Category Archives: Derek Jeter

American culture, Derek Jeter, LeBron James, Uncategorized

A Life of Lazy Fastballs

For an examination of all that ails our decaying American culture and society, look no further than Derek Jeter’s first at-bat in the 2014 Major League Baseball All-Star Game.

Jeter got the unbelievably kind gesture of a couple fastballs, right down the middle. These courtesy pitches, from Adam Wainwright, were meant allow the great Jeter a chance to get a hit in his final All-Star game before retiring at season’s end.

jeterNever mind that this game is supposed to be important because it decides home-field advantage for the World Series.

“I was going to give him a couple pipe shots,” St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Adam Wainwright said. “He deserved it.”

Frankly, aside from the free pass to be publicly idolized, Jeter didn’t deserve to be there based simply on merit. He ranks as one of the worst shortstops in the majors this season. But the fans determine who goes to the All-Star game, and they wanted their hero in the game.

But while America paid #re2pect to Derek Jeter, I #cringed.

The Nike ad that went viral this week on Jeter was touching, very cool and well done, but this embarrassing display of over-honoring our sports heroes serves as yet another reminder that we have got societal shortcomings that must be addressed.

For starters, there is the humility of Derek Jeter during the 2014 Fare Thee Well tour. For example, to put that ad together, Nike needed Jeter’s cooperation. They needed him to film it.

Can it be a touching, poignant tribute if you played a part in filming scenes for it? Can you be humble and do the “awe, shucks, you shouldn’t have” routine if you are participating in the shine? Following the All-Star game, after being named MVP, Jeter spoke at the press conference about how a night about him wasn’t a night about him.

The paradoxes are endless here. But this is not Derek Jeter’s fault.

No, his hubris aside, these grandiose gestures are bypassing the unspoken rules we have been ignoring for a long time, anyway. We decided to bid a long farewell before they actually are gone, all to appreciate what they have given us.

What they’ve given us is something to latch on to and distract ourselves from. That’s all sports are – entertainment. They can teach us about heart, effort, teamwork and dedication, but more often than not, they serve as a distraction from the day-to-day simplicity of life.

Jeter and the Yankees are the best representative of this. There was something about the mid-to-late 1990s. New York seemed to be on resurgence in cool. Part Seinfeld and Friends, part Yankees, part Rudy Guiliani. And we looked to the Yankees following 9/11, looked to follow their lead with American pride literally bursting with emotion.

Maybe that’s why we’re so wrapped up in honoring these guys, even though our gratitude has been paid (literally – and in millions) for years.

We are attached to our professional athletes, dangerously so. We ask far too much of them to support our emotional imbalance from our own lives feeling unfulfilled.

It can engulf us, our families, our friends, and in the case of Cleveland, an entire region.

We were so quick to jump on the fairy tale bandwagon of LeBron James return to Cleveland and the Cavs, that we overlooked everything prior to it. The unbiased media was biased in rooting for LeBron’s return home.

They ignored all the prior theories about why and how he left the Cavs in the first place to gush about a love story. It was and remains fun to pick on the Heat now, easy to forget that LeBron picked them and then did nearly exactly what he did to the Cavs four years ago. There may not be a “Welcome Party” or a televised special, but we’re still enthralled with it. His website crashed on Thursday due to constant refreshes.

Miami Heat Introduce LeBron James, Chris Bosh and Dwyane WadeJames misled Pat Riley and the Heat front office, as well as his supposed brothers Chris Bosh and Dwyane Wade, for a few weeks, trying to let his PR folks figure out how to handle it better this time around, knowing full well that most likely, the vast majority would be delighted he’d come to his senses and returned to Cleveland.

Should it – does it – matter that James did both the Cavs and Heat dirty, or can we even acknowledge this time around he did? See, we’re fine with certain things, a bending of the rules and the moral code, as long as we like the end result or the person.

We are fine with this decision because Cleveland needs him, he’s from there, Miami has more sunshine in a day that majority of us see in a week, Riley’s legendary status was not enough for once, the Heat had their success and you shouldn’t be able to win with your friends at a discount.

Above all, it’s just a heartwarming story. And man, are we a sucker for those.

You can be an egocentric individual and a great athlete – believe it or not, many before have. So LeBron James can be a great basketball player. He can want to be in Cleveland. He can be a good husband, a great role model and father, as well as tremendous at a number of other things. But can also be a disingenuous businessman.

It’s OK for us to admit these things, still want these athletes to succeed and win our favorite team’s championships. But we just can’t bring ourselves to admit anything like that.

We need them too badly.

We do the same thing with actors. We want to believe they are the characters we see in the movies. We’re stunned at the rumors and the arrests, disappointed they failed our expectations. And then we go right back to watching their films, because we need them way more than they need us.

We need heroes to distract us from our schedule-oriented, consumer-driven lives. We need them to wear the championship shirts, to have some seminal event to share half-drunk with friends, to bond with our children.

This is both understandable and remarkably sad at the same time.

We value the real heroes, the ones who died, sacrificed themselves for us and gave all to protect our freedoms. But we only do this on holidays where we are reminded of it. Our society, our culture, demands that our heroes forever be in our face, in our minds, lest we forget who we truly idolize.

We’ll always want and need Jeter, Jordan and James because they are someone to follow from a distance. And following at a distance allows us to not get hurt, to feign emotion and allows for easy backlash, if ever required. Our disappointment, while directed at them, is really with ourselves.

No wonder Twitter is such a big hit.

You may be asking yourself why this is a problem? Who cares and what does it matter?

Simple: our hero worship is so out of control that it is controlling us. We want our kids to be heroes, so we push them too hard, scream at their coaches and yell at their teachers. At the same time, ironically, we don’t want them embarrassed, so we shield them from possible pain and rejection. This is why everyone gets a trophy. This is why cuts are no longer publicly announced – even for a high school play.

In our own bitterness, resentment and disdain, we’re erasing the very things that balance us out and make us real for future generations: pain

Rejection and pain were meant to serve as a catalyst to something more. Once upon a time, they did. In fact, these very heroes we worship all have their stories of pushing beyond someone else’s no.

Now, we’re all too happy to use them as an excuse. This leads to a life of feeling sorry for ourselves, passing the days remaining in our lives by hoping for our hero’s successes or failures, all while buying their music, their movies, their jerseys.

Love or hate LeBron James or Derek Jeter over these past few weeks, we made them. We empowered them.

If we are even remotely interested in solving some of our bigger issues, it would serve us good to spend more time reflecting on what we can do to make ourselves less emotionally dependent on the success of others.

If we poured even 25-percent of what we give them into ourselves, I bet it would be amazing what could be accomplished, both as individuals and as a collective society.

The only problem is, those days seem long passed us now. We bypass challenges these days. We don’t pay even pay tribute in the right way.

We just throw lazy fastballs.

Right down the middle.

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Derek Jeter, Drew Storen, Ed Reed, Kevin Garnett, Kobe Bryant, MLB, NBA, NFL, Peyton Manning, Ray Lewis, Steve Nash, Tim Duncan, Tom Brady

The Grind


Here’s to The Grind.
Or more importantly, here’s to the ones who went through it and excelled in it.
Because you can survive The Grind, but it changes you forever. If you don’t know what The Grind is, quite simply, it’s the torturous side of sports. The pain, the hurt, the injuries, the travel, the hard work, the rehab.

It’s the nights in an empty gym while your friends go out on dates. It’s the sunny afternoons of summer spent in batting cages, on dirt fields under a blazing sun, while others soak their feet in a pool. It’s the mildly grotesque smell of a weight room, which you strangely learn to embrace. The Grind is the scars, the rock hard calluses on your feet and toes, the lack of hair on your knees from floor burns.

And there’s a secret to it, that only the best of the best learn, which is simply that The Grind cannot be beaten, it’s barely survived and at your best, you simply manage and muddle your way through it.
The Grind is the journey, and it’s rarely understood by those who merely watch.
We are about to embark on a period over the next few years where some of the best in their profession – of all time – will step away from The Grind and reach The End. They survive it, embrace it and succeed in it.
The first comes Sunday, as Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis will retire – win or lose – following the Super Bowl. Whatever you think of Lewis as a person, or how the media lovefest has gone a little overboard the past month, considering, you know, this, it doesn’t change the fact that Lewis is indeed a warrior and a throwback NFL player along the lines of a Butkus or a Singletary. Ultimate competitor, passionate, and perhaps most of all, maximum effort at all times.
And he lasted 17 seasons in the NFL, a place where brain damage and physical disability are rampant after retirement. In 2011, a study found that the average NFL career was 6.86 seasons, a major league baseball player, 5.6 years, and in the NBA, ballers can expect to last on average 4.8 years.
That’s not very long. And that’s because of The Grind.
As spectators and as fans, we see the glitz, the glamour, the fame and the money of professional sports. And never mistake that they are well-paid. But few, very few, make it to The End. The Grind often ends it for you.
It becomes less and less about the money, but more and more about the legacy and about a unique competitive drive few can understand.
Within the next few years, many other outstanding, Hall of Fame caliber NFL stars could be joining Lewis: Peyton Manning, Tom Brady, Randy Moss (again), Tony Gonzalez and Ed Reed. Each of these players changed the game, impacted it in some significant way and broke records. Each will be a Hall of Fame player. Heck, maybe Brett Favre will finally hang ‘em up, too.
In baseball, guys like Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, Alex Rodriguez, Ichiro Suzuki (basically, the New York Yankees roster) and David Ortiz will call it quits. And in the NBA, there’s this list: Kobe Bryant, Tim Duncan, Ray Allen, Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett, Dirk Nowitzki, and Steve Nash. All are winding down MVP-heavy, record breaking, Hall of Fame careers.
We’ve watched, we’ve enjoyed or hated them as members of rival teams, but we don’t know a thing about them, really. And we don’t know about The Grind.
Some of these athletes have been playing professional sports that span over three presidents – the second term of Bill Clinton, all of George W. Bush’s years in the White House and now, with Barack Obama beginning his second term as commander-in-chief. Cell phones weren’t heavily used, Justin Timberlake was in a boy band and we still feared the Y2K bug.
Just think, where were you in 1996, when Ray Lewis and Kobe Bryant started their NFL and NBA careers, respectively?
Simply put, the world has changed, but many of these guys haven’t. Think of what they’ve endured? To start, I think of how my story is 1/100th of theirs.
I am a has-been, former high school hoopster, and tried to play college ball at the D-III level. In my early 20s, I played pick-up ball a couple nights a week for a few years, didn’t do anything for a few in the middle and then played Y-League ball on Sundays for eight weeks, once or twice a year, for three years. Didn’t play again for awhile and now, over the past four months (in much better shape finally), I’m playing once a week again.
Keep in mind that fact – that I’m 33, haven’t spent the last 15 years in a 6-to-8 month season, traveling, maintaining, playing two games in three nights, back-to-backs or doing a West Coast road trip.
But I played. I’ve had my version of The Grind.
Frankly, I hurt more than I’d ever admit verbally, mostly in the mornings. And that’s mainly because I don’t want to be a whiner, a complainer and partly because those around me can’t understand.
In the winter, due to way too many ankle sprains, my feet just plain ache. They pop and crack constantly. They’re typically always cold, unless the calendar is between May and August, due to poor blood flow and bad tendons and ligaments. My wife shudders when my feet brush her leg and says they feel like ice cubes.
My back hurts, my left shoulder slips out of socket occasionally if moved the wrong way, or slept on for too long, from three separations. After diving for a loose ball once and landing on my elbow, I basically split my elbow cap into four or five pieces of bone. I’ve played with what amounts to a black and blue golfball on the side of my foot – several times and on each ankle. I’ve played in an Aircast, a shoulder harness (that I wouldn’t wear except for one practice), and routinely stuck my legs from the calf down into 5-gallon buckets of ice water.

Twenty minutes in, 20 minutes out. After pulling them out, with my feet still a blue-ish purple color, I’d do ABCs with my feet, then, plunge them back in for another 20 minutes of torturous cold that cannot be described, only experienced.

Once, I got 12 stitches in my calf after diving for a ball and landing on the jagged metal edge of a bleacher – but I didn’t notice my sock was covered in blood for nearly two minutes. And I didn’t notice that muscle and fat from my calf were slightly exposed from the gash.
But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
The Grind can give you an adrenaline high, a natural charge from competition that you can’t really replace, a euphoria that you’ll spend trying to replicate. The Grind can hurt. I’ve got friends with knees that have been repaired or scoped three, four, five times. Herniated and or bulging discs in their back. Some have addiction to pain killers, to alcohol, to Tylenol, Advil or nicotine.
I’ve done it, too. They are simply numbing agents to offset The Grind and its effects.
And our stories – especially my stories – are literally nothing but a drop in the bucket of those mentioned above. Think of the amount of needles endured just to play. Lewis is coming back from a torn tendon in his arm that he suffered in October. Imagine that rehab. Surgeries and pins placed into bones. Kobe flew to Germany to have a controversial surgery on his knee, where they put new blood platelets in, because The Grind had made his bones, well, grind.
And that’s just before they are done.
At some point, though, it ends. And that’s when the mental aspect, not just the physical, begins. An identity crisis, or sorts. Who are you without (insert sport name here)? Some, like me, only did it for 12-15 years. I thought I had a hard time. Guys like Kobe, Duncan, Jeter, it will have been for 25 or 30 or more. You don’t remember a time when it didn’t revolve around the game. Your life is defined by it, you are who you are because of it.
The younger you are, the less painful the transition I imagine. Those who get it and did it, no matter what the level, have their demons related to giving it up or losing it. And it’s harder to understand for those around them. The competitiveness is wired into you, somehow, perhaps before birth or at a young age and you can’t turn off will and desire.
It cannot be replaced. The beast cannot be fed with desk jobs or investments, or even announcing and analyzing games on TV. Some do well with post-sports life, like Larry Bird, others, like Michael Jordan, not so much.
Some don’t want The Grind, which is when they get The Filter. That’s why they quit their high school teams, to go out and do their thing. They date. They party. They grow their hair out and spend their summers in flip flops, going to concerts and pool parties. There are more who wave it off after they get to college. Not worth it, too much. Or they don’t play as hard. They quit diving for loose balls or line drives in the gap, quit chasing down receivers 15 yards downfield. The funnel gets tighter the higher you go in the sporting ranks.
Until we are left with the few you can survive all The Grind has to offer. Twenty or more years, from childhood on, of aches, pains, missed dates, failed relationships, lost friendships over wins and losses, the travel, sleeping in chairs, living in training rooms with ice wrapped around every limb, doctors, surgeries, and rehab.
The Legends, they’ve been hurt, too, far worse and for far longer than many of us can even comprehend. Broken feet, torn ACLs. Dislocated this, that and parts in between. Peyton’s neck, Brady’s knee, Kobe’s knee, Jeter’s ankle. Paul Pierce was nearly stabbed to death. These are just the big ones, the ones that we know about. We don’t know anything of all the nicks, bumps, scraps, twists and turns. Banging into bodies, diving on the ground, on the floor. Flying from city to city, sleeping in cycles of naps on planes and buses.
At The End, if you’re lucky, you got a few rings to show for it.
This weekend, I heard rising star and young Washington Nationals pitcher Drew Storen speak. He was encouraging many in the audience, who were young baseball players, to focus each and every day on getting better at one little thing, and how, over time, it adds up to make a big difference.
But he also spoke of The Grind. What he does never changes. There’s just more of it. The same way he played the game at 11, 15,  or 17 is the same way he plays today. He gets just as excited – still gets that rush – to strike someone out, to make them look foolish, like he did his neighborhood friends as a little kid.
“Just more people watch now,” Storen joked.
They watch, but they can’t know. It’s a lonely place, The Grind. Going through it, only few understand. And the further your go with it, the fewer people that know what it feels like. That’s probably why it’s so hard to let it go.
Lately, I have been writing pieces about the moral side of sports, of society and how we view these events, and what’s right and wrong. But you think of it from this lens, of these outstanding few, of The Grind, and you think how many shades of gray enter into someone’s logic and rationale.
I may not agree with the PEDs, with the personal life or off court issues, but I can see why they are there. Why taking something to give you an edge is a tempting devil on your shoulder.
There are not many left after a dozen, 15 or 17 years. So very few can survive that long. That’s what makes these guys special in a sporting sense. We rarely get them, and when we do, they often have baggage near The End. Scars unseen they hide from the world, because frankly, the world can’t understand. It’s too cut and dry by that point for them.
Other times, it’s simply a numbing agent, a way to survive, to press on. Many started out, like Storen, chasing it. And as life often does, so many are filtered out over time. These guys aren’t like us, which is why I’ll tip my hat to them all, no matter who they are, simply because The Grinders reached The End.
And I hope and pray for the beginning of the rest of their life. 
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Derek Jeter, Don Henley, Eminem, LeBron James, New York Yankees

After The Boys of Summer Are Gone

Don Henley wrote nostalgically once about “The Boys of Summer.” A huge hit in 1984, years later Henley told Rolling Stone that the song represented a questioning the past and was about aging. A key line in the song that represents much of this sentiment and self-reflection: “Out on the road today, I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac. A little voice inside my head said don’t look back, you can never look back.”

It’s an ironic image for the 1980s: once counter-culture, fans of the Grateful Dead  driving around Cadillacs – a status symbol both of maturity and a touch of wealth. 

And whenever I hear it – and you still hear that song this time of year – I think of Derek Jeter. 

Didn’t expect that, did you?

For much of his career, I have held quiet and unassuming hatred for Derek Jeter. He represents the New York Yankees, and as a Boston Red Sox fan, he is the face of the arch-rival’s franchise. Therefore, if you are like me, you are just simply predisposed to disliking the guy.

At least that’s what I thought from 1995-2004. Then, on July 1, 2004, it became a genuine, sports hatred.
The Red Sox and Yankees – nearing the height of their rivalry, were battling tooth and nail in an extra innings game. With the score tied at 3 in the 12th inning, with runners at second and third and two outs, Sox outfielder Trot Nixon hits a pop-up down the third base line. Watching the game, you were certain the ball was heading foul into the stands.

Suddenly, there’s Jeter, screaming into the picture and making an over-the-shoulder catch. He is at the wall, so the force of his momentum launches him over the railing and into the stands. He makes the catch and cuts his chin, but the play ends the inning. Jeter leaves the game, but the Yankees win – and naturally, the announcers are drooling over him like the kid in that “Stacy’s Mom” video fawning over Rachel Hunter.

The announcers go on and on about what a leader “Jete” is, what a gamer, what a captain. It’s nauseating. It’s get-a-room-uncomfortable. It’s nails on a chalkboard to Red Sox fans. Remember, there were wounds still not healed from the previous October, so Sox fans hated everything Yankees even more so than normal. 

In hindsight, it was an amazing play. But I could never see it as such at the time. I was too young to appreciate it.

Fast-forward to the present.

Derek Jeter sits on the cusp of 3,000 hits and suddenly, I am nostalgic. 

After a contentious contract negotiation with the Yankees last winter, and with age becoming a factor, Jeter’s on the tail end of his career. And despite being a Yankee, I cannot help but feel sad that we’re losing something here. 

Jeter reminds you of the old boys of baseball. The Mantle’s, the Ryan’s – and some combination of both. He is a pretty tough cat, but he’s got this high amount of celebrity cache. The man has been with nearly every attractive celebrity female on the planet. 

Somehow, with all that happens in the current media age (Twitter, Facebook and 24/7 scrolling tickers) Jeter has managed to be in the public eye without anyone really knowing anything. It is like old Hollywood, really. People say they saw Jeter out doing this or that, hanging with this woman or that woman, but there’s no pictures, no proof – just stories. It’s mysterious, but not in a bad way since it leaves something to the imagination.

With Tiger Woods, once it all came out, there was literally nothing left to the imagination. In fact, your imagination died painfully as you scrubbed your eyes with Clorox. Either Jeter’s really, really good and doesn’t text people or he’s paid off everyone in Manhattan to keep quiet. And either way, that is pretty freakin’ cool.

Despite advancing in age and putting tons of miles on the tires with all the Yankees postseason runs, Jeter just went on the disabled list for the first time since 2003. He has really been a model of efficiency offensively and defensively. He is the only guy who could pull off forcing Alex Rodriguez to move to third base and then have people say that A-Rod was a better shortstop. And Jeter holds so many memories of iconic plays – mainly the flip play, where he tossed the ball to Jorge Posada to tag out Jason Giambi while running the opposite direction after cutting off a throw from right in 2001. 

I still don’t like Derek Jeter, yet I cannot help but feel odd (and old) that his time left in baseball is short.

We forget that athletes age too. Oh, we see it. We can see the gray hair and the loss of physique. We watch them stumble and get burned because they have lost a step – but we are not really comprehending it. At first, they get by on raw talent and athleticism. But in the end, it is all about being a cagey veteran who knows how a situation on the field or on the court will play out because they have been there, done that. 

This is where Jeter is at, like so many before him – getting by on what he knows and how the movie plays out. He has the script, he’s just executing the lines with more nuance. But the time is coming where he will not be able to get by on his wits anymore. 

And what does he do then? Naturally, he retires and becomes a manger or a TV analyst and becomes something entirely different. The better question is, what do we do next? 

It is always odd watching guys like Charles Barkley, Dan Marino and Troy Aikman in the studio or calling games. To anyone under the age of 30, that is all these guys are – old dudes referencing a game they once used to play. People view them with a sort of “Sure, I bet, old man” reverence, which is to say, “I hear you, but it’s just words.”

To anyone over 30, we remember how good these guys were. We were there, we saw their prime and we still hold them in high regard. 

And that difference in how people view athletes from one generation to the next is a striking similarity to Don Henley’s song and how we operate day-to-day in our own lives. It is why someone who enjoys Eminem does not get why people think NWA was controversial. It is why LeBron James can never be Michael Jordan. It is why I cannot begin to tell my kid how cool “Tecmo Bowl” was, because he has an X-Box and can run his own franchise, create himself as a player and set the price of popcorn in the concession stand. 

Perhaps that is why we can’t look back. We can never look back because only you understand the intrinsic value of what you’re looking back at if you were actually there to witness it.

In other words, for both Jeter and for me, getting older sucks.

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