The Journey Home

by Jorge Posada

  I’d certainly had to handle a whole bunch of diverse personalities on our staff. As a catcher, I had to be a part-time psychologist to deal with the pitchers and a part-time diplomat to deal with the umpires. I always treated them with respect, except on the rare occasion when I got tossed for arguing balls and strikes. You spend a lot of time back there with those guys, and I think because we have to battle some of the same things—like foul tips and wild pitches—you have a little of a soldiers-in-the-trenches thing going on with them.

  I did achieve some personal highs along the way. In 2005, my 175th career home run tied me with Bobby Murcer for 16th on the all-time Yankees list, I hit a home run from each side of the plate in one game for the sixth time in my career, and I was third on that all-time list behind Bernie and Mickey Mantle. By the time 2006 ended, I had climbed to 11th in home runs in Yankees history and third behind Yogi Berra and Bill Dickey for the most by a Yankees catcher. Seeing my name mentioned along with some of the franchise’s best and most popular players was great. I also was doing okay in comparison to my contemporaries. From 2000 to 2006, I had more RBI than any other catcher in the big leagues during that span, and Mike Piazza and I were tied for first in home run totals. I was in the prime of my career, still being productive, but those damn playoff losses haunted me.

  Heading into 2007, I can’t say that I did anything different in terms of the quantity of work I was doing, but the quality of it got better. That was especially true of how I ate. I’d always been pretty good about not eating a lot of junk food and snacks. The lone exception was drinking a big glass of milk or chocolate Nesquik before bedtime as a recovery drink. Fortunately, Laura was on top of the latest food and fitness research, she was my stretching buddy, and she made sure that the kids and I ate well-balanced meals. It wasn’t enough for her to just read a book about these concepts or to have someone at the gym plan her workouts or to ask a nutritionist to give us meal plans. Back then, she took classes to become a certified fitness professional so that she would be in control.

  On the road, I brought along those principles I practiced at home in a more concentrated way in 2007. When you’re on the road half the season, it’s easy to fall into restaurant habits—large portions, desserts, and all that. I knew that I couldn’t eat like I had as a younger player and that I couldn’t work out the same way either. Making adjustments was important.

  I can’t attribute all of my success in 2007 to just those off-the-field habits. I think that hitting 60 points higher than I had the year before—I batted .338 for the year, establishing a career high in batting average, doubles, and slugging percentage—was the result of a lot of things coming together. For one thing, Jorge was doing much, much better. He had surgeries each year from 2000 to 2002, skipped 2003, then had them again in the off-season in 2004 and 2006. Now he was having a break from surgeries until 2010.

  More important than being able to take a break from the anxiety over those surgeries was what I’d learned from seeing what Jorge went through. I was still intense, and I still put a lot of pressure on myself, but I was also more patient. For the first time in my life, I was better able to put things in perspective and actually listen to what Derek and Joe had been telling me all those years about relaxing. Jorge was a happy, active kid, and I was feeling more secure in my position as a veteran who knew the pitchers, and all that just came together in a way that made me even more eager to come to the ballpark every day.

  At the same time, I faced another challenge that was ramping up my “I’ll show you” mind-set. I was in the last year of my contract, the Yankees hadn’t negotiated a new one, and it looked like I was going to head into free agency for the first time in my career. I understood the economic realities of the game, but I’m human: I wanted to stay with the Yankees, and I thought I’d demonstrated my value to the team.

  That 2007 season my average never fell below .311 and I never went more than three games without getting a hit. Finishing in the top five in hitting is something I can look back on with great satisfaction. When you do that, when you hit for a high average and still have decent power numbers like I did (20 home runs and 90 RBI) while finishing third in the league in on-base percentage (not striking out a lot), that means that you’re being consistently good, consistently disciplined, and consistently well prepared.

  And okay, it is also a hell of a lot of fun. I’d come to the ballpark and Derek would ask, “So, how many hits are you going to get today, Ted?” Referring, of course, to Ted Williams. I was doing so well that every well-struck ball, and even some not-so-well-struck ones, found a hole. Guys were coming up to me and rubbing me for luck—I’d find their bats in my locker when I showed up the next morning. I knew that they were hoping some of my luck could be transferred to them.

  At first, my dad, who really, really wanted me to hit more than .300, was very serious in his reminders. But toward the end of the season, when I was still in the top five in the league, he’d get on the phone and start laughing. “Unbelievable,” he’d say, stretching out the word with great delight.

  That was as close as my dad came to stating right out that he was proud of me. Even after all those years, we hadn’t changed in how we communicated with one another, and that was okay with me. I knew he was proud; how he said those words and how he laughed communicated more and meant more to me than if he’d been constantly saying, “Good job” or “Proud of you.” I didn’t need that from him because it would have come across as insincere and out of character. In a way, it would have been like him speaking a foreign language to me, sending an awkward and confused message. We spoke a language between us that had its own rules and meanings and that worked for us at that point in our lives. I didn’t need his approval or his acknowledgment of what I was doing. It was enough to know that my performance on the field and as a father was giving him pleasure.

  Only when it was over and I saw our official press guide for the 2008 season was I really able to put my performance in perspective. Offensively, according to the numbers, I’d had one of the best seasons at the plate of any catcher in the game ever when you factored in my average, home runs, RBI, and doubles. That was pretty cool. By hitting more than 20 homers for the seventh time in my career, I was in pretty good company. All-time, I was eighth behind Piazza, Bench, Berra, Carter, Fisk, Parrish, and Campanella. I was also proud of my record of durability: to that point, despite numerous dings and tweaks, I hadn’t been on the disabled list a single time with the Yankees.

  Yet, once again, despite the strength of the regular season for both the team and myself, we basically got shut down in the playoffs against Cleveland. As a team, we batted .228 in that ALDS, after hitting .290 during the regular season and finishing at the top of the league in that and every other major offensive statistical category. I can understand the fans and the media being upset and making all kinds of wild guesses about what went wrong. Believe me, I was asking myself the same questions, and I think every guy on the roster was asking them as well. We hit a lot of balls hard, but right at people. I know that some writers compared the invasion of insects in Game 2 at Jacobs Field with the plagues from biblical times. It certainly felt a little like our supply of luck—especially mine—had been chewed up that regular season.

  I didn’t find this out until later, but there was a lot more on the line than just a chance to play for the American League pennant in that Division Series. Management felt that changes needed to be made: if we didn’t win that series, Joe was going to be out as manager. They later changed their minds, but they put conditions in his contract offer, along with a cut in pay, that Joe couldn’t agree to. He was out as manager, and that was it.

  I was shocked. I didn’t know if letting Joe walk was intended as a wake-up call to the rest of us, but as the old saying goes, you can’t fire the whole team. As I’ve said before, those losses were on us, not the manager. Whatever else was going on behind the scenes was not my business. My job was supposed to be taking care of business on the fiel
d, and I didn’t do it.

  Though I tried to keep away from management concerns, that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t hurting for Joe personally. I know he loved his time with the Yankees. Shortly after I heard he was not coming back, I spoke with him. I thanked him for how he treated me, what he taught me, and for being my “father on the field.”

  “Georgie, thank you for saying that. Thanks for everything you did for us. You were special to me. I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m going to be fine. We’ll both be fine, and we’ll keep in touch.”

  The conversation was short and to the point. We both knew how we felt, but we still had to say it. I could also hear the hurt in his voice. I knew we’d keep in touch, and we’ve done that to this day. Your on-field dad might not still be occupying his usual seat in the dugout, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost his place in your heart.

  Like a lot of people, I was concerned about who the Yankees were going to bring in to manage the team, and when I heard that Don Mattingly was being interviewed, I was really, really happy. I had so much respect for him, and I knew that he had been a big part of the franchise for so long. I felt like it was important to have somebody who had Yankee bloodlines, who knew how the organization operated. I’d grown up as a Yankee, as had Derek, Andy, Mariano, and Bernie. Hiring Don was like keeping it in the family—because he’d been on Joe’s staff, we all knew one another, and knew how things should be done. So even though there was going to be a change, it wasn’t going to be a drastic one.

  When Don didn’t work out, and the Yankees hired Joe Girardi, I was still very excited. Though not quite as entrenched in the Yankees family as Don, Joe had obviously been with the club as a player, and I knew him. After he got the job, he reached out to me to talk a bit, but mostly just to tell me how excited he was to be able to work with me. I was looking forward to working with him as well. Having a manager who, like Joe, had played the same position was going to make things easier. I was excited to get back to playing and hoping the continuity would be helpful.

  The same was true with how I felt about the Yankees. That I didn’t seriously test the waters of free agency and agreed to a contract shortly before becoming a free agent tells you what you need to know about my feelings regarding the organization that had been so good to me. I later found out that one other team was really interested in having me and was prepared to beat whatever offer the Yankees made, but I wouldn’t have signed with anybody else. That maybe wasn’t the smartest business move, but it was the right move for me and my family—both my families.

  Re-signing with the Yankees didn’t change the fact, though, that my baseball family was shrinking. As it became clear that Bernie wasn’t going to be offered a contract, I was hurt. It wasn’t my business, and I certainly wasn’t being paid to consult with management about personnel moves, but when a friend is hurting, you hurt. I may have understood the personal side of things more than the business side, but I have to say, I felt like Bernie could still help the team and had shown that he’d be a valuable contributor on a part-time basis.

  Guys I’d been close to had left the team before, so this wasn’t a case of first-time pains being the worst. I was torn about losing Andy after the 2003 season. I knew that Andy missed his family—he’d often go home on one of those rare off days we had to be with them. His contract was up after 2003, and during the 15 days the Yankees had to sign him before he became a free agent, they didn’t go after him hard, wanting to honor his desire to test the free agent market.

  Communications often get mixed up this way. Andy’s an honest guy, so when he was asked about how it all happened, he told the truth. He really didn’t think that he was going to be anywhere else than the Yankees. But when he became a free agent and the Astros offered him a good deal that would allow him to be closer to home, he started to think that was best. By the time the Yankees made him an offer, lower than what Houston offered, he’d already committed to the Astros and wasn’t going to go back on his word. I felt both good and bad for him: he couldn’t get both things he wanted. I also felt bad for us and for our pitching staff because Andy was such a good example to have around. Fortunately, he signed to come back to the Yankees for the 2007 season, and it was great to have him back. I’d missed having him around. Andy had a solid year in 2007, and he was set to anchor the 2008 staff.

  In the winter of 2008, a baseball family matter came up just before we reported for spring training. I got a phone call and heard Andy’s familiar voice. He told me that he needed to talk to me about something. I could hear something different in his voice. Andy told me that the Mitchell Report was about to come out and he wanted me to hear this from him. Andy was named as one of the guys who had tested positive for a performance-enhancing drug. I knew Andy well, and I figured that there had to be some kind of extenuating circumstances, and there were. He told me about the times he used human growth hormone.

  “Georgie,” he told me, “I did it because I was hurt.”

  He had heard that the stuff could speed up your healing process. The Astros had paid him all that money and he wanted to get better and get back out there and earn it. He also said how embarrassed he was, and he hoped I’d understand.

  “Andy, I appreciate it, but you don’t owe me or anybody else an apology. I know the kind of guy you are. You don’t have to worry about me thinking any less of you. We’ve been through a lot. You’ve always been honest with me. You’re going to deal with this, and we’re all going to move on.”

  He let me know that he was going to talk to the media, and he hoped that would help put an end to it. The media stuff was getting out of hand, and it was better to get it out of the way as soon as possible. We had a season to worry about.

  At that point, though, I was more worried about my buddy than the season.

  I showed up the day of the press conference and took a seat alongside Derek. Mo was sitting on Derek’s other side. We hadn’t spoken about Andy’s press conference and hadn’t made a plan to meet there together. We just showed up, knowing that if Andy had to deal with a tough thing like that, we were going to support him. That’s what family does, and you don’t have to plan it all out—you just do it.

  I felt so bad for Andy having to take questions for about an hour, and the whole thing just made me sad that this was what was occupying all of our time and taking the focus away from what we needed to be doing. And I wasn’t sad about it just at that moment but overall. I don’t mean that I wanted everything to be swept under the rug, but guys had been in front of Congress, the Mitchell Report was now out, and I wanted my friend’s troubles to be over with. To hear Andy talk about how torn up he was when he spoke to Mr. Steinbrenner and apologized (and Mr. Steinbrenner said what I had said—that no apology was necessary) was tough to hear. Andy took it like a man, saying that it would have been the coward’s way out to retire after the revelations came out. He is a deeply spiritual guy, and I was hoping people wouldn’t judge him when they learned how sincere he was about feeling he had to answer to God. He made a mistake, he owned up to it, and I was proud of the way he handled the situation.

  It’s kind of an odd coincidence that during that 2008 season I got a better understanding of the pressure Andy felt to get back on the field quickly to earn his money. I was soon worried that the Yankees were going to regret their decision to sign me when, during a game late in spring training, I fielded a bunt down the third-base line, grabbed it, spun, and threw to first, all in one motion. I felt a burning in my shoulder, like nothing I’d ever felt before. I tried to ignore it and didn’t say anything to anybody, but when it was still bothering me the next day, I went to Gene Monahan, our longtime trainer, and told him. An MRI revealed that I had a tear in my labrum, a muscle that is part of the very complicated shoulder joint. I had two options at that point: rest it and rehab it or have surgery right away. Since surgery would have meant being out for the rest of the year, I wanted to wait to see how it felt.

  I was doing some exercises to strengthe
n the joint, and every day before the game I would see how it felt while throwing. If it felt strong, I’d catch. If it didn’t, I’d play first or be the DH. I’d tell Joe Girardi how I was doing, and he’d adjust the lineup accordingly. For a while that seemed to work, but eventually, when it became too painful to even raise the bat up into position to hit left-handed, I knew it was time to get the surgery done. I played in 51 games, splitting my time between catching, playing first, and DH-ing. I hated to give up on a season, but I didn’t have much choice.

  I underwent surgery on July 21 at the Hospital for Special Surgery in Manhattan, with Dr. David Altchek doing the work. He told me that when he got in there, using an arthroscope, he saw that the shoulder was worse than what the MRI revealed. I had a loose capsule as well as the torn labrum. He repaired both, but it looked like being able to start the 2009 season was in doubt. I was supposed to be in a sling for four weeks, but I couldn’t deal with that. After two weeks, I had a follow-up appointment, and Dr. Altchek soon understood I wasn’t going to be his most cooperative patient. So he told me it was okay to wear the sling for another two weeks only when I slept and when I was walking on crowded sidewalks. If the shoulder got bumped backward, that would be the worst thing. Let’s just say that I heard what Dr. Altchek said.

  The biggest regret I have is that I didn’t get to play in the final game at the old Yankee Stadium. I loved that place. The field itself was outstanding, and it was such a great place to hit because of the large and very dark hitter’s eye in center field. The lights were also perfect. Every park is slightly different in that regard.

  As players, we were 50-50 about the new park. We heard that there was going to be a restaurant near center field, and having lights and glass out there wasn’t going to make us happy. All the amenities—a state-of-the-art clubhouse, batting cages, a video room, a weight room, and all the rest—would be great. But would we be able to see the ball like we had? Would we be able to count on the same kinds of hops like we had? Change is inevitable, but you still want to have some things you can count on.