“In this game of baseball, you live by the sword and die by it.
You hit and get hit. Remember that.” Alvin Dark
‘You can’t be afraid to make errors! You can’t be afraid to be naked before the
crowd, because no one can ever master the game of baseball, or conquer it. You
can only challenge it.” Lou Brock
Way back in the day, not prehistoric, but when I was young, America was Apple Pie and Baseball and everyone was pretty much on board with that and what Yogi Berra said.
When my brothers were old enough they joined Little League and my father joined as their coach. He asked me if I wanted to be his assistant. Of course! Any time spent with my father was worth the challenge of whatever he was asking. As he worked with the team collectively, he would have me off to the side, working with the few kids that had no athletic skill whatsoever. I remember actually wondering why he thought I could help them. I never played baseball. However, my father must have thought I could be some kind of positive influence on them, not being the kind of person that would just shove us all to the side, out of the way. Besides, there was only one way to go when you were starting at the very bottom, so I guess we both had a shot. And so I would endure practices and games, getting hit with both, bats and balls, from unintentioned players who were trying their hardest to achieve a sliver of coordination. My father always gave all the boys a chance to play and I went home with aches and bruises and no real time with him. Everybody had to keep their eye on the ball. Sigh.
When we were a bit older, my father took us to see the Mets play, only a handful of times when it was still affordable, giving us the real experience instead of the game by television. I knew all of the players' names, their positions and standings. I remember being in the stands at the first game after Cleon Jones was released from the team. The Mets were losing bad, it was the bottom of the 7th and from the cavernous underbelly of Shea Stadium came this reverberating echo, grabbing you and dragging you along as it got louder and louder until it was a continuous, thunderous chant you were now a part of; “Cleon Jones, Cleon Jones, Cleon Jones,...” We wanted to let the powers-to-be know that they had made a huge mistake, rubbing it in their faces, not to be forgiven any time soon. Ah New York, we tell it like it is.
I’m not sure when I got into the habit, but in my late teens and upwards, when things in my life would get uncomfortably tough, when I was so overwhelmed that I would forget to breathe, I would opt out in the seventh inning; just walk away, defeated without hesitation. No thought to maybe sticking it out, seeing if I could do anything, something, not even a sliver of “try”. Just out. I think it was Confucius who said, “When all else fails, run away……..”.
In my mid-thirties I jumped in to manage and do stats for the Men’s Softball team while they waited for the next season to find a permanent coach – I kept the statistician job. I also was coerced into joining the Women’s Softball team as their left fielder, both for our companies Industrial League. I thought the girl’s team was a bit prissy to actually play – first practice, the first baseman yelled at us not to break her nails, the third baseman stepped back from the ball being thrown to her instead of stepping in to catch it, whose hair was getting messed up, who was sweating, who had to fix their makeup, etc. Besides myself, the only other serious players were the short stop, second base, catcher and center fielder. I felt like I was on the Bad News Bears and it was sad and kind of funny at the same time. Funny until our first game when I walked out to our bench, from the parking lot, only to see the Amazon women we would be playing, (and not the warehouse kind). We were going to die. And it wasn’t just me. We all thought it and knew that in order for us not to get annihilated before we even started, we had to walk out on the field like the fiercest, most bloodthirsty demons, no matter if we wanted to throw up or run away. It never lasted though. The minute the first cleat went into one of our ankles or we got body slammed to the ground, there was crying in baseball and shrieks from the rest of the gazelles huddled by the bench. Me watching it all with exasperation. However, through a few of us over covering, not enough players showing up on the opposing team, and divine intervention, we actually won two division titles during the years I played and every tier we moved up was more terrifying than the one before.
So there I was at the Tides game the other night, our Triple A-team, with the only one of my friends that would actually go to a game. Last year, the two games we attended, we sat on the third base line, midway between 3rd and left field, front row and I asked if we could switch this year. We were now sitting on the first base line, three rows from the dugout, front row, and wow, what a difference. First we were in shade, with the upper section of coverage booths and sky boxes behind us, blocking the sun, instead of direct sunlight for two hours, leaving you sweating and dripping wet. The view on the field looked much better on this side as well; the scoreboard directly across and open sky a clean deep blue. The kids still lined up in front of us, leaning out to catch an autograph from their favorite player. On the other side they lined up to touch Rip Tide, this giant furry mascot that looked like Grover on steroids with a baseball for a nose. Ew.
I watched and listened as the kids talked about getting an autograph, calling out to get balls from the warm up, being really excited when the players connected with them. On the other side of the field, they had two kids dressed as bacon in a dance contest. It was like two altered realities. Thank God I was at the baseball game.
So there we were, enjoying the evening breeze, the temp at 84F degrees instead of 100F degrees, in the 7th inning, down 2 to 1. Usually the score is much more abysmal, like 13 to 1 and we leave by the 7th inning along with most of the stadium. I rarely if ever stay until the end of any game, ever. But not tonight. I wanted to stay, I wanted to see this through. So we both agreed to stay until the end, as did the rest of the crowd, but not for the fireworks. I did not have a feeling, I just wanted them to win. I wanted to do everything in my power to believe they would and witness it. My friend was on the other end of the spectrum, telling me they weren’t going to pull it off. “Oh but they are.” “Nope.” The problem wasn’t that we couldn’t get on base, the issue was no one could bring us home.
Bottom of the Ninth, 2 outs, two of our guys on base, first and second, the center fielder comes up to bat. First pitch, ball. Second strike and then another strike. Ah, “Foul Ball”. And there was the naysayer next to me grinning like the Cheshire cat. I turned back, focusing on the next play, focusing really hard. There goes the pitch, he swings and then, gasp, that deafening “Crack” when the bat meets the ball. Exhale. He sends it high and then long, with the entire stadium holding their breath once again. Come on. Come on. The right fielder running, turning, running, looking up and then reaching over his head until he couldn’t. It ended up dropping behind him, up against the stadium fence, bringing our two guys home. We won 3 to 2! And as the entire stadium erupted, pulling us up on our feet, I turned and said “See”, and then raised my fist, “YES”! I was grinning all the way to the car, looking back now and then to see a bit of fireworks that were now going off. What a great game.
Right now, I’m in another of life’s difficulties, the bottom of the ninth with two strikes against me and one more chance to go for it. I am telling myself that I can do this. I am telling myself to breathe. I am telling myself that it really is up to me and no one else. And as I place my two hands very deliberately on the neck of my Louisville slugger and take that one step, fully committed, into the batter’s box, I am going to stare down the pitcher, swing as hard as I can, connect with that fast ball, and send it way over the heads of my opponents. God, I hope I don’t get my pants dirty if I have to slide into home.
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