Around the summer of 1985, I realized that one of the local stations in Arizona (where I was living at the time) broadcast a slew of Los Angeles Dodger games. I spent a lot of summer nights sitting in front of the TV, watching Pedro Guererro, Mike Marshall and Steve Sax battle the likes of the Giants or the Cardinals. I started learning the game in an academic sense: what hit and run meant, when to bunt, etc. I stayed glued to the TV all through 85 and into 1986 watching all the baseball I could.
In August of 86, my family moved from Arizona to Sacramento. Moving to a new town only increased my baseball obsession. I had no friends to play with at first, so I stuck to the people I was familiar with: my favorite ball players. I started collecting baseball cards around this time as well, and I'd spend much of my free time sorting though stacks of cards, memorizing the names, the teams, their stats, everything I could.
Moving from Arizona to Northern California demanded a huge change in my team loyalties. I had been a Dodger fan for a few years, and I continued to be one for a couple years following the move, probably cause my favorite player at the time, Steve Sax, was a Sacramento native. But in 1987, it was near impossible to watch Dodger games in NorCal, bar for the few nationally televised contests. Instead, I started watching the Oakland A's. Back then, they were a young, up and coming team. Jose Canseco was the defending AL Rookie of the Year, and they opened the season with a rookie at first: Mark McGwire, who would soon replace Sax as my favorite player.
I think my dad got a sense that both I and my brother were becoming baseball nuts, so he took us to our first game early that season. We made the short 90 minute trek to Oakland to watch the A's battle the Minnesota Twins. I remembering walking through the concourse to our seats, and as soon as I saw the field, I felt like I had seen heaven. Now to those who haven't been to a game in Oakland, the stadium there has more in common with a medieval dungeon than any form of paradise. But I didn't know any better. I was just completely awestruck by the magnitude of it. I think it was at that moment that I decided that I wanted to be a professional ball player.
I was also playing ball during our first spring in Sacramento. I don't recall much from that first year, apart from our team not being very good. Our coach tried to make a pitcher out of me, but I think that lasted all of two innings. The one thing I took away from that season was a new friend. All the friends I had made since moving to Sacramento were fairly disinterested in baseball, so it was great to finally meet someone who was as obsessed as I was with the sport.
The spring and summer of 88 was probably when I reached the peak of my baseball obsession. My little league team that season won our division and made it to the Tournament of Champions, a first for our league. Up to that point in my playing career, I had always been a great practice player, but I would tend to play too tight, too cautious during the games. That started to change early in the season, when I belted a two run "homer" in the bottom of the ninth to kick off a comeback win. After that, I played with a fire that I hadn't previously.
I spent practically all my spare time doing something, ANYTHING, baseball related. I'd harass my brother into playing stickball in our driveway every weekend. When he wouldn't, I'd put a board up against the garage and pitch for hours on end. Or, I'd grab my bat and practice my swing in the backyard, often using my reflection from our family room window to keep tabs on my form and mechanics. I was always imagining that I was doing great feats, whether it be hurling a no hitter or hitting a game winning home run. I was determined to make it to the Bigs.
My baseball card collection was starting to get out of hand, taking up as much room in my closet as my wardrobe. The walls of my room were plastered with posters of my favorite players: McGwire, Canseco, Rickey Henderson. I lived and breathed baseball.
That summer, the A's were dominating the American League, eventually making it to the World Series against my once favorite team, the Los Angeles Dodgers. I had no conflict of loyalties in me at this point. I wanted my A's to annihilate them. At first, it looked like that was going to happen. The Dodgers seemed completely undermanned, especially with the NL MVP, Kirk Gibson out with injury. I thought the series was over when Jose Canseco hit a homer early in game one. I thought it was finished. But the Dodger's managed to rally back to within one. I felt great knowing that we had Dennis Eckersley coming in the ninth to wrap it up, giving us a 1-0 lead. Then Kirk Gibson hobbled to the plate and broke my heart with one swing. I was inconsolable after his game winning homer. I just knew then, at that very moment, the Dodgers were going to win the series. And they did.
That fall, I moved on to the seventh grade, I started to notice that I was rather small for my age. I started to worry that I might not be able to keep up with the kids who were obviously much stronger and faster with me. I still managed to keep up in PE class, which is probably the only reason I wasn't beat up on a regular basis, but I was completely unsure if I could compete on a higher level. My desire to play hadn't died, but my confidence started to wane. It was with this mentality that I started what would turn out to be my last season of little league.
Since I was to be 12 that year, I had to play in a more advanced league and at first, I struggled. I started playing tight again, too afraid to make a mistake. I was still a good practice player, but I couldn't turn it on when it mattered. I puttered about all season, never really able to turn it around. There was never a moment at the end of the season where I said to myself, "I've had enough." In fact, I would still throw around every chance I got. I would still practice my swing.
But when it came time for sign ups the following spring, I didn't want to do it. My dad tried to get me to try out for the 8th grade team and I refused. My anxieties got the best of me. I didn't want to play with that constant worry that I'd mess up, that I'd cost my team the victory. I was sure I was too small to hang with the bigger kids. Never mind that several of my friends, who probably weren't much bigger than me, were still playing and doing well. For whatever reason, I didn't think I could do it. I never gave myself the opportunity to succeed.
Even after I stopped playing, I still collected baseball cards for several years and still made the pilgrimage to Oakland 4 or 5 times a season. But that too started to ebb once I got into high school. By then, basketball was my primary sport and while I had no illusion that I would achieve any kind of success at it, I didn't feel the anxiety I did when I played baseball. I could just go out and play.
Through my college years, baseball was mostly an afterthought. I would go to the occasional game and play catch here and there, but baseball was never on the forefront of my mind. That started to change a couple years ago when my friend Evald invited me out to hit some balls with him. After a couple pitches, it felt as if I had never stopped playing. I was hitting the ball well. My arm still felt strong. I started to wonder why I had given up the game in the first place. We would regularly sneak onto whatever field we could and hit. Then, last spring, we started a team in a local recreation league. And it all came back, both the good and the bad. I was still a great practice player...but I was still tight and cautious come game time. Dealing with that anxiety is still a struggle, often week to week and game to game. I guess the kid in me is still alive.
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