The Playpen

Author’s Note: I apologize for the length of this post. Once every so often, you just have to write one for yourself.

My best guess is 1981. I’ve never been one to remember the years during which events happened. Some can rattle off the year for every little occurrence without batting an eye, and I am simply not one of them. I would have been nine, which seems about right, so my best guess is 1981.

I used to get a lot of sunlight in my bedroom when I was little during the summer. It flowed in brightly in the mornings and the whole room glowed a dazzling gold. When I think the nostalgic thoughts that sweep me back to the parts of my childhood I loved, I remember that light, and how it turned the darkness red when I had awaken but not yet opened my eyes. On this particular morning, however, I had been awake since the first sliver of grey-blue pre-dawn had stretched a lazy finger across my ceiling and the very first Cardinal had begun to chirp from far away on the neighboring farm. Today was a very big day.

As soon as I heard my mother in the kitchen and caught the first whiff of her morning coffee, I bolted downstairs to eat breakfast. She smiled at me and asked me to go up and put on my uniform so that we could all leave immediately after we ate. Happy to oblige, I ran back upstairs and burst into my bathroom, then paused and gazed for a moment at the counter. There, neatly and exactly where I had placed it so carefully the night before, was my baseball uniform. Number 23. White with red pinstripes; crisp, fresh and ironed, sitting in a prim folded pile next to my glove, spikes and cap, I wondered if Stan Musial had felt the same sense of pleasure, pride and excitement that I did when he looked at his uniform the morning of a big game. I decided that he must have, and got dressed, pausing for a brief moment to tip my hat in the mirror at an imaginary ballpark full of people following an imaginary home run.

It was the state finals. My team had gone all the way and we were squaring off against the very best the state had to offer. It was a team from the Jackie Robinson League, and they were better than us. We all knew it. We also knew we could win. We were that good. Following a long road trip north with three or four of my teammates piled into the sideways, pull up seats of my dad’s wood-paneled station wagon, we were addressed by our coach, given the batting order, and the umpire shouted the words that made my heart leap into my throat each and every game for eight years, “Play ball!”. As I trotted onto the field to take my position at second base for the first inning, I distinctly remember clamping my hands into tight, pale fists in a useless attempt to control their shaking. This was like no field we had played on before; it was huge. I don’t ever remember feeling truly intimidated before that game, but I was making up for it now. I fought the voices that told me I wasn’t good enough from my head, kicked the dirt, crouched down with my hands on my knees and we were underway.

The game was terrific. It had been a nail-biter through and through; in all honesty it was the type of game that baseball fans talk about 20 years after it occurred. The other team was bigger, stronger and oh so much faster than we were, but we had held our own and were teetering on the very brink of becoming the state champions. It was the top of the last inning, there were two outs, nobody on, and we were trailing by one. The crowd, which had tripled in size as word of the close score spread throughout the park, was on its feet. It was the stuff miracles of made of and it was my turn to bat. I rammed the knob of the bat into the paint of the on-deck circle, knocking the doughnut to the ground, adjusted my helmet, stuck out my jaw and walked to the plate. As I dug my cleats into the soft dirt of the batters box and moved my bat in slow circles I raised my eyes to look directly into those of the pitcher. He was a giant, and on top of the mound easily had a full foot of height on me. The noise from the crowd became almost deafening as he went into his windup. As he hurled the ball toward the plate I locked my eyes onto his release.

Curve Ball. Stay in the box.

The pitcher could throw a curve faster than most guys in the league could throw a fastball. Despite how I knew the pitch was going to behave I bailed out of the box in what felt like the split second before the ball struck my head.

“STRIKE!” I heard the umpire yell from where I laid in the dirt. The crowd moaned. He had scared me and my heart was now racing at an uncontrollable speed. I gave up trying to control the adrenaline that had overtaken by body and dug back into the box as the noise lever increased once more. Again, I looked directly into the pitcher’s eyes and he into mine as he started his motion. I locked in on his grip.

Fastball.

I dug my rear foot into the dirt and swung as hard as I could, my eyes riveted to the speeding baseball as it hurtled toward me. As my bat crossed the plate I heard a sound that has been, to this day, burned into the innermost depths of my mind.

“CRACK!”

It was one of those hits that you don’t even feel. The bat strikes the ball just in the sweet spot, so perfectly that the wood absorbs the entire impact. It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world. The crowd absolutely roared and, before I lowered my head and began to sprint toward first base, I caught a glimpse of the ball sailing deep into the outfield. I had clobbered it. Halfway down the baseline I looked up again and saw the first base coach manically circling his arm and pointing me to second. The ball had dropped and I was going to stretch a single into a double, maybe even a triple. I stole a peek into the outfield and saw the center fielder with his back to me crouching to pick up the ball. I grunted and pushed my legs to run faster. Everything became a blur as I rounded second base at full speed. I heard the second basemen screaming at the center fielder to throw it in and remember seeing a look of panic in his eyes as I ran past him on my way to third. We were going to win the championship.

With lungs burning in my chest I touched second base with the outside of my foot and bolted toward third. I looked up and saw the third base coach, jumping up and down from the excitement repeatedly giving me the sign to slide. The skin on the back of my neck tingled as I imagined the ball sailing through the air behind me and stared at the third basemen with intensity as I saw him raise his glove, eyes wide, to catch the ball and tag me out. A few strides from third base I extended my arms and dove head first toward the base, my body crashing into the ground in a fully extended slide right at the moment I heard the pop of the ball landing squarely into the pocket of the third basemen’s glove. As I slid through the dirt I stretched my fingertips as far out in front of me as I possibly could and prayed as I felt the impact of the ball inside the third basemen’s glove violently on my back. He was too late, my hands were already resting firmly on the bag.

“SAFE! SAFE! SAFE!”

The crowd erupted. My teammates were whooping and screaming, some crying, jumping up and down on the sidelines and smacking each other on the back. I saw my parents in the stands absolutely elated. I saw the pride in my fathers eyes and the happiness in my mothers. My heart swelled three times and I stood up to dust myself off as I caught the third basemen out of the corner of my eye dejectedly throwing the ball back to the pitcher. I was glowing as I stepped off the base to bend over and brush the dirt from my knees. It was at this very moment I felt once again, this time much more gently, the third basemen’s glove on my back. As I heard the umpire yell “OUT!” I realized what had happened as tears welled up in my eyes. The third basemen had faked the throw back to the pitcher and had held onto the ball, waiting for me to step off the base so he could tag me out. It was the oldest trick in the book and I had fallen for it. I looked up and saw the horror and disappointment in my teammate’s faces. The crowd had fallen silent and the only noise that existed now were the cheers of the opposing team as they ran off the field.

We had lost the game, and it was because of me. Although I had said “don’t worry, we all lost,” to practically all of my teammates at one time or another and meant it, this time it really was MY fault. Our entire season and, more importantly, our dreams, had been crushed in an instant by my stupid mistake. I had failed.

I haven’t talked much about my son yet and I have explained why. But as I was looking at him sleeping last night I started thinking about my own childhood and, although it was very pleasant, was not without its share of tragedy and disappointment. For whatever reason, the story I just told has been haunting me all day, and I wonder how my own father must have felt about that moment when I cost my team the championship. Clearly, it is an event that I will remember with a certain amount of shame for the rest of my life. But what about him? Gazing at my son’s tiny little sleeping body made me realize that my father probably had it worse than I ever did in that particular instant. Not only did he share my disappointment and embarrassment, but he hurt for his son as a father. Something I never really considered before last night. Its true, life can get pretty narrow sometimes and bad things happen to us once in a while. But I now realize that the worst things aren’t those that happen to us, they are those that happen to our children. Those events over which we have no control and can only offer encouragement as our children grieve or become heartbroken. I’m certain I will find a way to handle it but, to be honest? I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

-Matt

1. Barbara Says:
   July 21st, 2009 at 1:28 am

   Sweet.
   Barbara´s last blog ..Gag me with a spoon.

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2. Chuck Says:
   July 21st, 2009 at 1:42 am

   That was really fantastic Matt. I felt like I was there and my stomach gave just a bit when when you brought the trick to light.

   I know for a fact you are right about how your father must have felt. I’ve been there and you will be too. You’ll also be ready for it whether you think so or not. You’ll be ready because you have to be. Because your son or daughter will need you to be.
   Chuck´s last blog ..Lost and Found

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3. Mr Lady Says:
   July 21st, 2009 at 4:27 pm

   God, man, write long posts ALL YOU WANT.

   My son was on a little league all-star team last year and I don’t know about your parents, but what I do know is that I wouldn’t have cared less about some championship; I would spend the rest of my damn life relishing that hit.
   Mr Lady´s last blog ..We Interrupt This Regularly Scheduled Hiatus For A Bit Of Regularly Scheduled News

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4. Kori Says:
   July 21st, 2009 at 5:16 pm

   I don’t know, Matt, I really don’t. Because I see what has happened to Hannah and it breaks my heart every day and I DON’T handle it well. Hurt, disappointment, embarrassment on behalf of our kids is WAY harder than going through it ourselves, I think.
   Kori´s last blog ..The Vacation in Photos

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