Pitching Like José Alvarado

A 12-Year-Old Fan, a Faltering Idol, and the Fragile Line Between Imitation and Truth

Phillies pitcher Jose Alvarado, right, meets with 12-year-old fan Princeton Bailey, who went viral for imitating Alvarado pitching. (Photo by Alex Coffey, The Philadelphia Inquirer)

I looked up to my big brother, the same brother that put a bat in my hands as soon as I could walk. We would play outside until we could hardly see anything. The only light guiding us was a dim bulb inside the lantern post that held our street number: 619.

It was on that cul-de-sac where I fell in love with baseball, base by base, following a path my brother had carefully laid out for me. One that was written on the front of a giant scorebook.

From that foundation of brotherly love and front yard games, my dedication to the sport took root. And I bestowed that devotion on the Philadelphia Phillies, mostly because they had the coolest road uniforms. There is something liberating about choosing your favorite team. Suddenly, all of your love and loyalty can flow in one direction.

Then came the players. Dave Cash, Mike Schmidt, Garry Maddox, Steve Carlton. It was a golden era when the Phillies were one of the best teams in baseball. My allegiance made me an outlier as a North Jersey kid in Mets and Yankees territory. But I did not mind the isolation. My fandom had formed when I was so young that as soon as I was no longer interested in eating crayons, I was trying to use them to keep score.

I imitated those players constantly during my Wiffle Ball battles with my brother in that front yard. The light post and tree marked one boundary, the giant hedges and telephone pole made another. I mimicked the batting stances of every player I saw, Phillies or not.

My parents were intentional about drawing the line between hero and idol. They surrounded me with scientists, lawyers, physicians, activists, teachers, spiritual leaders—people of character from every field. I learned early on that these were the people who made communities hum, who defended and educated, who protected and listened.

But still, I loved my Phillies.

And no, I did not go to Penn because of the Phillies, but it was a bonus.

In 1991, the Phillies passed on me in the first round of the draft. But I was thrilled to join the Cubs, a team that had once been dubbed “Phillies West” thanks to Dallas Green bringing so many former Phillies to Chicago.

Then in 1997, the Cubs traded me to the Phillies. For the next six out of seven years, I wore the uniform of my childhood team. I even met the players I had admired as a kid—whether in the dugout, in the clubhouse, or as coaches, managers, and administrators. Unser, Gross, Bowa. Mind-blowing.

It was not hard to grasp that these men were human and far from perfect. To elevate them to idols would have invited heartbreak. After all, I had become a player too, and I knew I would make plenty of my own mistakes, or at the very least, make choices that would not always align with a young fan’s or their parents' expectations.

There is pressure in that, but it felt like a gift. When the Texas Rangers asked me to partner with their Good Grades Club, I loved getting report cards in the mail and rewarding young fans with tickets and other gear for their straight A’s.

But when we fall short, the fallout spreads far beyond ourselves. It ripples through fandom. Through family.

Recently, Phillies reliever José Alvarado tested positive for a performance-enhancing drug. And on May 18, Major League Baseball announced his 80-game suspension and playoff ineligibility. A personally devastating and professionally crushing outcome for him. For a team that was counting on him, it is a significant blow. And for fans, it reignites the lingering questions that sit just below the surface about the game’s authenticity. But the impact does not end there. Teammates and opposing players are left to wonder if their own efforts to play clean and within the rules will ever be given a fair chance, undermining the trust that fair competition demands.

Alvarado is a towering lefty who throws the ball 100 mph. He has been a dominant presence in the Phillies bullpen and his affable personality in the clubhouse made his bead-making hobby a hit with his teammates. This season, he received national attention not just for his arm, but for the bond he built with a young fan who mimicked his delivery from the stands. The connection moved Alvarado so deeply that he arranged to meet the boy. The Phillies made it happen.

This story hit me hard. I saw myself in that fan. Twelve years old. A young Black Phillies die-hard admirer who had fallen in love with the game and its heroes. I did not get to see many Phillies games growing up, unless they were playing the Mets. But in our front yard, I was Von Hayes, spread out with a flat bat, or Juan Samuel, quiet and explosive, or Mike Schmidt, plate tap and hips wagging, or Garry Maddox, closed stance, or Steve Carlton, drop the glove and raise the leg. It was like clockwork.

In fact, I kept a piece of Mike Schmidt’s ritual for my entire career by tapping the plate before every pitch. These Phillies were in my blood.

Even now, at 54 years old, with three decades in the game as a player and a journalist, the Alvarado news shook me. Horror. Anger. Sympathy. Dread. I imagined what it would have been like for me if I had met my Phillies champions at a young age. And I could not stop thinking about that young kid and what he might be feeling. What someone would say to him. Who that someone would even be.

I imagined leading that conversation myself. Talking to my younger self about Alvarado’s suspension.

I would tell him that I chose to play clean. That I always believed PEDs were a form of cheating. But over time, I have come to understand that the motivations for using them are varied—and deeply human.

This does not excuse the choice to use them. But it does broaden the perspective.

I was competitive in those Wiffle Ball games with my brother, just as I was in my Strat-O-Matic games. And later, when I put on a real Phillies jersey, I understood what competition truly meant. For me, it was about pride, honor, and fairness. It was something to uphold. I wanted to follow the rules and most importantly, I embraced the idea that the game should be fair for everyone. I wanted to see how far I could go with what I had in work ethic, knowledge, training, and mentorship. All that I could do without enhancement.

Over my career, I learned the stories of players raised with nothing, whose families were in desperate need. They grew up in places where playing baseball was a potential ticket out. Kids who were pressured, sometimes in their early teens, to become breadwinners for their families. To take shortcuts. When I was 12 and waiting for an autograph, they were deciding whether to risk their health and reputation for survival.

And once you go down that road, it owns you. The money, the contract, the World Series ring. The enhancement becomes your prison.

But that story is not the only story. There are also those driven by greed and ego. Players with athletic talent and every resource imaginable who simply wanted to dominate forever and did not care how.

It is near impossible to compare a teammate raised without running water, responsible for his entire family, to a second-generation star who already had it all and just wanted more.

Regardless of the motivations, the ripple effects are real. They alter expectations across the league. For everyone—those who use PEDs and those who play clean. Suddenly, power is required at every position. Defense becomes an afterthought, no longer as valuable. Facing juiced pitchers becomes a different kind of battle. Now, you are not just competing against the other team. Even within your own clubhouse, you are competing for jobs. Anyone with an unfair advantage tips the balance.

So, we must decide. What kind of game do we want to celebrate?

The head of Phillies baseball operations relayed Alvarado’s reasons, and the Phillies have stood by him. Whatever the truth is, he will need support if he is going to come back changed by this experience. I hope he finds a way to connect with that young fan again. It could matter more than he realizes. A 12-year-old might carry enough forgiveness in his heart to change a man’s life. Or maybe he does not feel an apology is even necessary. Sometimes, love does not ask for one.

It is possible that PED usage is unintentional. A tainted supplement, a mislabeled product, or a simple oversight. Accidents do happen. But, ultimately the responsibility is the player’s, and the consequences can be just as costly.

The debate about whether athletes are role models will always flare up. But to me, it was always clear: we are. In fact, we are often more than that. We carry histories on our backs, and across our chests. When I played for the Phillies, some family that lived in Philadelphia, and who had boycotted the team for decades after how the Phillies treated Jackie Robinson, came to Veterans Stadium to support me. My presence on the team became a form of forgiveness for an entire organization with a painful past. That is incredibly powerful.

We all carry the burdens and blessings of where we come from and the families that shaped us. We push ourselves to succeed though few understand the toll it takes, what it feels like to face the best, every single day. It is exhausting. It is exhilarating. And sometimes, it can break you.

Desperation is never far away, and many are willing to cut a corner to get the reward, especially when it feels like everyone else is doing it too.

Nevertheless, it is most often a choice. Many players chose to play clean, holding onto the vision of a fair game. Even when that dream does not come true, we wait for another day.

It is hard to tell a young fan that he is enough, especially when adults are not playing fairly. That he has the tools he needs within him. That what he cannot find inside can be found in others: love, support, encouragement, and guidance. And that doing your absolute best is always worth it. Even if someone else takes a shortcut.

I do not know what comes next for Alvarado. Beyond the lost salary, he still has part of the season when he returns and a chance to be inspired by that young fan who saw something special in him. What he does with that inspiration, only time will tell.

But I hope the news does not deter him from his love of the game. I hope he listens if given the chance, and forgives if he can, or if he feels he must.

I also hope the Phillies, and Alvarado himself, make the effort to engage with him. There is heroism in that gesture.

And most of all, I hope this young fan still finds other heroes. Because there are many in this beautiful game. If he loves the Phillies, then the love has already spread across the team, the history, and the moments it brings.

When one hero falters, it does not mean the story ends. Sometimes, it is in those moments that another steps forward to remind us of the importance of believing in the best of us. And sometimes, the one who stumbled may find his footing again and, shaped by the journey, become a new kind of hero—wiser, humbler, and perhaps even more inspiring. Because in this game, and in life, redemption is possible.