Before Just Do It Had Been Done
Part II

 Our routine was pretty much the same throughout the two weeks I was in Florida. We changed hotels as little as possible and took advantage of the close proximity of the baseball teams home bases.  They were located in small towns and medium size towns. Such cities as Clearwater, St Petersberg (St Pete, when you got the lingo down), and Bradenton swelled with the tourist traffic which accompanies this annual beginning of the baseball season.

The cities have been hosting spring training since the early 1900’s when the “new era” of major league baseball put the sport on a center stage for more fans to enjoy. Teams decided they needed to get to a warm climate in February and March if they were to be ready to play by the first of April. The birth of spring training in Florida coincided with the birth of professional baseball as a true business. Since all of the teams were from the northeast or the Midwest (Chicago was about as far west and Philadelphia was about as far south as any team), snow was more the norm than the exception with winter still in full force.

This became an economic boom for the Florida towns, and while short in duration on an annual basis, the tourist business was as dependable as a sun burn at the beach. It had taken place every year over the seventy or eighty years since the annual migration had begun. One thing everyone knew was that February would bring warm weather to Florida, and as proof there had been no “snow-outs” of spring training games over the passage of time.

The old timers could remember back to when the only camps for spring training were in Florida. When the population started to move west, so did professional sports. The Giants and Dodgers moved from New York to California in the mid to late 50’s. This produced a second location for spring training camps in Arizona, and although the facilities were newer, the rite of passage for the beginning of baseball quickly nestled into Arizona in the winter months just as it had in Florida.

It was in this atmosphere of certainty that we began our first day “on the job”. Perhaps a false sense of security was a bi-product of the setting described above. Our first lesson was to be repeated throughout the trip: expectations which were wrong when compared to the real world.

My very first look at a Florida spring training facility came when we visited the Pittsburg Pirates.  The images etched in my mind of my childhood when visiting Candlestick Park for my first Giants game was interrupted rather rudely with my first look at the Pirates field.

I could still picture Candlestick Park with its almost emerald green grass cropped closely to show an immaculate and precise pattern of rows running from one side of the field to the other. Seeing the Pirates field for the first time required an adjustment as my eyes instead swept over a baseball field which had the appearance of having been mowed sometime earlier in the week by a self propelled mower. I had seen high school ball parks that were in better condition.  

Another odd reality quickly took shape as we began to walk around the stadium and look at the players on the field. Here were some of the world’s best baseball players walking around in their practice uniforms in this rickety old stadium. They looked like oversized little leaguers, kids who you knew had somehow successfully doctored their birth certificates to show they were 12 years old instead of grown men.  Imagine U2, Brad Pitt, or Michael Jordan in their kick around clothes playing frisbee in your neighborhood park. That was the atmosphere of spring training. 

The Pittsburg Pirates had won the World Series the previous year with the “We Are Family” song representing their team unity. I was eager to see the world champs and experience some of the camaraderie. This was a day when there were not as many players around, as half the team was at another ball park in a split squad game. I met in the locker room with Grant Jackson, one of their veteran relievers, and discussed the details of the endorsement deal with him. I received no hugs or words of praise from Grant. His reaction was a verbal onslaught to me. I can still hear him saying “Man, that aint #$^!!! You insulting me, so get your %#9o outta here!” I guess I was not considered to be part of the “family”.

Our next stop was the Boston Red Sox. Carlton Fisk, a future hall of famer, was our main target that day. We chatted with him before the game on the field and again in the clubhouse, and he seemed thrilled to be getting a couple of thousand dollars just to wear the Nike cleats. We spoke with a few other players who were targeted for free merchandise. We gave them one page contracts and decided this was a pretty easy job. Oh yeah, in between we were able to watch these overgrown kids play a baseball game as we sat in the stands and soaked up the sunshine.

However, after the game an eye opening revelation changed me forever: it was the day I remember quite vividly as having lost some of the last remnants of my naivety and innocence. I can still picture in mind walking into the Red Sox locker room after the game and sitting right in front of me, on a bench, wearing his baseball pants and baseball under sleeves was Carl Yastremski, aka Yaz. The last hitter to win a triple crown (in 1967 he had lead the American League in batting average, home runs, and rbi’s) and a sure fire hall of famer. Yaz looked old and tired. I am sure he was both since he was nearing the end of his career.

But something else was terribly wrong with this picture. Yaz was puffing away on a cigarette. I did a double take to make sure I was not delusional. This could not be! I considered myself an athlete growing up and had never smoked because that was something I though athletes did not do. Yet right here in front of my eyes was Carl looking like a smoke stack! I left the ball park with broken dreams.

The remaining time during these two weeks produced many similar challenges to my illusions of grandeur. It also gave me the opportunity to display my youth and ignorance.

There was the time I had lunch with Lee Mazilli, a first baseman for the NY Mets, and his agent, Tony Antansio. I had never even heard of Lee Mazilli. He had batted .305 the year before at a time when my life revolved around college activities. Lee was very fond of himself. I remember him asking me a couple of questions about his career. Disappointed that his fan base was at least one less than he had expected, he sarcastically commented about how well I knew his background. I could have bumped into the guy in a store and had no idea who he was or what he did for a living.

That same day we went to see the Mets at their facilities.  We had made arrangements to meet with another player in the clubhouse before the game.  We got out of the truck and realized we were late.  To make matters worse, we were in the parking lot on the first base side of the stadium and the Mets clubhouse was on the other side of the stadium. We ran over to the other side and charged into the locker room. 

Remember, Florida is hot and muggy, and combined with the fact that I sweat like a dog, you can imagine how I looked by the time our 5 minute jog had ended. How impressive I must have looked as I spoke with a couple of the players and them probably counting the sweat drops streaming down my face, off the end of my nose, and soaking my shirt.

The biggest gaffe we made was when we visited the Phillies training camp. Our key targets were Mike Schmidt, another future hall of famer, and Greg Luzinski, aka “the bull” (because of his stocky build).  We chatted with Mike and Greg on the field before the game during batting practice. My partner, the promotions guy, had spoken with Mike many times. Mike was acting as an advisor to Nike with the introduction of the brand into the world of professional baseball.  The conversation was friendly and casual. We had many Phillies with whom we wanted to test the shoes and endorse the brand. We had spent so much time with Mike and Greg that we had run out of time to get to the rest of the players on our list on the team. We also had another destination to get to that afternoon. Not wanting to double back to the Phillies camp, we decided to go into the locker room while the team was playing and leave the cleats inside of their lockers with the endorsement contracts inside of the box. Remember, big business had not yet hit professional sports. Many baseball players did not yet have agents.

Our promo guy spoke with Mike Schmidt the next day. When the phone conversation ended, his face was red. Mike told him about how Nike had been the joke in the locker room. The players were comparing the “private” contracts we had left in their lockers and were making paper airplanes with them and flying them at each other. Many of the sizes were off and the players were upset that we had given them shoes which did not fit. That issue took some time to patch up.

I would say the maddest somebody got at me during the trip was Joe Torre, then the manager of the NY Mets.

I needed to speak with a one of his pitchers. The pitching “bullpen” was merely a bench along the right field chain link fence. Since the dugout was set back and did not have total visibility of the bullpen, I decided to speak with the pitcher during the game. Joe had a game to manage, so I was sure he would not notice me squatting down and talking to one of his pitchers.

About a minute or two into our conversation I heard someone yelling in our direction. The pitcher nodded towards the 3rd base dugout where Joe Torre was glaring at me and telling me to get out of there. I waved and walked to where the rest of the fans were seated trying to look like I was innocent instead of guilty.

Perhaps it was heat stroke, but for some reason, I decided to try again. The pitcher didn’t care, as he was just sitting there watching the game anyway. So about 10-15 minutes later I resumed my conversation in the bullpen. Our discussion was even shorter this time. Joe took a more aggressive approach by coming out of the dugout and telling me in very direct terms that he would kick a certain part of my anatomy if I did not stay away from the area. I decided his advice was sound and did not test the “3rd time is a charm” rule.

There were two lasting impressions I took home with me at the end of the two weeks. The first was that the sun in Florida was much stronger than what I had experienced in Northern California and Oregon. I was well beyond the description of having a sunburn by the time we boarded the plane to fly back to Oregon. I was more deep fried. My face and head were swollen and my arms were blistered. When I deplaned in Portland, I did not stick out like a sore thumb. I stuck out like a sore head, face, and arms, which were all lobster red to boot!

The second lasting impression was more profound. It changed the way I would come to view professional athletes. What had been born from an idealistic and youthful state from my early years began to evolve with the meetings with professional athletes both on the trip as well as in the years to come.

In my interactions with many professional athletes I have found some professional athletes to be genuinely nice people. They ask questions of those around them and are pleasant to engage in a conversation. I have also learned the majority of professional athletes are self absorbed and lack neither the desire nor the ability to partake in such a two way conversation. This inability to socialize on a casual basis has increased over the years proportionately with the money and fame that accompany professional sports today. It is a sad but true state. It is reality.

Nike and I were kids when we went to Florida together in 1980. We looked at the world through innocent and naïve eyes and made the mistakes that one would expect from adolescence. It was ventures into new sports and activities like what I have described above which accelerated the maturity and growth of Nike and me. While we both have grown into adulthood, the learning hopefully will never stop.