The crisp cool air refreshed me with every breath. I was trying to control my anxious excitement. I was nervous and if I had doubts, my stomach confirmed it as it churned. I did not mind though, I knew it would not last. It was often curious to me that I could still be anxious about something I had done so many times before. The game was still three hours away yet the nervousness had begun as I jogged across the grass in preparation of my efforts to stretch every muscle. I knew the nervousness would gradually grow from now until it peaked with the crack of the bats in batting practice. It would stay constant from there until it would suddenly evaporate as I dug in for the first pitch. After playing for years in little league and high school still in my sophomore year of collegiate baseball- I was nervous. That nervousness was a constant until over two years later.
The first game of a series seemed always to be the worst. It may have been the different colored uniforms or playing again after two days off. Maybe it was simply the newness of each series, each three or four game set being its own mini season in a way. The series is a true test of who, at any given time, is playing better baseball. Any team can out execute for nine innings but to do it over a series of games truly means something.
Today was like opening day anxiety levels as we started a tournament. A series of sorts- with a different opponent each time out. As I warmed up in batting practice, so did the bright Florida sun. After taking my hacks in the cage, I shed my hitting jacket. I would take another round from the other side of the plate. One of the bonuses and chores of being a switch hitter was you had to hit twice as much. A blessing when things were going well at the plate, a curse when they were going badly. Fortunately, I normally had one swing right most of the time; unfortunately, it seemed seldom that I had them both.
After the cage, I loosened my arm and took some reps of fly balls- not normal for me but today I was out of my normal position of second base. I was playing centerfield due to a teammate’s injury, but it was fine with me. I was comfortable in center field; I played it in summer ball and always enjoyed the chance to switch positions. Fly balls never worried me- they were far easier than groundballs and I could cover ground quickly to get them. The throws, however, did worry me as I was blessed with a second base man’s arm. At the appointed time, a half hour before the first pitch, we took our official infield outfield. After coming in we each prepared in our own way some grabbing some Gatorade, others talking in groups, some silent in the corner of the dugout. Each had his own routine and routine must be kept.
The game began uneventfully with a one, two, three inning. Both teams traded blows and the scoreboard reflected it. Each team threatened and each strived to prevent the game from getting away. Our team pulled away early with a three to nothing lead, but the opponent would fight back. I was playing well in the field with a diving catch and a few other good plays. It was soon the last inning with the score tied at five. After regulation, it was all tied and we went to extras.
The top half of the last inning went without a score. Our leadoff hitter was retired, but with one out my teammate, and friend of mine from my hometown, doubled. Baseball is a game where every advantage must be sought. As I approached the plate, I knew I had to drive in this run. After a pitch high, a strike, and a curveball that I just missed by fouling it over the backstop, I looked out to see my teammate stood on second base with both feet. A small thing- both feet standing on the bag as he checked the outfielders positioning- but it was the key. Both feet on the bag told me that he had the catcher’s signs to the pitcher. The great DaVinci-like code of baseball was cracked. As the code cracker took his lead, he rested his hands on his knees and his index finger slid slightly onto his kneecap. As I stared out at the pitcher in his stretch, I noticed the finger of my teammate on his kneecap. This was my cue- a curve ball was on its way.
As the ball left the lefthanders hand, I focused in on watching its speed and rotation. I was in exact rhythm, thanks to my teammates tip. I waited on the off speed pitch and then exploded. I began to drive my hands forward as I took a stride with my left foot- my eyes still focused on the ball. The contact came- it was solid. I hit the ball squarely on the sweet spot of the bat. As the ball jumped off my bat and headed toward left field I knew if it was not caught, it would score my teammate. As I ran towards first I looked on as the left fielder ran back towards the scoreboard in left center. As he approached the fence, he simply looked up.
I was mobbed at home plate after my quick home run trot. I never could make myself run quite slow enough to seem proper. The only thing I really remember about my quick trip around the bases was a five to my coach at third base and immediately after that looking just behind him to see my family in the stands ecstatic. My parents attended along with my grandparents, my brother, and my sister. That night a big supporter of the team took us all to steak dinner. To hit a walk-off homer was a dream that was finally realized.
Unfortunately, my history with the Bluffton University baseball team did not end here. Three years later in 2007, I would stare at my television with tears in my eyes. Friday March 2, a bus heading south to play in Sarasota once again, was carrying 35 members of the Bluffton baseball team when it tragically took an exit and ran off the overpass. Six were killed including four players. I now prayed for the team I had once fought so fiercely to defeat. A great moment in my life and a dream of mine was now perfectly in perspective. Events and accomplishments are worthwhile, but the things that really matter are people and the relationships we share with them.
