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dlmeyer@mavs.coloradomesa.edu
It was the last inning of the last game of the baseball season. The Blue Jays trailed the Angels 2-1. The winner would be crowned the regular season champion. Victory would ensure third-grade glory and endless popularity.
With one out and a runner on third, the Angel’s ace pitcher stepped on the mound. A plump, familiar figure came to the plate.
“Levi, don’t be scared of the baseball, you hear?” the vaguely white-trash coach said. “The ball isn’t going to hit you. You are going to hit the ball.”
My stats up until that point were Hall-of-Fame worthy. I had a resounding zero hits on the year, and two almost-catches in left field. I batted at the bottom of the order, too. According to pitchers, I was the easiest out in the league.
Somehow, I had a chance to score the tying run in the biggest game of the season. I was completely afraid of the baseball, and I knew I would cry if I got plunked. But if I made contact, I could be a hero.
Sports moments like this can reveal a lot about a person. In a do-or-die situation, people will either rise valiantly to the occasion, or crumble from the pressure. Those who fail will forever be haunted, and those who succeed will forever be strengthened.
But sometimes, all you can say is that you got lucky.
Even the most terrible athletes can have incredible sports moments. They don’t elevate their game at crucial moments or see the plays in slow motion. They pull up their pants, close their eyes and hope that something great will happen. When skill and athleticism are out of reach, hope is all you have.
When hope pays off, it’s an indescribable feeling.
After looking at a first-pitch strike, my coach called time to whisper a single phrase in my ear.
“Hit the ball.”
I stepped to the plate, hoisted my pants and stared down the pitcher. He threw a fastball right down the pipe. I closed my eyes and let it rip.
Then, I felt the ball hit the bat.
I knobbed the ball off the end of the bat, sending it down the first base line. The first baseman came to field the grounder, but the ball ricocheted off the bag, soaring through the air over the fielder’s head. The ball landed softly, six inches into the outfield.
I stepped on first and looked at the scoreboard. It was 2-2. I tied up the biggest game of the season and picked up my first hit of the year at the same time. The baseball moms went nuts, screaming my name and pounding the chain link fence. The vaguely white-trash dads stomped their feet on the bleachers, hooting and hollering with cigarettes in their mouths.
It might as well have been Game 7 of the World Series. I jumped up and down on the bag, pumping my fists. At that moment, I was better at baseball than Derek Jeter and Mickey Mantle combined. I was a baseball god.
Athlete or not, sports are incredibly powerful. The memories and feelings received from sports last forever. And since I only have one solid sports memory, I’ll never forget it. A bad athlete got lucky, and it changed his life.
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