veleno45
05-19-2014, 07:05 AM
It was the bottom of the ninth and the bases were loaded with one out. The infield pulled in, the outfield shortened their positioning. The batter fought off pitch after pitch, fouling balls left and right, to work the count full. Foul ball...foul ball... foul ball. Our pitcher was throwing nothing but fast balls at this point. Rear back and throw, no more pitching involved, not at this point. Then it came...the ball slightly high, the batter checking his swing just enough to hear the umpire, ball four.
My step-son, a college senior, stood at his position at 1st base, almost refusing to acknowledge the game was over as the winning run walked across the plate. He stood there, hands on knees, looking down into the dirt. No one said a thing. We just watched. Watched as our boys slowly made their way to the dugout, and then across the field to shake hands.
For the first time since ball four I looked at my wife. The tears were already coming down her face as she stood silently. I looked over at my step-sons dad. He hadn't moved from his chair, but his head had now dropped and he was now staring into the same ground that had entranced his son just minutes before. It wasn't the loss that hurt. It wasn't the walk. At least not the walk that cost us the game. It was the walk off the field, for the final time, ever. From tee ball, to little league, to miles and miles of travel ball, to high school ball, to college...it was over, and we all struggled silently to keep it together.
There were hugs and tears afterwards, with the ironic backdrop of two teams of 8 years olds playing their game behind us. A few hours later, after the long drive home, I checked my mail. There was a small package for me, and I opened it and smiled. There was Beals Becker, grade 3. A nondescript card of a nondescript player in an era forgotten by so many, except for us true lovers of the sport. Baseball is romantic. Baseball is everything good about life and sports. The next time you see a college game going on, or you find yourself within driving distance to a minor league park, stop in and take it in. You never know what will happen to make Beals Becker, PSA 3, the best card in your collection.
My step-son, a college senior, stood at his position at 1st base, almost refusing to acknowledge the game was over as the winning run walked across the plate. He stood there, hands on knees, looking down into the dirt. No one said a thing. We just watched. Watched as our boys slowly made their way to the dugout, and then across the field to shake hands.
For the first time since ball four I looked at my wife. The tears were already coming down her face as she stood silently. I looked over at my step-sons dad. He hadn't moved from his chair, but his head had now dropped and he was now staring into the same ground that had entranced his son just minutes before. It wasn't the loss that hurt. It wasn't the walk. At least not the walk that cost us the game. It was the walk off the field, for the final time, ever. From tee ball, to little league, to miles and miles of travel ball, to high school ball, to college...it was over, and we all struggled silently to keep it together.
There were hugs and tears afterwards, with the ironic backdrop of two teams of 8 years olds playing their game behind us. A few hours later, after the long drive home, I checked my mail. There was a small package for me, and I opened it and smiled. There was Beals Becker, grade 3. A nondescript card of a nondescript player in an era forgotten by so many, except for us true lovers of the sport. Baseball is romantic. Baseball is everything good about life and sports. The next time you see a college game going on, or you find yourself within driving distance to a minor league park, stop in and take it in. You never know what will happen to make Beals Becker, PSA 3, the best card in your collection.