The Dream Job

Chapter 1: My Homerun at The Big “O”

The last perfect game that any Expos fan would witness came in 1991 by a Nicaraguan with a nasty curveball: Dennis Martinez. It was Sunday, July 28. I was 13 years old and baseball was my life.

I never missed an expos game and I mean: never. If they went out on the west coast, I’d stay up until 10pm and sleep with a giant cube shaped radio by my ear so that I could listen to the play by play without letting my parents know I was up.

After school, I’d take a tennis ball and simulate full games by throwing the ball against the stairs. My stairs were a perfect set of 12 that were positioned at a 45% angle. A pitched ball would either bounce back to me like a grounder, or if it landed on a tip, it could wiz by you like a line drive or make its way across the road. One bounce on the street and then onto the sidewalk was a double. If it flew all the way across the street and onto the sidewalk: a homerun.

I practiced after school religiously and when the weekends came, I’d play wall-ball with my buddies. I was a switch hitter and I’d try my best to call that we were the Expos first because I knew all their batting stances by heart and preferred to hit in their stances. I knew how to imitate most MLB stances, but I’d spent the most amount of time working on the Expos stances because I’d practiced them inside the house in front of the TV during games. I was trying to pickup what is was about each stance that allowed them to execute their core hitting skill, whether that was a power stroke, the ability to hit to the opposite field with ease or how to level out a high fastball. Swinging a bat incessantly inside the house didn’t make me popular with my parents, but I was the one holding the bat so there was little they could do.

I share these details because many will say “I love baseball” and I honor that love and consider all baseball lovers in my tribe. But when I say “Baseball was my life”. I really mean it.

On that particular Sunday, my wall ball game went into extra innings and we simply lost track of time. I got home as fast as I could to catch the last thirds of the Expos-Dodgers game and as soon as I opened the door, I could hear my dad yelling to me from the basement. “Jason. Get down here. Quick!”

It was a the 9th inning. The game had gone by faster than expected because nobody on the Dodgers could seem to get on base against Martinez. As a student of the game, I recognized the magnitude of pairing the words “Perfect” and “Baseball” within a game. Baseball is a game that’s designed to test your will because you can and will fail the vast majority of the time.

There are so many things that are amazing about the game itself, but by far one of the most incredible phenomena is what happens when an opposing pitcher is fighting for a perfect game or no-hitter in your stadium.

With 2 outs in the 9th, everyone in Dodger stadium was standing and cheering for Dennis. The Dodgers were only down by 2 runs and in baseball it would only take a seeing eye bloop and a blast to tie the game. But there wasn’t a Dodger fan in the stadium that was rooting for the Blue and White that day. They weren’t cheering for Dennis Martinez or the Expos or the game of baseball — they were cheering for the human spirit. For our collective hope to achieve all that we can possible achieve in our lives.

The Dodgers pinch hit Chris Gwynn who unlike his brother (one of the best singles hitters of all time) he did not strike fear into the hearts of pitchers. My Dad and I looked at eachother.

This could happen.

This could happen is what kept me going throughout my teens around my dream of playing professional baseball. While other Canadian teens were lacing up and working on their backhand year round. I was still throwing tennis balls at stairs, playing wall ball, intercity ball and trying to understand how it was that a Jewish boy from Cote St. Luc, Montreal was going to get drafted and play baseball for the Montreal Expos.

In 1996, everything would come to a head for me. I was 19 years old, playing Junior AA in Dorval (which was ok, but certainly not elite ball compared to others my age). I was in the best shape of my life and all of my studies of the game were starting to pay off in terms of my performance.

I’d calculated that the best formula to get drafted was to be a coaches dream. My framework was as follows:

A. Play catcher. If you can throw guys out, they’ll forgive the fact that you can’t hit your weight.

B. Switch Hit: A switch hitting catcher is a rare luxery and a competitive advantage.

C. Hit to all fields. Its what all good hitters do.

D. Be smart. The catcher is the general out there. Know how to command the troops.

I was making great progress on my master-plan and I had enough raw skill to make all of this realistic (fast runner, hit for power, strong arm, etc). My biggest issue was that I needed a mentor. The stairs were a great teacher, but I needed more.

That year, my dad’s friend Brian gave me a call. I’d worked for him as a box-boy in his warehouse when I was 13. He knew I was a hard-worker and that I was in love with the game of baseball. Turned out that he’d become the manager of the opposing team clubhouse at the Olympic stadium and that he needed some help. He needed a “Bat Boy!”.

I got off the phone in a state of shock. I was going to be the bat boy for every National League team and I was going to “work” every home game and watch every game as part of the opposing team. I went into my room and closed the door. Imagine who I’ll meet. Think about all that I’ll learn! Think of who could mentor me!? Could I practice with the team somehow? Could I get discovered?

I could get discovered. Couldn’t I…

This could happen.

I started to cry a very specific cry. It was the same cry I shared with Dennis Martinez on that Sunday in July. Everything was for that one moment perfect & possible.

What does any of this have to do with hitting a homerun at the Olympic stadium? I’m getting there. But first — lets park in the players parking lot and make our way to the visiting team clubhouse to meet some Colorado Rockies.

There’s one guy in particular that I have a few questions for …

The following is an excerpt of a book in progress called: The Dream Job. If you have any feedback and would be interested to read more, please leave your comments on medium or send an e-mail to j.goody@gmail.com