By: Mike Carter
I have come to realize that I am aging rapidly and that there is little I can do to slow the progression of time.
I went out last weekend to play catch with my seven-year-old son. I just don’t have it anymore. I am good enough to play catch, but my days of calling signals to the pitchers or running down long fly balls in the gap for fun during batting practice are over.
Sometimes when I think about baseball, which happens several times a day, I think back upon my glory days in the sport, which were never what one might call glorious. Mostly I remember the camaraderie of the teams I was on, the guys I played with and teamed with, and what the game looked like from behind home plate. I never forget that. We had a field at West Lawn that faced the sun and was blinding in early evening games. I recall crouching behind the plate, giving the signs, even many of the games played there, and all the guys. What strikes me though is that even as a young prepubescent kid, I would think, this is perfect. Playing a game on this field, behind the plate, the sun blaring above to my left, the ability to see the entire field in front of you, the hitter digging into the box, and me taking a deep breath and preparing to receive the next pitch, hoping my Rec Specs wouldn’t fog up. I caught often and most of time the pitchers were tremendously patient with the frail boy behind the dish trying to catch what they were throwing. I appreciate those guys even if I never say it to them directly. They know who they are.
My bosses here at 9 Inning asked me to write about my favorite player growing up. Oddly, having grown up in Chicago as a White Sox fan, you might think my favorite was Carlton Fisk or Harold Baines. They were great, and I saw them play often. But I was a weird kid. And I really followed the game from a young age, and knew the players on every other team, mostly because of my dad. He taught me how to read a box score, patiently instructing me and showing me what was important about this skill. To this day, I still pore over them, although now it’s on an iPhone and not a daily newspaper.
The guys I always took a liking to had similar characteristics. This essay is a more an amalgam of players rather than one specific person. They were tough and gritty; they usually had dirty uniforms. They didn’t use batting gloves. They had eye black smeared all over their faces; they looked sweaty and strained. Usually they were the ones doing the little things right: playing heads-up, hitting the relay man, taking the extra base, throwing to the right base, getting a bunt down, selling out in the gap for a fly ball, moving the runner over to third by hitting to the second baseman. You get my drift. Some of these guys were stars, or at the very least above average players: Robin Yount, George Brett, Cal Ripken, Alan Trammell, Carlton Fisk. Sure, you’ll say. What’s not to like? All are Hall of Fame members, and rightfully so.
But the guys I always felt that I identified with were not the stars. The ones who were below that rare air, yet were really good ballplayers. Bob Boone. Fred Lynn. Mike Scioscia. Kirk Gibson. Scott Fletcher. Marty Barrett. Later, David Eckstein. You get the idea. Let me be clear. I had very limited skills as a player. I knew what to do most times, but my body and lack of athletic skills wouldn’t always allow me to do what was needed in the game. Therefore, I never identified with guys in the major leagues who were superstars; they had always been great, most likely, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that they would struggle getting a bunt down or making an accurate throw to second base. No, I always liked the guys for whom the game seemed difficult, because I felt that I could relate to that. Even still, the guys I mention here were great athletes and likely terrific players all the way back to Little League. But I convinced myself that I could identify with Fred Lynn, who always looked like he was maxing out what his body would allow him to, and never seemed graceful to me doing it. Mike Scioscia blocking the plate and refusing to give an inch of it to a base runner trying to score. Marty Barrett getting a runner over to third, doing the little things right to help his team, not his own statistical line. David Eckstein, needing to crow hop to make the throw from the hole to first base.
The thing I always loved about baseball and being on a team was that your individual skill sets didn’t seem to matter as much as being there with the other players on your team. You win or lose the game as the sum of your parts. So, while it’s great to have Mike Trout on your team, you could still lose the game even with him. It might come down to that center fielder selling out in the gap to catch a long fly ball. It may come down to that guy backing up the play who saves the day. It might be the catcher blocking the ball in the dirt and keeping the tying run at third base. It might be the bench player who earns a walk after a ten-pitch at bat. It might not be the star. It might be the last person on the team. It comes down to doing the job. The team’s job is to win. It’s the sum of the parts being greater than one person.
I write this as my back aches from four days of shoveling. I am ready for Spring Training games, which begins in the next few days for most teams. Hope springs eternal, friends, and I hope your team is full of the type of players I mentioned here. We all have hope right now, in spite of the rancor and division in this country, that our team will be playing meaningful games in September. Good luck to every baseball fan who reads these 1000 words here. I love this game and I always will, even though my favorite team will rely on James Shields far too much this year.