Evan Longoria is mentally tough

I have an affinity for Dirt Bags - especially those like Evan Longoria who are making a real impact in the major leagues.

As one of my goals for this blog, I want to bring you stuff that hopefully helps you connect with baseball on a variety of levels. One of the best ways I can think of is through stuff I find on the internet... Like this video from ESPN I found on YouTube:



We don't hear nearly enough about the mental side of baseball and we probably should....

Video of the week

Some people say that baseball is just a game, but try telling that to Andy Pointer.



Baseball is most certainly more than a game; for some it's a dream and nothing is more powerful than having a dream. It's bigger than any goal and larger than life itself. The story above comes courtesy of Make-A-Wish-Foundation and ESPN.

Grand slams and unbridled joy

When I look back at my time as a baseball fan, I naturally reflect back to my years growing up. Even though I never played little league baseball, I was always drawn to the game.

I remember “different” things; like Willie McCovey’s deliberate warm up swings as he stepped into the batter’s box. He always looked so big and imposing. Seems like I every time I saw him on television he was hitting grand slams. Even though I know that wasn’t the case – my earliest recollection of any grand slam is of him (he did hit 18 in his career).



Looking back at him now - he seems much smaller than I remember him. Funny how that works.

My fondest memories about baseball are more about the celebrations that took place rather than the actual event. I’m talking about the unbridled joy players have expressed when they’ve just been a part of a big moment.

I love seeing athletes celebrate special moments in sports. I love it when it’s unscripted and demonstrates pure joy. I hate celebrations that pre-planned or more along the lines of “mugging for the camera.”

Kirk Gibson rounding the bases after his pinch-hit homerun in the 1988 World Series was pure joy on display. A player standing to watch one of his homeruns leave the yard on the other hand leaves something to be desired. Give me the guy running around on the field with his hat flying off and his arms swinging in all different directions over the guy who stops to purposely pose for the camera any day of the week.

I’m talking Tug McGraw kind of enthusiasm.



When I think back to my early days of watching baseball – I always remember Tug McGraw. I remember his intensity. Watching him wear his emotions on his sleeve was always compelling to me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him and when he did something great – watching him celebrate was magical.

That kind of enthusiasm still makes an appearance every now and sometimes we’re lucky enough to see it happening and if we’re really lucky – we get to take part in it.

Which reminds of a question I have to ask. Why do people leave early when games are close? Watching a walk-off win - especially in person is about a great a sports moment as there is. I will never understand it when people leave games when things are tight.

In closing this post... I wanted to say a few words about this blog.

I’ve been absent from this blog for quite some time now and I thought this would be a fitting way to re-engage myself and anyone kind enough to read what I have to write.

When I started The Baseball Docent, I started the blog as an outlet for all my baseball thoughts that weren’t necessarily about the Angels (I blog about them at True Grich). My real goal was to engage friends, acquaintances, and just about anyone who had a voice to participate in this thing. I love to hear why people love baseball and I love reading or hearing about their stories and memories.

I hope to get back to making regular contributions to this blog and more importantly will again try to reach out and get others to participate.

Baseball is about joy for me and I’ll leave you with this nice little piece about the Texas Rangers front office – who had reason to celebrate in game 2 of the ALCS when Nelson Cruz hit a walk-off grand slam.

Thad Levine, the Rangers assistant GM had this to say about the event and the celebration that took place from the suite where he and his colleagues were watching…

"We don't aspire to be the professional group that acts like we've been there," assistant GM Thad Levine said. "We want to celebrate every one of these minutes as if it may be the last. When somebody in our group, and Nellie is in our group, does something special like that, we want to celebrate it and remember that forever. The experiences are the currency of life and Nellie gave us one [Monday] and we're not going to miss it."

Here, here.

Welcome back to the Baseball Docent folks.

I know that name....

My wife Cheryl does this thing every now and then when she sees or hears a player’s name; she says to me, “I went to high school with a so-and-so.” For the most part, the player has no relation what-so-ever to the person she went to high school with, but that doesn’t discourage her from going down that road every now and then.

A few years ago, I mentioned a name of a baseball player from Long Beach State; his name was Sean Boatright. I don’t remember the circumstances surrounding the conversation, but as soon as the name came up, Cheryl says to me “I went to high school with a Bob Boatright.” She went on to tell me that he was a pretty big time athlete at Millikan, where she went to school.

Turns out – that Sean Boatright is the son of Bob Boatright.

So, why do I bring up Sean Boatright today? Well, Marcia C. Smith of the Orange County Register wrote a column Thursday about Sean Boatright’s attempt for a come-back.

Sean played at Long Beach State with Troy Tulowitzki and Evan Longoria along with Jered Weaver. Rather than try to retell the story that Smith writes, I invite you to read her column.

There’s something that’s always intriguing, interesting and even inspiring about a person who sets out to achieve a dream.

Coincidently, I saw Boatright this past January at the Long Beach State Dirtbag Alumni game at Blair Field in Long Beach and meant to tell Cheryl about it and then promptly forgot until I read the column in the OC Register.

Boatright will begin his come-back with the Calgary Vipers, an Independent League team. He has a long road ahead of him, but here’s hoping his dream comes true. It would make for a great story for sure.

I know two people (Cheryl and myself) who will be tracking his progress towards his goal!

February 2, 2011 Baseball Docent Tour Stops

It is with great pleasure that I bring you a link to a story about Stephen Strasburg and his connection to a young boy named Michael who reached out to Stephen because of something they had in common. In this day and age when so many people have a sense of entitlement, this is a refreshing story about a kid who wasn't seeking anything at all; instead, he offered encouragement and was rewarded in a big way.

It's just the kind of story I love and I'm sure you will too. Please read Injury leads to Major League Connection courtesy of Charlie Leffler of The Mechanicsville Local.

Next tour stop - Rob Neyer formerly of ESPN has a new gig. He's now at SB Nation and his first piece is about being one of "us." I'm somewhat of a Rob Neyer fan; in that I love it when he tells baseball stories. His analysis and such aren't necessarily the reason I read his stuff.

In any case - yesterday was his first day on the new job and he's already written three pieces at last count. Find his first blog post: HERE.

January 28, 2011 The Baseball Docent Tour continues

It's been a while. I could bore you with why, but rather than do that, let's just get back at it, shall we?

Today's tour takes us to a great blog called "The Henry Wiggen Blog" - and a post from January 3, 2011. It's about a baseball story and one that I'm sure you'll enjoy. It's about Mickey Mantle and who doesn't love a good Mickey Mantle story?

This one has a long title; it's called: Lure of the ball field... is it lost on the modern player? An inviting conundrum from Jane Leavy's new biography of the Mick. Enjoy....

Next up is the work of one of my favorite wrtiers and someone who will no doubt be mentioned on this site a lot over time. He's Joe Posnanski and he did an interesing piece about the Hall of Fame.

Who's really good enough to get in? Let's start with Willie Mays; in fact, Joe would like to use Willie May as the criteria for such an esteemed honor. How so? Read "The Willie Mays Hall of Fame" for some entertaining insight.

Okay... so we have a link to something about Mickey Mantle and one to something about Willie Mays. Not a bad day's work eh?

I really can't top that - but I will leave you with something that's about another Hall of Famer... This is a tribute to Dave Niehaus, the legendary voice of the Seattle Mariners who passed away in 2010.

Enjoy...



Special thanks to Sam Miller of the OC Register who brought this video to our attention.

In Baseball As in Life: A Mother’s Perspective

By Elizabeth Crabtree

I don’t really know much about the game of baseball. After more than a decade of heading to the field with my son, Aaron, I still have to ask him what “RBI” means, why a foul also counts as a strike, and when it is acceptable to supportively exclaim, “good try!” after an error or when you’re just better off pretending that you didn’t see it. As a parent, it’s sometimes best to keep your head down and gently say nothing at all. I’m also completely perplexed by all those peculiar and secretive hand gestures among the coaches, runners and base players. I don’t know how they seem to instinctively figure out that stuff, but still can’t manage to feed the mewing cat or remember to take the garbage out on schedule before the truck arrives at the front door. It must be a ‘guy-thing.’

I have supported my son’s enthusiasm for the game of baseball all the way back to tee-ball. His first debilitating moment on the field was a pop fly catch that missed the confident and eagerly outstretched glove of a five-year-old, bouncing off his top lip and resulting in a bloody yelp that beckoned a chorus of mothers rushing to the field with sympathies and ice packs in hand. That was a tough moment – not because he met with minor injury, but because in that passing instant he would now forever realize that the excitement, joy and fun of playing baseball could also really hurt and bring about great disappointment, embarrassment and fear. Oh, the mother’s agony of nervously waiting and wondering if this early experience would forever shatter his fledgling exuberance and fragile ego. A hint of anxiety and sadness did set in, but only momentarily. It seems that a little humility and a sore fat lip can sometimes be a strong motivator. He could have sulked and sat on the bench, but the next at-bat brought focused determination. He crushed the blood-stained ball with a long baseline grounder that hopped past several foiled fielders and landed him victoriously in a belly-slide at third base. Home plate was within easy reach. He was safe and smiling once again.

Thereafter, we were both hooked and soon got into the habit of practicing for the big game. Aaron graduated tee-ball and was recruited into the little big leagues where he quickly became a go-to pitcher. As an awkward single-mother of an athletically-minded boy I tried my best to fit in with all the dads at the field and took the time to throw the ball around in the yard with my son from time to time – just like all the neighboring dad’s seemed to do. I was really getting the hang of it and found that I was having a little bit of fun, too. After a while I felt so confident about my baseball training prowess that I bought myself a nice new leather glove at our next trip to the sporting goods store. Aaron was even impressed and thought that I was good enough to be his team’s coach. I beamed with pride. Who needs a dad, I thought? Although Aaron had a loving father, we were separated and his time commitment to Aaron had always been fragmented. So I thought that being able to not only be a mother, but a surrogate dad to my son by playing sports with him was an important achievement, which validated my ability to do it all, be it all and never surrender to my worries, doubts and fears. Then, just when I was feeling quite satisfied with myself, I took a hard fast ball on the shin from the kid while catching for him at age seven. I immediately gave up on my budding and bruised coaching career. Who knew baseball could be so painful, I thought? Was he throwing so hard and fast to try to hurt me?! Jeesh! “No more of that,” I said, “Go play with your friends!” And that’s how it’s been ever since. I’ve surrendered to my limitations. I can’t do it all. So I just have to live with doing my best at what I can.

So each weekend, I am there – retreating to the safety of the sidelines, lugging out my chair and cooler, slathering on the sunscreen or rather, opening up the umbrella and shivering under a blanket. After all, this is New England baseball we’re talking about it. Still, each weekend, I am there. Cheering on the team, trying to remember all the players’ names, being proud of my son - or sometimes dismayed - but overall, I’m just hoping for a good day. I do admit that there is a competitive streak in me that would like to see my son’s team win their fair share of games, but at the end of the day, it’s not really about all of that.

I don’t really know much about the game of baseball. Even though I grew up playing a lot of it in the back alleys and vacant lots of the rural South with my three scrappy brothers and their rowdy friends who cheated their way to a win practically every time. There wasn’t as much to it in those days. You could buy a ball at the local hardware store for about fifty-cents and you seldom ever got a new bat or glove – you inherited a nicely broken-in one from your father or an older brother or perhaps your mom snagged a deal on a used one at a local rummage sale. If you were lucky and your birthday came around during the spring or summer, you might be surprised by a new bat or glove, but that generally meant you had an obligation to share it with your siblings, friends and other team mates on a regular basis that in the end, nobody really knew who actually owned it. Forget about cleats, we were lucky to own a pair of sneakers that weren’t two sizes too small by summertime. Nowadays, it is common knowledge that this year’s model hybrid fusion bat is much better than last year’s model and no kid can be respectable at the field without a pair of leather batting gloves, shatterproof sunglasses and sweat-minimizing, anti-chafe, high-performance underwear.

Seriously. When I was a kid we did walk a few miles to get to school each day and we never really knew all the rules of baseball or just how dangerous the game could be. In our neighborhood, a good pitcher or catcher could get a runner out on a steal by simply pelting him with the ball. You might be considered mean-spirited if you hit the runner in the head, but other body parts were fair game and there was no need for an umpire. For us, the rules of dodge ball, kickball, baseball and red rover were all interchangeable and in any dispute, the majority (or biggest fist) ruled. Those boys made me crazy as a kid, but I think of them with fondness as I remember the game of baseball before it became such a serious, business-oriented venture:

Before the business of baseball
There were more battered knees than
Bruised egos:

No midnight strike deadlines
Or board room brawls
No home run fireworks
Or strategic press releases
No boasting million dollar contracts
Or boisterous billboard-sized players

Before the game became a sport
Before the sport became a business
Before the business became a circus

Before the business of baseball . . .

There were sun-tanned boys with
Puffy red-cheeked faces
Bashing sweaty shots in
Back alley lots across
Fields of dandelions and through
Choruses of crickets
Stealing bases and little girls’ hearts
Until the final call for
Suppertime ….

All for the sake of a simple joy:
Playing ball.

The times might have changed, but it’s still a joyful gift to play and watch this insane and unpredictable game of baseball, especially with a fine team whose animated players suit up on a sunny day and meet the sky with high-five winks and self-assured grins, yet never really know what the game will throw their way. I enjoy seeing my son with his coaches and teammates, working hard to learn a thing or two about playing a good game of ball. It takes a lot of commitment, dedication and sacrifice to become a better, stronger and faster player. And even then, there’s still a very good chance that you’re going to screw up, strike out and lose it all in the end.

I sometimes miss my fantasy coaching days, but it is really much easier to be a back-seat coach from the comfort of my lawn chair where I can pretend that I know what’s going on, second-guess the team’s strategies and curse the umpire’s calls under my breath. It’s truly much harder to actually step up to that plate, take that chance, and be that coach in real time. Scheduling games, herding players and placating parents appears to be the most difficult task of all. So I applaud the valiant efforts and perseverance of my son’s coaches all the more. It’s really my business as a mom to do exactly what I do best. Sit back, try to relax and let him live it – injuries, heartaches, errors and all. It’s just part of the game and perhaps, too, it’s a little part of life.

Aaron, now fifteen, already learned a hard life lesson during baseball season six years ago this June. I enrolled him in his first sleep-away camp – Little League’s regional headquarters baseball camp in Bristol, Connecticut. He was so excited and proud to go. We got there after six long hours of driving. The place was so beautiful – ‘fields of dreams’ you might even say. And the college-player coaches were loads of fun and distraction for Aaron while I stood in the long registration line for yet another hour. However, when I got to the head of the line and eagerly gave his name and whipped out my checkbook to pay the account balance, the camp director quickly came over to me with a sense of grim despair. There was an urgent, emergency phone call from our family back home. I stepped aside to dial my parents and was informed that Aaron’s father had died that morning – suddenly and tragically at age forty-one from a stress-induced heart attack. Game over.

I stood there in silent tears shocked and confused as my son impatiently questioned me about what was wrong. I wasn’t at all ready to be called up for something like this. It just couldn’t be true. I never saw it coming. I hadn’t planned for it. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Not now. Not here. Not ever.

So just how do you tell an eight-year-old boy whose joy of the moment was playing baseball that his father just died and their big and woefully overdue summer plans of fishing and swimming and roller-coaster riding would never be realized? Baseball camp, too, would have to wait.

There was nothing I could say to him except the God’s honest truth. A doomsday omen and career-ender, I thought. That long six-hour ride back home changed the game of baseball for Aaron. Somehow though, it didn’t completely break him. A few months later he picked up the bat and was swinging for the fences again. And each summer since, we’ve spent every Father’s Day and the anniversary of that loss with some team, somewhere on a baseball field.

Even though I don’t know much about the game of baseball, it has meant a lot to our little family. After everything Aaron and I have been through these past many years it occurs to me now that baseball somehow prepares us for a lot of life’s lessons. I’m glad that Aaron never lost his love for it, even though one of his earliest memories of baseball coincides with one of the greatest tragedies of his life. After a recent heartbreaking game Aaron simply smiled, patted me on the back, and said, “It’s too bad that we lost, but we played a good game and it was a fun day.” My sideline frustration and disappointment vanished and I readily replied, “You’re right, you guys did play a good game and it really was a beautiful and fun day.”

My boy is fast growing into a young man with a head full of dreams and great expectations. I often find myself wondering what odyssey there will be for us yet ahead and what kind of father he will be someday since he lost his own so early in life. Our days at the field seem plentiful and long, but summer can be all too short and fleeting so I try to savor each and every one as they are sure to be some of the best of our lives. I still find that as a mother much of my energy is spent planning, organizing and worrying until I finally just have to give up, sit back and hope for the best. I can’t control everything. I can’t fix everything. I can’t be everything. And I’ll never really know that much about the game of baseball. Like every inning of every game, his future no matter how well conceived or prepared will always be uncertain.

For in baseball, as in life, you just never know how far you can go or how it will end. But hopefully, you’ll play a good and honorable game, enjoy living in the moment, and have a chance to make your way home safe every now and again.