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Making
things happen - with integrity. A weekly CyberMemo designed to keep you on task. Monday November 5, 2001 Volume III Number 45 |
FOCUS - First Pitch
When President Bush first appeared in the dugout, he was surrounded by security, and a screaming crowd. While he showed no sign of concern, he had to be thinking about the risks. Certainly Laura (the First Lady) did. And if not Laura, his mother Barbara.
When I heard over the radio that the President, for the first time in World Series history, would throw the first pitch for the opening game of the Yankee Stadium portion of the series in The Bronx, something drew me to the television set. Maybe part of me feared that there would be another terrorist episode… one more in the long line of shocking live television events as the world watched. I didn’t want to miss it. They put the Pope behind bullet-proof Plexiglas ever since the shooting in St. Peter’s Square. The President’s limousine looks like a stretch luxury car, but it is a rolling Sherman Tank in disguise. Air Force One is a flying fortress, an airborne Pentagon. The security that follows the President of the United States is the best money can buy. And yet, here he is, walking out on to the playing field in the House that Ruth Built, solo, before tens of thousands of baseball fans, directly to the mound.
Secret Service sent their finest to New York. They’ve never been busier. I can only imagine the high anxiety briefing sessions. How did they choose the guys who walked through the historic concrete tunnels snaking under the bleachers of Yankee Stadium to personally protect the President? The elite of the elite would be selected for this assignment.
By the end of the summer, 2001, George W. Bush was not particularly welcome in New York. The City was in turmoil in a mayoral election year. Giuliani’s term was near an end. New Yorkers were not disappointed. His Senate campaign ended abruptly, and he returned to devote more time to his mayoral duties. But for most of his constituents, it was too little, too late. The City celebrated the choice of the former President, Bush’s predecessor, to office in Harlem. He, along with his newly elected Senator spouse, was the darling of New York politics. Last summer, even with eight months in office, the current President was considered by most New Yorkers to be a nearly illegitimate occupant of the White House. The Florida election fiasco continued to loom large on Madison Avenue.
But here it is, the first in the World Series to be staged in New York, the defending Champion Yankees down two games to nothing, George W. Bush, the former Governor of Texas, emerges from the Yankee dugout as the deep voice of the stadium announcer rumbles through the mighty sound system, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States.” And the crowd jumps to its feet and roars in joyous celebration. The noise, deafening. Hoots and hollers and whoops and whistles and applause and waving of flags and banners, and the President went thumbs up as the chant began “U S A! U S A! U S A!” It was as though the mere presence of this President inspired the City of New York and via television the entire nation to stand in defiance of those whose self-ordained mission in life is to bring down the way of life of the American people.
This was the same man who stood atop the rubble at Ground Zero with an electronic megaphone in his hand, and called out to a legion of brave but weary rescue workers “We have heard from those who attacked our country…” and he pointed to the remains of the collapsed World Trade Center, “but it won’t be long… they’re gunna hear from us!”
Now he walks to the pitchers mound. An historic pile of dirt with a strip of rubber at the center of the playing surface and the diamond of deep green grass, and the President, standing alone, turns to face the stands, deck upon deck, not an empty seat in the house, as the roar is raised to yet another decibel level.
And I’m thinking, “OK so far.” He wrapped his two hands around the new white baseball with the red thread, rubbing the new leather, getting the feel. “Now he’s gotta throw that thing…” I said to myself.
This first pitch deal. It’s tradition. Generally, the celebrities asked to make that ceremonial throw get lots of room. Not very high expectation. Getting it to home plate is usually enough. If it falls short, and dribbles in, that’s OK, too. Sometimes, the celeb remains in his or her front row seat, and simply tosses it on to the playing field. Underhand. Overhand. Whatever. It always gets a cheer.
But this President, whose pre-presidency business exploits included ownership of a professional baseball team (the Texas Rangers) strides up to the mound like he belongs there, acknowledges the crowd’s impassioned welcome, takes the ball in his right hand, takes aim, winds up and lets it go. He puts some speed on it. A little pepper. It would have looked high and outside to a right handed batter, but it curves right into the strike-zone. Pops it right into the catcher’s mitt. He nails a strike.
The crowd explodes.
“U S A! U S A! U S A!”
Had the President slipped, and the ball high and away, a wild pitch or into the dirt or otherwise unplayable by the catcher, the whole scene would be fodder for late night comedians and political pundits, endless replays right up there with President Gerald Ford banging his head on the door of Air Force One as the cameras rolled.
But
not this one. It’s in the can. A perfect strike. It will be replayed over
and again, but like Motherhood, Apple Pie, and Chevrolet, this moment in
Baseball will illustrate the way things are supposed to be in America.
The two head coaches met G.W. at the first base line, all smiles and handshakes and the directional mike caught the line, “Well done, Mr. President!” and the three of them turned to acknowledge the crowd, celebrating the moment with a long and raucous standing ovation.
* * * * * *
I’m still sore from my foray into baseball one week ago.
We were a bunch of guys at a men’s retreat in the high apple country of Southern California. Twelve of us. Where once I was like a big brother, I’m becoming more like a father figure to these guys… and to their kids, a grandfather… but I still like to get out there, as though I’m one of them, still capable of kickin’ in the testosterone and doin’ the stuff guys like to do. Like catch. And throw. And hit. And run.
Just to get my legs to where they felt like rubber, after eating too much lunch, we started that Saturday afternoon’s activities with a hike. There was a peak on the hill, reachable in a reasonable time frame from the conference grounds. It promised spectacular vistas of the high valley and the orchards, the peaks in the distance in one direction and the city below. Our elevation exceeded the mile-high mark, and it was a picture perfect fall day.
The hike was more like climbing a ladder than a trail. In the ascent, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and my lungs working overtime to process what little oxygen they found in this high altitude, clean air. I kept thinking, one step at a time, all the way up. Once or twice, I figured that my trail-mates, these young trim guys barely working up a sweat, would understand if an old guy like me just turned around and called it a day, and I almost called it quits. But after a few stops to catch my breath, I made it to the top, and the view delivered all it had promised and more, so we stopped and took it all in and then we made our way back down.
At the bottom of the hill, we were informed that our group was next in line for the softball tournament. By this time, I was feeling my age, but the lure of the ball diamond was too much for even me, so we all high-fived and said, “let’s go get ‘em.”
The ball diamond on the campgrounds fell somewhat short of regulation play. Not a blade of grass anywhere. The playing surface, rock hard decomposing granite with a coat of dry dust and gravel scattered across the infield and the outfield. A long fly ball to left field would likely land in a sandpit court, in use at the time for the volleyball tournament. A long fly ball to center would put you into the camp’s burn-pile. A little to the right, an aging travel trailer oxidizing in the high summer sun with dents and dimples in the sides and on the roof from the line-drives and pop flies of other weekend warriors on retreat. And in right field, an asphalt surface in desperate need of a new coat of slurry. It was no Field of Dreams.
But in America, guys don’t care about playing conditions. You just play. You make it work. You go around. You make up rules to compensate for the obstacles.
I took right field, thinking I’d avoid the action. Let the other guys make the plays. Nobody hits to right field, I thought. So I’m standin’ there with a borrowed glove watchin’ as my team-mates crouch, hands on their knees, waitin’ for the first pitch. It was slow pitch, the softball new and hard as a cannonball, with self-pitching the order of the day. Your own team-mate serves up a home-run lob for a pitch, and all ya gotta do is make contact. First guy up, BAM! Short high fly ball to shallow right field. I was playin’ him deep. And that began an afternoon of sprints.
In the past decade or so, I’ve jogged. I’ve power walked. I’ve bicycled. I’ve hit the treadmill. But I’ve not called on these legs to sprint in years. There I was with an opportunity to show my pals that I could pull in an easy fly ball… and to do it required some speed. So I kicked in the afterburners and told my rubbery legs (fresh off the mountain climb) to get me there so I could make the catch. I looked up in search of the ball floating high in the air and as I ran, I had trouble focusing. As my body jostled up and down back and forth in a motion that long ago stood as an exhibition of coordinated grace, the jerking and grinding and bumping and pulling all these heretofore neglected body parts into harmonious forward advance shook my head, and my eyes needing a silky stride to see clearly, bounced like an SUV off-road. From my vantage point, the ball in flight zigged and zagged jerking this way and that as I twisted and yanked and pounded my way close enough to get my glove out there and around the ball before it dropped. I thought, “man what’s happened to me? I used to pull these things in like no problem, and now I’m not so sure I’m gunna make it…” and then it hit me. Maybe the shortstop was there, too. Or the second baseman. I didn’t want to collide full on with one of my team-mates, so I stopped short and looked for traffic. There was none, they were gunna let me have the catch so I went for my second start out of the blocks. I burst forward once more. But by this time, the fly ball continued its speedy decent and with a POP hit the hard ground, kicking up a mini-cloud of dust as my glove reaching out missed it by I’d say about four feet. When the ball hit the ground, the batter rounding first, there was a collective groan from my teammates, young bucks who never would have let THAT happen. Somewhere from the shadows of my memory, I could hear my old coach from Little League shouting from the dugout, hands cupped like a megaphone around his mouth, “Kemp what IS your PROBLEM?!” But my friends out there, knowing the circumstances, with deference to my new station in life, said, “It’s OK Ken. Coulda happened to any one of us.” Right.
It was nice of them to be sensitive. But it was still a long lonely walk back to my position in right field.
There were other such moments that afternoon on the ball field.
From the batter’s box, with those easy pitches, I managed to hit a couple of long balls, one soaring over the center fielder’s head. But at the moment of sweet contact, I realized that I must once more sprint. On the long ball, I rounded second, headed for third, knowing they had a chance to throw me out. But I ran anyway, with all the speed I could muster. I knew that a slide would bring me safely to third base, and I momentarily debated the possibility… but the gravel and the wisdom of the years convinced me to take a pass on the slide. Then, the next decision. I quickly calculated the braking distance required to stop the momentum at the base. It would be no easy assignment, so I pulled up early to be sure I didn’t run right past the bag, and as I did, I heard the pop in the third basement’s mitt and felt the tag on my shoulder. I was about ten feet out. I looked over at the Ump behind the plate just in time to see him pull back his hand, thumb up, and yell, “he’s OUT!”
Another long and lonely walk. This time to the bench.
The guys told me, “It’s OK Ken. Good hit.”
* * * * * * *
I don’t watch a lot of baseball. But this World Series has my attention. As of this writing, the outcome remains unknown. The series is tied. Three games each - Yankees and D-Backs.
The guys will tell you… a highlight of our retreat was the softball game in the gravel pit. It was sandlot ball, and we took a pounding from a crew of tall, lean young bucks from some other town who hit the ball long and ran fast. But us guys learned a lot about each other out there, and even in defeat, our laughter and high fives and guys takin’ big risks in the interest of team spirit and playin’ together in the grit and dust, well it was a tribute to The Game.
Three games played in Yankee Stadium, two of them won in extra innings, lifted the spirits of a city, and maybe even a nation a notch or two in New York. And when we gathered up there on the mountain for a couple meetings of talkin’ and sharin’ and prayin’ as dads and husbands and businessmen, there was a candor and openness that probably came from the battlefield that was a baseball diamond.
It’s Monday morning. You are a leader. The World Series is the end of a long hard season. Painfully few emerge as Champions. In light of the events of 9/11, it’s fitting that the Yankees are one team that emerged on top. The legendary major league franchise is challenged by a team whose name few can even remember, it’s so new. But there are lessons out there. About leadership. About conditioning. About teamwork. About camaraderie.
I’m still sore. But I’ve got some new friends. Good friends.
Today, you’ll be called on to show ‘em what you can do. Remember The President. Taking to the mound. Deliverin’ a strike.
This week, when you get your turn, put it right down the middle.
PS - Congratulations Diamondbacks!
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2001
Special Thanks to my good friend David Belcher, owner of Rhino Media Group and creator of WisdomGram
LeaderFOCUS is a service of Good Stewardship Associates
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