Eddie
from Like a Flower in the Field
Eddie walked up to
home plate, his eyes focused on me all the way. I stood in the third base coach’s
box and looked in at him—all five feet and ninety pounds—and tried to think of
something I could say as his coach, something that might actually help. It was
the bottom of the sixth, two outs, bases loaded, and we were down by one run.
Eddie was small
for a twelve-year-old. Several of his teammates towered over him and outweighed
him by thirty pounds, but he was a good kid, a good teammate, always smiling,
full of fun. It had been a pleasure to have him on my team. We’d had a good
year, good enough to play in this post-season Tournament-of-Champions. And now
here we were: our last at bat, one run to tie, two to win, or we could simply
go home, the season over for another year.
I motioned for
Eddie to come to me, and I met him halfway. I put my right hand on his shoulder
and bent down to talk to him, mouthing the clichés that have served coaches so
well since the time of Abner Doubleday.
“Okay, Eddie, just
relax, take a deep breath, get a good pitch to hit, put your best swing on it.
Okay? No worries. Hey, it’s just a game. Right? Have some fun—”
At that moment, in
the middle of my inane monologue, I put my left hand on Eddie’s chest. His
heart was jumping into my hand—thump, thump, thump—like someone beating
a bass drum. It stopped me cold.
I’d grown up
playing baseball from the time I was seven years old, and I knew what the
pressure was like, especially when the adults tell you it’s a “big game,” and
your parents are in the stands, and there are hundreds of people watching,
yelling, shouting your name. I knew all of that. But I’d let myself forget.
That is, until Eddie’s heart was in my hand. I said the only thing that came to
mind.
“Hey, just give it
your best. Whatever happens, it won’t change the way I feel about you.”
Eddie turned and
headed back to the plate. I’m sure his heart rate was accelerating.
I wish I had a
happy ending for you, a miracle line drive to left center bringing in two runs
for the win. But that’s not what happened. Eddie struck out.
I trotted in to
scoop him up and carry him the few steps to the dugout, tears beginning to well
in his eyes and mine. I can’t remember what I said, but I know it didn’t help.
Nothing would have helped.
That was a long
time ago. A lot of seasons have come and gone since then, for me and for Eddie.
He grew a little, packed on some muscle, and became an all-conference rugby
player in college. But I would bet Eddie remembers that baseball game like it
was yesterday, just as I will always remember his heart leaping into my hand.
_____
I remember. Yes, I remember trying to find the words to help them through. But there weren't any that would help. Just part of growing up for them. I know one like that very well. He doesn't remember the pressure at all. He just remembers the great times, and a great coach.
ReplyDeleteThey were great times, Tom, and a terrific young ballplayer.
DeleteChuck, I used your Twitter link to share this. I added a picture, so if anyone wants to just retweet my tweet, just search "Billie Kelpin" on Twitter and click the retweet symbol
ReplyDeleteThanks, Billie. Much appreciated.
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