The Sporkball Journals

The Spirit is Willing, The Body on the Other Hand. . .

June 29th, 2008

Preface: Today’s entry is my ‘thank you’ note to G.M. Marc Amicone, Angels’ scout Buck Thomas and all the Salt Lake Bees staffers. Thanks everyone for going the extra mile for us fans. It’s also a bit of a ‘get well’ card for owner Larry H. Miller, a noteworthy athlete in his younger days, who is currently undergoing treatment for complications due to diabetes. Take care of yourself, skipper. . .

June 29, 2008 — A longtime coach once remarked to me, “I was a professional ballplayer for 12 years. This year, I’m starting my 12th year of being a coach. You know, I used to think of my career as being a ballplayer who started coaching. From now on, I guess, I’ll have to call myself a coach.”

A simple statement. Except I realized as he spoke, he wasn’t talking about his job. He was talking about something else—self-identity. The perspective we rely on to frame our life attitudes, personal decisions, and occasionally even our self-worth. The personal standard that determines which accomplishments give us pride, and often pause. And I realized something else. He was talking about me.

It happens to every athlete, no matter how durable or careful. At some point Mother Nature calls in her marks and you must relinquish your membership to a very elite, highly specialized and unique lifestyle. Most likely, a disproportionate part of your waking hours were spent trying to get “one more” out of everything: one more set of squats, one more practice run, one more 10th-of-a-second off a race time, one more race fee, one more sponsorship, one more year on those snow tires. Some athletes stick it out until they become bitter from the endless, mind-numbing grind and continual disappointment. Others hang on because they have nothing else; spouse, money, security, friends, favors having been eaten up and spit out long ago. And of course, lots and lots more give up for any number of reasons—financial, mental, personal, medical and all legitimate—the sacrifices are just too much.

Some very few athletes are able to reach the end of the magical rainbow. Although scarce in number, the honey sweet songs of their six-figure salaries, global adoration and gorgeous bedmates call out to the next generation of young aspirants, like Sirens daring Jason’s Argonauts to navigate the rocky channels.

But this story is not about the hopefuls. It’s about life, and the meaning of, after the last race is in the books. Eventually, no matter how lucky or good the competitor, each must face the dreaded day of “retirement” and just like that, you’re finished. I should point out my athletic career was definitely more suspect than prospect; my achievements came from being somewhat lucky and incredibly stubborn. More to the point, however, I gave it everything I had. Like so many athletes before me, I lost out on money, friends and love in my mono-maniacal striving to be the best of the best. I too made the heartrending decision to walk away from the incomparable rush of high-stakes competition. After little more than a cup-of-coffee stay with the Big Dogs and despite all the hardships, I too sat there alone in my living room, staring at the walls and asking myself, “Now what the h*ll am I supposed to do?”

What made this scenario absolutely ludicrous was that I have a college degree and all sorts of real-world job skills. The problem was, and still is, I’m an athlete. I think like one, I care like one, I dream like one. It has been a very long time since I could kick a*s and take names. I strive to be graciously understated about my athletic past. No one, especially me, wants to listen to the tired memories of a has-been. (If that starts happening with too much regularity, I have a pact with my best friend to shoot me as an act of humanitarian relief.) If I’m feeling particularly forthright, I also know the reason I don’t say much is because I’m not the least bit interested in listening to some weekend warrior compare his/her rec-league tourney to my years of literally busting my hump and risking it all to chase my Olympic dreams.

Today’s cold hard truth is I’m no longer a competitor or even a coach. I too am just a fan, sitting on the wrong side of the fence. No bib, no helmet, no speed suit, no sigh! . . .hard-muscled physique. Nothing at all to distinguish me from the armchair masses. As such, I expect to be regarded as just another spectator by the new crop of athletes.

Funny thing is, that’s not the hardest part. I mean, how other athletes don’t recognize our shared history. I knew the score when I signed on for this rocket-ride; getting left behind is the ever-present risk of a life shaped by winning. It’s not even the things I may have missed out on because there wasn’t room for it in “the plan.” Stuff like that happens all the time in real life too. You make decisions and accept what happens, well at least, you try.

Nah, it’s none of that. Here’s when reality bites deepest into this ex-jock. . .

I put on the provided batting helmet and step into the cage to take my cuts. I’m using a 32-inch Louisville Slugger borrowed from one of the guys in the front office. (Thanks again, Josh!) Wooden, of course. We’re lucky today. We have a professional coach throwing BP. On the first pitch I slap a hard grounder to short. The next pitch I pull a little too much, foul. I hear murmurs around the cage, “Hey, that’s a pretty good swing.”

Encouraged by my ability to connect, the coach starts throwing a little harder. We’re in a groove. Then he throws one up and slightly in. I make a quick adjustment and chop a liner just left of 2nd base. I lose my rhythm and miss wildly on the next two pitches. I step back out of the box. He waits. I take a breath, adjust my helmet and step back in, measuring the distance across the plate by holding the bat out in front of me. I look up and we continue.

And then it’s time. . .I hear the coach say, “Nice job,” indicating my turn at BP is finished. I run out the next hit, jog back to the cage, remove my helmet and shut down the holodeck memories of my youth. I have returned to earth again—48 years old with busted-up knees, a glass elbow and ruptured L-5 disk. “Gonna be sore in the morning,” as Hellboy would say.

I’m still an athlete in my heart, however broken might be my body. For the last several years, I “play” at Base and Ball just twice a year, during the Bees season-ticket holders’ batting practice. My body can’t take the pounding of a weekly game schedule and my aging depth perception plays nasty tricks on the rest of me when I try to shag flies. At some point, I won’t even be able to handle the DH role. I’ve had my turns at being an athlete, a coach, a program manager and now, a fan. Nonetheless, I strongly suspect I’ll consider myself an athlete until my dying day. And if I’ve been a good person and there is a heaven out there somewhere, I’ll be swinging 34 inches of white ash and roaming right field in the great beyond, where my buddies and I play nothing but day games on glorious, natural turf. Bye for now!

Entry Filed under: Game of Life