In Atlanta, here’s why Major League Baseball’s tilted cap controversy hits home
You couldn’t tell me he wasn’t the man.
Back in 2000, I idolized Cincinnati Reds second baseman Pokey Reese.
I was a high school and AAU baseball player then. I played the same position.
I had unrealistic dreams of reaching his back-to-back Gold Glove-winning heights.
My coach for our all-Black AAU team from Glenwood Park in South DeKalb dubbed me “Scoop,” and insisted that his boys just be themselves on the diamond. It’s why I honored my middle infield hero with his signature look: a cap sharply tilted left.
I wasn’t alone. Kids across Atlanta and America rocked the Pokey Reese look. You wanted to look good, ball better. Memories of those summer days and that angled brim came rushing back over the Labor Day weekend.
In his major league debut against the Colorado Rockies, St. Louis Cardinals rookie pitcher Hancel Rincon wore his cap with a tilt. Between pitches in the sixth inning, home plate umpire and crew chief Doug Eddings stopped play to ask that Rincon straighten his hat.
Naturally, confusion from Rincon, his catcher, teammates and manager Oliver Marmol ensued. The latter was eventually ejected for hurling f-bombs Eddings’ way in defense of his young player.
Eddings would later say his action was sparked by words from Rockies catcher Hunter Goodman, who told MLB.com, “I never once mentioned the hat.”
Online debates about on-field decorum, power-hungry sports officials and race ensued. Hall of Famer and Braves legend Chipper Jones — no stranger to sharing his conservative views — called out Eddings’ behavior.
Rincon is a Black man from Los Llanos, Dominican Republic. Eddings is white and has been employed by MLB since 1999.
For players, fans and lovers of “America’s pastime,” the incident raised questions about race, authority, conformity and who gets to decide what a baseball player is supposed to look like.
Rincon’s teammates, coaches, some Rockies players and fans at Coors Field responded by showing up to the next game with their caps tilted.
At that game, Eddings reportedly apologized to Rincon after getting knocked by MLB for his handling of the situation.
Rincon is young, born in 2002. His first language is Spanish. He told MLB.com it’s why he could only pick up some of what Eddings tried to put down.
“I understood a couple words, and it looked like he apologized to me for what happened last night,” he told the site. “He also told me good luck with the rest of my career as a big leaguer. I told him, ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal, and everything stays here.’”
For Rincon, maybe it wasn’t personal.
In fact, we don’t know why he rocks his cap that way. Maybe he grew up watching the likes of Florida Marlins pitcher Dontrelle Willis, New York Yankees great CC Sabathia or his countryman Fernando Rodney.
Maybe he didn’t hear about Hall of Famer Ken Griffey Jr. once getting critiqued by manager Buck Showalter for wearing a backward cap in batting practice.
(Yes, we’re talking ‘bout practice.)
Regardless, it shouldn’t matter. He didn’t disrupt the game; Eddings’ thoughts on Rincon’s look did.
We shouldn’t expect a kid who wasn’t schooled on Moses Fleetwood Walker in 1884, 1887’s National Colored Baseball League, the National Negro leagues or Jackie Robinson to get that.
This is what was running through the minds of Atlanta natives Kelli and C.J. Stewart. The Stewarts are co-founders of L.E.A.D. Center for Youth, a nonprofit organization with a mission to advance equity and well-being through sports-based development programs. Those sports include baseball and tennis.
The couple also run the for-profit business, Diamond Directors, founded by C.J. Stewart, which has helped develop over 45 major league players.
That list includes prominent Black names such as Dexter Fowler, Jason Heyward and Andrew McCutchen.
C.J. Stewart grew up in Bankhead and played outfield in the Chicago Cubs organization.
For the Stewarts, life is baseball.
When clips of the Rincon incident popped up, Kelli Stewart didn’t see the ballplayer. What she saw was an anxious kid, trying to shake off feelings he couldn’t explain.
“This young man, not having roots in Black America, did not understand the context of which he found himself. That’s unfortunate because you could see it play out in his demeanor. He immediately looked childlike to me, like he was looking for somebody to help him,” she said.
Kelli Stewart thought of Paul Laurence Dunbar’s famous 1895 poem, “We Wear the Mask.”
“We have to endure microaggressions like this or even blatant discriminations and we still have to perform,” she said.
The Stewarts want to help and know the challenges. The percentage of Black players on opening day MLB rosters this season was 6.8%.
That marks the first time in at least two decades that there have been back-to-back years of growth in this category. In the last three years, the percentage of Latino/Hispanic players has remained above 30%.
Through their work, the Stewarts experience those aforementioned “microaggressions.”
There was the time they led a team of Black players against an all-white squad. After the game, an opposing coach said one of his players was missing a glove. He demanded the Black players open their bags for a search.
“We told him absolutely not,” Kelli Stewart said.
In another instance, an umpire delayed a game and threatened to toss a Black player for sporting protective padding he deemed more fashion than function. The opposing team’s white catcher wasn’t wearing a cup, and later got struck in his genitals. No player or coach was reprimanded.
Like Eddings on that Friday night, the human intentions in those examples aren’t clear, but their actions felt like implication enough.
“Let’s be clear, what happened to Rincon shouldn’t have happened to anybody — Black, white, Dominican. It was just unnecessary,” Kelli Stewart said.
However, she stops short of downplaying what may have led to Eddings’ behavior.
“When you look at the context of where we are, you can’t help but say there had to be some type of prejudice,” she said.
Her husband said those in question should expect it.
“When it happens and it’s called out, we may not get the person to admit what was said, but we do need to put them through the wringer to explain themselves,” C.J. Stewart said.
For their part, L.E.A.D. and Diamond Directors help with navigating pricklier parts of the game. This involves teaching young Black players about the values and dangers of code-switching. It means working to educate coaches, umpires and executives on the merits of diversity and equity.
If players feel like they’re going to be policed for self-expression simply because those in power are blissfully ignorant, it hurts the game’s growth. One generation wants to wear Pokey Reese’s look; the next is afraid of being penalized for it, so they don’t even bother playing.
Moments like these can be inflection points.
“This is an opportunity right now for our voice, so that Major League Baseball can understand that,” he said. “Train your players, train your umpires, train your coaches so that they can adapt.”
Like me back in high school, C.J. Stewart said he’s one of the lucky ones.
He went from playing at John A. White to a Cubs prospect because of the Black support system around him. He, too, had coaches and mentors who encouraged his on- and off-field individuality.
The next Pokey Reese or Hancel Rincon is out there. Maybe Atlanta, maybe Los Llanos.
Their odds of getting to that next level improve when decision-makers recognize the human under the cap, tilted brim and all.