Scars (Part 1)

Major League Baseball’s season is coming to an end. The New York Yankees, a team for which I played in Little League and now despise in the big leagues, are a favorite to win this year. The news here in New York is littered with A-Fraud. Still, baseball will always hold its place in my life.

Boys dream of playing in the World Series, I did. I played baseball before I knew the rules of the game. My father would have me throw countless balls into a tire nailed to a fence. He taught me dedication and discipline. Dad coached my big brother’s team, and I was happy to be the batboy. I have many fond baseball memories. I also have these:

• Before organized baseball, I played what we called “pickle” or “hot box.” Two bases and three people. Basically a glorified version of keep away. Once I ran head-on into a baseman. Spitting and swallowing blood, I lost a tooth.
• After one of my brother’s games, an older boy asked me to throw him a pitch. He hit a line drive into my side. I dropped in pain and cried. Eventually, the baseball-sized bruise grew to that of a soccer ball.
• One evening I was playing catch with my dad and brother. Something caught my attention, so I turned my head. Then, I heard Dad calling my name. I turned back and a ball met my eye. I remember screaming.
• As a batboy I saw my brother swing his bat into a friend’s face while on deck. I believe it was the same game when another batter foul tipped a ball directly into his own face. An ambulance visited the field twice that day.
• I was pitching a near flawless game, but as I threw the last pitch of my baseball career, I remember feeling a pop. My arm dangled to my side.

After the injury I traded a small, hard 2.9 inch diameter baseball for a softer, large 8.7 inch diameter soccer ball. My days of playing baseball were over, and I joined Shoe Hunter’s soccer team.

As New York begins to chill and the MLB World Series approaches, warmness resides within. A baseball is something legitimate and forever, not like the hormone-filled players that riddle its game. It’s at this time of year I miss the 88 inches of red, waxed thread used to hand-sew the 108 double stitches of every baseball. My father sewed those stitches into my side. I have a scar to prove it.