Ten years ago, Phillies legend Larry Bowa began his first spring as manager by labeling a cocksure 22-year-old as the leading contender to start at shortstop. The previous September, midway through the final month of the Terry Francona era, Rollins had made his major league debut in front of 15,486 fans at Veterans Stadium, going 2-for-4 with a triple and two runs scored in a 6-5 win over Florida.
The Phillies had not finished with a winning record since 1993, and would finish 65-97 in 2000. The stadium was concrete. The playing surface was artificial. During a mid-August game at the Vet, the temperature of the turf was measured at 148.7 degrees, so hot that Rollins and other Phillies soaked their feet in buckets of ice water between innings.
Looking back, though, that 2001 season is when it all began . . .
"It was almost like playing in a pressure cooker," Rollins says. "We actually had a pretty successful season, finished like 10 games over .500. But the pressure was to win, because they expected us to lose. You always had that motivation. We're going to give you a reason to cheer. We're going to show you that we're a good team. You might come in ready to get on us, but we're not going to give you that reason.
"It was different. It was the complete opposite. We were expected to lose. And now we're expected to win."
Reality was different back then: not just as it pertained to the Phillies, or to the city of Philadelphia, but to the country as a whole. When the 2001 season began, the nation's concern centered largely on a sluggish economy that would prove to be entering a brief recession. In the early summer, gas prices were about 13 percent higher than the year before, having risen all the way to $1.70 a gallon. The Phillies entered September in the thick of a pennant race, trailing the Braves by just one game. On Sept. 10, they arrived in Atlanta, where the following day they were scheduled to begin a critical three-game series against the six-time defending division champs. Rollins, who by that point had replaced Doug Glanville as the Phillies' leadoff hitter, was hitting .282 with a .762 OPS, 13 home runs, 86 runs scored and 43 stolen bases. He was lying in a hotel bed on a Tuesday morning in Atlanta when his phone rang.
"My brother called me after the first tower was hit," Rollins says, referring to the World Trade Center's North Tower. "I left the TV on, but I thought I was watching HBO or something. My brother's like, 'Yo, they are attacking us. We are at war.' He's on the West Coast. I'm in the hotel room in Atlanta. So I'm on the phone and I'm watching TV, and I'm like, I've never seen this movie. And he's talking to me and he's telling me that we're being attacked and I'm watching it happen, but it still isn't making sense. And he's like, they are attacking us, we're at war. They just flew a plane into the towers. And I'm like, OK, but I'm still looking at the TV and I'm thinking, what is this? I've never seen this.
"And then I hung up the phone and I saw the second plane fly into the tower and that's when it really started coming. I think everybody had the same reaction. Like, am I really seeing this? I woke up, and the TV is on, I don't know why the TV was on, but I'm thinking this has to be HBO, like 'Independence Day' or something."
Baseball, like the rest of the country, was paralyzed. Rollins and his teammates had no idea when they would take the field again. Not that they cared. The series in Atlanta was off. They could not fly because U.S. air travel had been suspended, so they chartered a bus to take them to Cincinnati, the site of their next series. By the time they reached Ohio, baseball had officially shut down, so they flew back to Philadelphia, where anxious family and friends awaited.
"I think with everybody, you saw it happen, but it was like, 'Nah, that didn't just happen,' " Rollins says. "You're expecting the news to come on and the towers to be still standing there. And then you start grasping what really just happened. Baseball didn't really matter as much at that moment, but when we started playing again, it was as if every game for everyone at that time was a World Series game, because you didn't just feel like you were playing for the city, you were playing for the USA . . . The pride, you can't even describe it. It's just a joy when you hear that anthem. A smile just comes on your face. Now the words are really making sense. People are really out there fighting and dying for this. That's what baseball was like. We are doing it for the people who have to go to war, for the people who just lost family members. They need a reason to take a break and get away, and that was us . . .
"Larry Bowa is a hard, hard dude. And he's crying. You see tears coming out of his eyes when they are playing the national anthem . . . "
His voice trails off.
The Phillies did not make the playoffs that season. They finally returned to Atlanta on Oct. 2 to make up the three-game series from the previous month. They won the first game, pulling to within a game of the Braves. But they dropped the next two, and despite sweeping the Reds in another makeup series, finished two games out of first place. Rollins finished third in the rookie of the year voting. The next year, the Phillies finished 80-81, 21 1/2 games behind the Braves. To this day, it is the only losing season Rollins has experienced as an everyday major leaguer.
He is asked if any of this feels weird. The elder statesman, bald-headed instead of dreadlocked, married instead of single, reminiscing about a career that at times still feels new? Does he feel 32 years old?
"Nope," Rollins says. "It went by fast. People say it goes by fast, but it went by fast. And it's still going to go by faster. As I've gotten older, it seems like the years get shorter and shorter and shorter and shorter.
"It was the same. I used to get on their nerves. But when you prove that you can play, they start understanding your personality a lot better. At least they give you a chance to show who you are, on the field, off the field. And I'm still here. I haven't changed. I probably don't talk as much as I used to, you know?"
He emits a deep chuckle, his face breaking into that familiar mischievous grin. Back then, he looked up to men like Bowa, Scott Rolen, Bobby Abreu. Now, he is the one who catches the glances from the younger players, the one who answers the questions and attempts to lead.
"I always consider that," Rollins says. "Always. In everything I do. Because you know that someone's looking. But it's cool because I don't mind talking about baseball, talking about the game, sharing my experiences. It might relate to something in their life that can help. One thing I tell all of them is about family and new family. There is always, that 'I need help' question.
"When I was younger, it was completely no, no, no, no. I always had a clear understanding, because I've had older people say you have to take care of yourself before you take care of anybody else. If you are the source, and you run out, they can't have. If you don't have, they are still going to find a way to get what they need.
"As you get older, you understand that people do have needs, and sometimes they just can't make it happen. So I just set a limit for myself. This is the allotment of money that I'm giving away this year. So whoever comes and asks, they'll get it up to a certain point. You can't get it all, because there are going to be another 10 or 15 people who might need help. That's what you have to do. Because if not, they'll come in January, and then they'll come in March with the same problem. They didn't ask in February because they know they just asked in January. You know what I'm saying?"
He is heading into the final year of a 5-year, $40 million contract. He has carved out a side business purchasing the rights to hip-hop and pop songs. He says he is currently negotiating with representatives for rapper Lupe Fiasco to buy a portion of the single, "The Show Goes On." In February, he attended a Motown tribute at the White House as a guest of Vice President Joe Biden and his wife, Jill.
Politics, though, are not in his future.
"Oh, hell no," he says. "People have always said that: 'Dude, you should get into politics. Politics aren't all bad. Because you are in it, initially, I would hope, to help people, to change a culture if you can. And that takes a whole movement. But just being on the outside looking in, no matter how much good you want to do, the powers that be will say this is the way the world works. And right or wrong, this is what makes the wheels spin. And you either plug in, or you are going to be out. And that's it. And I'm never the one who jumps in the same direction as everybody else is going. I've always gone in my own direction, and at my own pace."
Unlike politics, children are most definitely in his future. Starting a family is not the easiest of tasks for a man who spends 9 months a year traveling the country with a bat and a ball. But he and wife Johari, who married in January 2010, want kids - next year, in fact, if all goes according to plan.
"My mom used to tell me, 'Baby, I don't recommend you get married until you're 30, until you are a man, until you understand what life is about and who you are and you've done everything you want to do.' But, she says, you need to have kids so they remember who you are before you are just their dad. You're always going to be their dad. But you don't want them to grow up and hear stories, you know, 'Your dad was this ballplayer' and them go, 'I just knew my dad as my dad. I've never been in the clubhouse.
"You look at Darian," he says, "and he has really been there through his dad's whole career. And that's great. Unfortunately, I'm not going to have that much time. But they'll have an understanding: running around in the clubhouse if I have boys, and if I have a girl, she'll be chilling with Mama in the stands, in the family room."
How long does he want to play?
"Well, I figure if I get to 40 that would be real good, if I can play every day," he says. "Like Cal [Ripken Jr.], I might have to move positions. Omar [Vizquel] did the same thing. If you get a younger dude with a little more range, I'm willing to do that. But if I'm not an everyday player, it's not going to make sense. I'm not going to subject myself to all this and stay away from the family and get 100 at-bats per year."
Yes, he says, he thinks about his legacy. When Rollins first arrived on the scene, Bowa had one. Because, Rollins says, "He was the one that won." But now Rollins has won a World Series, too. He is the longest-tenured professional athlete currently under contract in Philadelphia. He was the first brick in a foundation that exists to this day.
"Was I a winner? You can say that," Rollins says. "Was I an impactful player? You can say that. Did I change baseball in the city? You can say that. So the rest is whatever you want to argue about. You can argue this guy was better because he hit better. You can say, well, this guy had a better arm. That's the fun part. But the important things, what I just named, I did."
He is asked if he cares about the Hall of Fame, and he answers that he does. But first, he jokes, he has to make up for the season that he believes injuries stole from him in 2010. With second baseman Chase Utley expected to start the season on the disabled list and miss an indefinite amount of time, the Phillies could certainly use a bounce-back season from their All-Star shortstop.
"I started thinking, 250 hits? Ichiro's already done that, so that's been done before," he says. "I'm going to have to get 300 hits. But honestly, why can't it be done? That's how I feel. It's not easy. Please don't think that. But why can't it be done? You get 700 at-bats. Why can't you get 300 hits? You know?"
His future is uncertain. The Phillies have said they will wait until after the season to talk about a contract extension for their longest-tenured member. Rollins says he understands. He is still among the best defensive shortstops in the game. But the Phillies want to see him answer questions about his offense, about his health.
Back in 2000, he was a 21-year-old in big-league spring training who walked through the clubhouse like he owned it.
"When I first come in, it's like, 'Oh, that dude thinks he's cool,' " he told a reporter back then. "But that's just me. I just come through with a style, make it a little fun, do a little yippity-happity, and try to keep things live."
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