I was having one of those seasons you dream about as a Little Leaguer. It was my first taste of actually being good at sports. I was 12 years old.
So there was this day, which in my memory feels like it happened less than a week ago. My team was down two runs. There were two outs. There were two on. It was the bottom of the sixth inning.
And up I came.
I remember a few parents in the stands saying, “Walk him!” Mr. DeClemente, the other team’s coach, who’d coached me a year earlier, actually shouted at me, “We’re not walking ya, Mike. Let’s see what ya got.”
Very cool moment.
But the best part was the voice I heard behind me. My father. He was always at the games, baseball or basketball, always lending a supportive voice. I heard that voice now.
“Wait for your pitch, son,” he said. “And give it a ride.”
I didn’t wait long. I got a pitch I liked. And I gave it a ride. It cleared the wall by a good 15 feet. It should be the greatest, grandest sporting memory of my life. And it’s not a bad one. But it’s not perfect, either.
Background: The best hitter on the Mets in those years was their first baseman, Willie Montanez. He played my position. And he was, putting it mildly, a hot dog. When he’d hit a home run, Willie did it his way: He hopped on first base. He hopped on second base. He hopped on third base. Then he walked home from third. I thought it was awesome.
You know where this is going, right?
I hit my home run. My teammates went berserk. My heart was fixing to explode. I heard my father shriek as loudly as I’ve ever heard. If I could rewind the tale, I’d urge 12-year-old me to make put my head down, trot it out, act like I’d been there before.
I did not do that. I hopped on first. I hopped on second. My teammates were screaming with delight! I hoped on third. And did the old 20-second walk home. My coaches back-slapped me. Even Mr. D (who taught me as much baseball as anytime in other than my dad, Buck Showalter and Bobby Valentine) came over, shook my hand, and said, “That’s a big-time moment.”
Then I looked to where my father had been standing behind the backstop. He wasn’t there. I went looking for him. Not there. I was starting to panic when Mr. D doubled back.
“Your father said he’ll see you at home,” he said.
“But I don’t have a ride!” I said.
“He said it was a nice day, maybe you should walk home.”
There was no loud confrontation when I got home. But there was no talk about the home run, either, not until I sheepishly admitted that maybe I could’ve handled the moment better.
“Did you ever think of what the pitcher was thinking?” is all he said. “Not only did he just lose the game, but then he has to watch you acting like a complete …”
He chose a different word than the one he wanted.
“… jerk.”
I didn’t say anything.
“So I thought maybe you’d like to have some time to yourself, think about it. I hope you enjoyed your walk.”
So I really do understand how a great moment playing sports can overtake you. I do. I’ve been there. Maybe the West Hempstead Little League isn’t the National League, but in my world it was.
And in my world, I did that.
So though there’s a large part of me that fumes whenever there’s too much self-celebration — and the Mets had three such outbursts on their recent homestand, by Luis Severino, Francisco Alvarez and Jesse Winker — and though I want to mount my soapbox and rail about how silly they all look … well, I can still feel that way. But I do remember what it’s like to be so giddy that you act like a …
And maybe they will, too, if they have an elder to set them right, or the passage of time, or simply a future fastball that comes in high and tight and didn’t “just get away” from the pitcher. Any of those ought to work.
Vac’s Whacks
One of the odd lines you have to straddle in this line of work is watching people you like have to put their jobs at risk week after week. It’s why I’m hoping Brian Daboll and Robert Saleh both have the kind of season that’ll ensure they get to keep working here for many years to come, while knowing the odds of that happening aren’t exactly awesome.
Forget 763, which is still an unfathomable yard post in the distance for a 32-year-old man who plays clean. The number I want Aaron Judge to reach is 74. Take that one away from Barry Bonds and permanently retire at least one asterisk from the record books. And if he doesn’t do it this year, there will be other years, I believe.
Wait, you’re telling me that Vince Vaughn is in a television series … based on a book by Carl Hiaasen? I feel like I must have done something good for “Bad Monkey” to be a part of my life now.
There is no bigger fan of John Sterling’s than me, and it was wonderful hearing him do a few innings of Yankees-Guardians the other night. And if he wants to do, say, three innings a game in the playoffs, no harm with that. Just as long as Justin Shakil is still part of the show. These will be the most important games of Shakil’s season, too. And maybe beyond.
Whack Back at Vac
Jared Duncan: It made my day to see James Blake donating over $1 million to Memorial Sloan Cancer Center. As a survivor, it made happy to have such a gentleman honored for doing what he does.
Vac: He is, and always was, one of our best.
Dennis Meltzer: I hope Judge and Soto stay together as long as Simon and Garfunkel (10 years, if you count their incarnation as Tom and Jerry when they were in high school).
Vac: I think there’s are millions of Yankees fans who will sign up for that.
michael45rpms: Stop it! Stop the discussion: Not only is Caitlin Clark the best rookie, she is now the WNBA’s best player.
@MikeVacc: I think Breanna Stewart would like to have a word.
Robert Feuerstein: Why do managers insist on pitching to Aaron Judge instead of walking him intentionally when there’s nobody on in a tight game? Nobody behind him has proven they can beat you. As another Judge (Judy) says: “If it doesn’t make any sense, there’s something wrong.”
Vac: You, Judy and I ask the same question at least two times every game.
