 |
Making
things happen - with integrity. A weekly CyberMemo designed to keep you on task. Monday October 20, 2003 Volume V Number 48 |
I haven't really been much of a baseball fan - for a long time.
But as a boy, I gobbled up as much baseball as a youngster could. I donned the pinstriped white flannel uniform, pulled the cap over my head, punched the pocket of my open glove with a clenched fist over and over, playing Little League like most boys do. I experienced life on the mound (briefly), in the infield and outfield, but spent most of my boyhood career behind the plate, squatting for a whole afternoon with the shin guards and chest pad and face mask all in place. My dad taught me to throw a hard ball with a little pepper on it, as he liked to call it, and to catch a sizzler, so they put me back there with the catcher's mitt, signaling pitches from somewhere only the man on the mound can see, and my left hand would swell from the slap of fast balls into my open palm inside the mitt just behind the layer of leather. I could rip the mask off in a hurry and search the sky for a catch-able foul while scurrying around the umpire who would usually get out of my way. I could hit second base from behind the plate with a hard throw when necessary (usually ending the warm-up). I hit a home run or two, stole some bases, and knew every player on my favorite home-town Big League team, the Chicago Cubs.
I moved from the Midwest to a new town at age twelve, and in the new school out West, all the positions on the junior high baseball team were spoken for, and even though I showed some promise out there on the practice field, the fierce competition pretty well extinguished my love for the playing game, and I turned my loyalties to the football field, a slide trombone and a photography course with Mr. Roberts, who taught us the magic of developer chemicals in the dark under the red lamp in the eighth grade photo lab.
My baseball cards, the ones packaged with bubble gum, picturing all those revered heroes in the fifties, especially the Cubs, disappeared in the cross country move. I'd collected them with relish as a boy, memorizing stats and wondering what it might be like to play the game out there on the bright green grass and the ivy covered red brick walls of Wrigley Field with thousands of cheering fans in the stands looking on. But then the cards were gone, and I'm not sure I even noticed. Little boys easily move on.
These days, it's not until September or October that baseball may catch my attention again. If the hometown team makes the play-offs, I'll tune in. I'll learn the player's names, and catch up on what's happened during the season while I was doing something else.
That said, through the years, baseball emerged twice as a favorite past-time.
* * * * * * * *
The first was when Kevin played for the Marlins as a Little Leaguer. I didn't miss a game. As my dad with me, I taught my son to catch and to throw; hard and fast, without fear. I threw pitches, at first a lob, then with increasing speed, tossed the ball over the plate as he swung a hardwood bat, learning the timing and the form, developing the critical hand-eye coordination preparing for the Show. He picked it up quickly, and held his own out there at the try-outs and then on the practice field and finally at game-time. That's when it came back to me. Baseball is not boring - every moment counts. A whole game can easily turn on one crack of the bat, or one dropped ball, or one over-throw, and if you aren't watching carefully, faithfully, intentionally, you'll miss it. There are no replays in little league - or film at eleven. Even the most ardent camcorder toting dad knows the difficulty of catching the game winning play on film. You’ve gotta keep your eye on the ball. At all times.
When his coach discovered that Kevin possessed the arm and eye and attitude required for survival on the mound, the game took on a whole new dimension for me. I was riveted. Every pitch, every call, every batter, every foul-ball, every fair-ball, held my rapt attention. It's not fair to say that my post-game exhaustion equaled that of Kevin after four or five innings on the mound, but I would go home after one of those contests mentally, emotionally and spiritually spent.
That's baseball.
The second time I turned again to baseball was when our daughter fell in love with a college player. We arrived one afternoon to watch him in action. I'd been well out of the baseball loop for some years, and Kristyn pointed towards the guy out there in left field. "That's Ben," she said. Smiling. Proud. These guys are big, I thought. Strong. The throws, blistering. The swing of the bat, the base running; these were men. Powerful men. One in particular catching my daughter’s eye.
Ben knew we were up there in the crowd. It was an away game, a beach-front campus with a magnificent ball diamond on the bluff overlooking the blue Pacific. Once again, I was captivated by the subtleties of the game, the nuances, and I understood my daughter's enthusiasms. When Ben stepped up to the plate, I felt that old heartbeat, clamminess of the palms, eyes fixed on the batter's box... like those old days when young Kevin took the mound.
I didn’t know for sure, but there was a sense of destiny that day. Maybe Ben knew those were his future in-laws in the stands, and maybe I knew this young man would one day be father to my grand-son, but when the throw left the pitcher's hand, heading right down the barrel, and Ben stepped into the pitch, swinging the hardwood with precision and power, there was a crack I'll never forget as the ball drove up and out, skyward toward that blue Pacific and well over the outfield fence as the opposition threw up it's collective hands in utter surrender, and I jumped and whooped and hollered and whistled as Ben trotted around the bases as though he had lived and worked for this moment all his life; and then the world knew of what he was really made; and this picture will be forever etched, framed in my memory.
That's baseball.
* * * * * *
Cub fans have one thing in common. Heartbreak. We felt the same when I was a boy. The White Sox, the other team in town, well, they were contenders. The Cubbies, if they got close, you knew it was a matter of time before a crucial defeat would thwart any possibility of October glory.
This year, when I heard that the Cubs would make the play-offs, stunned disbelief drove me to sports news reports to confirm what I could not imagine. Is it possible? Could this be the year the Cubbies could break the pattern? Decades of defeat? Understand that true Cub fans aren't bitter about successive losing seasons. Cub fans love baseball. They love the players. It's a purity that isn't tarnished by off-the-charts salaries and signing bonuses and over-sized egos and in-your-face bullying. The Cubs fan can see into the heart of a player. There's a wholesomeness in their assessment of a Cub worthy of the game. Cubs fans consider winning to be a bonus - icing on the cake. At Wrigley Field, it matters more how you play the game than if you win or lose. That's the Cub tradition.
So when the Headlines read, "Chicago Cubs in the Playoffs" I was stunned. And I tuned in.
The analysts also predicted that the Florida Marlins were no match for this Chicago team.
No one thought it would take six games. Seven? Unthinkable. If the Cubs couldn't take it home in five, before the Marlin fans, they certainly would rout them out in game six before the home town crowd in Chicago.
Game six. A game that will forever live in Cubby infamy.
Steve Bartman is a twenty-six year old All-American Cubby fan. He left his Chicago area home in Northbrook only briefly, when he went to Notre Dame. He works for a Chicago born company, Hewitt Associates. He played Little League for a local team – the Renegades, and now out of school and starting his work career, he’s their assistant coach.
Somehow, Steve got tickets to game six. He fully believed he would witness history that night. He brimmed with the confidence that is beloved Cubs would shatter the barrier that kept the Cubs out of the World Series for fifty eight years. (He witnessed history, indeed. He became history.) He told all his friends. He secured a seat in the first row – out in left field – right there on the edge - ten feet above the green turf just beyond the chalky white foul line. He was the envy of Northbrook.
By the eighth inning, the Cub’s lead held. Three to zero. One out. One man on. The Marlins still in the fight, hoping to break through and rally. Luis Castillo took a full swing, popping a medium range high fly ball along the left field line, drifting towards the stands. Moises Alou ran hard from his position in left field as the ball seemed to hold, suspended in space. Steve Bartman knew he’d have to leap. (Every man and boy dream of a foul ball coming their direction and spend at least part of the first couple innings sizing up the competition – how tall are the guys sitting close to me? Will I come up with the ball with all these guys going after it? A lot of fans bring their mitts into the game, just in case.) Steve knew his seat was in foul ball territory, and sure enough, Castillo’s high foul was coming right at him. He claimed later that it never occurred to him that Alou might have a play. I believe him. The wall at his seat was a good ten feet above the ground.
But it was one of those drifters, looking for a moment like it might be in play, and then floated in the direction of the stands. Everyone in Bartman’s territory was on their feet, looking up. Without the replay, none of them would have noticed Alou timing his jump – a ten foot leap, up over the rail, just under the ball’s flight.
But it
was there. Bartman, ears sealed and covered by headphones tuned into the play
by play, got his hand on the ball. It stung. And bounced, just over Alou’s
extended, open glove, bouncing hopelessly into the seats where other eager fans
lunged for the prize. Bartman missed the catch, and his coveted souvenir.
Just as he pulled back in disappointment, he heard the
announcer groan over the air, and then looked into the angry eyes of Alou. “Alou
had a play, and a fan blocked the catch!’ the announcer told his listeners.
And Bartman knew. He kept the Cubby left fielder from securing a sure second out. It would have nearly ended
the inning.
The booing began, and spread all over the packed stadium. Uniformed guards swarmed around the aisle near his seat – to protect him.
The cursing erupted. The trash flew. Splashes of foaming beer. Taunting. Name-calling.
Steven Bartman, little league coach, faithful fan, in a blue Cubby cap with a big red "C" wished he was anywhere but his beloved Wrigley Stadium.
They ushered him out. To safety.
* * * * * * * *
The Marlins went on to score eight runs that inning. It was a miracle rally. The stuff of baseball dreams. A nightmare for Steven Bartman.
When I read the complete statement penned by the young Bartman, I was strangely moved. I guess I’ve made my share of mistakes, so as disappointed as I was with the Cub’s loss to the Marlin’s, I couldn’t blame him. Of course, it took more than a missed foul ball to lose game six and then game seven. But the whole city started talking turning point, and the curse on the Cubbies and the body politic, and how a single event can rob a team of its focus and confidence and power.
It was as though the entire city simply could not believe that the Cubs could really do it: win. And when they got their excuse for losing, they took it.
But Bartman’s statement was no denial. No dodge. No side-step. No appeal for sympathy. He didn’t betray any resentment towards the cruelty of the Chicago fans. He only grieved. Here’s his statement:
"There are few words to describe how awful I feel and what I have experienced within these last 24 hours. I've been a Cub fan all my life and fully understand the relationship between my actions and the outcome of the game.
"I had my eyes glued on the approaching ball the entire time and was so caught up in the moment that I did not even see Moises Alou, much less that he may have had a play. Had I thought for one second that the ball was playable or had I seen Alou approaching, I would have done whatever I could to get out of the way and give Alou a chance to make the catch.
"To Moises Alou, the Chicago Cubs organization, Ron Santo, Ernie Banks and Cub fans everywhere, I am so truly sorry from the bottom of this Cub fan's broken heart.”- Steve Bartman
I think it was the mention of Ernie Banks, now in his seventies, Hall of Famer, who played shortstop and hit home runs when I was a kid collecting cards and watching the Cubbies play on a twelve inch black and white television – Ernie Banks, that likeable superstar, who never made it to the World Series – Bartman's use of his familiar name is what got me.
Ernie would always say, "Let's play two!"
That’s baseball.
* * * * * * * *
It’s Monday morning. You are a leader.
You can relate to the Chicago Cubs – you’ve been so close, so many times. Something happened, and you missed it. That cherished goal - just out of reach. And then there was that oversight, that moment of destiny, you weren’t paying attention, that split second when you unintentionally interfered, and things went sour. And you wish somehow you could relive that moment. Like Steve Bartman, you are living with the error – and learning to carry on in spite of it.
Baseball draws us in because it is so much like life.
And while the Cubs missed the World Series – again – they just completed the winning-est, most successful run in over fifty years.
Ernie would smile, and say, “Let’s play two!” He’d put on the uniform, and get back out there at shortstop.
You and me - let’s listen to Ernie.
Posted in Valley Center, California
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2003
Special Thanks to my good friend David Belcher, owner of Rhino Media Group and creator of WisdomGram
|
|