I love baseball. It’s not a secret. I spent 12 years in NYC and I watched about a thousand Yankee games.

I only missed Derek Jeter’s first 5 seasons (1996-2000), and his last (2014). Yet, I got to watch him play a lot, on TV, at the stadium, and even on the road, at Shea Stadium.

I saw him win a boatload of regular season games, but for the first 8 years of my NY stay, very little championships.

In 08 it got to a point I thought I cursed them and they would never win again, at least as long as I lived in NY.

And 09 happened. Steinbrenner Co. shelled out half billion dollars on three (3) players and the won the World Series against the Phillies. I’ll never forget it.

Winning the World Series is an epic feat. The best teams play for almost 8 months and LOOSE more games than the best soccer team in the world (think Real Madrid, Barca and Chelsea) will WIN in a calendar year.

About 60 losses.

60.

All in all, a guy like Derek Jeter will play baseball 4 hours a day for 8 months.

EVERY DAY.

Sure, he’ll get a few days off, usually when travelling cross-country.

On a yearly basis, he would win 170 games, loose 70 (post season included).

And he did it for 20 years.

Now I’m back in Europe, watching a Champion League game. I love soccer. Unlike baseball, which I learned late in life in Queens, NY, with my brothers Al, Larry, Chicken, a heavy hitting / fastball throwing who’s name I forgot and 20 other Queens raised 30 year-old ballers, I played soccer as a kid.

There’s no Derek Jeter in soccer.

CR7 and Messi, soccer two brightest stars, can score lots of goals. No doubt about it.

CR7 scored a meaningless goal at the end of last year’s Champions League final (on a penalty kick at the very last second of a 4-1 game) and went on to (madly) celebrate, removing his shirt and all. I rooted for his team, yet, I felt embarrassed.

Messi missed a meaningless penalty kick the day before yesterday. He left the stadium angrily, without saying a word to the press, despite his team winning a big game, passive-aggressive style.

“Don’t be so sensitive,” Steph.

I’m not sensitive. I understand why people love these two guys. They are good. I mean really good. Very marketable. An extrovert, an introvert.  Very mainstream. Perfect…

Now, just imagine if Derek Jeter had played soccer instead of baseball and had become DJ2 instead of #2.

Unlike CR7, Jeter would score when it mattered the most.

And when he’d score, he’d pump his first (barely), or slap his hands, and get back to work. This is a guy who hit 260 HR and never contemplated a single one, not even the one he hit in November, back in 01, when the city was trying to heal and needed some cheering.

Unlike Messi, Jeter would never let the game dictate his mood. At least openly.

When he’d fail (baseball is a game of failure; the best players fail 70% of the time), he’d never let anyone see how he felt about it.

I won’t lie. Sometimes, I wanted Jeter to be mad at himself for hitting into a DP or for killing a 9^th inning rally, to throw his helmet, to break a bat. But looking back, I’m glad he never did any of this.

As competitive has he must have been, Jeter understood that baseball was only a game, and that respect and fair play mattered much than a win.

Soccer needs a few Derek Jeters.

Spring is upon us.

God I miss baseball.

I’m writing my own story.

I’ve been scribbling for a long time, relatively speaking. I write stories. Stories about History, mostly, and about people seeking the Truth.

My story isn’t about a distant past or some terrifying secret. It’s a story about freedom.

I write my own stories. No ghost out there, creeping in the closet. I guess I put a lot of myself in them.

How much do you really contribute to your story? Are you in charge, or do you allow others to write it for you?

For a long time, it felt that way. I was a character in a story written by distant ghosts. The writers took turn creating my universe. They were family members, friends, partners, managers, colleagues, and even strangers.

When I write, I can never truly control my characters. They kind of do what they want anyway. I just report it on a blank page. And if I don’t like what they do, I kill them. It’s called rewriting.

You can’t rewrite what is said. You can’t take the words back because once pronounced they are eternals.

How do you stop being good, nice, perfect? How do you rise above expectations? Over loyalty? Over money? Over love?

If my characters are free. Why am I not? Why do I let other handle my pen?

How do you write you own story? Well, it’s a short story. I don’t think you can really plan it. I believe that it always starts with a change within. Everything good is endogenous anyway.

While I rarely control a character, I always have the power to change it. But it isn’t easy to change someone, even a fictional character. It requires lots of rewriting.

I call it rewiring. Loosing bad habits to make space for better ones.

I listed some of the little changes that affected me the most.

1) Stop pretending

2) Think with your instincts

3) Trust everyone

4) Make mistakes

5) Value happiness

6) Be grateful

Small steps, gradual changes.

Since childhood, we are told to think with our head, to make no mistake, to trust no one. Happiness is for babies, gratefulness for Buddhist monks.

I’m present. I listen to the murmurs. I respond. I fall and I rebound. I’m not longer matter.

I matter. I am mine.

I’m my story.

Pearl c’est la petite fille d’un bon ami à moi. Pearl c’est une petite fille comme les autres. Elle tient une place spéciale dans mon coeur. Elle et moi on a beaucoup couru ensemble. Au cours des kilomètres, elle est devenue une partenaire loyale, une présence constante, dans les montées comme dans les descentes ; les hauts et les bas.

Pearl et moi on court ensemble, mais on ne s’est jamais rencontré. Elle est inscrite au stylo indélébile sur mes chaussures de course. J’ai appris à la connaître grâce à son papa, mon pote Malcolm, un grand homme.

Pearl m’accompagne dans mes randonnées urbaines par la force de son esprit, par son courage, sa détermination à dépasser une donne que certains considéreraient comme injuste ; des traits qu’elle tient certainement de son papa.

Pearl est autiste. Elle est née dans un coquillage qui peine à s’ouvrir. Elle est aussi née dans une famille qui est prête à plonger jusqu’au fin fond des abysses pour elle.

Pearl vient d’être acceptée dans l’école de ses rêves (et celle de ses parents). Malheureusement, le coût de cet enseignement excède le budget de sa famille. D’environ 2’000 euros. 200 fois 10 euros. Le prix de rêve.

I Run for Pearl. Do you ?

Donations: http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/education-for-pearl