Perspective
You can no longer look at Ed Whitson’s career and get a clear picture. Everything is blurry and out of focus. He’s become one of those fractal posters that requires you to relax your eyes before you can see the pretty blue sailboat hidden behind the scattered layers of noise.
Ed Whitson has lost his identity as a player. He’s become a morality play, a cautionary tale. In some ways, his name can serve as a shining example on the evils of materialism and the perils of what can go wrong when a free agent chases the almighty dollar at the expense of his humanity. Whitson is no longer a right-hander with a strong slider and good palmball, he’s a modern-day Faust, making a bargain, signing the contract, selling his soul. See, Whitson committed the unforgivable sin of being paid handsomely. More than the other pitchers in the Big Leagues, actually. More than he was worth, to tell the truth. And the fans held it against him.
There were some good seasons, at the start and at the finish. Or maybe that undersells his performance. When he was on his game, he was excellent. He was an All-Star in 1980, his second full year as a starter. Ten years later, in 1990, he went 16-11, with a 2.66 ERA. He followed that up by going 14-9, with a 2.60 ERA in 1991, the season before he retired.
But in 1984, he went 14-8, helped pitch his team into the post-season, and used his success to secure a sizable free agent contract from the New York Yankees. And that was the beginning of the end. Actually, that’s inaccurate. It was neither the beginning, nor the end. Because when all is said and done, Ed Whitson’s enduring legacy is shaped much like a camel, or a standard distribution bell curve. The most lasting impression of Ed Whitson are not the fine flatlands that bookend his days in the Majors, but rather the big bumps you find stuck in the middle.
Today, more than twenty years after the difficult seasons that left ugly scars on the landscape of his career, Ed Whitson is primarily remembered as the perfect case study on how the city of New York – with its voracious fans, its unrelenting media, and its invisible, suffocating pressure – can break a man.
The Fans
“Mike Mussina is not Ed Whitson. Not much of a chance Mussina will let the Big Apple hound him out of town, as it did Whitson back in 1986, when disgruntled Yankees fans began following him home to heckle. Even though Whitson won – his record as a Yankee was 15-10 – he simply couldn't handle New York.” – Michael Knisley, The Sporting News (Feb. 26, 2001)
Every time I read that excerpt, I think to myself, “They began following him home to heckle?” Whoa. What the hell?
Life After College
Full disclosure. I want to make things clear. I was born in Boston, MA. I grew up in Worcester, MA. I went to college in Cambridge, MA. And I bought my home and live here in Davis Square, Somerville, MA. So I’m a New Englander at heart. I have a lot of Boston in me. And I know about the rivalry between the cities of New York and Boston. But objectively, all bias aside, when compared to New York City – Boston is a small town. Small.
I’m not saying NYC is better. I’m saying it’s more. More what, exactly? More cutthroat. More aggressive. More violent. More breathtaking. More impressive. More artistic. More obnoxious. More diverse. More grotesque. More beautiful… More everything. It’s just more.
Scipio Garling runs a blog about comic books called the Absorbascon. One day, back in 2006, he asked readers who grew up in the suburbs if they were disappointed and underwhelmed at how bland everything was the first time they visited the big city. And when I read that post, I just shook my head and laughed. I started thinking about the years I lived in New York City. The memories raced through my brain at lightning speed. I didn’t know where to begin.
I grew up in the suburbs. I moved to New York City after college and lived there for a couple of years. And, uh, "underwhelmed" would NOT be the exact term I would use to describe trying to grasp the New York City experience.
I remember the Fulton Fish Market after midnight. Alphabet City. The Meatpacking District. Wandering through Harlem alone by mistake as darkness fell and I walked into a drug deal while the lady wearing a snake watched across the street. These were not bland settings.
I had my ribs crushed as everyone squeezed into the train at rush hour in Times Square. I saw men chasing each other with knives as people stood around and watched. I saw a gang attack a teenage kid on crutches. I ran for cover when I found myself caught in the middle of a homeless riot at a Burger King. I saw people lying on the sidewalk, bleeding from the head. I saw junkies hiding in the space between subway cars late at night as they pushed needles into their arms. My roommate crashed a U-Haul truck into an armored car while it was making a pick-up from the bank, causing the armed guards to draw their guns and point it at my head. I spent a couple of months living in a model's storage closet because our lease wasn't worked out correctly. I spent another couple of months living in the office of the Tropical Disease Center at Lenox Hill Hospital when I couldn't find an apartment, and had to sneak into showers when the hospital staff wasn't around. And the cafe where I wrote the first draft of my unpublished novel? It no longer exists, because terrorists flew two planes into the building and blew it up about seven years ago.
So. Was I disappointed and underwhelmed at how bland everything was in the Big City.
The answer is "no." No, I was not.
Truth was much stranger than fiction. NYC had many moments of pure and complete terror. Too many to count. And if you lived there long enough, you didn't give it a second thought...
(I want to clarify: I did not feel NYC was dangerous. I felt it was compressed. Because of the sheer number of people living there, experiences were hyper-accelerated. If you were to run into a violent incident once every 10,000 people – it might take a couple of years in the area I grew up. In Manhattan, it could take five minutes. It was the Law of Statistical Probability, the Law of Really Big Numbers. By spending three-plus years in the city, I was bound to end up seeing a couple of crazy things.
Did I spend 24 hours a day living in a state of heightened terror? No, I did not. I actually enjoyed NYC, and found it to be a fun and exciting time of my life.
But – when terrorists decide to fly planes into buildings, NYC seems to be at the top of their list. It’s that kind of city. A city where things happen, good and bad, at a manic, hellacious pace.
I'm not sure if I have a point, or an agenda. I'm just saying I experienced a lot of wild things when I lived there.)
They say that New York broke Ed Whitson. I, for one, am not surprised. I say that you can hardly blame the man. It’s that kind of city.
Take the Show on the Road
Ed Whitson was born in Johnson City, TN. He went to high school in Irwin, TN. He pitched his best while playing in San Diego. He signed the big contract, then struggled in his first year with the Yankees, registering a 4.88 ERA. Near the end of the season, he got into a brawl with his manager and broke Billy Martin’s arm. (Note: I don’t know how many players have gotten into fights with their managers and broken their bones, but Whitson qualifies to be on the list.) The fans hated him. New Yorkers were not kind. They booed him mercilessly. As mentioned earlier, they would follow him home to heckle him. It got so bad that the team officially announced that he would only pitch on the road, to avoid the wrath of the home crowd. Errr, yeah. That’s not a good sign. I can’t think of another time when that’s happened. In the September 26th edition of the New York Times, Martin explained the decision to the press, ''I don't want him to get booed… I don't want him to be bothered or harassed in any way.'' That was 1985
In 1986, with a season in New York under his belt and properly introduced to the pressures of playing in the Bronx, Whitson returned for the second year under his new contract and proceeded to post a 7.54 ERA for the Yankees. Seven point five-four. Oh boy. This wasn’t going to end well.
There are many valid obstacles, a wide variety of adversities, that prevent a player from experiencing success in baseball. An inability to hit breaking balls. Difficulty throwing strikes. Knee injuries that cut down mobility. Standard baseball hardships.
But for Ed Whitson, he had problems finding success because he faced a city full of hate. And tell me, just how exactly are you supposed to deal with that?
Rhetorical
Question: why does a city take pride in its ability to break players on the hometown teams? What’s the benefit? Where’s the advantage? New York is infamous for it. Philly is also notorious. And I remember that when Edgar Renteria had a rough year playing for the Red Sox, there were frequent references to his distaste for playing in Boston.
I guess it’s a way for a city to establish credibility? To demonstrate toughness? Maybe it’s a way of saying – you need to prove yourself again in this crucible, under our demanding conditions. This is the Big Time. Our standards are higher. Our expectations are greater. We suffer no fools gladly.
Or, maybe, the citizens of New York, Philadelphia, and Boston just carry too much anger. Anger from the vicious northeast winters. Anger from the high cost of living. Anger from the crowds and the noise and the traffic and the pollution and the crime and the psychic toll that daily survival extracts from you when you are part of the faceless masses that breathe life into a city. So when some unsuspecting fellow like Ed Whitson comes along, the anger has been sharpened to so fine a point, that it cuts and slashes with tragic ease. Could that be the reason? I don’t know. I really don’t.
And So It Goes
The name still comes up with regularity. Whenever the Yankees sign a new player, the questions are asked, the specter is raised. Because Ed Whitson lost his identity as a player. He’s become a morality play, a cautionary tale. And like most morality plays, most cautionary tales, he serves an important purpose. Ed Whitson is an illustration, an example, offering up a grim warning to players like Kevin Brown or Kenny Rogers or Carl Pavano who are foolish or daring enough to follow his weary footsteps.
Respect the city, young man. Beware New York.
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.