In all likelihood, the pitching career of Curtis Montague "Curt" Schilling came to an end this week, and even though his time in an Orioles uniform (1988-90) was completely forgettable, Schilling's career with the Phillies, Diamondbacks and Red Sox will certainly be remembered as anything but. Schilling, 41, elected to undergo season-ending shoulder surgery because he's been unable to throw without pain for quite some time, and though he is reluctant to call it a career, Schilling admitted on his blog yesterday that a comeback at his age will be, at best, a long shot.

Whether you loved him or whether you wanted to stuff a rosin bag in his mouth (and over the years, I experienced both emotions), you can't deny that Schilling will easily go down as one of the most interesting and compelling athletes of his time.

Few superstars have ever had their id and their superego in such constant conflict as Curt Schilling did throughout his career. Schilling was a warrior on the mound, a competitive and ruthless fighter who could paint the corners of the strike zone and fire a fastball at your chin if the need arose. His desire to whip your butt was almost primal. He wanted the ball in big moments, and he also wanted the credit when he pitched well. He suffered on the mound, famously pitching through the pain of ankle surgery in Game 6 of the 2004 ALCS, and he wanted you to know just how much he was suffering. At the same time, his superego was constantly trying to hold those desires in check, and the result made him come across -- as Holden Caufield might say -- as a total phony at times.

Every great athlete (just like every great writer) yearns to be praised for his or her gifts. It is their egos, often, that make them such intense competitors who refuse to accept failure. But Schilling never quite figured out to genuinely mask his primal desire (a desire we all feel) to be loved and praised with baseball's expectations and its unwritten code that he remain the humble teammate who was just one part of a larger machine. Curt Schilling was the rare athlete who could be both arrogant and needy, a person who loved the spotlight, yet desperately wanted to seem the humble everyman. None of that made Schilling a bad person; in fact, in my eyes, it made him so much more human.

These conflicting desires experienced their greatest tug-of-war thanks to that famous bloody sock in 2004 at Yankee Stadium, when Schilling pitched one of the most memorable games in postseason history. I have absolutely zero doubt in my mind that Schilling was hurting that night, that he summoned something deep within himself as he gritted his teeth through six innings of bloody work. But he also wanted you to know just how heroic his performance was (while at the same time downplaying it) which caused a few media types (including one from this paper, former columnist Laura Vecsey) to suggest that maybe it wasn't blood after all. Maybe Schilling took a marker and drew a little "blood" on his sock. 

Those theories always struck me as idiotic and irresponsible, both then and now. But the fact that they survived -- and were revived by Orioles broadcaster Gary Thorne as late as last year -- says something about how plenty of people view Schilling, fairly or unfairly. Were he and Randy Johnson really the best of pals in Arizona, or was it all just a good story that was manufactured by both Schilling and the media? Did his former manager really give him the nickname "Red Light Curt" for the way he posed for cameras at the top of the dugout during games? And wasn't it a little bit tacky the way he shamelessly put a towel over his head every time Mitch Williams was pitching in the 1993 World Series, as if to say "Even I can't watch this guy screw up again!" 

The reality of Curt Schilling was constantly fighting with the man Curt Schilling wanted us to see him as. This was never more true than when he testified in front of Congress on the steroids issue. On talk radio, Schilling was more than happy to present himself as the lone maverick who was willing to stand up and speak out against steroid use in baseball. In front of Congress, though, faced with the reality and repercussions that result when one makes such bold claims (without facts) turned him into a church mouse.

But really, when you think about it, did any of that even matter? He raised an incredible amount of money for Lou Gehrig's Disease, and if a cure is ever found, it will save thousands of lives. And whatever you thought about him as a person, there is no denying that he is one of the best postseason pitchers of all time. Isn't that how he should ultimately be remembered?

Was fascinates me the most is what, in many respects, Schilling represents in terms of how the modern athlete is going to deal with the media. He's the future.

A good writer who wasn't shy about technology, Schilling figured out a long time ago that the best way to get his message across wasn't to give interviews and hope that writers played up his strengths and ignored his flaws. It was to take his message straight to the people through his blog, 38Pitches.com. He not only broke news there (albeit through his own filter) he took on the role of media critic, shooting down reports of division in the Red Sox clubhouse and calling out specific writers for what he viewed as shoddy journalism (and in truth, he often made accurate points with his analysis). He might very well read this post and call me a jerk, as is his absolute right.

"If you haven’t figured it out by now, working in the media is a pretty nice gig," Schilling once wrote. "Barring outright plagiarism or committing a crime, you don’t have to be accountable if you don’t want to."

Some of that is probably true, although Schilling might not be the best messenger. The reality, though, is that working in the media has become increasingly difficult. Athletes no longer see members of the press -- even the good ones -- as an extension of the fans, instead choosing to view them as adversaries. I often tell people the best way to understand the definition of humility is to watch me beg a 19-year-old millionaire for two minutes of his time so I can scribble down his monotone mumbling and try to offer it up as some kind of insight for my readers. Like politicians, the athletes aren't really interested that the reader gets to see a true picture of them, just their spin on the truth.

I'm going to miss Schilling though. It's a shame he didn't figure out how to pitch while he was still an Oriole. He was never dull, and he was often insightful. He kept the media on its toes.

He was such a Freudian character; conflicted, like all of us, in what he wanted. It didn't matter to me whether the blood on his sock was real or fake because I knew he bled, just like I did. I could see just how beautifully gifted, flawed, and human, he really was in everything he did.  

PHOTO: AP 

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 1:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)
                    

Jon Heyman of SI.com has an interesting piece today about Atlanta Braves first baseman -- and former Mount St. Joseph grad -- Mark Teixeira, who will be a free agent at year's end, and a likely target of the Orioles if they want to continue their quest to return to relevance. Teixeira has, for the last few years at least, felt like one of Willie Wonka's Golden Tickets. If the Orioles could just somehow get their hands on him, all would be right in the universe. He's a hometown kid from Severna Park who grew up rooting for the Orioles, and maybe more than any place in the country, that kind of thing matters here. Every time I talk to Orioles fans about the switch-hitting first baseman, I get the sense their feelings can be summed up in this order: He's an incredible hitter and fielder, so obviously we want him on our team, but the fact that he is one of us, just like Ripken was, matters. In a way that an outsider like me might never truly understand.

(A quick aside...)  

Baltimore is a provincial city, no question, and that's not really a bad thing. There's something to be said for taking pride in where you're from, and believing, right or wrong, that no one else gets it. No one else understands your experiences, your history, your sense of place, even down to the rhythms of your speech. My pal Dan Connolly has clearly tapped into that emotion with his daily discussions over at Connolly's Corner Bar, and if I strolled over there and tried to put my favorite pretentious alt-country group, Wilco, on the jukebox and started talking trash about Spiro Agnew, I'd rightfully get tossed in the alley. There is a reason why so many people want to see the word "BALTIMORE" returned to the Orioles road jerseys, and I get it, even if Peter Angelos doesn't for some reason. The city has its flaws, but it's still something to be proud of, and to love, because who else will? It's one of the things I thought was so often misunderstood about David Simon's work, especially his and Ed Burns' television masterpiece, The Wire. It was, deep down, a love letter to Baltimore, a storyteller's plea to save a city that has so many vibrant characters and so many absurd (but true) stories. It felt like they could only exist here, even if, in reality, those same issues echoed in urban cities all across America.

Heyman's piece begins by reminding us that Teixeira, hometown kid or not, is a Scott Boras client, and that means he's unlikely to be taking any hometown discounts. In fact, Heyman suggests, the bidding may end up being somewhere in the $200 million range, at $20 million a year. That might sound obscene to you, and it might sound obscene to the Orioles' front office, but what price can you put on credibility? Teixeira is 28 years old, and while it might sting to pay $20 million a year when he's 38 years old, it might just be the injection of credibility this franchise needs over the next five to seven years.

There will be plenty of other suitors. Jason Giambi and Carlos Delgado are limping toward the finish line, and the Yankees and Mets will be opening new ballparks next season, and will probably have more money than they know what to do with. For that reason, and others, Heyman thinks those two teams are more likely to sign Teixeira than Baltimore is. He calls the Yankees the favorite, and puts the O's odds at 8 to 1.

Maybe the asking price is too much. And maybe the fact that he's from here shouldn't factor in the equation. Smart business decisions are made with your head and your gut, not your heart. There is a certain contingent of Orioles fans that would prefer to simply build from within, from the farm. Free agents can be a foolish investment about 50 percent of the time.

But there is also a part of me that wonders if it just might be worth it, and if it might not hamper the team as much financially as you think. (Think of all the contracts that come off the books after 2009: Gibbons, Payton, Baez, Huff, Mora, Walker). Fill a dump truck full of money and offer to empty it on his parents' lawn if that helps. Have an Agnew-esq politician meet him at BWI with a suitcase full of Krugerrands. Show him this Web site, BringMarkHome.com, (which asks you to put your name on a petition begging the Orioles to sign him). Whatever it takes.

But then, I'm just an outsider who literally married his way into Charm City. What do I know?

Your thoughts?  

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 5:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (36) | TrackBacks (0)
                    

 
KVV note: I'm writing a regular Saturday column now that runs in the print edition of Sun, and it is linked elsewhere on the site. But because I'm partial to my Life of Kings readership (Hi mom!), and because I enjoy the give and take aspect of a blog (it feels less like me shouting down at you from the mountain top, and more like a conversation among friends where you can tell me when I'm wrong) I thought I'd also post it here. Have a good Saturday, folks. Thanks for all your interesting comments this week.

 
Steve McNair was tougher than a piece of cheap beef jerky.

Erik Bedard is as soft as wet Kleenex.

Who knows whether either of those statements is even remotely true, but they've become almost gospel to fans in our small part of the sports universe.

We admire the way McNair played through pain, gritting his teeth and dragging his bruised and battered body onto the field each Sunday. And we snickered with glee when we saw Bedard going on the disabled list (yet again) with an injury because it confirms our belief the Orioles made the right move in trading him.

One athlete was tough; the other was not.

Problem is, it's rarely that simple.

There are few statements more upsetting to an athlete than when someone - be it an owner, a coach, a fan or a journalist - questions his toughness, because you are essentially questioning his heart, his desire, the pride he has in himself to put in an honest day's work.

And there are few things more unfair.

Do professional athletes dog it? Certainly. Remember Pittsburgh outfielder Derek Bell, who in 2002 infamously told reporters he was about to commence "Operation Shutdown" if the Pirates made him compete for a job rather than risk injury? There are plenty of athletes like Bell; they just don't share his candor (or, one could argue, foolishness).

The problem is, it's a fairly bold judgment to make about someone when there is no way you can crawl inside his head and find out just how tough he really is or how much pain he's willing to endure.

People often say that, because professional athletes make millions of dollars, they should be willing to fight through just about anything.

After all, if factory workers can drag themselves to work every day for 30 years, the least an NFL linebacker can do is fight through a deep thigh bruise. Ronnie Lott, after all, once cut off the tip of his pinkie just in time for the NFL playoffs.

But there are consequences to such bravado.

We admire Brett Favre for his courage during his career, and lionize him for his consecutive-games streak, overlooking the fact it probably wouldn't have been possible without his addiction to Vicodin early in his career. Favre was able to overcome that addiction, but not every professional athlete is so lucky.

Frankly, the example of Lott asking a doctor to snip off the tip of his pinky rather than let it heal is brought up far too often as an example of what a courageous athlete will do for his team. Say this out loud and ask yourself just how insane it sounds: A grown man decided to lop off part of his finger so he could play in a football game. And as a reward for this act of toughness, the 49ers eventually let him finish his Hall of Fame career with the Raiders, Jets and Cheifs.

Don't think that the practice of questioning an athlete's toughness doesn't have a trickle-down effect, either. When I was 15 years old, I was a decent enough football player that I was invited to attend a summer football camp at Boise State University with the varsity squad. I was thrilled, and willing to do practically anything to prove myself to the coach and the older players.

My first day of camp, I slammed into a defensive lineman, trying to throw a block to spring our star tailback, and felt an excruciating pain knife down my neck and shoulder. The trainers diagnosed it as a pinched nerve - a "stinger" in football parlance - and told me I could return to the field whenever I was ready.

Several days passed, and the pain didn't go away. Other players (and a few coaches) looked at me with barely concealed scorn. I was soft, they whispered. Clearly, I was not tough enough for varsity football. One senior actually punched me in the shoulder to prove I was faking, then laughed when I crumpled in pain.

It bothered me so much that, on the final day of camp, I swallowed four Extra Strength Tylenol, suited up and played. I threw blocks and gritted my teeth, and did my best to earn their respect. If told I could make the pain go away by snipping off the tip of my pinkie, I might have considered it.

A few days later, I got home and went to a real doctor. He took an X-ray of my right shoulder and neck.

As it turned out, my right collarbone had been broken for a week.

It wasn't exactly Jack Youngblood playing in the NFC Championship game with a broken leg, but at least I had proven I was tough enough for varsity football.

Toughness counts, in sports and in life. There's no denying that. But the next time you want to call a professional athlete soft because he doesn't want to play through pain, say to yourself: Maybe he's really hurting. Besides, would I ask my son or daughter to do the same thing?

PHOTO: AP 

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 8:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)
                    

Davey Johnson, with his wife Susan, on the day he resigned as Orioles manager after going 98-64. (AP)

CHICAGO -- I snagged a few minutes today with Davey Johnson, who is going to manage Team USA this summer at the Beijing Olympics in what might be baseball's last hurrah at the Summer Games. (Both baseball and softball were axed from the 2012 Games in London in a close vote in 2005, although there is some hope they could return in the future). Johnson still has a big smile when you get him talking and telling baseball stories, and he paused, grinned, then shook his head a bit when I asked him if it felt like it had really been more than 10 years since he resigned as the Orioles manager after feuding with owner Peter Angelos.

"No, it doesn't feel like it's been that long at all," Johnson said. And as he spoke, I could almost sense him traveling back in time inside his head. "I still have a lot of fond memories, both as a player and a manager (from Baltimore). My kids were born there. It will always be special."

When I tell Johnson that fans still bring up his name with some frequency, either in reference to the fact that he guided the Orioles to their last winning season (1997), or that his departure, in retrospect, seems like the moment when the "Oriole Way" started to crumble, he shrugs. He prefers to remember his playing days.

"We had a lot of good times," he says. "I got to play in four World Series and play with some of the all-time great guys like Frank Robinson, Jim Palmer, Dave McNally. ... I'm glad I got to come back and manage there for a few years."  

Johnson -- who two years ago served as a consultant for the Nationals under Jim Bowden and was briefly rumored to be a candidate for the Orioles' managerial job before Dave Trembley got it -- said he still follows the team a little, and says he likes what Andy MacPhail is doing in trying to rebuild the minor league system. He pointed out that Lee MacPhail, Andy's father, was his first general manager when he played for the Orioles.

"I think he has a lot of his father in him. You have to rebuild from within," Johnson said. "That was always the Oriole Way, to have a strong minor league."  

And what does Johnson -- who has coached some of the best young players in baseball in his role as the manager of Team USA -- think of center fielder Adam Jones?

"He's one of those five tool players you want, but he's really yet to do it at the highest level," Johnson said. "I did see where he was 3 for 3 the other day, so maybe he's getting there."

Johnson said he doesn't think much about managing again in the majors, and that he enjoys his current role with USA Baseball. He said he had one of his most memorable victories as a manager in 2006 when the U.S., featuring players like Evan Longoria (Devil Rays), Andy LaRoche (Dodgers) and Kevin Slowey (Twins) defeated Panama in the Americas Qualifier Tournament in Havana to earn a spot in the Beijing Olympics.

Team USA (which embarrassingly failed to qualify for the 2004 Olympic Games in Athens) followed it up by beating powerhouse Cuba in the final. Johnson also led Team USA to a first place finish at the Baseball World Cup in Taiwan last year, but it was the celebration that broke out when the United States made it back to Olympics that he remembers the most.

"Guys were passing around a jug of rum, trying to get me to take a sip," Johnson said. "They were chanting 'Skipper! Skipper!' So yeah, I took a sip. I've never had a bus ride like it."

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 1:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)