"Getting up in the morning is not for the faint of heart. Being a man is not easy. But it never has been, I would guess. The demands on us are many; the hours in the day are still capped at 24. We get tugged, second-guessed, pulled in different directions, and at the end of the day we are left wondering what happened. And sometimes it seems like those are the good days."---Tony Dungy
"Baseball is made up of very few big and dramatic moments, but rather it's a beautifully put together pattern of countless little subtleties that finally add up to the big moment, and you have to be well-versed in the game to truly appreciate them." ---Paul Richards, Baltimore Orioles manager (1955-61).
He hadn't said a word to us--my sister and I-- the entire trip. The sun was beginning to set. In the middle of a heatwave, the humid air did little to comfort. It was the summer of 1988. The Pan-Am 747 had exploded from terrorist bombs over Scotland, killing all 259 on board. Michael Dukakis, having just won the Democratic nomination, was preparing to face George Herbert Walker Bush for the United States Presidency. Toni Morrison had just written a book named "Beloved." "Driving Miss Daisy" and "Bull Durham" were in the movie theatres. Compact discs had outsold vinyl records for the first time in history and Michael Jackson had just recorded the song "Man in the Mirror." I had survived the third grade and was months away from meeting my first-ever crush, Erin Matthews. But at this moment, there was something else happening. I was just five minutes away from being introduced to a lifelong friend. We made a right-hand turn into a gravel parking lot. It was 3&2 Baseball Field in Kansas City. The parking lot, placed on a large hill, was packed. At the bottom of the hill, were two baseball fields, where games were being played. The car slowly made its way to the far left-hand side of the parking lot, before my father found a parking spot. He got out of the car and told us to do the same. I had no idea why we were here. I was eager to find out. We made our way down the stairs and approached a baseball field. The game was in the early innings. I spotted my best friend Dale playing. It was clear now. We're here to see Dale. My dad took my sister's hand and led her to the stands. I followed. He turned around and stopped me. "No," he said. "You go to the dugout, right over there. You're playing."Confused, I stood still, as if my feet were stuck in the dirt. My dad pointed to the dugout again."Go on," he said.Cautiously, and maybe a little reluctantly, I made my way to the dugout. There was a darkhaired man with glasses standing by the gate. He noticed me and offered a smirk."We've been waiting on you," he said.He opened the gate and let me in. Moments later, he handed me a jersey. The team's name was W.G. Brown. They were playing against the Raiders. The jersey was orange with white trim and brown lettering. I put on the jersey. On the side, I took a few practice swings. The aluminum bat was so heavy. By the time I finished practicing, the other players were coming back to the dugout for their opportunity to hit. I saw Dale. We exchanged glances and smirks. I didn't play until the last inning. W.G. Brown was down by one run in the bottom of the frame. I stood in the on deck circle,unaware of the entire situation. Surprisingly calm, I stood and watched the tall kid step to the plate. The pitch came. And then it was gone. The tall kid uncorked a sweet stroke, hit the ball and sent it sailing over the left-center field fence for a home run to tie the game.It was now my turn.With one out, I stepped into the batter's box and looked out on to the field. Playing for the Raiders was my friend Rashad. He was their second baseman. We acknowledged each other with a head nod. I dug in and prepared to hit. The first pitch came in tight. I laid off of it. Ball one. The next pitch came barreling in on me. I swung and I missed--bad. The count was 1-1. The pitcher released offering No. 3. It came in fast and hit me in the middle of the ribs. It was as if I'd been stabbed. An intense pain traveled through my upper body and I fell to my knees. After a few moments, I shook off the pain and took my base. I later learned from Rashad that it was no mistake. The Raiders pitcher hit me on purpose."He was mad because the other dude hit that home run off him," Rashad said.In the dugout, I learned the signs quickly. Picking them up wouldn't be a problem. They weren't complicated. I took my lead at first base. Night had fallen. Mosquitoes were swarming around the field. People were screaming from the stands. I saw them, but I only heard silence. I looked at the coach on the third base line. He gave me a sign, indicating he wanted me to steal second base.In those days, I was routinely the fastest person at my school and I loved to show off my speed. This was perfect. On the first pitch, I took off. I raced toward second base and beat the throw easily. I dusted myself off and took a look at my coach again. I was confused. I had no idea what was going to happen next. I didn't know what direction I wanted to go in. The only thing I knew was I wanted to do something good. At my coach's instruction, I took my lead at second base. I didn't know how far off the bag I needed to be. However, the pitcher wasn't paying much attention to me. I was flying under the radar. My coach gave me the steal sign again. Just like the first time, I took off on the first pitch. The throw came in fast, but I beat it again. A few pitches later, everything came full circle. A pitch skipped into the dirt and slipped by the catcher."Go!" my coach yelled. "Run, run! Go score!"I burst into a dead sprint for home plate. Halfway there, the catcher had located the ball at the backstop. He grabbed it and sprinted to meet me at home plate. Two people. Two different goals. I slid head first into home plate (a mistake). He attempted the tag. He missed. I scored. My score proved to be the game-winner. It was the only game W.G. Brown would win the entire season.As I became older two things happened: I lost my speed and baseball became my passion.There was just something about the game which made me feel good. I could get lost in it. I could fall in love with it---and it would love me back. The gates, leading to the field, served as a filter. I'd take my happiness and add it to the joy the game brought me. The worries and pain I might have had that day, I left it at the gate. For three hours a day, I was free.Baseball is a teacher. A lot like The Game, life is a constant, neverending series of adjustments. It's the game within the game. A chess match. There are successes and there are failures. There are highs and there are lows. And at the end, with enough strategy, effort and belief, everything balances out. We are the product of our own hearts and bodies. What lies in the heart will transfer into the body and manifest itself. There's no fooling The Game. Ever wonder why baseball players never seem to be bothered, even in the worst situations? Because they know. We're in a marathon and not a race. Patience will force its lessons upon you. The teacher delivers a lesson in failure. In a game where the best succeed only 30 percent of the time, moments must be seized when presented. The teacher forces you to examine yourself, daily. I was a teenager. Having lost my speed and gained more muscle, I was able to play my ball the same way I lived my life---all or nothing. I played so hard. I hit for power, taking every swing as if it were my last. I struck out a lot. However, if I made contact, I hit it. A long way. The problem was finding consistent success. Midway through my junior season, disheartened, I walked away from the batting cage. I had taken 30 pitches that day. I hit one. This was becoming a trend, a two-week long one. Coach Moroye, a young guy who had just moved to KC from Colorado, called out to me. He brought me off the field, outside of the fence and told me to bring my bat with me. "Show me how you hit," he said. I took the bat, wrapped my hands around it, left under right and completed my stance. "Now give me a half swing and stop in the middle," he said. I did. My arms were extended and my bat was held, suspended in the air. Moroye placed the baseball on the end of the bat. "Now turn your head to the left," he said. I did. "Can you see the ball?" "No." "Now turn straight ahead." I did. "Can you see the ball now?" It was still pressed against the barrel of my bat. "Yeah." "That's the problem. You're swinging too hard and too undisciplined. When you swing, you're swinging with everything you've got and you're taking your whole body with you. You're out of control," he said. "I've watched you. And you've been doing it for a long time. You're swinging and everything goes. Your hips, your torso and most importantly, your head. And you're wondering why you haven't been hitting. It's because you can't see it. Remain disciplined, move your hands and hips, nothing else. Keep your head steady and your eyes on the ball. Remain focused on the objective, which is the baseball and you'll be fine." Baseball changed for me, after that day. At times it overwhelmed me. Now it had finally slowed down. When a pitch was delivered, it usually looked like a small white sphere coming at me 200 miles per an hour, striking before I could ever make my first move. Now, I could see it coming. I felt like Ted Williams. It wasn't just a white sphere anymore. I could see the strings, the movement and the ball seemed to take a full two minutes to get to me. I could judge the direction the ball was going and make a quick decision on how and where to hit it. Finally I had a philosophy. I had a plan. I still follow that plan today. I take every thing one minute---one base---at a time. I'm still adjusting and I'm still searching for the answers to lifelong questions. I'm learning not to fear failure. The odds are against you every day. And more times than not, the odds will win. Your job is to--periodically--- find a way to become the victor and build on it. I'm learning to believe in myself and others. Sometimes it's more of a game of fortune than skill. I know I can't do this alone. I'm going to need the ball to bounce my way from time to time. All I can do is place myself in favorable positions and let fate decide the rest. Today, I still play hard---but more controlled this time around. Instead of swinging blindly, I take the time to slow down, focus, remain disciplined and see myself achieving my goals, however large or small they may be. Like baseball, I never asked to participate. I never asked to be here. However, here is where I am. I have to make the best of it. My life is a series of moves, a long road full of adjustments. The exciting part is not knowing where it's going to end. However, I do know where it began. It all began in the summer of 1988.
The Devil wore a coat and a skull cap while he watched this one.
The Kansas City Royals made news with a 4-1 victory over the Detroit Tigers Thursday at Commerica Park. With the win, the Royals completed a three-game sweep and started the season with a perfect 3-0 record.
It's a little too late for an April Fool's Day joke.
The Royals for the first time since 2003, are in first place in the American League Central. Their early success would be easy to explain had they just stumbled and found these three wins under the Tigers' couch while they were away from home. The Royals earned these wins. And they looked rather impressive doing it. Thursday Kansas City's Zach Grienke pitched seven innings. He gave up six hits and struck out three. Mark Teahan and Alex Gordon both hit homers. Joakim Soria pitched a perfect ninth inning for the save. Two days ago, Kansas City's Gil Meche battled through six innings, giving up eight hits but only three runs. Tony Pena, Jr. hit a two-out, tie-breaking single in the 11th inning, breaking a 4-all tie. Soria pitched a scoreless 11th inning for the save. Royals 5, Tigers 4. One day ago, Kansas City's Brian Bannister (You'll know his name very soon. One of the most underrated young pitchers in the American League) pitched seven strong innings, giving up zero runs and just two hits. Billy Butler and Jose Guillen each had RBI doubles. Soria struck out the side in the ninth inning. Royals 4, Tigers 0.
Seeing a trend?
For the first three games of the year, the 2008 Royals are the early-90s Atlanta Braves. I kid you not. I'm writing this with a straight face. Not even a hint of a smirk. The top three starters in the Royals' pitching rotation have been effective, to say the least. Kansas City's pitching staff held the Tigers lineup (One predicted to be the best in baseball) to a .206 batting average with 24 strikeouts in 29 innings pitched. The Royals' offense hasn't been stellar, but it's been timely. The middle of the Royals' lineup of Gordon, Guillen, Butler and Teahan has been productive. Gordon's a rising star, Guillen hit 28 homers a year ago, Butler, with a sweet swing, has hit at every level and Teahan hit 31 doubles in 2006. Joey Gathwright, at the top of the lineup, is one of the fastest leadoff men in the American League (And he can jump over cars. Check the tape.) and Mark Grudzielanek is a protypical No. 2 hitter. The Royals also have received three great outings from Soria, their closer. The 23-year-old Soria has been lights out, collecting two saves and posting a 0.00 earned run average in three appearances.
This could be a fluke. Then again, it could be signs of things to come. The Royals could be pretenders playing the role of contenders. However, remember that confidence can take one a long way. Two of the Royals' biggest problems from a year ago, pitching and defense, have been their strengths this year.
The jury is still out. Nobody is ready to holler and throw their hands up just yet. And they shouldn't. Baseball is a 162-game marathon--so far from a race.
The Royals could be that woman in the club. You know, the one who initally looks like Cinderella and to everyone's horror, transforms into one of the step sisters when 3 a.m. hits and the lights come on?
No team has ever fooled a Major League Baseball schedule. There's three things you can count on: Death, taxes and knowing every baseball team is what it is at the end of the year. After 162 games, what you see is what you get and the truth will be told.
Right now the Royals are that woman. They're dancing in the middle of the floor. All eyes are on them. They're IT. The way they play is nothing short of beautiful. The veterans of the spot know the rules. They've seen this before. And they're all skeptical, waiting for the lights to come on. And it very well could happen. Then again, it shouldn't surprise anyone if they find themselves watching the Royals dance all night long.
The ball is in your hands. You're racing down the court. All eyes are watching as 15,000 people release a collective gasp. They know something special is about to happen. And then...it happens. Yeah, Julian Wright. We still love you. Place yourself in JuJu's shoes. If this happened to you what would you do?
He left him standing still. Blew by him as if he were the wind and his defender helplessly played the role of the stick in the mud. I reached for my cell phone and sent a quick text to a friend.
It read: "Kobe just killed J.Kidd."
Late in the fourth quarter, in a tight game, against the Dallas Mavericks, a Western Conference foe, Kobe Bryant was isolated against Jason Kidd on the right wing of the court. One-on-one, Kidd shifted his shoulders to the left, giving Bryant an opening. It was all Kobe needed. He took off straight for the basket and blew by Kidd. No cross-over, stutter-step or fake of any sort. He just blew by him---and scored.
But don't blame Kidd. His teammates couldn't do anything with Kobe, either. The Mavericks played him man-to-man, double-teamed him, triple-teamed him and mixed in a zone defense. And Kobe still scored, clutch basket after clutch basket.
The National Basketball Association is full of them. Fake super stars. False basketball prophets. They're up and down just about every roster in the NBA. They're the classic good-stats-on-a-bad-team type of player. Twenty meaningless points and 10 meaningless rebounds a game. Results without production. Style without substance. Their stats look great but their won-loss record fails in comparison. They're a piece, but not the piece. And it's not their fault. Being special isn't just a talent. It's a mentality. And either you have it or you don't.
I've always believed Kobe was the latter.
Not anymore.
Over the last few weeks, something has happened--something profound. And we're all eating our words.
We've heard it before. Many of us have believed it. He's a horrible teammate and an even worse person. He shoots too much and doesn't pass enough. He's selfish. Arrogant. A coward. Heartless. Great player-- easily the most talented in the NBA--but you don't want Kobe on your team.
He doesn't want to win.
For years he's heard the whispers and tried to emerge from the shadows. He's been running from his past. They still haven't forgotten about Colorado, his quarrels with Shaq and public persona. We all saw the three straight championships, the talent which seemed to come natural and the gaudy stats. The bar was set. For 12 long seasons, he's been trying to find his way and live up to what's been expected of him. And for 12 seasons he didn't know how. And we crucified him for it. He's supposed to be a leader. Leaders are supposed to shoot. So Kobe averaged 35 points per a game in 2005-2006 and 31 a season ago.
He shoots too much, is what we said.
Leaders are supposed to get their teammates involved. Leaders are supposed to share. In Game 7 of the first round of the 2006 Western Conference Playoffs, Kobe deferred to his teammates and attempted just three shots in the second half of a loss to the Phoenix Suns.
Now he doesn't shoot enough, we thought.
Kobe allowed himself to get caught in the trap. It's one many of us fall victim to. The trap of trying to please others. And in his attempts to prove them wrong, he became what they said he'd always be. He threw his teammates under the bus, asked for trades and sulked when it didn't happen. He was confused. Sometimes the noise--the voices of others--can be so loud in your head that it's hard to concentrate on what you're supposed to be, who you're supposed to be. And it's easy to forget what you were looking for.
He could have been traded, maybe should have. He could have had a fresh start. But sometimes the most progressive move is remaining still. Sometimes you just have to wait.
And the moment he's waited for is here. Standing at the free throw line with 9.4 seconds remaining in overtime, and the Lakers ahead 105-104, Kobe calmly sank two free throws to ice the game. He had scored 30 of his 52 points in the second half. He was balanced and determined. Kobe had done everything right. He became the deciding factor. No. 24 became the reason. This game had become a microcosm of his life. The team is winning and Kobe's finally at the controls. Dallas called a timeout and as he walked to the bench, you could see it in his eyes. Kobe's got a different walk. He even has a different number. He never knew what he was. He's fought to distance himself from what we've perceived him to be.
Maybe Kobe's figuring it out. Maybe Kobe's refusing to lose. Maybe No. 24's refusing to give in.
Maybe Bryant's become the leader many wanted him to be.
Maybe Kobe no longer cares what you think.
Maybe Kobe finally has IT. Perhaps, right has always been wrong, closing your eyes has become the only way to see and holding your breath is the proper way to breath.
Like the witches in Shakespeare's "Macbeth", life has its own twisted logic, a backwards way of thinking.
On Saturday night he was a bird. He was a plane. On any other day he averages 21 points, 14 rebounds and a sickening 2.4 blocks per a game. He's 6-11, 264 pounds. And get this: He's just 22. He's Dwight Howard. And what you just saw wasn't even his best dunk in the Slam Dunk Contest in New Orleans, La. It's amazing that just four years ago there was a debate on whether the Orlando Magic should take Howard or Emeka Okafor with the No.1 pick in the 2004 NBA Draft. He's not Superman. But the man who wears the cape is the cornerstone of his franchise--and the future of the NBA.
1955-Present
1982-Present
"Baseball is made up of very few big and dramatic moments, but rather it's a beautifully put together pattern of countless little subtleties that finally add up to the big moment, and you have to be well-versed in the game to truly appreciate them." ---Paul Richards, Baltimore Orioles manager (1955-61).
"Don't just wish for good things to happen. Make them happen."--Bill Self 
