The New Girl

I met someone. I'm dating a new girl and I like her a lot. Things seem to be going well. But over the last couple of weeks, I've run into a problem. I mean, it's not a major problem – it's not a dealbreaker or anything – but I'm not happy about it. No. Over the last couple of weeks, for some unknown, unexplained reason, I've been having serious issues with my complexion. Yeah. That's right. My face breaks out. All the time. And I don't know why. I haven't changed my diet. I haven't changed my exercise routine. My best guess is that it's “stress.” That makes sense. But there's not much I can do about that. Every time I look in the mirror, I shake my head. It's depressing. I've got acne issues. I'm thirty-six years old, two decades out of high school, and suddenly I have to deal with a zit crisis. I'll be honest, it doesn't seem fair. It really doesn't.

I went down to my corner drug store today looking for acne medication. It was weird. I hadn't bought acne medication in... well, years. Years and years. It had been a long time. When I was growing up, I used the stuff all the time. I had bad acne. I was born with bad skin. Back then, I saw a top specialist, a dermatologist, and he prescribed experimental treatments for me. It was that bad. I had to have blood tests taken on a monthly basis, to make sure that I wasn't suffering from any of the more serious potential side effects. Some nights, I would be lying in bed, doing some reading, and mysterious shooting pains would race through my joints. My elbow and my shoulder would inexplicably burst out in pain in the middle of my AP American History homework. I would think, what the hell was that? And then I would remember – potential side effects. Riiight. I was taking some hardcore drugs for my complexion, man. Hardcore. Like I said, I was being given the “experimental stuff.”

What could I do? Nothing. Nothing at all. I washed my face. I took my drugs. I hoped for the best. I didn't want to have a lousy complexion. I didn't want to have bad skin. But you can't fight genetics. I did everything I could. I followed the treatments religiously and hoped for the best. I was a teenager. I had braces. I had zits. It wasn't all that uncommon. It happened. Those were the teenage years.

(Pictures of the author in high school. Braces. Acne. The teenage years.)

So, I don't know. I got older. My skin got better. The drugs worked. My complexion improved, my self-esteem improved, and I moved on. That was nice. Sure, I would have a small, random outbreak every couple of years. But nothing major. For, I dunno, two decades or so, I was in the clear. But now... I guess it's a recurrence? It's pretty bad. I saw my friends and family a couple of weekends ago. We all went to the theater to see a musical based on the songs of Billy Joel, “Movin' Out.” And the first thing my sister said to me when she saw me was, “What happened to your forehead?” Gah! Yeah. What can you do? My good family friend, Mrs. Castaldi – who is, no exaggeration, probably the single nicest person I know – looked at my face and said, “What is that? What happened?” And so it goes. I'm thirty-six, and I have bad skin. It's nothing new. It went away for a while. I thought it was gone, to be honest. But apparently not. Apparently, I was wrong. And so I went to my corner drug store looking at today's medications. Names and products that were not available to me years ago. Names and products that I haven't needed in ages. Oxy and Noxema and Clearasil. I felt like a teenager getting ready for the prom, getting ready for our school pictures. Standing in the aisle of the drug store, reading the product descriptions, quite frankly, I felt like a fourteen year-old girl. That's not good. No. It really isn't. But I read the labels, and I read the various promises for a wonder cure. “Better skin in two days!” The labels actually say that. And I buy into the hype. I am not cynical. I am not skeptical. I'm sold, baby. Sold! I want to believe.

I want to believe because... I am dating a new girl. And I like her. And I want to look decent for her. Because maybe things will work out for us. And I would feel a helluva lot less self-conscious if I could get my face under control. Yes, I would. Is that too much to ask?

I don't know. I've got bad skin. It's nothing new.

The Pitcher with a Problem

Daniel Cabrera is on a new team this year. After pitching for the Baltimore Orioles for the last five years, he's switched leagues and will take the mound in 2009 for the Washington Nationals. It's a new start, a clean break. But everyone knows his story.

When people talk about Daniel Cabrera, it's almost like they're angry with him. They think he's maddening. He has a world of ability, but can't seem to harness it. Everyone knows that he misses the strike zone with regularity, piling up one walk after another. He's averaged about a hundred bases on balls every year for his career. Buddy, that's hard to do. It's not a desirable trait in a starting pitcher. And if he's a player on your favorite team, if he pitches for the team you root for, I can see why that might get a tad bit aggravating. Start after start, game after game, year after year, Cabrera does not throw strikes. That makes him an easy target for the fans' frustrations. But I can't help but sympathize with him. Yes, everyone knows you're supposed to throw strikes. It's a fundamental part of the job description. It's expected. But what if you can't meet the basic expectations, not from a lack of effort, and not from a lack of desire, but because you're simply not built that way? Because you simply can't? And what does it feel like when you carry the knowledge that you're constantly disappointing people everywhere you go – your teammates, your coaches, your front office, your owner, your fans, yourself... Sure, everyone wants to be a young, dominant strike thrower. That's what everyone wants. But if you're Daniel Cabrera, it doesn't matter what everyone wants. The only thing that counts is what you are.

A couple of years ago, Cabrera had a new pitching coach in Baltimore, Leo Mazzone. Mazzone was considered the best in his field. He had helped mold magnificent arms like Greg Maddux and Tom Glavine and John Smoltz. They all blossomed under his tutelage. There are at least two, maybe three Hall of Famers right there. But he also got excellent seasons out of other guys like Steve Avery and Kevin Millwood and Denny Neagle. Avery went 18-8 as a 21 year-old, 18-6 as a 23 year-old. Millwood has three years where he went 17-8, 18-7, and 18-8 for Atlanta. Neagle went 20-5 for the Braves in 1997. The results spoke for themselves. Mazzone was good. He would tell his pitchers to work off their fastball, throw strikes, and keep it down on the outside corner. It was a good philosophy. It worked. His pitchers followed the program and they benefited from it. If any man was going to be able to harness Daniel Cabrera's raw natural talent, Leo Mazzone was that man.

To be blunt, the experiment was not a success. Mazzone did not fix Cabrera. Instead, Cabrera broke Mazzone. I would argue that Daniel Cabrera drove Mazzone out of the game. That seems like an extreme statement, but I stand by it. Leo Mazzone – the most critically acclaimed, the most universally respected and revered pitching coach in the Majors – was fired by the Baltimore Orioles in 2007, ostensibly due to his failure to make the pitching staff respectable. And despite Mazzone's publicly documented requests to get back into the game, no organization has been willing to make him an offer. He's out in the cold with no signs of coming back.

Leo Mazzone survived Mark Wohlers and John Rocker and Sid Bream. But Daniel Cabrera was another story. Leo Mazzone learned that it doesn't matter how dedicated you are, how much you work, how hard you try. There are some problems in this world that cannot be fixed.

Blame

Daniel Cabrera doesn't want to have bad control. He doesn't want to give up walks and create baserunners. He doesn't want to get yanked out of ballgames early, the home crowd booing vociferously, as crooked numbers litter the scoreboard. That's not the dream. That's not the plan. Daniel Cabrera doesn't want it to be this way.

There's a movie that came out fifteen years ago called The Scout. Not a great film. It starred Brendan Fraser as a pitching prospect and Albert Brooks as a Major League talent evaluator. (Both IMDB.com and Wikipedia also suggest that Roger Angell is credited with writing the movie, or the original source material the movie is based on, but I can't attest to that either way.) So in this film, Brendan Fraser plays a young kid named Steve Nebraska – which I always thought was an improbable name, until I realized that the 49ers won multiple Super Bowls with a quarterback named Joe Montana. So I suppose it's possible. It features cameos from George Steinbrenner, Ozzie Smith, Keith Hernandez, Bret Saberhagen, and Bob Costas (Well, sure. Try to name a sports movie that doesn't have a Costas cameo.) The movie is 101 minutes long, and those 101 minutes all build up to the big finish – the World Series, where Steve Nebraska takes the mound for the first time. Here's what happens in his first career Major League game: Perfect game, throws 81 pitches, 81 strikes, and strikes out 27 men.

Which is exactly how it should go. Exactly. Because it's Hollywood, and it's a movie, and it's a scripted happy ending. Don't you see? That's the dream. That's the Platonic ideal, the performance every pitcher aspires to. When a pitcher closes his eyes at night and visualizes his perfect life, he is throwing every pitch for a strike. No walks. No hit batsmen. Nothing wandering outside the strike zone – 81 pitches, 81 strikes, pitching for the Yankees in the World Series.

Daniel Cabrera cannot have that life. Daniel Cabrera will not be pitching in the World Series for the Yankees. He left a last place team in the Baltimore Orioles, and joined a last place team in the Washington Nationals. Hollywood is not writing Cabrera's script

But it's the start of the 2009 season. So there's always hope. Hope that maybe Cabrera can harness that arm. Hope that maybe he can improve his command and control. Because he's with a new team. It's a clean slate, a new start. And he wants to pitch well for them. Because maybe things will work out for them. And he would feel a helluva lot more confident if he could get his fastball under control. Yes, he would. Is that too much to ask?

Maybe. He's Daniel Cabrera. It's an old story. It's nothing new.

This Long List of Imperfections

I had two thoughts when I started writing this essay. First, sometimes a player starting a relationship with a new team is like a writer starting a relationship with a new girl. And second, more profoundly, we all carry problems and baggage from our past lives that we cannot wish away, no matter how much we want the new relationship to work.

There are things about ourselves we would like to change. Flaws and imperfections that make us less than what we would like to be.

Do you think I want to have a bad complexion? No, no I do not. But there's nothing I can do. I can't hide my face from the world. It's the only one I've got. I want things to work out with Rebecca, even though none of my previous relationships have worked out before. I don't know, man. I don't know. All I can do is try my best. That's all.

Why do people get mad at Daniel Cabrera? Do they think he wants to have shaky control? No, no he does not. But there's nothing he can do. He can't simply hold on to the ball. He has to take that mound every fifth day, and let it fly. He hopes that things work out with the Nationals, even though his stint with Baltimore was a big disappointment. I don't know, man. I don't know. All Daniel Cabrera can do is try his best. That's all.

If you have any thoughts you want to share, I would love to hear from you.  I can be contacted at roeltorres@post.harvard.edu.  Thank you.