"THE NEW NORMAL"... post here about changes to everyday life that have happened or you think will happen

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Zoom is changing (in a bad way) how you follow the Yankees

 

By Bob Klapisch | For NJ Advance Media

 

“Do you actually talk to the players?”

 

I’ve heard that question a lot throughout my career, which started back in the Stone Age. At least it feels that way, considering how much has changed, not just in the way baseball is played but in how it’s covered and discussed. Thanks to COVID-19, interviews have been limited to Zoom, which is like industrial-strength FaceTime. All reporters, including your competitors, are on the same call.

 

I know, it’s not exactly hard labor, but good baseball writing requires more than Hemingway-like skill at the keyboard. The real currency is in the questions you ask – how they’re phrased, how they’re followed up and whether you’re paying attention to facial expressions and body language. This is mostly common sense, but the point is: none of the old rules of journalism apply on Zoom. You get one shot, one question through a computer screen, and then it’s on to the next reporter. You have 30 seconds to win your Pulitzer.

 

As much as I welcome the return of baseball in 2021 – I’ll be heading to Tampa with the Yankees this week – I wonder if sports journalism will ever return to its better days. I somehow doubt it. Access during the pandemic will continue to be limited, even as fans slowly return to the ballparks. There’ll be life in the stands by late summer, but the scribes won’t be back in the clubhouse any time soon. My hunch is that MLB will move ever closer to its ultimate goal, keeping coverage in White House briefing-mode.

 

Sure, that’s great for transparency. The Q-and-A’s with Aaron Boone are broadcast twice a day on YES, both pre- and post-game. That’s one perk today’s fans have over past generations. They can connect with the manager moments after an exhilarating win or crushing loss. But it doesn’t take advanced understanding of human nature to realize these interviews are just the Disney version of how torn up a manager or player can be in the most excruciating moments.

 

I remember Aaron Judge at his locker, head down, back turned, hoping no one would notice as he wept softly following the Yankees’ loss to the Astros in the 2019 ALCS.

 

Even more gut-wrenching was walking into Buck Showalter’s office moments after the Yankees’ season-ending loss to the Mariners in the 1995 Division Series. The fans in the old Kingdome were in near-riot mode, thanks to Edgar Martinez’s game-winning hit off Jack McDowell. Ken Griffey Jr. had turned into a blur, scoring all the way from first base. The Yankees’ collapse was devastating. The proof was in Showalter’s response 15 minutes later in the bowels of the stadium: forehead pressed to his desk, shoulders heaving softly as he wept. I slipped in and out within moments. I knew better than to ask a question.

 

I stepped back into the clubhouse, but noticed as George Steinbrenner marched in to see Showalter. He slammed the door loudly; I was certain the Boss was there to fire the young manager. But he, too, realized Buck’s grief pre-empted conversation. Like me, Steinbrenner eased away instantly, this time closing the door gently. That’s when I realized George had a humane side. He decided to spare Buck, if only temporarily.

 

Such unfiltered moments can only be recorded when reporters are allowed to actually witness and report, and not just act as Zoom stenographers. Obviously, the need for safety during the pandemic is legitimate. We’re all hoping for a saner world soon. Zoom has played an important role in getting us there. But when I tell younger writers what the job used to be like, they look at me like I’m describing the lost civilization of Atlantis.

 

I recall one Saturday afternoon at Shea Stadium. First pitch was scheduled for 1 p.m. Reporters were supposed to be out of the clubhouse an hour before, but noon came and went and I was still immersed in a conversation with Ron Darling. The Mets didn’t care much for rules, including access. No one bothered to throw me out. Back then, there were no burly security guards at the door. Today the Yankees employ two ex-NYPD veterans who are all business. One, in particular, could double for The Mountain from “Game of Thrones.” When he says, “time to go” that means no waivers. Not even five minutes.

 

But this was back in the 80s, when the Mets owned the circus and invited everyone under the tent. They hadn’t bothered with batting practice that day, so Darling and I were still chatting at 12:40 p.m. when Davey Johnson finally noticed the intruder (me). He’d just started his pre-game meeting, going over signs. He looked in my direction and said, “you’re not supposed to be in here, Klap.”

 

Pause.

 

“Ah, (bleep) it, you might as well stay.”

 

And I did, finally filing out with the Mets at 12:55 p.m. They made a right to the dugout; I went stage left towards the press box with that day’s signs.

 

Of course, not every manager was as accommodating as Davey. I’ll never forget one day in particular when Billy Martin was sitting behind his desk. (Told you I’ve been around forever). He was in a bad mood, which was usually the case, but this time Billy’s demons were in full control. In walked Norman MacLean from the now defunct United Press International, carrying a cassette tape recorder and microphone. (Talk about the low-tech era). Billy didn’t like Norman, who he regarded as a pest. But the poor guy happened to pick the wrong day and wrong time for an interview request

 

“Billy, you have a minute?”

 

“No,” he said flatly, although it was more like “(bleep) no.”

 

“Come on, this won’t take long.”

 

Temperature rising. “Get out of here, Norman.”

 

“Billy, just give me three sentences.”

 

Martin’s face darkened.

 

“Okay, Norman. You want three sentences? Turn on your tape recorder.”

 

MacLean, thrilled, pressed the “record” button and unwittingly walked into hellfire.

 

“(Bleep) you. You’re a (bleeping bleep). Now get the (bleep) out of here.”

 

Martin sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile.

 

“How was that, Norman?”

 

MacLean never answered – he’d already fled the room in a panic.

 

Somehow, I don’t think that exchange would’ve ever happened on Zoom.