Prominence, If Only for a Moment

Second grade was the first of three years that I spent at Ridgebury Elementary School after my family moved back from Portugal, three years that remain far more clear in my mind than one might expect events from 30 years to be. While not a universally positive experience [see: Wizard of Oz preparation from the previous post], the vast majority of fellow students, teachers, and parents that I met in that time were so terrific that I often find my mind thinking back to these times. Not long after the start of the school year, all of the boys in the class were invited to the birthday party of a classmate named Brian. I was presently surprised to be included on the list of invitees, given that I was both new to the school and had not interacted terribly much with Brian. This had very little to do with Brian, who I recall being a very pleasant and friendly kid, but was much more related to the fact that I did not have the emotional energy to build close relationships with everyone in the class.

1996 Topps Gallery - Rico Brogna

I remember Brian's birthday party being a rather impressive affair from my seven-year-old perspective. We piled in a pair of minivans to head to the movie theater, with there being multiple copies of Sports Illustrated for Kids inside the van in which I rode, which made the trip all the more enjoyable. After drinking soda that was effectively syrup and watching Uncle Buck, we returned to Brian's house to make our own pizza and play games related to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - which I believe was a federal requirement for boys birthday parties at the time. Brian's parents prepared for each classmate guest bags that were loaded with a great many things, including TMNT action figures that most certainly were not cheap purchases at the time.

As a late-year birthday myself and still of the age in which parties were expected (despite the fact that I actually did not enjoy them), preparations soon began for my own birthday party in late September. Given that my larger parties in Portugal went, um, less than well (there may have been some piñata-related meltdowns), my mom recommended a smaller party and said that I could invite two people from my class. With Brian and his parents having been so generous, it felt only right to return the favor and ask him to attend my party. I was left with a tough choice as to who else should attend. My enjoyment of baseball had greatly grown through my daily conversations with Whitney and Brady, die-hard Red Sox fans who made me care about that team in a positive fashion for basically the only time in my life. I was arguably closest with a trio of girls in the class, - Billie, Heather, and Sara - all of whom remained truly nice people throughout our time together in school. So who came to the party? No, it was not Billie, Brady, Heather, Sara, or Whitney, but, rather, a boy named John Paul. The catch is that, save for maybe a few days, I was not friends with John Paul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Our Little League used to - and still does, to some extent - make a big production out of photo day, with parents being able to order a myriad of customized versions of their child's individual pictures. In addition to the various sizes in which the photo could be printed, a la school portraits, one could also get photos on magnets, mock-up magazine covers, and a wealth of other options. After multiple years of no doubt being a nuisance, I was finally able to convince my mom to spring for the personalized baseball cards given that it was my last year in Little League. In addition to our ugly Ridgefield Hardware uniforms and the fact that I am wearing a watch for some reason, the other thing that still stands out to me on that card is the listing for favorite player: Rico Brogna.

Nothing against Brogna, who a capable major league hitter during the 1990s and has Connecticut roots, but I really cannot remember when he was my favorite player aside from whatever day in 1995 I had to fill out the form that was submitted to the photographer. From a logical perspective, I can connect the dots. My favorite player, Mackey Sasser, had seen his professional career come to a close after 14 difficult games earlier in the season. The player who would succeed him as my new longtime favorite, Rusty Greer, would not really hit my radar until the 1996 campaign and my new favorite Met, Edgardo Alfonzo, had barely started his major league career. Brogna, on the other hand, looked like gangbusters prior to the lockout "strike" as a rookie in 1994 (.351/.380/.626, 11 2B, 2 3B, 7 HR in just 138 PA) and seemed poised to break out as a star following a fast start to the 1995 season (.329/.377/.629, 6 2B, 5 HR, 15 RBI in his first 78 PA of the year).

Unfortunately, regression hit, resulting in a merely solid sophomore season and, after being limited to 55 games due to injuries in 1996, Brogna was eventually swapped to the division-rival Phillies for a pair of relievers. While my Mets-related focus turned toward players Alfonzo, Benny Agbayani, Rick Reed, and Brogna's replacement, John Olerud, I did not see much of Brogna's volume-based stint with the Phillies save for their matchups with New York. Despite that, it is his name that will forever be listed on the back of my Little League baseball card.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John Paul's invite to my birthday party caught my mom by surprise, as she remarked that the only time that I had previously mentioned his name was to note that he had been rude to me. Frankly, I do not know what sparked me to invite him other than the fact that, growing up, I had a tendency to attach very strong meaning to the connections that I made. I do not think that it is accurate to say that I wanted or needed to be liked by everyone, but I did tend to feel and/or hope that every bit of friendliness shown to me was an indication of an exceptionally deep connection. I was trying to be a good friend and assumed that everyone was, too. Whether we had worked on something together in class or had played together at recess, there was some interaction that I had experienced with John Paul that made me consider him to be a great friend when we had previously not gotten along well at all.

Unfortunately, it was the John Paul from my first month at Ridgebury who was the version in attendance at my party. In addition to mocking the size of our house and complaining about the food, John Paul dismissed the fact that he had stained our carpet by noting that the maid would clean up the mess. The "maid" to whom he was referencing was a friend of my mom who was graciously helping out given that minding three young children (including my younger sisters) was a lot to ask of a single parent, let alone five. When I asked John Paul at school why he had said such things, he commented that my mom's friend looked like a maid and did not even clean up the mess that he had made.

From that point on, I did not interact much with John Paul and it was not until partway through third grade in which I noticed that he had moved out of town. Given how many exceptionally nice kids were in my second grade class, I still have regret that I did not invite any number of them to my party that year. In retrospect, this entire experience does not seem to make a lot of sense and is most certainly not all that consequential of an event. However, in the moment, John Paul being one of my best friends made all the sense in the world thanks to a connection that was forged based on something that was likely tenuous and disappeared almost as quickly. Understanding that phenomenon is still something that I strive to do, which is often easier said than done.

Sensory Aversion, Part I - Touch

With two outs in the 7th inning of my team's game on Sunday morning, I was called upon to pinch-run for a teammate who had tweaked a muscle earlier in the contest. Given that I was currently in the game as a relief pitcher on a surprisingly muggy day, attempting a steal was neither a realistic nor a wise option - and that was setting aside the possibility of running our team out of the inning. Nonetheless, the opposing pitcher threw over to first multiple times, perhaps as much to try to get me to expend additional energy as he was aiming to prevent a potential stolen base. He was a fairly clever sort, that one.

I typically run the bases with my batting gloves balled up in my hands, but, having not reached base as a result of a time at bat, I forgot to do so on this occasion. As a result, the dives back into first base that I had to make coated my hands and wrists with dirt. A few pitches later, a groundout would end the frame, sending me back out to the hill. However, before that would happen, I had to deal with the dirt on my hands. It simply had to go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My first memory of experiencing the sensory aversion related to the manner in which substances and textures contacting my skin cause me to experience distress came when I was in first grade in Portugal. At one point in the school year, painting - particularly finger painting - was perfectly fine. Then came one day in which we were creating a class banner that would be adorned with handprints of all of the members of the class. After dipping my hand in the paint basin that was set on the back steps of the school, I was overcome by an extreme feeling of discomfort and unease. I actually do not think that I cried, but I most certainly ran to the bathroom to copiously wash off as much of the paint as I possibly could.

1992 Upper Deck - Will Clark

Not to worry, though, as I had plenty of other occasions in which bothersome touch-related sensory concerns caused me to truly lose it. Most notable, for sure, was in the lead-up to our second grade presentation of the Wizard of Oz. Save for the handful of students selected to have actual roles in the play, the remainder of the students were split into groups of munchkins and flying monkeys to effectively just stand around for a short period of time. Given my, ahem, relative lack of height, I was placed in the former group, which really did not mean terribly much in terms of activity within the play. Again, we were in second grade. Merely successfully walking on and off the stage would constitute a win.

However, on the night of the play itself, things for me took a turn for the worse. As we gathered in our respective classrooms, parent volunteers were tasked with making sure that all costumes and makeup were set prior to the presentation. Apparently since the students depicting flying monkeys were having their faces painted blue/silver in line with those of the characters in the movie, the brilliant decision was made to have all of the munchkins wear green paint on their face and hands - despite the fact that the munchkins in the film most certainly did not have green skin. The moment that the first daub of paint hit my hand, I lost it. In an effort to assure me that things were fine, one of my classmate's mother brought my classmate over to me, saying that it was fine given that my classmate was perfectly okay with her face and hands completely painted. Commence Level I Meltdown. My crying caused the plan to have the munchkins be painted green to be scrapped, but it was hard to have such a conniption and not be able to articulate why I was reacting as I was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is hard to explain things like sensory aversion to others who do not experience the same level of discomfort when in contact with things that bother me. When I was asked a few years back by a fellow coach to dig into containers of dirt for use in rubbing up baseball, I declined, which led to a response that was could best be described as stunned and disbelieving. I mean, who has a problem with dirt?

The thing about bothersome textures is that their effects are not limited to the physical discomfort that they cause. Touching a knife blade or a hot stove will, of course, be painful, but their effects are fairly universal in the pain that they inflict. Bizarrely, I can handle a burn or a cut more readily than I can residual dirt and paint, as well as the manner in which shirt tags and clothing material feel when they contact my skin. At least for me, there is a sort of cognitive obsessiveness attached to the latter that works in conjunction with the physical problems that these textures cause. Yes, the paint on my hand and the tag rubbing against my neck do not yield pleasurable feelings, but it is the preoccupation with their negative physical effects combined with the constant awareness of their existence that is the most troubling issue. Just like with the dirt that I acquired when diving back into first base on Sunday, so many of the tags on my shirts simply had to go. Wool and polyester clothing? Ideally gone. Painting? I will pass, thank you. Unfortunately, just like with my painting experience when in first grade, these texture-related issues are not always constant. I wore jeans for years, yet now find the manner in which they feel on my legs to be borderline abrasive. As noted, it is neither an easy thing to describe nor simple to understand - even on a personal level.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As with so many things that involve different experiences from those in the so-called "mainstream," it has long felt as though the issues that I and others have with sensory touch concerns were largely dismissed as being overplayed or even nonexistent. Given how even the thought of applying face/hand paint causing me to physically cringe and emotionally tense up, I would beg to differ when it comes to the legitimacy of these concerns. Thankfully, many clothing manufacturers have started to become more aware of the sensory woes that their products can cause, which has resulted in many shirts being produced without tags and clothing materials being more sensory-friendly. I recall there being some initial pushback to those changes, as there is to seemingly everything given the volume of petty individuals in the world, yet allowing more people to be comfortable without truly causing any issue for others seems to be a pretty simple idea to accept. Then again, plenty of folks seem to enjoy manners of teasing that involve causing others to become physically uncomfortable, which has often been hard for me to truly grasp.

While the relative efficacy of eye black as a means of reducing glare on sunny days has been debated, its use is now prevalent in more sports than just baseball. For some athletes, the application of eye black is less about worrying about sunlight than it is a ritual that permits them to focus prior to the game. I will not deny that it also tends to look pretty cool [see: nearly all of Will Clark's photogenic cards during his run as a Giant]. Obviously, eye black has always been a no-go for me. However, just as I am cool with avoiding it, seeing others use it as a means of getting amped up to play is similarly good by me. Differences are good and acceptance valuable, after all. If the eye black tube could remain capped after use, though, that would be ideal. ;)

Return to the Impact Zone

With the incredible rise in the amount of entities and organizations willing to assemble travel youth baseball teams these days, many of the players that I coach have, for good reason, expressed shock when I tell them that there was not much in the way of playing options when I grew up for kids who had progressed out of Babe Ruth following their age-15 seasons. Save for playing for the high school in the spring, the lone reliable summer option in town that I can recall was an 18-U or 19-U team known as the Nighthawks. Given that the Nighthawks typically selected their rosters by invitation, were run by the father of a classmate with whom I had an adversarial relationship, and the fact that I was only selected to play at RHS in my freshman season, there was effectively zero chance that I was going to receive said invite. Unsurprisingly, one never came.

1997 Collector's Choice Mini-Standee
Jeff Blake

As with not making the high school team, I was realistic about my own ability, yet knew that I could contribute in a couple of areas in which others struggled while fully acknowledging that there was a gap in terms of ability that made others more worthy of being the full-time options. With the benefit of perspective, there is a part of me that feels like a bullet was dodged in terms of not being on some of these teams. Between the poor and often negative coaching at the high school that caused some of my peers to lose their love for the sport, and the fact that I really never felt that I was included by the better athletes in my graduating class (I was young for my grade and played with kids one grade below me in school for most of my youth career), I do not know if playing for RHS or the Nighthawks would have been healthy experiences. The season that I spent on the freshman team certainly was not.

Setting aside worthiness, status, and any of that nonsense, most of all I just wanted to play. There simply was no convenient or available outlet, no 18-U Babe Ruth program that exists now, no random batting cage that was putting together a motley crew of kids from eight different towns. As such, I began coaching - but still wanted to play.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite getting into a few rather strong universities, the entire college-application process confused me (and still does as I consider grad school options), leading me to opt to spend my first semester out of high school attending nearby Western Connecticut State University. Besides being able to live at home and keep my job, this also afforded me the opportunity to seek out opportunities to stay involved in activities that I would have likely bypassed had I gone to school elsewhere. When a notice for a fall 18-U baseball league appeared in the sports section of one of the local papers, it was exactly what I was looking to see. Unfortunately, Ridgefield was still lagging behind other towns when it came to fielding older teams, as they only had squads in the 15-U and younger levels, but Danbury was putting together a team and anyone was welcome.

Despite being extremely reticent to jump into a foreign setting given my issues with new environments and people that I mentioned in an earlier post, I decided to bite the bullet and sign up to play. Our first practice was on a sunny Saturday afternoon at Rogers Park in Danbury, a nice field that plays host to summer league games that feature a plethora of Division I ballplayers. While the head coach seemed to be a bit blustery and a few of the players had an edge to them, there were others who gladly offered to throw with me and the assistant coaches seemed enthusiastic. The practice itself was largely enjoyable and I was able to quickly shake off the rust, seemingly making a good impression in the process. While the other players were impressive athletes, most of whom I was told had been contributors at Danbury High School as juniors, I did not feel terribly out of place, which was a huge relief.

When we got to batting practice, it now seems unusual that the coach was pitching without the aid of an l-screen, as he instead opted to throw at a pretty consistent speed from the mound itself. Whichever player was in the hole was designated to collect balls that were thrown in near the mound area and place them in a nearby bucket for the coach, which led to the players shagging balls in the outfield to make a game out of keeping score of how many times each could hit the bucket or the player collecting the baseballs. This continued until it was my turn to fill that role, with my worries being more on not embarrassing myself at the plate than getting hit by throws from the outfield. However, as the balls collected around my feet, I nearly tripped while taking a step back and indicated to the coach that I needed a second in order to clear the area. To the best of my recollection, he acknowledged what I said. As such, I briefly turned around, bent down to reach for the first of many balls in the area, and immediately heard the "Ping!" of a metal bat. I turned my head to the left to look toward the plate. That did not work out terribly well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In past recollections of this story, I have often been asked what it felt like to get drilled in the temple by a line drive. The answer, at least on this occasion, was that I really did not immediately *feel* anything, whether it be nausea or pain. I definitely heard something, as there was a distinct ringing that remains unlike anything that I have ever experienced during any of my, unfortunately, many other concussive episodes. I also saw something, which, no joke, is the card of Jeff Blake pictured above. If anyone can determine why that image popped into my head at that moment, congratulations, you may have solved a puzzle more complex than deciphering the meaning of life. Perhaps it is nothing more intriguing than that my brain operates differently enough as it is and really did not need to be struck by a baseball in order to produce unexpected results. Probably.

Remarkably, I did not lose consciousness and actually asked to rejoin practice after resting for a few minutes. While coaching now, this would certainly not be something that I would permit my players to do and I tend to err on the side of caution with even more minor injury concerns. The head coach of this team, however, um, did not exercise caution. Several minutes later, I was taking balls in left field and working on my crow hop to maximize what passes for arm strength. Then my head began to hurt. Badly. And my stomach felt worse than my head, which was truly a feat. I had to be helped off the field, as simply taking steps felt like the most laborious task ever conceived.

As I sat on the bench with my head in hands, desperately trying to block out as much light as possible, I was asked to provide my mom's cell phone number so that she could come get me. I am fairly certain that whatever number that I offered forth bore little resemblance to the cell number that we were trying to reach. It could have been our old house phone, my grandparent's phone number, or just some string of random digits. All that I know was that my mom had no clue as to what had happened until arriving at the scheduled end of practice. I am still not sure if I have ever seen her as angry as she was at the coach's half-baked explanation for how the events of the day had occurred, but, thankfully, going directly to the ER took priority over telling the coach how neglectful he had been. I do not remember most of what happened from the time that the pain set in; I just wanted to go to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Further cementing the whole "my brain does odd things" notion, I blitzed through two of the cognitive tests administered at the ER, as recounting the alphabet backwards and subtracting units of seven from a starting base of 100 proved to be surprisingly easy for me even with a baseball-smacked brain that desperately wanted to rest. Of course, everything else clearly pointed to a concussion, with rest and consistent monitoring being paramount. For the next five days, simply standing up caused my head to feel like it was in the type of vise used to shake cans of paint. My boss at work was completely understanding. My college professors? Not so much. Despite the fact that I indicated that I was in such pain that getting up to write them an email was literally all that I could physically manage for the day, two professors refused to grant me any leniency when it came to due dates on papers. I was not a great self-advocate at the time and was too overwhelmed to push things to the administrative level when I felt better, resulting in me taking zeroes on papers in each of those courses, worsening my grades in the process. Given that I posted A's in literally every other course that I took in college, those marks stand out, but more for the inability of a pair of educators to care about the well-being of their students than any personal failure on my part. I still feel let down by them and never want anyone that I coach or teach to feel that way about me.

Perhaps foolishly, I made an attempt to return for the team's first games the following weekend. Modern concussion protocols exist to protect students in both the academic areas that I described as well as the athletic realm, but I was pretty much left to my own devices to determine if I was okay to play. I told the coach that I was comfortable playing the field, but did not want to hit, especially given that, as a right-handed batter, it is my left temple that faces the pitcher. He made a bit of a show about this being an issue, but ultimately relented. Why was it important that I hit when we had around 14 guys on hand? It is truly one of life's great mysteries.

After sitting out game one of our doubleheader and being treated to the constant aroma of marijuana that was being smoked by some individuals sitting in a nearby bush, I finally took to right field for game two of the twinbill. With a pretty dominant pitcher on the hill who had to have struck out double-digits in the contest, chances were rare. However, I caught the one routine flyball hit my way, ran down a ball in the gap, and relayed a ball hit to the wall that was then thrown to second to cut down a batter-runner trying to stretch his hit into a double. It was a pretty good game, all things considered, and I would have been happy to just play the field for the remainder of the fall. Those hopes were quickly dashed when the coach said that were shorthanded on Sunday, so I would get to hit, as though it was something for which I was hoping and not desperately avoiding. I began to again feel sick on the way home that night, although it was likely as much anxiety as anything else. I called the coach in the morning to note that I would not be there for their away game that afternoon - and did not play again for almost 19 years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As alluded to earlier, I have had the misfortune of accumulating plenty of other concussions over the years, too. A kid from Bridgeport flagrantly elbowed me in the face during a basketball game just months after the injury described above, causing another concussion while also breaking my nose. I was twice hit by baseballs while coaching in the following spring and have seen corners of tables pack a surprising punch. When I was younger, I joked that my head was the universe's punching bag due to the amount of times that I seemed to bump it on the top of a car door entrance or the overhang on my bed. That seemed to be shockingly prescient. Over time, I developed consistent headaches that need to be managed or else my concentration level becomes nonexistent. Given the complexity of the brain and the relative newness of concussion research, it has also been difficult to find doctors who are willing to legitimize and acknowledge the impact that concussions continue to have on my well-being. I do not expect a magic pill, but an attempt to understand would be cool.

In spite of this, I have still yearned to return to playing and this year finally worked up the nerve to do so.
While I have coached many, many teams over the past two decades, there is a world of difference between controlled on-field efforts geared toward instruction and those needed to react to plays occurring in a competitive atmosphere.  I have still yet to feel comfortable at the plate, but have produced better results than I ever would have guessed, even if I will likely never be the type of hitter than I once was. Bizarrely, despite only throwing one inning off of a 60'6" mound in my youth career, I have logged nearly 40 IP on the hill so far this spring/summer. You can't predict baseball, I suppose. While we have not excelled record-wise, it has been a tremendously fun and welcoming experience that I truly needed.

On Sunday, our team plays at Rogers Park. While I have coached many games there since my injury, this will be my first time on the field as a player since that pair of Saturdays early in September of 2000. I will not fault my brain if it again randomly thinks of Jeff Blake throwing a football. After all, it still functions and I am again playing baseball.

You Are Not Ready

My second year playing baseball was defined far less by competition than it was by the positive environment that was fostered to help grow my love for the sport. One can argue that there really need to not be a score kept in a league in which eight-and-nine-year-olds are hitting off of a pitching machine and, given the cast of characters that were on our roster, there was truly not much need to worry about whether we would come out on top. My neighbor Ryan kept our bench area neatly organized and seemed to have every one of his best games impacted by some unfortunate comebacker by an opposing batter deflecting off of the machine to hit him as he played the "position" of "pitcher's helper." We had twin girls on the roster who were good athletes, yet rarely on hand at the same time, which made it hard to conclusively determine who was who. There was also one player who struggled to make contact to such a degree that we devised a plan to place his bat in the plane of the pitches coming toward the plate. While he only made contact a few times and put just one pitch into fair territory, his lone hit of the campaign was arguably the moment of the season.

1995 Collector's Choice
Álex Rodríguez (checklist)

It was our coaching staff that really made the experience so enjoyable. My friend's father, Frank, managed the team, might have loved collecting baseball cards more than I did, and consistently made the game fun. All members of the team were encouraged to get better without there being pressure to succeed or, more aptly, avoid failure, with end-of-practice competitions for baseball cards and ice cream being more than enough incentive for me to focus on every ball that was thrown my way. Phil was an ideal assistant coach, as his focus was on the team having fun and staying loose. He was not a "baseball guy," as his background was in running and his sons all excelled in track in high school. However, knowing that there was always someone there to deliver praise was invaluable to someone like me who was prone to breaking down when I believed that I had let down my team. Rounding out the coaching staff was my mom, whose dedication to being a constant presence at practices despite juggling a trio of young children while we were going through some tough times at home is even more remarkable in retrospect than it was in the present. I believe that my mom was the only female coach in the league, which was surely not easy, but I had many teammates remark that it was cool that she was involved.

While our team, the Ridgefield Supply "Red Sox" (none of the teams' uniforms in any way reflected their nicknames, which was odd) did not win many games, it was still an awesome season. Despite being the shortest player on the team, I logged most of the innings at first base and somehow hit a homerun (the left fielder must have been sleeping) while only having two major crying jags. Success! Heading into my nine-year-old season, I felt nervous about making the jump to AAA and facing live pitching, but had also built up enough confidence to think that I could handle it. At tryouts, I recall my mom speaking with Frank and Jeff, the father of a family that was new to town who was pairing up with Frank to run a AAA team. I assumed that the plan set from the previous season was intact, as my mom hoped to continue coaching and I hoped to again be on Frank's team. As I played with Frank's son, Mike, after our tryout slots in the middle school gym at which the tryouts were conducted, we were met by Jeff's son, Dash - an exceptionally talented player who was being fast-tracked despite being just eight years old. In excitedly introducing myself, I surely rambled about having been on Mike's team the year before and wanting to play together again. The first words of out Dash's mouth: "My dad says that you are not ready."

That assessment stung. It was also correct.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Drafted first overall out of high school in the 1993 MLB Draft, Álex Rodríguez impressively blitzed through the Seattle Mariners' minor league system and made his major league debut on July 8, 1994 while still just 18 years of age. A-Rod would go on to strike out in 20 of his 59 PA in 1994 while posting a .204/.241/.204 triple-slash, one that was barely bettered in his age-19 season of 1995 (.232/.264/.408) as he largely rode the bench during the Mariners' brilliant September comeback that stunned the Angels and eventually took the club all the way to the ALCS. Rodríguez was not ready to excel in the big leagues as a teenager, yet exploded in 1996 (.358/.414/.631, 54 2B, 36 HR, 123 RBI, 141 R, 9.4 WAR) and was a bitter Seattle voter away from netting a well-deserved MVP award. 3115 hits, 696 homers, 3 MVP awards, and 117.8 WAR later, it is safe to say that A-Rod figured it out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My first year in AAA was one largely defined by struggles, on and off the field. Fourth grade was the first occasion in which I did not consistently love going to school and our move across town cemented the fact that I would no longer be attending the elementary school that I adored. Meeting new people was/is always difficult for me and we were now living in an apartment complex full of exceptionally different personalities, which was tricky arena in which to be placed.

1988 Topps - Greg Maddux

On the field, the dynamic of facing a live pitcher was scary, to the point that most of my trips to the plate were effectively giveaways. I loved to bunt, yet the league strangely only permitted bunting in the championship game, which took away pretty much my only reliable method of reaching base save for hoping to draw a walk. I had just two hits on the season, one of which I remember clearly due to it being a "swinging bunt" off the end of the bat that rolled down the third base line only to hug the chalk, infuriating the pitcher. I was sheepish about reaching via such a meager swing, but was hardly in position to turn down a rare hit. My fielding remained solid, as it would usually be throughout my playing career, with an unassisted double play turned after snaring a line drive against one of the league's best teams marking the lone time that my name appeared in the local newspaper during recaps of our games.

While Jeff was not a bad coach, he brought a competitive edge that really did not resonate with me. Neither he nor Frank nor my mom could fix my struggles at the plate and I was not great at accepting criticism, which usually resulted in me getting more tense and failing to a greater degree. As my personal struggles continued and the team resided at the bottom of the standings, my level of self-worth plummeted. I recall one of our team leaders, Brian, bringing in food to celebrate his birthday and me turning him down due to have made an error in the game, justifying the decision by saying that I did not deserve to be rewarded after playing so poorly. The ultimate shame of the season having such a pall cast over it was that it introduced me to several kids who remained friends all the through high school and beyond. This included Dash, with whom I had many enjoyable sleepovers that included playing wiffleball, facing off in video games, and watching Disney films. I still thought about his Jeff's words on some of those occasions, though, which indicates how hard it was/is for me to let go of things.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Drafted in the second round of the 1984 MLB Draft out of high school, Greg Maddux impressively blitzed through the Chicago Cubs' minor league system and made his major league debut on September 2, 1986 while just 20 years of age. Maddux would get torched for a 5.52 ERA during six September appearances in 1986 and was battered to the tune of a 5.61 ERA in 1987 as he served up 17 homers in 155.2 IP while posting an ugly 101/74 K/BB ratio. Maddux was not ready to excel in the big leagues right away, yet made his first all-star team in 1988 (18-8, 140/81 K/BB, 13 HRA in 249 IP, 5.2 WAR) before turning into one of the game's premier pitchers with uncanny command. 355 wins, 3371 strikeouts, 4 straight Cy Young awards from 1992-95, and 106.6 WAR later, it is safe to say that Maddux figured it out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That summer, I literally walked on to the all-star team, as I mistakenly believed that the practices being held at the field near my house were for the open friendship league. The AAA all-stars apparently needed players, though, so rather than being sent home, I got to stay. Despite playing for coaches that I had never previously met and who were not shy about letting you know if you made a mistake, my play improved in marked fashion. Being told by Frank, Jeff, and my mom that I was stepping in the bucket when hitting had always caused me to tense up, yet I was able to channel these coaches' analysis and instruction into positive results. Stealing bases in AAA was typically beyond easy, leading me to attempt a straight steal of second base without having been given the steal sign by the coach. I was out by 10 feet. Rather than melting down, I listened as the coach noted that all-star catchers are ready to throw out baserunners and that it was wiser to follow the signs. After getting two hits in a full regular season, I had notched three by the end of our second all-star game and continued to play well as the summer progressed. Something clicked. I might have never been Greg Maddux or Álex Rodríguez, but I was ready nonetheless.

The following season, my mom opted to not coach, although Frank and Jeff said that they would try to pick me in the draft. I was stunned to get a phone call from the coach of another AAA team to note that I had instead been picked by his squad. I was equal parts confused and hurt. However, while draft results were supposed to remain under wraps, Frank made a point to call to say that I had been picked prior to his team being able to select me. This was heartening to me both in knowing that Frank cared enough about me as a person to reach out to express regret over not having me on his team, as well as a sign that I had improved enough to stand on my own two feet. Our team, Marine Corps, was a fun group coached by another terrific individual and I was entrusted with a leadership role as the team improved following a tough start to the season. While Frank's team was much stronger than ours, it was actually us that reached the title game by pulling out a series of close wins while they lost in the league semifinals on the other side of the draw. One year after feeling that I was not worthy of being on the field, I was a consistent presence atop the lineup and on the mound for a team that reached a championship game. Finally permitted to bunt in game action, I squeezed in the game-tying run in the 3rd inning of the title contest, although we would ultimately fall 10-2. Getting to play all-stars for Dave Scott, with whom I would later coach over two decades later, was another treat and cemented the season as an unmitigated success. I finally had a bit of confidence and felt ready for future challenges. That was good, as they were most definitely on the horizon.

Does It Matter If It Does Not Count?

Perhaps more than in any other exhibition contest from the other main sports, the All-Star Game in baseball tends to garner the greatest amount of attention and scrutiny from fans and media alike. Given its prestigious roots that originated with a 4-2 American League victory in 1933 powered by a two-run home run by Babe Ruth, the MLB All-Star Game has remained a mainstay on the schedule, including taking place during the lockout "strike"-shortened seasons of 1981 and 1994 while only being canceled once due to travel restrictions in 1945 related to World War II. Yet despite all of the hand-wringing about voting results and reserve player selections that would seem to indicate that the All-Star Game is serious business, there tends to also be a considerable level of consistent pushback on the notion that the game itself matters at all.

1991 Donruss - Jack Armstrong

As noted earlier, the All-Star Game is an exhibition, which on its own should not necessarily be a disqualifying characteristic for any sporting event. After all, plenty of people tune in to watch soccer friendlies in which the U.S. Women's National Team win impressively and the U.S. Men's National Team lose in humorous fashion, yet none of those contests count in the way that World Cup results do (with the USWNT still winning impressively and the USMNT still losing in humorous fashion). In the grand scheme of things, how much do any of the games that we watch truly matter, anyway? So much of sports culture today tends to solely be focused on playoffs and championships, which would seem to invalidate much of the action that takes place. Then again, the attitude that games that do not involve likely playoff teams are pointless has frequently been used to disparage the accomplishments of brilliant performers like Mike Trout, so perhaps it is not terribly unique.

There tend to be two primary trains of thought regarding the All-Star Game's decline in prominence in stature - which, again, still requires one to ignore that it receives an exceptionally large amount of attention despite its supposed irrelevance. The first argument often centers around the fact that the initial allure of the All-Star Game was that it brought together players from all Major League teams in an era in which fans would often only get to see players from the league in which their local teams played. The distinction between American and National Leagues remained stark even through the 1990s until being blurred by interleague play's introduction in 1997. Combined with a massively broader media environment that can allow fans to see highlights of any player at any time, a once-per-year event could probably be fairly described as not being necessary in order to, say, allow NL fans to know that Trout exists. The additional criticism of the All-Star Game falls back to the notion that it does not count and therefore should not matter. Much of this sentiment is likely a response to Bud Selig's ham-fisted response to the debacle that was the 2002 All-Star Game tie, with the outsized reward of home field in the World Series that went to the winner of future iterations being as knee-jerk a response as one could make. Pretty much any anti-Selig sentiment is good by me, although a poor incentivization system would seem to be what merits receiving flak rather that the game itself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The 1990 All-Star Game was an event to which I greatly looked forward, as I had become hooked on the sport over the course of the previous year and had read a great deal about how supposedly magical it was that Bo Jackson and Wade Boggs had cracked consecutive homers in the bottom of the 1st inning of the 1989 All-Star Game with former President Ronald Reagan in the booth (the lattermost aspect is most certainly less magical now, particularly given the possibility that Reagan's semi-rambling commentary was affected by dementia). At seven years of age, though, staying up late to watch pretty much anything was effectively a non-starter, much less a nine-inning baseball game. This was a shame, as, in my seven-year-old wisdom, I knew that this was truly a contest for the ages. Just look at the pitching matchup, after all. Bob Welch of the A's was 13-3 on the way to a 27-win season and, as any 1990 AL Cy Young winner worth their salt would tell you, wins are the preeminent method of determining pitcher value (and not at all affected by defense or run support). On the other side, the Reds' Jack Armstrong had posted an 11-3 record and a 2.28 ERA in pushing his club to a brilliant start to the season. Armstrong was most certainly a future superstar who stood no chance of, say, pitching to a 5.96 ERA after the break and being dropped from Cincinnati's rotation during its postseason run.

1991 Score - Bob Welch

I was dejected to miss the game, yet awoke to a surprise. Not only had my grandfather (Papa, as I called him) taped the game, he had made a point to bring it to our house prior to me even getting out of bed the next morning. When we lived with my grandparents during 1991 and 1997, Papa would often tape games for me, even without my asking. I recall watching the epic end of Game 7 of the 1991 World Series before heading off to 4th grade class, while purposely skipping out on a lot of the 1997 Series due to apathy over the matchup between Cleveland and Florida. During that same time, I did request that Papa record another show for me, an upstart program on Comedy Central called South Park. I highly doubt that Papa ever had any idea as to what the show was about or that his initial taping was an episode focused around attempts to cross-breed an elephant and a pig. It was probably for the best.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For me, awakening to having a tape of a game that I assumed that I would never see was akin to Christmas day. I am fairly certain that the tape went immediately into the VCR and I watched in awe at the spectacle that unfolded in front of me. The pregame introductions were seemingly interminable as I waited for the announcer to finally - *finally* - get to the Mets who had been selected. John Franco! Darryl Strawberry! Frank Viola! Other players. Probably.

There is a sense of irony to my level of excitement, as the high-scoring fireworks that characterized ensuing All-Star contests tended to cause the 1990 game to be considered one of the most "boring" in recent history given its 2-0 final score and lone run-scoring hit. There was nothing boring about the spectacle to me, however, as I no doubt drove my family nuts recounting the minutia that had unfolded on my three-hour-long videotape.

"Did you know that the NL only got two hits in the game? Will Clark singled in the 1st and Lenny Dykstra singled in the 9th!"

"Julio Franco hit a two-run double off of Rob Dibble, but then Darryl Strawberry threw him out at the plate after catching a fly ball!"

"Catchers scored both of the runs, but they are really slow!"

Credit to my mom primarily for listening to all of my excited and largely inconsequential ramblings. I try to be more aware of my audience when talking now, but there are still times in which it feels important that everyone know that Ken Griffey, Jr. is going to be a really good player one day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Getting to see so many amazing players and Greg Olson in one place, most of whom I only knew from baseball cards, was remarkable and I am still struck by that spectacle. Yes, with internet access I can now find with ease video of tape measure homeruns by Cody Bellinger and wipeout sliders delivered by José Berríos. Seeing those guys face off with the best of the best playing on one field featuring 30 different uniforms still elicits a positive emotional response in me, even with the knowledge that the game is just a one-off with no major stakes. And I think that is a good thing. Not every game has to be life or death and carry on its shoulders the weight of the world. Thanks to Papa, this will be the 30th year in a row that I will be watching the All-Star Game and I still hold out hope that things will work out for Jack Armstrong.

Home or Something Similar

During a pause in action at my games this past Sunday, a new teammate inquired as to where I am from. This is, of course, hardly notable on its own, as places of residence are common icebreakers in rote conversation alongside discussions of education, occupation, and complaints about the weather. However, what struck me was that I still hedge "...but I do most of my activities in Ridgefield" when asked this question and, even upon reflection, would strangely still feel compelled to do so again in the future.

1992 Stadium Club Members Choice
Bobby Bonilla

The current correct answer to my teammate's query, of course, is Danbury. I have lived in the same apartment in Danbury for almost 9.5 years now, a number that I still have to strain to recall given how indistinct much of the time here has felt. There is actually no real reason for this phenomenon that I can clearly tell, but it is a dynamic that I have most certainly observed. Prior to that, I lived in Bethel for around 12 years. That number is somewhat easier to remember, as it coincided with time in school, getting my license, and what could fairly be described as the first act of my coaching career. One would think that having spent over two decades in a pair of locations would build new attachments and result in detachment elsewhere, particularly given that my grandparents (who have since passed) were our only relatives still in Ridgefield. And yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is something to be said about the bonds made in one's formative years. My family lived in a house up in the Ridgebury area for a little under three years, then moved into an apartment complex in town, staying there for around five more years. This coincided with my time in grades two through nine, prime time for one to make friends, engage in extracurricular activities, and become privy to the dizzying highs and lows that come with the American public education system. As such, so many of the people with whom I stay in touch and those whose successes in life I remain most happy to see are friends, neighbors, and classmates that I met during those formative years.

Still, in raw numbers, one would expect some semblance of similar connection to have been built elsewhere. So why is it that, save for a one-year stint at Immaculate High School, all of my coaching has been conducted in Ridgefield? Why is it that said coaching job at IHS and a miserable night behind a deli counter at a supermarket at Bethel are effectively it for my work history outside of Ridgefield? Why do I need to make sure that people know that I also do stuff in Ridgefield in addition to living elsewhere?

For some, there is an economic status to promote with maintaining an association to certain towns in Fairfield County over others. Having grown up living in low-income housing and experiencing the stigma associated with not having money in a town of great affluence - and still being very far from ever having said status - that is not something that I think factors into this particular equation. Recent editorials that have run in local papers and discussions online indicate that this harmful attitude remains intact in far too many residents of Ridgefield and similar towns, individuals who consider their tax breaks and property values to be of greater importance than finding ways to be empathetic and inclusive. Sure, your labor is good enough for them, but your bank account apparently makes you unworthy of calling yourself a true member of their preferred community. Yes, those people do not speak for everyone, including the many great people that I have met over the years, yet the continued prevalence of such money-based judgment should make it easier to lessen feelings of nostalgia. And yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are a few fairly direct ways to get to our Varsity and JV fields, which are also utilized for games and practices for my summer team. Barring really awful traffic toward the end of a given workday, the most efficient route is the clear way to go. I almost never take said route, instead opting to loop around in nearly circuitous fashion that is barely out of the way, yet is moderately inefficient nonetheless. Most of the time, including earlier today, I will purposely drive past my old apartment complex and eventually come around the back of the middle school that I attended, a place to which I walked nearly every day for three years. There are no major moments of reflection, no deep yearning for days past. There is, however, a calming familiarity that this route provides and, far more often than I want to admit, that is what I find myself needing.

And So It Begins...

I desperately want to say that Josh Wilker did this better than I will. Or can. That level of self-deprecation, of course, is truly not anything more than forced negativity on my part and perhaps an attempt at eliciting forced pity from those who are reading. Such sentiment is so hard for me avoid, yet is counter-productive on its own and runs directly contrary to very reason why I am writing these words in the first place.

1991 Fleer Pro-Visions - Dwight Gooden

It would be much more accurate to say that "Josh Wilker did this first" or "Josh Wilker did this differently," as Wilker's still-active blog, Cardboards Gods (which was later optioned for a book of the same name), was the first instance in which I saw baseball cards linked with an individual's life on a level deeper than that of the acquisition or ownership of the card itself. There was a resonance to that connection, as baseball and, specifically, baseball cards have been such defining components of my life since their introduction when I was in first grade, leading me to play and/or coach consistently in the three decades that have followed. There now exist a myriad of enjoyable baseball card themed blogs that delve into the subject on a variety of levels, such that it is easy to think of one's efforts as being derivative in some form or fashion if one is/was to hit similar notes to those played by others who have come first. Yes, the self-deprecation and doubt keep trying to creep in here, even when utterly unnecessary.

I actually do not know how to define what it is for which I am aiming here other than that I have been compelled to write for a while and need a new outlet. This is not exclusively a biographical account/memoir yet stories from my past and present will no doubt play a strong role. This is also not exclusively a sports blog or a topical blog or a political blog - yet all of these topics will be touched upon with great frequency. The baseball card(s) featured atop each post may be directly connected to the posts in which they appear or the relationship may be exceptionally loose in nature***. They matter to me, though, and I hope that what I have to say will turn out to matter to others.

In summation, I am hoping that this process will permit me to think and reflect about conditions and experiences both new and old. Discussion is welcome, introspection is appreciated, and learning is paramount. And if one wants to trade cards, well, that would be fun, too. I thank you for being here for the start of what I hope will be a meaningful venture!


*** Case in point, Dwight Gooden delivered the first pitch that began the Mets' season in 1990, a called strike on former teammate Wally Backman.