Bottom of the ninth inning. Seventh game of a best of seven series. Bases loaded, two outs, the home team down by two runs. First pitch, a fastball heading right down the middle of the plate. The batter bears down, carefully watches the pitcher’s release, checks the spin on the ball and … continues to watch as the first strike settles into the catches outstretched glove. Behind 0 and 1, he knows now that the pitcher is coming right after him. The home crowd roars, all on their feet. They know fate is with them. Otherwise, why would the left fielder have caught that ball that clearly was destined to put this series on ice several innings before. It had to be fate that allowed him to jump higher than any human could possible have gone and clutch the ball in the most remote heights of the leather webbing of his well worn glove, white still showing, coming down hard against the wall and still holding on. But not just holding on, maintaining his composure to turn and whirl a strike to the cutoff man who then tossed to the first baseman for an inning ending double play, preserving this moment.
The moment of now, when with one swing of the bat, the series would be tied again, or maybe even over, in the home team’s favor. The pitcher winds and pitches, coming straight down the middle again. This time the batter knows where it is headed and loads and swings. The ball dodges his bat falling harmlessly on the ground several inches from the batters feet.
Well fate works this way, doesn’t it? In fact, fate wouldn’t have it any other way. Why would success come with one strike when it would be even sweeter with two. Relaxed now, realizing that his success is preordained. This is the moment that he has been dreaming about all his life. For thirty years he has toiled and ached and practiced to put himself in this position. He’s proven himself as worthy of the privilege of bringing joy to the thousands there live to see his heroics and millions watching electronically in their homes. Kids staying up way too late, pleading with their parents that this is a one in a lifetime opportunity and that school tomorrow doesn’t matter this much. This is the year. The very first time in their short lives that a championship would be won by their team.
Two outs, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two strikes. The pitcher stares in at the catcher’s signal. But it’s clear to all 55,000 plus souls in the stadium and everyone else paying attention that wherever this pitch starts, it will end up somewhere in the lush green grass that still covers the field, even with the chill of autumn taking hold. Somewhere in a void between fielders. Somewhere just far enough out of the reach of outstretched glove to give the base runners a chance to round the diamond with the tying and winning runs. Or maybe even beyond all that in the dark shadows beyond the outfield wall. The pitch is headed for the plate. Again, right down the middle. The batter prepares for what he knows is the inevitable. He coils ready to pounce. The pitch continues its trajectory. It’s a foregone conclusion of what the batter is going to do. Fate has taken hold.
And then….the ball thuds into the catcher’s glove. The fans moan, the umpire calls the third strike. The visitors rush the mound. The batter, more capable than almost any human being who ever walked this planet, of launching that little white sphere 500 feet, is just standing there. In the same position he started, full of potential and opportunity, well prepared by having practiced and performed this very same action thousands of times over the past eight months and before that as well. The season is over.
CARLOS, YOU CAN’T GET A HIT IF YOU DON’T TAKE A SWING!
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
The Boys of Fall
It's baseball playoff time and appropriately, Carlos Beltran has taken center stage as a slugging star for the St. Louis Cardinals. Those of you who are baseball fans will recall Carlos played for my beloved Mets for several years, coming off his great post season with Houston. His time in New York was checkered. But I will always remember him for the at bat I have documented below in a game the Mets had every chance to win, Endy Chavez made his miraculous catch, and ... well read on and you will hear the passion that I have for the guys from Queens and how Carlos fared there in the 2006 playoffs. Just like everything else in Baseball, it has implications that go way beyond the game.
Bottom of the ninth inning. Seventh game of a best of seven series. Bases loaded, two outs, the home team down by two runs. First pitch, a fastball heading right down the middle of the plate. The batter bears down, carefully watches the pitcher’s release, checks the spin on the ball and … continues to watch as the first strike settles into the catches outstretched glove. Behind 0 and 1, he knows now that the pitcher is coming right after him. The home crowd roars, all on their feet. They know fate is with them. Otherwise, why would the left fielder have caught that ball that clearly was destined to put this series on ice several innings before. It had to be fate that allowed him to jump higher than any human could possible have gone and clutch the ball in the most remote heights of the leather webbing of his well worn glove, white still showing, coming down hard against the wall and still holding on. But not just holding on, maintaining his composure to turn and whirl a strike to the cutoff man who then tossed to the first baseman for an inning ending double play, preserving this moment.
The moment of now, when with one swing of the bat, the series would be tied again, or maybe even over, in the home team’s favor. The pitcher winds and pitches, coming straight down the middle again. This time the batter knows where it is headed and loads and swings. The ball dodges his bat falling harmlessly on the ground several inches from the batters feet.
Well fate works this way, doesn’t it? In fact, fate wouldn’t have it any other way. Why would success come with one strike when it would be even sweeter with two. Relaxed now, realizing that his success is preordained. This is the moment that he has been dreaming about all his life. For thirty years he has toiled and ached and practiced to put himself in this position. He’s proven himself as worthy of the privilege of bringing joy to the thousands there live to see his heroics and millions watching electronically in their homes. Kids staying up way too late, pleading with their parents that this is a one in a lifetime opportunity and that school tomorrow doesn’t matter this much. This is the year. The very first time in their short lives that a championship would be won by their team.
Two outs, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two strikes. The pitcher stares in at the catcher’s signal. But it’s clear to all 55,000 plus souls in the stadium and everyone else paying attention that wherever this pitch starts, it will end up somewhere in the lush green grass that still covers the field, even with the chill of autumn taking hold. Somewhere in a void between fielders. Somewhere just far enough out of the reach of outstretched glove to give the base runners a chance to round the diamond with the tying and winning runs. Or maybe even beyond all that in the dark shadows beyond the outfield wall. The pitch is headed for the plate. Again, right down the middle. The batter prepares for what he knows is the inevitable. He coils ready to pounce. The pitch continues its trajectory. It’s a foregone conclusion of what the batter is going to do. Fate has taken hold.
And then….the ball thuds into the catcher’s glove. The fans moan, the umpire calls the third strike. The visitors rush the mound. The batter, more capable than almost any human being who ever walked this planet, of launching that little white sphere 500 feet, is just standing there. In the same position he started, full of potential and opportunity, well prepared by having practiced and performed this very same action thousands of times over the past eight months and before that as well. The season is over.
CARLOS, YOU CAN’T GET A HIT IF YOU DON’T TAKE A SWING!
Bottom of the ninth inning. Seventh game of a best of seven series. Bases loaded, two outs, the home team down by two runs. First pitch, a fastball heading right down the middle of the plate. The batter bears down, carefully watches the pitcher’s release, checks the spin on the ball and … continues to watch as the first strike settles into the catches outstretched glove. Behind 0 and 1, he knows now that the pitcher is coming right after him. The home crowd roars, all on their feet. They know fate is with them. Otherwise, why would the left fielder have caught that ball that clearly was destined to put this series on ice several innings before. It had to be fate that allowed him to jump higher than any human could possible have gone and clutch the ball in the most remote heights of the leather webbing of his well worn glove, white still showing, coming down hard against the wall and still holding on. But not just holding on, maintaining his composure to turn and whirl a strike to the cutoff man who then tossed to the first baseman for an inning ending double play, preserving this moment.
The moment of now, when with one swing of the bat, the series would be tied again, or maybe even over, in the home team’s favor. The pitcher winds and pitches, coming straight down the middle again. This time the batter knows where it is headed and loads and swings. The ball dodges his bat falling harmlessly on the ground several inches from the batters feet.
Well fate works this way, doesn’t it? In fact, fate wouldn’t have it any other way. Why would success come with one strike when it would be even sweeter with two. Relaxed now, realizing that his success is preordained. This is the moment that he has been dreaming about all his life. For thirty years he has toiled and ached and practiced to put himself in this position. He’s proven himself as worthy of the privilege of bringing joy to the thousands there live to see his heroics and millions watching electronically in their homes. Kids staying up way too late, pleading with their parents that this is a one in a lifetime opportunity and that school tomorrow doesn’t matter this much. This is the year. The very first time in their short lives that a championship would be won by their team.
Two outs, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two strikes. The pitcher stares in at the catcher’s signal. But it’s clear to all 55,000 plus souls in the stadium and everyone else paying attention that wherever this pitch starts, it will end up somewhere in the lush green grass that still covers the field, even with the chill of autumn taking hold. Somewhere in a void between fielders. Somewhere just far enough out of the reach of outstretched glove to give the base runners a chance to round the diamond with the tying and winning runs. Or maybe even beyond all that in the dark shadows beyond the outfield wall. The pitch is headed for the plate. Again, right down the middle. The batter prepares for what he knows is the inevitable. He coils ready to pounce. The pitch continues its trajectory. It’s a foregone conclusion of what the batter is going to do. Fate has taken hold.
And then….the ball thuds into the catcher’s glove. The fans moan, the umpire calls the third strike. The visitors rush the mound. The batter, more capable than almost any human being who ever walked this planet, of launching that little white sphere 500 feet, is just standing there. In the same position he started, full of potential and opportunity, well prepared by having practiced and performed this very same action thousands of times over the past eight months and before that as well. The season is over.
CARLOS, YOU CAN’T GET A HIT IF YOU DON’T TAKE A SWING!
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