It was my last season
playing in the Babe Ruth
League.
Because Dad worked on Saturdays,
and every game was played
on that day,
he missed nearly all of my
baseball games
from Little League to Babe
Ruth.
But I understood why.
While I was having fun on
the ballfield,
he was working so I would
not have
to worry about the
necessities of life.
Nonetheless, that did not
relieve my desire
for my father to see me
play ball.
With each summer Saturday,
there was a hope
that
he might be among those
sitting in the bleachers,
cheering my team on
to victory.
This longing reached its
climax
during the next to the
last game of the year.
I was connecting with the
ball at the plate:
one triple
one double,
and two singles in that
order.
I also hit a foul ball
that was inches
from a home run in left
field.
I was hitting so well in
the game
that an unknown woman yelled
from the bleachers,
“That boy can hit!”
That evening I recounted
the story to my father
on how our team won,
and how well I was hitting
the ball.
I also pleaded with him
to come and see me play
my last baseball game.
He told me that he would!
That week I practiced with
a passion.
On game day,
dad kept his promise and
was watching me warm up before the game!
I was excited.
When I made my first plate
appearance
The umpire shouted,
“You’re out!”.
I was embarrassed.
When I went to bat a
second time,
the umpire bellowed,
“You’re out!”.
I was humiliated.
On my last opportunity at
the plate,
the umpire yelled,
“You’re out!”
I was devastated.
In the most important game
of my life,
I had struck out
at the plate
three times.
We didn’t even win the
last game of the season,
my last season.
Throughout my days,
playing baseball in my youth,
I had never played a game
without getting on base.
Dejected, I beat myself up internally by asking,
“Why did this have to
happen on
the very last baseball game
dad would ever see me
play?”
I wanted more than
anything
for my father to be proud
of me
and see that expression
written all over his face.
Instead, my baseball days
ended with these words,
“You’re out!”
I was out alright,
numbed by the
disappointment of
failing my dad and my
teammates.
I was waiting for a
sarcastic voice
to emerge from the bleachers
saying,
“That boy can’t hit!”
Thankfully, I never heard
it.
I said goodbye to baseball
that day,
a game that I dearly loved
to play.
But I loved the man more
who told me on the way
home
