The Legend of Albert Pujols

I was lucky to have a batting cage front view to the birth of an all-time great.

The echo is still stuck in my ear.

Spring Training, 2001. Jupiter, Florida. I’m down there with my college baseball team for our spring camp and tournaments. Our coach is a batting practice pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals, so we have some special access. It’s a magical time for baseball, and a lot of that magic centered on the Cardinals.

We roamed the locker rooms and tunnels under the stadium. We gave bashes to the Herculean Mark McGwire. We even get to take some cuts in the cages alongside the pros. It’s a Field of Dreams moment if there ever was one. Rubbing shoulders with all-time greats, as you’re trying to juggle your own trajectory through the game. It’s a lot to take in.

But one moment stands above the rest. Above the sunflower seed lessons from pitcher Matt Morris. Above the forearm bashes with Big Mac. The moment came after a light tee session in the cage. We were hanging out in the training area beyond centerfield, when it happened.

A startling and profound explosion burst from the cage behind us.

We were all SHOOK.

Slowing recoiling from our cowering positions, we turned around to the direction of the blast. In the cage, we beheld a baseball monster. A massive form, gracefully hovering over the tee as an assistant placed a fresh ball on top. The monster waggled loosely, crouched lower and rocked back for his attack.

The explosion repeated itself. Made no less startling by watching this time. The ball picked clean from the tee in an instant. A resounding crack erupted once more, as the baseball monster’s thick torso rotated fully. The bat, like a mere toothpick, left hanging free by one of the monster’s batting gloved hand.

Mind you, our eyes were used to seeing McGwire, just two seasons removed from his feat of baseball immortality in setting the all-time season home run record.

But this baseball creature before us, felt different. He moved different. He swung different. There was an odd combination of grace and power that seemed to be at odds with each other. Yet they resulted in repeatable, emphatic swats at the ball. Even in a casual cage setting, these were extremely high quality swings. It was astounding and I have goosebumps just revisiting the moment as I write this.

I’m speaking of course of Albert Pujols. The man who as I write this, has just moved into 4th place all time on the homerun leaderboard.

Bonds. Aaron. Ruth. Pujols.

Twenty years ago, I witnessed the birth of a legend. On the inauspicious, humid fields of Jupiter, Florida. Pujols, wearing his iconic Number 5, appeared on those fields, fully formed. He seemed like a fictional character. Like a real life Roy Hobbs. And the fact that he played for the storied St. Louis Cardinals, in the final year of McGwire’s career was also a Hollywood touch. It just seemed completely unreal.

Throughout the week, we watched obsessively as Pujols hammered the ball in the cages, in batting practice, going yard twice in a spring training game. It was video game levels of absurdity. Surely, it wouldn’t last. Baseball is a game that forces you to confront failure and mortality. You can stand out for stretches, and sometimes prolonged streaks, but the innate gravity and democracy of the game always pulls you back down to reality. Those slumps and doses of reality often feel like somewhere much more painful. The mental game of baseball has driven players to all manners of addiction and vice to cope with the rollercoaster. So while we enjoyed the pre-debut feats of young Albert, just 21-years old at the time, we tried to do so without rose colored glasses.

But maybe we should have trusted the gut instinct that sprung from that initial rocket blast on the batting tee. I’ve never heard or seen anything like that in my baseball career. It was an astounding moment. Maybe I should have trusted that what I felt in my gut and saw with my own eyes, was the genesis of one of the greatest ball players to ever live. It’s tough to see that in the beginning. But looking back with the laser clarity of hindsight, we should’ve known.

It didn’t take long though for our hunch to transform into certainty.

Pujols’ rookie season he batted .329 with 194 hits, 37 home runs, 130 RBIs and 112 runs scored in 161 games in his rookie season in 2001. He won the Rookie of the Year award and his first Silver Slugger award.

He instantly became a storyline and a mainstay of baseball’s superstar class. As godly and consistent as his number were, it was his approach to the game that assured his immortality. As he played through the eye of the Steroid Era hurricane, his name never came up. He was a natural, playing clean. With an eagle eye, economic swing and unparalleled plate discipline. He put a quality swing on the ball every time out. The statistics easily followed.

As other heroes fell and had their legacies erode beneath them, Pujols soldiered on. Effectively repeating what we witnessed in the cage that day for twenty seasons. Consistency and discipline. There is no shortcut to baseball immortality, but if there is a recipe for young ballplayers to follow to give themselves the best shot, look no further than Pujols’ sterling example. You can see it in the way he plays and moves, and feel it in the humility of his interviews. He’s a Ballplayer with a capital B. This is the way.

For me, I was lucky to have a cage front seat to the big bang that started the legend of Albert Pujols.