Cubs president Theo Epstein was the honored speaker at the Yale College’s Class Day at his alma mater, Yale University, on Sunday. Below is a transcript of Epstein’s speech to the Class of 2017.
Looks like I’m lucky and there are some Cubs fans here today. But let’s just get that important stuff out of the way right now — how many Cubs fans are here? Let’s hear ya. And how many Red Sox fans are here? And last: how many Yankee fans are here? I see. Yankee fans, the exits are just around back. Straight out Phelps St. and keep walking.
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President Salovey, heads of College, college deans, members of the faculty and staff, good afternoon. Members of the class council, Class Day chairs Joana and Larry, class secretary Tommy and class treasurer Mimi and the entire Yale Class of 2017, greetings and congratulations. I’m honored to be here with you today to help celebrate and I’d like to thank Joanna and Larry for inviting me on behalf of the whole class, and for that too-kind introduction, thank you.
Your class has been witness to and a participant in a period of historic change here at Yale: the inauguration of a new president, the creation of two new residential colleges, the renaming of a third and, perhaps most savory of all, the introduction of Hanoi fried cape shark at university dining.
And I would like to recognize some of the members of your class who had special accomplishments this year.
As Joana and Larry mentioned, the Yale baseball team, just this week, winning the Ivy League and returning to the NCAA tournament for the first time since 1994. Congratulations, guys. Also the women’s swimming team, winning the Ivies for the first time in twenty years. Congratulations. As previously mentioned, the Yale football team, first time in 10 years beating Harvard. Way to go, Bulldogs.
And, last but not least, Saybrook. I watched the game this year. That’s just an unprecedented commitment to the Saybrook Strip. I remember back in my day we kept our underwear on and didn’t get hauled off by Harvard police…thank you. Thank you for taking it to the next level. That is what we call progress.
I’d also like to thank some others who are here today in support. First of all, my family, including my father Leslie, Class of ’60, and my sister Anya, Class of ’92. I know, despite your great faith in me, that you’re a little surprised that I’m the one up here today. I understand that.
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Next, some of my friends and classmates at Yale who are here today with whom I discovered the great institutions of higher learning, uh, Toad’s Place and Rudy’s. And wasted more than our share of brain cells in the pursuit of knowledge in there. I know you are as shocked as I am about this honor here today.
And finally, a nod to my professors, and especially my terrific graduate student teaching assistants, thank you all for your invaluable tutelage. I know you are somewhat bemused that I made it to my own Class Day, so you’ve got to be downright horrified that I’m the one up here today.
Well, I do remember my years at Yale very fondly. And, as you’ll find out, a Yale degree is something that stays with you the rest of your life.
Back in 2002, when at 28 years old, I stumbled into becoming General Manager of the Red Sox, days after I was hired, my boss, Larry Lucchino was visiting an old baseball colleague of his — President George W. Bush, Class of ’68 — in the White House. President Bush asked, “What are you doing naming a 28-year-old as general manager.” He said, “That’s far too young. That’s an absurd risk.” Lucchino replied, “No, No, Mr. President, you don’t understand. He’s a Yale man.” To which the President replied, “Strike two!”
Like the former President, I didn’t do anything too serious with my career. I just worked in baseball.
Yes — (it’s) America’s national pastime, but also largely just part of the bread and circuses of society, entertaining and distracting us, while others like my twin brother Paul, who is here today, a social worker, do the real work of holding our communities together.
But there are certainly times when baseball is much more than bread and circus. Times when baseball resonates deeply and meaningfully for many, many people. And times when a game that is built around overcoming failure can teach us all a few important lessons. So, Class of 2017, if you’ll indulge me, I’m going to tell just one baseball story. It’s a bit long, but you’ll like the ending. Unless you’re from Cleveland, in which case I’m deeply sorry.
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The story is about a very important game, Game 7 of last year’s World Series, but it has little to do with the actual outcome of the game. For those that don’t follow baseball, a real quick background: I work for the Chicago Cubs. A team with a following so loyal and adoring and a history so forlorn, that we were known nationwide as the “Lovable Losers.”
As of last fall, the Cubs had not won a World Series since 1908. Think about that, 1908. That’s the Teddy Roosevelt administration. The Ottoman Empire was still around. Kidding. That’s two world wars ago. Which, I haven’t checked the news since breakfast, just give me one second. (Checks phone off to the side) Good news, that’s still just two world wars ago.
All in all, it was a 108-year drought. The longest in the history of professional sports. But as the late Cubs broadcasting legend Jack Brickhouse used to say, “Anybody can have a bad century.”
I joined the Cubs in 2011 to an inordinate and uncomfortable amount of media attention. The Chicago Sun-Times, I remember, ran a full page, front-page Photoshop of me walking on water across Lake Michigan. As if by showing up I was going to miraculously turn around the team’s fortunes.
Imagine their disappointment, then, when I announced immediately a long-term rebuilding plan, built around acquiring young players and winning five years down the line. So one season and 101 losses, the same paper ran an identical photo of me, but this time, the only thing above water was the tip of my nose.
One day in the early years with the Cubs, after a particularly humiliating double-digit loss at home, at Wrigley, I was walking home amongst the fans in a bit of a foul mood. And I remember I had my head down, trying not to get recognized. A very charming elderly woman recognized me. She spotted me and came over to ask a question. She said, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, young man, I really do. I understand why you’re bringing in so many young players. But tell me, exactly when are you planning on winning the World Series? I’m not sure how much time I have left.”
I was a little taken aback, and all I could think of to say as I put my head back down to walk away was, “Ma’am, I hope you take your vitamins” and walked away.
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That was five years ago but if it happened today I’d probably say, “Ma’am, I hope you don’t have any preexisting conditions.”
So, after three years of arduous rebuilding, we had a nucleus of young players with the Cubs we believed in, who were ready to break into the majors together. Many of these players are 21, 22 years old. Your peers. Your generation. Typically it takes young players years to adjust to life in the big leagues and to start playing up to their capabilities. Most of the blame for this rests on these ridiculous old baseball norms that say young players are to be seen, and not heard. That young players must follow and not lead. That young players must adhere to the established codes, from the dress code that requires them to wear suits and ties to the code that says Major League players can’t get too excited or look like they’re having too much fun out there on the field.
Thankfully, we hired a manager in Joe Maddon who agreed it was time to turn these conventions on their head. We asked our young players to be themselves, to show their personalities. To have fun. To be daring. To be bold.
The dress code was changed from a suit and tie to “If you think you look hot, wear it.” Unburdened, and empowered, our young team flourished last season, winning 103 games, the most in all of baseball, and reaching our first World Series since 1945.
After fighting back from a 3-1 deficit against the Cleveland Indians, we faced a decisive Game 7 in Cleveland.
I watched Game 7 from the stands with my colleagues, my wife Marie, and my oldest son Jack, who was then eight years old. Jack, a big baseball fan and the math whiz of the family, kept me updated on the Cubs’ win probability throughout the course of the game. So as we enjoyed a two-run lead after five innings, he tapped me on the leg.
“Dad, we have a 67 percent chance of winning the World Series.”
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“I know buddy, it’s going well. But remember, it’s baseball. Lots of things can happen.”
That’s all I could think of to say.
Later, we had a three-run lead with just four outs to go in the game. Nobody on base and the bottom of the Indians’ order coming to the plate. Tens of millions of Cubs fans nationwide counting down the outs. Putting their arms around loved ones, or called them, to keep them close for the big moment ahead.
Jack put his arm around me.
“Dad, we have a 97 percent chance of winning the World Series.”
“I know, buddy, I know. It’s so great, but one batter at a time. We still need four more outs. We don’t want to look too far ahead.”
“But Dad, first time in 108 years!”
Just then, out of nowhere, as storm clouds moved into the area, an infield single. A double. An errant fastball. A fateful swing. An impossible home run. And a tie game. Indians fans erupted, rocking the stadium on its foundation with ear-splitting cheers. Cubs fans and I slumped in our seats, heads in hand. Just then I felt another tap on my leg.
“Dad, we definitely have less than a 50 percent chance of winning the World Series now.”
I couldn’t think of anything wise to say. So I just sat back in my seat, staring stoically out at the field, put one arm around my son, with the other I tapped his leg, as reassuringly as I could.
Minutes later, the skies opened up, and rain halted the action. It was just enough of a pause to ponder the magnitude of the situation. Extra innings. In Game 7. Of the World Series. An entire season down to this one moment. A five-year plan down to this one moment. And for Cub fans, 108 years of patience and unrequited love, down to one moment.
Still in a bit of a daze, I cut through our clubhouse towards a meeting about the weather. Turning a corner I saw through the window of the weight room door, the backs of our players’ jerseys. Blue jerseys, shoulder to shoulder, packed tight, all 25 guys squeezed into a space the size designed for about half that many. It was an unusual sight. We hardly ever had meetings, never during a game.
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I inch closer to the door. I saw Aroldis Chapman, the pitcher who had just given up the game-tying home run, in tears. I lingered just long enough to hear a few sentences:
“We would not be here without you,” catcher David Ross said, as he embraced Chapman. “We’re going to win this for you. We’re going to win this for each other.”
Outfielder Jason Heyward walked to the middle of the room: “We are the best team in baseball,” he said. “We’ve leaned on each other all year. We still got this. This is only gonna make it sweeter.”
And then first baseman Anthony Rizzo: “Nobody can take this away from us. We have each other.”
Kyle Schwarber stood up with a bat in his hands: “We win this right here,” he said.
I turned away, a big smile on my face, and headed to that weather meeting. Ten minutes later, the rain cleared. Schwarber led off with a single. Zobrist doubled, just past the reach of the third baseman, and we took the lead.
In the bottom of the 10th with the tying run on base and the winning run at the plate, at 12:47 a.m., Kris Bryant fielded a slow roller with a gigantic smile on his face and threw to Rizzo for the final out. The Cubs had won the World Series.
(Epstein swaps a Yale hat for a Cubs hat).
Not to be a frontrunner, but…
My wife, Jack and I embraced in celebration, equal parts ecstasy and relief. I noticed Jack’s mouth agape. The young mathematician was shocked and overjoyed that for once we had beaten the odds.
Later that morning, back at Wrigley, the team bus passed a cemetery on the ride back from O’Hare to Wrigley back in Chicago. We saw countless Cubs hats and pennants already draped lovingly over tombstones for family members who did not quite live to see the moment.
The next day, five million triumphant Chicagoans from every corner of the immense city gathered downtown for the victory parade. the sea of blue was a beautiful sight. Chicago, fractious and endangered, was united in the aftermath of the championship.
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After all the champagne had dried and I finally got a good night’s sleep, I found myself returning to one simple question. What should I tell Jack and his younger brother Drew about this historic achievement? What was it exactly that I wanted them to hold onto?
I thought immediately of the players’ meeting during the rain delay and how connected they were in each other. How invested they were in each others’ fates, how they turned each others’ tears into determination.
During rain delays, players typically come in off the field and head to their own lockers. They sit there by themselves. They change their wet jerseys. They check their phones. They think about what’s gone wrong or right during the game. They become engrossed in their own little worlds.
That would’ve been disastrous for our team in Game 7. Twenty-five players, alone at their lockers, lamenting their bad breaks, assigning blame, wallowing, wondering. Instead they had the instinct to come together. Actually it was not an instinct, it was a choice.
One day I will tell Jack and Drew that some players, and some of us, go through their careers with their heads down, focused on our craft and our tasks, keeping to ourselves, worrying about our numbers or our grades, pursuing the next objective goal, building our resumes, projecting our individual interests.
Other players, or others amongst us, go through our careers with our heads up, as a real part of a team, alert and aware of others, embracing difference, employing empathy, genuinely connecting, putting collective interests ahead of our own. It is a choice.
The former approach, keeping our head down, seems safer and more efficient. And I guess sometimes, it is.
The latter, connecting, keeping our heads up, allows us to lead. And every now and then, to be part of something much greater than ourselves. and therefore to truly triumph. I know, I will tell them, because I’ve tried it both ways. And I will tell Jack and Drew that we all have our rain delay moments. There will be times when everything you’ve wanted, everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve earned, everything you deserve, is snatched away in what seems like a personal and unfair blow.
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This, I will tell them, is called life.
But when these moments happen, and they will, will you be alone at your locker with your head down, lamenting, divvying up blame? Or will you be shoulder to shoulder your teammates, connected, giving and receiving support?
I’ll them not to wait until the rain comes to make this choice, because that can be too late. We weren’t winners that night in Cleveland because we ended up with one more run than the Indians. If Zobrist’s ball had been four inches off the line than that double would’ve been a double play and we would’ve lost the game. That was randomness. Like much of life, it was arbitrary.
We were winners that night in Cleveland because when things went really, really wrong, and then when the rains came, our players already knew each other so well, they could come together. They already trusted each other so much, they could open up and be vulnerable. And they were already so connected, they could lift one another up. We had already won.
That’s why I had that smile on my face as I walked away from the weight room door. I later learned that the players-only meeting had been called by Heyward, a 27-year-old suffering through a terrible offensive season, by far the worst of his career. Most players who are having seasons that rough detach themselves from the team, either head to the disabled list or at the periphery of the clubhouse — isolate themselves. But Heyward stayed in the center of everything. He never stopped being invested in his teammates. He opened up to them about his struggles. He bought them sweets on the road for gatherings.
The first to speak in the meeting was Ross, the 38-year-old backup catcher in his final season who made a career out of being a wonderful teammate. And by the way, is now in the finals of Dancing with the Stars. (makes shrugging gesture) You thought you were having a good year.
Rossy was always reaching out to befriend the loneliest players, always organizing team dinners, always breaking down the barriers that sometimes arise between players of different backgrounds in the clubhouse.
The last to speak in the meeting was Rizzo, the young team leader who all season long was reminding his teammates that they were going to make history together, they were going to have a parade and be linked in eternity forever. Anthony, a survivor of pediatric cancer, just celebrated the World Series by making a $3.5 million gift to Chicago’s Lurie’s Children’s Hospital.
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Schwarber, who had the bat in his hands and raced out of the meeting into the batter’s box, had torn two ligaments in his knee in the 12th game of the season. A 12- to 15-month injury. Rather than disappearing to a rehab facility, Schwarber, just 23 years old, stayed connected with the team, getting his rehab work done early in the morning so his teammates didn’t have to see him in that state. And then functioning as an extra coach for his teammates the rest of the day. He kept telling his teammates he was going to find a way to be there for them, find a way to help them win. Shocking the doctors, and everyone else, Schwarber returned in just six months, right in time for the World Series. He hit over .400 in the World Series, including that single to start the deciding rally in Game 7.
So, early in my career I used to think of players as assets, statistics on a spreadsheet which I could use to project future performance and measure precisely how much they were going to impact our team on the field. I used to think of teams as portfolios, diversified collections of player assets, paid to produce up to their projections to ensure the organization’s success.
My head had been down.
That narrow approach worked for awhile, but it certainly had its limits. I grew and my team-building philosophy grew as well. The truth, as our team proved in Cleveland, is that a player’s character matters. The heartbeat matters. Fears and aspirations matter. The player’s impact on others. matters. The tone he sets, matters. The willingness to connect, matters. Breaking down cliques and overcoming stereotypes, matters. Who you are how you live among others, that all matters.
The youngest team in World Series history, six starters under the age of 25, they helped me get my head up.
That is why at the important moments in their lives, I’m going to keep telling my sons about the 2016 Cubs and that rain delay.
And I’ll remind them when they’re graduating college or starting a new job, heading off to grad school or beginning a new life somewhere foreign, that they have a choice.
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So, (takes off Cubs hat, puts on Yale hat) Class of 2017, as someone who has already been uplifted by members of your generation, I am thankful and really in awe of what you can accomplish, when given the space to be free, to let your personalities out and to figure it out.
I am truly inspired by the traits that distinguish your generation: your diversity, your boldness, your optimism, your tolerance, your treatment of others based on substance rather than on the labels that used to divide us. I am so excited to see what lies ahead for you all. While there will undoubtedly be times here and there when you have to suck it up, follow that code, put on that suit and tie, I urge you to remember that if you think you look hot, wear it.
And please remember that even though so much can be quantified these days, the most important things cannot be. And finally, when things go really, really wrong, and then when it rains on top of everything else, fingers crossed for tomorrow, I ask you to choose to keep your heads up, and come together to connect and to rally around one another, especially those who need it the most. It is likely to uplift you all.
Thank you and congratulations.