The Final Inning

I grew up playing baseball and absolutely loved it. I got my first glove when I was four and immediately wanted to play catch all the time. In the summer, my dad would take me to the park across the street from our house and hit pop-ups to me before he went to work. My favorite pro team was the Minnesota Twins and I can remember swinging a bat while looking at my reflection from the glass on the gun case at my grandma's house, pretending to be Kirby Puckett (If you have ever seen Kirby you know how ridiculous this must have seemed. He was a short, right-handed black man with a backside as large as a freezer. I had none of those characteristics). I was glued to the television in 1991 when the Twins made it to the World Series, when I overheard this conversation between my dad and his friend who isn't from America and didn't grow up with baseball:

Friend: "Why did that not score a point?"
Dad: "Because that other guy caught the ball"
Friend: "But he hit it."
Dad: "If the ball is caught, the batter is out."
Friend: "But he hit it."
Dad (dejectedly): "I think a documentary about Victorian doorknobs is on PBS. Let's watch that."

Needless to say, I played Little League baseball when I was old enough. I was pretty good, getting voted onto the league all-star team a number of times throughout the years as a pitcher and outfielder. I even played 4 years of varsity ball in high school. But it was during my time in Little League that I almost lost my love of this beautiful game with one swing.

It was a morning game and the temperature had already climbed into the 80s. My team was locked in battle with the best team in the league and we were more than holding our own. In fact, we were crushing 'em, carrying  a 5-run lead into the final inning. Now, my good friend "Andy" was on the other team and always enjoyed letting me know that his was the better team. According to him, we had the same odds of beating them as Screech had of marrying Kelly Kapowski. So during that last inning, as I was standing in the outfield, I was giddily preparing the unending torrent of ridicule I would torment Andy with for the foreseeable future ("Hey Andy, my baseball team played an all-girls team on Saturday. Weird scheduling error I guess. How was your weekend?", etc...). But I would never get that chance.

Our pitcher gave up 2 runs to cut our lead to 3 and had the bases loaded. The best hitter in the league was up next. Gabe. That name struck more fear in opposing players' hearts than the thought of someday having to kiss a girl. This kid was huge and looked like he not only could get into a bar without being ID'd but he also earned free beer by being the bouncer. Our pitcher was visibly nervous so our coach brought me in to get that last out. Not only was our team going to win but I was going to strike out Gabe and ascend to the pinnacle of athletic success. As I ran in to the pitchers mound, I noticed that the player standing on second base was Andy. We locked eyes and I gave him a look that said "You are going to have a great view of the greatest pitching performance this field has ever seen."

Gabe fouled off my first two pitches to bring the count to 0 and 2. I was going to strike him out. I just knew it. I was already picturing being carried off the field on my teammates' shoulders and being the lead story on that night's Sportscenter. With those visions of grandeur in my head, I unleashed the third pitch. Gabe's swing on that pitch was as violent as a Kansas tornado and as smooth as a Sade record. I watched in horror as the bat made contact, sending the ball skyward. I thought, "Well, I didn't strike him out but I got him to pop out. That's good enough. I hope Bob Costas wants to interview me first. He's the best." But the ball kept going. It finally landed 30 feet past the fence. A grand slam. We had just lost by one run. I turned to see Gabe put his head down and start running the bases. Not an ounce of celebration, as if he had done this a million times before (I wouldn't be surprised if that was actually the case). Andy, however, was not quite so gracious, laughing and pointing at me as he made his way from second base to home (In all fairness, it should be noted that he turned out to be a great guy and one of my best friends. But at that moment I was hoping against all hope that he would severely roll his ankle as he turned towards home). I was crushed. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had let all my teammates down. I didn't know if I would ever want to play baseball again and thought about my retirement speech as I walked off the field with my hat in my hands. But as I reached the dugout, our first baseman handed me his pouch of Big League Chew. As I stuffed my cheek full of the grape-flavored shredded bubble gum, he said "I don't think anybody has gotten two strikes on Gabe all year. That was awesome."

I decided to postpone that retirement speech.


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