leagues, before I ever put on an A's uniform, because they wanted to generate some excitement and bring some fans out to the ballpark. In some ways, I was never fully accepted, but because of the buildup, it was kind of understood that I was a part of the mix. Everyone was like, "Okay, now Canseco is here. Get on with the show."
Fortunately, I got off to a good start that year, and the veterans seemed to be impressed.
"Damn, this guy knows what he's doing," I'd hear them say to each other.
But I was just getting by on my raw ability. It was going to take me a long time to learn how to hit consistently at the major-league level. Much later in my career, I became much more knowledgeable about the game and became a guess hitter who studied pitchers on videotape carefully. I thought long and hard about what a given pitcher was likely to do in a given situation. But that only happened after years of soaking up as much information as I could as a hitter, watching and learning and picking up any extra advantage I could.
Back in my rookie year, it was see ball, hit ball. I was a pure reaction hitter. You hear that term all the time, reaction hitter, but what does it mean? Just that you react to the pitch in flight. You never pick up any signs beforehand. You never really see the rotation of the ball. You never say, "In this situation he's going to throw a breaking ball down and away, so look for it down and away." I was on the edge, winging it, but because I had so much physical ability, and so much strength, I was able to get away with it. Swinging the bat and hitting home runs was fun, but it was also nerve-wracking, trying to prove myself, and then watching how the media tried to figure me out. At that point, I was just trying to figure myself out.
That first year in the major leagues went by fast. Maybe it was because everything was so exciting and new to me. I got off to a great start; I was selected for the All-Star Game, even though I was a rookie. The game was at the Astrodome in Houston, Texas, that year. I walked around trying to take it all in. There I was, an All-Star, and I just couldn't believe it.
Roger Clemens pitched three perfect innings for the American League and ended up as the most valuable player of the game. The manager that year was Dick Howser of the Kansas City Royals. The American League hung on for a 3-2 win, but it was so close, Howser never even put me into the game. It felt weird to make the trip to Houston and never even do anything but sit around and watch. But later it turned out that Howser was really sick, which put it all into perspective.
"I remember the indignation all of Miami had after the 1986 All-Star Game," says Pedro Gomez, my classmate back at Coral Park High in Miami. "A few months later, it was revealed that Dick Howser had a brain tumor and died, and all the old Cubans in Miami pointed to that as the reason Jose did not play-because the guy had no brain."
I was glad to get back to Oakland after the All-Star break and rejoin the As, but I got off to a terrible start. I had one bad game and then another and another and another. The whole thing just snowballed on me. I started the second half going 0-for-40, which if you think about it is pretty hard to do. It was the worst slump of my life, hands down, one of those times when everything went bad all at once.
Every time I hit the ball hard, it went right to someone. It felt automatic, like the whole thing was out of my hands. Let's say there was a guy on first base, and he'd take off to steal, and the second baseman would break to go cover second base, and then I'd hit a line shot that would be a base hit up the middle nine times out of ten, or ninety-nine times out of a hundred, only this time the second baseman would be right in the path of the ball, so he'd catch it and instead of a base hit, it would be a double play.
I was striking out plenty, too, believe me, and finished that season with 175 strikeouts, which ranked third
Fortunately, I got off to a good start that year, and the veterans seemed to be impressed.
"Damn, this guy knows what he's doing," I'd hear them say to each other.
But I was just getting by on my raw ability. It was going to take me a long time to learn how to hit consistently at the major-league level. Much later in my career, I became much more knowledgeable about the game and became a guess hitter who studied pitchers on videotape carefully. I thought long and hard about what a given pitcher was likely to do in a given situation. But that only happened after years of soaking up as much information as I could as a hitter, watching and learning and picking up any extra advantage I could.
Back in my rookie year, it was see ball, hit ball. I was a pure reaction hitter. You hear that term all the time, reaction hitter, but what does it mean? Just that you react to the pitch in flight. You never pick up any signs beforehand. You never really see the rotation of the ball. You never say, "In this situation he's going to throw a breaking ball down and away, so look for it down and away." I was on the edge, winging it, but because I had so much physical ability, and so much strength, I was able to get away with it. Swinging the bat and hitting home runs was fun, but it was also nerve-wracking, trying to prove myself, and then watching how the media tried to figure me out. At that point, I was just trying to figure myself out.
That first year in the major leagues went by fast. Maybe it was because everything was so exciting and new to me. I got off to a great start; I was selected for the All-Star Game, even though I was a rookie. The game was at the Astrodome in Houston, Texas, that year. I walked around trying to take it all in. There I was, an All-Star, and I just couldn't believe it.
Roger Clemens pitched three perfect innings for the American League and ended up as the most valuable player of the game. The manager that year was Dick Howser of the Kansas City Royals. The American League hung on for a 3-2 win, but it was so close, Howser never even put me into the game. It felt weird to make the trip to Houston and never even do anything but sit around and watch. But later it turned out that Howser was really sick, which put it all into perspective.
"I remember the indignation all of Miami had after the 1986 All-Star Game," says Pedro Gomez, my classmate back at Coral Park High in Miami. "A few months later, it was revealed that Dick Howser had a brain tumor and died, and all the old Cubans in Miami pointed to that as the reason Jose did not play-because the guy had no brain."
I was glad to get back to Oakland after the All-Star break and rejoin the As, but I got off to a terrible start. I had one bad game and then another and another and another. The whole thing just snowballed on me. I started the second half going 0-for-40, which if you think about it is pretty hard to do. It was the worst slump of my life, hands down, one of those times when everything went bad all at once.
Every time I hit the ball hard, it went right to someone. It felt automatic, like the whole thing was out of my hands. Let's say there was a guy on first base, and he'd take off to steal, and the second baseman would break to go cover second base, and then I'd hit a line shot that would be a base hit up the middle nine times out of ten, or ninety-nine times out of a hundred, only this time the second baseman would be right in the path of the ball, so he'd catch it and instead of a base hit, it would be a double play.
I was striking out plenty, too, believe me, and finished that season with 175 strikeouts, which ranked third
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