THE NARRATIVE ARC
I Threw Out the First Pitch at a Major League Baseball Game
It wasn’t anything like I thought it would be
In May of 2014, I threw out the ceremonial first pitch at a Major League Baseball game. It wasn’t the All-Star Game or the World Series, and I wasn’t the actual starting pitcher, but for me, it was a dream come true.
Growing up, baseball was as important a part of my daily life as breathing. I started playing tee-ball at 4, then Little League, then high school, and finally college ball. When I graduated, I didn’t want to give up the game, so I started coaching the local high school team.
One of the first photos ever taken of me was with my dad on a baseball field in Piscataway, New Jersey. I was a toddler in a tiny baseball cap and jersey. Dad, smiling broadly, had his glove raised to catch my first pitches.
Dad’s job moved our family to South Florida. When the Marlins played their inaugural season in 1993, we became diehard fans. Our family gathered around the living room TV to watch every game.
Dad and I could always connect through baseball, a language we both understood and a bridge between our hearts. For his 50th birthday, when I was a high school junior, he didn’t ask for a sports car or a party. What he really wanted was for me to pitch balls to him at a nearby field.
Could he still hit a home run at 50?
A smooth-swinging lefty, Dad ended up knocking several balls over the right-field fence.
So how did I end up throwing that first pitch on the mound at Marlins Stadium?
I grew up, graduated from college, and started my career as an educator. After nearly two decades, I was voted my school district’s “Teacher of the Year.”
I wish I could say that I was asked to throw out the first pitch upon winning that award, but the truth is that I called the Miami Marlins’ event coordinator, told him about it, and requested that I be given the honor. If I’d ever have an opportunity to make a dream come true, I thought, it was now.
When I received the email saying yes, I leapt in the air. I imagined myself striding onto the grassy field, climbing onto mound, firing a crisp strike, and making Dad proud.
In the days leading up to the game, everyone had advice for me. Dad said, “Be sure to warm up.” My father-in-law said, “Take deep breaths.” My wife said, “Have fun, and remember to wave to the kids.”
On the morning of the big day, I put on my orange and black Marlins polo. Driving to the stadium, I thought about my dad. I knew that without him, I wouldn’t be doing this. He had been on my team my whole life, and I was taking the mound as much for him as for myself.
I was determined to throw a strike for us both.
I arrived at the stadium, snapped pictures in the press room, signed the paperwork, and followed a security guard to the field entrance. I wondered how many first pitch throwers he’d escorted onto the field in his career and how they’d fared.
We arrived at a spot next to the first base dugout to wait. Bruce Springsteen’s Glory Days blared on the Jumbotron, and the air smelled of hotdogs and beer.
The crowd filed into their seats. I massaged my throwing shoulder and visualized every aspect of my pitch, from wind up to release to follow through to the pristine white ball landing securely in the catcher’s glove.
I knew I could do this. I had been throwing pitches like this my entire life.
Then they announced my name. The guard swung open the gate and offered some parting wisdom.
“Don’t bounce it.”
I felt my heart thumping as I entered the infield. Then, my jaw dropped. I had thought I would be throwing the ball to one of the players on the team. Instead, Billy the Marlin stood at the plate, patting his oversized glove. My catcher was the team’s mascot!
Noticing my reaction, the guard smirked and asked, “Who did you expect to be pitching to, Yogi Berra?”
I took a deep breath. The buzz of the crowd stilled. There was just me, Billy the Marlin, and his giant glove.
I felt the ball’s weight in my hands, pressing two fingers against the raised seams. Then, I wound up and threw that ball with everything I had. I really went for it! And the second the ball left my hand, I knew my pitch was way too high.
The red laces spun in slow motion, rising higher with every rotation. Billy the Marlin dropped his glove, put a hand to his forehead like a visor, and mockingly tracked the ball as it sailed overhead and slammed into the backstop.
A hot wave of humiliation washed through me. I had a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and I blew it.
The crowd clapped politely. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in a hard, blue seat down the right field line with my family. My stomach was churning. I shook my head and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. I couldn’t believe I had failed to make a simple throw that I had made thousands of times in my life.
My wife and kids hugged me. My father-in-law slapped my back and said, “At least you didn’t bounce it.”
I turned to my dad.
“It was a little high,” he said with a laugh. Then he looked at me for a long moment. “But it was an honor for you to throw the pitch, and I’m honored to be here with you.”
He rested his hand on my shoulder and kept it there, which communicated more than any words could express.
The Brewers topped the Marlins 9–5 that game, but I don’t recall a single catch or swing of the bat.
What I remember was being at the ballpark sitting next to my dad, surrounded by family, and thinking that there is nowhere I’d rather be.
