sprchrgd
02-14-2008, 09:49 AM
From San Diego's favorite son ... to spoilsport
The most intriguing at-bat of 2007 is leaking into 2008. You can sense it by the way a 25-year-old wannabe struts through his February workouts. You can sense it by the way a 40-year-old shoulder shrugs at the line of questioning. You can sense it by the way a Hall of Famer is uncomfortably stuck in the middle. And you can sense it by the way a filthy rich man stares into space.
On Sept. 29, 2007, Tony Gwynn Jr., for all practical purposes, knocked Tony Gwynn Sr.'s team out of the playoffs. But it's much crueler than that. He did it with two outs and two strikes in the bottom of the ninth -- against his Uncle Trevor. He did it with the champagne on ice and the Colorado Rockies on life support. He did it against the franchise that clothed and fed him and against a fan base that, 81 days a year, walks down Tony Gwynn Drive to the turnstiles. He did it as the only son of San Diego's favorite son. And this is how he pays everyone back?
But to understand Sept. 29, 2007, you need to scoot back one day to Sept. 28.
That night, in a corridor of Miller Park in Milwaukee, Tony Gwynn Jr. asked San Diego Padres owner John Moores for a favor.
Wait until you hear it.
*****
The most intriguing at-bat of 2007 has its roots in 1997. Back then, a boney 15-year-old kid named Anthony Gwynn, otherwise known as Little T, sat at the same locker every day in the Padres' clubhouse:
Not his dad's.
Trevor Hoffman's.
Virtually every game, Little T was with Hoffman, a relief pitcher whose work ethic knew no bounds. They had first met in 1993, back when Hoffman was a power pitcher, back when nobody outside of San Diego knew Trevor from Adam. But Little T knew him. Trevor would kneel down and ask him about his favorite TV shows and video games, and out of the blue one day, he even asked Little T if he wanted to play football in the outfield.
"Football?'' Little T asked.
"Football,'' Trevor said. "We stretch our arms out by tossing it around.''
They'd play passing games out there, and Little T would get two points if he caught a pass one-handed, and one point if he needed both hands. The pitcher treated the kid as an equal, and from that day on, Little T belonged to Trevor.
By 1997, you never saw one without the other. Little T would follow the pitcher to the warning track to shag flies, to the weight room to do curls, to the food room to eat gumbo. He'd study how Trevor stretched, how Trevor set up hitters, how Trevor iced his shoulder. They'd talk about girls, the Lakers and how to hit a changeup. Little T hung on every word.
Eventually, Little T went to San Diego State as a center fielder, and by 2003, was considered a legit major league prospect. The scouts liked his speed and his defense, but -- imagine this -- the son of the greatest hitter of this quarter century hadn't proven he could rake.
Still, the eager Padres had secretly planned to draft him with their second-round pick, 41st overall. They knew the whole town, including Trevor, would've gone nuts over it. But the Brewers, the spoilsport Brewers, picked Little T first, at No. 39 overall.
All over town, it was an oh-shucks moment, although Little T breathed a sigh of semi-relief. Part of him would've adored life as a Padre, but part of him wasn't ready for the madness. Part of him wasn't ready for the standing O's just because of his last name. What if he batted .250 instead of .350? What if he let the San Diego fans down? He couldn't live with himself.
He decided he was better off in the land of bratwurst, and during his early spring trainings, he'd always bump into Hoffman and thank him. He'd thank him for teaching him how to be a pro, for teaching him how to think, think, think along with the pitcher.
Maybe some day, he told Trevor, it'd all pay off.
*****
The most intriguing at-bat of 2007 has its roots in a San Diego owner's suite.
Every night, after he'd leave Trevor in the clubhouse, Little T would climb a stadium ramp to see the Moores family. And then he'd raid their pregame spread.
He felt so at home there. His dad was always calling John Moores the best owner in baseball, and the reason was Moores' sentimental, philanthropic outlook on life. For instance, right after Moores bought the club in 1994, he waltzed into the clubhouse to invite Tony Sr. and his wife, Alicia, to his house for dinner. Tony said no. His owners in the past had been the eccentric Joan Kroc and the unmotivated Tom Werner, who'd staged an infamous fire sale, and Tony preferred to keep his distance. But Moores told him, "I don't want to hear that; you're coming.''
They rode over to the house together, and, for the first time in his career, Tony Sr. actually heard an owner ask him, "How can I make your life easier?" Tony gulped, and let it out. He asked for a more integrated spring training, with minor and major leaguers mingling together. He asked for open dialogue with the front office. And he asked for team babysitters, so the wives could watch games in peace.
"Oh, you have kids?'' Moores said.
"A daughter and a son,'' Tony said.
"What's your son's name?'' Moores asked.
"Little T,'' said Big T.
The Brewers won 83 games in 2007, finishing two games back of the division-winning Cubs.
So that's how the introductions went, and before long, Little T became a regular in the Moores' private box, the Moores' private home and the Moores' private jet. The Moores flew Little T and Alicia to Cleveland for the 1997 All-Star Game, and to myriad other big games. According to Moores, Tony Sr. and Alicia were nervous flyers, whereas Little T always enjoyed the small, sleek Leer jet. On many of the trips, Little T would bond with Moores' daughter, Jennifer, and all of them became trustworthy friends.
"I don't know if it's because my dad was who he was, but they just kind of gravitated toward us,'' Little T says of the Moores. "Their whole family and our whole family, we kind of gravitated toward each other, really.''
The Moores simply had a soft spot for Big T. They were ringside for his 3,000th hit in Montreal in 1999, when Tony singled off a low, diving pitch that seemed unhittable. They built a ballpark at Tony's alma mater, San Diego State, on one condition -- it had to be named Tony Gwynn Stadium. They built Petco Park and made its street address 19 Tony Gwynn Drive. They built a life-sized Tony Gwynn statue and lit it up at night 365 days a year. They retired Tony's jersey No. 19 and presented him with a new Mercedes. They gave Tony a personal services contract. They even had their lieutenant, Sandy Alderson, ask Tony if he wanted to interview for the Padres' managerial job when Bruce Bochy left following the 2006 season. Tony declined, feeling he needed to manage in the minors first, but he appreciated the gesture, appreciated John Moores.
"Well, it's difficult to think we ever would've bought the Padres without Tony being there,'' Moores says. "Tony Gwynn is truly iconic. People outside Southern California can't imagine what it's like. He can't leave his house without someone telling him how much he meant to them. He's like their family.''
And that's why Moores has held numerous "Tony Gwynn Days'' in San Diego. But the best Tony Gwynn Day of all, the one people talk about, was the day in 2002, when the Padres brought back the entire starting lineup from Tony's first-ever game in 1982.
All the old-timers marched out onto the field, in uniform, and were sent to their original positions around the diamond, just to shock Tony. One by one, they were announced. But wait a minute, who was that kid playing the part of Tony in the outfield? Who was out there wearing Tony's old taco Padre uniform?
Little T!
The crowd went bonkers.
They loved him, too.
*****
Continued at...
http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=3243227&lpos=spotlight&lid=tab2pos1
The most intriguing at-bat of 2007 is leaking into 2008. You can sense it by the way a 25-year-old wannabe struts through his February workouts. You can sense it by the way a 40-year-old shoulder shrugs at the line of questioning. You can sense it by the way a Hall of Famer is uncomfortably stuck in the middle. And you can sense it by the way a filthy rich man stares into space.
On Sept. 29, 2007, Tony Gwynn Jr., for all practical purposes, knocked Tony Gwynn Sr.'s team out of the playoffs. But it's much crueler than that. He did it with two outs and two strikes in the bottom of the ninth -- against his Uncle Trevor. He did it with the champagne on ice and the Colorado Rockies on life support. He did it against the franchise that clothed and fed him and against a fan base that, 81 days a year, walks down Tony Gwynn Drive to the turnstiles. He did it as the only son of San Diego's favorite son. And this is how he pays everyone back?
But to understand Sept. 29, 2007, you need to scoot back one day to Sept. 28.
That night, in a corridor of Miller Park in Milwaukee, Tony Gwynn Jr. asked San Diego Padres owner John Moores for a favor.
Wait until you hear it.
*****
The most intriguing at-bat of 2007 has its roots in 1997. Back then, a boney 15-year-old kid named Anthony Gwynn, otherwise known as Little T, sat at the same locker every day in the Padres' clubhouse:
Not his dad's.
Trevor Hoffman's.
Virtually every game, Little T was with Hoffman, a relief pitcher whose work ethic knew no bounds. They had first met in 1993, back when Hoffman was a power pitcher, back when nobody outside of San Diego knew Trevor from Adam. But Little T knew him. Trevor would kneel down and ask him about his favorite TV shows and video games, and out of the blue one day, he even asked Little T if he wanted to play football in the outfield.
"Football?'' Little T asked.
"Football,'' Trevor said. "We stretch our arms out by tossing it around.''
They'd play passing games out there, and Little T would get two points if he caught a pass one-handed, and one point if he needed both hands. The pitcher treated the kid as an equal, and from that day on, Little T belonged to Trevor.
By 1997, you never saw one without the other. Little T would follow the pitcher to the warning track to shag flies, to the weight room to do curls, to the food room to eat gumbo. He'd study how Trevor stretched, how Trevor set up hitters, how Trevor iced his shoulder. They'd talk about girls, the Lakers and how to hit a changeup. Little T hung on every word.
Eventually, Little T went to San Diego State as a center fielder, and by 2003, was considered a legit major league prospect. The scouts liked his speed and his defense, but -- imagine this -- the son of the greatest hitter of this quarter century hadn't proven he could rake.
Still, the eager Padres had secretly planned to draft him with their second-round pick, 41st overall. They knew the whole town, including Trevor, would've gone nuts over it. But the Brewers, the spoilsport Brewers, picked Little T first, at No. 39 overall.
All over town, it was an oh-shucks moment, although Little T breathed a sigh of semi-relief. Part of him would've adored life as a Padre, but part of him wasn't ready for the madness. Part of him wasn't ready for the standing O's just because of his last name. What if he batted .250 instead of .350? What if he let the San Diego fans down? He couldn't live with himself.
He decided he was better off in the land of bratwurst, and during his early spring trainings, he'd always bump into Hoffman and thank him. He'd thank him for teaching him how to be a pro, for teaching him how to think, think, think along with the pitcher.
Maybe some day, he told Trevor, it'd all pay off.
*****
The most intriguing at-bat of 2007 has its roots in a San Diego owner's suite.
Every night, after he'd leave Trevor in the clubhouse, Little T would climb a stadium ramp to see the Moores family. And then he'd raid their pregame spread.
He felt so at home there. His dad was always calling John Moores the best owner in baseball, and the reason was Moores' sentimental, philanthropic outlook on life. For instance, right after Moores bought the club in 1994, he waltzed into the clubhouse to invite Tony Sr. and his wife, Alicia, to his house for dinner. Tony said no. His owners in the past had been the eccentric Joan Kroc and the unmotivated Tom Werner, who'd staged an infamous fire sale, and Tony preferred to keep his distance. But Moores told him, "I don't want to hear that; you're coming.''
They rode over to the house together, and, for the first time in his career, Tony Sr. actually heard an owner ask him, "How can I make your life easier?" Tony gulped, and let it out. He asked for a more integrated spring training, with minor and major leaguers mingling together. He asked for open dialogue with the front office. And he asked for team babysitters, so the wives could watch games in peace.
"Oh, you have kids?'' Moores said.
"A daughter and a son,'' Tony said.
"What's your son's name?'' Moores asked.
"Little T,'' said Big T.
The Brewers won 83 games in 2007, finishing two games back of the division-winning Cubs.
So that's how the introductions went, and before long, Little T became a regular in the Moores' private box, the Moores' private home and the Moores' private jet. The Moores flew Little T and Alicia to Cleveland for the 1997 All-Star Game, and to myriad other big games. According to Moores, Tony Sr. and Alicia were nervous flyers, whereas Little T always enjoyed the small, sleek Leer jet. On many of the trips, Little T would bond with Moores' daughter, Jennifer, and all of them became trustworthy friends.
"I don't know if it's because my dad was who he was, but they just kind of gravitated toward us,'' Little T says of the Moores. "Their whole family and our whole family, we kind of gravitated toward each other, really.''
The Moores simply had a soft spot for Big T. They were ringside for his 3,000th hit in Montreal in 1999, when Tony singled off a low, diving pitch that seemed unhittable. They built a ballpark at Tony's alma mater, San Diego State, on one condition -- it had to be named Tony Gwynn Stadium. They built Petco Park and made its street address 19 Tony Gwynn Drive. They built a life-sized Tony Gwynn statue and lit it up at night 365 days a year. They retired Tony's jersey No. 19 and presented him with a new Mercedes. They gave Tony a personal services contract. They even had their lieutenant, Sandy Alderson, ask Tony if he wanted to interview for the Padres' managerial job when Bruce Bochy left following the 2006 season. Tony declined, feeling he needed to manage in the minors first, but he appreciated the gesture, appreciated John Moores.
"Well, it's difficult to think we ever would've bought the Padres without Tony being there,'' Moores says. "Tony Gwynn is truly iconic. People outside Southern California can't imagine what it's like. He can't leave his house without someone telling him how much he meant to them. He's like their family.''
And that's why Moores has held numerous "Tony Gwynn Days'' in San Diego. But the best Tony Gwynn Day of all, the one people talk about, was the day in 2002, when the Padres brought back the entire starting lineup from Tony's first-ever game in 1982.
All the old-timers marched out onto the field, in uniform, and were sent to their original positions around the diamond, just to shock Tony. One by one, they were announced. But wait a minute, who was that kid playing the part of Tony in the outfield? Who was out there wearing Tony's old taco Padre uniform?
Little T!
The crowd went bonkers.
They loved him, too.
*****
Continued at...
http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=3243227&lpos=spotlight&lid=tab2pos1