Baseball and Self-Discovery

This blog post started out as a story about my illustrious Little League career, and by the time I got done with it, it turned into a therapeutic session with a significant realization about myself. Well, life is a journey. Buckle up, and let’s go for a ride!

When I was a kid, I loved playing baseball. In fact, it was my dream to play baseball for the St. Louis Cardinals. Just one problem… I wasn’t very good.

I started playing in the 4th grade, so I was already a few years behind some of my peers. Because of my delayed start, the coach on my first team decided that I should be in the outfield. There are a few different type of Little League players.

• those who think they are better than they are (played with a lot of them)
• those who are pretty talented (played with a few)
• those who try really hard (that was me)
• those who play because their parents want them to (these are the obnoxious parents that get tossed for berating the teenage ump)
• those who chase butterflies and eat grass (mostly found in the younger ages, although…)

I was the third kind. I loved playing the game. I tried hard, and I did all right. I made the All Star team a couple of times. Of course, four players from every team made the All Star team, so it wasn’t really that big of a deal.

I did, however, take a liking to the outfield. I enjoyed running down fly balls, pop ups and liners. But what I really liked what when people decided to try to take an extra base on me. You see, I could throw. I could throw the ball from the outfield to home in the air the whole way.

The first time I threw the ball home, it was completely by accident. The ball was hit to me with a runner on second. I fielded it cleanly, but when I reached into my glove to get the ball, my hand got stuck in the webbing. By the time I was able to get it out, I looked up to see the runner rounding third and heading for home. So, I threw the ball home. It was a perfect strike to the catcher, but the batter slide in just under the tag. My teammates were pretty excited about it.

A couple games later, I was playing center field. The same kind play started to unfold — runner on second, ball hit to me in the outfield. This time, my hand didn’t get stuck. I threw it home and nailed the runner for the final out of the inning. I actually remember my coach running out to meet me on the field to give me a high-five. In future years, when I was playing against my old coach, he never sent a runner home on me — and he had opportunities. He just remembered.

And that was the highlight of my baseball career. When I first started, I was actually a pretty good hitter. My first year, I led the league in triples (which, given my current speed, nobody ever believes). I slowly became worse and worse at the plate. I got hit in the head a couple times by some bad pitchers, and that messed with me psychologically. One season, I hit .250 with all singles; the next year, I went 2–26 with 20 strikeouts. I still played well defensively, but when you plan of attack at the plate is to take a walk, you aren’t going to do too well.

My final year started out kind of rough, but I spent some time working on hitting with my best friend one afternoon. Whatever he did connected with me somehow because I ended up getting my hitting mojo back that night. By that time, though, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere with baseball. I was just playing out my time in Little League.

I decided not to try out for the school team. And later heard that one of the guys that made the team got hit in the face with a fly ball because he couldn’t play the outfield. I probably could have made the team after all.

The simple reality, however, was that I gave up on myself.

I feel like this is the point where I drive home an inspirational point about how we should never give up on ourselves, and how we can do incredible things when we believe in ourselves. However, I’m a little dumbfounded right now. Writing those words is the first time I ever admitted it to myself.

I always told myself that I gave up on baseball because it wasn’t for me. But, I didn’t give up on baseball. I still play softball on a regular basis because I love the game (and I can actually hit!). I still watch baseball. I spent one summer coaching with my best friend — and, frankly, it was probably the worst summer for me to do something like that. But I did. And I loved it.

I still love baseball.

I can’t go back and try out for the school baseball team. I can’t change what has happened. But, moving forward, I can have a little more faith in myself.

My life has gone in a different direction than 4th grade me thought it would. And I wouldn’t change a thing about it. I have a new dream. New hope fills my life, and it’s a home run.