We Still Got It
My favorite thing about the sport of baseball is that everyone eventually gets an at-bat. Think of that - I've seen my mother take her cuts. I've seen my grandmother stand at the dish - my wife, my kids, we all get a turn. I hadn't had an at-bat in about ten years, and frankly I missed it.
When I was 12 or 13, I became a proud member of the Lions baseball team. We started playing with tennis balls and sticks from the woods - we weren't dirt poor - that's just what we had for equipment that day - and eventually we won our league championship twice. I was in my 30's when that happened and I'll never forget my mother being at that game - saying - "It's about time."
My best friends in the world played on that team - I can't even tell you how many times I lined up with my brothers and pals and played - and won or lost - ate, drank and laughed. We grew up together, feeling the loss of our shortstop who was hit by a car when we were just 16. We battled and swore it never would end - but it did. I tore an Achilles - life got in the way - and we all started our families where our kids got their turn at bat.
This weekend - we decided to play again. Leading up to the game, I teased my kid's saying I'd get a hit every time up and that they owed me five bucks for every base hit. I stretched out a little before the game and played some catch - and then we all lined up for the game.
It was like watching the Old Timer's Game at Yankee Stadium! The great athletes of my youth were moving around the infield like snails - I was catching and I distracted the batters by groaning each time I got in the crouch. Our pitcher hopped off the mound - not with catlike reflexes - but more like the mouse it was chasing.
And then I came to bat. I looked at my boys hoping they were watching and rooting for me - I took the first pitch - and then lined the second pitch into center. I could have quit right then and there - I got the at-bat I dreamed about and did what I wanted to do.
Yet the game wasn't over - there was a home plate collision that made me feel like a car accident victim this morning. I dropped a pop fly that was about six feet away from me, but felt as if it were a mile. I then threw the ball into center. I popped out to the first freaking baseman, and then hit a ball that barely made it to him.
I then came up in the 9th and my boy reminded me we were losing the game and that I needed a hit. At 43 years old, I honestly wasn't thinking about the team. I knew that it could be my last real at-bat ever. I took a deep breath, took a pitch, and then lined the next one into center. I had my final hit.
After the game came the reason we all played - Jeffy cooked, we drank beer, laughed at the miscues and blown plays, and just were the great friends we'd always been and will be.
We still got it.
When I was 12 or 13, I became a proud member of the Lions baseball team. We started playing with tennis balls and sticks from the woods - we weren't dirt poor - that's just what we had for equipment that day - and eventually we won our league championship twice. I was in my 30's when that happened and I'll never forget my mother being at that game - saying - "It's about time."
My best friends in the world played on that team - I can't even tell you how many times I lined up with my brothers and pals and played - and won or lost - ate, drank and laughed. We grew up together, feeling the loss of our shortstop who was hit by a car when we were just 16. We battled and swore it never would end - but it did. I tore an Achilles - life got in the way - and we all started our families where our kids got their turn at bat.
This weekend - we decided to play again. Leading up to the game, I teased my kid's saying I'd get a hit every time up and that they owed me five bucks for every base hit. I stretched out a little before the game and played some catch - and then we all lined up for the game.
It was like watching the Old Timer's Game at Yankee Stadium! The great athletes of my youth were moving around the infield like snails - I was catching and I distracted the batters by groaning each time I got in the crouch. Our pitcher hopped off the mound - not with catlike reflexes - but more like the mouse it was chasing.
And then I came to bat. I looked at my boys hoping they were watching and rooting for me - I took the first pitch - and then lined the second pitch into center. I could have quit right then and there - I got the at-bat I dreamed about and did what I wanted to do.
Yet the game wasn't over - there was a home plate collision that made me feel like a car accident victim this morning. I dropped a pop fly that was about six feet away from me, but felt as if it were a mile. I then threw the ball into center. I popped out to the first freaking baseman, and then hit a ball that barely made it to him.
I then came up in the 9th and my boy reminded me we were losing the game and that I needed a hit. At 43 years old, I honestly wasn't thinking about the team. I knew that it could be my last real at-bat ever. I took a deep breath, took a pitch, and then lined the next one into center. I had my final hit.
After the game came the reason we all played - Jeffy cooked, we drank beer, laughed at the miscues and blown plays, and just were the great friends we'd always been and will be.
We still got it.
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