REVIEW

CHAPTER TEN

CONFUSION

My career spanned over the course of nine years, I played
professional baseball from 1989 to 1998, and I would
dare say I spent 90 percent of those years with a chip on my
shoulder.

I can blame it on the instances of what I felt like were acts
of racism, the lack of compassion given to such a young player
in my situation, lack of guidance, my immaturity, and even my
undiagnosed depression, which exposed itself in sometimes
inadequate behavior.

I would roll all those different reasons up into one and call
it “confusion” because all in all, it was the confusion of my
world that kept me in this state of proverbial angst and with a
chip on my shoulder during the course of my career.

There was confusion with my desire to please the crowd and
do well for the team, but also to feel supported by the
organization.

I was supposed to be the "franchise player". The franchise
player is like the golden child of the organization; the Michael
Jordan of the team whom others come to see play specifically.
He is the nucleus of the team and normally the highest paid
with the all the endorsement deals. Organizations center all
hopes around him. He is expected to be there for years to
come.

I was supposed to be that guy.
But I didn't feel the support or the love of the Phillies
Organization.
For example, if I had a bad game, or a shitty week, where
perhaps I had five bad games in a row, I would be aware that I
was just exhausted or just needed to sit out one or two games
to get my head together. I would go and ask the manager for a
day off, and the answer would be "No. The brass said you have
to play every day.”

Not only did I get told "no," and be expected to play, but
would often be switched up first to bat, to lead off the game,
whereas I would normally bat in the 6th or 7th spot in the
lineup. It just seemed that there was no empathy.

Was I expected to get a day off as a paid player? Some
would say no, but it doesn‟t mean I didn‟t need it.

As I stated, there was no place to go for counseling or
mental support for me as a young player, while any advice
from older players, if ever given, was never good or motivating.

I would feel out of place often or feel like they wanted me to
fail and were trying to bury me.

Daily, I was beaten down psychologically by the boos and
jeers from the stadium heckling that expressed "We should
have never drafted you Jackson" or "We should have drafted
"Frank Thomas." Yes, I am speaking of "The Big Hurt" Frank
Thomas, the Chicago White Sox Hall of Famer. Yes, that guy! I
was drafted ahead of Frank. The Phillies had a chance to draft
him but picked me instead. I often wish the roles were
reversed and that I went to the White Sox and he went to the
Phillies. I was a hometown kid from Chicago, and they
probably would have invested more time and patience with
me.

Every bad game, my confidence would get worse. I know it
comes with the territory, but it would do something to my
psyche.

I expected to hear "boos" at the „away' games, but when it
happened at a home game where people were supposed to be
cheering you on, it was crushing. Some of it may have been in
my head. It is amazing how a thousand people could be
cheering you on, but my ears would only hear the one, two or
three naysayers. The booing and jeering always seemed to be
the loudest and what I took home with me every night.

I quoted in the newspaper about how I felt about I was
letting the fans and organization down...

Me quoted in the newspaper about how I felt about
the Frank Thomas comparisons...

It was all I heard and all I wanted to avoid, and being that I
couldn't avoid it, the depression was always calling me at some
point to go along with the pressure. The depression and
pressure had no positive outlets.

At its worse, it would lead me to thoughts of suicide. There
were days I just didn‟t want to wake up but never had any real
intent on actually hurting myself. I just wanted to escape it all.

The pressure to perform for myself and the team, not only as
a franchise player but just a player on the team in general, was
real. I needed to play at a level to not only please the fans but

also to play at a level to move up permanently to the Major
Leagues. I never saw the advancements for myself as I did for
others with less talent. It left me angry and hopeless, again
more confusion.

I felt pressure to put on a good performance and play well
for the fans that were there to cheer, criticize, and/or condemn
me. I also felt like I was playing in an organization that didn't
support me or encourages me to rise up thru the ranks. This is
all while the press was tearing me down with their high
expectations, and printing any and every bad press they could
muster.

The cycle would go something like this: I would notice how
some players with less talent getting promoted to higher A ball
levels who wasn't as good as me… or "booed" all night through
a shitty game … or perhaps just feel I was treated unfairly due
to several factors. It would either anger me or put more
pressure on me that I would resent.

I would go out and try to play harder, but fail at that
because anything you try to do out of desperation never quite

works. There is a saying in baseball, "it's harder to hit a home
run when you are trying to hit one." As a result, the boos, jeers,
and negative press would further trigger my depression or
anger. I used alcohol to manage the depression and anger that
would show up in my earlier years.

In my later years, alcohol, weed and womanizing became a
constant coping mechanism. Finally, my refusal to practice
during the winter off- season always caused more issues when
the next season began. The cycle would continue every year,
especially in my earlier years. Other factors, as a result of this
cycle, would develop and would play a role later in my
eventual departure.

It wasn't until years later, that I could see and understand
the truths of my journey.

There was confusion in the politics of the game
I thought baseball or your place in it, was all about talent. Boy
was I was wrong. Baseball was more than just a game. It was
politics at it's finest. It had a political component to it that no
one explained to the 17- year old in the beginning. Honestly, I
never understood the politics until after I was done playing.

As a result, I didn‟t play the politics that perhaps my white
teammates played that moved them up faster through the
system. I didn‟t laugh at the jokes and racial wisecracks, I
never hung out even though, I was asked to on several
occasions, and I didn‟t socialize with my teammates outside of
the game.

The pressure I put on myself made me serious about
playing the game, and that‟s all I was there to do. It was a

combination of certain factors that didn‟t make me feel
comfortable socialize off the field.

I didn‟t know how to break the tensions I felt from the first
time I walked on the field to begin my professional career, as
one of the only few black players in a predominantly all-white
Phillies organization.

I saw people rise up quick or move to higher A levels faster
than me. I would get pissed-off. In my mind, I thought I would

get even with the organization for not promoting me, I'd play a
bad game on purpose so we could lose thinking I was getting
even, but actually, I was only hurting myself, my own stats.

In the Phillies system, I didn‟t feel like I got a fair shot.
And people may say, “How can that be when I was the #1
draft pick?”
This is true, but I always felt I had to work ten times harder
than my white counterparts which increased my tension with
the team in general. If a white teammate did something, he was
rewarded quickly. I didn't feel as if that applied to me or other
players of color.
I still remember the straw that broke the camel's back.
There was a teammate named Kevin Stocker. He was a pretty
cool guy, a shortstop with nice hands and a decent bat, he was

the Phillies second-round pick in 1991. He was college guy a

little older than me. I saw him move up the ranks so fast. He
was drafted in 1991. By 1993 he was in the "show”, the major
leagues. He could have a year where he batted in the mid
.200, and next year he came back and moved up two levels.

If I had a year like that, my movement would not be that
fast. I moved up, but it seemed my white counterparts were

making double jumps. I would put more pressure on myself to
compete with that.

The article briefly details how Kevin Stocker moved
through the Phillies ranks to the Big Leagues...

There was confusion between what was considered my lack of
socializing with me being rebellious.

Was the racism that I was feeling real? Was being the butt
of jokes as regular horseplay just a norm that I never got used
to… real? I'd say yes, several things took place that shaped my
experience, with the Phillies, but my rebellion as a response to
it didn't help. I would gain a reputation as a hothead, towards
the end of my career because I responded negatively to the
"horseplay" or jokes.

I didn't like when the player spit tobacco on my shoe. I
didn't like when the plastic toy bats were left in the locker the

second day I arrived that I mentioned beforehand, or if
spitballs were thrown at my head while I slept on a bus ride to
and from the games "for fun" or "tradition." I'd shut the whole
bus down with my outbursts of anger because I simply didn't
get it. I will talk about that a little later.

My team only saw me on the field.
I can‟t say that my teammates didn‟t try to get to know me,
but I kept to myself because maybe I was afraid to allow them
to get to know the real me. I was a kid from the inner city. I
was aware of my differences.
Again the white teams back home where our adversaries
and the way I grew up engaging with white people was
different than what was in the league.
I talked differently. I walked differently. I dressed
differently, and I stayed in that place for a very long time.
Every day, I would go to the game, then come home and
drink beer. I would come back to my apartment and hang out
with my roommate and talk about the game amongst other
things. If you weren't my roommate, I didn't really hang out
with you off the field.
It came across as rebellion and arrogance. It didn‟t play
well in the politics.
I am sure it hurt my advancement in my baseball career.

There was confusion between my talent,
my arrogance and my need to decompress
At about 21, my career still wasn‟t where I wanted it to be, but
I saw the potential. By now it was 1993, that year I moved up

to Major League Spring Training Camp and I was placed on a
major league roster.

The minor league was the base camp for moving to the
major leagues. It was a big deal for me to be going to camp
with the major league team. However, I did what I always did

on my off-season in preparation for such a big deal- nothing!
I didn‟t work out.
I felt baseball was like riding a bike; once taught, you never

forget how! I felt that I was so talented that I didn‟t have to

work out. Besides, I never use to workout in the off-season
beforehand... 77.

I had this mentality, though I knew most of my teammates
were probably working out hard; this was part immaturity,
arrogance, and just a need to escape from the pressure I
carried during the season. It was part of my survival and sanity
misplaced all in the wrong direction.

I know now that if there was one winter off-season that I
should have worked out, this should have been the time to do
so.

It may have propelled me into the major leagues and
cemented my place permanently.

That is perhaps a regret that I can never go back and fix.
Again, there were no mentors for me on the field, or away from
the game, and nor did I know how to seek them if they did
exist. I was a kid when I started and I never quite grew up in
those areas while in the league.

There was confusion in what I should have been
doing during my off seasons and escapism

Again, the pressure was real and made me make bad decisions
sometimes. When you are running from it, you most likely will
run into some other "not so good things."

I had my vices that I indulged in.
When I went home in the off-season. I did not work out. I
felt like I just needed to breathe and relax. I didn't want to
hear, talk, play, or mention baseball. I wanted to decompress
from the game completely. I was under so much pressure out
on the road during the season that when I got home, I would let
loose and finally be normal and have some fun.
Not working out did not serve me at all, as I have admitted.
I knew what I should've been doing, but I just collapsed in my
freedom. It was pure escapism as a way to get away from the
pressure and out from under the depression I battled during
the season. I just didn‟t recognize it then.
My vices to deal with the pressure was womanizing, alcohol,
and eventually marijuana. It started with me drinking at least
two forty ounces of beer a day during the off-season. I put
down alcohol only because I began to take notice of my weight
gain. I remember making the conscious decision to use
marijuana instead of alcohol because I had a friend who had a
cousin that supplied it to me for free, I knew I needed
something to keep me moving. I could not deal with the
pressure on my own. I remember this being the thoughts of my
then 22-year-old mind.
Time was passing and I was getting older, but the bad
habits that I picked up as result of the pressure during that

time, did not. I partied with my friends, womanized, traveled,
and just did what I wanted during the off-season,

Everything…except for baseball.
At the time, I shared a home still with my parents. My mom
was protective of me in a sense that she was cool with me
doing most of my entertaining at home. The house was set in
such a way that she and my step-dad had their space and I had
mine. We respected each other's privacy.

Photographs of me with a few of my lady friends
during my "partying days" in the offseason...

I was free to do my vices in the home, and I think she
preferred it that way. My mom never condones any of my
behavior. In her mind, she was keeping me safe and protected

from the media and the streets. I mean, I wasn't just a
franchise with the Phillies, but a franchise player at home for
the household as well.

Honestly, after spending months and months away from
home playing ball mainly alone, under so much pressure, with
bouts of depression that came and went, I needed to be around
family. Theresa, my girlfriend at that time, would even come to
live with me and my family when she became pregnant with
my son, Jeff Jr., It was my family environment that helped heal
me and give me strength, through the tough times.

Over the years, as I would later wallow in my depression
and stagnation in life over my baseball career, the home would
shelter me through my transitions. My parents didn't have to
kick me out, but the signs would be there eventually. It was
time to grow; not as a baseball player, but as a man, and I did.

But for now, I was still a rebel. My parents, or co-habitants,
at this time, dared not tell me what to do partially because of
my monetary contributions. They also didn't know what to tell
me.

They didn't know how to push me to work out, or that I was
gaining weight from too much drinking and needed to stop or
else it would affect my career. They went along with the
perceived confidence I exhibited.

Looking back, there is no confusion
Hindsight is 20/20. I can see all of the external factors that I
had to endure while being with the Phillies. I can honestly say
that the experiences, both good or bad, made a man out of me

and taught me some valuable lessons in life that I will never
forget: lessons that I can pass down to my own children.

Perhaps, or maybe, I would have somehow grown through
the ills and pressures I was facing, if other internal factors had
not begun to happen. I found coping mechanisms for my
mental state, even if they were wrong, but when my physical
health began breaking down, I somehow knew it was about to
begin the true ending of my baseball career.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BAD SHOULDER

The reality is I played with pain from the very first year I
played in pro baseball at 17, the part of my body that gave
me problems was my groins.

I played with two sprained groins the first two years. Every
other week, I was spraining one or the other, consequently, I
played with the pain and kept quiet until it became
unbearable then I sought out treatment from the trainers.

At 19, one off-season, I took the advice of a trainer, went to
therapy and got treatment, they eventually grew stronger. It
was normal for an athlete to play with some pain at one point
in his career,

However, a few years later, I would start to feel the pain
transition to my right shoulder over the course of time. It was
the right shoulder, that took the notion of my inevitable pain to
a whole other level. It never got better over the years, no
matter how much shoulder treatment I got from trainers, and
eventually helped lead to the end of my career.

Honestly.
My disc in my right shoulder was sore at 20.
It was very painful at 22.
Completely obliterated by the time I was 26.
It got worse and worse, along with that, I wasn’t exercising
or taking care of my body! I was to busy partying with my
friends and traveling the country.
Though my shoulder was the issue, and I should have been
focusing on that in the off-season, I was only worried about my
hands.
The only workout or prep I would do in the off-season was
going to the batting cage, one week before reporting to spring
training. I’d practice a few times that week to avoid having
calloused hands when I showed up to camp to take batting
practice. I at least wanted to be prepared for that!
I needed tougher hands, I told myself.
I thought I didn't need to work out, I never worked out in
the off-season when I was younger. When the season started
back then, we would just stretch and go play, that's how I was

brought up so I didn't feel the need to change things. It wasn't
until I left the Phillies when I started to implement an off-
season work out routine, by that time it was too late.

Or perhaps, maybe I was blocking out the pain I didn’t want
to deal with. Mentally and physically.

In my mind, I had a plan to get through the pain.
I played with that progressively bad shoulder my whole
career. I kept the magnitude of the pain away from the Phillies
and any new team that would come to sign me up in the future.
I did so by taking excessive amounts of ibuprofen daily and
what we called "greenies," back in my day, If not, I wouldn't be
able to throw or play and definitely wouldn't have been able to
hide it, I'd be doomed.
So, from the age of 20 until the end of my career, I had to
play with two greenies and about 6 ibuprofen before each
game.
I got greenies from truck stops, whenever the team was
traveling on the road and we had to make a rest stop, I would

cop a bottle or two. Truckers would take these pills to help
them focus and to stay awake at night while they were
traveling on the roads. They were illegal in baseball I'm sure,
however, they took away the pain and gave me energy and the
strength I needed to get through the season.

I had to have them.
The greenies would make the pain disappear, and they
would have you feeling as powerful as Superman until of
course, they wore off! Once the greenies were out my system, it
would feel ten times worse than it did before. It would feel like
my shoulder was hanging off the socket.

Photograph of me fouling off a pitch against the Yankees...
Photograph of me taking a hack against the Indians...

Excruciating pain.
I’d do it all again the next day.
I just endured the process.
Why?
I didn't want surgery because I didn't want to be labeled as

"bad goods". Surgery would have definitely placed that label

on me, as "bad goods," and the major league's opportunities
would be gone. I wanted to wait until I got to the major leagues
where the money was guaranteed before I let the cat out the
bag about my shoulder because the surgery would be paid for,
and my future would be set, one way or the other.

I couldn’t afford that information being out about my
shoulder.

So, I sucked up the pain, however, it got worse by the time I
was 22.

It had gotten so bad after I left the Phillies, that I went to
see a doctor in the off-season and he actually suggested I
needed surgery.

I was not sold on doing that, at least not before the major
leagues.

There was no guarantee that the surgery would work for me
anyhow. I couldn’t risk it.

So I passed on it!
But in 1995, things changed, and my little secret about my
shoulder was revealed.



CHAPTER TWELVE

RULE 5 DRAFT

The MLB had two new franchises the Florida Marlins and
the Colorado Rockies developing and coming into in the
league, and they had what was called a rule 5 draft. And in
this case of the rule 5 draft, if a team didn't protect you on a
big league roster, you could be picked up by another team.

With being a new franchise, they already wanted
experienced professional players, so that they can build their
new organization rather quickly. New franchises, in this case,
could take your players from other organizations if they were
left unprotected.

The Phillies didn’t protect me on the major league roster in
1995 as they had in 1993 and 1994. Left unprotected, I was

selected in the 1st round of the winter draft that off-season by
the Seattle Mariners. I eventually set out that season and did
not play, due to my shoulder problems.

I showed up to camp with my bad shoulder, and I had to let
them know because I literally could not throw a baseball
because my shoulder was in so much pain. The Seattle
Mariners are in the American league, and this is different from
the Philadelphia Phillies, who were a National League team.

I thought this was to my advantage. Wait! Let me explain.
In the National Leagues, there is no 'DH', a designated
hitter, so everyone has to bat, including the pitcher.
However!... In the American Leagues, the pitchers didn't
have to bat, only pitched. They were only paid to do that, and
that only.
So I thought I could become a 'DH' with Seattle Mariners; I
could just hit and avoid playing the outfield; so I didn’t have
to use my shoulder as much as I did in the past. I wasn’t a
pitcher so I wouldn’t use my arm much anyway.
They let me 'DH' the whole time in spring training and I
was actually hitting very well. I'm sure they didn’t plan on
having me to be a DH, but I planned on being a DH thinking I
would be getting over. I played a lot of games with my own
mind, again the sign of youthful immaturity and ego.
The Seattle Mariners knew the play, and the joke was on
me. They saw me getting treatment on my shoulder every day,
and they also probably knew that if I made it to the major
leagues, they would have to pay me, pay for the surgery and
anything that came with it.
They put a stop to that!

Two weeks before spring training was over and the regular
season started, I was called in the office and cut from the
team.

I asked why?
They told me they knew I had a bad shoulder and that I was
a liability.
I was supposed to play in Triple-A, making $7000 a month
that year. I thought it would be a good upcoming season.
Consequently, it wasn't. I got released!

So, I went back home again in waiting, I went back to
drinking, smoking, chasing women, traveling, and not
practicing nor taking care of my body.

I would go on to play for the rest of my career, never getting
that shoulder fixed. How’d I managed to do that?

Teams knew I had great talent, and I was a good player, but
just couldn't figure out why I couldn't put it together.

This is why I am writing this book, to explain my side and
give people answers!

Each team that would sign me after the Phillies, I assume
wanted to be the one organization to take the credit for getting
me together and bringing out my true talent as a player.

A letter from The Seattle Mariners about my insurance
benefits, after my release from the team...

I'm sure it was my potential that kept the teams calling...
But the Seattle Mariners figured me out.
Furthermore, it was more than just my bad shoulder, but
now a bad reputation was starting to develop.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BAD ATTITUDE

The word on the street was that I had a bad attitude.
I admit I used to snap sometimes, due to my frustration.
I admit I was moody as well, at times.
I assume it was the snapping and moodiness that helped to
spread the rumor that I was using cocaine, even though I never
did coke a day in my life.

And never will!
It was the pressure that had finally built up and released
itself on my teammates, organization and even sometimes the
heckling fans.

It was the unfairness; I felt I was experiencing from the
organization, along with all the build-up pressure I placed on
my shoulders.

I would come back to spring training each year expecting
some bullshit! An example would be; I would play on the high

A-ball team the whole spring training and play well, when it

would be time to break camp and begin the regular season,
they would place me back on a lower A-ball team after I
played well the whole spring with a certain group of guys and
developed friendships. The coaches moving me to low A ball
from high A ball even though I was playing well with the
excuse, "he's still young, he's got time."

They'd then replace me with a player who was older than
me to move up to high A-ball because "he didn't have as much
time." It was as if the Phillies felt I didn't need to move up as

quickly as someone older than I did. It was unfair so, I came
ready to give it to them, combative with the chip on my
shoulder, every spring!

They'd piss me off, and I'd go into playing bad on purpose,
sometime. If I were mad, I would call myself taking it out on
the team by not producing. I'd strike out three times and not
care. I know that it is wrong now, But I felt I had no other way
to fight back.

Considering that baseball is as much about the individual
successes as it is the team, I played myself. If I look back at
my stats which I am not necessarily proud of, I know some of
them were influenced by this “attitude” of mine.

It started my first year, but that chip grew worse every year.
I was always expecting the silly games and things I considered
bullshit politics.

I played off emotion. My moodiness was directly related to
the outcome of my game.

If I had a bad game, I was especially moody. I couldn’t
separate the two.

While it seemed my other teammates could go on after a
bad game not phased, I would sulk. I would shut down, and if
provoked I could snap, and I did a couple of times.

Two instances stand out in my mind.
I had a bad game. I remember this Dominican player on my
team was teasing me, innocent fun, just being silly, on a bus to
go back to the hotel after I had a bad game.
I took it like I am not to be played with at this time.
I got up snapped on him, "YO STOP PLAYING WITH ME
BEFORE I BEAT YOUR ASS," and turned and looked back at
the whole bus full of college-aged guys and other older
teammates and made a scene...
“AND THAT GOES FOR ANYONE ON THIS GODDAMN
BUS…. IM TIRED OF YALL SHIT… TIRED OF PLAYING
WITH YALL MOTHERFUCKERS… AND IF ANYBODY
GOT A PROBLEM WITH ME, LET’S HANDLE IT NOW”.
Everyone stared at me like what-the-heck –is- wrong- with-
you?!
This was my rookie year.
As time passed, the pressure built.

That anger went to anyone that was shit talking or cracking
jokes. I was from the south side of Chicago, I perceived it as
fighting words.

At about 22, I started attacking people whom I felt were
attacking me even more aggressively, it seemed. I was tired of
people talking shit. I had been hearing and reading crap in the
newspapers for three or four years now.

Once, I had a bad game at home. I had just struck out, and
I am going back to my position in left field. I was already
pissed off, and unbeknownst to me, I had about 5 off-duty
cops, who were drunk as hell, begin to heckle me. They were
calling me every type of name under the sun and just talking
trash, but to themselves, having a good time,

“YO, JEFF JACKSON, YOU A BUM, YOU SUCK, WE
SHOULD HAVE DRAFTED FRANK THOMAS… WE DON’T
WANT YOU “, and I snapped again.

I hollered back. “FUCK YOU…. FUCK THAT….. I WILL
COME UP THERE AND WHIP YOUR ASS…..I WILL KICK
YOUR ASS…. COME DOWN HERE”… etc. etc.

I snapped so hard with full attention on these five guys with
my back turned away from the game. I snapped so long that I
was oblivious to the fact that not only was I holding up the
game, but when I finally calmed down, I turned around, my
coach was standing out of the dug-out, and the whole stadium
was watching me with pure bewilderment and shock.

After that game the next day, there was an article printed in
the newspaper about that incident that took place between the
fans and I the night before, and all the pressure I was dealing
with in an article titled "Days Numbered".

Newspaper article detailing my incident with the fans and how I'm
unhappy playing with the Phillies.

Another time, I was going into the locker room, and a fan was
talking trash, so, I literally started chasing him. My teammates
had to hold me back.

My reputation of a “bad attitude” was cemented after so
many years.

I guess I'd have to say it destroyed whatever was left of my
career with the Phillies.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE EXPLOSION

Between the bad shoulder and the bad attitude, my career
was virtually on it's way too being over.
I was able to sustain my bad shoulder with drugs, the
infamous greenies, and ibuprofen, I made it through a few
more seasons with different teams but, they all had the result
of me getting cut or released from the team sooner than later.

I was getting tired of that as well. The last team I officially
played for was with the Massachusetts Muddogs. An
independent team in Lynn, Massachusetts.

I begin playing well, but I remember getting pissed off
about something the coach said. I started playing badly for all
my usual reasons, things in my control and out.

By this time, I had gotten cut 3 times within the season.
I started the season with the Pittsburgh Pirates. I played
with them for about two months before being released.
Because I started to rebel again, by not taking infield practice
and treating batting practice like it was a home run derby after
I was taken out of the starting line up after an injury to my
elbow.
I went home for a week, before the Fargo Redhawks in the
Northern League, another independent league, called me to
play.
This was a popular team that a lot of former Major Leaguers
went to play that either retired, or had an intent to go back to
the Major Leagues, so it was a good move for me.
I got released there after about one month as well.
Now after the third cut with the Massachusetts Muddogs, I
was thinking, “How can I go home? My family and friends are
going to think I can’t play ball,” and again I felt as though I
was letting everyone down.
So, instead of taking the plane ticket that the team would
regularly pay for and just go home and face the
embarrassment, I decided to take the cash and stay in town for
a while.

Me at-bat with the Lynchburg Hillcats,
Pittsburg Pirates Organization...

Me at-bat with the Fago Redhawks Independent
Northern League team...

I had met this young lady name Mindy, who I thought was cool
and funny she also lived in the area where we played. She had
her own place, and I liked her. I figured I would stay for two
weeks with this girl, or, at least for the rest of the season.

I didn't want people to know I got released. I should have
gone home to my girlfriend Maahra, but I had my pride and
ego in the way.

And as usual, I could always count on a woman as a
distraction or a comfort.

This young lady’s family, in particular, had a decent
amount of money and they owned a summer home in New
Hampshire.

A picture of me in the newspaper making a catch at the wall with
Massachusetts Mad Dogs in the North Atlantic League...

So, we decided to get away and go to the summer home for the
weekend after I got released from the Mad Dogs, so I could
relax, chill and take my mind off of things.

We were hanging out one day at the house and decided to
go rent jet skis.

I can remember it like yesterday.
We were in the water having fun for hours! We were having
a good time riding the jet skis, racing each other and doing
tricks, then out of nowhere...
The Jet Ski I was on blew up!
I felt like I had died. The rental company had dropped the
Jet Ski off at 11 a.m. They bid us adieu and told us to be safe
and just make sure the Jet Skis were filled up with gas before
we returned them back to the rental company at 5 p.m. that
evening.
As I said, we were having a good time.
At about 4:30 pm, we decided to go for one more last ride
on the Jet Skis. But first, we had to go fill them up with gas at

the fueling station in the water at the other end of the lake.
I had already filled the young lady's Jet Ski up with gas,

and she jumped on it and started speeding off. She was just
goofing around waiting for me. I had just finished filling my jet
ski up, but it was not starting. It hit the start button, but it was
not working.

I remembered that the guy who dropped them off gave us
instructions about what to do if they don’t start.

He said sometimes it stalls out. If so, use the choke button.
It's a button that pushes the water out of the engine and that
should get it started.

Me pictured standing on my jet ski shortly before it blew up...

I proceeded to follow his instructions.
I choked it a few times, and though it was cranking a bit,

giving me the impression that it would start, it didn't.
By this time, the young lady noticed that I had not caught

up with her as I was waving my arms trying to get her attention
to come back. She begins to circle back.

She was about 25 yards away as I began the choking
procedure again. I hit the starter button again.

I heard the clicking sound, and the next thing I know, I
heard a blast and I went flying in the air.

I hit the water, and all I saw was darkness.
I thought I had blown off my legs as everything was numb
from my waist down! At the same time, I was in darkness,
aware that my mind was working but nothing else.
And even though I had on a life vest, the impact from the
blast had still pulled me under water. I am not aware if I was
drowning or not, I was just in the moment, going with the flow.
I was in darkness, and I just let go because it was the best
feeling I had ever felt, as if I was on a drug in the darkness.
I could feel this sleepy drug-like feeling that I was just
submitting to.
And all of a sudden, my mind said, FUCK THIS SHIT, and
I just started kicking, not sure of which direction, but I was
kicking with all I had. I came up from under the water and
took the deepest breath that I ever took in my life.
I must have been under the water for a long time because
by the time I came up, two guys in a canoe, who had been
looking for me to resurface, grabbed me as if they were angels
sent by God himself to save me.

Consultation summary report of my jet ski accident…

They took me to shore.
By the time I got to the shore, the ambulance and the fire

trucks were there waiting.
The fire trucks happen to be there on the shore doing a fire

drill. I know now they were angels placed specifically to help
me. They said they had heard the blast from the other side of
the lake and came immediately.

They worked on me, checking to see if all my limbs worked.
I knew I had bit my tongue, but I actually thought I had bit my
tongue completely off. It was completely numb. I actually

asked in my delirium if I still had my tongue, they laughed
and confirmed that I did, luckily.

The people and paramedics took the best care of me. They
took me to a hospital in another state, Portland Maine, to
specialists immediately.

They said they felt I had to be someone important when
they saved me that day, as there were no other black people
around that area and I was there with this white woman. To
them, I was someone special, and they treated me as such.

I was so tired during this whole process. I will never forget
the woman who was the paramedic, I don't remember her
name, however, she talked to me the whole time while I was in
transition to the hospital to keep me from falling asleep.

They say if you fall asleep after a trauma, it's a chance you
can slip into a coma and may never wake up, and that is what
she suspected too. She asked me questions about every part of
my life. She wanted to know my mother's name, where I was
from, and everything in between.

I remember just being so annoyed with her! I was at my wits
an just wanted to fall into a deep sleep. She kept shaking and
tugging me to keep me up. She knew better than me I suppose.
She assisted in saving my life, and I will forever be grateful to
her.

I ended up in a hospital in Portland, Maine in a room with a
front row view overlooking a baseball stadium that I had
played in four years earlier, how ironic.

Another highlight was that my hospital roommate was an
heir to the Spaulding fortune, the athletic brand.

His great-grandfather had started the company.
I guess God has a sense of humor, even when he is saving
your life.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

GAME OVER, PEACEFUL EXIT

God has always been real in my life.
I prayed many nights to get drafted, and he answered. Not
only did God answer my prayers, but in my opinion he over
delivered. I never prayed to be a number one draft pick I just
wanted the opportunity to play pro ball.

Over the years, I wholeheartedly admit that I had gotten
away from God after my prayers were answered.

He graciously sent me warnings but I ignored them.
I will never forget that one winter I was home in the off-
season. My friend's mom made a note to mention to me that

she noticed that when I did my interviews in high school, I
always mentioned God, and now she noticed, as of late, I did
not as much.

She had been watching me closely as all angels do, and she
had a word for me that day, but I brushed off her revelation.
Yet she was telling the truth.

I knew it. I felt it. I just couldn’t psychologically wrap my
head around it. I was to busy dealing with the pressure from

the fans and media, to do so.
The explosion was another warning.
And it was through the grace of God; I didn't die or need

back surgery, though I had fractured my back in two places
and had to wear a back brace for a few months.

I went home, and again, I didn’t do any exercise or do any
therapy.

I didn’t want to raise any eyebrows to let anyone know I was
hurt.

Instead, I chilled, and in 4 months, I showed up for spring
training down in Baseball City Fl. to attempt a comeback as if
nothing had happened, with a bad shoulder and now, a bad
back.

But this time I felt different.
I had a spiritual awakening as a result of my jet ski
explosion.
I don’t know how I didn’t die when I was literally sitting on
an exploding Jet Ski.
I could walk, talk, and needed no surgery. I didn’t even
have a scratch on my body! It affected me profoundly.

After that, I paid more attention to what God was trying to
tell me this time.

A change had to take place.
A change was going to take place. And it did!
I stopped eating any meat other than fish. I started talking
to God more and felt the need to begin growing dreadlocks and
reading a lot of spiritual literature.
Dreadlocks for me, at first, was something I was just
compelled to do. It was part of this new journey or form of new
enlightenment I was experiencing. I would realize later; it was
about something much deeper; a way of shedding the old Jeff
and forming a new one.
I returned to spring training the next season, with a contract
from the Atlantic League, another Independent league, but this
time with my dreadlocks. Considering my bad reputation
already, my dreadlocks were taken the wrong way.
They must have thought I was coming with more extreme
behavior; I was actually coming in peace.
To them, I was still a problem kid, a rebel I guess.
They let me play the whole spring training, and I was
playing great! Once again, they told me that I had tremendous
talent. Yet, they said, as they released me, they didn’t have a
place for me on the team. Although, I'm pretty sure it was

because of my hairstyle.
So, I went home again.
And….the cycle just continued, but I did not.
This time I got a call from an independent team in

Schaumburg, Illinois. Schaumburg is a suburb surrounding my
hometown of Chicago.

It was close to my home in Oak Park, but by that time I had
completely lost the love for the game, and the passion wasn't
there anymore, plus my daughter had just been born, so I
turned down the contract offer to play for the team.

I didn’t know if, at the time, it was a mistake, but what I
did know is I couldn’t do it anymore.

In my mind, I was done with baseball.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ENCORE

Fast forward two years later.
By now, I'm still not working a job or coaching, I would
live off savings from my playing days and a settlement I
received from the Jet Ski explosion.

I stayed home and raised my daughter Asia while my
significant other, Maarha, worked a high paying job that
supported us for the most part, at this time.

We balanced each other out.
She was very supportive of our arrangement together, but
she knew I had grown unhappy or at least, dissatisfied with not
being as productive as I would like, as I was still licking the
wounds of my failed baseball career.

So, after two long years, after some spiritual growth and
maturity of my own…

After finally taking my workouts seriously, and dedicating
myself to working on my body and building my physical and
mental strength up strong…

I decided to try to attempt a comeback.
However, by now, the phone calls from teams had stopped,
so I had to take matters in my own hands, I hopped on a
Greyhound bus, a two-day ride to go to open tryouts with
another independent league in Ft. Lauderdale, Fl.

Now, if you asked me at that time, I am Jeff Jackson, so
there has been always a place for me in baseball. At least
that's what I thought!

So, I packed my bags again, kissed Maahra and the baby
goodbye, and put myself on a bus with $100 in my pocket.

I figured I wouldn’t see them again for months, feeling
assured that I was gonna make a team and have a contract
signed before we broke camp.

I arrived, and as usual, I played well. I moved along with no
one recognizing me at first.

It wasn’t until they started going around asking various
players their names and experience, did things get a little
interesting.

Upon one of the coaches hearing my name, he left and
disappeared for a few minutes, only to return and ask that I
come out of the line. I assumed that now that they knew I was
Jeff Jackson.

Me taking a swing in the Home Run Derby at
The Heartland League All-Star Game......

I assumed that revelation meant I didn't have to go through the
various training and try out routines as the others.

I assumed they'd just place me on a team right then, right
there. This time, it really was different.

This time…
They sent me home before I could even take batting
practice.
Now in my mind, and in my heart as well, I knew right then
and there, I was done officially with baseball. I never played
again from that day!
Maybe my teammate Nick "Angel" Delgado, whom I played
with on the Will County Cheetah's, was right.
He once told me the devil was trying to destroy me. Now at
the time, I thought he was certified crazy. I didn't know what to
make of his statement, so I brushed him off and he never
mentioned it again.
Fast forward to about 2016; I discovered that someone had
created a Wikipedia page about me. Surprisingly, it had me
listed to have played in exactly 666 games in my entire
professional baseball career. 666? Isn't that the devil's
numbers? Coincidence? Needless to say, it scared me a little
bit.
Well, that's a life over now, and ironically, before
discovering that particular stat, I never once missed the game
or had the urge to play, coach, scout, or even be a part of
baseball ever again…not even to this day! Some people think
I'm crazy for not taking advantage of the baseball opportunities
that have presented their self to me over the years...but I have
my own reasons, clearly!