I was 32 when I wrote this story, which would have been 1997. I rediscovered it in a file in a closet a few weeks ago and I don’t remember what inspired me to write it.
I’m publishing it here unedited, but a lot has changed since then: I had a third daughter a few years later; the marriage I was so proud of in this story fell apart in the late 00's; and I turned out to be a just-OK (but probably substandard) father. That third daughter won’t speak to me anymore, and the silence tells me what I need to know about the parenting skills I never really had. I’m not as religious as I was when I wrote this - and in fact I’m not “religious” at all.
I’m now approaching my 60’s. As I mention in the story, life has had its ups and downs. And to be honest, they’ve been even more volatile than I could have anticipated at age 32. But despite it all, the punchline is still true.
I was six years old when I first started playing baseball, quite by accident. Every afternoon at School 16 in Clifton NJ, before school was dismissed, the school secretary read announcements over the loudspeaker. Most of the time I was in such a fog that I didn't pay attention or hear the announcements. But one particular day I heard something to the effect of “play... western” crackle over the loudspeaker. I thought, “Cool! I always liked playing Cowboys and Indians with my friends, I want to play western!” I told my mom about the announcement and asked if she would sign me up.
Mom took me to the school office the next day, and told Mrs. Gacy, the school secretary, that her son Joseph was all jazzed up about some Cowboys and Indians thing he heard on the loudspeaker. Of course, Mrs. Gacy had no idea what I was talking about. When asked, I meekly said, “You said something about playing western.”
Mrs. Gacy frantically pulled out the previous day's announcements to see what the heck I was talking about. After looking over the announcements, she replied “Aha! You mean the announcements for the Clifton Little League Baseball Western Division. They are taking signups for the baseball season. You want to play baseball?”
Now I was embarrassed, but also a little disappointed. Cowboys and Indians, I knew. I had played Cowboys and Indians. Baseball I didn't know. Never heard of it. I had never even swung a bat. But to save face I replied “Um, yeah.” Next thing I knew, I was the youngest player in the Little League.
The first season was an unmitigated disaster. For one thing, this was in the days before parent pitch or tee ball. The kids pitched, no matter how young. And the kids were wild. I was scared to death. I was completely convinced that the pitcher's goal was to kill me by hitting me in the head with the baseball. I was wincing and diving and running away from pitches every time they were thrown. Or closing my eyes tightly and swinging. I literally struck out every time I stepped to the plate that year.
Well, except the one time I drew a walk. My coach, Mr. McCann, was one of those nightmare parents who would take baseball seriously even for six- and seven-year-olds. He had no idea how to teach baseball, he just wanted to send his players out there on the field and have them win. One time I got up to bat with the bases loaded in the last inning with our team down by three runs. Mr. McCann called time out, took me aside and said, “Son just stand in the batter's box and don't swing the bat. Don't even take it off your shoulder.”
Naturally I swung wildly at the first pitch. And missed badly.
“TIME OUT!”, I heard from the third base side.
Mr. McCann irritatedly walked toward me. “Crivelli, what did I tell you to do?”
I looked sheepishly at my shoes.
“DID I TELL YOU NOT TO SWING THE BAT?!”
Embarrassed nod.
“Well then get in the batter’s box and DON'T SWING THE BAT!!”
As an aside, this was my first exposure to baseball, so I had no idea about strikes, balls, walks, etc. I thought the object was to stand in the batter’s box and not get hit and wail away with the bat. Conversely, the pitcher's job was to stand on the mound and whip fastballs at my head and try to kill me. But Mr. McCann was so pissed I figured I'd just better do what he said. So, I stood while the pitcher threw 4 consecutive balls.
“Take your base.”
Another new concept for me. So naturally I stood in the batter’s box and got ready for the next pitch.
“Batter, take your base.”
I stood diligently in the batter's box.
Mr. McCann came storming down the baseline from his sentinel in the third base coach’s box.
“Crivelli, you walked. Go to first base!”
Uh oh. Another new concept.
I can't remember what I replied, but the next thing I knew McCann was leading me into the field and I was standing on “first base”. I thought I was there to play first base. I won't even repeat McCann's response when I asked him for my glove
Of course, the next batter up got a hit. And, thinking I was playing first base, I stood diligently on first base.
As the kids in the field ran around trying to get the baseball back into the infield, my teammates and coaches screamed, “RUN! RUN!” Even the real first baseman was kind enough to encourage me to run to second base.
I had never played baseball, had never drawn a walk, had never been a base runner, in short, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. So, once the baseball made its way back into the infield one of the players ran over to tag me with it, the umpire called me out, and the game was over. It might have been my last game of the season because I don't remember playing again that year. Or maybe my parents had mercy on me and decided not to subject me to any more of this torture. Or maybe McCann encouraged them to not bring me back. I don't know.
Something possessed me to play again the next season when I was a year older and in second grade. While it was customary for players to play for the same coach in order to build continuity, I did not end up on McCann's team. To this day I believe some backroom lobbying on McCann's behalf got me moved to another team. But our first game of the season I did play against his team. My first at bat of the year, against my old coach, I got my first hit of my baseball career, a home run.
Well, a pee-wee league home run. I made contact, the ball dribbled into the infield, and the players on defense played pinball with the baseball while I ran to each successive base. At each base I heard the crowd screaming “Run! Run!” Not wanting to make the same mistake I had made the previous season, I kept running until I finally crossed home plate with a home run.
As I wait made my way back to the dugout, listening to the sound of the cheering crowd, I felt a variety of sensations: pride, relief, joy. I had done it. I had contributed. I belonged. I was so happy that I literally cried tears of joy. As I sat on the bench bawling, my teammates tried to cheer me up: “You were safe, Joey, you were safe!” That didn't help, it just made me cry all that much more.
Over the next six years, I played Little League baseball on a variety of levels. I was never very good. Most of the time I played right field - the universal language for “This kid can't play.” I never learned to hit, never got over my first-grade phobia that the pitcher was trying to hit me with the baseball. The baseball diamonds of Clifton, NJ became one of the places where I learned that the world wasn't rosy and nice and polite, but mean spirited, angry, and ready to pounce on the slightest sign of vulnerability. Thanks to the McCann’s of the world for teaching me that lesson at an early age
Life has had its ups and downs in the years since I hit my first home run. To be sure, there have been more strikeouts than home runs. I've lived through the ugly, nasty, and bitter divorce of my parents; high school, a minefield especially in Clifton; the death of a father, a brother, and a sister; and numerous career changes which bring with them their own highs and lows.
This past Easter my wife, my two daughters and I went back to Clifton to visit my mother, who still lives in the neighborhood where I grew up. We went for a walk with my sister and her four children and eventually ended up in the park where resides the baseball field that served up so many such memories. Nothing has changed. It was weird, to walk around the field, to stand at home plate and look at the pitcher’s mound, to run around the bases. I even sat in the dugout where I had cried after hitting that first home run.
As I sat on the dugout bench, I got misty-eyed again, thinking about that little 6-year-old kid who had so much in front of him, good and bad. In the years ahead of him he was going to experience so much pain. And yet, he was going to be a survivor. I prayed for him. As I sat there, my 3-year-old daughter, who was busily headed toward the playground, hollered “Daddy come on! Let's go play!”
It was at that moment that I experienced a sense of comfort like never before. It put everything in perfect perspective. At 32 years old, I have a wife who I love dearly; we have a wonderful marriage. Despite having grown up in a broken home with an absence of male role models, by the grace of God I've become a good husband and father. I have two gorgeous little daughters who I love with all my heart. A good solid career. I thought back to those kids in the dugout, promising me “You're safe, Joey, you're safe”. The voices of my teammates now seemed like a choir of angels reassuring a scared young boy that his life was in the hands of the Lord, and that he would be delivered through the trials and temptations of life, and that the Lord had a sovereign plan for him.
“You're safe, Joey, you're safe.”
Truly I was. I was safe all along.