Big Papi vs. Not-So-Big Pasternak
Sean B. Pasternak
Lifelong Storyteller. Reputation Manager. PR Professional. Brand Builder. Expert Communicator. Former Journalist.
Welcome back to?Storytelling by Sean. I plan to use this newsletter to tell some interesting tales from my 30 years in journalism and communications, and I always welcome your feedback.
"Would you mind covering the Jays game for us tonight?"
Would I mind? While my editor was waiting for an answer to his fairly-straightforward question, my entire life seemed to flash before my eyes. I've been a Toronto Blue Jays fan as far back as I can remember, regularly watching their highs and lows over the decades and loudly celebrating their pennant victories and back-to-back World Series wins.
It's long been a family tradition among the Pasternak family to root, root, root for the home team. There may even be a video online celebrating this fact and yes, I can confirm the rumor that when I left my childhood home, my father transformed my old bedroom into a legitimate Blue Jays shrine, complete with pennants, retired baseball caps, ticket stubs and photos decorating the walls. And one of my greatest thrills as a dad was taking my son to "Jr. Jays Saturdays" when he was younger, and watching him run the bases after the game.
Heck, I was even a member of the Jays' starting lineup in the early 1980s, as evidenced by the photo below -- which is completely legitimate and definitely not a meet and greet type event with Ernie Whitt, Willie Upshaw, Jim Clancy and Garth Iorg.
So back to the original question: would I mind being a baseball reporter for the night? Hmmm... gee, let me check my schedule... YES! YES! A THOUSAND TIMES YES!
This was not your typical baseball coverage, by the way; It was April 28, 2010, and I was being asked to cover the game for a very specific reason. David Ortiz, star player for the Boston Red Sox, had been off to a very rough start for the season, and no one in his local market had been able to get a comment from him about this. The thinking was, perhaps by catching him off-guard in a different city (e.g. Toronto, where he happened to be playing that night), Big Papi may be a bit more chatty than he would have been in Boston.
To be honest, I didn't think the tactic would work, but what the hell - I was going to be a reporter at a baseball game! All I had to do was attempt to ask the question and whether he commented or not, I could fulfil a huge bucket list moment.
Not so fast, Pasternak. I still had to obtain press credentials, and even though the news outlet I worked for was a huge, international news service, we didn't typically cover games from the field, and certainly not in Toronto. So I was asked to fill out a fairly lengthy application that included confirmation of my press affiliation and samples of my writing (I'm half-surprised they didn't ask for my social insurance number, a sample of my blood, and confirmation that I had never been a member of the communist party in the 1940s. I would have jumped through whatever hoop they'd thrown my way.)
About 90 minutes before game time, I arrived at the press gate, happily signed in and was directed to the field. Within minutes, I was watching the players take batting practice; participated in a scrum given by Cito Gaston in the dugout; and I may or may not have run the bases (hey, why should my son get all the fun?).
But in addition to attending Baseball Reporter Fantasy Camp, I also kept my eye on the prize. Ortiz was practicing with the team and chatting with members of the organization. As far as I could tell, no reporters had interacted with him yet; though to be fair, it wouldn't have been very professional to interrupt his time with the team.
Finally, I saw him walking towards the locker room, alone, and it was at that moment I realized just how huge Big Papi was in person. The guy may very well snap me in two if I looked at him funny! When he got close enough, I gingerly entered his sightline and prepared to ask him a question.
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Maybe it was because he noticed the tell-tale voice recorder and notepad in my hand, or perhaps Whitt stooged me off to the guy after showing him up in 1983... but Ortiz just smiled and shook his head before I could even open my mouth. He kept walking, not even breaking his stride.
Oh well. I tried.
No... that wasn't good enough. My conscience wouldn't have been clear if I'd given up that easily. I had to do more than make nervous eye contact with the guy! So I started walking faster until I'd caught up with him again.
"Excuse me, Mr. Ortiz," I said. "I'm a reporter with Bloomberg News and I'm wondering..."
Another smile and another head-shake. Big Papi's version of "no comment." He kept walking and within seconds, he was in the locker room and safe from pestering Jays-loving reporters.
There was no joy in Mudville that day, as I wasn't able to deliver on what I asked to do. In fairness, I'm glad I at least gave it a proper try before he hit the showers. It was a long shot anyways, I reminded myself as I wandered upstairs to the concession stands.
Time to buy me some peanuts and crackerjack.
We Are Family
Speaking of the Pasternak family, we had a long-overdue reunion this past weekend to celebrate my mom's birthday. Largely due to the pandemic and to my sister and brother-in-law living in the U.S., we hadn't been able to properly meet their newborn son until the weekend. FaceTime visits are one thing, but in person is another experience entirely.
It was a great birthday present for my mom to have her five grandchildren under the same roof for the first time ever, and seeing my 96 year-old grandmother meet her six-month old great-grandson was a huge treat as well.
Thank goodness many parts of the world have opened up again; otherwise we would have missed out on special occasions such as this.