Before I hit the pillow each night, I look forward to my breakfast with great anticipation. Occasionally I find myself awakening, wishing I was able to speed the world’s clock up. I can’t wait to throw my robe on, march downstairs and crack open my eggs – six to eight of them, depending on my hunger and activity level for the day. The eggs alone are worth my early rise, but they have companionship in mushrooms, elevating my meal from a 9 to a 10.
You know how I feel about avoiding over the counter medicine in favor of whole food consumption; here’s some love for the mushroom from SFGate:
Beta-glucan in mushrooms provides protection against colds, flu and other viruses. The reishi mushroom was found to improve recovery time in herpes…by interfering with attachment of viruses to host cells…Shiitake, portobello, oyster and reishi mushrooms contain a polysaccharide molecule called lentinan that stimulates production of interferon, which stimulates the immune system.
I don’t discriminate when it comes to my fungi. If I’m in the mood for a firm bite, I select some baby bellas. For a softer, chewier experience, I grab a handful of oyster mushrooms. The rich, smoky flavor of the shiitake needs no accompaniment but mixes well with my eggs.
I’m not exaggerating; I’ll eat any type. They all have unique properties and health benefits. Each varietal strikes a different note on the palate, whether nutty, smoky or savory.
I dig my mushrooms cooked. This is the one veggie that I prefer heated over raw. The pan seems to draw out the most intense flavors. From health.com:
Heating mushrooms—whether you sauté, boil, grill, or roast them—brings out more muscle-building potassium.
Mushrooms are a tremendous source of B vitamins and essential minerals. Calorically, you’re knocking back about 20-35 per cup, so counters can enjoy guilt-free.
My breakfast couldn’t be easier to prepare. I’ll fire up a pan, start with about half a tablespoon of butter from grass-fed cows and 2 cups (or more) of organic mushrooms. I season them with sea salt and black pepper and cook on medium/high heat for about three minutes before pouring in my whole eggs. I then scramble as usual.
Let me know how you’re incorporating mushrooms into your daily diet.
Ali Farka Touré (October 31, 1939 – March 7, 2006) is my favorite (musical) artist. I can say that with complete certainty.
If you’re reading this blog, you’re likely two things. One, a music lover and two, a conversationalist.
As both of those things myself, I’ve been stumped by the question, “Who is your favorite artist?” I’m certain you have too. The question is kind of bullshit, frankly. We all lean on different artists in different moods. We might be feeling Robert Johnson while relaxing in a hammock or Skrillex while deadlifting. Maybe Mozart when slicing into a steak. Driving through Echo Park on a Sunday afternoon might inspire Mr. Shadow. Or…well, you get it. The point is, it’s always been impossible to choose.
Until this morning.
As I type, I’m absorbing breathtaking Touré guitar. If I had to choose a genre to listen to for the rest of my life, it would be Blues.
It was a prescient choice as today Toure is known as the Bluesman of Africa because of his highly distinctive blues style that’s a cross-mix of the Arabic-influenced Malian sound with American blues reminicent of bluesmen such as John Lee Hooker, Lightnin’ Hopkins, and Big Joe Williams. He most commonly tours with his brother on calabash, and cousin on congas.
I’ve written about John Lee Hooker around here before, and I get the comparison, but the two are way more different that they are similar. JLH’s voice is deep and earthy. It’s rich, but it’s fairly monotone. Touré’s voice is more layered. His tones are ever changing and complex. His music is transportive. Fuck. I want a campfire, a tent and a beard…now. Sleeping under the stars in the Timbuktu desert.
Listen to this
and tell me you don’t want to rest here tonight.
The ultimate test of an artist is how many moments they cover for you. No matter my activity, Touré provides a strong soundtrack. From this day forward, I have my answer.
Your turn. Who is yours? Take some time, think it through and go. You get one choice.
Many of the high school baseball players drafted to play professionally perceive an immediate decision. They must choose to either sign and play or return to school to pursue a degree in college. They have no idea the education the minor leagues provide. Chase Lambin does. He riffs in his own way below in a powerful guest post.
When I was a kid, I dreamed of playing baseball under the lights. What I never dreamed of is what I would do the day I decided to hang it up. After nearly 1,400 games in the minor leagues, I wrote the following letter to my friends, family and teammates. I wanted to give one more thanks to all the people who helped me along the way and to express my gratitude for all the experiences the game provided me. Little did I know it would provide me with the perspective, foresight and strength I needed in order to pursue my next career.
“Hangin Em Up”
As the old adage says, “All good things must come to an end.” Well, after 1,363 games, 5,149 plate appearances, and 1,191 hits, I have made the decision to hang up my cleats and retire from playing professional baseball.
Many an ex-teammate has said to me after their retirement, “Ride it till the wheels fall off Chase. Because once it’s over, it’s over.” Well I listened. My wheels may not be completely off, but there are a lot of miles on these tires, and they are running pretty low. My body just doesn’t do what it used to do. I’ve always said that if I couldn’t play to the level I’m accustomed to, then it was time to walk away. And I’m okay with it. I’m more than okay with it. I have been BLESSED beyond measure. My cup has runneth over with good times and good fortune. I have chased the coolest of dreams for the past 13 years, allowing me to travel the world, meet the most amazing cast of characters you could ever imagine, and push my mind and body to levels that most people could only dream of.
I can honestly say that I played, prepared, and competed as hard as I possibly could have. I always respected the game and tried to have as much fun as possible. (Even when the game kicked me in the guts, and God knows how many times this game has brought me to my knees.) I got back up every time I was knocked down, and will be able to look my two beautiful children in the eye one day and say, “Dada never gave in, and Dada never gave up.” I can look in the mirror and know that I played the game the right way, leaving it all on the field, and have zero regrets.
Although I will dearly miss squaring up a 95 mph fastball or making a diving play, what I will miss more are the little things. The stories on the bus, talking hitting in the cages, the pre game handshakes, the smell of popcorn and fresh cut grass, the top step of the dugout, “Put me in coach” blaring over the stadium speakers, seeing a kid’s face light up after signing a ball, a good fitting uniform, wearing eye black on a sunny day, the scraped knees and callused hands, the high fives after a big win, and the dog piles and champagne showers. But what I will probably miss most of all, is the clubhouse and just hangin with the guys. It’s where I am most comfortable and free. It’s where I am at ease and at peace. I don’t know what could ever replace the feeling of being completely at home while “at work.”
To all my teammates and coaches I had the pleasure of playing with and learning from over the years: It’s you who I will think of when I reflect on the past 13 years. It’s you who have filled my heart and soul with so many laughs and so much love. It’s you who helped mold me into the man I am today. Please know that you are all my brothers, and have a very special place in my heart. Tadlock, Robe, Mac, HoJo, Bobby V, Bates, Brad, Bear, Bowser, Ben, Burnham, Bacani, Byard, Gil, D-Wright, Simmons, Sulti, Dunc, Monty, Knick, EJ, Cervy, D-Mart, Quintin, Press, Whealy, Kole, McGinley, Hip-Hop, Bynum, Fletch, CC, Delaney…there are just too many to name. Thank you guys for grinding it out with me. You are all true warriors. I love you all.
I thank my parents and brother for instilling a work ethic and mentality that has served me my entire career. Y’all taught me how to outwork the rest and to be strong and tough in the face of adversity. Y’all have relentlessly supported my dream for over 30 years! Wow! What a lucky man I am to have had such an awesome upbringing, filled with so much love and encouragement. I love you guys.
I sincerely thank all of the friends and family who supported my journey. Following me through all the minor league cities and even overseas to Japan. Your kind words and heartfelt support has filled my sails all these years. Chasing my dream was much easier because of you. Thank you.
To my amazing and graceful wife Sara, Thank You. You have ridden this crazy roller coaster with me for so many years. You have been by my side through every 0-4, every error, and every tough loss. You squealed at my big hits and applauded my good plays. But no matter what happened in the game, you always had a hug and kiss for me, and you ALWAYS had my back. You are by far the best teammate I have had in my career. I love you more than you know.
I was once asked by a teammate early in my career, if I didn’t make it to the big leagues, would I consider my career, “All for naught?” Without hesitation, I said, “No.” Life (and baseball) is about the journey, not the destination. And what an amazing journey it has been!
Baseball is a microcosm for life. It teaches life lessons that I don’t think any other profession could teach. I look forward to teaching the lessons I have learned to my children and using those same lessons in my next profession. Thank you Baseball.
Sara and I are looking forward to our next adventure. I’m not sure which direction God will lead us, but I trust his plan and am excited to see what the next chapter has in store for us. I just thank the Good Lord for making me a ball player. And I thank you all for taking this journey with me. I am, and have been, TRULY blessed.
Big Love to all…See ya on down the road…
Chase
If this were a movie, that’s where the credits roll. Because it’s real life, I found myself faced with the decision of what I wanted to do with the next chapter. I had some possibilities in sales, possibilities that would have paid quite well. At the same time, I had opportunities to continue to stay in the game as a coach…but making much, much less.
I called some ex-teammates who had crossed the line into the “real world” to pick their brains. They were nearly unanimous in their opinions. They simply weren’t nearly as happy making great money as they were when they were poor and still playing. The money couldn’t compensate for the lack of fulfillment.
It wasn’t just my decision, however. My wife stays at home with our two children, and I’m the sole provider of income. That is a pretty big obligation, and made my decision much tougher. I had some soul searching to do. Do I take the money and financial freedom that it would provide for my family and me, or do we live on a “shoe string” budget while I stay in the game that brought me so much joy and fulfillment?
I asked myself what I really wanted to do on a daily basis, and a quote from Ray Lewis kept popping in my mind. I heard him once say in an interview, “I just want to impact lives, plain and simple.”
In the end, having meaningful connections with people and impacting lives in a positive way is what it all comes down to for me. Sales could not provide me with the same platform to make a difference. I want to motivate and mentor young men. I want them to be successful at navigating the gauntlet that is professional baseball. The game isn’t just about making it to the big leagues; I want the chance to help mold players into better men, friends, spouses and fathers.
The decision was made.
I am happy to say I am in the middle of my first season coaching with the Texas Rangers organization, and I couldn’t be happier with my decision. I truly haven’t had a bad day yet. I make those meaningful connections every day, with players, coaches and staff. They have impacted me, and I hope that I have made a positive impact on some of them as well.
Coaching can be a thankless job. The players are the ones actually playing the game, and I won’t know until much later, if at all, if I had an impact on a young man. What I do know is that I’m controlling what I can. I give a great effort and bring a great attitude to the ballpark every day.
When my family gathers around the table to say prayers each night, I always end the prayer with, “Thank you Jesus for all the blessings you have given us. We trust whatever path you put us on.” I believe God instilled in me the ability to connect with young men, and I TRUST with all my heart that God will continue to guide and provide for us. I urge everyone reading this to do the same.
Since we started this blog in December of 2013, I’ve mentioned repeatedly that my desire is to build a strong community. It has become our very own little family. My hope is this is a mutually beneficial relationship. I trust you get something out of it, and I most certainly derive strong benefit on a daily basis.
I try to to preserve energy to write the posts, so I can’t always dive too deeply in the comments section. I try to display my gratitude and answer questions where I can, but at minimum, I read every one. Yesterday, one in particular caught my eye. It’s below:
From BeesMakeHoney:
Kap –
One thing that prevents me from commenting is that you so seldom carry on your discussions in the comments sections.
I too enjoy and seek out debate and intellectual stimulation on a broad range of topics, but I cringe when I see comment responses from you like ” Thanks – stay strong”.
Maybe you don’t find our comments meriting additional discussion? (and of course, not all do)
Curious is all – no ill will intended.
Figured I’d use the reply as today’s post.
BMH,
First, thank you. I appreciate the push.
I deliberately don’t answer comments elaborately as a general principle. My choice has zero to do with the merit of the comments; I read most with delight. Many times, the comments inspire future posts or further reflection. However, this is a question of intellectual bandwidth. I won’t walk you through my day job and the time limitations it creates. We all have them. I spend 30 minutes a day writing posts (give or take). Our community responds with such breadth and depth, if I were to take time to respond to each substantively, I’d never get anything else done.
I write because I love words. I write as an outlet. I write to give back. And I write to grow. Your feedback helps.
However, in this case, It’s also misguided. It lacks trust. That’s okay. Trust that I have limited ability to engage here. Trust that I’m not judging your comments.
And please come back and share your brilliance and bravery. Betting you’re brimming with both.
We’re all yin and yang. Balance is key. Please see the humor (or lessons?) in this post.
The word “spirituality” seems to be tossed around pretty recklessly. “Are you spiritual?” comes up nearly as often as “what’s up?” does in casual conversation. I always want to follow up with “what the fuck is spirituality?”
Truthfully, it’s a leading question. “Spirituality” is such a nebulous concept, everyone holding a different definition. More significantly, there is no one who is 100% rational and analytical all the time and no one who is 100% spiritual. We walk away from that exchange having learned nothing about the other person.
If you’ve been spending time with us for any length of time, you know that my mind is driven by analytics. I like proof; I want science and data to back up my rationale. But a tiny little mountain town outside Colorado Springs has me on the opposite side of my own spectrum. Sometimes your surrounding environs forces you to take pause and connect with the mountains or a river. I fully acknowledge that I may have been forcing myself into that state. Whether it was the draw of nature or a momentary self-fulfilling prophecy, it felt good to get lost.
I set out for a walk considering the power in the crazy rock formations littering the Colorado landscape. I was momentarily distracted and inspired by a street performer, a young girl playing the violin. As I continued my rambling ways, I ran across a river blocked by a “no trespassing” sign. I despise these and completely ignore them whenever possible. I’m sure that comes from my father, who always hopped the chain link fences to pick fruit on our walks when I was a kid. The gift and the curse of having a rule-ignoring mentor.
The mountains and rivers are definitively inanimate objects. Science is clear on this point. However, in the moment, they feel full of life. A short period outside of the daily rush feels affirming, creating its own form of spiritual recovery. That recovery is directly related to health and well-being. Without mental rest, there is no strong mind.
There’s no data that can measure this, no scientific study that can prove I was more connected to the flowing water. There doesn’t have to be. I will continue on, mining for evidence, and I’ll enjoy the irrational interludes as they come.
Finally, I’ll laugh at myself and realize the utter delusion that just occurred. I have no proof that I was even here in Manitou Springs…wait, the pictures.
You know our superstar, know-it-all editor and my partner at Kaplifestyle, Stephanie. You’ve seen her guest posts and recipes. We can add a new data point to her résumé. She can flavor soup. Yesterday, she introduced me to galangal.
Galangal (pronounced guh-lang-guh) is often found in Thai, Indonesian, and Malaysian cooking. It’s a rhizome – an underground creeping stem of a plant that sends out shooters to create new plants….Galangal is very hard and woody, although the center is usually a little softer and juicier than its woody exterior.
Steph sent me her version of Tom Kha Gai. It’s a Thai soup, made with chicken, coconut milk, lemongrass, and, of course, galangal. That aforementioned woodiness? I bit into it and it wasn’t pleasant.
I sent her a picture and this text:
“What the hell is this?”
She wrote back
“Ha. That’s Galangal. Don’t eat that.”
Then she got all snobby on me.
“Serving it Thai style, sorry. Flavour (yes, this is her preferred spelling…ughhh) will be there, needed to make sure it tasted okay.”
Our chef had left a large chunk in the soup as it travelled cross country from Maryland to Malibu to infuse the broth with the strength it deserved. It was a close your eyes and get lost kind of meal. Buttery mushrooms, tender chicken, you get it. There was a particular standout earthy flavor in the dish.
Now I’m grateful for two things. The palatable experience and the knowledge of a new ingredient. Of course, I dug for the health benefits. That’s my obligation to us. From naturalremedies.org:
Galangal has also been used extensively in traditional Indian medicine as well. Like the Chinese, traditional Indian herbalists recognize galangal’s ability to treat abdominal conditions. In addition to this property, traditional Indian medical practitioners believe that galangal possesses anti-inflammatory properties. It can also help to break up mucus and allow for a more productive cough in patients with upper respiratory infections. Because of its anti-inflammatory properties, Indian herbalists believe that galangal is an effective treatment for rheumatoid arthritis.
Anti-inflammatory foods, herbs and spices beat the shit out of Advil.
If you don’t know our superstar editor and my partner at Kaplifestyle, Stephanie, this guest post is a great way to learn her style. She’s beyond driven and inspires me (and our readers) daily with her leadership and grit. She sent me photos of the plates she purchased today which she intends to add to the bar. The pics prompted me to ask her to muse on her weight training experience. Her lifts are getting stronger and stronger. So is her mind. I have an opportunity to learn from Steph daily. Here’s your chance.
What if the problem with our fitness and nutrition regiments is that we have goals? Stick with me here.
Many people fail in life, not for lack of ability or brains or even courage, but simply because they have never organised their energies around a goal. – Elbert Hubbard
When I sat down to write this post, I didn’t have a clear structure in mind. I had a story I wanted to tell, but it was amorphous even as I started getting words down on the page, a series of loosely tied together anecdotes without much of a takeaway. I don’t enjoy writing thoughts that can’t be used by someone else (at least in theory, whether anyone does is another question). I wrestled with questions – why is this important? Why will anyone care?
In the process, I began considering my weight lifting. Like most women, and probably most people in general (never having been a man, I can’t speak to it personally), I have had various moments of wanting to lose weight, get in better shape, fit into a smaller pair of pants, whatever. We’re often told to make our goals “SMART” – Specific, Measureable, Achievable, Realistic, Time-bound. I’ve been better or worse about that at times, but as I discussed in my motivation post, nearly every lifestyle change I’ve embarked on has been defined by an external goal.
Most of these, I abandoned within weeks or months. I suspect I’m not alone – we’re all familiar with the great intentions of the New Year’s resolution or the push for swimsuit season. Those are punchlines to a joke for a reason; very few people stick with their envisioned changes. I wasn’t having success, and I wasn’t enjoying the process, so all my great intentions, even when mapped out to SMART goals, fell by the wayside.
The impetus for this post, however, came from the picture at the top of this post. I achieved the 100 pound mark on my bench presses and, by the time you’re reading this, will have done the same for my squats. I needed to go out and pick up those 25 lb. plates so that I can continue my ever increasing progression under the bar. I was excited enough that I immediately texted the picture to Gabe. It was a feeling of confidence, strength and pride suffusing me as I walked up to the checkout counter.
More than anything, I feel my self-conception changing. I am reaping the benefits of being able to better lift objects, to move better, to fit into my clothes (or not fit into them and needing to buy smaller sizes, as the case may be). But in the moment with the weight of the bar, moving it successfully is a step I take entirely on my own. I can rely on nothing but myself to complete the movement, and when I do, I’m reminded that I can stare down obstacles and succeed in the face of challenges. It’s an exciting feeling.
I believe that a big part of my getting to this point was not having those well-defined goals when I went back to lifting weights. Sure, I wanted to be stronger and fitter, to lean out and tone up, but I had no plan. My only focus was “I’m going to move these objects in this way today.” I don’t know what my maximum lift will be, beyond the fact that it will be less than Gabe’s, so there is no pressure to get there. I’m adding weight, so I’m moving in the right direction, but if there was a day where I needed to take a little bit off, I could do that without feeling like I was falling short of some sort of finish line.
Meeting a goal, to me, signifies some sort of completion, an ending. In the case of my weight lifting, I don’t see an ending looming on the horizon, merely a continuation and a long road of progression. I doubt this mentality would work for everything, but perhaps I’m working towards my own version of embodying the other Kaplifestyle motto – “no rules.”
Liquid chalk won’t make you deadlift any more weight, but it will help your hands stick to the bar, allowing you to get the most out of your session.
I hate gimmicky workout products and make fun of them at every possible turn. From the ab roller to this beauty, there is endless ammo for my fun poking arsenal. The more the merrier.
A few days back, I was deadlifting as usual on a warm day in Malibu. I reached my heavier working weights, dipped my hips down and back and stood up successfully…right before I unintentionally dropped the weight to the floor. The bar had slipped out of my barely sweating hands. I looked to my left, and there was my friend Cassidy, mocking me for my ineptness. She looked at me disappointedly and said in a matter of fact tone, “I’ve got some liquid chalk in my bag.”
Had I had water in my mouth, I would have shot it out of my nose laughing. Instead, I just rolled my eyes as she marched to her backpack to retrieve the bottle. Now, I could have, and may otherwise would have, been stubborn, but there were onlookers clearly gauging my flexibility of thought and willingness to make an adjustment. I took the bottle and squirted generously. As I bent down to grab the bar, I envisioned power-lifting dudes donning huge leather lifting belts, ritually slapping themselves with chalk covered hands to fire themselves up.
Still semi-scoffing, I stood up, and the bar was glued to my hands. I immediately felt stronger. Damn. Maybe those power lifters were right. From skinnybulkup.com:
A slight amount of perspiration on your palms significantly reduces grip strength. And grip strength is a determining factor in success during “pulling” lifts like cleans, deadlifts, and pull-ups. Kettlebell athletes chalk up before a set of kettlebell snatches. To get better at these exercises, use gym chalk.
Many people object to chalk because of the residue. I’ve been to the gyms with chalk all over the place. I personally don’t care. I dig a grimy feel to a weight pile. I don’t dig fancy equipment, and I don’t need my workout area spotless. That said, I can respect the folks around me and am perfectly willing to adjust. I will be using chalk for my heavier lifts going forward, but I will be utilizing the liquid variety that Cass hooked me up with to optimize for cleanliness. From nobrainermuscle.com:
Liquid chalk is magnesium carbonate mixed with alcohol and some thickener.
Awesome grip strength but without the mess.
Apply a few drops of liquid chalk to your hands at the start and you’ll have sweat-free palms for the rest of the workout.
Make sure that the liquid chalk you buy has magnesium carbonate. Don’t buy fake liquid chalk – note the main ingredient being Aluminum Chlorohydrate and not Magnesium Carbonate. Always get the real liquid chalk, the fake stuff just won’t cut it.
You don’t need fancy exercises to build core strength. If your desire is to inspire the muscles around your spine and midsection to fire, squat.
A Kaplifestyle reader reached out to me to ask about a good core routine for beginners. Waltz into any fitness center and you’ll find folks twisting with cables, doing various forms of crunches with medicine balls, leg lifts and scissor kicks, and holding these all in the name of developing core strength. Whether you’re looking to develop these stabilizing muscles in the name of obtaining a 6 pack or looking to prevent injury, maintain flexibility, and increase your power, everyone is interested in a stronger core.
My answer isn’t going to come as a surprise. I’m an advocate of performing any training techniques consistently, so you won’t catch me slamming any form of exercise. However, if you mine true power and strength between your thighs and chest, the properly executed squat is the perfect exercise. From strong-athlete.com:
“One of the best ways to activate the core muscles is during squatting. When you squat, your bodies own natural weight belt kicks in, stabilizing and strengthening your core so that it doesn’t collapse into a pile of muscle and bone.”
Think about what occurs when you drop your hips and ass towards the floor while maintaining strong posture with hundreds of pounds resting on your shoulders. Your stabilizing muscles have no choice but to fire and contract. Our bodies are computers and remember what we just asked of them. The input is, “get strong and powerful, because I’m going to demand you support lots of weight.” Your system complies.
This is true independent of your goals.
Suppose your mission is to acquire abs. Maybe you simply want the muscles in your back to recover faster. In either scenario, hormones can help.
Squatting is a compound movement, meaning you use multiple joints and tons of different muscles to perform the action. Research shows that the more muscles you engage during training, the more hormones will be released in the body to stimulate growth and recovery. Your body naturally releases hormones such as testosterone and Human Growth Hormone during hard squatting sessions. These hormones will help the muscle fibers in your legs rebuild, recover, and grow bigger. However, the large release of hormones can also help to improve the recovery and growth of other muscles in your body that have been broken down from training.
Faster recovery often means less pain. It also means your body will be primed to train sooner meaning you’ll be ready to input more commands. You’ll feel better and get back into the gym. As a beginner, creating the consistent habit is more important than anything else. It’s a beautiful cycle.
If squats truly won’t work for you, and variety is your bag for core work, I won’t judge. You might like this product. If you need me, I’ll be in the corner under the bar.
Today’s post is slightly different than our usual fare, because we are without rules. A reader requested that I check out his post and discuss it. You know when you’re reading an article and your mind is chattering about what you’re digesting? Yeah, that’s what mine was doing. I put those thoughts down on paper.
Justin writes:
… I wanted to get your thoughts on an article I wrote. As an up-and-coming sports journalist whose favorite sport is baseball, the sport’s future concerns me. I wrote more in-depth about this on my blog, which can be found at http://theledgesports.com/2015… If you do happen to read it, please let me know your thoughts. Thanks!
So our goals are two-fold.
I’m going to oblige a reader
I’m going to break down his writing and thoughts with some carefully injected notes.
You sure you want to do this, Justin? Cool. Tell you what, I’ll do exactly what we all do when we read, except I’ll do it openly, honestly and without filter. Let’s roll.
I love baseball.
I love baseball far more than the average person loves baseball. It captured my heart the second I got a participation trophy in tee ball as a five-year-old.
Hey, that’s when I fell in love, too. I had the powder Blue Jays uni with the bird on the chest. A kid from LA adored Fred McGriff for this reason. Nice job bringing me back.
I fell even more in love with the sport around that age while watching “SportsCenter.” They showed highlights of Hall Of Fame first baseman Frank Thomas hitting multiple home runs (absolute moonshots, of course) in a game. No, I don’t remember what game it was, how many he hit, or how far they went.
I remember standing in center field at the old Tiger Stadium, Thomas was up. He smashed a low line drive that I instinctively broke in on and then, before I had time to blink, the ball was screaming over my head. Strong mention of a guy that everyone identifies as iconic and not a steroid user.
Forgive me if my memory is a little hazy. After all, it was about 15 years ago. All I know is that I was mesmerized by it, and this obscure memory has stuck with me to this day.
I know you said it was a long time ago, but the use of “obscure” and “mesmerized” feels contradictory. I’d be less nebulous if possible. I love words.
The point of that story is that baseball captured my love at a young age. If I didn’t see players like Frank Thomas bringing excitement to the game, there’s absolutely no way I’d be in love with baseball today. But, along with the Frank Thomas memory, I remember doing something most young baseball fans did in elementary school. I idolized players.
Around this time, Major League Baseball benefitted from having a legendary group of shortstops serving as faces of the game: Derek Jeter, Nomar Garciaparra, Alex Rodriguez, and even Miguel Tejada while he was in his prime.
I vividly remember a group of us kids playing during recess or after school, pretending to be these players. I’d yell, “I’m Nomar!” as I fielded an imaginary ground ball backhanded and threw off-balance to the imaginary first baseman. My friend would say, “Fine, I’m Jeter!” as he did the same thing (except we all know Jeter didn’t have range. But that’s a different story).
I love this. Any baseball kid worth a damn played these sort of role playing games. We’ve all done it and can relate. Your readers can stand by your side. Good stuff.
The stretch of 1997 – 2000 was absurd for Nomar. 27.6 WAR. One of the greatest runs for a SS in history.
I would have been Nomah (how’d you miss that opportunity?), too.
Obviously, the league has since cracked down on performance-enhancing drugs, and rightfully so. As exciting as baseball would be with players all roided up, it’d be unfair to the players who value their health over hitting bombs and destroying their bodies with steroids.
I appreciate you mentioning this. The acknowledgment that there were men making this choice is a strong, worthwhile play. I, and many others, left millions of dollars and years of service time on the table by opting to play without chemical enhancement. You know my stance on supplements (whether “natural” or made in a lab by now), and it is always worth mentioning the detrimental impacts to health that they have. There has certainly been a cultural shift in baseball itself, and many, many of the top players now stand shoulder-to-shoulder in a strong stance against any PEDs.
Plus, for hardcore baseball fans, the low-scoring games these days aren’t so bad to watch.
I actually appreciate them more. Learning how to watch a pitcher seamlessly adjust from pressing the gas pedal to applying the brake makes the game feel like poetry. It’s then that we truly appreciate the power and beauty of baseball. I’m not sure this requires being a hardcore fan, merely an adjustment of expectations. Why should we believe that home runs are inherently more exciting than a perfectly executed slider that leaves the batter frozen?
Pitching duels are awesome. Now that steroids are (mostly) out of the picture, the sport needs a form of entertainment other than the long ball. The decline in double-digit scoring games isn’t negatively affecting baseball, it’s something else ruining baseball’s excitement factor, and my blood boils every time I talk about it.
This paragraph feels contradictory. You state that there are fewer home runs in baseball, home runs are entertaining, but fewer home runs don’t make baseball less exciting. Logically, this doesn’t parse well. But before we get into the argument that you’re beginning, I’d challenge you here to dive deeper about runs in games. From sportingcharts.com:
“As you can see, there has been two defined periods – one of growth between 1992 and 2000 where runs per game rose from 8.23 runs per game to a peak of 10.28; and a period of decline between 2001 and 2013 where runs per game declined to 8.33 runs per game in 2013.”
Even if you’re comparing the peak of run scoring vs. the low point, you’re talking about the average game ending in a score of 6-5 vs. 5-4 or thereabout. We look back on history like we were watching softball games and are now watching baseball again. Challenge your own assumptions when you write. It will make you better and allow your readers to see an angle someone else isn’t trumpeting.
In football, players celebrate after every touchdown, sack, tackle, deep pass, long run, nice catch, etc., with minimal consequences. In hockey, a player scores a goal and parties like it’s 1999 before hugging his teammates. In basketball, a player screams at the top of his lungs in excitement after a dunk, or pumps the crowd up after hitting a pull-up 3-pointer. In soccer, players go absolutely bonkers and rip their shirts off after scoring while the commentator screams “GOAL!” for a minute straight. In baseball, a player hits a home run, flips his bat and watches the ball sail over the fence, but the pitcher cries about it like a 10-year-old little-leaguer throwing a temper tantrum on the mound and the batter is frowned upon for showboating.
Ponder this. If baseball was the same as those other sports, we’d be more like those other sports. Our unwritten rules set us apart. We ask each team to show respect to the other. Can those “unwritten rules” be taken too far? Of course, they all can. But is this truly worse than the excesses in the other sports you mention? If you’re going to make the comparison, be specific and be accurate. By the way, just pushing a bit, playing the other side to be a good partner to you in this process.
The most recent example of this (except it wasn’t the pitcher who threw the tantrum) was April 21 of this season when Jose Bautista hit a homer against the Baltimore Orioles. Bautista, as he usually does, admired his yard work by flipping his bat and watching the ball fly into the stands as he slowly trotted around the bases. Orioles center fielder Adam Jones (surprisingly, considering he’s one of today’s most exciting players) took exception to this and instigated an unnecessary heated exchange between him and Bautista.
The most recent example that comes to your mind is one from a month ago? That doesn’t seem to support the idea that “unwritten rules” are killing the sport. But let’s take as given that this is a continuing problem. Is it really a problem? People watch hockey to see the fights. Some of the most memorable highlights from the NFL are defensive players mocking the celebrations of wide receivers. Where’s the proof that a “heated exchange” is ruining the excitement?
My immediate feeling after watching this unfold was utter confusion. Wouldn’t Jones want to do the same thing if he hit a deep home run? Then I remembered, these extraordinarily dumb “unwritten rules” and traditions have brainwashed countless players, managers, fans, writers, and people within MLB. I won’t delve too far into this point because Chris Rock already summed it up perfectly, but baseball will continue its slow decline and lose its young audience if those involved with the sport continue to pretend it’s 1940.
Ummm, we’re not losing our audience. This is a lack of homework on your part. Step up your game, Justin. Craig Calterra powerfully wrapped this brilliant piece with:
But baseball isn’t dying, you guys. Indeed, compared to almost any time in its history, it’s positively thriving. The century-long impulse to write its eulogy notwithstanding.
We need more Yasiel Puig bat flips. We need more Bryce Harpers showing their emotions on their sleeves. We need more Dustin Pedroias hustling to first base after hitting a routine grounder to the shortstop. We need more reasons to sit and watch these millionaires play a sport for three hours.
The entertainment value is dwindling, but it’s not dwindling because of pace-of-play (though, slow games certainly don’t help). The entertainment value is dropping because those in favor of unwritten rules and tradition don’t understand the concept of evolution. They don’t understand that this new era of sports fans doesn’t appreciate baseball’s traditions like past generations.
I would love to hear you dive deeper here. How do you know that? What have you read? Prove it.
They want action, they want passion, they want players who stand out. They want players who are exciting enough for kids to idolize and pretend to be when playing during recess or after school.
I’ve defended baseball in countless arguments over the past few years. I’ve been in a constant state of denial, attempting to formulate an argument that the sport of baseball is healthy and here to stay for the long term. As I continue to watch and observe these games as a fan, that argument only gets more difficult to make. Sadly, if baseball doesn’t fix these issues, I don’t foresee baseball being prevalent when I’m 50 years old (29 years from now). That scares the living hell out of me.
Again, go back and read Craig’s piece. I think you’re off and not marginally.
I will never not love baseball, but I’m done defending it. If it’s going to succeed, changes need to happen fast. However, it’s not just on the Commissioner to make these changes. It’s on this new generation of players to step up and bring something to the table. We love your sport, we just don’t love you.
Hmmm, really? Puig, Papi, Harper, Pedroia…there are countless other emotional players. We have closers firing imaginary arrows into the stands after a save; we have teams engaging in national anthem standoffs. We have choreographed celebrations at home plate and the shaving cream pie in the face has been turned into an art form. If you sift through your piles of baseball cards, there are as many of colorful characters today as there were 10 or 20 years ago. If it’s personality you want, you have it in spades.
I enjoyed this piece, but I think it would benefit most from some evidence. You’re relying on inconsistent anecdotes and incorrect assumptions. That said, I commend your ambition and your passion. Those are the tools most necessary. We are both (we all are) developing our writing techniques and styles and have numerous ways in which we can improve. I applaud your willingness to have your work reviewed publicly. That action, in itself, inspired growth.
stories on the bus, talking hitting in the cages, the pre game handshakes, the smell of popcorn and fresh cut grass, the top step of the dugout, “Put me in coach” blaring over the stadium speakers, seeing a kid’s face light up after signing a ball, a good fitting uniform, wearing eye black on a sunny day, the scraped knees and callused hands, the high fives after a big win, and the dog piles and champagne showers. But what I will probably miss most of all, is the clubhouse and just hangin with the guys. It’s where I am most comfortable and free. It’s where I am at ease and at peace. I don’t know what could ever replace the feeling of being completely at home while “at work.”
obligation, and made my decision much tougher. I had some soul searching to do. Do I take the money and financial freedom that it would provide for my family and me, or do we live on a “shoe string” budget while I stay in the game that brought me so much joy and fulfillment?
inspired by a street performer, a young girl playing the violin. As I continued my rambling ways, I ran across a river blocked by a “no trespassing” sign. I despise these and completely ignore them whenever possible. I’m sure that comes from my father, who always hopped the chain link fences to pick fruit on our walks when I was a kid. The gift and the curse of having a rule-ignoring mentor.
to my left, and there was my friend Cassidy, mocking me for my ineptness. She looked at me disappointedly and said in a matter of fact tone, “I’ve got some liquid chalk in my bag.”
