The Numbers Game

The New York Times

August 20, 2008

by Doug Glanville

Just before the baseball trade deadline on July 31, the Cincinnati Reds traded the veteran outfielder and future Hall of Famer Ken Griffey Jr. to the Chicago White Sox, as the Sox bulked up for their playoff run. Even for someone of his stature, it takes a while to get acclimated to new teammates and a new environment. But one thing that can make it even more challenging is when you have a lucky uniform number and are expecting to keep it.

Baseball players are inherently superstitious and known to attribute successes and failures to anything from lucky socks to sitting in certain seats on the bus. So a number carries with it a special weight that can be tipped in a bad direction if you become separated from it.

The problem is, when you get traded, someone else on your new team probably already has your number. So you have to work it out. On the Sox, Nick Swisher was already wearing Griffey’s precious number “30.” To make matters worse, Nick had an entire fan club called “the Dirty 30.”

Nick was in a quandary I understood well, because in the middle of my second season, the veteran Lance “One Dog” Johnson was traded to my team, the Chicago Cubs. He was one of the top center fielders in the National League and I was a young center fielder looking for my first shot, so I knew I had a career-advancement problem.

The problem was even bigger than it had first seemed. In addition to having obviously been passed over as the Cubs’ next starting center fielder, I was also wearing the number “1” on the back of my jersey. Anyone with the nickname “One Dog” would presumably come sniffing around for it.

I spent the next few days consulting teammates on how to handle the situation. After a little research, I understood that the option of keeping number “1” was completely off the table. Young players have a duty to give veterans their choice of numbers, even when they are asking you to peel it off your back in the middle of a season. If a young fan had picked up a Glanville T-shirt with “1” on the back, it was too bad; the best he could hope for was a favorable return policy.

The good part is that the veteran players who would take your number are traditionally expected to compensate you for your troubles. So I heard that I might be showered with gifts ranging from a personalized Rolex watch to a shopping spree at Hugo Boss.

I could work with that.

I told the press that I would certainly give up my number, and when asked about what I expected in return I responded, “We’ll see” — knowing deep down that the least One Dog could do was get me a couple tickets to see “Oprah.”

Well, One Dog arrived and the cameras filmed our first encounter. We talked, we bonded, and I turned over of my “1” to him. There was no pomp and circumstance, this was pre-Internet-polling so I couldn’t go to the team Web site to see how the masses reacted. But at least it was official.

Eventually, a window opened up for us to discuss the compensation for my act of deference. One Dog told me, “I will give you something more valuable than money. I will teach you how to play this game. I will give you advice.”

Advice? I was sure that he was going to leave a check in my locker with “Advice” written on the signature line. One Dog had clearly spent too much time in the junkyard barking at hubcaps.

He was true to his word; my cash compensation never materialized.

One Dog did show me some of the ropes over the next few months. Even though I was a center fielder, I had earned my way to being the starting left fielder after a few young teammates struggled. He kept me sharp and nipped at me whenever I showed frustration or exhaustion.

“Are you tired?” he asked me once. “No.” “So why didn’t you run hard on that last ground ball?” Even though his wisdom was helpful, I was still a little bitter about having to give up my lean and singular “1” for the big fat “8” now covering my back.

I never did get that “1” back. Later, during the off-season, the Cubs traded me to the Philadelphia Phillies, where I chose to wear number “6.” It’s the number I wore for the remainder of my career.

In Philadelphia, I did have a chance to pass on the legacy of the number hierarchy by repaying the favor to a young shortstop named Jimmy Rollins. He was a rising star when we teamed together for a few years on the Phillies. Then I left to play for the Texas Rangers, and Jimmy took my precious “6,” a number he wore in high school.

Well, I came back to Philadelphia the next year. I called him and asked if he would be willing to give up his number to an “old vet.” It was hard for him, but he agreed. He knew the rules about the baseball pecking order, and he respected them.

Griffey ultimately didn’t press Swisher to give up his number, something a veteran player can graciously elect to do. So Swisher can keep his “Dirty 30” fan club.

For my part, I didn’t leave Rollins empty-handed. I picked him up a Sony VAIO laptop for his sacrifice.

Oh, and I gave him advice, too. And considering that he’s the reigning National League Most Valuable Player, maybe I should ask for that laptop back.

Republished from The NY Times