Might Makes Right
Jeff Pearlman


There are reasons to despise J.D. Drew. For one, he hunts dove--quail and deer, too. Anyone who thinks hunting is a cruel, cold-blooded act can detest Drew for that. You have every right to. Another thing: He passes up autograph requests. Not often, mind you, but if he's in a rush, he won't sign. Some people abhor him for that.

Drew is not perfect, or even close. He comes off a tad preachy at times. Once in a while he burps. His favorite movie is Days of Thunder. (We won't even get into his love of Beverly Hills 90210.) During the recently completed Arizona Fall League season, where the games are long and dull and attended by three people, he secretly wished to be elsewhere--anywhere but in that outfield of sun- bleached grass. So you can loathe him for his hidden desire to duck out of the instructional league, where he hit only .248. Hate him, if you must, for any or all of these reasons.

Just one thing: Do not hate J.D. Drew for the money. Not anymore. Now that you know his vices; now that he is standing humbly in front of you, asking in his Southern drawl how your kids are doing, wondering if your wife's O.K., inquiring about your church and your pastor and everything God's given you--how can you possibly hate him now? Yeah, Drew is another rich athlete protected by a hard-bargaining agent. There is no denying that. But more than anything else, Drew, the 23-year-old St. Louis Cardinals outfielder, is humble. "As humble a person," says Jonathan Johnson, Drew's former Florida State teammate, "as you'll ever find.".

What in the world would make anyone call Drew, who snubbed a $3.1 million offer from the Philadelphia Phillies before ever playing a professional baseball game, humble? Sure he's humble. Just like Bernie Williams. Or Donald Trump.

Try this. Drew, the pride of Hahira (pop. 1,353), Ga., says he has never had sex, drunk alcohol or smoked a cigarette. He has attended one dance and no proms. He badly wants to meet a nice woman, but efforts by friends to set him up with someone who shares his strict Southern Baptist convictions routinely fall flat. "My friends really understand my beliefs," Drew says, "so they'll ask a girl lots of questions before they introduce her to me. It always ends up, 'Well, I'd like to set you up, but he'd never go out with you for these reasons.' In the Bible it says you shouldn't be with nonbelievers. Hopefully one day I'll find a good Christian girl."

During his three years at Florida State--a school that anointed Spuds McKenzie its unofficial mascot--Drew went to a single party. "I was a freshman," he recalls, "and I was dragged to a club to oblige some guys on the team. It turned out to be all crazy and loud and too crowded. I was miserable and left after 45 minutes."

That night, as he does most every night, Drew went home, read the Bible and then slumped to his knees in prayer. God has his plans for people, Drew believes, good plans for those who fear him most. Drew, it surely was decided, would become a baseball player. A stinking rich baseball player.

"God has given me this ability for a very clear purpose," says Drew. "I believe the ultimate purpose--my ultimate purpose--is that he's using me as a podium for outreach. By the way I play the game I hope to lead others to Christ." Drew, speaking without much hesitation, then hesitates. "That's why I feel like some people, mostly people who've assumed stuff, don't really know who I am."

Here is what we do know. Drew, whom Cardinals general manager Walt Jocketty calls "a rare talent," is a lefthanded hitting five-tool player with Griffey-like potential. "With his extension and his swing, he shouldn't be either a .330 hitter with 15 home runs or a .230 hitter with 45," says Cardinals manager Tony La Russa. "He should hit for power and average." On the bases Drew has 40-steal capability, and La Russa considers him capable of playing all three outfield positions.

With a good spring training, he could wind up starting in the St. Louis outfield on Opening Day. But he was ripped by the media, major leaguers and fans after the Phillies made him the second pick in the June 1997 draft and were told by his agent, Scott Boras, that he would sign for no less than--can I hear you say Jee-sus!--$11 million. Boras informed Philadelphia G.M. Ed Wade that Drew was a very determined young man, a person who would stand up for certain beliefs. "I was made aware of my market value before the draft," says Drew, who rejected Philly's offer instantly, "and it was something I was very up-front and honest about. There are no hard feelings against the Phillies, but I felt very adamant."

For some strange reason this didn't sit too well with the City of Brotherly Love. A college kid demanding $11 million? Who the hell is J.D. Drew? Curt Schilling, the hard-throwing Phillies ace righthander, recommended that upon reaching the bigs Drew be issued a helmet with earflaps on both sides. Future Cardinals teammate Mark McGwire suggested a $250,000 cap for draft picks. Brian Jordan, another St. Louis star at the time, called Drew's demands "outrageous." Even on the Internet there is a Web site called The Top Ten Reasons to Hate J.D. Drew...and other ways to have fun at his expense!

"The way people reacted, I'm sure J.D. was a little surprised," says Johnson, a Texas Rangers farmhand who also played with Drew on the Peoria Javelinas in the fall league. "But there's something to be said for convictions. J.D. knew he could sign with the Phillies or wait another year and get $3 million more. People ripped him, but who wouldn't have done the same?"

So Drew played half the '97 season with the St. Paul Saints of the independent Northern League. In 44 games he smoked pitchers for a .341 average, 18 home runs and 50 RBIs. "I wasn't making much--about $700 a month--at St. Paul," he says. "Being there was what I believed to be right."

By not signing with the Phillies, Drew made himself eligible to reenter the draft, and last June he was selected fifth, by the Cardinals. After playing another 30 games with the Saints (batting .386 with nine homers), Drew signed a four-year contract with St. Louis for $7 million (including a $3 million signing bonus); with incentives Drew could earn $8.5 million. He was assigned to the Double A Arkansas Travelers, and in his debut, a July 4 road game against the Wichita Wranglers, Drew was greeted by hecklers and a stadium P.A. system that blared Dire Straits' Money for Nothing, the Steve Miller Band's Take the Money and Run and the Beatles' Money (That's What I Want) when he walked from the dugout to home plate. Drew didn't care. After hitting .328 in 19 games with the Travelers, he was promoted to the Triple A Memphis Redbirds and hit .316 in 26 games. On Sept. 7, Drew was summoned to the office of Gaylen Pitts, the Memphis manager, who told him he had been called up to the Show.

When Drew walked through the Cardinals' clubhouse at Busch Stadium the next day, passing players whose gazes were fixed on the new kid with the bad rep, "I was a little nervous," he admits. So what happened? "Nothing," he says. "Absolutely nothing." McGwire came over during batting practice and welcomed Drew. Jordan, Ron Gant, Ray Lankford, Delino DeShields and Bobby Witt did the same. "I was a little concerned how he'd be received," says La Russa, "but if you think about it, there aren't many major leaguers not saying, 'I deserve more.' I think the guys understood."

In his first major league at bat, against Chicago Cubs righthander Steve Trachsel, Drew did what humble rookies are supposed to. He struck out looking. "It was a changeup," he says, "and to tell you the truth, I wasn't upset. I was so nervous, I just wanted to get it done with."

Over the next three weeks Drew flat lucked out. Had his much anticipated arrival in the majors come at some other time or with most other teams, he would have been hounded by reporters and fans. In St. Louis in September, however, there was this little ol' home run chase going on. "I had a two-home-run game (against the Pittsburgh Pirates, on Sept. 15), and the same day McGwire homered, and nobody cared about me," says Drew. "It was great."

In Little Rock and Memphis, the teams had held press conferences upon his arrival. One night in Arkansas, Drew was still busy talking to reporters after the stadium lights had been shut off. "In St. Louis I would shower as quickly as I could, leave the clubhouse and have nobody stop me," he says. "Sometimes I didn't have to answer questions at all."

Ever since he had left Florida State--through all the negotiations and catcalls and long bus trips--Drew had been searching for serenity, the kind of peaceful existence he had experienced as a boy in Hahira, where he was always in school or playing sports or hunting deer or attending church every Wednesday and Sunday. Drew's parents, David and Libby, were strict with their three boys (Tim, 19, is a pitcher in the Cleveland Indians' system and Stephen, 15, plays shortstop on his high school team) and kept their lives uncomplicated. That's how Drew likes things: as simple as possible. With the Cardinals, things were simple. In 14 games he batted .417 with five home runs and 13 RBIs. The fans did not boo him. The media went easy. "From everything I saw," says his father, "he found a comfortable place to call home."

While Drew rents a town house in Tallahassee, Fla., he still considers Hahira home. During the winter he will play sports in the front yard, attend church and, if things get really dull, pop on the TV and see what's doing in Beverly Hills. "Stephen and I love to hunt, so that should be fun," he says. "It's been a draining year for me with everything that's gone on and everywhere I've been. I just need to rest."

There is ease in Drew's voice. He has no posse awaiting. He did not buy a Lexus. He is not talking Jesus today and snorting lines tomorrow. He is a simple kid with lots of money playing a game he is very good at. There are plenty of reasons to dislike him. Now try and find a good one.