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Join Date: Jul 2009
Posts: 159
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Re: "Why I Love Baseball" Win a copy of MLB The Show 15 for PS4
Baseball is a different sort of game. It's slower than the other major sports. There's no countdown to the end, no clock to tell you when to do something, or when it's over. It's like life, you just know.
I was 13 years old, which to me was significant for one reason: it was my last year to play little league for the Endeavor Lions. I'd been a pretty decent player for a few years, but always in the shadow of the older players. That was kind of how it went, the last year players were the stars. Like the year before, when our coach's son was in his last year. Shaun was a great pitcher who went on to play minor league ball. Still, even with him leading us, we'd finished in last place. We almost always did, we were a town with a population of 360 people, we had to get almost every kid in town to play just to field a team. But the point is, that was going to be my year, I was going to be the star. Even if we'd lost our best player, and might be even worse than the year before, it was my turn to shine.
Until it wasn't. Word made its way around our tiny school that Shaun's dad, no longer having a kid on the team, wasn't going to coach anymore. Worse than that, nobody else wanted to. It was a small, poor place. Everybody worked a lot. Nobody had time to spend 3 or 4 nights a week coaching a little league baseball team. There was talk that we wouldn't have a team, that the kids who really wanted to play would be allowed to play for nearby Briggsville, or our hated rivals Montello.
I was despondent. I'd looked forward to that year for so long, and I knew if I went to a new team it wouldn't be the same. I probably wouldn't even get to play catcher, which had been my position in Endeavor for 3 years. I moped around the house for weeks. The school year drew to a close with no solution.
On the second day of summer, my mom came home from work early. This was a pretty rare occurrence, my mom was a widow with 2 kids. She worked almost non-stop to give us the same things other kids had. "You've got practice in half-an-hour," she said. "Get ready."
I was confused. "Who's our coach?" I asked.
"You're looking at her."
My mom didn't know a lot about baseball. She let me handle most of the practices, organizing batting practice and hitting grounders to the infield. Still, we got to play baseball, and not only that, we weren't that bad. We definitely seemed better than we were the year before. The biggest reason for this was our new players. A family had moved up from Texas and their 3 kids Lorenzo, Albert, and Lupe were instant starters for us. We got another new player named David. David was small for his age (smaller than most of the 1st graders in our school) and didn't seem like he had ever played baseball before. I figured if my mom let me handle the lineups I'd hide him on the bench and give him some garbage time in the outfield.
I told her as much before our first game, but she had other ideas. "Everybody plays the same," she said. "You either play the first 3 innings or the last 3." I didn't like it, I felt like we had a chance to be good for once, but what could I do? It was her only rule, and there weren't any better strategists lining up to coach us.
The games started, and so did we. We weren't just better than last year's team, we were playing a different game. Lupe gave us 3 innings of shutout ball every game, Albert played shortstop like the position should be renamed guy-who-catches-everything-somebody-else-doesn't, and I was hitting the ball all over the field. Then something else started to happen. We'd come up with the idea to mix our best players with our worst, to give us the best chance of winning under my mom's system. But those lines started to blur. We didn't really have worst players after awhile. Halfway through the season, everybody was pretty good. David, who I'd written off after the first practice, became one of our most valuable players. He was fast as lightning, and really difficult to pitch to because of his small strike zone. He developed an affinity for punching the ball into the outfield when pitchers would slow down their pitches to try and throw him strikes. He was on 3rd when I hit a game-winning homer against Briggsville late in the year, my favorite memory from sports.
I wasn't really a star player anymore. It wasn't the season I'd expected, or hoped for. It was so much better. It was baseball, as good as we could possibly make it. We owe my mom for that. We made it to the league championship series. We got swept by Montello, 2-0, but it was farther than any Endeavor team had made it since I'd been there.
Baseball keeps going, like life. Players get too old, whether it's a major leaguer who's 40 and loses his range or me turning 14, baseball ends for all of us. And even though there's no shot clock or play clock, baseball doesn't ever stop in the 4th or 5th inning so you can realize how special it is. You play until you're done, and then someone else gets their chance.
But you do get to remember. Years later when I'm getting married, and David is the best man, I think about how much I learned that summer, about baseball, about my mom, and about me.
Why do I love baseball? Because I played it. I had my time with it. I don't see how anybody who got to wouldn't love it.
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