Off Wing Opinion

As I write this, I'm sitting in front of my television watching the defending World Series Champion Anahiem Angels open the defense of their title against the Texas Rangers.

While the weather looks great for Opening Day out in Anahiem, the Washington area got a freak early Spring snowstorm today -- such is life during an era where baseball needs to shove 162 games in between the last weekend in March and the end of September in order to make room for an extra round of playoffs.

I'd certainly like to provide all of you some brilliant insight into the upcoming baseball season, but I'm afraid that's beyond my meager abilities. That wasn't always so. Back in 1994, I was actually picking up some extra lunch money stringing for the Washington Times, and writing a weekly column on Rotisserie Baseball.

Back in those days, I actually worried quite a bit about who the Toronto Blue Jays' fourth outfielder was, and whether or not Baltimore's Lee Smith had enough gas left in the tank for the rest of the season after piling up about 30 saves before the All-Star break.

Of course, 1994 was also the year of the baseball strike that wiped out the World Series> for the first time in history. By now we all know what happened -- the season was shut down in mid-August depriving: Matt Williams from a shot at Roger Maris' home run record; Tony Gwynn a chance to hit .400; and the Montreal Expos a division title, and perhaps, a chance to stay in Montreal.

For me, it meant getting along without the last four columns of the season, and $200 that I desperately needed to make ends meet. But what was far worse for me was the realization that I had invested so much time and effort on the season, only to have the whole damn thing taken away from me. I was angry, as angry as I had been in 1981 when the players had gone on the strike the time before.

And, like in 1981, 1994 marked another period of estrangement from baseball for me. And again, I would come back, mostly because the team I loved most, the New York Mets, had battled themselves back into contention for a post season berth.

But since then, instead of being a baseball fan, I was just a Mets fan. And that's just fine for me. If you're looking for someone who has got some real insight into the game, and what it takes to succeed in it today, I nominate Billy Beane, general manager of the Oakland A's. He was the subject of a long excerpt from Michael Lewis' upcoming book, Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game that appeared in today's New York Times Magazine.

Working with his assistant GM, Paul DePodesta, Beane has found a way to keep the small market A's more than competitive over the past few years using a set of tools that seem to have more in common with Wall Street than a baseball diamond. Bottom line: the piece is well worth your time, and provides a great example of how smarts are just as important as cash when it comes to winning in the big leagues.

POSTSCRIPT: Tip of the hat to Robert Centor, M.D. for passing along the Beane link.

From a typically great Tom Boswell column on the internationalization of baseball:

Our international stars also take us into a future we didn't imagine. For example, led by magical shortstop Omar Vizquel, more middle infielders are realizing that you can catch and throw the ball barehanded in one motion while turning the double play. Who needs a glove? What was once called hot-dogging is now seen as an appropriate risk-reward approach to a vital play.

This passage triggered some great memories. I was never much of a baseball player, never more so than when I attended Grand Canyon Baseball Camp on the campus of Mansfield State College (now Mansfield University) for two consecutive Summers back in the late 1970s.

In those two Summers, I got my first taste of travelling on my own without my family -- something that I'm sure has led to my continuing comfort with taking vacations alone. My days, and nights for that matter, were filled with nothing but baseball for two glorious weeks. We'd have drills and instruction after breakfast every morning, followed by a game at about 10:30 a.m. After lunch, it was more instruction, followed by another game around 2:30 p.m.

After dinner, we'd retire to the dormitory, to spend the rest of the evening playing pool and ping-pong. And at night, we'd top it all off with World Series highlight films -- which in retrospect, might have been my favorite part of the day.

The film that made the greatest impression on me? Probably the 1970 World Series, where Brooks Robinson led the Orioles to the title in five games over the Reds.

Why remember it now? Because back then, Robinson was one of the only players in the majors who regularly threw out guys barehanded. And in that particular highlight film, he made sure to tell all the young ballplayers in the world to never barehand a ball, unless it had come to, or was about to come to, a complete stop. Otherwise, always use your glove.

Of course, though I had listened to Brooks with rapt attention the night before, I completely ignored his advice the next morning while charging some practice grounders at third. And, as you might expect, instead of cleanly handling the ball with my 9-year old hand, it bounced cleanly off.

It was then that the kindly Dr. John Heaps, who we all simply new as "Doc," decided that he had found a teaching moment. Instead of simply letting me head off to the back of the line, he grasped me firmly by the shoulder, and asked the assembled group what we had all learned the night before while watching the highlight film. And the rest of the kids all recited the wise words that Brooks had passed along on film the night before.

Well, at age 9, I have to admit I was a little chagrined. But before I headed back into the line, Doc turned to me and said something to the effect that while I hadn't made the right play, that didn't mean that one day it wouldn't be the right one. And he made sure to add that there was absolutely no shame in what I tried.

Is it any wonder that Doc Heaps sent 24 players to the Major Leagues from his program at Mansfield?

POSTSCRIPT: No joke, the camp actually took it's name from the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania. In one full weekend we spent at the camp, Sunday was reserved for a hike to the bottom of the canyon and back.

It was a great time. Thanks Mom and Dad, for letting me go.