Grady Sizemore is a reluctant cover model and THE player Little Leaguers should aspire to play like
Jim Ingraham (Cleveland Indians Beat Writer)
05/10/2007
The wonderful and irresistible irony of Grady Sizemore, of course, is that he is the charismatic personification of that most cherished yet vanishing of American characteristics: total obliviousness to greatness.
The very qualities that make Sizemore, in the words of Indians general manager Mark Shapiro in this week's Sports Illustrated cover story, "one of the greatest players of our generation" - and in refreshing contrast to the yowling, howling, chest-pounding neanderthalic posturing of many of today's wanna-be-greats - totally eludes him.
Sizemore truly has no idea why everyone is so enamored with him, what he does for a living and how he goes about doing what he does for a living. That, in itself, makes him the irresistible superstar. He is the son every father ever wanted, the boyfriend for her daughter every mother ever dreamed of, the unselfish you're-more-important-than-me teammate to which every teammate gravitates, the hustling, stay-out-of-trouble-off-the-field, do-everything-right-on-it, ego-free, team-first package of professionalism every organization craves.
Grady Sizemore is everything that's right about professional sports. So sit back and enjoy the show. There aren't many of these guys around. In an era of unrestrained self promotion, when even the most illiterate of athletes speak of themselves in cluelessly grandiose terms, frequently referring to themselves in the third person, Sizemore has trouble talking about himself in the first person. Approach him in the Indians' clubhouse for a comment on another one of his remarkable diving catches, clutch hits or stolen bases, and The Oblivious Superstar whom White Sox manager Ozzie Guillen calls "The best player in our league," shrugs and offers a quiet, colorless response, whose between-the-lines message is unmistakable: "Why would you want to talk to me?" Answer: because you are you. Who Sizemore is, how he perceives himself, how he views his debt to his profession and the respect with which he plays the game and entertains its customers - unwittingly though it may be - all of that makes Sizemore special. Especially now. For in an era in which style means more to many than substance, Sizemore is all substance and no style.
He has Ty Cobb's intensity, without the churlishness. Pete Rose's hustle, without the gambling debts. Derek Jeter's class, without Frank Sinatra spreading the news. The further irony of Sizemore is he is now starting to garner attention nationally not just for what he is doing within his profession, but how he is doing it. It's at once a tribute to Sizemore's character, and the lack of it in so many of his peers, that just by the sheer joy, the unrestrained enthusiasm with which he plays the game, he stands out. Simply stated, Sizemore hustles. All the time. He cares enough about the game, the way it should be played, not to mention his obligation to his teammates, that he hustles. All the time. It sounds like a little thing. But it's not. It's a big thing.
Next time you go to a game, count the number of times a hitter will jog to first after hitting a grounder to the infield. That number will be whatever it will be. Then count the number of times Sizemore jogs to first. That number will be zero. When he is playing baseball, Sizemore runs hard everywhere, all the time, no matter what. That stands out. It shouldn't, but it does. It stands out because so few players play hard all the time. It stands out so much that Sizemore occasionally gets asked questions about it. Who taught you to play that way? Have you always played that way? Sizemore generally greets such questions with a barely suppressed look of incredulity and an answer that goes something like this: "Well, why wouldn't I play that way? This is my job."
In a twisted sort of way, maybe that's part of the appeal of this once-in-a-generation ballplayer. Sizemore doesn't get us, and we don't get him. We are obsessed about the fact that he's more substance than style. And he is mystified that we are. We almost have to remind ourselves that this - the way Sizemore plays the game - is the way the game is meant to be played. By everyone. All the time. That it's not is everyone else's problem, not Sizemore's. That, in turn, helps explain the obliviousness he has to his own superstardom. He's playing baseball as hard as he can, every day, celebrating the game, not himself. This is what he does. It's no big deal to him. He can't quite figure out why it is to everyone else.
But it is to everyone else. The cover of this week's Sports Illustrated proves it. There he is, in all of his unassuming glory.
The Oblivious Superstar.
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