Tip of the hat

My baseball career ended not with a bang but with a whimper. I was always a decent hitter, batting .600 or so off machine pitch as a kid. My fielding was, if I say so myself, stupendous. I either played first base or they had me play shortstop or third since I could field and throw well.

As people began to specialize in sports I kept playing 8 at a time. I had a blast and everything was going well. Then spring came along.

I started the season, my second year at kid pitch, 0-26 from the plate with 20 strike outs. I took batting lessons. I became a contact hitter, just hoping to get on base. My value at the plate was slowly shrinking to "I hope he gets a walk".

In the field, my defensive abilities remained. That is, until I had to throw to first base. Chuck Knoblauch syndrome got the best of me. I sailed balls into the crowd multiple times. Coach didn't want me at first base because we had a player who could do a pretty decent job there, but couldn't run at all. He slid me to outfield.

Now this demotion was not really too much of a demotion. Kids could finally hit the ball out there a lot and the position was important. I could throw it to cut off men or directly to the bases when needed to, so I felt like a pretty good center fielder.

I also knew my career was quickly over.

In my last game our team was in the field, tied with one out and a runner on third. Some kid hit a ball to my left. I ran it down, dove and caught the ball. The runner tagged. As the winning run was about to score I threw a baseball for the last time I would ever throw a baseball in a real game.

I threw the ball over the backstop into the woods behind the field. Granted I did this on purpose, because ... why the hell not. It still signified my disgust for the sport. I could catch anything you wanted, run as fast as anyone, and had a cannon of an arm ... but I had no control when I needed to throw short distances and I couldn't hit for average or power.

With that last toss I threw the last of my summer dreams of snow cones and stirrups and Big League Chew over the fence of my childhood. As I wiped the black sunblock from under my eye and jogged into the dugout for the last time I took off my hat. I tipped it to the imaginary crowd of thousands in my head and nodded to my baseball heroes I grew up emulating.

Baseball was my childhood. My childhood was good.