Head Games for Headley

Many years ago, I had a job selling copiers in Washington, DC. In the branch office, which could have been the ugliest structure ever built, there were three huge white boards that listed every sales reps’ performance for all to see. On one column, it showed what each rep had sold for the current month and the percentage of quota. On the next column, it showed what every rep had sold for the year, and the percentage of quota year to date. One didn’t have to look for very long to see who was doing well and who wasn’t. This type of fish bowl management is quite common in many sales organizations; especially in the gritty, pound the pavement world of copiers. For the sales reps doing well, you could see them beam with confidence, often poking their head into their sales manager’s office and telling them about what another wonderful week they’ve had. For the one’s doing poorly, they would quietly slink in from the back door, find an isolated cubicle, and write up the week’s recap under the heavy dread of presenting this to their boss. From a baseball perspective, Yankees third baseman, Chase Headley, is one of these guys with the big zero on the board. His dread, while expressed silently, speaks volumes.

A grand example of this occurred in Tuesday’s 5-4 loss to the Red Sox. In the fourth inning, Headley was facing a frustrated Drew Pomeranz at the mound, who had already thrown way too many pitches at that stage in the game. Pomeranz, who’s boyish looks were now giving way to steely eyes of consternation, just gave up a slow moving, infield single to Didi Gregorius after being gorged for twelve pitches in a marathon at bat. On second was Aaron Hicks, also on base from an infield hit. For Pomeranz it must have been a flashback to Little League, with two men on base from cheap hits that just might have been outs if the ball had only bounced a little differently here or sped up a little faster there. With only one out, and nobody yet warming up in the Red Sox bullpen, this was a golden opportunity to break this game wide open against a tiring pitcher with two runners in scoring position. Players like Brett Gardner and Aaron Judge live for these opportunities; they’re the sales guys who are already 127% of their plan --- the ones who actually want to talk to their boss. But it wasn’t their turn to bat, it was the struggling Headley’s.

It’s one thing to struggle, but it’s another thing to show it. Just look at Yankee’s first baseman Chris Carter. His numbers are even worse than Headley’s. Even Yankees’ GM, Brian Cashman, had a few words to say about Carter’s performance, but Carter doesn’t radiate his misery in the way that Headley does. And when you unwittingly advertise that you wish you were doing anything besides what you’re paid to do, the world takes notice.

So Headley comes to bat with Gregorius on first and Hicks on second with only one out. But there’s trouble already. You can just tell by the way he walks up to the plate, slowly, tentatively, slinking in the back door like the sales rep who needs to update his resume. You can’t help but think that Headley is wishing for a plane crash, or some instant South Bronx conflagration to ignite so he can dodge this situation; and if he takes his time doing so, the odds improve. But there is no plane crash, no burning Bronx to speak of on this damp chilly night, and the extra dawdling does nothing but give Headley what he needs the least – time to think. The camera closes in on Headley. He’s not ready for his close up but he gets it anyway. He’s the anti-diva, with his inordinately taut facial muscles, his shrunken eyes – like crude little slits carved into a pumpkin – sealed lips, and leathery complexion all compounding how much he hates playing baseball right now. Nevertheless, he works the slogging Pomeranz to a full count. If he walks, fantastic, the bases will be loaded. If he strikes out, it’s still only two outs and everyone stays on base. What he doesn’t need to do is lamely hit a ground ball to the pitcher and kill the inning with an easy double play. Well, guess what?

Despite this, Headley seems to be the beneficiary of circumstance at the moment. A short-term trade is too costly, for say, Kansas City’s Mike Moustakas and the like, and there aren’t any prospects ready enough to be called up from the minor leagues. That’s not to say that the vultures of the New York media, or global sports blogosphere, aren’t having some guilty fun with Headley’s angst. Anything that even whiffs of imperfection, of just the fallibility of being a human being who plays baseball for a living, stokes up chants of Gleyber Torres, the 20-year-old Venezuelan “phenom” who’s played but 50 games with Triple-A Scranton, but has already been anointed as the Yankees’ panacea for their woes at third base. Torres is just fantasy at this point, but routinely bringing him up anywhere within Headley’s space offers some sadistic joy to those who’d offer a hose to a drowning man. Hey Headley – you thirsty?

In any case, at a minimum, a shift in attitude or body language would do huge wonders for Headley. A simple belly laugh, or a deflective “aw shucks” roll of the eyes would go far with taking the target off his back. Then again, so would hitting the ball. But if he can’t do that, he should at least have fun playing baseball.