Perhaps jealous of the controversies in which the current Yankees find themselves embroiled, The Straw That Used to Stir the Drink has found his way into the headlines. Reggie Jackson, a special advisor to George Steinbrenner, is unhappy with his limited role and title with the Yanks. According to
NY Times writer Jack Curry: "Jackson yearns for a larger role and a more significant title within the organization, and he is baffled that the Yankees have never offered him a full-time position. Jackson, an adviser to Steinbrenner, the principal owner, for 10 of the past 11 seasons, wants a promotion to become more involved with the team he helped to win two World Series titles... Jackson feels that his baseball knowledge is not being maximized in his current job as a spring instructor and troubleshooter."
The news apparently took Yankee GM Brian Cashman by surprise. Cashman said that the team likes Mr. October right where he is, and had held no discussions of expanding his role. Anonymous team officials said that Jackson makes $150,000 a year in his role and that "Jackson's energy, enthusiasm and forceful personality could cause him to lose effectiveness over longer periods." Joe Torre backs that assessment: "I don't think he could keep up the intensity for that long. His enthusiasm gets your attention. Over a period of time, it would wear out."
Translation: we couldn't take having to listen to him more often than we already do.
If Jackson is serious about wanting a larger role in baseball, he should know better than to use the media as a cudgel to pressure the team into giving him one, and he should expand his horizons beyond the Yankees. A successful organization has much less incentive to bring in somebody as high-profile and potentially polarizing as Jackson; quite frankly, they're doing just fine with his limited input.
As for how much more Jackson has to offer, I'm reminded of the saying, "Better to keep quiet and let people think you're ignorant than to open your mouth and remove all doubt." Regarding the recent Veterans Committee Hall of Fame vote which
threw up a goose egg this week, Reggie took the latter path. Entitled to vote -- as are all living members of the Hall in the reconstitued VC -- Jackson didn't even bother to return his ballot. Mr. October told
the Hartford Courant, "I looked at those ballots, and there was no one to put in."
Obviously Reggie's memory is clouded, because the man most responsible for making him a millionaire several times over, union leader Marvin Miller, was on the composite ballot. As executive director of the Major League Baseball Players Association from 1966 to 1982, Miller's leadership brought the average annual salary of a major league player from less than $20,000 to over $250,000. In the process Miller unionized the players and fought for arbitration rights, increased pensions, free agency, and the end of the Reserve Clause. Given that Jackson was one of the
first big beneficiaries of free agency, his lack of support for Miller is surprising and his sense of entitlement baffling, to say the least. If he can't connect the dots between his own wealth and privelege and Miller's tireless work on baseball's labor front, one has to either a) question his own intelligence, self-awareness, and fitness for a larger front-office role; or b) question his tendency to play political games only when it suits Reginald Martinez Jackson. Clearly, Reggie still cares about his own ass first and foremost. He should know better than to remind people of that every time he opens his mouth.
Working Through the Winter Blues -- Or Not
Nearly six years ago, a 27-year-old graphic designer (and frustrated writer) washed ashore onto the banks of a New York City educational design studio. The designer's life had recently gone through an upheaval -- a long-overdue breakup with his college-vintage girlfriend, layoff from a
failed new media company. Months of 70-hour work weeks and absolutely zero exercise had left him a pale, scrawny, nocturnal creature, but a bit of travel, a brief romance, and a gym membership restored a touch of color to the designer's complexion. The promise of a few paychecks while he figured out What He Really Wanted to Do seemed like the next logical step.
Last Friday, nearly six years later, a 33-year-old graphic designer spent his last day at that educational design studio, solid in the knowledge that he had wrung every bit out of the experience that he could. He's carved a small niche in his chosen profession, putting
his work in front of literally millions of people and
atop best-seller lists, and his name in every bookstore in America, all without compromising his principles. He's taken a dry, pulpy 336-page kiddie knockoff of a well-known parent brand and turned it into a splashy, colorful, even
hip product, and a reasonably profitable venture for his employer to boot. He's healthy, in a happy relationship, and he's found an outlet for his writing, and a small but devoted audience who receives him warmly.
He's going to stop talking about himself in the third person now, because he knows that you've figured out who he is. Frequent readers of this site may have been aware of some job-related drama I've been going through over the past few months. It hasn't been an easy time, and my frustration has occasionally spilled over into this space; sometimes I've mentioned it, while at other times, it's prevented me from writing at all.
But as I reflect on all of this, that
sturm und drang was a necessary part of the process. That was me coming to terms with the realization that my needs and interests had outgrown what my job could provide. It's a bittersweet conclusion, but it's one that everybody around me -- my family, my friends, my co-workers, and my boss -- had already reached, and it is with all of their full support that I bring the curtain down on the best job I've ever had. I'm proud of what I accomplished, and I'm fortunate that I happened upon some incredibly talented people who encouraged my creativity, and helped me to realize my potential. But the time has come to move on to new challenges, to seek new horizons.
So now what? On paper, it's generally a risky thing to leave one's job -- especially during tough economic times -- without having another one lined up. But that's what I've done, mostly because I felt that I need some time to relax and refresh myself while charting out a new course. Ideally, I'd like to find a position which combines my love of sports with my design skills, but I realize that may be a difficult fit. I've got a few ideas on combining the two, but at the risk of jinxing myself or turning away some potential employer who's performing his or her due diligence by reading this, I'll keep them to myself for the moment.
Much as I'd love to, I don't have the option to go pro via my website like those
fat cats over at Baseball Prospectus (who are rapidly demonstrating that they're going to be worth the price of admission, by the way). And though down the road I might enjoy writing full-time, that's not part of the current plan. But this site still figures prominently in the picture, because with it I've always got something to keep me busy, a place to speak my mind and to report on my travels and travails. Speaking of the former, I've booked myself a five-day trip to the Grapefruit League. I'll be heading down to Tampa on March 19, and I'm slated to see six ballgames in five days, centering around the Yankees, the Dodgers, and the Mets. This will be my third trip to spring training, and the first since my family visited Dodgertown back in 1989. Joining me will be girlfriend's brother Aaron, a loyal Brewers fan who's currently freezing his tail off in Milwaukee and is game for any ballgame I can scare up ("I'd settle for Mudville vs. the Indiannapolis Clowns!" he told me via email recently).
Last Monday, I trekked through the city's
biggest blizzard in seven years, arriving at work early as I began my final week on the job. My emotions were still churning from all of the recent drama. Seldom had winter seemed so smothering, never had my job seemed more oppressive -- what the hell was I doing at work on a snow day, and a national holiday at that? Amid all of this, I was warmed by the rites of spring, the news of pitchers and catchers arriving in camp, along with the ridiculous reports trickling in from Florida and Arizona. Laughing at thought of
Jose Canseco leading the Dade County penal system in home runs. Mourning the
retirement of El Guapo, relief pitcher Rich Garces, the fattest butt of jokes the major leagues had to offer. Shuddering at the
vision of Rod Beck with a pierced nipple and a shaved head. Unfazed by the news that
Rickey Henderson hadn't yet found a suitor. Pulling for
David Cone to make the Mets for one hurrah. Fascinated by the fact that
Drungo La Rue Hazewood's name was so good I can still remember it 22 years after he racked up his 5 lifetime at-bats.
And I thought to myself: winter be damned, unemployment be damned. Baseball is here; I'm going to be just fine now.
