All Hail the Return of the Mighty Gods of Baseball
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; But there is no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey has struck out.
Ernest Lawrence Thayer
(Published in the San Francisco Examiner, 6/3/1888)
The Best Pitcher in the World
He knew they didn’t like him. He was always the first one picked. An awesome pitcher. The team that got him would win the most games and the championship. One of the dads clocked his fastball at 86. He was 12.
He watched as the picks went on. The kid he had seen in the outfield during practice was still waiting. He didn’t want to play outfield. He was a shortstop. They put him in left field. Too many shortstops.
Too small to be a good shortstop. His dad wasn’t there to talk him up to the other dads.
The kid came and sat next to him. They sat together alone. His dad wasn’t there either. He didn’t need his dad to speak for him.
He didn’t look good in the outfield. Missed easy chances. No one wrote his name down.
He finally got to bat. The pitcher watched. He struck out. Swung at the wrong pitches. Good swing but choking. The pitcher knew they weren’t writing his name down.
Four boys left. The kid was one. The ones nobody wanted. The manager hesitated a long time. Talked to his assistant. Catcher was his kid. He didn’t like the catcher. Bragging about how good he was. He was going to summer baseball camp. A major league scout was going to sign him when he got older. He didn’t brag when the pitcher was around. Nobody did.
The pitcher had watched him at the plate. No eye. Couldn’t tell the difference between a curve ball and slider.
Pitcher never paid attention to his signs. He always knew which pitch to throw. The catcher’s dad didn’t like him. None of the dads liked him. They needed him. He always won.
The pitcher liked to throw fastballs to the catcher. He didn’t brag so much after a few fastballs. He tried to make them extra fast. One time after he threw his 80 mile fastball, he saw the catcher rubbing his hand like it hurt. He liked that.
The manager and his assistant were having an argument. The manager kept pointing to the kid. The catcher’s dad was shaking his head, pointing to the catcher.
The manager waved him away and pointed to the kid. How nice the boy looked when he smiled. Relieved too. He wouldn’t be the last one picked this time.
The pitcher watched him pound his glove. Fourth to last wasn’t bad. He wanted to stand next to him. All the other boys moved away. The kid was standing by himself.
Later he wondered why he hadn’t walked over to him. He was afraid the others would make fun of him. Never to his face.
One of the dads gave him a ride home. He almost asked if they could give the kid a ride. Out of the back seat window, he saw the kid walking along the road pounding his glove.
After practice next day, he went up to him and said hey. The kid said hey. He looked surprised, not happy. The other boys were watching. Even the manager seemed interested. They were always interested in what he did.
Walking home, the kid was ahead of him. Not punching his glove anymore. They put him in the outfield. He told them he was a shortstop, but they already had a short stop. The pitcher didn’t think he was very good. His dad was president of the youth baseball league and wanted him to play shortstop. Even though he wasn’t very good. First practice they didn’t call the kid’s name during batting practice. The dads who came to the practice made sure their kids got a turn. They let the pitcher have a turn. He didn’t want to bat. Pitching was the only thing he was good at. They didn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to. Even though his dad wasn’t at the practices.
When it was his turn to bat he told the manager he wanted the kid to bat in his spot. The manager looked mad but didn’t say anything. Not worth taking the chance that he would leave if he didn’t get his way. The other kids didn’t say anything. A championship was riding on his arm.
The pitcher didn’t tell them to leave the kid alone. He didn’t have to. Even the manager and the coaches knew the kid would have to be treated special. They didn’t like it but no one in the league could hold a candle to the pitcher. Even the dads who attended practice knew.
He caught up with the kid. He didn’t seem surprised to see him. The kid didn’t talk about what happened. The pitcher knew he felt bad about striking out in front of everyone. He had a batting cage in his yard. He invited the kid over to practice.
The kid hesitated. He thought for a second and followed the pitcher down the street.
They never left practice together. They only thing they talked about was hitting. The kid swung the bat at the balls the pitcher threw him. It was hard for the kid. He wanted to chase every pitch. He kept striking out. The pitcher kept pitching to him. He kept striking out.
He struck out at practice. He was in the rotation because the pitcher wanted him there. Everyone knew. Even the kid. He didn’t mind.
The night before the first game, the kid got it. The pitcher was throwing his really good stuff. First the kid struck out. Then he hit a long fly ball. The pitcher heard the crack the ball made as it struck the bat. The kid had figured it out.
The kid turned out to be a good outfielder. A strong throwing arm. Better than he would have been at shortstop. Made a couple of catches that saved two games. The kid learned to back up the shortstop who kept letting the ball whizz by. Once he threw the best batter in the league out at the plate. He got lots of strikeouts but not many hits.
They kept practicing in the pitcher’s batting cage.
It was the pitcher’s best season. Won every game he pitched. The dads were hysterical with joy.
The kid kept practicing in the batting cage.
It was the last game of the championship series. The pitcher was on the mound. The dads were at the fence yelling advice. He ignored them. The catcher gave him signs that he got from the manager. He ignored him. He knew what to throw. He didn’t know how he knew.
It was a slow grounder to the shortstop. Final out. Another championship season. He missed the ball and the kid was playing too far out to help. Two runs scored and they were behind one run. One more chance.
The dads, their faces contorted with rage, were shouting at the short stop. His father shouting the loudest. No one wanted to sit next to him in the dugout. The pitcher didn’t say anything to him. Even when he came over and apologized. The pitcher figured his father made him. It didn’t matter. He would still be good if they lost.
The shortstop was the first batter. He got a hit. The dads cheered and called him their hero. He looked happy standing on first base. The next two batters struck out. The air went out of the dads’ dream.
It was the kid’s turn. Deadly quiet where the dads were standing. Someone called for a pinch hitter. But the manager couldn’t do that. Against the rules. The manager patted his shoulder and whispered something. The pitcher couldn’t hear but he knew what he said. Everyone in the dugout knew.
The kid didn’t look at the pitcher. He made a few practice swings and walked to the plate.
The first two pitches were outside the strike zone. The kid didn’t bite. Two balls. The pitcher knew what was going to happen. The kid swung at the next pitch. He just missed. The kid stepped out of the batter’s box and took a few practice swings. The pitcher could see the look on the kid’s face. The one that meant the kid was working things out in his head.
He let the next pitch go by. Strike two. The pitcher saw the ball come out of the pitcher’s glove.
It wasn’t until the kid was rounding third base and the rest of the team was waiting at home plate to carry him around the field that he knew what the kid was going to do.
The best pitcher in the world walked home alone.
