The Line Drive

A Quiet, Wonderful Lesson in Defeat

It happened a long time ago, but like all worthy memories it still flashes like a piece of glass in the sun once in a while. I was playing Little League baseball — third base, otherwise known as the ‘Hot Corner’ in baseball parlance — and the game was on the line. We had a one-run lead in the bottom half of the last inning, but the opposing team had runners on first and second. The winning run was on first base

Now you’d think I would want to be the one who catches the final out and wins the game for us. But no, I was scared out of my wits, thinking ‘Please, don’t hit it toward me. Whatever you do, batter, don’t hit it to me. I don’t want to be the one who blows it.’

Understand, things would have been different if this were me playing after school with some of the neighborhood guys. I possessed a fair degree of athletic ability. I wasn’t the near-sighted klutz with two left feet who was always picked last. (Admittedly I was never the first to be picked, either, but we’ll let that one go.)

The point is I loved playing sports when it was just for fun. But put me in an organized league with real umpires, real wins and losses, and I was a nervous wreck. Like my brain would black out messages to the muscles when it came time to do the right thing.

There’s the pitch. And the sharp clank of an aluminum bat connecting with a hard-thrown baseball. In a flash I saw the ball heading straight for me. A line drive, maybe a foot over my head. I raised my glove in the air. But at the same instant I reflexively closed my eyes and crouched down for cover, just enough to let the liner — what would have been a very catchable ball — sail over my glove into left field. Both runners scored and we lost the game.

I’m sure my teammates weren’t too thrilled, but I honestly don’t remember any of that. What makes this memorable to me is the fact that my father, who had recently retired, was sitting there in the grass safely behind the first base line. He saw the whole thing.

Looking back now I wonder what went through his mind when he saw his son do that? Disappointment? Letdown, maybe, even a cringe of anger or embarrassment? Had to be something. After all, what father doesn’t want to see his own son be the hero of the day?

Well, hero of the day I wasn’t.

During the ride home after the game dad didn’t say much of anything. Nothing critical of me or my error. Not one cross word or heavy sigh. No stern glances. And no hackneyed cliches about trying better next time, either. What I came to realize much later was that by his silence what he was saying was ‘Sometimes you gotta just take your lumps and move on, kid.’

So much of parenting comes down to leading by example. The example my father showed that day has stayed with me. My only regret is never having the chance to thank him for that.

So — better late than never — thanks, dad.