I was the only kid that used to fake sick from baseball games instead of from school.
Now, before I lose you- I don’t hate baseball. In fact this whole piece is about how important I think little league is. As I alluded to in my opening, I was terrible. I wrote a book where the protagonist was a star pitcher, and so when people ask if the main character is me, I can point out that it couldn’t be. They only let me pitch one time and as for hitting, I struck out just about every time I ever stepped to the plate. The kids I played with were pretty good, so read the fucking book if you want to hear about their escapades. But, as for me, I stunk. I was so bad in fact, that the parents on the other team used to cheer for me. This type of behavior was usually reserved for kids that were developmentally challenged. I wanted to scream at them “I get straight A’s in school!” but knew that would just make me look even less cool. So, I stood at the plate, almost six-feet tall and fat-as-shit and listened to the opposing team’s parents hoping I would do something that might cost their own children the game. Do you know how much of a non-threat you have to be to get Boston parents to hope you beat their kids?
Why didn’t you just quit? you may be asking.
In between going to games and faking sick, there was a constant battle in my home. I tried to quit all the time, but my father wouldn’t let me. You’ll understand when you’re older is what he’d often tell me. Not only did he make me keep playing, he made me go to the batting cages to improve my swing. It worked and I think I got a single the next game (baby steps) but then I legitimately got sick. I was a chubby asthmatic. I probably had pneumonia like thirteen times back then, and this was one of those times. When I returned to the field (my teammates and coaches probably legitimately not knowing I had missed any time) I was back to being dog shit at baseball.
The two lowest points were as follows:
1. Once, in pre-game warmups, a guy was filling in for our coach and doing fielding practice. He put me at second, and I had never played second, but I didn’t argue because I understood the deal. I just had to stand out there because whoever was actually playing second that day was late or something. At this point in my career, I had stopped paying attention to the actual games, so forget pre-game warmups. I was probably day dreaming about Darth Maul or something, I’m not sure. But I know the last thing on earth I was thinking about was baseball. You could have put a cardboard cut-out of Santa Claus out there and it would have been putting more effort than I was. The guy running warm-ups yelled “right field” which was great. My brain clocked that I wouldn’t be involved in the play at all, so I continued looking at the dirt and thinking about double-sided lightsabers. I heard the crack of the bat and when I looked up a line-drive hit me directly in the fucking eye. I went down like Abraham Lincoln. The impact gave me a concussion and I puked out the window all the way to the hospital. To add insult to injury, when I got to the hospital they said your nose is broken and I had to explain to them that it wasn’t- I just have a big, stupid, crooked nose.
2. I came up with a plan, maybe as a result of the concussion, who knows? But I thought it was pretty good. The average kid threw more balls than strikes, so if I just stood up there I’d be likely to get walked. And it was working- at least more than me trying to swing and hit the ball. Sometimes they’d strike me out, but mostly I’d get to take first base. What a depressing fucking way to play baseball though. Even me, the worst player in the world, would rather go down swinging than stand there like an invalid. That was the lowest of the low.
Things turned around when I decided that I was going to stop being such a coward and try and get a hit. The first pitch I swung at (from Phil Keefe, the producer of the new movie I Love My Dad) hit my middle finger and snapped it sideways. I stayed up for the rest of the at bat, and of course struck out. But when I walked back to the bench and the dads came to check on me- they saw my finger. I might be bad at baseball but I didn’t wimp out. They couldn’t believe I stayed up there with my hand like that. After a shot to the head and a mangled finger, I was developing some weird new form of respect- like a hardcore wrestler. I couldn’t play baseball. So, what? I took my bumps and kept coming back. I wish this story ended with me becoming a star and starting for the Boston Red Sox, but that’s not how real life works. You gotta take the wins where you can find them.
Baseball is America’s Pastime, but not the way they advertise it on TV. Its main selling point is that it takes place during the summer. You picture yourself eating a hot dog and drinking a glass bottle of Coke or having a nice cold Budweiser while you watch it. You picture fireworks and the stars and stripes waving in the background. Baseball is still relevant because it was and always will be pure nostalgia. The centerpiece of the America that never existed.
But baseball taught me so many of the things that I needed to know. Not about sports, but about how real life works. There’s a common refrain in the baseball community about how even Hall of Fame players only succeed 1 out of every 3 times they step to the plate. The sport is designed for you to fail most of the time. But the sport is also designed to reward perseverance. You must accept your shortcomings and then go back out there. You’re surrounded by a team, and yes they might be a lot better than you are, but they’re also fucking things up. And, if you lose, you all come back the next week to try again. I’m not playing baseball anymore, but I’m still failing and coming back the next week to try again.
And, so you were right, dad. I understand now.