It was my 13th birthday. I woke up to the sound and sight of steady rain. I figured that my scheduled Little League game would be cancelled, and the sinking depression of a possible postponement crept into my mind. In those days, I would go to bed laughably early the night before games because sleep was a cheat code, a time traveling wormhole to get to the next morning, to the grass and dirt field, to bat second and play shortstop and wear my uniform with the local sponsor’s name on the front and the number 2 on the back. That morning, my game wasn’t cancelled. I don’t remember how I figured that out. I don’t really remember how I got to the game. I know that my parents were away, and so I likely walked. I think I showed up only 5 to 10 minutes before game time.
The field was damp; the game was even sloppier than most. In the 5th inning, we trailed by two. I came up to bat with two runners on base. I wasn’t a very good hitter in Little League. I was small and often scared of the faster pitchers in my town. I loved baseball because I got to play the field. If there were a designated fielder position, I would’ve gladly accepted it. This time, though, I turned on a ball and hit it well to left field. I sprinted out of the batter’s box because that’s what Derek Jeter always did. I rounded first and picked my head up to find the ball. The left fielder wasn’t moving. Neither was anyone else on the opposing team. The umpire was twirling his finger above his head. I could slow down. I don’t believe what I did. I touched second and then third, probably. I high-fived my coach and stepped on home plate. I had hit my first home run. We won the game by one run.
I remember my first at bat for my high school’s varsity team. I thought I crushed the ball. The right fielder took one step in and caught it. I remember my first at bat for the Tufts club team; it was freezing and wet and I got jammed, and I couldn’t feel my hand for two innings.
I also remember what will be, barring a men's league comeback in the future, my very last at bat. This spring we trailed by two runs in the playoffs and I hit into a double play to end the game. I thought I beat the ball to first base. The umpire disagreed.
Over the last 16 years, I’ve played a lot of baseball. I’ve made my share of errors and swung and missed more times than I’d like to admit. I’ve had coaches yell at me and bench me. I’ve worn different words across my chest and have changed my batting stance during every slump.
A few days ago, it was my birthday again. The only thing I wanted was to wake up in the morning with a game to play.
Flashes of Brilliance: Saying goodbye
