“The Memory That Never
Was.”
03-25-2005
Ever
have a memory, which is so vivid, so real and yet; you absolutely know that it
never happened, could not have happened?
I
suspect psychologists would say what I am calling a memory is really a fantasy
and they are probably right but the fantasy has been around so long in my head,
mind, it has gotten all tangled up with my real memories and has made itself a
home there. In the end, it seems to me,
it does it make any difference if it is a memory or fantasy, I like it either
way.
I
do wonder though, if over time, our minds fill up with memories, which we
think are real but in actuality are just long-lived fantasies? Nevertheless, what follows below is one of
my favorite “memories”.
I
am a baseball pitcher in the minor league farm system of the New York Yankees and have been so for 3 years. I am
not a bad pitcher and I do continue to improve but am not the best pitcher in
the Yankee’s system either, or so I think. And thus my complete surprise and shock when my team manager
calls me just after the farm league season has ended and tells me that the
Yankees have called me up to join the team in New York. I knew the Yankees were in the World Series against
the Atlanta Braves or would be so in a few days, but why call me up to join the
team? “Kid” said my manager, “I have no
idea why they want you. They did say
they think they are short one relief pitcher with Winger injured and I guess
they just chose you. Now don’t get your
hopes up, as there is no way in hell you will ever pitch in the series and will
probably only be up there for the series and then right back here with
me!” When I hung up the phone, I was
in total shock. I was going to be in
the World Series with the New York Yankees and if they won the series, even if I never
pitched one ball, I would still get a World Series ring just like all the other team
players. I telephoned everyone I knew and
even some folks I hardly knew, telling them the news and then I crammed a few
things in a carryall bag and headed to the airport and New York.
The
next day, I got to Yankee Stadium an hour before I was told to report. I was nervous and just wanted to take a look
around the place before all the other players came in for practice. Walking out onto the field, I could not
believe how huge the stadium was on the inside and I thought of all the
incredible players that had played inside this park over the years. It was simply a dream I was having, had to be.
And then, I heard my name being called and when I turned, there walking
towards me was “Fish”, as he was called by everyone, Carlton, the manager of the
Yankees. “You the new kid, the pitcher,
I sent for?” he said, looking down at the perfectly maintained infield grass.
“Yes, sir and I want to thank you for giving me this opportunity, I….”, but
he interrupted. “Kid, I doubt you will
throw one pitch during the series but I just could not go into the series short
one relief pitcher. Besides, you will give
all our catchers some practice and they need it. Go inside now and someone will get you a uniform and a locker and
then get back out here. Practice starts
in half an hour.” And with that, Fish
turned around and head to the dugout.
That
first practice with the team was pretty uncomfortable. Seemed like no one wanted to talk with me
and I found it hard to even get a catcher to throw to, to loosen the arm. My guess was they were all resentful of me
being on the team now, at the end, at the end of 180 game schedule and
potentially getting a World Series Championship ring, just like them. Guess they felt I had not worked for it and
in a way they were right but it was not they riding a crowded old bus from ball
field to ball field and eating crappy food and paying for it yourself. The farm system was a slave labor system but
some of these players had never been there and did not know what it was
like. Anyway, I did manage to get some
pitches thrown and overall felt happy with the first day of practice. The second day was similar to the first but
some of the players actually began to talk to me and in the late afternoon, I
become known as “The Kid” and that was fine with me.
Finally
the World Series started with the first 2 games in New York, to be followed by
3 games in Atlanta and then a return to New York for the final 2 games, if
needed.
From
the dugout, I watched the New York Yankees just slaughter the Atlanta Braves in
games 1 and 2 with our starting pitchers making it through the whole game
without any relief at all. I would
never play, I told myself, relaxed and just could not believe my luck on being
there. "The series is going to be over
in another 2 games as the Yankee hitters were too strong and the relief
pitching too deep", I thought.
But after a day of travel to Atlanta, as good as we had been in
New York, we were as bad in Atlanta.
Atlanta easily won the next 2 games and Fish threw pitcher after pitcher
at the Braves, hoping to take at least one win back with the team to New York
but it did not turn out that way.
The
third game in Atlanta was close and we held our own for most of the way, but in
the 9th, our relief pitcher threw a wild pitch and Atlanta scored
the winning run.
3
games Atlanta, 2 games Yankees and back to New York.
Game
6 was a pitching duel with both teams going through pitcher after pitcher but
in the 8th inning, we managed a rally and eventually won the game,
tying the series, 3 games a piece. The
World Series was going to a final, deciding, 7th game.
When
I got to the stadium for the 7th game, the locker room was so quiet
it scared me. Had the team’s confidence
been shaken or were they just concentrating on what had to be done? No one said a word and it was a quiet walk
out to the dugout and warm-up was spooky with not nearly a word being spoken,
even among the usually talkative infield players.
Finally,
“the” game began and we started out great with 4 runs in the first inning but
then it stayed that way until the 7th when Atlanta staged their own
rally and came up with 3 runs, so with 2 innings to go, we lead by a single
run. In the bottom of the 7th,
we managed to get one man on base but that was it and going into the 8th
inning, the score remained Yankees 4, the Atlanta Braves 3.
After
the Braves rally in the 7th, Fish yanked the starting pitcher and
put in Ruddock, one of our best relief pitchers who had not thrown since game 3
and for a while, he looked sharp and struck out the first 2 batters of the 8th
inning easily and quickly but then a hit, a walk and Ruddock was in
trouble. Luckily for us, the next
batter hit into an infield out and the inning ended with no additional runs for
the Braves.
Our
at bat in the 8th yielded nothing at all, as the Braves had switched
pitchers too and we just could not connect to anything.
9th
inning of the World Series, 4 to 3 Yankees.
Just one more inning, just 3 more outs and the Yankees would win the
Series.
When
the 9th started, Ruddock was again on the mound, but from the
start, he did not look good. He walked
the first batter, putting the tying run on base and then came a single to left
field. He got the next 2 batters on pop flies for 2 outs but he obviously
was struggling with control. As I
watched Ruddock standing nervously on the pitchers mound, all of a sudden my view was blocked
and when I looked up, there was Fish standing in front of me. I stood up. “Kid”, Fish began. “I know this is a hell of a time to be
sending you in, but Ruddock just doesn’t have his stuff right now and we are
fresh out of relief and I have seen you in practice. You can do this. All I am
asking for is just one out... Just one lousy out, kid.” And with that, he
turned towards the dugout stairs and I followed him up the stairs and out onto
the field. As he walked out on the
field, he called “Time” and proceeded with me in tow to the pitcher’s
mound. All this time, I had been
focusing on the game so much I had not really been listening to the crowd but
now there seemed to be this giant question of noise coming from
everywhere. “What was Fish doing? Who this that kid? What is he doing putting in a kid now? Is he crazy?”
When
we got to the mound, Ruddock looked relieved as he really had been struggling and
he knew it. He took off his cap and
mopped his brow. Fish began, “Look you
know and I know you just don’t have it today and so thanks for the great effort
but I just have to replace you.”
Ruddock did not argue with Fish to stay in the game, like some pitchers
do and handing me the ball, he simply said, “Good luck kid.” and then Ruddock
and Fish walked to dugout and I was left alone.
Alone on the pitcher’s mound in the middle of Yankee Stadium, 7th
and deciding game of the World Series, 4 to 3 Yankees, the tying and winning
runs on base, 2 outs, 9th inning and sweat dripping out of ever pore on my body.
And my heart was pounding so loud I just knew everyone in that stadium could hear
it. “Calm yourself. Calm yourself.” I
thought but it really did not seem to help very much. Finger the ball, over and over, look out at centerfield; breathe.
Not
ready to face home plate yet, I finger the ball in my hand and glove, wipe my
forehead and try to dry my hands on my pants.
Finally, I turn towards home plate and there, in the on-deck batter’s
circle is the Brave's best hitter. With
only 1 out to go, they have nothing to lose using the pinch hitter rule and so
they have. Oh God, his bat looks
monstrous
and as he practice swings, after a while, he half swings and the bat comes to
rest pointing right at me, as if to say, “Watch out kid, I am going to send one
to you!”
I
throw a few pitches to loosen up the arm and then the umpire calls out “Play
Ball” and I again turn away from home plate. “Ok, I can do this” I say to myself.
"I can do this”. I turn around
and look for the sign from the catcher, McGill. It’s low and outside. He
wants me to throw the first pitch, low and outside. Guess he does not trust me very much as he does not want me to
give the batter anything he could really hit with any power and he might even
swing at the low and away pitch and miss. I
calm myself, put one foot on the pitcher’s mound rubber and wind up and
throw. Low and away it is but too low
and too away and the umpire calls out “Ball 1”. Immediately, McGill calls “time” and comes walking out to the
pitcher’s mound. “Kid”, he says to me.
“I know this is asking a lot of you but, ah, Kid, did you ever play any sandlot
baseball? You know, just a bunch of
kids playing the game for the fun of it.
Did you kid? Well this here is
just like that. Just think sandlot,
kid, sandlot and you will be ok. Now
when I go back there, you throw exactly what I tell you to. You can do this
kid.” And with that he turned and walked back to home plate.
Sandlot. Sandlot.
As sweat poured down my face and my heart pounded, sure did not feel
like sandlot to me but then I remembered the time I had 3 striked the loud
mouth of the neighborhood. Don’t think
he ever forgot it and was not all that loud of the mouth ever again. Sandlot.
Sandlot.
I
check the bases to see if anyone is thinking about running on the pitch but
they are hugging close to their bases.
Once again, I look at home plate, and the sign from McGill is right
across the plate and high. No, can’t be
and I wag off the pitch with my head.
Again, McGill flashes me the sign for right across the plate and
high. I look towards Fish in the dugout
but read nothing from him.
I wind
it up and after I see the batter swing ever so hard, I see the ball find its
home in McGill’s catcher’s mitt with a loud thud. “Strike 1” calls the umpire and the batter begins to swing his
bat more furiously now, over and over and again, he half swings and points it
at me.
Runners
holding on bases and McGill signals a curve ball, low and away. I take my time and the sandlot loud mouth
comes to mind. Sandlot. I bring the ball forward and this time, I
can see the batter ready, he is going to smash this one out of the park, but at
the last moment, it curves, just like it is supposed to and again smashes into
McGill’s catcher’s mitt. “Strike 2”
yells the ump. The crowd, which had
been subdued, now is on their feet and screaming. Only one more out, just one out away from the Championship.
Sandlot,
Sandlot, I keep repeating to myself and remember all the games, all the fun,
all the lost balls, deciding who would be on which team and it not really
mattering.
McGill
gets back down into this stance and he signals another low and away while the
batter continues to swing and swing his mighty bat. The last pitch must have scared McGill and maybe, just maybe I
will hit the corner of the plate with low and away and still give the batter
nothing to really hit. I compose, draw
the ball and glove to my chest, and reach way back and throw it with all I
have. Again, too low and away and the
batter never even thinks about trying for it.
“Ball 2” calls the umpire.
McGill stands upright and shakes out the kinks in his knees and legs,
giving me some time and then he is back down in his stance and he signals for
sinker. A sinker? What if it hangs over the plate? What if the ball does not sink at the last
moment like it is supposed to and this guy blasts the ball out of the
park? I shake my head, “No!” but McGill
again shows me the sign for a sinker.
I
check first base and the runner is holding, I wind up and let it go. It looks good and then just over the plate,
it falls like a rock and the ump yells “Ball 3”. Oh God, could this get any worse.
It
is now Yankees 4 to 3 over the Atlanta Braves in the 7th game of the
World Series, 9th inning, 2 out, 2 men on base, 3 balls and 2
strikes and there I am, a farm league team pitcher alone on the mound.
Sandlot,
sandlot, like some mantra, over and
over again, sandlot. sandlot.
I
wipe my pitching hand on my pants and mope the sweat out of my eyes. “I can do this, I say to myself. I can do
this.”
Then
I once more face the Braves batter and check McGill for the sign for what I am
supposed to throw. Low and away he signals.
What? I have already thrown 2 of
those and neither has been on the edge of the plate for a strike. What?
Again, I shake my head to wave off what he wants me to throw but again; he flashes
me low and away. And then for some
reason, I will never be sure of why; I begin to focus on the eyes of the batter
instead of home plate, where I am supposed to be throwing the ball. His eyes, they just seem to burn like
glowing coals and for a moment there, I think I can see myself through
his eyes.
Sandlot!
sandlot! I put my foot on the pitcher’s
mound rubber and drew back my arm.
I
never heard the umpires call but I saw the dust fly out of McGill’s mitt when
the ball hit and then the
crowd going crazy and the whole team running out onto the field and surrounding
me. It had been low and away but had
just nipped the outside of home plate and the batter was left standing there as
the umpire had called “Strike 3”.
Like
nothing I have ever experienced before or since, the celebration parties lasted for
2 days and through it all, no resentment about “The Kid” getting a ring.
Finally,
on the 3rd day after the end of the series, it came time for everyone to clean out their lockers and
head home for the winter
and as I was packing my bag, Fish came over to me. “Kid”, you did well, you really did, but 3 strikes don’t make a
player in this league and I have
to send you back down. Maybe next year
kid, maybe next year.”
And
so I returned home with my Championship ring and lots of memories but when
spring training started for my farm league team, I told them I just could not
play anymore. Nothing would ever be as good
as my moment in the big leagues and I have never regretted my decision.
See what I mean about a memory? Seems strong and vivid like a memory although I have to admit it has some Walter Mitty to it but maybe that is why I like it so much and what is wrong with that?