Sakata A life in the state of baseball
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By Ethen Lieser

It is a brooding game of strategy. For the most part, it is a quiet game, where a rookie fan might be lulled to a snooze like a bored five-year-old. But the game’s idiosyncrasies can intrigue and even be the highlight of the afternoon at the ballpark. The coy manager playing a version of “Simon Says” with the catcher to call the right pitch. The gutsy lefthander nodding like General Patton and grimacing toward home plate — thinking, just maybe, he has one more hitter in that ragged arm of his. Then there is the shortstop signaling to the second baseman, disguising his lips with a glove over his mouth, to see who will cover on a steal attempt. The list is endless, and each action is peculiar for their uniqueness and efficacy.

The game of baseball is an anomaly of sorts when compared to today’s thirst for the fastest and the most dangerous sports. Ever since its conception in mid-1800s by Alexander J. Cartwright, the game has stood the test of time, swatting away the acrobatics of basketball, the collisions of football and the ice-crackling speed of hockey, with not so much as a dent in its age-old armor. Sure, the game has been bombarded with abrasive circumstances such as the 1919 Black Sox Scandal and the cancellation of the 1994 World Series, but baseball has always scratched and clawed its way back into American hearts.

Former Major League Baseball Commissioner Bartlett Giamatti writes:

“It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come out, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.”

There is a stadium in San Jose, Calif., that still breathes that innocence and semblance, the way Cartwright dreamed of and Giamatti once saw. The place is called Municipal Stadium, built for the cost of $80,000 during World War II. It hasn’t changed much since. It is the cozy home of the Class A San Jose Giants of the California League. Here, baseball is what baseball was meant to be.

If you take the time to probe into the game and its players, you will see a light. It is a light that can tickle your soul, captivating you to anticipate what you should see and, maybe, don’t want to see. In this state, the players become more human, full of red blood and made of flesh that we all possess, and less like a pawn in a chess match. They are like us, but at the same time, they have a marvelous gift.

That gift is the ability to snap the arm like a bullwhip, triggering a ball to speed in excess of 90 mph. That gift is making contact with the ball, deciding whether to swing or not in less time than a click of a camera, and smacking the whirly white speck over the distant wall. Of course, the ball will undoubtedly do tricks on you. It will dip, slice, knuckle, cut, and sometimes (if they can get away with it), there is a wad of spit hanging off the seams or scrape marks from a fingernail file for that extra temper.

But it is different from games we see on television screens or at major league ballparks. The players here in Municipal Stadium are trying to get to that fabled land, where wealth and extravagance seem to grow on trees — just for them. For now, though, they are still part of an assembly line. The best will move up and the rest will have to look for another occupation.

Training for the show starts right here. It’s nothing fancy — many college stadiums, and even a few high school fields are better. But from the Little Leagues to the big leagues, the grass is the same color and so is the sun that beats on it. These are the players who use this stadium in pursuit of their childhood dreams.

Preparation

At three o’clock in the afternoon, manager Lenn Sakata is already dressed in his game pants and is out on the field. He leans against the batting cage, a cap low on his head, revealing only his dark-rimmed shades. He is assessing his hitters take batting practice. Sakata watches intently like a father would a child, looking for speed and lightening-quick hands that can hammer through the hitting zone.  

The players treat the soft-spoken Sakata the way a pauper would offer gifts to a prince. And indeed, they should. Sakata, 47, in his second year at the helm of the Giants, is the life-link between these players and the big leagues. He has already experienced what his players are yearning for.

“Obviously, he does know the game well, and you just try to listen to what he says and pick up as much as you can,” says Scott Daeley, a product of Wake Forest in his second year on the Giants. Needless to say, Sakata has been around the show for some time — 11 years to be exact, including a world championship with the Baltimore Orioles in 1983. He’s a player’s manager with emotions always kept in check. It has to be that way. Otherwise, in this up-and-down world of professional baseball, Sakata’s hair might turn Christmas white.

Scoop McDowell, the lanky center fielder, steps into the batting cage next. His real name is Arturo, but most of his teammates don’t know that.

“There are a hundred stories, but my brother gave [the nickname] to me when I was a little kid,” Scoop says. “It just stuck with me all the way through elementary school, high school and now.” The name suggests a playful kid at heart, and Scoop proves it on and off the field. Players love his camaraderie and infectious attitude toward the game, but his hitting has been in a rut all season long.

Though Scoop has been able to put together a modest hitting streak lately, the former first-round draft pick still flaunts a batting average that barely peeks over the Mendoza Line. He was a calculated investment by the San Francisco Giants when they drafted him three years ago as the 29th overall pick. The bonus he received provided security for the rest of his life. Most scouts still agree that Scoop has the potential to make it, but at this point in his development, like many regarded high draft picks (only 10 percent of all draft picks make the major leagues), he has failed to live up to the billing.

“In baseball, talent alone doesn’t make you a good player because baseball is a skill game,” Sakata says. “Talent is like being able to hit with power or a strong throwing arm. But that can only take you so far. You have to know how to hit, how to hit the cut-off man, how to catch the ball.”

Originally from Jackson, Miss., a city more in tune with basketball and football, Scoop probably wouldn’t have picked up a baseball if it weren’t for his father. “The first thing my dad bought me when I was growing up was a baseball glove,” Scoop says.

After he declined the college life to take on a baseball career, Scoop ended up in Salem, Ore., for his first year of pro ball — which was like jumping into the Arctic Ocean for the teenager who had never been west of Texas. The harsh reality is that Scoop knows if he doesn’t make it to the bigs, he has nothing to fall back on. He has been stuck in A-ball for three years now.

“When you’re on the outside looking in, all you see is the finished product in the major leagues,” Scoop says. “They just don’t see the struggles of everyday trying to get to that level, or the friends we have on the team getting released, or the guys quitting and going home. It is just plain struggle.”

While his father might still be in Mississippi, Scoop has received solace from Sakata. “Mentally, Lenn has been there since day one,” Scoop says. “Since he’s been coaching me, he’s helped me to have a strong mental approach to the game.”

There are others who offer advice to these young players. Namely, former Gold Glove catcher Kirk Manwaring and four-time All-Star Willie McGee. Combined, the two veterans have over 30 years of major league experience.

“You know what the kids are going through and what they are up against,” says McGee, an 18-year major leaguer who would like to stay in baseball through coaching. And like Sakata, they, too, offer a taste of what the show is all about.

Why do they need this taste? Simple — it’s the only motivation factor the players have. The pay is terrible ($1,200 a month), the bus rides to cities like Lancaster and Bakersfield are crippling (as long as eight hours), and the fans can be horrendous (you don’t see these kinds of hecklers at major league ballparks). Meal money? It’s a measly $20 a day. “In an area like San Jose, that’s next to little or nothing,” a disappointed Scoop says. “You can get two decent meals or one good meal. You can’t eat right.”

If you are lucky enough, the minor leagues do offer a direct route to the big leagues. But even here, the big leagues seem like light-years away. “The players’ actual feeling of what it’s like to be in the big leagues is so remote at this time,” Sakata says, “I don’t think they even think about it. It takes a great deal of stamina and dedication to be able to play everyday.

“But all these kids don’t have that mental skill yet to be focused for 140 days. They are fragile — one at-bat or one game can put them in a slump.”

It reverberates with what baseball’s jester Yogi Berra once said: “Baseball is 90 percent mental — the other half is physical.” Sakata has been trying to mold that mental skill in players for 15 years now. He’s found out that some just don’t have the skill or ability to adjust; others have already given up. But he understands his duty as their manager, and he will do all he can. Most of the time, he takes the fatherly approach.

“It’s like scolding your sons, or else they will continue to do the same things wrong,” Sakata says. “That’s the way I look at these players, they’re like my sons. They need someone to lead them in the right direction. It takes a lot of energy, but that’s what you get paid for.”

How many will make it?

Sakata takes a deep breath, pauses, then says, “Every year, we have to assess the prospects we have, and where they should belong. I say we might have one or two that might make it if everything goes right. I couldn’t tell you who the two are, but I don’t think it’s more than that.”

Perspective

That loud fan always clapping on the first-base side of the bleachers is 79-year-old Dottie Silva. Come to Municipal Stadium any day of the week, and you’ll most definitely see her. She is so passionate about the Giants that she has missed only one game in nine years.

“I missed one game because someone died in the family,” she says.

Make no mistake, Silva is an intelligent fan, a thinking fan, a manager in the bleachers. She lives and dies by every pitch. She yelps a high-pitched, yet pleasant squeal for strikes against the opposing team. And a “Gosh, darn it” for every inning when the Giants don’t score a run. Her fingernails even cheer on her Giants. Before every game, Silva paints them black, orange or white — her team’s colors. Today, it’s orange.

But Silva’s role with the Giants goes beyond the color of her nails. She provides the players a room to sleep, a home-cooked meal, a real conversation. This year, it’s pitcher Joey Messman. For eight years, 12 former San Jose Giants players have passed through her house. And the best part for the players is — she doesn’t make them pay rent. “It is so much fun for me,” Silva says with a Grandma-esque smile, “it’s like having a grandson living with you.”

Surely, the players aren’t complaining. For players like Scoop, who is also staying with a host family, it’s a little touch of home. It isn’t Jackson, but Scoop does get a hot meal and support after an 0-for-4 night.

“The way they cook food isn’t the same, but who could ask for more,” Scoop says. “They’re just great people.”

So what do the houseguests have to do?

“The only thing they have to do is make their bed after they get up,” Silva laughs. “Not all the players can make the bed well, but they do it.”

An elderly gentleman, who also hosts a player, sits next to her.

“I’m thinking of making some lasagna tonight for the boys,” he says.

Just like that, an idea lights up — dinner is solved.

“Are you going to make some salad with that?” an excited Silva asks.

As Silva continues her Good Samaritan work, there are players who can’t take advantage of this system. In addition to playing, they have to do the caring, too. One example is second-year backup catcher Jose Cerda, who signed as an undrafted free agent after a stint at Sonoma State. He is not a bonus baby, nor a prospect, nor does he even get to play much. Cerda usually plays once every five days.

“You know — throughout the organization, that you never know what’s going to happen one day to the next,” he says. “So you just have to sit back, wait your turn and be ready.”

The chances of Cerda making it to the big leagues equals the probability of any Joe Blow on the street going to the show. And he knows that any day he could have a pink slip hanging on his locker — right next to the picture of his 14-month old daughter.

“It’s a lot of time away from her,” Cerda says. “And concentrating is hard because there is a lot more that’s going on off the field that I have to worry about.”

On this day, Cerda’s already thin lifeline in pro ball grew thinner. Another catcher, Guillermo Rodriguez, just got sent down from Double-A Shreveport. With Rodriguez on the team now, Cerda’s days seem to be numbered, but he takes it like nothing but water down the back. The two even share a pleasant conversation in Spanish, joking and laughing with each other. Somehow, they have put their career-threatening situations aside, because here, you expect the worst.

“There is more to life than baseball,” says Cerda, who, for security reasons, applied and was accepted to the Highway Patrol Academy this year. “And the more you understand that, it makes it more enjoyable for me to come out to the ballpark everyday. You realize that if it doesn’t work out, at least you’re having fun.”

The same is true for Rodriguez, a Venezuelan who is in his sixth year of pro ball. He made the Double-A All-Star team earlier in the year and was invited to big league camp during spring training, but was demoted for reasons he doesn’t even know. “You know where you are today, but you don’t know where you will be tomorrow,” he says.

One game out of 140

When the dust settled from the game, the Giants got clobbered, 8-2. They never had a chance because, sometimes in baseball, like in life, nothing goes your way. The High Desert Mavericks tacked on two in the first, then four in the third. After that, the Giants never got in sync. The hard-hitting Mavericks even added insult to injury when they nailed Giants’ starting pitcher Vance Cozier on the thigh with a line drive. Cozier never had his best stuff and took his shower after five innings.

Speedy Scoop couldn’t catch up to anything in center field, busted-bat shanks dropped at his shoelaces. His swing was still empty of hits. Guillermo Rodriguez was back in his old uniform, a uniform he thought he would never have to put on again. He rapped a hit and caught a beautiful game, seeming to cry out: “I don’t belong here!”

Jose Cerda took his usual place in the bullpen, warming up the pitchers who will enter the game, something he would like to do on a regular basis. Dottie Silva was sitting in her special seat down the first-base line. She cheered and cheered, but it just wasn’t her team’s night. Lenn Sakata sat outside the dugout the entire game, coming inside only to give advice to his players. He shook his head most of the game, the bill of his cap down, gripping the bridge of his nose.

left to right: Dottie Silva wouldn’t want to be anywhere but in her special seat down the first base line. Scoop McDowell tries to relax and focus on the upcoming game. Players enjoy a little Simpsons before taking the field. The picture of Jose Cerda’s 14-month old daughter proudly hangs on his locker.

But, of course, tomorrow is another day, and surely, the sun will rise again, splashing its lush rays on the summer grass, and forgetting the outcome of yesterday’s game. Like the uniqueness of each snowflake, that game will not be repeated again; it has become the past, where memory is the only medium that can bring it back to life. The same can be said of the players, who have been able to grasp adolescence and radiate with childhood fervor for just a bit longer, exciting those who come to this place. For the lucky few, it’s a day closer to realizing their ultimate dream; for others, the clock is ticking into adulthood.

Reach Ethen Lieser at elieser@asianweek.com.