I Thought Matt Williams Was Different
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Part of growing up means recognizing that a good man isn't necessarily a good man. Even the best ones prove human eventually, but it still hurts when one has his name besmirched, and no one offers a rebuttal.
Matt Williams has been accused of purchasing human growth hormone. The spin has begun, with Arizona Diamondbacks officials calling him "a stand up guy", et cetera. Of course, Williams can't comment on every point of the San Francisco Chronicle's report. Of course, we have to let lawyers do their thing and suspend judgment blah blah blah. I want to scream.
Matt Williams came up to the majors in 1987. He was a shortstop then, but the San Francisco Giants already knew he'd eventually move to third. He struggled against big league pitching for three years--for crying out loud, his rookie card even shows him getting fooled by a breaking ball!--but he broke out in 1990 with 33 home runs. He'd never develop much plate discipline, but when he made contact, he seemed to hit the ball on the screws every time.
From 1993 through 1996, Williams was at his peak as a ballplayer. Not only was he hitting the crap out of everything near the plate, but he was a Gold Glove caliber fielder. When Will Clark departed for free agency after the 1993 season, Williams also became the field general and one of the team leaders. Where, previously, Clark had taken signals from the dugout and relayed them to the fielders, now Williams flashed signals and took the initiative in trying to calm down panicking pitchers.
I'm lucky that few of my idols have disappointed me. That's partly because I don't put many of them on high pedestals, and partly because many of them are long since passed on. I thought Matt Williams was different, to the point that I once wrote Williams's jersey was one of the few I would wear with no hesitation. If I said that now, I'd be perjuring myself.
Matt Williams was the guy my father pointed out as the kind of ballplayer I should strive to be. I vividly remember my dad describing how Williams cared about fielding, how he would take grounders with a device that was essentially a ping pong paddle in order to practice using both hands. I remember taking delight in Williams's pre-pitch preparations, how he was on his toes, feet shuffling, ready to pounce on the ball in any direction. I can still imitate his on-field demeanor, let alone his batter's box routine.
He was traded to the Cleveland Indians when I was thirteen years old. Not to get all Wonder Years on you, but the Giants were changing just as much as I was. It was the beginning of a new era. They changed their uniforms. They became Barry Bonds's team. In the following years, they won a little, lost a little, moved to a new ballpark, won for a few more years, and now they're bad again. Bonds gets cheered at home and booed everywhere else he goes, but nobody ever booed Matt Williams. Whenever Williams came back to San Francisco as a Diamondback, he was roundly cheered.
I believed Williams was a truly good guy. I didn't appreciate his athletic achievements and apparent dedication to the game alone. Instead, I had to go and admire his decision to stay in Arizona, where his kids were living, when he could have played elsewhere for more money. I had to admire his decision to retire rather than find a new team when the D-Backs released him, again because he wanted to spend most of his time in Arizona.
I made the mistake of thinking Matt Williams would never disappoint me, never cast into doubt all the symbolism I assigned his actions, would never be one of those ballplayers who turn out to have serious failings. I thought he'd be one of the guys I'd tell my grandchildren about--you know, that he would be an unimpeachable myth like Pee Wee Reese and Jackie Robinson and Hank Aaron and Cal Ripken are to kids today.
Of course it's up in the air, now, and I'm never getting Matt Williams back. That'll teach me.
