“Born and raised in the Atlanta area, Francoeur was kissed by the sporting gods... He seemingly can do anything on a ball field, even sing.”
- Michael Farber, “Georgia’s New Peach”, Sports Illustrated, August 29, 2005
“Heyward doesn’t so much swing as slash, bringing his hands down and then flat through the strike zone. Like a purely struck one-iron, Heyward’s blasts are line drives with backspin. His home runs don’t soar, they scream and climb.”
Tom Verducci, “Legend Before His Time”, Sports Illustrated, April 19, 2010
Their stories are so close it’s eery. Heralded rookie right fielders raised in the Atlanta area who hit the majors like an August hurricane. Baseball scouts swooned over their seemingly effortless talent while NL East pitchers shook in their boots.
Today, both players look more like baseball’s version of a one-hit-wonder.
After storming into the Braves lineup, Francouer’s batting average dropped from .300 in 2005 to .239 in 2008. When Atlanta traded him to the Mets in 2009, his OBP was .282. (Comparatively, Matt Kemp’s OBP this season is .400.)
The player Sports Illustrated had dubbed “The Natural” has found himself among the hundreds of journeyman players in the major leagues. Frenchy is now with his third team since leaving Atlanta, exiled to the woeful Royals. After beginning with so much promise, his career looks more like Crash Davis than Roy Hobbs.
“He is a corner outfielder who has proven- unquestionably and repeatedly- that he cannot hit well enough to be a regular in the major leagues.” - Joe Posnanski, “Frenchy and Hope”, SI.com, March 1, 2011
Jump to 2010. Atlanta and the rest of the major leagues are awestruck with a new, young right fielder who crushed a Carlos Zambrano fastball to the outfield seats at Turner Field in his first at bat. Former manager Bobby Cox said, “You can tell with your eyes closed when Heyward is hitting. It’s louder than when anybody else hits.” Catcher Brian McCann raved, “He might be the best 20-year-old rookie to ever play.”
At the close of 2011, Heyward’s batting average is an anemic .228 with just 42 RBIs. He hit just seven home runs since April and drew the ire of veteran leader Chipper Jones for not playing with injuries. He’s now batting consistently in the bottom half of the Braves lineup.
“Jason Heyward is in a pretty serious gutterfunk right now,” Grant Brisbee, Baseball Nation, August 11, 2011
Like Frenchy before him, Heyward seems headed down the dark road of disappointment.
Maybe we can blame Sports Illustrated for this. Maybe in search of a great baseball story they hyped these players so much they had no where to go but down. Or maybe it’s the Braves management, or the Atlanta fan base who put too much too soon on them. It could be Heyward’s shoulder problem, or Francouer’s inability to lay off breaking pitches, and they just need another chance to adjust their game.
Or maybe they were never as good as we all hoped.
Rarely does anyone, in any field, live up to lofty expectations. In the same way heroes are loved and given elevated status, those who fail to reach their perceived potential are often crucified or labeled a disappointment. Even President Obama has his hands tied by the “messiah” expectations that got him elected.
This reality, however, is so glaringly obvious in sports. First round draft picks are considered a bust if they’re not immediate all stars (i.e. Reggie Bush), and successful players are considered “choke artists” if they don’t pull through in clutch moments (i.e. Lebron James and Alex Rodriguez).
This is painfully unfair, but it goes to the heart of why we watch sports. Athletes make us believe we can be great, therefore they are expected to be transcendent. When they’re not, it’s crushing.
This is even more true when applied to baseball. The sport creates legends whose personas and accomplishments grow larger with time. Just revisit Field of Dreams or the aforementioned The Natural. Baseball fans get dreamy eyed for talent like teenage girls watching Justin Bieber. If that talent is never fulfilled, their stories become Greek tragedies.
Heyward and Francouer have no doubt benefitted from the continued belief they will someday be spectacular, and both players have and will have ample opportunities to turn their careers around. But regardless of the future, both will spend their lives compared to what they could have been.
It’s a hell of a burden for a couple of guys still in their twenties.
Showing posts with label Atlanta Braves. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Atlanta Braves. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Jose Reyes
I have an unhealthy disdain for Jose Reyes.
As a Braves fan, hating the Mets is a foregone conclusion. I’ve loved watching their front office implode, and I honestly enjoy seeing headlines like “Bernie Madoff Rips Off Mets”. I know it’s sad. I even tried as an child to ignorantly defend John Rocker, simply because he was so good against the Mets.
Jose Reyes embodies my extreme hatred. He rivals any shortstop on Earth, can steal bases at will, and has shown flashes of being a top-tier hitter. His half-hearted effort after signing a five year/$33 million deal in ’07 and subsequent MVP performance this year (his contract year) only make him more frustrating to watch.
My hatred, however, was very short-sided.
Last month, my family and I traveled to Bristol to see the White Sox Rookie League team. The starting pitcher, making his Bristol debut, was my wife’s childhood friend from Venezuela, Jean Duque. After signing with the White Sox in ’07, Jean finally made it to the U.S. and found himself the opening night starter for the entry level team.
My wife and mother-in-law beamed as they watched Jean’s impressive, two hit performance. The intensity on his young face was telling of the pressure he carried. He kept his hat brim down, starring intently between spots behind the plate and the path between the dugout and mound. A ritual mass killing could have happened in left field, and Jean would have still only seen the 60 feet, six inches in front of him. In that moment, the sound of the ball smacking the catcher’s mitt was all that mattered.
On a strict pitch count, he was pulled after the fifth and immediately sent to the training room where we tried to speak with him. Jean, though, was only able to give a skittish hello and quickly made is way to the dugout, not wanting his coaches to see him fraternizing with fans.
This extreme pressure is not unique among Hispanic players. In countries like the Dominican Republic and Venezuela, baseball is revered. Not simply for the game itself, but because a bat and glove are the tangible versions of a dream for a better life for themselves and the communities they carry with them. For these players, America is the land where they can fully display their talents at the highest level and make more money than everyone they know combined several times over.
Baseball isn’t revered because it’s an enjoyable occupation. It’s a lifeline.
For Jean, the possibilities of baseball in the U.S. are providing the needed avenue to support the family and newborn child he left in his small community in Venezuela.
Understanding someone’s history and journey in life will always give more perspective to why they act a certain way. In athletics, this goes even farther and more still regarding international players who’ve overcome staggering odds to reach the top.
I recently watched a documentary on the rise of Hispanic players in Major League Baseball and the overwhelming wealth of talent pouring in from Central and South America. Reyes was among those spotlighted. As he made his way through his parents’ modest, Dominican home, he smiled and proudly introduced member after member of his family. Like a young boy eager to show off, Reyes led the camera to the back deck to showcase the view of his home country. To Reyes, this was success.
Like any other passionate sports fan, however, I’m irrational. My emotions for the game tend to dictate how I see the world away from the playing field. Players in uniform cease to be individuals and become the name on their jersey. This is an attribute we typically desire for athletes, but it applies to the good and bad. Our favorite players are gods when they succeed and dogs when they fail. The U.S. women’s soccer team were heroes after beating Brazil. A week later, they’re choke artists. No matter what happened in all the games leading up to their lose to Japan, they’ll be labeled losers who couldn’t take the pressure.
Watching Jean and hearing my wife’s stories of growing up in poverty made the game an entirely different experience. The name on the front of the jersey was insignificant. All I wanted was to see him dominate batters and earn his way up the Chicago farm system.
After seeing Reyes in his Dominican hometown, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to hope he pulls a hamstring or develops a nasty bout with tendonitis. He didn’t chose the team who gave him a chance. He went with the club who did, whether it was the Mets, Brewers, or the fighting spatulas from Bob’s Cooking School. He took the chance that presented itself, and it’s hard to hold that against him.
But don’t get me wrong. I still hate Jose Reyes... just a little less than before.
As a Braves fan, hating the Mets is a foregone conclusion. I’ve loved watching their front office implode, and I honestly enjoy seeing headlines like “Bernie Madoff Rips Off Mets”. I know it’s sad. I even tried as an child to ignorantly defend John Rocker, simply because he was so good against the Mets.
Jose Reyes embodies my extreme hatred. He rivals any shortstop on Earth, can steal bases at will, and has shown flashes of being a top-tier hitter. His half-hearted effort after signing a five year/$33 million deal in ’07 and subsequent MVP performance this year (his contract year) only make him more frustrating to watch.
My hatred, however, was very short-sided.
Last month, my family and I traveled to Bristol to see the White Sox Rookie League team. The starting pitcher, making his Bristol debut, was my wife’s childhood friend from Venezuela, Jean Duque. After signing with the White Sox in ’07, Jean finally made it to the U.S. and found himself the opening night starter for the entry level team.
My wife and mother-in-law beamed as they watched Jean’s impressive, two hit performance. The intensity on his young face was telling of the pressure he carried. He kept his hat brim down, starring intently between spots behind the plate and the path between the dugout and mound. A ritual mass killing could have happened in left field, and Jean would have still only seen the 60 feet, six inches in front of him. In that moment, the sound of the ball smacking the catcher’s mitt was all that mattered.
On a strict pitch count, he was pulled after the fifth and immediately sent to the training room where we tried to speak with him. Jean, though, was only able to give a skittish hello and quickly made is way to the dugout, not wanting his coaches to see him fraternizing with fans.
This extreme pressure is not unique among Hispanic players. In countries like the Dominican Republic and Venezuela, baseball is revered. Not simply for the game itself, but because a bat and glove are the tangible versions of a dream for a better life for themselves and the communities they carry with them. For these players, America is the land where they can fully display their talents at the highest level and make more money than everyone they know combined several times over.
Baseball isn’t revered because it’s an enjoyable occupation. It’s a lifeline.
For Jean, the possibilities of baseball in the U.S. are providing the needed avenue to support the family and newborn child he left in his small community in Venezuela.
Understanding someone’s history and journey in life will always give more perspective to why they act a certain way. In athletics, this goes even farther and more still regarding international players who’ve overcome staggering odds to reach the top.
I recently watched a documentary on the rise of Hispanic players in Major League Baseball and the overwhelming wealth of talent pouring in from Central and South America. Reyes was among those spotlighted. As he made his way through his parents’ modest, Dominican home, he smiled and proudly introduced member after member of his family. Like a young boy eager to show off, Reyes led the camera to the back deck to showcase the view of his home country. To Reyes, this was success.
Like any other passionate sports fan, however, I’m irrational. My emotions for the game tend to dictate how I see the world away from the playing field. Players in uniform cease to be individuals and become the name on their jersey. This is an attribute we typically desire for athletes, but it applies to the good and bad. Our favorite players are gods when they succeed and dogs when they fail. The U.S. women’s soccer team were heroes after beating Brazil. A week later, they’re choke artists. No matter what happened in all the games leading up to their lose to Japan, they’ll be labeled losers who couldn’t take the pressure.
Watching Jean and hearing my wife’s stories of growing up in poverty made the game an entirely different experience. The name on the front of the jersey was insignificant. All I wanted was to see him dominate batters and earn his way up the Chicago farm system.
After seeing Reyes in his Dominican hometown, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to hope he pulls a hamstring or develops a nasty bout with tendonitis. He didn’t chose the team who gave him a chance. He went with the club who did, whether it was the Mets, Brewers, or the fighting spatulas from Bob’s Cooking School. He took the chance that presented itself, and it’s hard to hold that against him.
But don’t get me wrong. I still hate Jose Reyes... just a little less than before.
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