Padecky: Athletes’ mental health a conversation worth having

Oh, how wrong this is, how really wrong this is, for tennis player Naomi Osaka to admit she has a mental health issue. Naomi knows she is not allowed.

Athletes are supposed to take us away from our troubles. The playing of a sport is hypnotic. We leave the mortgage or the egocentric boss or that damn commute and watch OUR player and OUR team. They need us, right? They raise their hands, palms up, asking us to yell louder. What a seduction. They can’t win without us.

The images are hard to resist. They vacation in the Alps. They make a million bucks selling toothpaste for 30 seconds on television. Presidents ask them over for dinner.

If they have a problem, they’ll pay someone to fix it. Isn’t that what money is for, anyway? Isn’t that the American dream, having enough money you can light a cigar with a $100 bill? They have a fan club eager to buy a personally autographed $100 picture of their hero skiing in the Italian Alps.

What if the problem is a bit more complicated? What if the problem is sitting in front of a locker in a baseball clubhouse and crying?

That’s how the Houston Astros found Mike Ivie one day in their clubhouse. Remember Ivie, the former San Francisco Giant, the best schoolboy catcher since Johnny Bench, the man who became so tangled up inside he had trouble throwing the ball back to the pitcher? Remember what the Astros said about Ivie — he was emotionally unstable?

It was the expectations placed on him, Ivie said. To be the next Johnny Bench. He had the looks, the country-boy charm and Thor’s hammer for a bat. Of course, Ivie was a premier athlete and premier athletes all have one thing in common — willpower. They overcome adversity. Nothing that can’t be analyzed and handled.

Weakness? Just mention the word in a clubhouse and the room will scatter like someone sneezed the virus. Weakness is the very antithesis of what an athlete needs to project. Doesn’t matter if it’s a world-class tennis player like Osaka or someone playing Little League baseball in your hometown. Ignore doubt. My high school locker room had a sign above the exit door just before sprinting outside: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

Whatever has to be said, don’t say it directly. Golfers have the yips when trying to putt. Athletes are prepackaged super heroes. Their Teflon hide takes care of any doubt, it just washes away. This is as close as I’ve ever heard it described: former Giants manager Roger Craig said there are hitters who hit .350 in the first three innings, .280 in the middle three innings and .200 in the final three, especially with the game on the line. Could he mention anyone on the Giants who fit that category? Roger sniffed in response.

We have come to expect the exception as the rule for a professional athlete. None more dramatic than this: 49er defensive back Ronnie Lott didn’t miss a game even after having his pinkie finger amputated.

So how do we handle athletes with mental health issues? This is not a random, isolated question. “Athletes For Hope” is a nonprofit that works to educate professional athletes on a variety of issues. “Thirty-five percent of elite athletes suffer from a mental health crisis which may manifest itself in a variety of ways: stress, eating disorders, burnout, depression, anxiety,” the organization notes.

Does that mean 35% of NFL players sit in front of their locker crying? Of course not. But only those who still get their mail and information by Pony Express would not be aware of the marked uptick in the hot light of the spotlight shining on athletes.

The Brooklyn Nets’ Kyrie Irving has stopped talking to the media: “I do not talk to pawns. Stop distracting me and my team.”

Philadelphia Eagles defensive tackle Andre Dillard, bothered by criticism, has quit social media: “It’s all noise.”

The most decorated Olympic athlete in history, swimmer Michael Phelps, has been battling depression for years and during the pandemic, he told ESPN: “There are times where I feel absolutely worthless.”

Staying away from crowds when off the field or off the court long has been strategy for athletes uncomfortable in the media spotlight. When 49ers quarterback Joe Montana was at the height of his fame in the ʼ80s, he would hire someone to go shopping for himself and Jennifer.

Now the public stare is more intense, if only for all the trivia it provides. Some athletes have no trouble providing glimpses of puff. Arizona quarterback Kyle Murray, for example, recently explained why he didn’t grow up a Dallas Cowboys fan, which has to mean something to someone. Barry Bonds, the emotionally defrocked superstar, had a miniature schnauzer at the Westminster Dog Show and said, “I’m not nervous.” That was a relief to all who were concerned. Which was probably the dog.

Everything is open to discussion, especially if it’s caught on a hot mic. To live with the stares and the glances, to have a name that invites such attention, can be withering. Thomas Tyner, once a highly touted running back for the Oregon Ducks, quit football while in college.

“I had a lot of weight on my shoulders,” Tyner told an NBC affiliate. “I felt I wasn’t living up to expectations, I don’t like the spotlight. I’m a very quiet guy. I had to leave my dream.

“Mental health is so overlooked.”

In particular, Phelps and Irving blamed the media for the pressure they felt or have felt. The media are a convenient target and worth criticism. But the media didn’t tell Pacman Jones to throw $100 bills at strippers at a nightclub. The media didn’t tell Ray Rice to hit a woman. The media didn’t order fans during these NBA playoffs to throw food and water bottles at players.

In both a figurative and literal sense, athletes can feel like targets. Bodyguards are common. LeBron James has added 10 bodyguards to protect his Los Angeles home. Would that make James nervous, anxious, depressed? Who knows, but if it did, well, who could blame him? He’s human, after all.

So now we come back to another human, Naomi Osaka. She’s 23 years old and made $37 million in 2020, according to Forbes. In the year of The Pandemic, Naomi made enough money to buy an island in New Zealand. It’s called “Auckland Island” and it has 62 bedrooms, a jetty, a golf course and, of course, 62 bathrooms.

Yet, Naomi feels the refrigerator on her back. She quit the French Open and Wimbledon. Criticism eats at her wound. She received sympathy, empathy. She got the hugs, all the good thoughts. And then what? She has a mental health issue.

Where do we go with that? Are we ready to let the boogeyman in, for to see her is to see us? Could that be Naomi Osaka’s true value, that she is dealing with something so common it spares no one? How is she handling it? What can she teach us?

Or do we turn on the television to see how the Giants are doing?

To comment write to bobpadecky@gmail.com.