Andruw Jones Listens (1996)

Andruw Jones closed his eyes and remembered. His house was only three miles from the island's oil refinery.  He perched on the street wall his bat across his lap, waiting. Then came the sound of slow, steady gravel footsteps of his father's boots. Mr. Jones appeared shoulders broad, face streaked with refinery dust, a small lunch pail swinging at his side.

“You ready, champ?”

Andruw grinned. “Always.”

The Jones' backyard was no diamond field—just a patch of cracked pavement and brown hens that scattered when Andruw took his stance. Mr. Jones knelt to place two upside-down milk crates on the ground and began to warm up by tossing an old baseball. The evening sun was still burning hot and it did not take long for them to work up a sweat.

“Let's take a break - Go in and grab us two sodas from the kitchen.” They collapsed under the shade of the red flamboyant tree.

"You know Andruw, I was thinking at work. The machines have a rhythm. After 20 years I must have worked with every machine at the refinery for thousands and thousands of hours and each one has a unique sound. For example, the compressor hums differently when it's stressed. A pump rattles before it breaks. At work I slow down, feel the bolt threads catch, hear the gasket shift.

He leaned back, as if he was cloud watching. "You know, the machines actually can tell me when something's wrong. And I’ve learnt to listen. You know what I mean?"

"I guess", replied Andruw, thumbing the thread of the ball above his head.

I was thinking that is what makes a good engineer ... and also maybe what makes a good ball player.

He pulled a handful of faded bottle caps from his pocket.

Andrew looked confused, "Hitting caps is for the school playground."

"Bear with me on this one. Let's focus on caps today - it will get you out of your comfort zone. Focus on listening … to the pitcher, to your bat, to the angle of the cap and where it needs to go. ” Mr. Jones jumped up and tossed a cap in the air and swatted it with the old bat. The cap danced and spun, skipping across the concrete.

“Nice!” Andruw shouted, scooping it clean with the crate.

Mr. Jones nodded. “It is about understanding where it is going before you swing. Listening and understanding the crazy edges of the cap. If we can master caps, we can really master a ball.

For an hour, they danced—the boy chasing caps, diving and laughing, the man swinging gently, measuring each strike, cheering when a cap landed a home run over the washing line. When sweat soaked their shirts and the wind finally cooled the heat, they collapsed together under the old tree again.

For a moment, neither said anything. “Son, anyone can smash something out of the air. But only a champion knows how to listen."

Andruw opened his eyes. The stadium was full and every Atlanta Braves fan was holding their breath. He took his stance, listened … and then swung. At 19 years old, Andruw Jones became the youngest player ever to hit a home run in a World Series.