"Just play catch Tay....just play catch and throw the ball to where the mitt is". I grew up throwing the ball to my dad. Back and forth and back and forth.
At about age 11, I started my first game as pitcher for the Hawks, a San Francisco based middle school team filled with mainly Jesuit athletes (me being athletic but not Jesuit). We were the best. Our coach was a former professional baseball player who wanted to win. Before our first game of non-parent pitch (basically of a kid on the team rather then a parent pitching to the other kids), my coach came up to me and told me I was pitching. I was shocked and did not know what to make of it. I was very anxious. The next thing I remember is being on the mound for two straight innings and not allowing one hit. It was as if I was destined to be a pitcher.
For approximately the next three years I was the starting pitcher for the best team in the San Francisco pony league. Sal was the catcher and we would work together. We would have conferences on the mound and he would frame my pitches perfectly. Wherever he put his mitt, I would throw to. I had pinpoint accuracy. In between games, my dad and I would play catch together. We would go outside of our house and throw. He bought a catchers mitt and we would simulate game situations during our throwing sessions. "Ok Tay, runners are on first and second there are no out and it is a 3 balls and 2 strikes count.....". I would challenge myself to get the imaginary batter out and my dad would become immediately enthused if I was able to get the batter out and get out of the made-up inning.
After three seasons of being almost unhittable in the pony leagues, the length of the pitchers mound got moved back as a result of growing older and playing on bigger fields. At first I did not think this would matter, but it did. I found myself over-throwing because I did not have the same velocity as I did when the mound was a shorter distance to home plate. I also ended up going to a small private high school that did not have a good baseball program, while the rest of my teammates attended the top baseball schools in the city. My parents did not want me attending a Jesuit high school and I did not feel the need to protest. At the small high school, I started at shortstop my first two years, and then moved to second base my last two. I was still very good but did not work hard. I believed it was a natural skill that I would always possess and would always allow me the opportunity to play. However, when I got to division three level liberal arts college that had a competitive team, my skill was not enough. As well, I loved pot, alcohol, and partying in general. The combination of partying and a bad work ethic resulted in getting cut from the team. I was devastated and the first person I wanted to talk with was my dad. I remember crouching in the freshman dorm crying on the phone to my dad confused about what had just taken place. While I had not lived a long time, I had already failed at a lot of things, but baseball was never one of them. I never thought it would be either. I began to party ever harder after that took place, believing that there was nothing else I could fuck up. I wanted to escape, and escape I did. My dad and I did not play catch during that period in time. There was no room for it. The pleasure of the activity was washed away by the darkness that surrounded every facet of my being.
At the age of 19 I was awakened and convinced myself that I should make an effort to become the ballplayer I had never been. I began to work at the aspects of the game that I had never had a willingness to do before. I hit the weight room hard and enjoyed it. My body began to change and I began to become excited about the prospect of one day playing again. My dad and I also began to play catch again. The sound of the ball hitting the mitt and my dad being involved in my life again was a blessing.
I did not end up continuing my baseball career. However, as a result of going through that process I realized that sometimes the things I want don't necessarily come true; even if my attitude and ethic are good. I also learned that some serious political shit takes place within collegiate baseball.
While officially my career ended, that didn't stop my dad and I from walking outside of the house and playing catch. The only difference now was I was no longer a cute tiny boy with long blonde hair, and he was no longer able to get on his knees and simulate an imaginary inning. Also during the times we now go out and play catch, discussions take place on what is going on in our lives. While the focus of our talks is still for the majority on me and how I am spending my days (because I am not quite at the point in my life where the basic foundational shit is settled relationship, job, etc..), he does share details of his life and experiences that he has gone through with me that I enjoy hearing about.
There have been moments while writing this blog that my eyes have watered up. I'm not quite sure how to convey in my writing how truly special the act of throwing a baseball to my dad has been in my life. Just before I began writing this blog, the two of us were sitting on the couch watching a baseball movie. At the beginning of the movie, there is about a 10-minute father son montage. The beginning of the montage highlighted the father and son playing catch and the accolades the son received from his youth baseball career. The only difference between the son in the movie and me was the son went on to play professional baseball player and I did not even get the opportunity to play in college. However, while there were points during the montage where I thought I could have been like the kid from the movie (making it the majors etc..) more importantly there were points during the sequence where I was able to reflect on the times that I have spent and continue to spend with my dad; specifically the times (which are now few and far between) that we still go out and throw the ball around. I love my dad and will continue to treasure the times I get the opportunity to walk outside and throw the ball to his mitt. Back and forth and back and forth.
