There
are some moments that seemingly take place in slow motion, the kind that you
not only never forget but that seem surreal as they unfold, frame by
frame. I had such a moment and want to
share it with you.
The youth
baseball team that I coach was battling in a baseball playoff game this past
weekend. As the Kansas City Royals
battled the San Francisco Giants in the World Series, seeking bragging rights as
the best team in the most prestigious professional baseball league on the
planet, my son’s team the Hawks, was in the first round of his fall league’s
post-season tourney. There are nine
teams in his division of nine- and ten-year-olds, and each one makes the
playoffs. We were seeded sixth for our
record of two wins, four losses, and a tie (games have time limits). We played the third-place 5-3 team.
They had
a better record, but weren’t world-beaters. We weren’t favored by any
means.
At stake
was personal pride and neighborhood bragging rights. When you win such a game you never forget it,
and when you lose it, you quickly move on the way kids move from movie to iPad
to pizza. But when you are in the
moment, it seems like the whole world is watching and the weight of life is on
your tiny shoulders.
The kids
each want to be the hero, or at the very least, avoid being the goat. No one wants to kill a rally or make the
final out. No one wants to give up the game-winning
hit or make a run-scoring error. They
want to win and have individual success, not only for their own sense of
fulfillment but to please their parents who seek to relive, if not re-write,
their own childhoods.
So here
it is. The game, a back and forth battle
from beginning to end, was tied 7-7 going into the top of the final inning, the
sixth. With one out and no one on, we
were facing the opposing team’s best pitcher, a fireballer. This kid brought heat and an intimidating
windup that rocked up and down, side to side, giving the batter a feeling of
uncertainty as to where the ball will explosively leave the pitcher’s hand.
Up at
the plate was one of our weaker hitters, batting 11th in the universal batting
order, out of 11. I’ve coached this kid
for several seasons and see him improving incrementally but he looked
overmatched here. He was down in the
count, one ball, two strikes. It looked
like we were a strike away from having two outs and little chance of
scoring. We’d have to go into the bottom
of the inning without a lead, hoping at best for extra innings. But the kid who’d pitch the extra inning
would be my fifth best pitcher. Our chances didn't look good.
But
then, a surprise moment happened, a turn of fortune. The pitcher uncorked a wild fastball that
landed on the left arm of the batter.
After he expelled some tears for absorbing a rocket ship in his body, he
stood up to cheers and galloped to first base. We now had the potentially tying
run on first base.
The next
batter got out and the runner stole second base. Two out, with a prayer for something good to
happen.
Oscar
was up. He was the tallest kid on our
team, maybe by a foot. And he was the
oldest as well. This is who I wanted
up. We were getting to the heart of our
line-up.
A few
pitches into his at-bat, nothing felt like it was going to happen. Then, suddenly, with a quick swing of the
bat, I Saw the ball travel fast off of the bat and into the outfield. In that split moment I saw a victory. I saw the runner going towards third and in
my hoarse voice I kept pace with his every stride, imploring him to run. Faster. Harder. There was a frenzied moment of seeing everything you hoped could happen suddenly unfolding in front of you.
Once the
ball got past the outfielders, my attention was to Oscar who was turning third
base and being waived in by my third base coach. A throw was coming in from the distance and I
yelled for Oscar to run… slide… safe!
He took
a good 10-15 seconds to lie face down in the dirt, exhausted, relieved,
shocked.
We had a
two-run lead and our best pitcher would close out the game.
Or so I
thought.
That
special moment when Oscar hit the go-ahead two-run homer was the one I’d want to
take with me as I celebrated an amazing win.
But it was not to be.
The
other team had their slow-motion moment awaiting a stage.
With two
out in the bottom of the last inning, score now tied 9-9, their batter hit a
slow-rolling ball down the third base line.
As my third baseman caught up with the ball, the runner from third was
about to cross home plate, feeling the winds of victory beneath their
steps. He was lifted up by his
celebrating teammates.
The
thrill of victory was snatched from us, leaving us with the agony of defeat.
Will
this game be a pivotal moment in the lives of anyone who participated or
witnessed it? Who’s to say – that will
take years to determine, but I’m sure that we’ll not forget the moment when we
felt like we won. The other team won’t forget what it was like to actually win.
How would I console our team after a tough loss and cheer my son up? Two boxes of Dunkin' Donut Munchkins cured that situation.
Kids seem like they can be passionate one moment and then move on to the next. I love their resiliency. But I also know that not everything is so easily forgotten. Everyone builds on their life's successes and defeats, at all levels, at all ages. Sometimes you can gain something from a loss and lose out on something when you win.
I played
six seasons in Little League and have coached many seasons. I remember the specifics of just a few
games. But I loved every minute I was on
the field, as player or coach, because in each game there was a competitive
spirit that came out. Each game
represented fun and excitement and a chance to be a winner. I can’t wait until
next season.
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