The Pride of The Reds | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: The Pride of The Reds | Previous Challenge Entry
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01/30/14
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Rounding second base racing toward third I caught sight of dad in the third base coach’s box furiously waving his arms towards home plate…

At stake was the Bantam Little League baseball championship. My team, the Reds versus the Bears. Both undefeated and chock full of young talent except for a few hapless scrubs like myself who donned a uniform and took a spot in the lineup for the league mandated three innings.

I earned my scrub status by, among other failings, going hitless the entire season. I do not mean not getting a hit; I mean my bat was so unfamiliar with the feel of horsehide on it that it never touched the ball, not even a foul tip. Therefore my fate at the plate was always either a walk or strikeout, though I cared little which one, hopeful only that the agony of having to demonstrate my non-proficiency was mercifully brief.

Now it was my turn at bat in the bottom of the last inning of a scoreless championship game with no one on base. I stood or should say shook in the batter’s box.

For a brief moment, while the sneering pitcher eyed me over, the embrace of warm springtime sun and the static buzz of the moment brought back to mind what my life was like the year before. Free and fun times riding bicycles with the neighborhood kids in the city. My dad who is in fact my step-dad was courting mom. Marriage plans were in the works and the construction of an amalgamated family was under way. Moving to a new town I had two new siblings, who with minor transition went from step sisters to sisters and a real father without the modifier step to mitigate the definition.

The crowd and team banter thrust me back to the present. The warm embrace became a sweat bath as I stood with a wooden stick in hand expected to hit something or become shamefully unfit for the human race, the concept of which forced me for the first time all season to care what could occur next. Yet as always I left my fate in the hands of the pitcher. Highly relieved when destiny granted me a walk, I trotted to first base. Big Doug Zebrowski was up next!

Dad, always, and in all his ways exhibited to me his kindness, wisdom and encouragement. I was indeed blessed that God provided the answer to a tot’s prayer for a father, with such a great one! He shines brilliantly weighing in against some present day fathers who unthinkably raze their children’s spirits in the conditional arena of success at any cost, or else.

Dad was an athlete. He had been a star college baseball player and had baseball on his mind for me. But during our first year together I was barely aware of what a baseball looked like. And so to put me at ease he volunteered as an assistant coach with the Reds. It had to be tough coaching a team with your son on it who wasn’t exactly Willie Mays.

However, he never said or implied disappointment, nor exerted pressure on me to be worthy of his affection by being a super-star. He was only disgruntled with me when in the outfield I was often seen distracted by a blade of grass, a butterfly, or waving to my mother and sisters on the sidelines. Focus and concentration were not my strong suits. But, speed was. “You’re the fastest boy on the team and that’s a gift from God. I see light at the end of the tunnel son. Someday you’ll be a great hitter.” He declared believing his words much more than I or any of my teammates did.

Vibrating though the timbers of all soul’s present was the resounding crack of a hard hit baseball. Zebrowski smacked a long triple. The first base coach screamed in my ear “GO!” I sprinted like an antelope with a predator on its heels, stepped on second base then past dad who waved me on to score the winning run. We were champions!

I remember my dad beaming with pride as the team carried me off the field on their shoulders. Some years later in the context of maturity I realized Dad’s sacrifice had presented him with the reward of seeing his son substantially contribute to the team, though he would have been equally proud if I had struck out.

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