the next pitch

My husband, an avid baseball fan, recently took me to a White Sox-Orioles matchup and introduced me to the finer points of baseball strategy. Since then, I’ve been reading more about the game and recently came across an old interview with Greg Maddux. For those even less familiar with baseball than I am, Maddux spent a large segment of his career as a starting pitcher for the Chicago Cubs. Now the Cubs –- to put it rather delicately –- are possibly the most pennant-challenged team in the history of the sport. But Maddux, now retired, is largely regarded as one of the greatest masters of control and precision ever to grace the mound.

It sure didn’t start out that way. In his first full season with the Cubs, he compiled a pretty disappointing 6-14 record. But then in 1988 Maddux rebounded, winning 18 games. He went on to win his first of four Cy Young Awards in 1992, before leaving the (still-yearning-for-a-break) Cubs and signing with the Atlanta Braves.

So anyway, back to this interview I was reading. In it, Maddux was asked how he’d been able to improve his game so dramatically during his time with the Cubs. And you know what he said? He said that whenever he stepped up to the mound, he’d trained himself to focus exclusively on the next pitch. He blocked out the scoreboard. He blocked out the runners on base. He blocked out the weather conditions. He blocked out the legendary curse of the goat; the cheering, heckling, face-painted fans; his aches and pains and troubles … and just poured all he had into that very next pitch. Because that, according to Maddux, was the only part of the game he could really hope to control.

So did he reverse the team’s exasperating record? No. Did he keep Harry Caray even remotely on key during the seventh-inning stretch? No. Did he lift the relentless and weirdly-prophetic goat curse? Certainly not to date. But after adopting this approach, Maddux did manage to log one heck of a lot more good games than bad.

An interesting lesson on life. Because when you really think about it, how many of us have the on-demand mental discipline to block out everything but our next pitch? How many of us can stop worrying about tomorrow and the next day and the one after that, so we can give the very best of ourselves to the moment we've been given? We obsess over how the inning will end, how the game will end, how the season will end. When in reality, we were never in control of the series to begin with.

The next pitch. More than once I have encountered a related observation, attributed to another very well-respected source: “Do not worry about tomorrow, for each day has enough troubles of its own.” Another favorite of my husband’s. And, come to think of it, part of another, greater, and more thought-provoking read.

man in the mirror

Last week, within mere hours of each other, Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died on the same day. Both had ascended to become icons of an era – he for a non-stop collection of catchy pop tunes and dance moves that captured the public’s imagination; she for a girl-next-door glamour that beamed radiantly from an entire generation's worth of posters and lunch boxes. In later life, she became known for her surprisingly strong acting ability and an involvement in community causes. He became known for his growing reclusivity, elective surgeries bordering on self-mutilation, and the constant companionship of children and a chimp. She died after a long and courageous battle with a formidable disease. He died as he lived, shrouded in mystery amidst questionable circumstances.

Here’s the thing: Our popular media machine – so gleefully on their game whenever a turn of events calls for collective teeth-gnashing – were poised to stage a public send-off for Ms. Fawcett when news of Mr. Jackson’s passing abruptly rattled the airwaves. You could almost feel the communal exhale of cathartic homage choked off in mid-breath by the first shocked, hysterical whisperings of the Jackson tragedy. And that instant spawned a new MTV for the ages: Michael Television -- all Michael, all the time. He was prodigious, he was mythic, he was brilliant. Did we forget about the unflattering monikers, the disdainful whisperings, the pop-tinged public spectacle that had shaded our perceptions in recent years? It seems we had. In death, the King of Pop was transformed into a minor deity … and the memory of Farrah was all but trampled underfoot.

The reaction may seem woefully imbalanced, but I have at least a theory. The theory is that Michael Jackson unwittingly pulled off the ultimate show-stopper: He died without warning, on the brink of a comeback, in the prime of life. Farrah Fawcett had been terribly ill. She was over 60. She had filmed a makeshift memoir of sorts. In short, her passing had not been wholly unexpected. But Michael Jackson, who wore surgical masks in public and dangled his infant son over a balcony rail, had the added gall to remind us that life can be short and death can be sudden. To rudely holler in our faces and say, you know what, all the money and fame and talent and plastic surgeries and Peter Pan trappings in the world cannot shield you from this random finality.

And we pick and pick at that, and then we pick some more, the way a child picks at a scab or a bug bite or a blister. It’s a fascination that flirts with the edges of mass hysteria. We can’t leave it alone, and we can’t leave him alone, because we’ve worked too hard to bury this knowledge deep beneath our daily routines. Keeping the image of his greatness alive makes the knowledge seem much less real. Though it doesn’t change the reality.

But then, you know what they say about a seasoned showman: He sure knows how to exit with impact. And our alarmed and urgent curtain calls follow him out, to no avail.

Rest and reflect in peace.