Rick Ankiel has experienced his share of emotional pain in baseball. Columnist Ryan Fagan recalls, "That 2000 playoff game was one of the most painful things I've ever watched. Even now, thinking about it starts twisting that knot in my stomach. Every pitch that went to the backstop, every look of helplessness on his face just was gut-wrenching." This from a column by Tom Weir of USA Today: "Redbirds broadcaster Steve Selby doesn't relish the memory from the second of those games, in Nashville. 'What I remember is that he had Hall of Fame stuff in the bullpen before the game. Everything was just perfect. Curveball, fastball, it didn't matter,' Selby says. 'Then he went out, and it just wasn't there. It was a helpless feeling. What I also remember is that the fans at Greer Stadium behind the plate were just relentless in letting him have it. It was wrong. It was kicking a guy when he's down. I was glad when they got him out of the game.' Eight pitches sailed to the backstop in the first of those games. ESPN chronicled both episodes in detail. Ankiel's lingering resentment was made clear last week when, according to the Redbirds media relations department, he rejected at least four interview requests from the sports network."
And now, with the HGH allegations, who knows what type of emotional pain Rick Ankiel is experiencing...
Another major-leaguer's emotional pain was chronicled by an article titled "The Records Almost Killed Him" in Sports Illustrated's The Baseball Book: "Wednesday, March 23, 1977, Perry Field, Gainesville, Fla. Roger Maris, beer distributor and 42-year-old father of six, stands in the Yankees dugout watching his old team prepare to play a spring-training game against the University of Florida. George Streinbrenner, the Yankees owner, approaches. 'Hey, Rog,' he says, 'where's the beer?' Maris laughs and shrugs. 'You should have asked me earlier,' he says. Steinbrenner chuckles, but then his smile fades a bit. 'You know, you're a hard guy to get a hold of, Roger,' he says. 'You're hard to get to New York for just one day.' There is a pause. Maris's smile continues, but it is artificial now, as though propped up with toothpicks. Steinbrenner is referring to the annual Old Timers' Game, an event Maris has never attended since he left the Yankees in 1966. Maris has refused to visit Yankee Stadium for any reason. 'Why don't you come?' Steinbrenner says in a softer voice. Maris stares out at the field. 'They might shoot me,' he says. Steinbrenner's voice becomes solemn. 'I'm telling you, Roger, you won't ever hear an ovation like the one you'd get if you'd come back to Yankee Stadium.' Maris looks at the ground. 'Maybe,' he says without conviction, and the conversation is over."
As a baseball parent, I know that emotional pain is not isolated to the Major League. A couple of summers ago, my son was moved to another position -- a position he'd never played a day in his life -- to cover for an injured teammate. The ball came in at a way different angle and my son started making errors. It really messed with his head, which was quite painful to watch. The pain was exacerbated when I overheard some ugly comments spew forth from a fellow teammate's parent about his performance. Thereafter, I cringed every time a ball was hit to him, and it took a good 6 months to fully eradicate the pit in my stomach.
The highs in baseball can be incredibly high. The lows can be pretty devastating.
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