Pride's Pitch
A few years ago, I decided to attend one of Cal Ripken, Jr’s last games at Kauffman Stadium in Kansas City. My middle son, who they call D-Money, was able to join me. Normally we would sit in the outfield corners which better fits our economics. But on that night we purchased good seats on the third base side, just behind the Orioles dugout so we could get as close to our modern day Iron Man as possible.
Our meeting was hastily organized, knowing only that it was Cal’s last series at the K. Shared over a quick phone call, that was enough information to get the ball rolling for us. I left a staggering in-box behind to travel south from Omaha while D$ pushed his school work back to speed up west from Warrensburg, rushing hell-bent as we were to get just one momentary glimpse of history. In retrospect it’s comforting to know exactly what we find it is worth dropping everything for, even in this world full of danger and uncertainty.
And I must admit I have many regrets in my life but sharing my love for baseball with my sons is one thing that I am proud to say I have accomplished. Our improvised meeting suggested to me that I had at least made some proper choices in my life. In spite of our differences, we knew could agree on how to separate the important from the trivial. Entering the park that night, D$ and I were walking on the clouds.
Once at the stadium, in hushed, secretive tones, amid the buzzing crowd, Mr. Money and I contemplated just how we would celebrate this fine occasion. After tossing our normal cares to the windy seas and since we were already wet, we made a pact to splurge on the most decadent treat at the K: a Sheboygan with the works.
The Sheboygan is a massive sausage, piled high on the bun with turbulence-inducing condiments. It is a dog among dogs, a special one that any normal person would wisely decline. This typically American pleasure is one that I hesitate to relate to you, a digestive nightmare that betrays our secret desire to have it all, to own the world. It is something that D$ and I don’t make too much of an overt fuss over, not wanting anyone else to know just how good it really is to have all of the world in your own hands.
Besides, we know too well what the Sheboygan can do to those who are unprepared for its dyspeptic side effects.
It comes to mind that getting to the point of having the world in your hands must sometimes be orchestrated with a precision only witnessed in international air travel or NASA moon shots. So many details to prepare for, back up plans developed and emergency procedures practiced. Then a long and dangerous journey must be suffered with all potential man-made and natural disasters prevented or overcome.
So, imagine if the Apollo astronauts scorched a last-minute jet ride to the moon and, in their haste, arrived to find the Sea of Tranquility nowhere in sight.
Having finally traveled so far and so precariously, having happily gathered all of only the best together in a clocklike and orderly manner, marking off our pre-game checklist with the Sheboygan, the beer, the peanuts, the transistor radio, and the score card to record the event, we descended into our comfortable seats just as the first pitch of the mild evening floated across the plate.
An unmeasured instant immediately after that first pitch, emerging nearly simultaneously as the baseball popped into the catcher’s mitt, it’s retort of leather upon leather frozen in time-space above the stadium, before even one bite into our sausage of global proportion was enjoyed, the hard realization unfolded that Cal, Jr. was not in the Oriole’s lineup.
Resignation planted its roots in the green field of battle, watered with the Spring-like hope that perhaps Cal would find his way into the batters box in later innings. I listened intently on the radio for any indication of Cal’s movements in the dugout. By the third, the Orioles had a comfortable lead and the Royals were going through the now familiar motions of the hapless team they’ve become. The flamboyant Sheboygan was a quickly forgotten promise. I groped for warm beer and stale peanuts while balancing my score card, fighting until the end to maintain whatever optimism I could muster, but Cal, Jr. was not yet stirring.
By the eighth, the score was heavily lopsided and the fans at the K even began to chant, most like me wanting to salvage what they could of a long day in spite of their disappointment. “We want Cal!” and “One at bat” they begged.
At one point, I spied his bald head leaning out over the dugout steps, as though he might be ready now to take his place. Surely, I thought, it was then that Billy the Bat Boy would be smiling as he wiped down Cal’s bat and polished his helmet in preparation. Sparky, the old crusty bench coach, would just now be waddling over on bowed legs to give Cal the news. “Skip says you’re batting third”, to which Cal would only reply with a silent nod and determined grimace. As he walked purposefully down the dugout, his teammates would slap him on the back, “Give ’em what they want” and “Do it, man”, they’d say. Everyone would be on edge, waiting then for the deafening roar that would come only moments later as he stepped to the on deck circle, loosening his swing on that spot for one of the last times but just like he’d done so many times before.
When the game ended quietly few minutes later, as the KC crowd exhaled and groaned again, I thought I saw him give us a wave from the top steps, a belated “Thank You” to the crowd. He then presumably left the dugout through the back door, his orange-swooshed cleats as clean as the day they were made.
Mr. Money and I said our hectic goodbyes in the parking lot and then, as I dodged traffic on the way home, a vile mix of Sheboygan and beer gurgling in my wounded belly, I wondered why I was so proud earlier in the evening. I wondered what had drove me to this and why Cal didn’t play at all. What went through his mind as a foreign crowd cheered his name? And, with his record secured and his team winning easily, how would his teammates have really felt if he had pranced out there like a dandy for one last turn at the plate? They had won the game, clearly outclassing the Royals and they didn’t need his help.
Maybe, I thought, Cal had taught me an important lesson by never stepping on the field. Maybe the ultimate team player got the best of pride that night.
At that moment I wondered what I had to be proud of. Then I wondered what does Royals owner David Glass have to be proud of? Baseball owners, generally known more for their large egos rather than their sense of teamwork, seem to be a proud group. Mr. Glass is an owner of a small-market, doormat team that struggles each season but he appears to remain proud.
Yeah, I thought, what is this odd pride stuff, anyway? Why do sporting teams, in particular, often drive our modern sense of pride? I always hear these professional players and sports writers talking about earning “respect” from other teams, other cities, as if that’s the hidden goal of victory. Isn’t that just another way of saying pride is everything, or earning something worthy of pride is all we’re after? What happened to the simple spirit of competition, the joy of playing? When I was younger, that seemed to me the goal here. And if I was to take all that’s ever written about pride, especially the part about pride being one of the cardinal sins, purple horses and all that shit, shouldn’t I find some other thing better to aim for in my love of sports?
Well, say what you will, but at that moment I realized that I don’t trust pride. Our pride, as a whole, is clearly fleeting and undependable. It’s usually the first thing to stay in bed, hiding under the covers when things get stormy.
For example, as a city, KC often seems at odds with its pride. When the teams win, civic joy cascades like Plaza fountain water, the town has a glow, life is beautiful and nothing can stop them. If the final score is against them, then they go back to complaining about taxes and potholes and all the other crap that goes along with living in a big city.
Maybe Cal’s lesson that night was that we can’t hang our hat on pride. Pride won’t sustain us over the long haul. If we count on pride to pull us through, then maybe we’ll always end up with something for worse than a distressed tummy full of sausage and beer.
Like Cal, maybe we should accept our human limitations, overcome our pride and focus on thankfulness instead. Maybe all it takes to prove that is a simple wave to the crowd now and then, an acknowledgement that the game is still just a game, that we should be extremely grateful to live in a relatively peaceful city with wide avenues and pleasant ball parks.
Maybe our gratitude will sustain us longer than our pride, maybe as long as it did for the Iron Man.
Cheers,
MEB
Our meeting was hastily organized, knowing only that it was Cal’s last series at the K. Shared over a quick phone call, that was enough information to get the ball rolling for us. I left a staggering in-box behind to travel south from Omaha while D$ pushed his school work back to speed up west from Warrensburg, rushing hell-bent as we were to get just one momentary glimpse of history. In retrospect it’s comforting to know exactly what we find it is worth dropping everything for, even in this world full of danger and uncertainty.
And I must admit I have many regrets in my life but sharing my love for baseball with my sons is one thing that I am proud to say I have accomplished. Our improvised meeting suggested to me that I had at least made some proper choices in my life. In spite of our differences, we knew could agree on how to separate the important from the trivial. Entering the park that night, D$ and I were walking on the clouds.
Once at the stadium, in hushed, secretive tones, amid the buzzing crowd, Mr. Money and I contemplated just how we would celebrate this fine occasion. After tossing our normal cares to the windy seas and since we were already wet, we made a pact to splurge on the most decadent treat at the K: a Sheboygan with the works.
The Sheboygan is a massive sausage, piled high on the bun with turbulence-inducing condiments. It is a dog among dogs, a special one that any normal person would wisely decline. This typically American pleasure is one that I hesitate to relate to you, a digestive nightmare that betrays our secret desire to have it all, to own the world. It is something that D$ and I don’t make too much of an overt fuss over, not wanting anyone else to know just how good it really is to have all of the world in your own hands.
Besides, we know too well what the Sheboygan can do to those who are unprepared for its dyspeptic side effects.
It comes to mind that getting to the point of having the world in your hands must sometimes be orchestrated with a precision only witnessed in international air travel or NASA moon shots. So many details to prepare for, back up plans developed and emergency procedures practiced. Then a long and dangerous journey must be suffered with all potential man-made and natural disasters prevented or overcome.
So, imagine if the Apollo astronauts scorched a last-minute jet ride to the moon and, in their haste, arrived to find the Sea of Tranquility nowhere in sight.
Having finally traveled so far and so precariously, having happily gathered all of only the best together in a clocklike and orderly manner, marking off our pre-game checklist with the Sheboygan, the beer, the peanuts, the transistor radio, and the score card to record the event, we descended into our comfortable seats just as the first pitch of the mild evening floated across the plate.
An unmeasured instant immediately after that first pitch, emerging nearly simultaneously as the baseball popped into the catcher’s mitt, it’s retort of leather upon leather frozen in time-space above the stadium, before even one bite into our sausage of global proportion was enjoyed, the hard realization unfolded that Cal, Jr. was not in the Oriole’s lineup.
Resignation planted its roots in the green field of battle, watered with the Spring-like hope that perhaps Cal would find his way into the batters box in later innings. I listened intently on the radio for any indication of Cal’s movements in the dugout. By the third, the Orioles had a comfortable lead and the Royals were going through the now familiar motions of the hapless team they’ve become. The flamboyant Sheboygan was a quickly forgotten promise. I groped for warm beer and stale peanuts while balancing my score card, fighting until the end to maintain whatever optimism I could muster, but Cal, Jr. was not yet stirring.
By the eighth, the score was heavily lopsided and the fans at the K even began to chant, most like me wanting to salvage what they could of a long day in spite of their disappointment. “We want Cal!” and “One at bat” they begged.
At one point, I spied his bald head leaning out over the dugout steps, as though he might be ready now to take his place. Surely, I thought, it was then that Billy the Bat Boy would be smiling as he wiped down Cal’s bat and polished his helmet in preparation. Sparky, the old crusty bench coach, would just now be waddling over on bowed legs to give Cal the news. “Skip says you’re batting third”, to which Cal would only reply with a silent nod and determined grimace. As he walked purposefully down the dugout, his teammates would slap him on the back, “Give ’em what they want” and “Do it, man”, they’d say. Everyone would be on edge, waiting then for the deafening roar that would come only moments later as he stepped to the on deck circle, loosening his swing on that spot for one of the last times but just like he’d done so many times before.
When the game ended quietly few minutes later, as the KC crowd exhaled and groaned again, I thought I saw him give us a wave from the top steps, a belated “Thank You” to the crowd. He then presumably left the dugout through the back door, his orange-swooshed cleats as clean as the day they were made.
Mr. Money and I said our hectic goodbyes in the parking lot and then, as I dodged traffic on the way home, a vile mix of Sheboygan and beer gurgling in my wounded belly, I wondered why I was so proud earlier in the evening. I wondered what had drove me to this and why Cal didn’t play at all. What went through his mind as a foreign crowd cheered his name? And, with his record secured and his team winning easily, how would his teammates have really felt if he had pranced out there like a dandy for one last turn at the plate? They had won the game, clearly outclassing the Royals and they didn’t need his help.
Maybe, I thought, Cal had taught me an important lesson by never stepping on the field. Maybe the ultimate team player got the best of pride that night.
At that moment I wondered what I had to be proud of. Then I wondered what does Royals owner David Glass have to be proud of? Baseball owners, generally known more for their large egos rather than their sense of teamwork, seem to be a proud group. Mr. Glass is an owner of a small-market, doormat team that struggles each season but he appears to remain proud.
Yeah, I thought, what is this odd pride stuff, anyway? Why do sporting teams, in particular, often drive our modern sense of pride? I always hear these professional players and sports writers talking about earning “respect” from other teams, other cities, as if that’s the hidden goal of victory. Isn’t that just another way of saying pride is everything, or earning something worthy of pride is all we’re after? What happened to the simple spirit of competition, the joy of playing? When I was younger, that seemed to me the goal here. And if I was to take all that’s ever written about pride, especially the part about pride being one of the cardinal sins, purple horses and all that shit, shouldn’t I find some other thing better to aim for in my love of sports?
Well, say what you will, but at that moment I realized that I don’t trust pride. Our pride, as a whole, is clearly fleeting and undependable. It’s usually the first thing to stay in bed, hiding under the covers when things get stormy.
For example, as a city, KC often seems at odds with its pride. When the teams win, civic joy cascades like Plaza fountain water, the town has a glow, life is beautiful and nothing can stop them. If the final score is against them, then they go back to complaining about taxes and potholes and all the other crap that goes along with living in a big city.
Maybe Cal’s lesson that night was that we can’t hang our hat on pride. Pride won’t sustain us over the long haul. If we count on pride to pull us through, then maybe we’ll always end up with something for worse than a distressed tummy full of sausage and beer.
Like Cal, maybe we should accept our human limitations, overcome our pride and focus on thankfulness instead. Maybe all it takes to prove that is a simple wave to the crowd now and then, an acknowledgement that the game is still just a game, that we should be extremely grateful to live in a relatively peaceful city with wide avenues and pleasant ball parks.
Maybe our gratitude will sustain us longer than our pride, maybe as long as it did for the Iron Man.
Cheers,
MEB
posted by M.E. Bamboo at
11:06 AM
0 Comments
