Sports Journal: Childhood Heroes

The recent Chicago Cubs shake-up had baseball great Ryne Sandberg's name sprinkled in the headlines. Sandberg was my childhood hero. This got me thinking, how do we pick our heroes and, if I were a kid today, who would be my Sports Hero?

I know where my obsession with Sandberg was originally influenced. My dad grew up in Chicago, followed the Cubs, witnessed the '69 season, and loved Ernie Banks. He loved that man. And he loved his passion for the game. I can't tell you how many times I heard my pop emphatically say with a wide smile, "Let's play two!" That made its appearance during many a Little League game he coached.

Reflecting on those three little words, they perfectly embodied my dad's outlook on life. "If one is good, two's even better!" Whatever the idea was, he wanted to kick it up a notch. The first image that comes to mind is when he planned our family trip to Europe, a trip 20-years in the making. He planned a three-week trek that touched four separate countries...by car. People's eyes got big when he told them we drove in Paris, let alone Rome. We bounced around Germany, Austria, and circled Italy. All navigated by his scrawny, goofy 18-year old co-pilot.

That was my dad. The can-do mindset and impassioned attitude of "Let's play two" was his physical embodiment.

One of my earliest memories is going to visit my grandfather, my dad's dad, and watching Cubs games with him. He punished himself by being a Cubs fan, too. He was retired by the 1980s and I remember watching many an afternoon game at his side, each in our own recliner. Just like grandpa, an ice-cold can of Pepsi in one hand and in the other a Hostess Ding Dong cake from the freezer, because they're better that way. And that's where the obsession with Sandberg was born for a young Chris.

Sandberg, he always struck me as the strong, silent type. He was the John Wayne of second base.

He put up many a season of fantastic numbers. He was a leader of men. He got his uniform dirty in what seemed like every game. But he didn't run his mouth. He wasn't flashy. He was damn good at what he did and throngs of fans adored him, but none of it ever seemed to go to his head. Of course SportsCenter and corporate endorsements weren't then what they are now, but I think character remains the same regardless.

It was that sort of character that I did not one, but two separate biographical reports on in grade school. Long before the wiki-anything days rolled around, I tried to glean as much information as I could from a combination of Beckett Magazine, Sports Illustrated, and the backs of baseball cards. Thinking about it, I'm not sure how I squeaked out enough information for the required minimum of pages. Twice.

And speaking of ball cards, between my dad and I, one of our regular male-bonding occurrences became baseball card shows. Lots of them. And my hero Sandberg became the focus. Upper Deck, Fleer Ultra, Topps Desert Shield Edition, Denny's Grand Slam Holographic Limited Editions...as the options exploded, so did the collection of Sandberg cards. Remember how my old man liked to take it to 11? The collection grew from several pages to over 2,000 cards. My dad was responsible for the vast majority of that total. At one point, his job had him covering sales from Atlanta to Chattanooga and he knew where every ball card shop was between the two, many of which he arranged to have on the look-out for #23's cards specifically for him to pick up.

That massive collection paid off in a way I never could have imagined. Flash forward several years to 1996. I'm in my mid-teens. My dad and I are attending a Braves home game against the Cubs. We're set to sit in the cheap seats, but prior to first pitch, dad says, "how about we go down by the Cubs dugout?" Alright, why not. This is the good ol' days, when staff wasn't stationed at every aisle, ready to keep everyone separated by ticket caste.

So we're walking down the steps toward the dugout, passing all the business types and season ticket holders that are ordering things that are far too fancy for a baseball game from personal waiters. We get right up to the edge of the dugout and my old man is able to lock eyes with Manager Jim Riggleman, standing at the top of the steps.

"Hey, Jim, my son is a huge fan of Sandberg. He's go over 2,000 of his ball cards. Would he sign his glove?"

Wha?!? I'm looking at my old man, wondering what the hell is going on here. Where did this come from?

Then I see Riggleman look down into the dugout and say, "Hey, Sandberg. Some kid up here says he's got 2,000 of your cards!"

Next thing I know, Riggleman is motioning for me to toss him my ball glove. I think I forgot I was holding it.

I manage to toss it through the air and see it land in his hands on the other side. It then disappears into the dugout.

At this point, the usher for the section has seen the glove go into the air and is getting wise to our trespassing. He comes over and my dad starts explaining that his kid just wants a simple autograph. And he can't leave without his glove.

I'm watching this transpire...and it's then that it happens. Ryno himself appears at the top of the dugout, my glove in his hand, and tosses it back to me. Slack-jawed, somehow I caught it and stammered out a "thank you" at the same time.

We're clearing out of the fancy-pants section and there it was, on my well-worn Little League glove, the one that saw many years at second base: Sandberg's signature. That glove officially retired on that day.

When I think about Sandberg and describe him here, I can see how I've emulated him over the years: dedication to work, honesty, shying from the spotlight. Sure, we pick heroes usually because we want to walk in their footsteps, but is it possible that we also pick them because we're drawn to individuals with shared traits or personalities? Are we and our heroes kindred spirits?

That in mind, if I were 8-years old today, who would be my Sandberg?

Someone who comes to mind is another second baseman. The Red Sox's Dustin Pedroia embodies that franchise's hard-working roots. That guy is filthy before he can get out of the 1st. He takes care of both sides of the ball and shows he has a true love and respect for the game. I could see amassing a folder of ball cards on this guy.

Another athlete I love to see play is Kevin Durant. Sure, we share the same Alma mater, but even if we didn't, I'd still see the passion he plays with for the game. And, yes, he has huge endorsements, but it comes across in a very different way from someone like Kobe. Man, Kobe is great, but he just looks and acts like the type of guy that'd take great joy in getting to punch you right in the sack.

On the court, Durant looks like a big kid who appreciates how lucky he is to play a kid's game for a very good living. He seems like a guy who just gets it, as recently witnessed when he played a pick-up game of flag football with a bunch of college kids. Was it a pub-stunt? Maybe, but it was a fun one. Which fan wouldn't want to play in that game?

Growing up, a lot of kids I knew loved the flash of stars like Mark McGwire and Jose Canseco. Those guys remind me of current-day players like Alex Rodriguez and Ryan Howard, or even the recent Manny Ramirez.  I'm just not drawn to those guys. Not that each of them aren't talents, but I don't find myself rooting for them, and maybe it's because I don't believe I share personal traits with them. And I'm apparently not a fan of the long-ball hitter.

Within the realm of personal hero talk, I often hear people take a negative slant and say you'll only end up disappointed by them, because they're not who you think they truly are. I'd say that as long as we all take a look at the whole picture of the heroes we pick, which includes how they relate to us and our own values, what they say, and what they really do, then we're far less likely to end up feeling we'll ultimately be betrayed. And we'll all have heroes to help guide us and provide positive influence.

Sports Journal: Jim Leyritz tore out my heart

October 7, 2003: That was a pretty crummy day in my life. I was 23 and I finally experienced my first real romantic break-up. None of that teenager stuff. It was a relationship, one that lasted almost a year, but had been dying slowly for months. It seemed as though neither of us wanted to admit that it was over since July, maybe even earlier. neither wanted to be the bad guy, which only made it worse. It culminated in a supremely unpleasant parting. At present, we haven't spoken since that day.

That break-up negatively affected me for weeks. I didn't sleep well. My work suffered. I was a moody, sad-sack bastard and my friends were powerless when it came to getting me out of my funk. I'm sure she went through something similar.

10.7.03. That day sucked.

But, for me, it was nothing compared to October 23, 1996. That was when Jim Leyritz tore out my heart. And the heart of the Atlanta Braves.

I was 16, a sophomore in high school. It was fall in Atlanta, which coincided with the formation of the Varsity swim team. By some random mistake of my own, I missed the bus to practice that day after school. And by some equally random stroke of luck, it was meant to be. Stranded at school, needing a ride home, I gave my dad a call from the school payphone. That 25-cent call was a literal serendipitous moment.

He answered at work, surprised to hear from me. I explained what had happened. He said he was "very disappointed" I was missing practice. He continued, very fatherly, "You can't be this irresponsible...you really have to follow-through on your commitments." Man, he was laying it on thick. He continued, "You're going to have to be punished for this..." Oh, come on, it's just one practice! Then he dropped the bomb. "Seriously...You're going to have to go to Game 4 of the World Series tonight."

Wait. What?

Turns out, my old man, the smooth talker that he could be, had just finagled a pair of tickets to Game 4. His co-worker won them in a radio contest and she couldn't give two farts about baseball. He pounced. "My son would love to go!" As if he didn't want to go just as much as me.

I found myself suddenly going to a World Series game.

The '96 series, where the Braves were heavily favored defending champs. Where they had just gone into Yankee Stadium and taken Games 1 and 2 in commanding fashion. Sure, they dropped Game 3 to the Yanks, but they had two more at home.

There we were, father and son, at the Fall Classic, watching our team from the third base line. Cold and crisp like the World Series is supposed to feel, everything was also going as it was supposed to, up 6-0 by the end of the 5th. The Braves had their foot on the throats of the Yanks. Then New York got 3 back in the 6th. Alright, 6-3 now, but we still got this.

Then came the fateful 8th.

Top of the 8th and Bobby Cox brought in closer Mark Wohlers. He promptly allowed two to reach base, which brought Yankees back-up catcher Jim Leyritz to the plate. Jim F'ing Leyritz. With his bald head and humongous batting arm-guard, Leyritz resembled more of a pudgy Robocop than a baseball player. After six pitches to Leyritz, Wohlers decided to throw his fourth-best pitch. Leyritz responded by knocking the living hell out of the ball, sending it well over the left field wall. Dad & I had a perfect view to witness the dagger that was wedged deep into the heart of the Braves' chances to repeat as World Champs.

That was it. That one swing. The game was tied at six and the air had been sucked out of the stadium. From that point on, the Braves were as good as dead in that game. Three innings from going up a commanding 3-1 in the series, with a chance to close it out at home the next evening, the Braves lost Game 4 in extra innings, and were instead faced with a 2-2 series and a guaranteed trip back to the Bronx. And that was the killer.

They lost a heart-breaker in Game 5, 1-0, and even though they ultimately lost the series a couple days later in Game 6, it will always feel, to me, like they lost it in that one 8th-inning at-bat by Leyritz in Game 4.

I remember 10.7.03 and 10.23.96 for similar reasons. Both the relationship with my girlfriend and the '96 season lasted about the same length of time. Both had tremendous highs and terrifically low lows. And both dates signaled an end. Although, it isn't hard for me to pick which hurt my heart worse. Even though I recall the fantastic events that lead me to attend my first and, to this point, only World Series game, it will forever be overshadowed for me, as a fan, by the ultimate outcome of that game and its impact on the Series.

That's why, October 27, 2011, watching Game 6 between Texas and St. Louis, I can know a little of what Rangers fans everywhere felt. The highs of being so close. So. Damn. Close. Closer than the Braves in '96.

Closer even than the Braves in Game 7 of '91 when if, only if, Lonnie Smith doesn't hesitate coming around second base and instead goes for home, giving them the lead 1-0, which would have prevented the game from ever going 10 innings, which would have given them the series win instead of the Twins. Instead, it was being just that close to victory, not winning it, and living with it four more years. Four. Long. Years. Until Game 6 of the '95 Series, when Marquis Grissom caught a fly ball to center and collected out #27, and gave the Braves, and fans everywhere, their first World Series title, a moment of vindication, and closure on coming so close, but not quite.

As a Braves fan, there are moments like the ones from Game 7 of '91 or Game 4 of '96 that we can look back on and ask "what if?," but all of that was washed away by the comfort of winning it all in 1995. Texas Rangers fans don't have that. What they have is being one strike away from their first World Series title. One. Strike. Away. Twice. Both in the bottom of the 9th and the bottom of the 10th. It's the type of stuff you play-out in fantasy as a kid on the playground: end of the game, you're at bat, full count, runners on, tens of thousands cheering your name, and all it takes is one swing of the bat. One swing. For your team. And the Cardinals did that to the Rangers. Twice. In consecutive innings. It's something that will linger with Rangers fans for a long, long time.

On the other side of the coin, Cardinals fans couldn't have asked for anything more. They were ten-plus games out of playoff contention with barely a month to go in the regular season; made the playoffs on the very last day of the season; in the first round, defeated the odds-on favorite NL team with the largest payroll and a murderer's row of talent; came back from the brink of elimination three separate times in Game 6; and sent their 36-year old ace to the mound on three day's rest in Game 7 and won it all.

The TV ads say that you can't script October baseball. It's also commonly known that history is written by the victor. The number of home runs and RBIs that Texas catcher Mike Napoli put up would have earned him the Series MVP. Instead, that was all smashed to bits by eventual Series MVP, the Cardinals' David Freese, duly bestowed the award for his series-changing Game 6 heroics in both the bottom of the 9th and 11th. Sandwiched between was the Roy Hobbs-esque home run by injured Rangers' slugger Josh Hamilton in the top of the 10th. As a fan of baseball, you gotta figure at that point, "That's it, all she wrote." That Hamilton home run would have given them the game and the Series win, but it will forever be overshadowed by the walk-off home run by Freese in the following inning. That's the one that wrote history. And it's the one that will make high-light reels for years to come.

It's the Lonnie Smith-type moment that will stick with Rangers fans. It'll be ever-present over the next 100-plus days between now and Spring Training. The type of moment that will place seeds of doubt in their chances of winning it all when an eventual return trip to the Fall Classic arrives. A moment that will linger, even fester, until that Marquis Grissom-like time of exorcism comes and puts an end to the long and terrible drought of going without ultimate victory. When the Rangers eventually become the victors, that's when they'll get to write over the pains of Game 6 and 7 of 2011. It's a tremendous amount to deal with as a fan. Just imagine what the guys actually on the field feel; not all of the 2011 team will be around for the victory when it does come.

Dates like October 7 or 23 or 27 each have their individual meanings to us, some worse than others, some meaningful simply because of the level of importance we place on them. But they're moments that will always remain memorable. They're moments why, sooner or later, we get back to dating. Or why all of us, as fans, stick with our teams. Why we pick ourselves up and try again no matter how far or how close we were, not unlike the players we get behind. We accept that we can't have the tremendous highs without the horrific lows. What we hope for, what we strive towards, are the days that will validate all of the downs and have us all saying, "It was all worth it." Although, it really sucks in the meantime. It really, really sucks. F'ing Jim Leyritz.