Like most San Francisco Giants fans, I remember May 25, 2011 vividly. But it’s been more than 15 years since that fated day in which a young blossoming superstar, the budding pillar of the franchise, fractured his fibula and tore multiple ligaments in his leg during a collision at the plate. So some of the features of that memory have grown blurry.
I don’t remember who was pitching, or who hit the ball that sent Scott Cousins barreling around third base and straight into Buster Posey. I can’t recall the outcome of the game, or the Giants’ place in the standings at the time.
What I do remember is this: in the face of excruciating physical and emotional pain, Posey remained stoic. Years before the hundreds of millions of dollars in salary and investments would roll into his bank account, and before countless dreams had been checked off his personal to-do list, Posey sat on the plate at his home ballpark, knowing that not just his season, but his entire career was in jeopardy. His eyes were dry and his jaw was strong. He took in the scene, refused to call for a cart to wheel him away, and, with he help of the training staff, stood up and slowly hopped off the field, tall and upright. Beat and battered, but never broken.
318 days later, he was back on the field for Opening Day. 523 days later, he hoisted a World Series trophy over his head. 541 days later, he was honored as the league MVP.
That year-and-a-half sequence defined Posey as one of the toughest athletes of his era. Staring at the utmost adversity, Posey refused to blink.
It set the tone for the rest of his career. He was talented and selfless and a tireless worker, yes, but above all else he was tough. And in turn, the Giants were.
Which makes his latest turn all the more confounding, concerning, and infuriating.
On Tuesday, Posey — no longer the face of the roster, and now the face of the front office — met with the media. It was Posey, as he so often did in the batter’s box, calling his own number. It wasn’t a media session mandated by the league, or demanded by the reporters. It was just Posey, leader of a team in turmoil on and off the field, making himself available.
And looking weaker than I ever could have imagined he would.
Posey opened with a milquetoast statement regarding the team’s Pride Night debacle, and the subsequent fallout within the queer community, one that had about as much substance as a Jack Harlow song played in reverse. At best, it was a “there are good people on both sides and I care more about baseball” deflection; at worst, it was a child placing his head in his hands and screaming “mom I don’t want to.”
“I’d like to recognize that the organization has shared its response to Pride Night, and I understand that there’s strong feelings on this topic,” Posey said, the prevarication only just revving up. “There’s differing perspectives, and out of respect to everybody involved, it’s not something that I’m going to revisit. I understand that some fans are upset and frustrated, and I promise you this is something we’ve talked about a lot internally, and we’ll continue to do so. Our focus is on the team right now, the upcoming draft, the trade deadline, and trying to win games. So anybody that has baseball questions, I’m happy to take baseball questions from you now.”
It was bland and corporate, and a little spineless. But if that was leaning back at a pitch high and tight, what followed was Posey watching a fastball down the middle, and turning around to walk away before it even made it to the catcher. Calling off the at-bat after two pitches. Unwrapping his protective gear, walking out of the ballpark, and driving home in the fifth inning.
The reporters in attendance, to their credit, pushed back. Fairly, I might add. And even gently at first. Softballs initially, perfect for someone who used to be able to square up a 100-mph fastball with ease.
But Posey tucked his tail and tucked his head. In a staggering display of weakness, at the team’s lowest moment in decades, Posey stuck his fingers in his ears, squeezed his eyes closed, and sang, “la la la la I can’t heeeaaaaaarrrrrr youuuuuu.”
It was genuinely difficult to watch.
Did you object to Pride Nights as a player, and did anyone explain the importance to Tony Vitello and the players?
“If you want to ask baseball questions, I’ll answer baseball questions.”
Will you reach out to the gay community about what has unfolded?
“If you want to go to baseball questions, I made my statement, I’ll answer baseball questions.”
Do you have a response to the commissioner throwing the Giants under the bus?
“I’ll answer baseball questions.”
Why will you only answer baseball questions when the team is embroiled in something so important?
“I’m gonna only answer baseball questions.”
Is this not your job? Should we speak with Larry Baer?
At that point, Posey was beyond answers, and looked pathetically around for help, until a poor communications director was forced to repeat the same line: “We just need to keep it baseball related.”
You made this a baseball issue by hosting Pride Night, and letting players take the field having violated MLB’s rules.
“Buster made his statement. If you guys have any baseball questions, he can answer those, or we’re gonna be done.”
Cowardice. Weakness. Spinelessness.
And broken.
All hidden behind the vacant face of a man who clearly would rather face Clayton Kershaw 1,000 times over before having to spend another 10 seconds being asked for accountability over a blatant lack of inclusion and failure of leadership.
It’s clear that the Department of Justice’s hogwash meddling with the situation has spooked the Giants, and it’s fair to think that Posey’s hands were slightly tied by an unwanted political presence hovering over the entire situation. It also does essentially nothing to cover up the immeasurably pathetic display that took place at Oracle Park.
Posey could have no-commented questions about the hats that Landen Roupp, JT Brubaker, and Ryan Walker defiled. He could have no-commented the team’s communication with its players, the involvement of the DOJ, and Rob Manfred harshly criticizing the team.
Here, I wrote him a statement he could have said. I’m writing this on the fly. I didn’t take any time to think it over. I’m not going to edit it. I’m improvising here. Let’s see what I’m about to come up with.
I, along with the entire Giants organization, support and celebrate San Francisco’s vibrant and historic LGBTQIA+ community. We are aware that many in the community are hurting based on the actions and response of our team, and we are dedicated to making sure that every Giants fan feels at home at Oracle Park. We will meet with local leaders in the community to see how we can learn and grow from this year’s Pride Night, and I personally will be donating $100,000 to the SF LGBT Center. Unfortunately, for legal purposes, I can’t currently comment on the hats, our communication with the commissioner’s office, or anything regarding the DOJ’s investigation. We’re going to keep our discussions with players internal.
See how easy that was? It’s not a perfect statement because, again, I wrote it on the fly. It took 45 seconds. It probably has a spelling error in it. It features an organization I just learned about when I googled “LGBTQ youth centers San Francisco.”
But it does the important thing: it makes it clear where Posey stands. It makes it clear where the organization stands. It takes the absolute bare minimum level of accountability. It does nothing to interfere with the commissioner or the Department of Nonsensical Whining.
In the absence of that tiny act of accountability and inclusion, why do anything at all? Why hold a media session? Why face the cameras and reporters at all, if you can even call what Posey did “facing?” Why write a test that didn’t need to be written just to get all the answers spectacularly wrong?
A stable of unforced errors, buried beneath a cascade of cowardice. The antitheses of meeting the moment. The polar opposite of what the fanbase deserved and needed.
There was a time when I never would have dared to utter the word “weak” in association with Buster Posey. Now I fear I need a stronger word.