The Journey Home

by Jorge Posada

  She understood my desire to be a ballplayer, but she knew I would also need to be a good man. We all know stories of guys who are terrific athletes but not very great human beings. My mom wanted to make sure that those two parts of me intersected squarely. I’m not saying that my dad didn’t care about what kind of man I was; it’s just that his emphasis was on helping me be the best ballplayer I could be. His expectation was that I would simply transfer all those lessons about dedication and hard work to other parts of my life. My mom was more direct in helping me see that those other parts of my life were just as important as baseball. They both impressed on me that there are no shortcuts to success, on the field or off, that I could never do anything that might compromise my integrity, and that no matter what anyone else was doing to get ahead, I had to do the right thing—or else.

  My mom had to work hard to recover from the surgery, and she was doing well with it. I saw my dad’s tenderness and toughness in a new light as he helped take care of her and fiercely protected her from any kind of upset. Maybe because I was now married and saw how couples worked together to complement one another’s strengths and weaknesses, I saw my parents’ relationship as an example of how to get things done.

  Throughout the 1999 season and Laura’s pregnancy, I came to see how Laura struck the perfect balance between the two sides of me—she got who I was as a man and as a ballplayer and saw how those two sides of me merged. The two of us worked incredibly well together, and I could never imagine thinking of her as any kind of negative distraction.

  In addition to being a great partner for me, Laura was an accomplished and ambitious woman who knew about hard work. Her life as a lawyer and as an entertainer required her to have the kind of focus and determination that I did. Though she chose to go a different way, she had also been a great athlete in high school and could have played college volleyball if she had chosen to. So when she saw me struggling early in ’99 with Joe’s absence and with not playing as much as I thought I deserved to, even though I’d been told I was the starting catcher, Laura was able to help me immensely. Sometimes it even helped to not talk about baseball, to get away from the game when I was home and think about the arrival of our baby. It wasn’t easy for her to be a baseball wife, an expectant mother, a newlywed, and a newcomer to Manhattan, all while coping with our suddenly very different life. Talk about making transitions—she handled it all.

  So when we won the Series that year and got to participate in another victory celebration and ride down that Canyon of Heroes, I felt like Laura was the most valuable player on our team—the one who, when things were on the verge of turning bad, reminded me and showed me how good things really were. When you start off a season with an 0-for-25 streak from the left side of the plate, as I did, and then break out of it with a monster upper-deck home run, that ball’s flight is just a reminder of what you’ve been hearing from your wife every day during that tough stretch. Things will get better.

  And things did get better, in fits and starts. I needed to be more consistent to level off some of the highs and lows, both emotionally and at the plate. For me, the two were always intertwined. That playing angry thing was a mixed bag. How can you stay angry when things are going so well for you on and off the field?

  That off-season we went home to Puerto Rico to be with both our families for the big event. Thankfully, Laura was having an easy pregnancy, so when she went into labor in late November, I was anxious but no more than any first-time dad might have been. The first time I held my son, Jorge, in my arms, I was overcome by a whirlwind of emotions. Even though he was just minutes old, I was already thinking about how amazing it would be to have a son to share adventures with. Holding him in my arms, I could imagine what my dad must have experienced when he first held me, only in those first minutes I wasn’t envisioning my son as a ballplayer. Instead, I was remembering the times with my dad when we cycled and swam together, when we just hung out. I wanted more of those kind of moments with my son—if we ended up creating some memories on the baseball diamond together, that would be good too, but I wasn’t going to put that kind of pressure on either of us.

  Throughout Laura’s pregnancy, I’d been thinking about what kind of father I wanted to be. I’d teach him, of course, but I’d learn from what had troubled me about my relationship with my dad. Most importantly, I’d communicate better with him. I’d let him know with words and actions that I loved him and was proud of him, that if I was disappointed it was in something he did but never in him. I wanted to be as positive a presence in my child’s life as I could be.

  In the middle of our joy, Laura and I both quickly grew concerned as well. Something about the shape of Jorge’s head didn’t seem quite right. We mentioned our worry to our doctors and nurses, but they assured us that his head was normal. The trip down the birth canal and the use of forceps on the baby’s skull to help extract him had caused imperfections—in a few days, they said, we wouldn’t notice anything unusual.

  I think it’s possible for hope to overcome our good senses sometimes, and as new parents, Laura and I wanted so much for our baby to be healthy that we didn’t trust our guts. Something was wrong, but we wanted to chalk it up to being new at this parenting thing and to believe that our worries were just that—worries. But two days later, when we went home with our son, our worries only grew. Jorge cried nonstop, he wouldn’t breast-feed, Laura was having serious postpartum headaches and nausea, and all that time Jorge’s face and head still somehow looked off to us. As the days went by we noticed that his appearance seemed to be changing daily, and in a way that couldn’t be the result of him growing. When one eye seemed to be moving higher than the other, all the alarm bells that had been muted went off. We had to get help.

  Through a family connection, we went to see a pediatrician. He confirmed our worries, but fortunately for us, he had seen something like this during his days at NYU Hospital and suggested we get in touch with a specialist there by the name of Dr. Joseph McCarthy. A few days later, we flew to New York with the baby, and for the first time we heard the word that would become a major part of our lives from that point forward: Jorge had a birth defect known as craniosynostosis. Dr. McCarthy was great and told us that he had seen many cases like Jorge’s—we were surprised to learn that one in 2,000 babies are born with it—and he was as reassuring as could be. He knew that it was a lot to take in and that we would all be dealing with this for years to come, but he offered us what we needed most in those moments—an answer and hope.

  Craniosynostosis is a condition in which the plates of the skull start to fuse together prematurely. All babies are born with the bones of the skull not fully together in a complete structure. That allows for the brain and the head to grow. With craniosynostosis, because some of the plates have already joined together, the rest of the structures get forced to grow in different directions than they would normally. Besides the disfigurement, a child can have seizures, visual impairment, eating difficulties, and a number of other problems. To correct the condition, Jorge would have to undergo surgeries throughout his young life, starting nine months from that first appointment.

  As Dr. McCarthy’s words settled in, all of those visions I’d had of our future together, of my life with my son, suddenly changed. I didn’t know what to do. Immediately after we got the diagnosis, Laura and I were in a cab, and we looked at one another. I could tell that she was barely keeping it together, and I knew that I was having a hard time as well. We were stopped at a light, and pedestrians were streaming past us and around us. I felt trapped, almost claustrophobic in a way I’d never felt before.

  “Let’s make a promise,” Laura said. “We’re going to be strong for one another.”

  I reached for her hand and held it. “Strong. For you and for him.”

  We kept to that promise, and throughout that ordeal we never cried in front of one another. That’s not to say that we didn’t cry at all—we did cry profusely, in private—but we needed to not show just how bad thi
ngs were or how down we were. We could have really spiraled into a deep depression. We couldn’t do that because Jorge needed us, and we felt like we had to set an example for our family.

  In particular, I was worried about my mom and dad and how they would take the news. My mom’s heart condition was very much on my mind, and even in those first few days after we’d brought Jorge home, I’d seen the worry on my dad’s face when he stood over his crib. I have many lasting memories from those first days and months after Jorge was born, but the image of my dad standing at my son’s crib crying and crying, of seeing the man who had always told me to push aside my emotions choking up uncontrollably because he didn’t know what was wrong with his grandson—that has always stayed with me.

  Painful as it was to see my dad upset, in some ways witnessing his reaction helped me put my own struggle in perspective. He was such a wreck because he couldn’t control what was happening, first to my mom and now to his grandson. He could help, but his old tried-and-true formula of bulling his neck, getting tough, and working harder could only carry him so far. He could help my mom—cooking for her and running errands—but he couldn’t control every part of her recovery or her health. It was kind of like what he’d done with me. He could put me in a place where I could succeed, but the rest was up to me. On the ball field there were plenty of variables, but off the field there were so many unknowns outside his experience that I’m sure he was flustered by it all.

  My dad was as emotional as I was, but he just expressed it in different ways. Now faced with these difficult problems at the same time as my career continued to blossom, all kinds of circuits got crossed for him, and he responded in unexpected ways. It was both tough and in some ways gratifying to see him like that. I got to see that tender side of him. Also, it was a bit scary. I saw him and my mom both as vulnerable in a way that I hadn’t before. My dad had always wanted to protect me, and now I felt that way about him.

  Because of all this concern, initially I decided I couldn’t say anything about Jorge’s condition to my parents, but Laura talked some sense into me. When I delivered the news, they were heartbroken, but they both rallied. My in-laws were great as well. Everyone reminded us of what they’d instilled in us from the beginning: This is a challenge. You’ve faced them before and you’ve succeeded. You’ll do it again.

  Laura and I were both dealing with guilt and wondering what we might have done to cause Jorge’s condition. So who knew what was going on in my dad’s mind? I had so much going on, and we had established such a pattern in our lives, that I couldn’t just ask him. But I knew one thing: I was grateful that I had my job to occupy some of my time and thoughts. At least on the field I could control some things; my dad didn’t have that kind of an outlet, and I think that compounded his emotional responses.

  Derek was the first person outside the family I told about Jorge’s troubles. He had called to check up on us after the baby was born, and I told him that things were good—hectic, but good, and I meant that. Later, when it became clear that something was wrong, I called him because he was one of the only people I felt I could talk to. The thing you have to understand about Derek is that he’s great under pressure in all situations—on the field and off. That calm and cool, “no big deal” image he projects is real, but he’s also a compassionate guy. Hearing that come through in his voice as I talked with him was what I needed. I knew that I could trust him with my feelings, and I also knew I could trust him to keep the news about Jorge as much of a secret as possible. I’m a private person and don’t like my business to be out there anyway, but I also knew that I didn’t want to have to deal with the questions even within the team, not to mention the press. People were going to want to express their concern and support, but that would have been too hard for me to deal with all the time.

  After my initial conversation with him, Derek checked in with me frequently, and I appreciated that and was glad for the opportunity to be completely honest with someone outside the inner circle of our family. He was good at reading me—he knew when to press me for details or when to talk about other things to help get my mind off what we were all dealing with.

  That’s where that issue of distractions enters the picture. I knew that I had a season to play in 2000. Jorge’s first surgery wouldn’t be until August, and as much as I would have liked to stay with Laura and the baby until then, there wasn’t anything I could do to make Jorge’s condition better by being home. I had a job to do, and to do it I had to block out all my concerns and anxieties for a few hours every day.

  As we moved into the season, it was good to have Derek and baseball to help keep me sane. They served as a distraction from what was going on back home, as a way to escape, however briefly, from what was most on my mind. I knew that Jorge was going to be getting the best care in the world, but still, it was nearly impossible not to think about what he faced as he got older—having more and more surgeries each year and becoming more aware of what he was having to deal with. When Dr. McCarthy explained that Jorge’s scalp would have to be cut from ear to ear and peeled back to gain access to his skull, it had become clearer than ever how serious this all was, and how long-lasting the scars would be.

  Because I knew that Jorge was going to have his first surgery at some point during the season, and because I sensed that he would understand what Laura and I were going through, one day in spring training I asked Joe Torre if I could meet with him. I sat down on the couch in his office. Joe was behind his desk, and even before I could launch into my story, he knew that something was up. He came to sit next to me on the couch, his face a mask of real concern.

  When I was done explaining the situation, he asked me how Laura was doing, how the rest of the family was, and if there was anything he could do to help in any way. Then he asked more questions about Jorge’s condition, about what was going to be done and what the prognosis was. The more he prodded for information, though, the more I kept trying to turn the conversation around, to keep it professional by telling him that I was going to do my best to not let things get in the way.

  He put his hand on my shoulder to stop me.

  “I know all that. I know that you’re going to be fine. You’re going to do your job. I just want to make sure that you understand we’re here to help you do your most important job—to be there for your son and your wife and your family. The rest—the schedule, how to make things happen on the field—we’ll figure that out as we go along. I just want to make sure that all of you are okay.”

  In a lot of ways, those were the kinds of words that I’d wanted and needed to hear from my dad—the kinds of things that he just hadn’t been able to say because he was so overcome by his feelings and worries. I don’t blame my father for that—but something about Joe’s combination of control and compassion comforted me more in that moment than I can say. Joe completely understood my desire to keep things quiet, and I thanked him and held out my hand for him to shake it. He took it and then pulled me in for a hug: “We’re going to help you get through this.”

  From that point forward, Joe was great about checking on me and asking how everyone was doing. That was when he became more than my manager—he became family, a father both similar to and different from the real one I had down in Puerto Rico.

  Thankfully, my family on the team was not limited to Joe. At that point Derek and I had been playing together for several years, and I’d been thinking of him as a brother for quite a while. I don’t know how it was that our friendship truly started, whether it was when we got sent up together in ’95, or when we were living in the same building in New York, or when we were on some road trip that’s long faded from my memory. But I do know when it deepened; while Jorge’s condition played a part in that, even before that diagnosis, Derek and I had become real close. He wasn’t the best man at my wedding out of convenience. I knew that he was somebody I could count on, just like I knew that at 2:00 every day that we had a night game he’d be down in the lobby of our hotel room or our apartmen
t building so that we could go to lunch together. It wasn’t like either of us needed a reminder of that. That’s how it is with brothers—a lot of things go unspoken. But Derek has also always called to wish Laura and me a happy anniversary, and he calls each of us, including the kids, on our birthdays.

  In the same way that we had our daily lunches, when we were on the road we’d leave the ballpark after the game and catch a cab or a car service to go out to eat. Breaking bread with my brother, talking about the game, the season, the movie we were going to catch, some other things going on in sports or the world, was a part of that season and every other one I shared with Derek.

  Of course, I had other guys on the team I was really close with. Following that meeting with Joe, I also informed Bernie Williams and Gerald Williams and Tino Martinez about Jorge’s condition and what was to come. Knowing that those guys had my back made it easier for me to put up a false front on those days when I’d get to the ballpark and be feeling down. I had to put my pregame face on, smile and laugh at all the nuttiness that goes on during the course of the year. On better days, when I heard from Laura that Jorge had slept well, wasn’t crying, and was starting to motor around a little bit, those smiles and that laughter were genuine.

  Baseball was my release and my relief, but as the season went on into July and I knew Jorge’s surgery was coming up in August, even baseball couldn’t do too much to help me. That looming sense of something darkening the horizon was tough to battle through. The irony was that things were going really well for me on the field. With Joe Girardi signing with the Cubs in the off-season, I was clearly the number-one catcher, and I played with the frequency that goes along with that. I got off to a good start and was able to sustain that throughout the first half. Hitting a three-run walk-off homer in early May and going 4-for-5 against the Orioles was great. Having the guys mob me at home plate, seeing how thrilled they all were, made for a great night. Still, the next morning when I woke up and showered, it wasn’t getting soap in my eyes that had my tears flowing.