Fall Classic

I'm feeling like a real American. Planted on the couch, I flipped on the TV after an exhausting day at the office, and the old Fall Classic was on. Game one, Phillies at Rays. I just needed a beer to complete the ensemble, but please keep in mind that it's me. A full, steaming tea mug sat at my feet.
Like any good American twenty something, the first thought to go through my mind was, "I wonder if I coulda been a pro baseball player." This is the same sport that sent John Kruk to its upper echelon, so to wonder if I could have at least come off the bench didn't seem so far fetched. Making things stranger still is the fact that most of these guys are my age or younger. Every guy has to face down that reality at some point - the fact that they're never going to be a pro athelete - and watching guys born when I was in 7th grade will expedite the process. I'm usually slow to catch the "reality" bus. When someone asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, expecting a reasonable, rational answer, I told them I'd like to be a lion. At 9, a child should know better.
But here I was, sitting in front of the tube, wistfully thinking about what might have been. That's when some little league moments flashed through my mind. I lived for the eye-black, the wrist bands, the new batting gloves. Never good enough to make a more serious travelling team, I'd supplant high level competition with semi-pro materialism, and the fanciful daydream that, one day, I'd prove to those coaches that I'd simply been overlooked.

It's a wonderful summer Saturday, and my coach, Coach Kjderquist, is calling me in as a relief pitcher. "Coach K" is just a high school kid, the catcher for the Wheat Ridge High School Farmers. To the ragged band of 11 year olds (some of whom are just two years removed from a remarkable Jungle Book fantasy), he might have well been Babe Friggin' Ruth. Coach K towers over us, professionally chewing gum and seeds. Our team's uniforms mirror the colors and logo of the high school, so when he wears his to the games, he looks just like the managers on tv. He spits in the dirt, tap signs on his chin and elbows to the hitters in the box, and "yell just 'cause he's excited, not mad." We call him Coach K at his behest, because God knows how many teachers, telemarketers, and scouts have mispronounced it. If anyone reading ever needs to know, it was Cheddar-Quist. Like the cheese.
"Pat! You're in!"
I race in from my position at second base, ready to be the literal center of attention. I warm up, and then face my first batter who RIPS a pitch well over the left fielder's head and trots around the bases for a home run. Center of attention, and now thoroughly flustered. I make it out of the inning eventually, though I don't remember any other details. All I know is that the kid who crushed my pitch is also on the mound, and I'm dying for revenge.
Righteous retribution presents itself in the form of an at-bat. I come up during the next inning to face the nemesis. I swing, connect. It's not a moonshot, but instead a worm-burner that sneaks through the infield. At least I'm fast, so I'm running like hell. By the time the poor outfielder comes up with the ball and throws it back towards the infield, I'm around second and sliding into third for a triple. Sure, I'd just hit a grounder, and sure, it basically just got hung up in the shaggy outfield, giving me time to sprint the 120 feet between home, first, second and third. But as I dive into the bag to the "Safe!" call of the umpire, I'd recovered a little dignity.

All that dignity was lost when I looked right at the pitcher and yelled "Yeah! I can hit it too!" Even as I was shouting, I realized that I brought my knife to a gun fight.

* * * *

That next season, I am running under a foul ball, vehemently shouting "I got it!" That next season put my age at 12, however, and 12 put me in the cruel grip of puberty. There is nothing on a baseball field to hide behind when you've just had your voice crack at the top of your lungs.

* * * *

Gym class in sixth grade, it's spring. We've just started practicing for our upcoming baseball season. We're playing dodgeball, not baseball. I catch a throw from the opposing team, and run forward as I pick out my targer. Meredith! I peg her while she's not looking, both showing her who's boss and assuring that she'll refuse my date request when we're in high school together.

My god, I've got a cannon! This season, I may strike out 1,000 opposing batters. I might throw out every runner who tries to steal second. No one will break for second if they get a hit when I'm patrolling center field.

Striding backwards, wary of any throws aimed my way, I trip over the outstretched leg of my friend Sean Ray. I topple backwards, and reach back to break my fall. Instead, I break my wrist clean in half. When I cradle my arm towards my belly in wounded self defense, the once straight bones now make two distinct turns. Right then and there, I realize that the season is D-U-N done. I abandon all rules of the boy playbook, and begin to cry. I can't bear to see the season evaporate.

Now that I'm on the couch, watching all those other kids who have grown up to play in the World Series, it's not so bad. Not when I've got tea and HDTV. And hell, I'm starting to grow quite a mane.