The first home run

[GCCWolverine]

This was something I wrote for a failed single-player dynasty. The league is long deleted - the player faded into obscurity after two seasons, and my computer died in the meantime. Cleaning up my hard drive, I found this sort-of-brief entry, and figured I'd share it. Note that although some of the names were made up, everything baseball-wise came directly from the game logs.





The first home run. Ask any former player - doesn't even need to be a former pro, just somebody who played baseball at some point in their lives - and they'll be ready to recount every detail as soon as you're done talking. On some level, we all want that story to have a hook of sorts - the "walk-off grand slam in Game 7 of the World Series" situation that every child has played and replayed in their heads a hundred times.

My first home run ever occurred in Little League. I was nine years old, and our team was getting blown out in the last inning. The bases were loaded with two outs, and I drove a high pitch to straightaway center. It took a bad hop past the center fielder, and I went to second. On the relay to the plate, I began to go to third, and when the catcher threw the ball into left field, I finished my first-ever home run. You might say it was a single with two errors, but I know differently.

As for my first professional home run, I owe it to an unexpected green light from Skip.

On June 20th, we were in New York for a series against the Yankees. I had the day off, and we were losing 8-3 in the 9th. Doug Robertson was pitching for the Yankees - big middle reliever, had a powerful fastball but not much else. Skip looked at me on the bench and sent me up with two out and nobody on.

The first pitch was a fastball for a strike - as usual, I took the first pitch blindly. As he would up for the second pitch, something happened. Some athletes talk about "The Zone," that place where everything, for one reason or another, clicks. They see the pitch more clearly, maybe there's even a sixth sense of what type of pitch is coming. Everything seems to move more slowly, and all of the senses are more focused than usual. I can't say why, but I still remember everything about that next pitch. Robertson's hand turning around the ball, the rotation of the pitch signalling its break. I stepped into the pitch, and drove it to left. This wasn't a line drive that would require errors, this was something I could turn and admire. The ball soared through the night sky as I took a few steps towards first, watching its path as it landed in the second deck of Yankee Stadium...

...foul. By about three feet.

My hands involuntarily went to my head as I turned and walked back to the box. I wouldn't see another pitch that inviting, as Robertson threw three fastballs before freezing me with another curveball for the strikeout. As I went back to the dugout, some of my teammates couldn't hide their smiles as we walked back up the tunnel to the locker room. Smitty and Jarvis made a few side comments about eating one too many bowls of Wheaties, or spending too much time in the gym that morning. Even despite the loss, I thought I even saw Skip with a slight smile on his face as he walked past my locker.

You might notice this game was on June 20th. For those who put two and two together from the last chapter, you're right. The next game was the previous chapter - pulled quad trying to beat out infield single, out for six weeks, etc. Even though my editor told me to pad the page count, I'll resist the urge and you can re-read it if you are so inclined. I will say that being off the field left me little to do but stew over my slightly missed chance. True, I knew all the facts of the situation - I would eventually get my first homer, I'd see another hundred hanging curveballs, etc. - but when you have little to do except rehab your leg and work out, I began to see that curveball over and over again.

Now that you're back, let's jump to July 26th. My first game back from the DL (and, as you might remember, the day after my nineteenth birthday), and I was back in my customary leadoff spot. We were, by interesting chance, facing the Yankees, but at home in Spahn Stadium. I struck out to lead off the game, but drove a double and scored in the third. I struck out in the fifth, but by then we had a comfortable 4-0 lead, thanks to a two-run home run from Johnson. As the seventh inning arrived, I was in the on-deck circle as Smith struck out to begin the inning. I started to go toward the plate, but the Yankees manager was going to the mound to replace the starter.

I turned around and went back to the dugout, fiddling with my batting gloves. Suddenly, Jarvis jumped up and grabbed me. "Kid! They gave you a welcome-back present!"

I looked to the field - and saw Robertson jogging from the visitor's bullpen. I tried not to react, but couldn't help a half-smile come across my face. I turned and said, "I'm not gonna see a curveball that fat for a while."

I went to the on-deck circle as Robertson began his warm-up tosses. Just as I got there, Skip called me back to the dugout. As I stood there, he had this serious expression his face.

"You're never going to hear these words come out of my mouth again, so listen up. When you go up to the plate...wait for the curveball."

I must have had a weird expression on my face, because he continued. "If he throws you three fastballs, take the strikeout. But wait for the curve, and do what you did the last time you faced this guy."

I smiled. "Except a little to the right?"

That half-smile again. "Exactly."

I stepped up to the plate in the oddest state-of-mind I ever had for an at-bat. As I dug in, I looked at Robertson. There was no special look on his face - it appeared as this was just another low-leverage plate appearance. As he wound up, the words were in my head: "Look for the curveball...look for the curveball..."

And I swung late and badly missed the fastball for strike one.

I took a step out and dug in - hoping against hope that I'd receive another gift. As he wound up, I saw the fingers come around the ball. The same pitch I'd seen in my dreams for the past six weeks. It wasn't quite the same - slightly tighter rotation, a little lower in the zone - but I was ready for it. I turned on it and drove the ball, dropped the bat and started to run with my head down. To tell the truth, I thought it was a bit straighter than last time, but didn't really want to look. Once the crowd started screaming - and let me tell you, there's nothing like a home crowd reacting to a long home run - I turned and saw it land in the second deck of Spahn Stadium, in left-center.

I'm not sure who was more excited about the home run - me, or my teammates. Smitty met me with a bearhug, and I think I received some bruises from the back pounding. Skip had the last word, though, as I sat back down on the bench. He looked at me, smirked, and said, "The foul ball was longer."

Yes, some of the Yankees players complained to the press after the game, but as Jarvis eloquently put, "The kid turned nineteen yesterday, he's 160 pounds soaking wet, in his first game back from an injured leg, and he drove the ball 450 feet. Of course we're going to celebrate it!"

And yes, it was one run in a 7-0 win on a meaningless July game. But like I said at the outset of this chapter - every player remembers their first home run. Sitting here in the study, looking at the ball sitting on my mantle, and all of those moments come back to me in a flood. I think I told him this during that moment, but if I forgot: thanks for the green light, Skip.