Ready For Take Off

Carl Crawford stretches doubles into triples for the Devil Rays and steals hits from everyone else. Isn't it time we paid attention?

Carl Crawford specializes in out-of-body experiences. He stands on the plastic grass in leftfield, under a tilted concrete dome, and envisions himself as a superhero in a video game. He is a machinelike creature possessing supernatural powers of concentration. He is programmed for a task, removed from his surroundings, separated from the empty seats and the daily standings and the incessant negativity. He creates a tunnel through which he sees only the game and his role in it.

He knows something we do not: Being the best Devil Ray you can be sometimes means pretending you're not a Devil Ray at all.

So he escapes. He uses magical thinking to get into "character mode," as he calls it-a space where he no longer hears the individual conversations of the few fans in the leftfield bleachers. Distractions disappear. There is none of the mental sag that comes with looking around and realizing he often played in front of bigger crowds in the minor leagues.

Last season, the Devil Rays averaged just over 14,000 fans, dead last in the majors and about a third of the capacity of baseball's worst ballpark, Tropicana Field. More than 20 times, the D-Rays played before fewer than 10,000-and that was tickets sold, not actual fans in the stands. "It's easy to look around and say, Ugh,'" Crawford admits. "Sometimes you can't believe you're playing in front of 5,000 people in the major leagues. You have to do what you can to stay focused."

As he speaks, Crawford is tossing a football to himself while sitting on a couch in his milliondollar, three-story condo on the water in St. Pete. His younger brother, Cory, a former wide receiver at Sam Houston State, is camped at the computer, pulling up clips of his brother's best catches. Carl's financial adviser is on the other couch, talking about opportunities. At one point during the evening, Richie, a Devil Rays bat boy who's 20 going on 14, appears in the room, ready to play video games.

Crawford, all of 24, is cool, rich and relatively unknown. He has a Bentley Continental GT and a supercharged Range Rover in the garage, but that's not why he's cool. He's cool because he says whatever blows through his mind, laughs like he's 12 and hangs out with his brother, his financial adviser and a video-gaming bat boy named Richie. His phone goes off approximately every six seconds, signaling the arrival of yet another text message from one of any number of women.

He's cool because he doesn't consider the six-year, $32 million contract he signed last year a ticket to stop working. Crawford was the first guy at the ballpark every day during spring training, and that meant 6:30 a.m. Informed that new Rays manager Joe Maddon had complimented him on his early arrivals, Crawford laughs and says, "How's he know? Somebody must have told him, because his ass is never there that early."

Crawford is cool like that. And yet, he is relatively unknown because of one unavoidable fact: Carl Crawford, mind games or not, is a Devil Ray.

WE ALL want to be the first to identify something big, or at least the first to perceive its potential for bigness. With technology moving us ever faster and information spreading wider and thinner, being first takes work. And so it is with transparently counterintuitive fanfare that we proclaim Carl Crawford the most complete ballplayer still in need of a formal introduction.

If there is such a thing as a poststeroids era, if the game is no longer a home run derby decided by underworld chemists in a strip-mall laboratory, then Crawford might come to symbolize something more important. If the game is going to shift back, even slightly, to value speed and defense and fundamentals while devaluing hypertrophic mastodons whose contribution to defense is killing outfield grass, then Crawford could become the future. At 6'2'' and a sculpted 220 pounds, he is either the strongest fast guy in baseball or the fastest strong guy. His speed in the outfield takes away bases, and his speed on the bases adds them. As a lefthanded leftfielder, able to cut off balls hit down the line, he probably leads the big leagues in turning doubles into singles.

He has stolen 160 bases over the past three years, but his speed is best understood through anecdote. In 1999, during Crawford's first week in professional baseball, playing for the Rays' Rookie League team in Princeton, W.Va., he hit a threehopper to the right side. The second baseman fielded it cleanly and made a strong throw to first. Crawford beat it out. "That's when I knew we were dealing with something special," says Rays hitting coach Steve Henderson, a minor league instructor at the time. "I hadn't seen speed like that in a long time."

In a game against the Red Sox last year, Crawford scored from second after tagging up on a fly ball to center that didn't even reach the warning track. Sure, it was Johnny Damon and his cartoonishly weak arm, but "it never should have happened," says Rays DH Jonny Gomes. "It happened because Carl is so smart, and it caught them off guard. You just don't see guys even thinking the way he does."

On Aug. 22 of last year, in a game against the Indians at Tropicana Field, Crawford caught a ball while diving onto the warning track, perpendicular to the wall. Aside from the geometry of the catch, there was the hubris-maybe better described as fearlessness-that made Crawford attempt such a grab in the first place.

As Cory cues up the play on the computer, Carl says, "Take a look at this. I don't want to be arrogant or anything, but you're not going to believe this. I was stupid just to try to make this catch." On the screen he reaches far overhead, his body at a 45° angle. Cory slows it down, with the ball in Carl's glove and his feet a good two feet off the ground. Frame by frame, his body slaps against the rubber warning track. "That's an injury risk right there," Carl says proudly.

After the game, word got back to Crawford via C.C. Sabathia that a few of the Indians showed their appreciation for the catch by soundlessly clapping in the dugout. This, in the big leagues, is not common practice. Crawford, though, was dismayed to learn the catch wasn't named the day's

top Web Gem on Baseball Tonight. ("I guess I got to kill myself to get first," he says.) It wasn't the first time he's had differences with the selection process on the show; in 2004 he left a voice mail for Harold Reynolds when one of his acrobatic snags wasn't recognized as Catch of the Year. An amused Reynolds played the message on the air.

It sounds silly, but to Crawford it matters. "Carl works his ass off, and he doesn't have to," Gomes says. "He can roll out of bed and be the fastest guy in baseball. He can take terrible routes to the ball and still catch everything. He's a five-tool guy with a great work ethic."

Last year, Crawford became one of only five players since World War II to have 30 doubles, 15 triples and 15 homers in a season. He batted .301 and finished with 194 hits despite missing most of the final week with a wrist injury. He's also just the fifth player in history to have 500 hits and 150 steals by his 24th birthday (see chart).

Says Andrew Friedman, the 29-year-old baseball boss for first-year Rays owner Stuart Sternberg's youth brigade, "There are two types of players: guys who play for money and fame, and guys who play for the record books. Carl's playing for the record books."

Asked which records he envisions Crawford chasing, Friedman says, "I know it's a lofty thing to say, but I wouldn't be at all surprised to see him get 4,000 hits."

The proclamation hangs there for a few seconds. Friedman doesn't look delusional. He's speaking calmly and deliberately. The man was a banker in his previous life, for goodness' sake, so he wouldn't seem prone to radical pronouncements. You have to assume he knows how many players in the history of the game have had 4,000 hits, but it's still worth asking.

"I know," Friedman says, almost defiantly. "Two. That's how good this guy is."

Not surprisingly, Crawford is the face of the "new" Devil Rays, a club with new ownership, new front office management, new onfield management and-for the benefit of everyone who cares-a new attitude. And, at the risk of taking counterintuitiveness to the edge of hallucination, it's altogether possible that Tampa Bay is on to something. The Rays have rid themselves of Vince Naimoli's toxic ownership and Lou Piniella's disillusioned management. The young executives are imaginative (Free parking! Dollar hot dogs!), and Maddon has energized the team with his concept of "fast-break baseball." And with young players such as Crawford, Gomes (25), Jorge Cantu (24), Rocco Baldelli (24) and Scott Kazmir (22)-as well as baseball's top prospect, Delmon Young (20), on the fast track-they're about two years and two reliable arms away from contention.

"The whole atmosphere is different," Crawford says. "I'll say this: Last year I wasn't always the first one to the park."

The Devil Rays might be the most stubborn reclamation project in sports. Since their inception in 1998, they've finished last in the AL East every season except 2004, when they finished next to last. But under Piniella's fire-me-already leadership, last year was bad even by Rays standards. "People would come up to me and say, 'I'm sorry about the team,' like that's the worst thing I'm going to have to face in life," Crawford says. "I've been through worse, trust me. Try having nothing to eat and no lights, and not knowing when your next meal's going to come."

Crawford grew up in Houston's Fifth Ward, although he prefers to say, "I'm from the north side of Houston, Texas, on Hardy Street, inside the loop." His father, Steve Burns, was an intermittent factor in his life, never living under the same roof as his son. His mother, Leisha, worked as a home health aide for the elderly. While money was elusive, Carl found stability in sports, mainly football.

By the time he was 16, Crawford was one of the nation's best prep quarterbacks and the starting point guard on the Jefferson Davis High School basketball team. Baseball was his third-and third favorite-sport. But in the summer of 1998, following his junior year, he read in the paper that another Texas prep QB, Chip Ambres, had signed with the Marlins as a first-round pick for $1.5 million. (He's now a Triple-A outfielder with the Royals.) Carl recalls telling Cory, "I didn't even know Chip Ambres played baseball."

That was his first thought. His second? Damn, if he can do that, so can I.

Of course, college football coaches came after Crawford like they were selling religion. He was recruited by Texas (as a wideout), Texas A&M (as a defensive back), Nebraska, Michigan, Oklahoma and TCU. (UCLA contacted him about hoops.) He took his recruiting visits alone. "I didn't have no guidance, no nothing," he says. "Everyone else was with their parents. I was a loner."

He signed a letter of intent to play at Nebraska, the only program that encouraged him to play quarterback and baseball. But as his senior year wore on, Crawford kept remembering the news item on Ambres. Baseball took on a different shape in Carl's mind. He stopped caring when classmates teased him about his tight baseball pants. He hit .563 with 29 stolen bases, and in June 1999, he was drafted by the Devil Rays to start the second round. Tampa even matched Ambres' bonus. Football, as it turned out, created the leverage that got Crawford first-round money.

Today, at home in St. Pete, Crawford doesn't exactly light up when presented with the idea that he might be the best athlete in baseball. Cory nods his approval from the keyboard, but Carl stares at the football in his hands, tosses it into the air and starts talking before it comes down. "That's nice if people say that, but I don't rely on just being a good athlete," he says. "I want to be a complete player."

It turns out the word athlete is a charged one for Crawford. He heard it a lot in the minors, in a different context: He's a great athlete, but will he ever learn to be a great baseball player? It's the same semantic battle that's been fought by many black ballplayers over the past 50 years. And Crawford holds some strong opinions about the decrease in black players in the majors. "Most black kids don't play baseball when they get to high school," he says. "A lot of black kids see baseball as boring. The game and the players aren't flashy. You see NBA players and NFL players with the nice cars and the diamonds. Baseball players are more casual, more conservative in how we do things."

He's holding one of his black-maple bats now, and he slaps the barrel a couple of times before gripping it like he's ready to hit. "I'm not trying to start a revolution. But we're not appealing to the urban youth. They don't want to play baseball. I just want to play and hope somebody sees me and decides to play because of it."

Crawford's youth league lacked infrastructure and equipment. He wasn't taught the subtle shadings of positioning or pitch recognition or anticipation. An uncle, Jack Crawford, played Class-A ball in the Angels organization and was the only person around Carl who knew what it took to succeed in the sport beyond high school. But Jack was more of an occasional resource than a daily influence.

When Carl reached pro ball, he feasted on the knowledge around him. "A sponge," says Henderson, the hitting coach. "Tireless, and a sponge." Still, the labels were hard to shed. Crawford's speed caused visions of Juan Pierre to dance in the heads of the Rays brass. He was encouraged to let the ball ride deep into the strike zone before slapping it the other way. "I'm thankful they made me do that, I guess," he says. "I hated every second of it, but it made me a better hitter."

There is a precise moment when the future comes into focus. In a game this March against the Red Sox, Crawford drove a ball into the gap in left-center. Instead of coasting into second-it was spring training, remember-he accelerated through the bag. His legs churned and his arms flapped, almost like he was waving himself around the bases. He slid into third. There was no throw.

The few people in the stands at Al Lang Field in St. Pete shook their heads at the combination of speed and power. Someday, maybe someday soon, everyone will take notice, and he'll be able to stand on his home turf and think one thing: Carl Crawford, Devil Ray.

The Rays say Crawford could be the next to 4,000.

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