“Young lady, you’re distracting all my players.”
“Everyone get naked. She’s doing her job.”
“You don’t look like a baseball writer. You look like an actress.”
“Women aren’t allowed in the clubhouse.”
All four of the above statements have been said to me.
There was also the conversation between two players, describing in graphic detail what their teammate said he wanted to do to me sexually. There were times during batting practice that players asked me what I was doing in their dugout. One assumed I was a fan that just walked on the field. A manager assumed that too and got really annoyed, until he realized what I was there for.
Those moments are big reminders that the minors are not the big leagues, and you have to be prepared for just about anything. That’s not to say that the big leagues don’t come with their share of unprofessional and difficult moments. But the minors can feel like another planet.
To clarify: the first thing was something a coach said when I walked in the dugout. My response was “That sounds like a team problem.” The second thing, a player said to me. After he asked me what I was doing in there, and what if they’d all been naked, I said, “I’m just trying to do my job.” That was his response, which was met with his teammate’s laughter. The player I was actually interviewing stepped outside with me and when I said, “He needs to learn how to handle seeing women in the clubhouse,” he said, “Yeah, really.” I handled the confrontation by contacting the team’s GM; that day, I received nervous messages from someone with the big club. The third statement on the list was something a reporter said to me. When I asked “What do I look like?” he said, “An actress.” I handled that by finding strategic moments to make fun of him to his face for the rest of the game. And finally, the ‘No women in the clubhouse’ bit came from a public relations person with the Staten Island Yankees.
That took place in 2012 when I was about to head to the clubhouse with other reporters after a game. A public relations assistant told me I wasn’t permitted to enter the clubhouse and that I’d have to wait in the dugout while my male colleagues went to the clubhouse. I don’t remember a lot of what I said next but it wasn’t good and things got heated; an argument ensued about fairness, procedure and discrimination laws. He calmly explained that he was informed that was the rule and he was only enforcing it. He also said it was in writing. So I asked to be taken to the office to read anything that stated that. Keep in mind that this was holding everyone up from getting their job done. But it was a stand I had to take. In all the time I’d covered baseball, I’d never heard women weren’t allowed in the clubhouse. That was supposedly a thing of the past.
After we went in the office, one of the guys flipped through a packet of Rules and Regulations for the media. There was nothing written about female reporters being banned from the clubhouse. So we headed down and got to work.
I wasn’t just angry but confused. How was this even possible? I couldn’t believe that any affiliated baseball team was operating under long outdated practices that are also, as if you need reminding, illegal.
Handling that challenge took required careful thought. I wrote two letters that night: one to MiLB president Pat O’Conner, whom I’d known for a couple of years, and one to the GM of the team, who is a woman. They responded the following morning by getting in contact with each other on how to best handle the situation. I heard from the GM who stated in no uncertain terms that there was no rule against female reporters in the clubhouse. Whoever had been enforcing that rule was wrong. The whole thing was put to rest and manager Justin Pope took me aside the following day to inform me that wouldn’t happen again; he wanted me to let him know if any other problem arose. None ever did.
The confidence I had to take on those moments is hard to imagine when I think of some of my earliest assignments. When I interviewed Rich Dubee when he was a minor league coach, I could barely speak. I didn’t know how to conduct a quality interview.
We were sitting in the dugout and I was struggling for a follow-up question, he quietly, patiently said, “Take your time.”
That kind of generosity was so helpful in the early stages of my career. Fortunately, I got to thank him a few years later, in the Phillies dugout, when I was covering a game. Not everyone is going to be that helpful and kind. Not every manager and coach will like Pope or Dubee. Show your gratitude every time someone reaches out a helping hand or word. Remember those people.
By the way, that first day I interviewed Rich, I wore clog-sandals. Gotta start somewhere.
Part of what I learned with that interview was the importance of coach’s input for any story. There’s only so much you’re going to get from a player, and only so much insight they’re going to have on their own development. Not long after that, I got an assignment to do a story on an Erie Seawolves player, and Pete Incaviglia was the hitting coach. He was so accommodating and fun to talk to that I gained confidence within the interview; that happened to me a lot, especially with managers and anyone on the coaching staff, because they had extensive knowledge to share. They also set the tone. If they showed respect toward me, their example sent a message to their players.
I experienced the reverse of that in the most blatant way. There was a manager that I dealt with for two years in the New York Penn League that refused to look at me in group interviews, even if I asked the question. When a male reporter asked a question, he looked at them to answer, straight in the eye. If I asked the question, he answered by looking them straight in the eye. He never, not once, looked at me. Others noticed, but that’s just the way it was. You learn that there are people in baseball that won’t respect you no matter how hard you work. Nothing you do will ever matter. So you have to forget gaining their respect. They had none to begin with. And that won’t change.
That doesn’t mean that there aren’t moments where you need to take a stand through action, as I did in Staten Island, and earlier in my career.
I covered the independent Can-AM League for most of the 2008 season. I featured a lot of coverage on my blog, as well as picking up newspaper assignments to cover a few of the teams.
Toward the end of the season, the Worcester Tornadoes visited the Atlantic City Surf for a three-game series. I was on a tight deadline for the Worcester Telegram, something I was still working at improving. When I was on the road covering the Tornadoes, as well as the Brockton Rox, I started to run into some problems in the clubhouse. The Rox manager wouldn’t allow me to walk back into the clubhouse after I left his office. I didn’t argue. Later on that trip, I visited the Tornadoes home park. When I walked in the clubhouse, pitcher Tom Cochran looked displeased. I asked for someone to grab a player for me, and then walked out. I often did that in the early days if I sensed a problem. Today, I wouldn’t. Gaining that confidence took time.
The following week when Worcester was in A.C., I headed to the visiting clubhouse post-game, racing to make the deadline. When I walked in, Cochran was seated at his locker, which was close to the door.
He pointed his finger, and, shouted, “You. Out.”
I turned and walked out, thinking maybe I’d interrupted a meeting. I stood at the door looking in. I knew I was running against the clock. A few minutes later, a male reporter walked in without issue. I called the clubhouse attendant over to help me. But he didn’t know any of the players names and couldn’t grab anyone without assistance. So, he asked Cochran, who walked to the door just as I tried to re-enter. He stood in the doorway, physically blocking me, leaning his arms against the frame.
Our faces were an inch apart, and I can still hear myself saying, “You can’t keep me out. I need to do my job.”
He ignored everything I’d said, and responded “Who do you need?”
I don’t know what I said, but I guess I mentioned a player’s name, because I turned in a story twenty minutes late with quotes that night. I also e-mailed the editor about the incident. He never responded. The following day, I informed the Surf’s GM, Chris Carminucci, who directed me to someone in the Tornadoes front office. I later learned that someone confronted the team, I assume it was manager Rich Gedman, and Cochran’s teammates came forward to confirm what happened. They could’ve protected him, but didn’t.
At the end of that season, I reached out to league commissioner Miles Wolff. He informed me that the league allowed individual teams to decide whether female reporters are given clubhouse access. The league wasn’t upholding basic discrimination laws. I contacted the Association of Women in Sports Media, but they received no response from the commissioner when they reached out to him for an explanation. I was close to giving up and accepting the outcome. But it nagged at me so much, I finally wrote to him again. This time, I described my passion for the game and for the privilege of covering it. I also wrote that if Independent League teams wanted to be taken more seriously in the future, they should be following the example of Major League Baseball.
A few weeks after I last reached out to Wolff, he e-mailed to inform me that he’d taken the issue of equal access to the Winter Meetings. When a vote was presented to the GM of every Can-Am team, the decision was a unanimous yes.
I never thought about having to fight for equal rights in baseball or being an inspiration to others. It never dawned on me. And in those moments where I did stand up, it was to my own surprise. When we’re faced with challenges and injustice, something instinctive takes over to motivate us. But I couldn’t have envisioned ever taking a stand before I had to.
The most important experience of my career was covering Trenton Thunder manager Tony Franklin, and my time in the Eastern League. Sitting in his office and covering that team day after day, I grew to be a more professional reporter. I sharpened my instincts, becoming more self-assured. All fear and anxiety came to the surface, as did my true sense of myself and what mattered most. When I stopped choosing to focus on my fear, my life and career changed. A few things happened to turn the tide.
I’d been covering the Thunder for a couple of years, and had grown a lot in that place and time. I’d learned the ropes, developed as a writer and professional and learned comfort in the clubhouse. A lot of that comfort came from the atmosphere that manager Tony Franklin created. He expected professionalism from his players, and had a friendly, easy relationship with the media. And for a minor league team, the number of media members was high, with between five to six people in his office before and after every game. There’d never been a single issue I’d felt the need to report to him, though there had been several problems with visiting teams.
While standing in the hall, I and the other reporters, all male, discussed a recent on-field incident with a national female football reporter. They were interested in my thoughts. As we headed into the clubhouse, for whatever reason, one of the players, yelled out a comment regarding that reporter and, that everyone should keep their clothes on with me in there.
I entered the clubhouse with my colleagues when it was our workplace. He didn’t single any of them out. But the worst part was that he brought attention to something no one needed reminding of: I’m a girl. I couldn’t believe that a player in that clubhouse called that out. Being comfortable in there, and having players feel comfortable around me, takes time. It was embarrassing.
I asked for a private meeting with Tony, and I explained what happened. His reaction was one of concern, anger and shock.
Later that night, I learned that he called a clubhouse meeting and really gave it to them. He informed the players that anyone behaving in that manner toward me wouldn’t play. When I visited his office after the game, he said that he’d let the players know I’d been nothing but professional and earned respect during my time there. I’ve never forgotten the kindness and respect he showed me that day. It changed my life. His words and actions let me know I deserved respect. That had major impact on me as I went forward in my career.
Truthfully, I’ve come to expect some form of harassment, jokes or comments when I walk in the clubhouse. I shouldn’t. But I’m prepared for anything. I’m not encouraging female reporters to be silent or accept anything that makes them uncomfortable. I’ve learned to confront things head on sometimes. At times, telling team people or the manager when I felt I needed to. And just because I often ignore confrontational or sexual comments doesn’t make them acceptable. When you’re a woman working in sports, I think you learn to handle certain behaviors with a mix of humor and toughness. I just don’t want anyone to mistake toughness for being too scared to talk.
Part of what I’ve tried to do in order to combat some of that is making sure the manager sends a clear message to players before I walk in there. Both Franklin and Pope made sure of that. Players were prepared for me to be in there. Pope informed his players that they were expected to be professional. He’d been a player and coach under Tony Franklin and truly followed his example.
I’ve never felt comfortable talking about the humiliating nature of certain moments. I avoid focusing on my personal feelings in a lot of my work. When a player followed me out the door of the clubhouse, and creepily asked me, ‘Oh, you don’t want to see us all naked? That’s not what you want?’ I didn’t take to Twitter to speak about it. I didn’t, and still don’t, write about every experience. Because for the most part, they aren’t that shockingly terrible; but that created in me a kind of scale. I’ve learned to react to very little. I can’t overstate that any harassment is over the line. Please, never go quietly if you feel that players are crossing that line.
The tricky thing is that there’s a flip side. I’m not intimidated by players and, frankly, care so little about their opinions that I let a lot slide. I get my job done and leave. What they say is meaningless in context to how it impacts my career or life. But I would prefer that they behave professionally and like grown men. This is a weird, wild job and I think I just take a lot of what comes with that mindset.
What I hope is that my presence makes a difference. And that by speaking out at times and, other times, focusing on my job instead of inappropriate comments, I’m leading by example.
This job is fun. More fun than it should be. It’s a chosen profession and that’s a gift. I was raised in a middle class family in Delaware County. The people in my neighborhood were hardworking, religious and arguably just as religious about sports. I’m sure they would’ve loved to follow a passion that made them more money, took them to interesting, exciting places, and gotten to call a baseball stadium a workplace. But their passion and devotion was to family and putting food on the table. I’m the same girl I was then. So it’s truly amazing to me that I get to do something I love for a living.
At times, I’ve had to re-examine my career, goals and personal life. In a crazy competitive industry, you have to check in with yourself. You’ve got to be sure you’re on the track you truly desire. There are jobs I didn’t enjoy or that didn’t end up being the right fit. But I found the value in each one. Sometimes the value was simply monetary. But even then, I was writing and that matters. Ok, not every job was what I hoped. I gained a little something each time. I exercised those muscles. I did things I loved, or liked, or found something interesting about. As the journalism industry continues to change, and so many veterans feel left behind, you have to adapt and decide how to maintain a career.
Looking back, I think what helped me tremendously was being in the moment. I didn’t allow anything to distract from the job I was doing or what I was trying to create. You know how players talk about staying within themselves? That’s what you have to do in this business. Even when I was nervous or unsure of myself, I continued to be focused on the work I was doing, and the enjoyment I got out of learning. When you have that mentality, and practice that over and over, you’re really training your mind to focus on what matters most.
In the digital age, I’ve made something of my own in Minor League Baseball. I encourage you to do the same. The possibilities are growing. Go with it. Get dirt under your fingernails. Do things that scare you and that you’re completely unsure will be successful. There’s no failure in trying.
Heels are optional. Grit, a sense of humor and hard work are not.
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