Just shy of 400 feet from home plate, he stood with his feet squarely planted, half crouched. He punched a tight fist into his glove as he squinted to size up the imposing batter. He watched as the opposing team’s most dangerous weapon stepped out of the box, knocked the dirt from his shoes with his bat, and let the drama build.
The butterflies in his stomach told him this could be the play of the game; and he wanted it for himself. He knew he had what it took to carry the day and walk away a hero. He took off his hat, used his sleeve to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead, and sucked in some much-needed air. As he exhaled deeply and jammed the red cap back in place, jagged pieces of sun-bleached hair jutted out with little or no regard for the appearance of the would-be star.
Ball three. Three and one count. Two outs. Top of the ninth. Men on first and third. Guys in the red hats ahead 1-0, playing at home. Looks like a pitching change. Settle down.
“God, how I love this game”, he thought. “Putting on this uniform; the smell of my glove; the feel of the ball as my fingers roll over it; the weight of the bat in my hand.” He especially loved the sound of the bat hitting the ball, whether it was a hard line-drive whizzing past first base, a bunted ball dribbling in front of the pitcher, or a home run sailing over the outfield fence.
Some days he hated the way he played; other days he disliked his teammates, and got especially frustrated with the coaches. He hated a called strike when he was at the plate. At times he scowled at the scoreboard, grimaced at the umpires’ calls, and cursed the other team’s ability to get the job done.
But never, ever was there a day when he didn’t love the game.
He loved winning, but playing was more important. He loved people filling the stands, but he would have played to empty seats. He loved making the big play, but being part of this team made the big play bigger.
He hated math, but gobbled up the game’s statistics – batting averages; ERAs; RBIs; stolen bases; games behind; the magic number. He didn’t read many books, but he pored over the sports pages and sought out stories of long-ago legends, names that rolled off is tongue as easily as those of his family. He didn’t play chess, but for him, the strategy of this particular game rivaled that of any military tactic or complex chess move.
New pitcher finishes warming up; strike! Full count. Next pitch hit foul. No chatter in the outfield. Everyone playing deep. The loud crack of a ball-hit-long suspends time. He wills the ball to move in his direction. Looking into the sun, he runs to meet destiny in a high fly ball. Hand turned, glove open, crowd cheering. He felt the hard thump of the ball landing squarely in his glove. Last out. Game over. Big win. Today’s hero.
As he ran toward the rest of his team he thought, “I wonder what it would be like to play baseball all the time? If only I didn’t have to worry about homework and chores; expectations and the real world. Someday I’ll be a real baseball player”, he vowed. “No matter what everyone else says.”
Little did he know there was no need to swear that oath. He was already the purest kind of player – totally in love with the game. Much later, as he watched his son play the game, he’d understand. No man could ask for a better lover. Baseball. Always giving more than she takes; steady and faithful in good times and bad. Even when the world swirled around him, tossing him as easily as a sailboat on rough seas, he’d remember his day in the sun. The taste of it would be sweet, and his love of the game would continue to see him through.