Tuesday, October 1, 2002 Updated: October 2, 10:53 AM ET
Clean Up Time
By By Jason Giambi with Tim Keown
When the top dog of the underdog A's decided to leave Oakland for the hated New York Yankees, he got an earful. Traitor. Sellout. Ingrate. The barbs only intensified when he cleaned up his Harley look to conform to George Steinbrenner's grooming policy. But to Jason Giambi, the move was a lot more than "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." This was his chance to play where Lou Gehrig played, to bat where his father's idol, Mickey Mantle, batted, to find out what it was like to wear the Pinstripes. Now he knows. And now, as his new team tries to win its 27th world championship, he tells us what it means to be a Yankee.
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Life has changed. I can say that without a doubt. Sitting here in the center of the Yankee clubhouse, thinking about all the history in this room, it's clear my life isn't what it used to be. That's never been more obvious than now, as we get ready for the playoffs. One of the first rules I learned when I became a Yankee was simple: The regular season is a test drive, and every game against the Red Sox is a tune-up. The real season is the postseason -- the only season that counts.
I'm ready. I'm in New York, and I'm loving it. This is what every ballplayer lives for, whether he admits it or not. If you want to play, you want to play in New York. You want to be part of history, and to make some of your own. It's not like it was in Oakland, when we were the little guys, the fun team that didn't know any better. We didn't know we weren't supposed to win. We just went out and played and had a great time doing it. But when you put on this Yankee uniform, you're expected to win. Nobody describes the Yankees as "scrappy." You look around this room and it hits you: Whenever these guys have reached playoff time, magic has happened.
Postseason expectations aren't the only change in my life. I'll tell you one difference between playing in Oakland and New York -- there's no more walking inconspicuously into McDonald's for a burger anymore. Not even close. In Oakland, I'd go and eat at In-N-Out Burger every day, sitting in the corner and minding my own business. A lot of times people would recognize me, but it wasn't any big deal. Here, it's a big deal. Unbelievable deal, really. I've had to get used to that, and I've had to get used to there being 200 people in the hotel lobby, even at 2 in the morning.
I thought I was prepared for New York. I'd played here so many times, including two straight years in the playoffs. I was The Guy in Oakland, which I thought would help once I got here. But I don't think you can ever imagine the popularity of this team -- and the players -- until you experience it firsthand. I was popular in Oakland -- more like a cult hero than anything -- and then you come here and realize, "Whoa -- different world."
As soon as you're a Yankee, life changes. I know I keep saying that, but it's true. I think it's why I struggled so much during the first month. Subconsciously, I tried to hit 40 home runs in every game. You try not to. You say, "Oh, it doesn't bother me." But it does. You're the new guy, and you feel it. They booed me, but I didn't take it personally. I really didn't. Talk to my wife and the people around me, they'll tell you the same. I was never angry or irritated, and I think it was because I was booing myself inside. I was right with 'em. I was saying, "Come on, let's go."
A lot of people helped me when I was struggling. Derek Jeter was great about the pressures that come with playing in New York. Joe Torre was great about staying with me and letting me know where I stood. After one oh-fer game, he just walked over to my locker and said, "Even if you go 0 for your next 100, you're still going to be in the lineup." He tried to joke with me, which helped, and he knew I'd eventually come around.
But even with all the help from the people around here, I have to say the biggest help came from my friend Mark McGwire. He knew what it was like to switch teams and struggle, having gone from Oakland to St. Louis and having a really tough time of it the first month he was there. He and I are a lot alike in terms of routine, and if you break us out of our routine, it takes time to get comfortable with a new one. I had to face it -- Oakland was home. I had my brother sitting there, I had Art Howe and all these kids around me. I felt like that was where I belonged.
Mark and I talked a lot. He said, "The sooner you become comfortable, the sooner your game's going to come around. Don't fight it. Don't put more pressure on yourself because there's going to be enough pressure from the outside." He was a great voice of reason during that time.
We can talk about pressures and expectations and all that, but you know what? This is what you dream about. If you love the game, there's no other place. When someone wants to know what it's like to play in New York, I tell the story of Paul O'Neill in the playoffs last year. They knew it was his last time at the Stadium, and everybody was chanting his name, over and over. It was all you could hear. The energy from that was unbelievable. These people know. They just know. I don't know how Paul didn't break down and cry. I would have been lying down on the field, in tears.
I'm amazed at how the fans take everything to heart. If I have a bad game, I go home and have trouble sleeping. And I think if we don't win a game, these fans don't sleep. The Yankees lost. What's wrong with the world? It's that important to them, and it's special to be a part of it. They embrace the history of the game here, and I love that. The Yankees embrace it, too. There's Thurman Munson's locker over there to my left. You can feel something different in here, something special. The history is alive in this place.
From the outside, the Yankees are viewed as quiet and businesslike. It's like we're a corporation. But I knew the guys in here were close, and here's how I knew that: because you don't win the way they've won if you don't get along. When I got here, I learned they're even tighter than I thought. You don't see it much on the field or in the clubhouse, because there's this calm, professional air about this team. They do it differently, because there's so much media coverage that we have to find another way. You walk in here before a game and the media outweigh the players.
Everyone is here to do a job, and we understand that. The camaraderie here happens in the lunch room or the training room, away from the public eye. With the A's it was different. Guys were working on their remote-control cars on the tables in the clubhouse, you know? It was a zoo. Our camaraderie was there for all the world to see. Everyone talked about how tight we were and what a lot of fun we had. It was true, but it got so much more attention because it was all out in the open.
There's a different tone to the camaraderie here, too, because the guys are a lot older. The A's had a reputation of being fun. Everything was fun. Here it's fun too, not less fun or more fun, just different fun. I think when it comes to playoffs, that kind of attitude is hard to beat.
Stuff happens here that doesn't happen anywhere else. It's not something you can describe, but it's like a presence in the dugout or the clubhouse. These guys don't panic. Just doesn't happen. They never throw their hands up and say, "Oh, s---, game's over." Not only do they not say it, but the thought never even enters their minds.
For instance, the turning point in my season came on May 17, when I hit a grand slam in the bottom of the 14th to beat the Twins after they'd scored three in the top half. Here we are, tied through 13, and all of a sudden the Twins score three. It's rainy, horse---- weather, and it would have been easy to say we gave it a good shot, let's go home. But the first guy up singles to left. One out later, Jeter singles up the middle and then Bernie Williams walks ... hey, here I am with the bases loaded. And I got one -- finally -- and everything clicked from there. I did what I was brought here to do, and it was like a big exhale. It cleared the pipes, and I've been rolling ever since.
What really pisses you off about the Yankees when you're on the other side is this: They've always got the right guy up. It's never 7-8-9. It's uncanny, like destiny or something. It isn't like that everywhere. A lot of times when you're on a team playing a tough game and the other team scores two runs, you can physically see the wind come out of their sails. Shoulders slump, eyes roll, it's over. Not here. Here it's just, "No big deal. We'll come back." Take it back to the divisional series we had with the Yankees last season. It's best-of-five, and we -- the A's -- win the first two. These guys over here acted like it was no big deal. Here's how the Yankees think: win Game 3, then win Game 4, then bring it back to New York, and they'll have to beat us here. Just chip away and get it done. It's a methodical way of thinking that has a lot to do with the success they've had here. They think, "They've got to beat us, and they haven't shown they can yet."
Giambi should be a club DJ in the offseason.
If it's A's-Yankees again at some point in the playoffs, I know what I'm in for. I'll take some serious crap in Oakland. They hammered me when I went back, but it was okay. A-Rod got it when he went back to Seattle. If they didn't miss you, they wouldn't care enough to boo. If we end up playing them, it will be wild. I don't make predictions, but this team knows how to get it done.
I have no hard feelings toward the A's, none at all. It's not like I wanted them to go 0162. I watched them rattle off 20 wins in a row, and I was happy for them. The only time I was surprised was when they were struggling, because that young pitching is so incredible. The key to their season was how fast Eric Chavez and Miguel Tejada were going to step up. Tejada benefited from moving up to my No.3 spot. Chavie just keeps getting better. Tejada is a lot like Soriano here. He moves up in the lineup to the front, and you've got to throw to the kid, and good luck.
The only problem I have with the A's is how they handled trading my brother Jeremy. [Ed.'s note: Bay Area papers reported that Jeremy had become a disruptive influence and that the final straw came when he became drunk and belligerent on a cross-country flight.] That was tough on me and rough on him. If you want to trade him, that's fine -- they didn't have to bash him. The only way those things come out is through the organization. They didn't have to do that. They had their reasons for trading him. They were nine games back, he was having a good year and he was arbitration eligible. No problem -- trade him. But when they brought the other stuff into it, that's where it went a little far. When you go down that road, it just hurts the player later on.
I've heard the A's changed their rules after that. Certain things weren't acceptable anymore. I think they wanted to get away from the happy-go-lucky image, and that's fine too -- you can't argue with the results. They wanted to get the team more focused, which is fine. I just don't think it should have come at someone else's expense.
I guess it's just another example of how quickly life changes. A year ago, I was with the A's, with my brother, concentrating on beating the guys in this room. Now I'm here, trying to make sure we can keep doing the things these guys have done the past six years.
And if I want to remind myself of how different life is, all I have to do is look in the mirror. It still surprises me when I see short hair and no facial hair. Of course, that means everybody wants to drop the "sellout" line on you. When I went back to Oakland I can't tell you how many times I heard, "You're a sellout, Giambi!" They had signs and everything.
Sellout? Damn, sounds like I went to the USFL. I went to the f--ing Yankees. It's not like I went backward. You know, the Yankees? Twenty-six world championships? You know, say what you want, but they don't suck.
They always have the same comeback: "Yeah, but you shaved, and you cleaned up your hair." The way I see it, those are Mr. Steinbrenner's rules. I'm supposed to be a good employee. I'm not supposed to be a pain in the ass. I don't get it, because I was never a pain in the ass in Oakland, either. We just had different rules. If they had told me to cut my hair, I would have done it. We had long hair, we didn't have to shave, so I didn't. No big deal. I played hard every day, same as I do now.
I look back at the way things were a year ago, and I have to laugh. Now I'm even doing deodorant commercials, and who would have guessed that? Most important, I'm in a Yankee uniform, finished with my first test drive, and ready for the real season.
