110%
Shortly after a baseball game of no little consequence, a beat reporter stands poised. The team’s rookie sensation, batting second in the lineup and newly promoted to the outfield, is questioning his recent performance: “I just didn’t have it, bro, not today. I mean, I was there — mentally and physically — but I didn’t have it. Some days, it happens. You’re there … but, it’s like, you’re not? It’s disappointing. It would’ve been a big win for us.”
The following day, the reporter has this to add:
Expressing the opinion that, perhaps, [he] didn’t give 100% to the team’s ultimately losing effort, this reporter was put to mind of a previous era – players who “just didn’t have it” either, perhaps because they were too old, or too tired, or too drunk from the night before, but still managed to contribute something. Anything. Players of yore, who gave 110% every day — both mentally and physically.
Though he’s been told to ignore the Sports section — disavow those sniveling little toads, and their discrete needling! — the rookie’s intrigued to see his name in print; thus, he absorbs the reporter’s slight. After the following game (a 4-1 victory, in which the rookie delivers a 2-run, bases-loaded single, while otherwise committing an error in the field), he corners the reporter in the trainer’s room.
“I read what you said,” the rookie seethes, still wearing his spikes.
(The beat reporter’s faced larger and more intimidating men than this. Once, in the Cactus League, he was chased from the clubhouse by a pitcher brandishing a fungo. The really frightening guys hale from Texas: this kid’s from southern California.)
“Yeah? Got a comment?”
“Got a comment?” the rookie mimics. The team’s third baseman watches from the trainer’s table, mildly amused.
“A comment — do you want to correct the record?”
The rookie swipes at his nose, declaring, “Write this down.”
The beat reporter stands poised.
“I give a hundred percent,” he begins.
“Uh-huh.”
“I give a hundred and ten percent.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I give a hundred-ten percent on the field, and a hundred and twenty percent at the plate. Every time I get up there, I’ve got a plan. I’ve studied film. I know what he’s going to throw — first pitch, two-and-oh, oh-and-two. I’m ready, a hundred percent of the time.”
The reporter dutifully scribbles every word.
“On the field, under the lights, I’m out there a hundred percent of the time, jack — a hundred-ten percent of the time. I’m playing injured. I’m playing dehydrated. Fans on the road say the harshest shit you can imagine, and I’m there one hundred percent of the time, no complaints. Even then, you can ask any guy in here — some days, you just. Don’t. Have it. And that’s a damned fact.”
In the early edition, the beat reporter is succinct:
This journalist is no egghead, folks, but a child could do the math: 100%; plus 110%; plus 110%; plus 120%; plus 100%; plus 100%; plus 110%; plus 100%, is 850%. With so much effort being expended on the field, it’s shocking that [the rookie] could lose a routine fly-ball in the lights … but such was the case last night.
“You misquoted me!” the rookie fumes that afternoon, after a rare day game.
“I did no such thing.”
“You made me sound like a fucking asshole!”
Here, the reporter must choose his words carefully. Even a kid from southern California knows how to ball a fist.
“I was faithful to your comments.”
“But — ” The rookie’s uniform is grass-stained and pungent. It must be said, his recent play has been inspired, hurling himself about without a care for career longevity. “But I only said what you said!”
With the threat of violence hanging in the air, the third baseman — seated at his locker — takes this opportunity to propose, “Two hundred percent.”
They both stare at him.
“What?” says the beat reporter, finally, when nothing more appears forthcoming.
“Two hundred percent,” the third baseman repeats, glancing up, “makes far more sense. What’s a hundred-ten percent? Shit, I tip better than ten percent on a cold meal. All I’m saying is, if I wanted to say I tried extra hard, I’d say I gave it two hundred percent. At least,” he sighs, yanking-off his cleat, “that’s what I think.”
The rookie and the beat reporter stare at the third baseman like he’s from outer-space.
