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RISING FASTBALLER
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efore Park and Nomo, only three Asian players--Masonori
Murakami, Lee Hammaker and Mike Lum--had ever made the major league. And
you've never heard of any of them.
And now the questions arise. Can Park stand up to major league pressure?
Will his fastball fail him?
| "I am confident. I have a major league fastball and I am not afraid of anyone." |
A few days later, sitting in the Dodgers dugout, "there were two stories on the news at home that night," joked Park, "The [Corean] elections and me!"
Park is 6-2 and 195, muscled and lean, with a happy-go-lucky, boyish way about him. He waves off the Dodger interpreter as we sit down to chat, asking only that I speak slowly. He is not yet in uniform this early in the afternoon and wears a white headband without a cap, a Nike jersey and shorts. An ESPN camera crew is hovering nearby, as are the usual groups of local and Corean TV reporters, hoping for just a moment with the rising star.
Park talks about the changes stardom has wrought in his single life. The subject of money is off limits, though Park is estimated to be bringing in a major league salary of at least $109,000 annually. He talks about his friends: "I have a couple of Corean friends and a couple of American friends now because I know English, so when I win, when I play good, they call me, because they're good friends."
Everybody wants to know about the pressure he's feeling now as a major leaguer. I'm no different.
"As you know," he explains calmly, for what has to be the umpteenth time, "I first came here in 1994, and that's when when I first played big league. I'm just a young boy and I look it, so when I first started everyone is yelling 'Chan Ho Park! Chan Ho Park!' I was so excited I felt like I was flying!
"But then I pitch sometimes good, sometimes bad, and I'm sent down to the minor leagues. I feel much sad, you know? But then I understand, I have to do well in my own league first, then when I'm clear and I feel ready, they'll bring me back."
Is he ready now? "Yes. I feel ready and now I know everything. I know the minor league system. I know why things work [the way they do]. Because before, I would just wonder, 'What's wrong with me?'"
Park had known nothing but success before coming to the U.S. He had been the Most Valuable Player three times at Kong Ju High School, leading his team to the Korean National Sports Festival championship in 1991. In 1992 his Hanyang University team in Seoul won the President's Tournament and the following year saw him named Hanyang's Most Valuable Player. That same year Park was named to the Corean National Baseball team, and competed in the World University Games in 1993, where he notched victories over Japan and Canada.
Park was a player who had known only victory. Now he was in the majors playing against hundreds of other players who'd known only victory. Park adjusted somehow, whether it was learning the league's batters or learning his way around a new city.
It's a difficult adjustment though. Just a week after standing in the fire against the Florida Marlins, Park rides the roller coaster again against the San Francisco Giants in Candlestick Park. He strikes out the first three batters, then the next three. Six batters in a row go down swinging. But in the third inning, Chan Ho can't throw a pitch right over the plate to save his life. He walks one runner, then another, then another, eventually walking five batters in a row. He leaves the game early.
Just a few nights prior, Hideo Nomo had set an individual record for strikeouts against the Florida Marlins, mowing down 17 of them to win.
Then there are the personal adjustments players make. Helping Park along his E-ticket ride is buddy and fellow right-handed pitcher Darren Dreifort. Both Dreifort and Park were selected in the famous 1994 amateur draft.
"He first made the team with me," Park says. "I like him. He's a great guy." Two days later Dreifort tells Park that he, Dreifort, is being shipped back down to the minors. The Dodgers have a wealth of pitchers now and Dreifort had been on a five-game losing streak, so off he goes. Losing your pal to the minors is another eventuality Park's going to have to get used to.
Like the vagaries of fame. In the off-season, for example, or when the team has a few days off during the season, Park, who lives in Glendale, likes to go to Koreatown and mingle as he visits the various shops and restaurants.
"When I go there," he smiles, "people recognize me, but they are very shy. They look at me, but they don't come over, except for a few who ask for autographs." Certainly not like the fans at Dodger Stadium who crowd the baselines before a game, hanging over the dugout, pleading with the players, practically demanding their time, their attention, and most importantly, their autographs. Though the team takes great pains to shield Park from unnecessary distractions, he is always friendly and open when approached.
Park stays close to the hotel, rarely following other players out on the nightclub circuit when the Dodgers travel around the league. "I'm a little scared [when the team is on the road], because I don't know any place, you know? I don't know if that's a good area, or if this is a good area."
When the team is on a homestand, or in the off season, Park spends his time playing basketball or studying English. Early in his career, in fact, the Dodgers hired an interpreter to help him with English and Park took classes at Santa Monica College.
As he takes his seat on the major league roller coaster and straps himself in, no one is more confident than Park himself. "I am confident. I have a major league fastball and I am not afraid of anyone," he says calmly.
"Watch me," he adds. "Watch me good, and when I do well, then you do this." He stands and claps his hands together. "Just stay with me. I'll be fine."
EDITOR'S NOTE: A lot has happened to Chanho Park (Park is his surname)
since this profile was published in 1996. For one, he's now in his fourth year
with the Dodgers and, since Hideo Nomo's departure in April 1998, has
moved up to the number one pitching spot on the strongest pitching squads in the
majors. It was in Nomo's shadow that an inexperienced Park had labored to gain
control of his fastball during his first three difficult years with the
Dodgers. This spring it was Nomo's own pitching slump that triggered a
request by the Japanese $2.8-million-a-year man to be traded, opening the
door wide for a more seasoned, more reliable Park. If ever there was a time
for Park to come through, it's this season when the Dodgers are suffering from
anemic batting.
The other change in Park's life is his English. The off-seaon English lessons
he began taking when he arrived in Los Angeles four years ago
have paid off and he now speaks nearly fluent English.
But what hasn't changed is Park's steely determination and abiding faith in
his own potential to become a pitching great who can justify his
two-million-plus annual salary.
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