I remember sitting on the bench next to Bill. We had been deemed to sit out the final inning for no other reason than two of us had to. That was the life of a mediocre ballplayer: playing the field one inning and riding the pine in the next. It wasn't all bad. In fact it wasn't bad at all. We got to play plenty and we got to practice spitting seeds when we were benched. I could hold my own, but Bill was like no eleven year old I had ever seen. He could hit a batting helmet from ten feet away in mid sentence. To this day, I've yet to see a spitter with his presence. He could have been a big leaguer if he could only hit a baseball.
I didn't know it at the time, but this would be the only championship game I would get to play in. We had a pretty good team that year. On paper we were decent. On the field we were above average. On the bench we were loose. Win or lose, game or practice, it didn't matter. The team got along and we were all better for it.
Neal was manning right field for the finale. Neal was easily our worst player. He couldn't hit, throw, catch, or run. Hell he couldn't even spit a seed past his foot. Nobody hated him for it though. Every team had a Neal. Most of them wouldn't put him in the championship game for the final inning though. But coach felt bad. He had been ignoring Neal most of the game. Besides, we were winning by five runs. How could Neal mess that up? This game was all but over.
As Bill and I sat and watched, our five run lead slowly eroded to one. It started with an infield single, followed by a walk, followed by a lazy fly ball straight to Neal that he predictably dropped. It seemed like every silly play kept repeating itself. Every hit was barely hit. Every ground ball found the one piece of ground we couldn’t cover. It was a slow and painful choke. The two outs we managed to get were like pulling teeth and Neal had already booted two sure things. Our loose fun loving team had tightened up. And that is when I got the call. “Kevin!” coach yelled at me even though he was standing four feet away. “Get in there for Neal!” I didn’t say a word. I grabbed my gloved and ran out to relieve Neal. Trust me, he was thankful.
To know me as a ballplayer, all you need to understand is that I was fundamentally sound. As a hitter, I was no one a pitcher feared. However, it was virtually impossible to strike me out. I could hit foul balls for days until a guy got tired and finally walked me. As a fielder, I never dropped a ball. Whether I was scooping balls at first or shagging them in the outfield, I was as reliable as they came. You know all those remedial cliqued quips of advice that all coaches say? I followed them. When I was at bat, I kept my eye on the ball. When I was in the field, my hands were on my knees thinking about what I would do if the ball came to me before every pitch. I always knew the outs. I always knew the scenario. I always made the catch. And now with the bases loaded, up by one, I was injected into the championship game with the sharpest hit fly ball I had even seen heading right towards me.
I remember the ball taking off like a rocket. A loud collective gasp from every player and everyone in attendance was quickly followed by a loud consistent noise. People were yelling. People were screaming. Nobody was sitting down. Through the noise, all I could see was a ball that may never come back down to earth. However, what goes up must come down and after a fleeting moment of panic, I realized that I could catch this ball. By the time I realized that, I was already running to my spot. As fast as the ball went up, I couldn’t believe how slow it was to come down. I was there and ready to catch the ball with several precious moments to spare.
So what did I do?
I caught it. It was like any other catch. In fact, it wasn’t even one of my most spectacular ones. I caught it though. I made it look easy. The other team was stunned. The sound of the bat hitting the ball alone was enough to make them think they had won. But I caught it. No problem. I jogged in and tossed the ball over to the coach. We always did that. These were the balls we played every game with. He smiled at me and said “You made me look like a genius” as he tossed it back. “Keep it,” he said. “That’s the game ball.”
Sometimes it’s easy to forget triumphs of our youth. Years after my playing days were over; I got a job painting houses for the summer. I was a nineteen year-old kid burned out on the fundamentals. I couldn’t even remember being an eleven year-old anymore. I showed up the first morning and was greeted with a smiling new boss whose first words to me were “You made me look like a genius”. It took less than a moment for it all to come rushing back to me. I made the game winning catch; the championship game winning catch. That is one triumph that I never will forget again.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment