The Angry Czeck

The Angry Czeck does not wax poetically about baseball.

That’s a policy of mine, one among few. Truth be told, I can’t stand any poetic waxing of baseball. Don’t give me Field of Dreams. It’s terrible, and it stars Kevin Costner.

And yet, I am in so much debt to baseball. It was baseball that bestowed that first chip on my shoulder. It was baseball that taught me to extract value from failure and loss. And it was baseball that pressed me to exceed my natural abilities (or lack thereof.)

Dammit. I just came dangerously close to waxing poetic.

We place the game of baseball on some kind of national pedestal because it has withstood the grand test of time. Our father’s played baseball. So did our grandfathers and their fathers and possibly their father’s too. My Dad played baseball, and even his most mundane recollections of the diamond captured my attention.

My first baseball team was The Eagles of the Pee Wee League. I arrived to the team without skill or even an intention to acquire skill. I spent more time attempting to catch pop flies inside my cap than to learn the basics of the game. That year, I managed to put the ball in play a total of once – an accidental happenstance of contact that placed the baseball four of five inches from the plate. I was unceremoniously thrown out at first. When I cheerfully related the event to my Dad, he simply shook his head and said, “But you were out.”

You were out. This wasn’t criticism; it was fact. Dad’s words were Revelation to me. Even then, at the age of eight, I saw how pathetic and silly I was. To accept something so menial – like being thrown at at first – as some kind of legitimate success was unacceptable. There was a startling surplus of boys in this world who were satisfied by becoming just another out in the box score, but I vowed not to be one of them.

Growing up playing baseball, I acknowledged that there were boys bigger, faster, and better than me. But I never accepted it. Smack me a few more ground balls, coach. Harder this time. Playing the game poorly eventually became a prospect that was far worse to me than losing. There are many who find that attitude to be counter-productive. But to me, a shoddily played win held less satisfaction than a splendidly executed loss.

There’s no smiling in baseball.

Because we were twins, my brother and I were always assigned to the same teams. On our 11th year, during the last game of the summer, the home plate umpire thought it cute to have my brother stand on his chest protector pad during his turn at bat. Like me, my brother was undersized and skinny for his age. I looked on furiously as the umpire clearly enjoyed his little joke.

It was the first time I wanted to hurt someone. I imagined my aluminum bat broken between the umpire’s eyes. I wanted to hear the parents who had laughed so merrily suddenly change their pitch to screams.

My brother, hesitant to disobey even the most disrespectful whims of an adult, grudgingly stood on the pad. You had better show him, I thought to myself. You had better not fail here. My brother delivered the first pitch to the center field fence, a double. He stood at second base glaring hatefully at the umpire, and I knew then that he and I shared the same, indignant fury. Yes, there is no crying in baseball. Because there is no place for it. You stand in the batters box, and pledge to make the pitcher pay for challenging you. You promise to make the third baseman regret scooting up a step.

And you damn sure remind a foolish umpire that you’re not here for the laughs.

Baseball is manhood’s herald to our boys. The best way to prevent a baseball from hitting you in the face is to catch it. To intervene. To take control. There is no victory in allowing the baseball to pass between your feet. Not when eight other boys are relying on you to stop it. The lesson is simple and elegant and perfect.

Eventually, as I grew older, my natural disabilities overwhelmed my desire to compete in baseball. As my teammates improved and advanced, I found myself falling further and further behind. It became personally demoralizing to play so poorly.  When I left the game, it was with relief.

Now my son plays baseball, and he is the youngest and smallest boy on the team. Last night, I saw a glint, a little spark of fire, as he stood in the batters box with his knees bent and his eyes firing an unfamiliar flash of laser beams. He wasn’t going to accept a beating. He was going to swing hard.

And that third baseman who crept forward a few steps was going to regret it.

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