Baseball Vibes

It was the bottom of the last inning. My team was down one run with one out. The bases were loaded. I came up to bat.

I was 11. This was my first year playing baseball. The other kids on my team had all been playing together since PeeWee Tee-ball. I felt out of the loop, both socially and with playing ability.
Everyone was uneasy about me coming up to bat in a big spot, including myself. I had been hit-less up to this point in the season. Coach took this league way too seriously for what it actually was. He just got done chewing out his star shortstop son for booting a ball in the top half of the inning that led to this deficit, and now turned to me:

“JUST DON’T HIT INTO A FUCKING DOUBLE PLAY”

I actually found his words encouraging. The chances that I make ANY contact were very slim. I knew I would probably strikeout. But knowing I’m last in the order, the lineup would turn over after me and coach’s son would have one more chance to hit.

I had started following the Chicago Cubs a few years earlier during the 2003 season when they almost made the world series. I loved them more than anything else in life. Soon after I fell in love with the game of baseball too. I watched or listened to every game I could. I was enamored by every statistic, player backstory, trade rumor, and nuance of the game. Maybe I could play for the Cubs one day.

“Dad can you sign me up for baseball? I want to try playing.”

I was kicking myself now for ever saying that.

I stepped into the batter’s box. The catcher stood up and motioned for the outfield to play comically shallow. From the set position, the pitcher hurls a heater right down the middle. The bat stays on my shoulder.

STRIKE ONE

I rarely got to play the field – coach wasn’t obligated by the league rules to play me out there. In the majors, only the nine position players would bat. But this was little league. Everyone bats, all 13 of us on the team. How I wished in this moment that we played with professional rules. I could be clutching the safety of the bench right now, right next to the fat kid that picks his nose.

Playing ball was a mistake. But at least the end of the season was in sight.

STRIKE TWO

I used to daydream about moments like this. Everyone does. The picturesque chance to win the game for my team. I knew I should try to hit this next pitch. I owed it to myself. Maybe I would partially redeem the embarrassment that this season has been. Maybe then the kids on the team would like me. I looked out at my dad in the stands for a moment. He smiled. I knew no matter the outcome he would treat me to a Slurpee after the game. There was something comforting in that.

The pitch comes in. I couldn’t describe the pitch because they all looked the same to me. But I swung. And to everyone’s shock, I shot it down the third base line. The runners take off. It took me a moment to remember to run myself. This was the swing that could shift the trajectory of my future career in baseball. Had I done it? Tie at least, MAYBE a walk off. Thank you Jesus.

FOUL BALL

My heart stopped. I wanted to blow up at the umpire, but I looked over to third and realized it was foul by a vast margin. I slowly walked back. I wanted to cry, which actually would be less embarrassing than the previous game when I peed my pants playing right field.

I was debating if I would even try swinging at this last pitch. I would only be lying to myself – swinging would entail that there is a chance I get a hit, which there was not. I realized in this moment that I would never be the next Sammy Sosa, or Derrick Lee, or Aramis Ramirez. The dream died in that moment.

“I quit playing baseball after this season.”  I whispered to myself.

STRIKE THREE. BATTER OUT.

My failure was soon forgotten by both parties. The son of the coach came up to bat right after me and blasted a game winning gapper on the first pitch he saw. It didn’t much faze me though because I got my big ass Slurpee shortly after the game.

‘I could be one lucky swing away from turning my entire life around.’

There are moments in life when you believe such a swing exists, and that after that swing you get to round the bases while everyone you know is watching and cheering. Why else would people buy lottery tickets?
Unfortunately, only power hitters hit home runs, and the box scores are determined prior to the game. But we are only talking about baseball here. This boy will inevitably become a man. He will trade in his bat and balls and his other toys to instead indulge in games that grownups play.

There’s nothing to extrapolate here. Nothing worth re-reading.

I’m not trying to create an analogy or draw some divine parallel about how God graciously gives us a Slurpee every time we sin. Metaphors are mostly bullshit anyway.

I only write this to say: I’m fucking terrible at baseball.

Looking back at this picture, and into the 11 year old boy’s clear eyes, I see my own face reflected. Simultaneously, I am reading his box score too.