The Measure of a Man

Last night, in what has become a commonplace occurrence, Manny Ramirez turned an out-of-the-zone, below-the-knees pitch into his 25th career postseason home run — surpassing the Major League record held by… well, Manny Ramirez.  Always polarizing and never boring, #99 has undeniably altered the landscape of the National League since being traded from Boston to L.A.  In addition to his near-.400 batting average and boatload of RBI’s (1 per game since moving west), Manny has emboldened the Dodgers’ psyche, serving as a cornerstone of productivity whose importance simply cannot be overstated.

Ramirez’s mini-renaissance (a debatable term, granted, as some could argue that he never exactly ”went away”), is extremely fascinating to me.  The guy was essentially kicked out of Boston amid claims that his presence was toxic – with many teammates and onlookers feeling that his stellar productivity was no longer enough to nullify his questionable commitment to his team.  Now, his MVP-caliber performances have led people, for the most part, to forget his Beantown antics.

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Today’s sports world is saturated with athletes whose every-moves are contemplated, debated, and analyzed in a way that transcends mere sport: We wonder about Hibachi’s sleeping habits, we earnestly discuss the significance of nicknames, and we include a basketball player (gasp!) among the handful of people who are “shaping the new century” (see: Esquire’s 75th-anniversary issue for more).  Indeed, whereas the phenomenon of athlete-as-public-figure used to seem like the exception, it is now (overwhelmingly) the rule. 

How, then, should we weigh this performance-versus-persona equilibrium?  When (if ever) does/should distraction trump production?

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Rather recently, Terrell Owens (who is practically a case study for this issue) reopened his floodgates of controversy, once again criticizing the Cowboys and bringing to light questions surrounding his commitment to the concept of “team”.  While in Philly, the controversial Owens was a perpetual lightning rod, despite putting up undeniable stats and rallying from injury to participate in an especially memorable Super Bowl.  Similarly, despite showing signs of his old, needling self, T.O. has been electric while on the field as a Cowboy, posting an average of 83 catches, 1250 yards, and 14 TD’s over the past two seasons.  Aside from perhaps Randy Moss, Terrell Owens is certainly the most gifted wide receiver to have come along since Jerry Rice. 

How ironic, then, that Owens is also among the most divisive individuals in the world of pro sports.  There’s a poker saying about not being able to win what you don’t bet — and it seems the same sort of catch-22 is applicable in sports: Sometimes the greatest rewards require the greatest risks.

With T.O., you get once-in-a-generation production, but also insubordination and preening.  With Manny Ramirez, you get Hall-of-Fame lineup stability, but also kindergarten hijinks and constant whining.

Is there, then, a Right Answer when asking whether or not such issues are “worth it”?  Should one or the other consideration (production or professionalism) always win out?  Or, is this simply a case-by-case sort of thing?

Some athletes are talented, but nuts.  (I wouldn’t want Pacman on any team of mine.)  Others are media magnets whose overwhelming athletic ability renders their particular “baggage” tolerable.  Without question, morality plays a role in these perceptions: Mike Vick is a “stay-away” guy because he did things that were deemed an affront to decency; Kobe, on the other hand, was simply “being a guy” in Colorado… so his indiscretions were quickly overlooked, and media types could hardly wait to slurp up the MVP Kool-Aid.

I really wish I could apply a fair standard to the issue of “What’s Too Much to Tolerate?”

In reality, though, what I’ve come to realize is that I’m the biggest shifter of all: If I had a chance to put Manny Ramirez in the middle of my lineup, I wouldn’t care if he listened to iPods, talked on his cell phone, or even sat down and had tea while playing outfield.  The guy’s a .320/40/125 machine… and those numbers, my friends, are hard to come by.  Heck, a part of me wouldn’t even mind if Randy Moss decided not to block on a few running plays, or wanted to leave the field at :02.  Dude has posted 15+ TD’s four times in his career, including a re-donk-ulous 24 last season.

I know that sometimes “enough is enough”… but, damn, that line is hard to find.