Sacrifice Squeeze

(Makeup for December 26.  Yes, I know it’s out of order, but I have certain stories to tell for certain dates, and I’m still filling in some holes.  Don’t judge.)

There’s nothing I love more than baseball: the smell of the hot dogs and freshly cut grass, the crack of the bat squarely driving a ball into the gap, the roar of the crowd, the bone-jarring collision at a close play at home.  Ever since I knew the joy of squeezing my mitt around a red-stitched, leather covered sphere, I have loved baseball, and like most small boys, dreamed of playing in the major leagues.

I played several years in several leagues, starting in the outfield (because I could catch a fly ball) and then moved to the left side of the infield because I had an accurate arm.  I even pitched a bit, mostly in relief, but eventually I settled at first base where I could manage my infield and hit for power.

For this entry, I could tell highlight reel stories like when I turned two unassisted double plays in one game as a shortstop, or when I played the middle role in a back-to-back-to-back home run rally; or I could talk about showing up trash-talking friends or being named to the all-Europe all-star team for my age group, but I won’t (this time).

No, ironically, one of the most important lessons I learned from playing baseball is that I wasn't good enough.  No matter how hard I tried and practiced and ran fielding scenarios in my head, I neither possessed the raw athletic ability nor the mentality to make it my profession.  Granted, I was good, but not good enough.  And it took one particular incident to force me to abandon my MLB ambitions and move on.

February of my junior year of high school, I found myself as a transfer student at Belleville East.  Open tryouts for the baseball team were held in the main gym due to the snow.  I had recently broken in a new first baseman’s glove in anticipation and had carefully stowed in my bat bag along with my other fielder’s mitt, batting gloves, wristbands, bats, rosin, and other gear. Hauling my equipment, I made my way into the gymnasium and began stretching with the rest of the fifty or sixty who had the same idea.

The mustiness of the air was almost palpable as participants began to add to the perspiration forever trapped in the bleachers and banners hanging from the rafters.  I was myself working up a good healthy, sweat playing long toss the width of the double basketball courts.

And then Coach blew his whistle.

Everyone hustled over because, just as in gym class, lateness meant laps.

But then I noticed Coach wasn't holding his clipboard. He didn't have his hat on either.  I had never seen coach without a Lancer baseball cap; even in his yearbook picture he donned the dirty, faded navy hat pulled low.

We, the mass of hopefuls looked at Coach, but I noticed that he didn't look at us.  In fact, he was avoiding eye contact.  Uncharacteristically, in a rather tremulous voice, he spoke to the scoreboard over our shoulders.

“Uh, you guys can go home.  There are no roster spots available.  We, um, only held tryouts to say that we did it.  I've already got my guys.  They've been together since they were seven.  There’s no chance any one of you, no matter how good, will replace them.” And then he turned back into his office, shutting and locking the door.

At first I was outraged, and in my mind I was already drafting a scathing letter to the school board and the media about fairness, etc.  It was a good thing I had to walk home that afternoon because it gave me some time to think.  Sure, I was good, but did I want to spend the next few years just playing the sport I loved more than…well…almost anything?

I decided to let it fester for a while, and eventually I relented, and my anger subsided.  I never sent my letter (or even wrote it), but I became involved more on the school newspaper (writing sports articles) and the Lancer Lot (a student creative writing group).  I had a job (at KFC) and good friends who helped me see other interests.

But I still loved baseball, a passion that not very many of my friends possessed, and I learned to deal with it.  I still dragged them to several Cardinals games (some even during school hours my senior year).  And somewhere along the way my priorities shifted.  I became more conscientious of girls, music, and preparing for college, but probably more importantly, two other talents I began to develop in earnest: teaching and writing.  I even thought about trying to walk on to the Ricks College team when I was up there, but before I headed to the tryouts, I realized that I had nothing to prove.  I wasn't going.  That decision made, an assuring calm came over me, directing my future toward other endeavors: serving a proselytizing mission, becoming an English teacher, getting married, starting a family, and attempting to write every once in a while.  I still love going to the ballpark, be it as a coach for my own kids, a church softball match, the minor league Owlz, or a big league road trip.  Baseball will always be a part of me; just not the only part.

Some like me to tell the vindicating part of the story.  The summer after Coach told us where to go, I signed up to play city ball—still couldn't give it up—I noticed that three of the four starting pitchers for the Belleville East Lancers also pitched in my league just to get in some extra work, I suppose.  That year, I went 11 for 18 (.611) against the three of them, including seven extra base hits.  Sure, I might have been good enough, but if it weren't for Coach and his pre-selected team, I wouldn't have realized that I had other talents and interests that were worth developing.  Thanks to baseball’s rejection, I became a better-rounded Joe.  Take that to whatever level you want.