LET ENTHUSIASM RULE

By Jason La Canfora

I can think of only two people in my entire life who I can pinpoint with certainty the exact day I first encountered them. One is my wife. The other is Pedro Gomez.

It was April 18, 1997. Pedro was on the A’s beat for the Sacramento Bee, in town with my friend Steve Kettmann, of the San Francisco Chronicle, to cover their series with the Tigers. I turned twenty-three that week, somehow lucky enough to find myself as the Red Wings beat writer at The Detroit Free Press, already securing my dream job not yet a year out of college, about to cover the second NHL playoff game of my career.

The A’s dispatched the Tigers in quick fashion that afternoon in a rare Friday businessman’s special to accommodate the big event in town that night: The Wings back in the playoffs, trying yet again to bring a Stanley Cup home to Hockeytown for the first time since 1955. I believe I was able to help Steve and Pedro secure nosebleed seats to the game, at least that’s how I recall it, and we chatted above the din of KISS on the PA system during warmups, near the roof of Joe Louis Arena as I leaned out of the makeshift “press box” (it was really just the last row of the place with a long desk added in; they forgot to put a proper one in, which Pedro got a kick out of ).

I was already out of my depth, jittery and hoping I’d find the words to do justice to the event I was about to cover. But Pedro put me at ease. He didn’t know me, but the way he and Steve treated me, their sincere interest in me, made me feel like maybe I really did belong. It also raised the stakes. They had of course dissected the Free Press upon arriving in Detroit, and Steve would tell me, in our first conversation after Pedro passed, how much of a kick they got out of me taking the Wings to task with my off-day story, incurring the wrath of crusty Scotty Bowman in the process. They were genuinely intrigued to see how the kid would cover the rest of the series, and to witness it firsthand.

These dudes were legit. They lived it and breathed it. They had seen quite a bit and done quite a bit. They cared, deeply, and they obsessed over the process of doing what beat writers do. I was raised by ball writers as an intern at The Baltimore Sun, and I knew the esteem with which my mentors, Buster Olney and Ken Rosenthal, held Pedro and Steve. They were hardcore newspaper guys. And they would be reading my stuff the next morning with great interest, undoubtedly discussing it over (a late) breakfast at the hotel.

Earlier that day, a short walk away from The Joe, at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull, in a far more spacious but equally dilapidated press box at Tigers Stadium, Pedro had ripped off the following lede after the A’s managed a rare victory that day, an easy, 9-5 laugher over a Tigers team that would finish nineteen games out of first place: The A’s didn’t necessarily cure their ills Friday afternoon. Instead, they found somebody sicker.

Yeah, I’d best bring it. I don’t remember much about the game I was tasked to cover that night, except that the Wings looked like they might be in deep trouble, having already been shut out in the opener of their series, and through the first two periods of Game 2 as well. History has a way of strangling teams so often on the wrong side of it, and this group had a predilection for choking. However, fourth-line grinder Kris Draper finally scored a shorthanded goal on the net to the left of our perch to end the drought (as Googling the box score confirms), and the Wings won, 2-1, in what ended up being a springboard to them drinking from Lord Stanley’s Cup.

What I remember far more vividly than the game is the impact that meeting Pedro for the first time had on me. His joy for life and love of sports and writing and reporting were immediate and overwhelming. You felt it. It meant so much to him; it should mean so much to you, too, if it didn’t already. We were getting paid to travel the country—and, at times, the world—to try to tell the best stories about some truly extraordinary people, writing about the sports we have played and loved all of our lives. Who’s got it better than us?

I knew innately that I just had made a new friend, someone who would be a willing mentor, who would set an example without even trying. I had found, through Steve, another journalistic soulmate in Pedro. No one had to say it, but when I got off deadline I was going to meet these guys at a dive bar in Greektown and we were going to drink way too many beers and talk enthusiastically about our craft and the writers we loved until they kicked us out. And I would listen much more than I would talk, and class would be in session. I couldn’t wait. I figured I could hang, but there was only one way to find out.

Pedro, as always, delivered. There was something so genuine about him. Actually, everything was so genuine about him. No bullshit. Never bullshit. Fuck bullshit. He’d leave a little imprint on you. He’d make you better, and make you want to be better. His smile was warm and welcoming. His eyes seemed to light up when you connected about a thought or idea. He lived by a credo the likes of which we all should aspire to. Talk to the guy in the locker room no one was talking to. Treat people with respect. Be accountable. Have fun. Let enthusiasm rule.

If you hung out with him once, you’d want to again, the next night and the next. I left our first bar-closing feeling alive, feeling like this was exactly where I was supposed to be and I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing for a living and doing it with the people I was supposed to be with. But I was also more than a little jealous of the next town and the next beers and the next wave of conversation he and Steve would ride as they tried to suck the marrow out of every shitty game they’d have to cover and find some new or unique angle to take on a Wednesday blowout loss with 10,000 people at the park. I, suddenly, wanted in on that A’s beat. After this, who wouldn’t?

Of course, none of the losses, nor the mundanity of life on the beat, seemed to slow them down in the least. Somewhere, someone was dying to read about this baseball malady they had just witnessed, and damn right they were going to do it with more zeal and gusto than anyone else. I trudged back to Riverfront Apartments wondering what adventure was next for these two. It might not be as sexy as Game 3 of the Western Conference Quarterfinals in a sold-out arena, but, shit, I wanted to be like them and I wanted to be there.

Most of my experiences with competitors on the beat were acrimonious. I tended to view the other papers in town as the enemy. To see these two veterans bring out the best in one another—actually accentuating their charm as a tandem—despite working for rival newspapers, that to me was kind of astonishing. To see a friendship that rich and real and robust blossom out of that construct, it was almost beyond my comprehension at the time. It opened my eyes. To this day I cannot think of Steve without thinking of Pedro, or think of Pedro without thinking of Steve.

They were so inclusive and welcoming—everyone who wanted in had an invite to this party—and I took note. They took great care to assist young writers. They railed against the Old Boy’s Club and wanted to foster a climate that was open to all and broke some of the worst norms of sportswriting. They were staunch advocates for women in this industry and would not tolerate peers or athletes or coaches belittling them. They were always aligned with the little guy. I’d like to think I was already wired the same way on all of the above, but spending time with them further reinforced it: Be an advocate. Anything less made you part of the problem.

They were fairly righteous. And they were goddamn cool at the same time. Not a bad combination.

On the morning of Saturday April 19, 1997, within hours of us calling it a night, I would get a call far earlier than I anticipated, groggy and hung over. It was Pedro. He was excited, more excited than I was. He’d read my game story in the morning paper. He thought I crushed it. I’d captured the moment. He’d captured my imagination. I tear up thinking back about it now.

The last time we talked was shortly after the minor-league baseball season shut down last year. He was one of the first people I thought of; another summer of doing whatever possible to see Rio pitch as much as  possible had been robbed by a pandemic, and our federal government’s systemic failure to address it. Covid was ravaging Arizona, where Pedro lived, a part of the country he loves so much.

I sent Pedro a text to ask if he could come on my radio show in Baltimore and talk about the impact the loss of MILB was having on players and families, especially those not on Top 10 Prospects lists in Baseball America. He got back to me immediately. Couldn’t wait to hop on. Of course.

I welled up listening to him gush about traveling to Salem and Wilmington and Frederick and all over the Carolina League and South Atlantic League watching his son from the stands. It was so perfect. He was so happy. He deserved this. My heart swelled for him and his family.

I told Pedro we would absolutely meet up in 2021, whenever the minors came back, whether Rio was in Single A or Double A. My kids and I are minor-league baseball junkies. Whether Rio was assigned to Salem or Portland, my kids and I would make a road trip and we’d watch Rio pitch and cheer him on and drink beers together again.

Unfortunately, that was the last time we would ever talk. That was the end of our journey. Somehow the 2021 baseball season would start without Pedro Gomez there to chronicle it. I am devastated. My kids will never get to meet one of the best people I’ve ever known. Rio won’t get to pitch for his dad again. But I’ll gladly respond to every random email I get from any kid interested in journalism. I’ll think of Pedro always and smile. I’ll try to match his joy and zeal for what we do. And I’ll celebrate the man and journalist he was every chance I get.