The Swings I Missed

The first piece of athletic gear I owned was a baseball glove. I loved to toss a ball up into the air and interrupt its fall to earth with the leather webbing sewn between the glove’s thumb and forefinger. My Dad and I spent many summer nights, before the sun dropped below the tree line, playing catch. When I came of age, it was time for me to take the skills I had developed in the back yard to the Little League diamond.

My Dad brought me to Little League tryouts one spring evening and signed me up as a member of the Pirates farm league team. I was not old enough to play in the Little League “majors” and would have to play two or three years on a farm league team but I didn’t mind. I was happy just to be able to play baseball with other boys my age. When I stepped out onto a real ball field for the first time as a Little Leaguer I felt I was ready. My fielding ability was at least at par with my colleagues’ and my batting skills were adequate. I was able to hit the ball with sufficient ability and would occasionally make good contact.

My new team and I spent the next couple of weeks practicing. We practiced batting, fielding grounders and fly balls, and cutting off the runner at base. Then opening day came. Games, real games, were now on the line. There would be real wins and loses and published standings to let everybody know who was good and who were losers. At the start of that first game, the reality of it hit me. This was not just for fun. My team’s prestige was on the line and an error at any point of the game could precipitate a loss. This fact weighed heavily on my mind throughout each game and it was most intense when I was up at bat.

Every time I came to bat I froze. I had developed the baseball equivalent of stage fright. When out in the field I was just one of nine, but at bat the focus of the entire game was on me. The diamond had turned into an arrow head, directing all in attendance to watch me make a fool out of myself trying to hit the ball and I only had three tries to get it right. In my immature mind, I knew that if I swung and missed I would be ridiculed. I decided the only way I could avoid the jeers of my teammates was not to swing. Let the pitcher make the mistakes. A walk would get me on base and if the pitcher was able to get three across the plate, well at least the out wasn’t caused by anything I did.

That entire season I didn’t lift the bat off my shoulder. I dreaded my turns at the plate. I would play the field and even take practice swings while on deck but when it was my turn to bat, I stood as motionless as the statue at the top of a Little Leaguer’s trophy. As the season progressed, walks began to come less frequent because the pitchers learned how to throw to me. They would just toss the ball over the plate and not worry about a hit. I had become the proverbial “easy out”. Eventually, the absurdity of the situation was too much for me to pretend this was a constructive solution to my fear of striking out.

During the last game, at my last at bat of the season, I decided I was going to swing. I swung at the first pitch then felt the bat vibrate in my hands. In shock, I watched as the ball soared up into the air just inside the third base line. I stood at home plate as the ball flew deep into left field until I heard the coach, in a surprised voice, yell my name. I then ran towards first base and landed safely at second before the ball could be relayed to the shortstop. At the end of the game, the coach asked me why I didn’t hit like that before. I looked up at his puzzled face, shrugged my shoulders and ran towards my father’s car happy that the season was finally over.

My first swing and hit, as a Little Leaguer, was also my last. I didn’t join the following year. I found other interests and other sports that didn’t require me to standout from the rest of the team. I carry that experience deep inside me, even to this day. When I ponder that season, I wonder how I finally got the courage to take that swing and how differently that time in my life would have been remembered if I hadn’t.