In my life, I lost many baseball games. Some by wide margins, and others by one or two runs; in every game, I fought for every inch, or at least I think I did...? I hope I did o_O (Watch how someone from my past calls me out on one of them here). You come across games where 9 out of 10 times you would win that particular game, and this was one of those times.
You would have liked me out there. I figured out how to swing the bat, when I discovered how to properly hold the baseball bat. I decked out in PIRATES gear for this one...do you know what the back of my jersey said? Hmm?
SUPERBAD...SUPERBAD! I was #36 SUPERBAD!
First pitch, I hit the ball, and...it was beautiful. First thing, you couldn't see it. The ball actually left the yard, alright! It LEFT THE YARD! I was such a beautiful thing, because I swung the bat, and the ball hit the bat, and there it was all alone in the air and it's still going up! My teammates and I went o_O because they never saw it before, and I never saw it before going in the direction it did with such height and velocity in my life! I turned to my teammates and asked them, "Do you see this? Do you see the ball going?" Then they said, "RUN YOU SILLY FOOL!" I turned to look, and I paused and said "Wait, hold on, because it may be a mirage! You can never tell..."
It wasn't a mirage because it LEFT THE YARD! So I took off running, and I stepped on each base, and I crossed the home baseline just as they threw the ball into the infield ^_^ So, I felt pretty good; I got to be Andrew McCutchen for an at-bat.
I could go on about my defensive impressions of McCutchen in the outfield, but I can't help knowing I could have done better. The team deserves so much better than our current 0-4 record indicates, and there were many opportunities we had to close it out. According to my teammates, I don't take losses too well; that is only because I wasn't allowed to take defeat easy growing up.
My Dad was the "self-appointed" assistant coach in my first and last two years of t-ball, although I assumed that was the story. If we won, then it was by a team effort. If we lost, then I would get the top 15 reasons why I lost the game for the team. Baseball became homework, and whatever my Dad thought he saw on the television became gospel (when each batter has individual batting stances, studying can be confusing)! There wasn't a right or wrong way to play baseball: You had to play it his way, or get it. My Dad taught me two pitches: The fastball and the bean-ball. He couldn't throw a fastball, but I learned to catch out of preservation, and Dad only threw strikes. In games, I was taught to be scared of the ball, the situation, and the guy in the glasses watching from the stands. Not only because I might fail, but also of the possibility I might succeed, and the "practices" would intensify.
It was years before I could enjoy baseball again, and the Strike of '94 didn't help things. When I returned to the game, the opportunity to play at a competitive level, which you foster in your teenage and college years, dissipated into sub-standard play. Personally, my relationship with my Dad reached a level now where we work together in his company, and most nights we leave work in good shape...most of the time o_O (That was a joke; we are alive) ^_^ Now I collect personalized jerseys and dress up for city leagues and social outings. If I could hit like a major leaguer more often, instead of just dress up like a major leaguer, I could contribute to my current team. In the meantime, I can only think of one thing...
"Man, this sucks."
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