{"product_id":"ballplayer-isbn-9781101984420","title":"Ballplayer","description":"\u003cb\u003eAtlanta Braves third baseman and National Hall of Famer Chipper Jones—one of the greatest switch-hitters in baseball history—shares his remarkable story, while capturing the magic nostalgia that sets baseball apart from every other sport.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Before Chipper Jones became an eight-time All-Star who amassed Hall of Fame–worthy statistics during a nineteen-year career with the Atlanta Braves, he was just a country kid from small town Pierson, Florida. A kid who grew up playing baseball in the backyard with his dad dreaming that one day he’d be a major league ballplayer.   \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e With his trademark candor and astonishing recall, Chipper Jones tells the story of his rise to the MLB ranks and what it took to stay with one organization his entire career in an era of booming free agency. His journey begins with learning the art of switch-hitting and takes off after the Braves make him the number one overall pick in the 1990 draft, setting him on course to become the linchpin of their lineup at the height of their fourteen-straight division-title run. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eBallplayer\u003c\/i\u003e takes readers into the clubhouse of the Braves’ extraordinary dynasty, from the climax of the World Series championship in 1995 to the last-gasp division win by the 2005 “Baby Braves”; all the while sharing pitch-by-pitch dissections of clashes at the plate with some of the all-time great starters, such as Clemens and Johnson, as well as closers such as Wagner and Papelbon. He delves into his relationships with Bobby Cox and his famous Braves brothers\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eMaddux, Glavine, and Smoltz, among them—and opponents from Cal Ripken Jr. to Barry Bonds. The National League MVP also opens up about his overnight rise to superstardom and the personal pitfalls that came with fame; his spirited rivalry with the New York Mets; his reflections on baseball in the modern era—outrageous money, steroids, and all\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eand his special last season in 2012. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBallplayer\u003c\/i\u003e immerses us in the best of baseball, as if we’re sitting next to Chipper in the dugout on an endless spring day.\u003cb\u003eLarry Wayne “Chipper” Jones Jr.\u003c\/b\u003e was a third baseman who spent his entire nineteen-year MLB career playing for the Atlanta Braves and all twenty-three years as a professional baseball player in the Braves organization. An eight-time All-Star and the 1999 National League MVP, he retired in 2012. Born and raised in Florida, he now lives in Atlanta, Georgia.  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eCarroll Rogers Walton\u003c\/b\u003e is a freelance sports journalist who covered the Braves for nearly twenty years as a beat writer for both the \u003ci\u003eAtlanta Journal-Constitution\u003c\/i\u003e and the Macon, Georgia, \u003ci\u003eTelegraph\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in her hometown of Charlotte, North Carolina, with her husband and son.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chip off the Old Block\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The first wood bat I ever held was as big as I was. It was a      Louisville Slugger with Mickey Mantle's signature etched on it.      Dad kept it in the den closet, and that thing was like gold.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He'd had it since he was a shortstop at Stetson University, but      Dad never hit with it. He used one of the Jackie Robinson models      Stetson got from Louisville, or a Carl Yastrzemski, maybe a Nellie      Fox or an Al Kaline. But the only time he put his hands on that      M110-a skinny-handled, thick-barreled model like Mantle used to      swing-was to admire it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was three when we moved to Pierson, Florida, after Dad took a      job teaching math and coaching baseball at Taylor High School. He      let me take the Mantle bat out and hold it under his supervision,      but it never left the den. It wasn't as if I was going to take it      out in the backyard and play with it anyway. Hell, the thing swung      me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This was Mickey's signature bat,\" Dad told me the first time I      tried to hoist it onto my shoulder. It was so heavy I almost lost      it over my back. I thought, How do you hit a baseball with this?      Then my dad picked it up and put it on his shoulder. Oh, OK,      that's how.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mickey Mantle was the reason my dad fell in love with the game of      baseball and the reason he hoped I would, too. It didn't take      long.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Whenever those closet doors swung open and that bat was out, Dad      started telling Mantle stories.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The whole reason I want you to hit left-handed is because of this      guy,\" he'd say. \"He was my favorite player. He was the best      switch-hitter in history.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As a kid, Dad saw Mantle hook a line drive for a home run over his      head in the right field bleachers at Memorial Stadium. My dad grew      up in Baltimore, before his family moved to Vero Beach, Florida,      and his uncle took him on the bus to see the Yankees play the      Orioles. On those days, Dad was a Yankees fan. He said Mick's      homer was still on the rise when it sailed over his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"God-awful swing of the bat,\" he'd say. \"From a guy who was only      five foot ten, but as strong as an ox.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Storytelling was as much a part of my baseball upbringing as      taking swings in the backyard, especially where Mantle was      concerned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When I got older, people actually told me I looked like Mickey      Mantle-even my manager, Bobby Cox, who played with Mantle in 1968      with the Yankees. But as a kid, I didn't even know what Mantle      looked like. I didn't see many pictures of him. I only heard my      dad talk about him. I just thought he had to be the coolest guy      ever because he had the coolest name ever: Mickey Mantle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mickey was one of those baseball players people knew by their      first names, like Whitey, Reggie, Yogi, Babe, Hank, Cal. I wanted      to be like that, too, and knowing Dad, that's probably why he and      Mom settled on \"Chipper.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was born Larry Wayne Jones Junior. My dad is Larry Wayne Jones      Senior. A couple of days after they brought me home from the      hospital, my dad's aunt Dolly came to visit and said I looked so      much like Dad that I was a chip off the old block. Mom started      calling me Chip, which became Chipper, and it stuck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On the first day of kindergarten, my teacher, Mrs. Taylor, called      me Larry when she took roll. I didn't answer. I'm not even sure I      knew that was my name. Dad always said the name Larry wouldn't be      remembered, but Chipper would be. There are now a few Mets and      Yankees fans who might disagree with him, but to everybody else, I      was always just Chipper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My parents nailed the name. Trying to switch-hit like Mantle      wasn't going to be nearly as simple. But before I could think      about swinging left-handed, I had to learn how to hit the      fastball.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We lived on a ten-acre farm, and like pretty much everybody else      in Pierson, we grew fern. Our backyard pitcherÕs mound was      basically a sand pit, with a root for a rubber. Dad stood in it,      with his back to the hay barn, as he went into his windup. Forty      feet away, I took my stance in front of a chalk strike zone we      drew into wood paneling on the back wall of our garage. Dad was      pushing thirty years old. I was seven. But that was how we did it:      father against son.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dad would throw a tennis ball, and I swung a piece of PVC. I used      to wear the rubber handles off aluminum bats, and PVC pipe was      more durable, not to mention more abundant because we used PVC to      irrigate the fernery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Put the bat on your shoulder, pick it up, push it back,\" Dad      preached. \"Keep it level through the strike zone.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We played simulated games all the time, my whole childhood. But      one particular afternoon, we were working on something specific.      Dad was trying to teach me not to step in the bucket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Stepping in the bucket is what you do when you're scared to death      of the ball. You bail out. So when I swung-and this was      right-handed, my natural side-I was stepping toward shortstop      instead of the pitcher. If your upper body goes toward shortstop      as well, the only way you can generate any power is by pulling the      ball. My dad always wanted me to use the whole field.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Step at me,\" Dad said as he threw, again and again. \"Step at me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But with every swing, I stepped toward short, bailing out.      Finally, Dad tried logic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm not going to hit you,\" he said. \"I will never hit you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No sooner had the words come out of his mouth than he drilled me      right in mine. A tooth went flying, blood everywhere. I started      squalling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I glared at him, with my hand to my mouth and my tongue rooting      around where that bottom tooth used to be. \"You just said you      weren't going to hit me!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mom was on her horse on the other side of the house. I chased her      down, wailing the whole time. \"Dad hurt me! He said he wouldn't      hurt me, and he hit me in the face. He knocked my tooth out!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When you get older, you learn that getting hit by pitches is just      part of the game; I got hit eighteen times in my career at the big      league level. The degree of pain it caused didn't matter to me as      much as where the pitcher hit me. That told you what his      intentions were.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Paul Quantrill hit me on purpose in Toronto in 1999, but he did it      the right way. We had hit Carlos Delgado earlier in the game in      retaliation for showboating. The night before, Delgado hit a bomb      off the hotel in right field at SkyDome and flipped his bat within      two feet of our dugout. So everybody knew something was coming.      Delgado took his base, and it was over. But then our reliever John      Hudek hit Craig Grebeck in the back of the neck. Hudek didn't mean      to do it, but it looked bad, and I was coming up second in the      next inning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Quantrill threw the first pitch six inches outside, which made me      think nothing was going to happen. So I dug in on the next one,      and he hit me right between the numbers. It pissed me off, but I      was young and stupid. I was too hot-headed to realize that's      exactly the way it should be done: Hit a guy in the back, the      butt, or the leg. Don't throw at his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My dad's intent was pure, of course, not that my mom was buying      it. She didn't bother getting off her horse when I came crying to      her. She rode over to Dad and met him with one of her patented      stares.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What the hell is wrong with you?\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dad didn't have much to say. He was counting his blessings it was      just a tennis ball. I found out years later he told Mom that night      he was afraid he had just ruined baseball for me. He was worried I      might never want to get back in the box.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was going to take a lot more than losing a baby tooth to keep      me away. Yeah, it was a baby tooth, and it was already loose, not      that I was going to tell Dad. I was too busy milking it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All Dad did that day was pretty much cure me of stepping into a      pitch for the rest of my life. I stepped in the bucket my whole      career. It's one reason I added a toe tap, to help me keep my      weight on my back side. I took a little step toward the pull side      so I could clear my hips, and my hips and hands could explode      through the swing at the same time. \"Hips and hands!\" was another      of my dad's sayings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Actually, my little step in the bucket probably helped me avoid      getting hit throughout my career because I could jackknife out of      the way. But as a kid, fear of the ball was never my biggest      motivator. Wanting to beat my dad was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even when I was seven and eight years old, Dad could throw a      tennis ball as hard as the good Lord would let him, and I could      put it in play. Switch-hitting is what he used to give me a new      challenge. He dangled it out there one day when I was talking a      lot of smack, and I bit-hook, line, and sinker.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"All right, buddy boy, turn around to the other side,\" he said.      \"See what you can do.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'd seen Dad bat left-handed. He didn't switch-hit in college, but      I knew he could do it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"All right,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At first, hitting left-handed felt really weird, like a reverse      swing. To make it feel more normal, I tried hitting cross-handed,      with my left hand as my bottom hand. But whenever Dad saw that, he      said, \"Boy, fix them hands.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Growing up an only child in rural Volusia County, Florida, I could      entertain myself for hours by throwing up rocks and swinging at      them. I tried to hit an oak tree, first from the right side, then      from the left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'd tell myself, \"OK, hit a ground ball.\" Voom. \"Hit a line      drive.\" Voom. \"All right, go deep.\" Voom. Then I'd turn and do it      from the other side. It was both ways, all the time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Goofing around, I'd brush my teeth left-handed. I tried to write      left-handed. To this day, my handwriting is only a hair messier      left-handed, but you can tell it's my signature.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Switch-hitting took a more serious turn on Saturday afternoons.      Every week, I looked forward to four o'clock, after the Major      League Baseball Game of the Week was over, when I got to strut my      stuff in front of Pops in the backyard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dad and I would watch the game on NBC, then go out back and      imitate the two lineups. More often than not, one of the teams on      TV was the Dodgers. They were my dad's favorite growing up in Vero      Beach, where the Dodgers trained for sixty years. I was a huge      Dodgers fan, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dad usually let me be the Dodgers, and he'd take the other team,      and we'd emulate the hitters in their lineups. Hitting like Steve      Garvey, I kept my hands in tight, rode them low. For Dusty Baker,      I held my bat high, straight up. As Mike Scioscia, I kept the bat      flat and started it on my shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I wanted to hit left-handed as much as possible, so I put my own      twist on the lineup. The Dodgers used to bat Davey Lopes, who was      right-handed, leadoff, but I wanted another lefty in there, so I      put center fielder Kenny Landreaux in the number two spot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reggie Smith, a switch-hitter and a utility guy, was going to play      somewhere for me, maybe left field. If he was in left, I put      Franklin Stubbs, another left-hander, at first base. Scioscia, a      lefty, always caught for me over Steve Yeager, a righty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Playing those imaginary games in the backyard helped me learn to      switch-hit. I learned how to play the game when I took the field      with my buddies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A baseball uniform was the holy grail for me. I got my first real      one at age nine when I moved up to Little League with the Pierson      Lions Club. You could not rip that thing off me. It had a      royal-blue shirt with \"Pierson\" in diagonal cursive across the      chest and a big swoosh underneath, white pants, and stirrups. I      thought it was the prettiest shirt I'd ever seen. I'd wear the      whole uniform to bed. It was like jammies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I had to wait until I was ten to get the number 10, the number my      dad had worn since he was a kid. He wanted to wear 7, Mantle's      number, in Little League, but the coach's son had it, so Dad took      10. My friend Leonard Butts had it my first year in Little League,      but I got it my second year. I had to wait a year for it when I      got to the big leagues, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dad was still wearing number 10 as the varsity baseball coach at      Taylor when I was in elementary school. Every day after school,      IÕd stop at the Handy Way, grab a Coke and a candy bar, and head      across the street to the high school field for their practices.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If they were hitting, I'd shag flies. If they were taking infield,      I'd flip balls back to the hitter. If they finished early enough,      Dad would throw BP to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dad idolized Mantle. I idolized Dad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I used to go through his scrapbooks all the time and read about      his Stetson teams. I would sit Indian style in front of the closet      where the scrapbooks, photo albums, and Mantle bat were, and read      about Dad and Mom. It was a full day's worth of entertainment for      me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My dad was everybody's all-American in high school in Vero      Beach-quarterback of the football team, shortstop on the baseball      team, point guard on the basketball team.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I loved to look at his Stetson box scores in the DeLand Sun-News,      but I had no clue how to read them. So I'd just scan the articles      for Dad's name. \"Larry Jones chipped in with a single and a double      to pace the 10-hit attack by the Hatters.\"","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300457500901,"sku":"NP9781101984420","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101984420.jpg?v=1767722145","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/ballplayer-isbn-9781101984420","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}