many people who speak so fondly and excitedly of Dad and a huge source of pride to know he touched so many people personally, as well as, being a part of their Red Sox and baseball memories.
TC: Did you spend much time around Fenway as a child?
Leigh: Yes, definitely. While we didn’t go to every single game, we were there often. To this day, I still get nostalgic every time I walk on the concrete incline on the lower concourse near Gate B. We’d run up and down it waiting for my Dad to come out of the clubhouse.
By the mid-60s, they had expanded the Father/Son game festivities to include daughters, so my sister and I got to suit up and be on the field, too. Going to Fenway for any reason is still a thrill I never tire of.
TC: Your Dad dominated Mickey Mantle like no other, reportedly striking him out 46 times in 64 at bats. Did he ever speak to that or prepare differently to face the Stick?
Leigh: He used the baseball terminology that he would walk Mantle “Up the Ladder,” in other words start with a pitch lower in the strike zone and then higher and so on. I don’t think he prepared any differently for Mantle, but based on his record I believe he “got up” to face the Yankees.
Do you know that one of the strikeouts my father had on Mantle was Mickey attempting to bunt with two strikes? This is a man who hit .300 in the big leagues ten times!!! Struck out attempting to bunt? It tells you a lot about the match-up.
TC: Among his many accolades, he was the first pitcher in history to save 20 games in consecutive years and also struck out 181 batters in 157 innings in 1964, did he ever speak of the change of the modern day reliever?
Leigh: I think if there was anything in particular it would have been that his career would have been extended. Johnny Pesky will tell you that he wore my father out pitching him seven consecutive days. At one point he set the American League record for appearances and these weren’t one inning stints.
It was part of the evolution of the reliever and it certainly is less stressful for a “closer” today than what my father did. Although, without the innings he did pitch, he would not own the record for strikeouts in a season by a relief pitcher nor would he have become the legend that he did if he didn’t pitch at that point in baseball history.
TC: Do you ever hear from any of his former teammates?
Leigh: We are fortunate to still be in touch with many of my Dad’s former teammates and baseball friends.
TC: What is the family doing these days? Where do they live?
Leigh: My brother, Dick Radatz, Jr., is the President and Co-founder of the Northwoods League, a summer baseball league for college-level players based in Rochester, Minnesota, consisting of 16 teams located in the Midwest and Canada. After living in Boston and it’s suburbs and working in the incredible Boston hospitals for 25 years, I recently moved back to the Detroit Metro area, where we grew up after my Dad was out of baseball. My Mom lives here to this day. My younger sister, Kristine, is married with two children and also lives in metro-Detroit. We are all huge sports fans.
TC: Despite being a Detroit native, did Dad consider himself a Red Sox and a Bostonian?
Leigh: Well, my Dad was born and raised in Detroit and it’s suburbs. He was a Michigan State grad and loved, loved, loved Michigan. But his professional baseball success came in Boston so it held a special place in his heart as he left his mentor, Johnny Pesky, when he was traded, as well as, so many others instrumental early in his career.
He moved back to the Boston area in 1984 and certainly considered himself mainly a Red Sox and an ‘adopted’ Bostonian. He loved it in Boston, but always spoke of returning to his beloved Michigan.
TC: What did it mean to him to be elected into the Sox HOF?
Leigh: I think it meant the world to him to be elected to the Sox Hall of Fame. He knew he wasn’t going to Cooperstown, due to the length of his career, so this was the next best thing. It was a wonderful night when he was inducted.
TC: Share with us his thoughts of the ’63 All-Star game and the Sox finally winning in 2004.
Leigh: Now he was really pumped up for that one. Dad was the first reliever in an All-Star game, chosen by Yankee Manager Ralph Houk. It showed in his performance. He said the electricity in Cleveland, with the large crowd, added about six inches to his fastball. Striking out Mays, McCovey, Snider, Javier and Groat was quite a feat.
I was with my Dad the moment the Sox finally won it in 2004. We were at his house watching it on his big screen TV and I just looked at my Dad and said, “Dad, the Sox just won the World Series”. He was melancholy and replied, “My old team….”
I took a picture of him a minute or so later so I could capture the look on his face. It was joyful.
TC: What was the greatest Father’s Day gift you ever gave him?
Leigh: While it’s hard to remember specific gifts, one Father’s Day around ’91 or ’92, his Cleveland Indians teammate Gary Bell was in town and I had a BBQ for family and some friends in my backyard in Brighton, MA. I had pulled out some old pictures of my father when he was a young boy dressed in all sorts of military uniforms He loved to reminisce and we all had a blast (especially, Gary Bell!) laughing with him viewing the pics of himself as a little boy parading around so proud of himself!
TC: And finally, Leigh, what is your greatest all-time Dick Radatz memory?
Leigh: There are many, of course. I’ll share this one. As with most kids and their parents, getting one-on-one time was always too infrequent and once achieved, it was cherished. Around ’87 or ’88, we were at Fenway to watch my Dad participate in a Red Sox Old Timer’s game and other festivities. Afterward, we were all upstairs in the Red Sox box suite at Fenway with other players and their families.
I remember meeting legendary pitcher Don Drysdale while there that day. But it was a moment with my Dad in the middle of the gathering and the noise where he put his arm around me and asked quietly, “Are you having a good time, Sweetheart?” I felt like he and I were the only ones in the room and it eclipsed all else that day. As a daughter, it was always special to be a part of my Dad’s baseball “world”.
Todd Civin is a freelance writer who writes for Bleacher Report and Sports, Then and Now, he can be reached for hire or comment at toddcivin1@aim.com. He performs publicity duties for the Father/Son Marathon team, Team Hoyt, and major league baseball pitcher, Jason Grilli.
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California’s upcoming gubernatorial election is about as bleak as the state’s financial funk. It’s time we made a change.
This state deserves a governor we can believe in, someone who knows how to convince the public of even the most obvious lies and keep a straight face while delivering them.
Someone like Mike Scioscia.
The manager of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim is the perfect candidate to be California’s next governor. In the first place, it’s not as if he’s got any real competition from the rest of the so-called political candidates out there.
On the right, two miserable shills are locked in a heated battle to convince voters that each is slightly less liberal than the other. One Republican candidate, former eBay CEO Meg Whitman, claims she wants to simultaneously cut spending and fix the education system.
Because those ideas aren’t mutually exclusive or anything.
On the left, lone Democratic candidate Jerry Brown has been so invisible in the campaign that the only time his name is mentioned is in Republican attack ads. Pathetic.
Scioscia, on the other hand, has all the earmarks of a successful politician. He is a highly recognizable figure, a man who is in the public eye on a nightly basis and can handle the press with effortless style.
Not to mention, he has the uncanny ability to don a warm smile and deliver a blatant fabrication. Perhaps his greatest political asset.
Take this week, for instance. On Tuesday, Scioscia’s Angels sat a precarious 4 ½ games back of the division-leading Texas Rangers, who just happened to stop by for a highly anticipated three-game series.
To everyone else, both on and off the field, this series looked like kind of a big deal. But not Sosh.
“This season, this division, isn’t won or lost right now,” he said, without so much as a hint of sarcasm. “You have to keep hopefully playing good baseball and moving forward. We know [the Rangers] are a good team, we know what our capabilities are.”
Brilliant. In one swift turn of phrase, Scioscia managed to take a completely irrelevant fact—that the season does not hinge on one series played in June—and make it the centerpiece of his answer.
Of course this series won’t ultimately decide the future of the Angels’ season, or the Rangers’ for that matter. But it could very well be the turning point in the season for these two teams.
The Angels were swept in a brief two-game set in Texas back in May and have taken a few steps backward in the division with the Rangers’ recent surge, despite L.A.’s improved performance. Although that’s not the term Scioscia would use.
“I don’t know, improved seems to me there’s a lot of changes,” Scioscia said. “There haven’t been a lot of changes other than obviously Kendry’s not going to be able to play.
“I think from top to bottom, we are playing at a higher level, and I think that’s more indicative of what we feel the talent-level is on our team than I think when we saw these guys last month.”
It’s true, guys like Kevin Frandsen and Howie Kendrick did a lot to carry the Angels to an 18-9 record in the month of June, with series victories over teams like Seattle, Oakland, Los Angeles, and Colorado.
The key now will be to carry over that success into a tough July schedule that includes New York, Boston, and yes, Texas.
If they want to have any confidence whatsoever going forward this month and this season, the Angels need a series victory here at home against their division-leading Rangers.
The series is not going to make or break the year, but it will set the tone for future encounters between the two teams.
Unless you talk to Scioscia, who will tell you this is “no bigger than any other game or series you’re going to have during the season.”
Right. And the plan to fix the education system in California will in no way be hindered by proposed massive spending cuts.
Meg Whitman, you don’t stand a chance.
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It is every young boy’s dream to become a professional athlete when he gets older. For me, it was baseball.
Baseball wasn’t merely a game or a sport that I idolized; it was a lifestyle and passion. My every thought, action, and breath involved the innocent bliss that baseball offered.
I loved the sound of the bat connecting with the ball, the smell of the freshly cut grass, and the feel of lathering up a new baseball, getting ready to throw a pitch.
For me, baseball was my paradise, my escape, and the foundation of my biggest dreams.
At my elementary school graduation, we were told to write down what we aspired to be when we got older. Most boys my age said an athlete. I tried to hide my desire and said pediatrician, but who was I kidding? Secretly, I didn’t even know what a pediatrician was. I, too, wanted to be an athlete.
Not just an athlete, but a professional baseball player.
I wanted to hear my name announced as I walked to the plate in front of a sold-out stadium. I wanted to connect on a fastball and line it into the gap, taking a wide turn around first and sliding into second, popping up to see the umpire signal me safe. I wanted to hit a towering home run and be greeted by my teammates at home plate to celebrate a walk-off victory.
Growing up, we all had these dreams of one day having that chance to play in the big leagues. A 2003 study by the New Jersey Institute of Technology reported that for every 500,000 males in the world, one will successfully play baseball professionally. In comparison, a person has 1:6,250 odds of being struck by lightning in his or her lifetime.
Yes, it’s that difficult to live out these dreams.
But all that we dreamers can ask for is a shot, and on June 16, 2010, my shot came…
Who knew, though, that my call would come more than five years after I hung up my spikes and sold all of my gear away—literally.
The Call
In April, while searching for a summer internship, I came across the Cheyenne Grizzlies, a team that played in a summer collegiate baseball league across southern Wyoming and northern Colorado. With a major interest in media and writing, and still holding on to my love for baseball, it seemed like the perfect fit. I would get real-world experience in my desired field while still being part of the game I loved.
I was talking with owner Ron Kailey and was ready to accept the position when he threw a curveball at me.
“There are lots of great stories you could write for us. For example, there’s a tryout this summer with scouts for the Colorado Rockies. I think it would be a fun story for you to write about the tryout process.”
Seeing a real professional tryout? Sign me up!
“Actually,” Ron continued, “what would be real neat is if you tried out with the players and wrote about the experience of trying out.”
I almost dropped the phone in shock. I assume Ron must have thought he was getting a bad signal because I fell silent. Finally, I told him what an opportunity that was and that I was in.
The Preparation
Nine months out of the year I’m a student at Colorado State University, studying journalism. But once final exams were complete and summer break was officially under way, I got my priorities straight. Throw the books out the window—I had to get ready for my professional tryout.
I was getting the opportunity to do something that so many men dream of but so few get to actually experience. As Grizzlies outfielder K.C. Judge said after the tryout, “Unless you get drafted, no one gets to experience trying out in front of professional scouts.”
So since the opportunity arose for me, I was going to take full advantage of it. What’s that saying? Grab the bull by its horns? Forget the story I was instructed to write—I was determined to try out and make the squad.
So I called up my old baseball coach and mentor, Leighton Thorne. I told him about what I was doing, and I’m sure, deep down, he wanted to laugh at me. Even my mom laughed at me every time I talked about the tryout. But Leighton was kind enough not to let it show. He also kindly agreed to work with me on my swing to get it back to where it was during my prime. You know, when I was 15 years old.
So for three weeks leading up to the tryout, I went over to Leighton’s house to hit in his batting cage.
That’s where I hit my first detour.
I showed up for my first hitting lesson on May 27. He greeted me and told me to grab my bat and follow him over to a screen where we were going to do some soft toss drills. He took one look at my bat and looked at me peculiarly.
“It’s the only bat I still have,” I mumbled to him. “I sold the rest of my gear.”
Leighton went back into his garage and brought out a couple adult-sized Akadema wood bats. He had me swing a few and see which one felt best. I found one I liked and tossed my 29-inch Louisville Slugger youth bat to the curb.
The first detour was solved, at least the bat part of it (I still needed the rest of my gear), and I was ready to start swinging.
That lasted about three swings before Leighton told me to sit down with him, and we spent the next half hour or so talking about the basic fundamentals of hitting. He reminded me of things once engraved in my memory. Things like the positioning of my feet and the movement of my hands during my load; he reminded me to swing through the ball and keep my swing short.
With each hitting lesson, things started coming back to me, and my swing became more and more comfortable.
We worked on pitch sequences and off-speed pitches, hitting the ball to the opposite field and tracking the seams from the pitcher’s hand.
By my final lesson, I was even hitting line drives back to the L-screen on occasion rather than being laughed at by the 10-year-old kid who had a lesson after me.
I owe a lot of my baseball success, both during my playing days and leading up to my tryout, to Leighton. He is an incredible coach, but also has been influential in my life.
The Preparation, Part Two
I mentioned above that Leighton let me use his bat (two, actually; he jammed me and I cracked the first one). But I still needed the rest of the gear that I had gotten rid of after my playing days were finished (or so I thought).
My mom is a school teacher, and one of her teaching partner’s sons plays college ball in Nebraska. She casually mentioned the tryout to her one day, and a few days later, Sandy had brought me Bryan’s old cleats. Sure, they were his football cleats, but they were cleats nonetheless. Again a few weeks later, Sandy came back in with a pair of Bryan’s baseball pants.
As each day passed, I was beginning to look more like a true baseball player.
After my first hitting lesson, I went to Sports Authority and got myself a pair of batting gloves. Batting gloves were never an essential I used back in the day, but that big blister on the inside of my thumb that was beginning to bleed didn’t make me think twice this go-around.
The day before the tryout I went back to Sports Authority and got the remaining needs.
I picked up a couple wood bats as backups in case my other bat broke during the tryout. I purchased a pair of baseball socks so I could wear them like stirrups as players used to do. I even had to pick up a new protective cup, for goodness sake. I know some players can go without this piece of equipment, but when you don’t know what you’re doing out there, like me, you don’t take any chances.
I still didn’t have a baseball bag, but I figured I could do without that. I had all my gear and was set for the tryout.
The Glory Years
Before I go any further, I think it’s imperative to explain that I haven’t always been such a baseball slouch. I began playing T-ball at the ripe age of six and played for more than a decade before throwing in the towel my sophomore year of high school.
During my career, I played competitive baseball at the highest level possible all throughout Little League. One year, I was the No. 1 pick in the city of Fort Collins for my age group, and the last year I played, I laid down a bunt that scored the game-winning run of the state championship.
I played at a school that has won four consecutive Colorado high school state championships and have batted alongside players who now play ball at schools like Southern California, Stanford, Nebraska, and Kentucky. A couple former teammates have even been selected in the Major League Baseball draft.
But who was I kidding? I was past my prime.
The Big Day
The night before, I got to bed by 10 o’clock sharp. It’s something I haven’t done in three years of college, but since I had an early tryout and a big day ahead of me, I figured sleep was important.
So much for that idea, though. I was like a little kid again on Christmas Eve, not being able to sleep because I was anxious about the next day.
I’m not sure how much sleep I actually accumulated, but the blaring sound of my alarm woke me up promptly at 3:30 a.m. Yes, 3:30 in the morning. We were meeting in Cheyenne at 5:30, and with me living an hour away, I still had to make the morning commute.
I set two alarms and seven reminders on my phone to make sure there was no way I missed this day. The first alert was the only one I needed to get me out of bed, though. I was exhausted but eager at the same time.
Putting on my gear that morning brought back memories—memories of being up early for weekend tournaments, sitting on my floor as I pulled my socks up and threaded my belt through the loops of my pants. Polishing my cleats and adjusting my cap. I even considered the notion of sleeping with my bat like I used to do from time to time.
I stopped shaving for a week and a half leading up to the tryout—although I had little to show for it—to try to hide my baby face and “look the part” of a big leaguer. I looked at myself in the mirror and figured it was now or never.
I walked downstairs and poured myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. Only today, I pretended like those Cheerios were Wheaties, “The Breakfast of Champions.”
My mom always talks about renovations she wants done to the house and yard—things like building a deck or adding more hardwood floor. Before I left the house, I told her not to worry, that I’d be back with a contract in hand and a signing bonus in my pocket.
This was my one shot, my 15 minutes of fame (more like embarrassment). I wasn’t going to let being cut from my jayvee baseball team and not swinging a bat for more than five years (besides that yellow, plastic wiffleball bat in the backyard with friends on summer evenings) stop me from becoming a Major League Baseball player.
The Drive
4:34 a.m. I start up my car and head out onto the dark, lonely streets. The streetlights are still flashing, and hardly a single car is on the road. I listen to the radio as the deejay voices, “This is after midnight on K99.”
The normally dull drive from Fort Collins to Cheyenne is a bit more exciting in anticipation of seeing the sun rise, but unfortunately, I make it to Cheyenne before the sun actually rises. In the 46-mile stretch of highway, I see a mere eight other cars driving north on Interstate 25. Oh yeah, and a fox.
5:23 a.m. I arrive at Pioneer Park only behind Stephon Parker (he must be a morning person). At 5:35 the third person arrives, and moments after the cars start piling in.
5:55 a.m. The three team vans are packed and ready to go. We hop in and are off to Casper, a 178-mile road trip along I-25.
6:10 a.m. The ride is pretty quiet. We see a sign that reads, “Casper, 170 miles,” and I realize it’s going to be a long drive.
6:59 a.m. We stop for gas in Wheatland, and several players go inside the gas station to pick up breakfast. They come out with muffins, breakfast sandwiches, and energy drinks. I bet they wish they had the “Breakfast of Champions” like I did.
7:14 a.m. The ride starts to liven up as the team talks about coach Luke Wetmore’s coffee addiction, and they start playing a hunting game, pretending to shoot deer as we pass by open fields and grasslands.
7:41 a.m. At this point, the hunting game is in full swing, and I’m pretty sure pitcher Ryan Schwenn has the lead. Josh Boyer fires at a false target and loses two points.
8:12 a.m. The deer hunting game is still going strong and has now expanded from shooting deer only to deer and hawks.
8:33 a.m. We reach the top of a hill and can see the city of Casper out the front windshield. It’s at this point that I realize that my dreams are becoming actuality. I start to think about the scenario and realize this would be one heck of a Hollywood movie: a kid goes from being cut from his jayvee baseball team and being out of the game for five years without any gear to trying out in front of professional scouts and getting signed.
Disney loves these types of feel-good movies. I needed to get them on a flight to Casper immediately so they could document this.
8:44 a.m. We take exit 188B and are moments away from Mike Lansing Field, home of the Rookie-level Casper Ghosts, a minor league affiliate of the Colorado Rockies. I’m surprised to realize that not once during the nearly three-hour drive was the tryout mentioned. That’s all that was consuming my thoughts during the car ride, but the players didn’t seem a bit nervous about what was about to take place.
“I think part of it was being tired,” Schwenn said afterward. “Also, I was going out there knowing that I’m the player I am and I’m not going to try to fake that. There’s no need to be nervous; all I can do is go out there and be me.”
Judge added, “I was nervous up until the day before. But then I realized that this is a game I’ve been playing my whole life. I can’t let who is on the field with me change how I approach it.”
Still, I was eager to learn more about the structure of the tryout, but I didn’t dare be the first to bring it up.
The Rookie
We unloaded the vans and started walking toward the registration tables. My stomach began to turn when Taylor Fallon turned to me and asked if I was excited.
I told him I was, but that I was going to make a fool out of myself.
“Don’t be so sure. Haven’t you ever seen The Rookie?”
I had seen the movie, which portrays a true story of a former minor league baseball player who has to give up on his dream of playing professionally when an arm injury arises. Twelve years later, he makes a bet with the high school team he coaches that if the team wins districts, he’ll go to a professional tryout.
As I proceeded to the registration table, it got me thinking, Maybe this dream of mine is possible…
The Tryout
Ron gave me the signal that I was checked in and good to go. I approached the field and paused in admiration as I looked out at the diamond. The grass so plush, the dirt perfectly raked. I took my first step onto the field and was drawn back, realizing I was about to play on a minor league baseball field. I set my gear down on the visiting dugout bench and took a couple of deep breaths, fully absorbing the moment.
I laced up my cleats and grabbed my glove to start warming up and getting loose. I spent the next 15 minutes or so stretching, lightly throwing and adjusting my uniform to make sure I looked good.
I was interrupted by the voice of one of the scouts.
Quickly, the 56 tryout hopefuls and I formed a semicircle around him. I made sure to get near the front where I could see and also be seen.
“Welcome to Mike Lansing Field, the baseball stadium of the Casper Ghosts. Today you will have the opportunity to compete in front of us, and we will have the opportunity to evaluate you. Before each drill, I want you to yell out the number that was assigned to you at check-in so we know who you are. Let’s have some fun, and good luck.”
Part One: The first station was running the 60-yard dash. As I mentioned before, I haven’t always been a slum when it comes to baseball. When I was 11 years old, I was the team’s leadoff hitter, many games trying to get the game started with a drag bunt. That year I led my team in bunts for hits, triples, and was among the team leaders in stolen bases.
Since then, however, I have been a hazard on the basepaths, and running has been a hazard to my health.
I stood in one of the three lines along the left-field foul line of the outfield grass as thoughts raced through my head, desperately trying to remember advice on good form to run faster. I needed it quickly. The line kept moving, and I kept thinking, but nothing came back to me besides keeping my head down.
I looked up and realized no one was standing in front of me anymore.
I took a couple steps forward and placed my right foot on the white line, called out my tryout number, “Media 1,” and waited for the scout to wave his hat down, signaling go. I was in the far right line and looked at who my competition would be. I lucked out, running against two other media members, both older than me and in much worse shape than I was.
The scout’s arm lowered down in a brisk motion, and I was off, careful not to slip and fall.
I got out to an early lead and never looked back, racing past the finish line to a tune of 7.8 seconds.
A good time? Absolutely not. But hey, I beat both of my competitors, so at least I looked kind of fast.
Part Two: At this point, we were split up into three groups: pitchers, infielders, and outfielders.
I wanted to pitch, but considering I spent the last month working on my hitting, I needed to make sure pitchers were allowed to hit.
“Yeah, we’ll let pitchers take BP,” Butch Hughes, one of the Rockies scouts said to me.
I lined up in foul territory near the visiting dugout with the rest of the pitchers, and we watched the outfielders get critiqued.
They were placed in right field and given the chance to showcase their fielding and arm strength. One of the scouts would hit three balls, the first a fly ball, the second a roller, and the third a ball the fielder had to chase down in the gap. Outfielders were instructed to throw to third base, allowing the scouts to evaluate their throws across the entire field.
The tasks performed by the infielders were similar. The players stood at shortstop and received four ground balls. One was a grounder to the fielder, one was to the fielder’s forehand side, another to his backhand, and the last a slow roller he had to run in on and throw to first off-balance.
I then went with the pitchers to warm up in the outfield and off the visitor’s bullpen mound before moving to the Casper bullpen to get clocked and critiqued. We were told beforehand that the scouts would be grading us based on our speed and off-speed pitches.
Perfect, I thought to myself.
I always considered myself a decent pitcher. Not to sound cocky, because I wasn’t a star or anything, but pitching was my strength growing up.
The thing was, though, I never threw hard. I was probably the softest-throwing pitcher on all of my teams, but I had the accuracy and pitch location to fool hitters, especially when they brought me in to relieve a hard-throwing starter.
But now that they were telling me they were looking for speed (something I’ve never had) and off-speed pitches (something I barely learned considering I gave up on the game shortly after curveballs were deemed acceptable for my age), I knew pitching would no longer be my strength.
I stayed positive, though, thinking this would be just another roadblock in the script of my Hollywood movie. Now, not only was I out of the game for five years without any gear, but I also threw two-thirds the speed of the rest of the competition. I was convinced this story would win an Oscar and inspire thousands of youths all across the nation.
My turn to warm up on the visitor’s mound had arrived. I don’t remember how many pitches I threw, but it wasn’t many. I figured throwing an additional five or six pitches wouldn’t exactly give me an extra 10 mph of velocity or add an additional six inches of break to my curve by the time I relocated to the scouts.
I was ready to move on to the real deal.
I jogged over to the mound (my coach always taught me to hustle, and I figured this was an appropriate time to run, showing the scouts I had good work ethic and was eager to begin) and approached the pitching scout.
Trying to hide my heavy breathing from running across the field, I introduced myself. He didn’t seem too interested in knowing who I was, though. Or maybe he noticed my scrawny 170-pound frame and had already written me off. Either way, he proceeded to tell me to begin throwing.
“Just throw?” I asked. “Throw my fastball or what?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Throw. I’ll tell you when to switch it up to your off-speed stuff.”
So I did just that: I threw. I threw like I always did, not trying to overpower the pitches but instead focusing on my control and pitch location.
The first pitch was in there for a strike.
Hey, I thought to myself, I’ve still got it.
Pitch Two was also in there, and I was feeling pretty good about myself. Maybe this dream of mine wasn’t so far-fetched after all.
I continued to throw and continued to be impressed by the fact that I was throwing strikes after pitching off a mound for the first time in a half-decade.
Sure I had played catch with friends since then, but never throwing off an elevated mound or to my full ability.
The scout had me switch to my curveball, where I threw two pitches with poor movement and poor location, before he told me to finish up by throwing two fastballs.
The last two were in there for strikes, and according to my strike zone, I threw 11 of 15 pitches for strikes.
I shook the scout’s hand as he told me, “Good job,” and I proceeded to the man holding the radar gun.
I don’t think he was supposed to tell me how hard I threw, but since I told him I was writing a story about my experience, he cycled back through the gun’s readings and looked at me, saying, “73.”
73 mph?
OK, who cares if that’s 20 mph less than what they’re looking for? I figured I never threw harder than mid-60s during my playing days and that after collecting rust on my arm for the past five years, I’d be lucky to make it the full 60 feet, six inches from the rubber to home plate.
But 73 mph? Maybe it was purely the adrenaline pumping through my body, but consider my day a success, so far.
Part Three: It was time for the area I had prepared for most, but the same area I knew I would have the most trouble with. It doesn’t matter how much you practice—either you can hit a 90 mph fastball or you can’t.
Hitting a baseball is no easy feat, and not everyone can do it. I guess that’s why the best hitters fail 70 percent of the time.
Each hitter saw around 10 pitches, but it really depended on what the scouts were seeing in you and how quickly they wanted you to get out of the cage. Some guys were told to stay in there and swing the bat a few more times, giving the scouts more time to evaluate them.
I wasn’t asked to perform an encore, though. I had to settle for 10 pitches.
I walked to home plate more nervous than at any other point of the tryout. This is the area where I envisioned myself getting sawed off on the first pitch and shattering my bat. Or never adjusting to the speed and whiffing on all of my pitches.
Pffffffft.
Before I knew it, the first ball came firing out of the pitching machine and sped toward me.
I started to load my hands back, tracked the ball all the way in, and pulled the trigger on the bat toward the ball.
Crack.
I looked up and was pleasantly surprised to see the ball tailing down the left-field line into the grass. Assuming there would be a shift on me since I’m a left-handed hitter, I figured the drive would be good enough for a double in an actual game.
Not a bad start at all.
It took me several pitches to adjust to the speed, though, as I was late on the second and third pitches, fouling them up into the screen. I was again late on Pitch Four, but I put it in play, grounding out to the shortstop position.
Looking back, this was the time where I needed to step out of the box and take a deep breath. I needed to relax and think about some of the things my coach had been telling me. Things like keeping my hands loose and getting them going early.
Everything went so quickly, though. I never stepped foot out of the box. I’m not even sure if I took a breath during the entire sequence. I barely had time to push my helmet up, which was too big on my head, after each pitch so the bill wasn’t covering my eyes. I was so tense my knuckles were probably white from gripping the bat so tight.
By Pitch Five I started to get my timing down, lining the ball to right field for a base hit. I hit another grounder and a foul tip before singling up the middle for my third solid hit.
Pitch Nine was a swing and a miss, which gave me one last chance to put the ball in play. I was determined to finish on a strong note but instead grounded out to first base.
Just like pitching, though, I was pleasantly surprised by my performance in the cage, hitting better than I thought I would. But no power means no interest.
The Waiting Game
I talked with Hughes after the tryout about what he saw and what he and the other scouts were looking for.
“A misconception I think a lot of players have is that they will walk out of the tryout and be handed a contract,” Hughes said. “It’s more of a chance for scouts to see the players, and if they like what they see, get them on the radar and make sure a scout is out there evaluating them.”
Hughes also made it clear that the purpose of the tryout wasn’t to sign a certain number of players, but instead to see what type of competition is out there.
“It’s not that we don’t have enough players in the organization,” he said. “We’re just always looking to upgrade. The things you look for in these tryouts are how fast the young man can run and we look at his arm and we look for power. Those are the tools that we look for.
“You never know where you can find somebody. We have a philosophy of bringing kids in and seeing how they can do. There’s a kid right now in Triple-A, his name is (Nick) Bierbrodt, and we signed him out of our tryout during spring training. I expect him to get to the big leagues.”
Still, the chances of getting picked up are very slim, and it was at this point that I came to full realization and acceptance of the fact that my baseball career was done, for real this time.
I guess there would be no fairy-tale ending to this story.
Back to Reality
The Grizzlies played the Ghosts that evening in an exhibition game that gave the Cheyenne players an opportunity to compete against professional competition. Once we arrived back in Cheyenne, it was past midnight, and I still had the hour drive back to Fort Collins.
I got back on to I-25, this time to make the trip home, but found the drive eerily similar. Again, the sun had set behind the mountains and the streetlights were flashing. There were a total of four other cars visible along I-25 South as I came home, and on the radio the voice of the deejay still rang, “It’s after midnight on K99.”
I woke up Thursday morning with my legs brutally beaten from the tryout the day before. I walked into my bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror once more, this time without my baseball gear on and the optimism within me.
I shaved away my scruff, ridding myself of the baseball identity I tried to restore in me, and walked downstairs. There, I grabbed a bowl, spoon, carton of milk, and a box of cereal and sat down to enjoy a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios—this time just plain old Honey Nut Cheerios. No “Breakfast of Champions” today.
I ate my breakfast realizing there would be no big contracts—in a few hours I would be back to my regular job, making regular (more like no) pay. There would be no bus rides across the country. No early morning wake-up calls to button up my jersey for a big game. No signing autographs for eager fans or playing in front of packed stadiums.
I would never hear the sweet noise of my metal cleats hitting the cement as I walked up the dugout steps or feel the power in my hands as the barrel of my bat connected with a low-and-inside fastball.
My fairy-tale ride was over.
Instead, I was left with the chance to check something off my bucket list that not many others can say they have accomplished. I got back into the game that I had loved so much growing up. I never thought I’d miss it so much after being burned out of it when I left the game.
I played in a beautiful stadium and got to watch minor league baseball players practice and play all day. I spent the day playing the game I loved and got to shag fly balls in the outfield as players hit, just like I see before professional games. I was given the chance to be a kid again and was reminded not to give up on my dreams.
I wasn’t given a contract or signing bonus, but was left with a memory and experience that I’ll tell the rest of my life.
I guess there was a fairy-tale ending to my story after all.
To read more about the tryout and game against the Casper Ghosts, click here.
This was part two of Nic Knows, a weekly series that gives fans a behind-the-scenes look at different aspects of the Cheyenne Grizzlies organization. From the sights and sounds of a game inside the dugout to traveling with the team on a road trip, from the role of the grounds crew to what it takes to try out for the big leagues, fans will feel so close it’s like they’re actually with the team.
Read more MLB news on BleacherReport.com
In case you have been living under a rock the past week, you’ve missed perhaps one of the most iconic events in all of Major League Baseball.
The eve that saw Ken Griffey Jr. say goodbye to baseball for good, also brought about a new wave of controversy as veteran World Series umpire Jim Joyce made a horrendous call that cost near-perfect game pitcher Armando Galaragga immortality.
As a fan who has witnessed just about everything in the world of sports, this one stands out as the most odd, and by far the most disappointing.
However, aside from the endless criticism that I could place on Jim Joyce’s shoulders, perhaps some form of positive relief could come from Bud Selig, and provide a light toward the future of Major League Baseball.
Prior to this travesty of an incident, I tuned into the St. Louis Cardinals vs. Cincinnati Reds game after witnessing the Chicago Blackhawks try to win on the road against the Philadelphia Flyers in the Stanley Cup Finals, and unfortunately I instantly had a feeling of deja vu.
For once, this wasn’t a good feeling of deja vu, as I had just watched a near goal be disallowed due to the use of instant replay, which has so fittingly helped the NHL in recent months.
Perhaps it was a day that was meant to be, or perhaps it was God’s little way of telling baseball fans that the time has come for America’s pastime to fit in with the new ways of modern technology, and alter the game to provide a little justice and help out future young players who find themselves in Galaragga’s position.
Whichever it may be, Bud Selig has some serious thinking to do. Now I’m not talking about the typical style of thinking that features a sports commissioner stepping in front of the media and flashing bulbs and stating that “We are currently reviewing what has happened.”
No, I’m talking about action thinking, as it is time that Bud Selig convinced baseball fans worldwide that this league is intent on doing what is right.
As a fan of the game for many years, it is high tide that necessary precautions were taken to avoid this silly little incident. In an era that is labelled as “steroid riddled,” this type of injustice only further digs Major League Baseball a deeper grave to climb out of.
Therefore, is it reasonable for fans to feel a little robbed out of a record breaking three perfect games in the span of nearly a month?
Of course, however, it is also reasonable to feel that as loyal fans of the game we have also been robbed of what is right, and instead been treated to a “royal screw job” of not only an historic event, but also the rights to say “I witnessed that very moment.”
With all of this said, I will go against the grain a little here and give Jim Joyce some form of credit. It is never easy to undergo such media scrutiny, and through it all he he has recognized the unbelievable mistake he has made, and has also apologized in person.
Major League Baseball is classy, I’ll give it that. Both victims were humble when talking to the media, and although the fans have every right to feel a little cheated, to go as far as stating that “Jim Joyce should be thrown out of baseball” is a little hasty.
The man is only human for goodness sake, and like my Mom always says, “Everyone makes mistakes every now and then.”
Unfortunately for Major League Baseball, even Oldenburg’s giant pencil couldn’t erase this mistake.
It is a dark day in baseball, but it does act as a rude awakening. It’s time to get with the times, step up, and offer the fans an instant replay system that avoids tragedies such as these.
This is by far no time to “rejoyce,” and Jim Joyce’s perfectly flawed call has already earned itself a spot in the all time blunders in the history of sport.
Like the old saying goes though, “Everything that goes up, must come down.” Baseball has enjoyed its glory years, and now the descent is beginning.
Will an instant replay system change this? We won’t let Jim Joyce make the call, but it definitely would convince many fans that the league has the right intentions.
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