A Baseball Journey: Chapter II

At a secret location, a meeting. The heads of the five teams were all in attendance. Abercrombie and McKiernan, Clairol, Handyman Hardware, Palmer's Market and Springdale Shell. Baseball men. Men of action. Men who had built Springdale into one of the most talented and competitive Little Leagues in Connecticut.

It was 1989. The children of disco were coming of age. Soon, the signup forms would be far longer than the roster sheets, forcing the five teams (bound by the Little League spirit of inclusion) to reluctantly add a sixth. But these were competitive men. Men who had scouted, farmed and developed talent in town for years. Men with championship aspirations.

The 80's became the 90's and March finally arrived. Baseball tryouts. I was ten years old. A few kids made it to the "majors" at nine, but that wasn't me. This was my year. Fly balls in the outfield, can o' corn. Ground balls on the infield, no problem. My arm was my best tool, and I made them see it. I was really good in the field, and though I lacked speed, I didn't need much more than good reflexes at third base.

My only nervous moments came during hitting tryouts, as I was much more comfortable with my glove on than with a bat in my hand. The coaches were seated in folding chairs between first and second, clipboards and pens in hand. The left side of the field was open, and the commissioner of the league stood at the front of the mound. The tall man's easy toss was on me instantly and "crack!" a liner over second made one of the coaches duck. The next pitch came and "bang!" a whistling grounder to the right side got another coach out of his seat. Three or four more shots in their direction and all of the coaches were now on their feet and alert. Call it inexperience, call it late reaction time, but on that afternoon an opposite field hitter was born.

I was so happy. No whiffs in at least 8 pitches. Better than I had hoped. I had no idea that I should be hitting the ball to left field as a righthanded batter. All I knew is I hit the ball hard every time. All I knew is I was good.

Maybe I was too good. Shortly after the tryouts were finished, I was told that I was among the first 10 year-olds selected, and that I would be on the new team, George's Barbers. Child psychology is a beautiful thing, because at the time I was flattered to be among the first group taken. What I did not realize was that the expansion team I was on had been comprised entirely of players new to the league. This meant that while we did get some of the best 9 and 10 year-olds (and one 8 year-old prodigy) the 11 and 12 year-olds on our team would be skateboard kids who just randomly decided (or were forced) to take up baseball, or kids who just moved to the neighborhood. And Kelly Leak did not move into the neighborhood.

A Baseball Journey: Chapter I

Old Yankee Stadium. Ok, not that old. Middle Yankee Stadium. Freakin' Yankee Stadium. Ahem. Yankee Stadium. Bottom 9th, Yanks down 5-4, 1 out and 1 on. Bob Sheppard: "Pinch hitting, Number Thirty-Three, Gary Ward. Number Thirty-Three."

"He's gonna do it," a boy said out loud. "This guy? He's a bum," his father replied. "No, he's gonna do it. He's gonna do it," the boy insisted. Other than when bedtime was, this was the first time the boy had dared disagree with his father, putting the old man's perfect record of being right on the line.

Bang! Ward's powerful swing sent the ball high, deep and into the Right Field bleachers. Already on his feet, the boy leapt in the air and delivered a Shou RyuKen Uppercut right to his mother's nose. Sheer joy instantly turned to panic, as the boy had really put something into the triumphant fist pump. Tempered excitement was soon restored (the woman had a fantastic chin) and The Chairman walked the boy out.

That was July 31st, 1987. I was seven years old.

I quickly reasoned that I was so overjoyed when Ward came through (enough to knock my own mother's block off) not because the Yankees won, but because it was Ward that came through. First, my dad was wrong. This opened up a world of possibilities, though I did give plenty of weight to this being a matter of chance, and he was still flawless in matters of fact. Second, I was right. In my first such leap of faith, I had hit paydirt.

I was a Mets fan. Not only a Mets fan, but a Mets fan raised to hate the Yankees. Maybe it was being at the game in person (I had watched the Buckner play just ten months earlier) maybe I got caught up in "The Wave," or maybe I just liked the matchup. In reality, it was baseball's anthem still ringing in my head from two innings earlier. "Root, root, root for the home team. If they don't win, it's a shame." Right? I mean, what did I owe Detroit? They weren't playing the Mets, so why not? At that moment, it made sense. And I latched on to Gary Ward, and he to me forever. That was the night I became a baseball fan.