Eighteen years old
The greatest of the greats know that no matter what, you push through the pain. There is no winning without sacrifice and sometimes that means putting your body through hell. Babe Ruth “The Great Bambino” knows what I’m talking about.
In 1924, it was a glorious sunny day. The weather was hot, and the crowd was amped for the game between the Yankees and the Senators. The batter was up to swing and the baseball cracked against the bat, soaring toward the right field.
But it was close to the foul line.
Babe Ruth was sprinting. He wasn’t watching where he was going. His eye was on the ball. All that mattered was winning. All that mattered was catching that damn ball.
He ran smack into the concrete wall of the bleachers, losing the ball indefinitely, and knocking himself unconscious for five whole minutes.
No one knew what to do. It was 1924, after all. Today, an unconscious player would be rushed to the hospital, but Babe Ruth laid there in the field with his coaches and teammates surrounding him. Coach poured water on Babe Ruth’s face and eventually Babe started to come around. When he got up, everyone insisted that he rest and be pulled out of the game.
Not Babe Ruth.
You don’t become known as “The Great Bambino” by sitting a game out. Babe Ruth played the rest of the game and finished strong, gaining two more hits and limping around the bases since he had also hurt his hip.
God, I love that story.
But not all players have the chance to get back up. I made a mistake.
I pushed myself too hard.
I wanted—no—I needed to be great. I needed to push through the pain because scouts were checking me out. Not college scouts either, no, these were from the major leagues. Everything I ever wanted was in sight, but I couldn’t show my pain.
My knee had been killing me for months. Ever since I slid into home plate and collided with the catcher somehow—his foot smashing into my right knee. I had felt fine for a few days after.
And then the had pain set in.
Every practice, every game became harder. So, I loaded up on pain relievers and they worked.
Until they didn’t.
On that fateful day, I was running around the bases after I hit another ball out of the park. The guys said when I swung, they swore they heard a whistle before I connected with the ball. I hit and I hit hard, but my knee had had enough of the hard hits.
Something popped as I ran around third base and I collapsed. The agony was unbearable, but it was the fear that immobilized me. I knew…
I knew I had gone about making my sacrifice the wrong way.
I’ve had two surgeries on my knee, but none will make me play ball again. If only I had gone to the doctor when the catcher’s foot hit me, all of this could have been avoided. I could be playing professionally right now.
Instead, I’m stuck living some third-string dream. I’m an assistant coach for the high school team I used to play with. I got the job easily, but I’m unhappy and fucking miserable.
“Alright, practice is over. See you boys tomorrow,” Coach Watson announces and all the guys run from the field to the dugout to grab their belongings.
Not me.
I’m going to stay for a minute. I need some time alone. It’s been a year since my injury and ten months since I graduated high school. How is it possible I feel older than this damn dirt beneath my cleats?
“Wesley, you coming?” Coach calls out to me to see if he can turn off the field lights.
“I’m staying a bit Coach.” I pick up all the baseballs and toss them in the pitching machine. I might not be able to run, but I can still hit, and I plan to hit every single one of these mother fuckers out of the park.
“Don’t lose all of our balls with that swing you have. Your talent is expensive.” Coach chuckles and picks up his bag from behind the fence before he leaves.
My talent is as useless as a wet paper bag.
One thing that makes me different is that I like the feel of a wooden bat. I like the weight of it and how it feels in my hand. There is this beautiful sound as the wood connects with the ball. It’s crisper than the ringing of a ball hitting an aluminum bat. It’s a damn song I can put on repeat.
I stand at home plate and hit the bat on my cleats, then get into position. I watch the pitching machine, listen to it whirl and power up. It spits out the first ball and I swing, connecting the ball and the wood like I always do.
The ball soars high, arching as it makes its way over the fence.
Homerun.
If I could run.
I’m not sure how long I’m there for, hitting ball after ball, but eventually the sky turns dark and the gnats are out and sticking to my sweat. I’m batting at them like I do a damn ball, so I call it quits. The field lights are pouring over the diamond, the white lights blinding me if I stare at them for too long.
I miss the cut green grass and the red clay. I miss the moment of my stomach dropping as I step up to the home plate and I miss the look in the pitcher’s eye when he’d feel the pressure of having to strike me out.
Yeah, I never got struck out.
Kissing those memories goodbye, because I need to grow up and move on at some point, I pick up the bucket and make my way around the fence to get the balls.
When I’m done, I walk all the way back to the dugout for my bag, my knee twinging since I’ve overused it today. I need to soak in a nice hot bath. That always makes it feel better, then a cold ice pack.
Exhaling a breath with so much regret, I take one last look at the field, turn off the lights, and head toward the only truck left in the parking lot.
“Fuck,” I curse when my knee gives out and I stumble, slamming my shoulder against the side of my old man’s pickup truck. It’s a Ford, rusted to hell, but hey, the engine works and that’s all that matters.
The bucket of balls crash against the pavement and they roll under the truck.
Instead of getting back up, I stay down for a minute. I get so tired of pushing to my feet. I’m so fucking angry. What’s the point of getting back up? I’ve lost everything at eighteen years old. What the hell can the future ever do for me now?
I think of my sister. She’s two years younger than me, and I know I have to stay strong for her. She’s too gullible and she believes everything that she's told because she’s got a good heart.
People like to take advantage of good hearts and people are the catalysts to how broken hearts are born.
And my sister is at the top of that list.
I can’t let it happen and if I fall and never get back up, I know she’ll get caught in the evil clutches of the world easily.
I reach for the first ball to my left and grab the bucket with my other hand. It’s like I’m eight years old again on an Easter egg hunt but instead of eggs, it’s baseballs. I have to climb under the truck for a few, then walk around to the other side to grab the rest. I don’t even know if I have them all. I don’t care. I want to go home.
Tossing the bucket in the bed of the truck, I limp around to the driver’s side, open the door, and get in, throwing my bag on the passenger seat.
“Fuck yes,” I groan as I sit down.
The engine grumbles to life and I pull out of the parking lot, tapping my fingers against the wheel to a Van Halen song blaring on the radio. I have the windows rolled down since the air conditioning doesn’t work and my elbow is perched out of it as I roll to a stop at a red light.