Baseball Beginnings: Why I’m Not a Baseball Player

I was not a baseball player.

I left that to my brothers.

I didn’t know the fundamentals of fielding a ground ball, how to round first base after singling up the middle, or how to use two hands to nab a fly ball out of the unlimited summer sky. I had no concept of how long 90 feet between bases actually was, what signals the pitcher gave away that let me know it was time to steal second base, or what it meant to pick up a teammate who stranded a runner in scoring position.

This wasn’t because I didn’t want to be a baseball player.

I watched in awe with my father as my older brother pitched his heart out in high school without reservation or fear. When he put on that Bristol Eastern uniform with "1" stitched on the back, he ceased to be my brother and became a superhero. He was everything I wanted to be.

It’s also not like I never played baseball.

It just wasn’t real baseball.

My younger brother and I would play Wiffle ball in the backyard from the start of spring until the chill of late October. I hold the Ford Stadium records for career homeruns, single season homeruns, strikeouts in a game, and career championships. If there were a Wiffle ball Hall of Fame, I’d be in it (turns out there is, and I'm not).

I had plenty of opportunities to be a baseball player.

My family is baseball obsessed. This all stemmed from my father. He followed the great New York Yankees teams of the 1960s (and the not-so-great teams during the backend of that era), and, according to his memory, could pick the ball out of the dirt at first base with the best of them. His oldest son was in uniform practically out of the womb, so one would have assumed that his second son would follow suit without question. He made it clear to me that it was my choice to play or not to play.

I wasn’t a baseball player because I was afraid.

You can’t be afraid and be a baseball player. I was shy. I was a crier. I was a thin-skinned kid who took everything the wrong way and then sulked about it. It would be easy to heap all the blame on my father for not forcing me to play, as my older brother often does, but I can’t imagine the tantrums I would have thrown once someone starting rifling ground balls my way. The scenario in my head gets even worse thinking about if I had made a mistake in a live game. My father’s tough, but no man could have endured that kind of humiliation.

I did end up trying to become a baseball player.

I started shaking off my shy demeanor as a teenager, and tried out for my middle school baseball team. I was the first player to take batting practice that first practice. I fouled off the coach’s first pitch, and I could feel the vibration in my stung fingers in the bottom of my throat. I never made contact again. The coach announced at the end of the day that everyone would need to turn in a physical form if they wanted to play. I knew I wasn’t any good, and didn’t want to put my parents through the trouble of arranging everything when I was just going to get cut. I used this as an excuse to give up.

My tryout for the local summer recreational league was possibly my most embarrassing moments as a player. I had decided I’d be a good first baseman, since they didn’t seem to do very much, so there I was as a low throw came in from the shortstop. I didn’t have a chance at catching it. Luckily, my big toe stopped the ball from getting past me. My knee caught the next throw with ease. This was all in view of my older brother, who was going to be a coach in the league. I wasn’t embarrassed for me, I knew I was terrible, but I hated letting down my hero. He drafted me anyway.

I tried two more times to join teams of any consequence. I gave it my all and lasted through weeks of tryouts for the freshman baseball team in high school. The problem was I still couldn’t hit, was slow afoot, and was only an average fielder with a below average arm. Pretty cut and dry analysis of why I was cut. My sophomore year I tried out for the J.V. team, and within two days my legs felt like I had run back-to-back marathons. In what felt like a coward move at the time, I wrote the head coach that I was done. I heard through the grapevine that he thought it was a classy way to go out.

So, I failed at being a baseball player, but these failures didn’t mark my complete banishment from the game.

I got to be in the same dugout with my older brother as he coached my team for two seasons in that summer league. I was able to become an assistant coach for my younger brother’s Little League team and watch him experience everything I was too afraid to do at his age. Eventually, my lack of baseball prowess helped me land a job with a great northeastern college baseball team, giving me all the experiences of a collegiate athlete with half the work. Not to mention, along the way I learned how not to give up.

When spring approaches and baseball season breaks through the boredom of a long winter, I think of all the things that could have been, and I appreciate the things that are. I can’t rob a line drive in an endless expense of lawn; I can’t eyeball a pitch outside to force a base on balls; and I can’t ensure my team is wearing the whitest damn uniforms possible during a Sunday day game. But I sure as hell can write about the game that I’ve loved all my life. And that’s just what I plan to do.

I should point out before signing off this Sunday, that I’m the last Ford brother to wear anything resembling a baseball uniform. It may be in a softball league, but it still connects me to the game in some way.

I’m not a baseball player…but, I’ll take it.

Player Spotlight: Old Reliable

My goal was to find a player whose name contained some variation of “beginning” or “origin” to commemorate the reboot of this blog. I perused through my voluminous ESPN Baseball Encyclopedia early in the week, but came up empty. I tried to think of old ballplayers my father randomly mentions and listened intently to the Opening Day telecasts in hopes of getting a good lead. No luck. I thought of ditching the idea of Player Spotlight entirely, until I entered the magic word into the search engine of baseball-reference.com.

Start.

Joe Start.

Joe couldn’t have been more perfect for a baseball/history nerd if he tried. He began his career with the Brooklyn Atlantics in 1980, four years before the Civil War and eleven years before the formation of the National Association of Professional Base Ball Players (the early predecessor to the National League). He led the Atlantics to two undefeated seasons in 1864 and 1865, years better remembered for the final clashes between the armies of Grant and Lee. He joined the New York Mutuals of the National Association in 1971, and would play professionally for 16 more seasons before retiring in 1886. He also, despite some debate, is considered to be the first first baseman to play away from the base, rather than close to it or on top of it as was the custom during the early days of the game.

Joe registered his highest batting average of .360 in 1871 for the Mutuals. He led the led the league with 100 hits in 1878 with the Chicago White Stockings, and logged a .351 batting average. He averaged 105 hits from 1878–1885, and drove in nearly 300 runs during that span. Joe smacked a career 117 hits in 1882 for the Providence Grays, and would finish his major league run with 1,417.

I realized why I should still care about Player Spotlight. Only the men wearing them make the uniforms of our hometown teams memorable. Baseball players' personalities, eccentricities, and character (good and bad) have defined the game just as much as their athleticism has. Throughout the game’s history, fans have piled on expectations on these men who, at their core, are no more superhuman than the rest of us. We revel when they defy logic and met them, and sulk and moan when they reveal their true humanity and fall beneath them. Either way, only a chosen few get to button up a jersey, pitch or hit a searing fastball, and leave behind a lasting statistical imprint that nerds like me can scrutinize centuries later. Their stories matter, so I’ll keep looking for them.

Opening Day

“Detroit is in Michigan?” one of my coworkers asked out loud in front of people.

While my other coworker, who happens to be from Michigan, tried to answer diplomatically, my eyes were fixed on the flat screen television above the table where we were enjoying lunch.

It wasn’t showing scenes of weeks old trash being unearthed from two feet of melting snow, celebrities devouring goddesses with tiger blood (no, that can't be right), or people stepping cautiously through the Bronx Zoo.

It was showing a baseball game.

Finally.

My beloved Yankees were playing the Detroit (yes, the one in Michigan) Tigers and I had done enough work that day to justify stealing away to catch a couple of innings of the first game of 2011. The Yanks hadn’t managed much against Tigers’ ace Justin Verlander until the bottom of the third inning. Mark Teixeira came up with two runners on and launched a ball to deep right field.

As soon as the ball was hit, I leaned my body toward fair territory, helping the ball’s trajectory stay true. As the umpire called the ball fair, the patrons around us cheered, and so did I. I got chills as if the homerun had decided the final game of the World Series instead of a meaningless game in April.

Baseball is back. And so am I.

From the Archives:Summer Poetry

Earlier this morning, I was looking through some old notebooks and folders which hold just about everything I've ever written. In the pages worn by time and age, I came across a few things that seemed appropriate to share on this cloudless, blue sky summer day in New York City. Enjoy!

Summer Legs
The heat of summer brushes off the cold of winter,
standing upon new legs, sturdy and strong.
They’re bumped and bruised from
slips and dives in the tall, green grass.
Their tan tone clashes with the
splashes of mud and dirt,
that threaten the useless bandage out of place.

Summer legs run in and our of trouble,
dodging the buzzing bees and stepping on a
poor ant along the way.
They pause only for a short while
to admire at a newly formed cut or bug bite.
They’re off again at the mere indication
that the game they had abandoned long before
suddenly decided to grab their itchy attention.

The summer sun sets and still
strong and sturdy new legs splash through
the puddles that spring left behind.
Just when the time has come to finally lay them to rest,
a shout fills the humid air,
the mud and ache are long forgotten,
as they sprint away into the setting sun.

At- Bat
That tall terror on the mound
grinds his hand in his glove,
where his pitch of choice is found.

I lean obnoxiously over the plate,
and watch the pitcher’s eyes
go from collected to completely irate.

The pitch barrels into the catcher’s mitt,
as if launched from a World War II tank,
not one I could hit.

Old Blue behind the plate yells,
“Strike Two”, at the next
and the crowd’s boos swell.

My mind fills again,
not with fear or pressure,
but with the smell of franks and pretzels roasting on the grill.

Those who long to see me be king,
hold their breath and gasp,
as the pitch is thrown with some gas
and I take a step and swing!!



Rain Delay
The field transforms into a labyrinth of puddles,
where ground balls splash their way
into the fielder’s glove.

The players, clad in sweat and mud,
struggle to grasp the slippery sphere,
as raindrops drip off the ends of their caps.

The umpire calls them in a shivering shout,
as he watches the white chalk lines drown
into the base line lagoon.

The day is over.
The game is done without a single pitch thrown,
giving the storm- laden clouds their
rain soaked victory.

A Saturday Morning with Dad
Back and forth
does the rusty blade sway,
sweeping the rest of
the tall grass away.

The mower strays behind me,
with good ol’ Dad,
who wants to do nothing more
than run and flee.

We trudge silently along
with the sound of
the mower and the blade
as our only song.

Our muscles begin to fade
and we pause to
stare out on what
has become the Everglades.

After a stout cough
and a little chat,
we bravely set up our plan of attack
to finish it off.



Player Spotlight: Hall of Famer Al Kaline



Today’s spotlight centers on one of my dad’s favorite players when he was growing up. Al Kaline was an outfielder for the Detroit Tigers for 22 years and was a 15 time All-Star.

His numbers are more than impressive. In 1955, he led the league with a .340 batting average and 200 hits. He smacked 24 doubles that year with 120 RBI. In 1961, 41 of his 190 hits were doubles, also a league best. He won a World Series with the Tigers in 1968 over the St. Louis Cardinals who were led by Hall of Famer Bob Gibson (who had posted a 1.12 ERA that year). He batted .379 in the Series with two homeruns and eight RBI.

Kaline finished his career with a .297 batting average and 3,007 hits. He ended with 498 doubles, 399 homeruns and 1,583 RBI. He also won 10 Gold Gloves and was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1980.



Summer Reading/Viewing List: East of Eden and Truman



John Steinbeck’s East of Eden was recommended to me last summer by Next Magazine’s dining editor Peter Sherwood (whose blog Evenings with Peter is a MUST read). I devoured the novel in short order and it instantly became one of my favorite novels of all time. The story revolves around the lives of the Trask and Hamiliton families set in California. Steinbeck’s beautiful prose not only seamlessly marries the lives of both families, but also assaults your senses with astonishing sights, colors and smells of scenic Salinas Valley. Steinbeck also introduces one of the most depraved, intrinsically evil characters of all time in the person of Cathy Ames. I assure you that this novel does not disappoint and should be in your hands as you sun on the beach with some of Peter’s fella’s Sangria!



David McCullough is one of the nation’s most celebrated historians and with good reason. Truman is not only a riveting look at my favorite President, but also a masterpiece of historical writing. Highlights include Truman’s decision to drop the first (and only) atomic bombs on Japan, his firing of General Douglas McArthur, his hard fought re-election upset and his lifetime struggle with poverty. There are times in our country where seemingly ordinary men are capitulated in extraordinary situations and Truman proved he was beyond exceptional coming from humble roots. His deep and lasting love for his wife Bess and his irascible personality makes you admire him even more, especially after reading his famous fiery letter to a reviewer who panned his daughter Margaret’s operatic debut. The book is over 1,000 pages long, but I could have easily read thousands more. It's probably not something you want to lug to the beach, but is perfect reading for a cool, lazy summer evening.

Player Spotlight:Baseball Fathers

In honor of Father’s Day, I delved into the stats of some famous baseball fathers. Check back later in the week for a longer post about my short lived playing career. Enjoy your Sunday and cheers to the best father a guy could have!

Jose Cruz (father of Jose Cruz Jr.)

Jose Cruz spent 19 seasons in the majors between 1970 and 1988, mostly with the Houston Astros.

He finished third in the National League Most Valuable Player Award voting after hitting .302 with 11 homeruns and 91 RBI. His best three seasons came between 1983 and 1985. He hit .318 in 1983 and led the league with 189 hits. He finished that year with 28 doubles, 8 triples and 92 RBI. In 1984, he finished with a .312 average with 187 hits. He drove in a career-high 95 runs and finished with 28 doubles and 13 triples. He only played 141 games in 1985, but still hit .300 and drove in 79 runs. He finished with 34 doubles and 163 hits.

He ended his career with a .284 batting average with 2,251 hits. He finished with 391 doubles, 94 triples and 1,077 RBI.

Bobby Bonds (father of Barry Bonds)

Bobby Bonds played 14 seasons in the majors for 8 different teams between 1968 and 1981.

In 1973 with the Giants, he finished third in the NL MVP voting after hitting 39 homeruns and driving in 96 RBI. He led the league with 141 runs scored, 341 total bases and 148 strikeouts. He also smacked 34 doubles and 182 hits. In 1975 playing for the Yankees, he hit 32 homeruns and drove in 85 RBI. One of his best seasons came in 1977 playing for the California Angels. He finished with 37 homeruns and 115 RBI.

He ended his career with an impressive 332 homeruns and 1,024 RBI. Less impressive are his 1,757 strikeouts, good for 11th most all-time.

Ray Boone (father of Bob Boone, grandfather of Aaron and Bret Boone)

Ray Boone is the original Boone who played 13 seasons between 1948 and 1960.

In 1953, Boone hit .296 with 26 homeruns and 114 RBI for the Cleveland Indians and Detroit Tigers. In his first two full years with the Tigers (1954-1955), he smacked 40 homeruns and 201 RBI. He led the league in RBI in 1955, driving in 116. In 1956, He hit .308 with 25 homeruns and 81 RBI.

After bouncing around four teams the last years of his career, Boone finished with a .275 batting average 151 homeruns and 737 RBI.

Mel Stottlemyre (father of Todd Stottlemyre)

Mel Stottlemyre played 11 seasons between 1964 and 1974, all pitching for the New York Yankees.

He pitched for some pretty awful Yankee teams and led the league in losses in 1966 (20) and 1972 (18). He did win his fair share however, winning 14 game or more in all but three years of his career.

In 1968, Stottlemyre won 21 games with a 2.45 E.R.A. He completed 19 of his 36 starts and had 140 strikeouts. He continued his winning ways the next season, winning 20 games and leading the league with 24 complete games.

Stottlemyre finished his career with 164 wins with an E.R.A. of 2.97.

Vern Law (father of Vance Law)

Vern Law played in 16 seasons between 1950 and 1967, all pitching for the Pittsburgh Pirates.

His best season came in 1960. He won the Cy Young Award after winning 20 games with an E.R.A. of 3.08. He completed 18 games and tossed three shutouts. More importantly, he won two games against the Yankees in the World Series. The Pirates upset the Yanks that year after Bill Mazeroski’s walk-off Game Seven homerun (sorry Dad).

Law finished his career with 162 wins and an E.R.A. of 3.77. He pitched 119 complete games and 28 shutouts

Thorton Lee (father of Don Lee)

Thorton Lee played in 16 seasons between 1933 and 1948, mostly with the Chicago White Sox.

His best season came in 1941. He won 22 games and led the league with a 2.37 E.R.A. He also led the league with 30 complete games. He tossed three shutouts and struck out 130 batters. In 1945, he won 15 games with a low E.R.A. of 2.44.
Law finished his career with 117 wins and a 3.56 E.R.A. He pitched 155 complete games and 14 shutouts.

End Game and Baseball Brothers

It’s Game Four of the World Series.

The Yankees are up three games to zero in a best of seven against the Atlanta Braves.

It’s late in the game and the Yankees are down by a run.

After a base hit, the Yankees’ big slugger comes up with a chance to do some real damage. He’s one homerun away from setting an all-time record and putting his team up in the final inning. He calmly touches the plate with the end of his bat and eases into his stance. He’s ready for anything.

The Braves’ pitcher takes his time on the pitching rubber. He’s not sure what to throw. He finally makes up his mind and starts his delivery. His mechanics are perfect. He plants his foot and releases the ball exactly where he wants to.

The white ball slices through the crisp fall air. Everything is silent as it makes its way toward home plate.

The batter takes a step and starts a mighty swing. His wrists move his bat quickly toward the strike zone. His head is down and he rotates his hips to generate maximum power.

The silence of the moment is broken when the ball connects with the bat. It starts again as the two competitors watch the flight of the ball.

“It’s gone!”

A record breaks and a World Series victory is within reach as the ball hits the top of the outfield fence and goes over. The batter raises his arms as he starts to round the bases. It’s a triumphant moment. He leaps up and lets out a yell.

The pitcher does not take any of this well. It appears like he’s lost the game and feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. He can’t help but cry.

Then, he gets angry as he watches the batter celebrating around the base paths. He grips the only weapon he has, his glove. He rears back his arm and lets it fly.

It finds its target, who is stunned as he reaches home plate. Yelling fills the air as the pitcher starts barreling toward the man who’s just humiliated him. The batter puts his hands up defensively. The pitcher swings his fists wildly, but the batter keeps pushing him away before he can make contact.

“Boys!” a scream fills the air. “Get inside right now! You can’t play nice, your season is over!”

The younger brother quickly lands one more punch before running into his house crying even harder. The older brother picks up the yellow Wiffle bat that he just hit his 200th homerun of the season with, gives one more look around the backyard and also heads inside.

World Series over. Season over.

Years later, the older brother is trying to survive the Florida heat while his college team fights off elimination. He cringes as a third strike sails by their last hope. He watches as his hated rival celebrates on the field.

He eases off the bench and starts going through the motions of getting all of the equipment together. He recognizes the faces on the seniors. It’s the recognition of a last moment. There is no tomorrow and there is no next year.

He stops what he’s doing.

He’s a senior. He’s done now too.

The dugout empties out quickly, like it does after every loss, save for the handful of guys looking at each other not knowing what to say. It’s harder for the men around him; they actually have a uniform and a line in a stat book to walk away from. He just has to hand in a laundry room key.

In the locker room, the coach tells him what their plans are for “getting out of Dodge”. The older brother is half listening, wondering what it’s going to feel like in a day or two waking up and not having to pick up after 25 players and four coaches. The game has been apart of him so long, he wonders what it will be like not to be around it every minute of every day.

He takes a deep breath as he remembers something. His younger brother’s high school season isn’t over yet. His team opens the state tournament two days from now.

There are still games left.

The younger brother gets a hit in his last at-bat.

The game is too far out of reach to matter, but it’s a line shot between the first and second baseman. He rounds first base like he’s been taught all his life. He watches the left fielder come up with the base hit cleanly and throw it in to the shortstop covering second base. He retreats back to first base and waits there until the pitcher is back on the rubber.

He’s erased off the base paths moments later after his teammate hits a groundball to the shortstop. He wipes the dirt off his pants and sprints back to the dugout.

His team can’t rally and the crowd is left stunned by the upset. The older brother watches from the stands as the seniors take a last look around. Some are going off to play college ball and still have games to savor. Others though, like his younger brother, are leaving the game behind for good.

The crowd starts to shuffle out. Some of the players come out of the locker room of the old time ballpark quickly, wanting to get away from the pain of losing right away. The older brother knows that his younger brother won’t be among them. He’s always the last one out and tonight will be no exception.

True to form, the younger brother walks out with the coaches. His faded, sweat-lined blue hat is pushed up on his forehead. Their mother rushes to hug him, despite the fact he’s all dusty.

The older brother waits patiently.

Finally, the two brothers shake hands.

They meet blue eye to blue eye.

Two careers began in a backyard not too far away from where they were standing. One brother was able to wear a uniform and captain a team to a state tournament. The other hung on for dear life as the game brought him around the country as a watcher, writer and go-to-guy.

There’s no throwing a glove this time or staging a tantrum. There are only smiles and pats on the back.

The two walk out of the stadium together, arms around each other.

Neither has to look back.

Player Spotlight

Brothers have long been an intricate part of baseball history. Joe, Vince & Dom DiMaggio ; Cal & Billy Ripkin ; Aaron & Bret Boone ; Felipe, Matty & Jesus Alou and of course, the tres Molina brothers are some of the more well known bands of brothers littered throughout baseball’s past and present. However, I wanted to think outside the box for this week’s player profile. I was not disappointed.

I’m a big fan of any player with my first name (even more so of Dan Ford , who will get the spotlight to himself one of these weeks), so I was pleased to discover Hall of Famer Dan Brouthers . Brouthers played in 19 major league seasons from 1879-1896 (He also played 5 games in 1904, but did not accumulate any stats). In 1883, he achieved his career high in batting average, .374, and drove in 97 runs. He also had a whopping 159 hits in only 98 games, including 17 triples. Brouthers also had a career year in 1892 when he racked up 197 hits and had 124 RBI. He finished his career with a .342 lifetime average, a .423 on-base percentage and 2,296 hits. He died in 1932.

In honor of today’s guest and, well, me, I also discovered the brother duo of Gene and Russ Ford. I sympathize with Gene because he was the older brother, but had to watch his younger brother enjoy the better career. Then again, Gene can also say he played in the major leagues and I can’t (well, he could if he wasn’t dead). Gene pitched in seven games for the Detroit Tigers in 1905 and came away with a 0-1 record with a 5.66 ERA. Russ, on the other hand, pitched seven seasons for mostly the New York Yankees from 1909-1915. He went 22-11 in 1911 with a 2.27 ERA and 158 strikeouts. He finished 18th in the MVP balloting that year according to baseball-reference.com. He ended up just one win shy of 100 career wins with an ERA of 2.59.