First, a Childhood Baseball Backstory
When I was a young boy, I played baseball, albeit not very well. I began, like most young boys, playing T-ball, and then off to Pony League and finally, Little League. My baseball career ended there. I did not pursue baseball in Middle or High School. Truth be told, I was not very good at baseball, and did not enjoy playing the sport very much. Games felt long, and with my main weakness being hitting the ball, I found myself frequently frustrated.
Then there was, let’s call it, “a moment” during my final Little League season, when my baseball future, or lack thereof, was made certain. My team had practice at a local batting cage. Our instructions were to bring quarters and be prepared for some hard-hitting practice inside the batting cage. I stood in line with my teammates for what felt like an eternity, awaiting my chance to get inside the cage. One-by-one, the coach called upon the top players and hitters to feed their quarters into the machine, and spend time swinging away at the mechanical pitches.
The ting of the ball hitting the aluminum bat, followed by the praise of the coach to the better players, still rings in my mind to this day. A friend of mine stood near me in line. He and I were not very good at batting, but we fielded the ball satisfactorily, at least to earn us spots in left and right field respectively.
The coach called player after player to the cage. After an hour of practice or more he turned and said, “who else needs to get in here?” My friend and I approached the coach and said, “we haven’t batted yet coach.” He turned to us and without hesitation or remorse and said, “boys, save your quarters, I think we’ve run out of time.”
My first instinct was a sense of relief, as I knew that my performance in the cage would not have stood up to my peers who were cranking out hits and runs. But then I also felt an immediate sense of embarrassment, shame, and confusion. Was the coach saying what I thought he was saying? Was I interpreting his direction the right way? I began to walk away, as parents had begun to arrive to pick up their kids. But still, I could not stop thinking about the fact that the coach said, “save your quarters, boys,” and didn’t even attempt to give us a shot at some hitting.
No matter what the coach’s true intention might have been, that moment forever shaped my psyche as a baseball player. It affirmed my self-doubt and the self-limitations I had already placed on myself as a poor player. As a result, that season was the last. I did not want to face that kind humiliation again.
The Nostalgia of Childhood Summers
Looking back, I most definitely participated in baseball at the request of my parents, more than my personal self-interest or desire to play. I did, however, generally like the sport of baseball. My maternal grandfather was an avid New York Mets fan. During my boyhood summers I would ride my bicycle from my parents to my grandparents’ house quite frequently. Their house was located about half-a-mile away from my parents, tucked into a quaint suburban neighborhood. I always found my grandparents’ house an easy escape from my three sisters. My grandmother always greeted me warmly, and I fondly remember how she would prepare me orange Tang with cantaloup and honeydew melon with a sprinkle of table salt as a summertime treat. Don’t even get me started on the Chocolate Ovaltine!
When I rolled up to their house, dropped my bike and went inside, the television would be either be broadcasting a Mets game or a John Wayne rerun. If my grandfather was sitting outside under the carport, he would have his small handheld radio on, with the antennae erected to the sky, listening to the play-by-play of the Mets game being hypnotically announced.
During these formative adolescent years, I also had positive baseball experiences and memories. My aunt, a graduate of Syracuse University, worked in physical therapy in Florida in the early part of her career. The practice she worked for supported some of the baseball teams and players during spring training. One year she brought me home a baseball autograph by NY Mets pitcher, Terry Leach. I thought that was cool at the time. Like other kids my age, I collected and traded baseball cards. I had never been to a major or minor league game, however.
Minor League Game, Here I Come! A Prelude to my 'Malibu Moment'
Another key determinant to my short-lived baseball career happened on the eve attending my first minor league game in Syracuse, NY. I cannot fully remember, but I was around the ages of ten to twelve at the time. It was an early-summer's eve and a neighborhood friend’s older brother had four tickets to the Syracuse baseball game. My friend graciously asked if I would like to attend the game with them. I asked my parents, and they agreed. I was excited and very much looking forward to the game. What a great start to the summer, I thought at the time.
A couple of hours before the game I walked to my friend’s house who lived up the street from my parents. My friend and his older brother and another friend of his were playing baseball catch in the street. I had my baseball glove with me, and joined in. We were having a grand time, throwing the ball and playing catch between the four of us. We played just in front of their Cape Cod style home on a quiet residential street. The street was mostly flat but had a slight incline in one direction. I was positioned on the inclined side of the street, between their house and their neighbors.
My friend’s brother threw me the ball, but it was long. I tried to jump up and reach it, but the ball soared over my head, fell to the ground and rolled up the inclined street. I ran to the ball, reached down and grabbed it. I turned, facing my friend’s brother who was in the same position, but now further away because the ball had flown over my head. He then shouted up at me, “throw it.” For a split second I hesitated, thinking I may not have the arm to throw the ball all the way back down to him. “Throw it,” he shouted again. I thought, okay, I can do this, let’s go for it. Just then I wound up and launched the ball. Something did not feel right. Just as the ball was releasing from my hand, I slipped and lost my footing on the pavement.
The ball hurled high into the sky, and the next few moments slowed way down. Everything went into slow motion. I mean, slow motion. I watched as the ball sail through the air enroute to my friend’s brother’s position. I vividly recall thinking the ball was going to make it at first. Then, the trajectory was obscured by some branches of a tree. The ball appeared to be on a less direct flight path. In my slow-motion gaze, I could see angst and fear in the eyes of my friend, his brother, and his friend. Then, time became normalized as I and the awestruck onlookers watched the pop fly ball drop directly down onto the windshield of an early 1980s Blue Chevy Malibu.
The car, my friend’s brother’s, was a recent purchase. I can’t be 100% certain, but I believe it was his first car. The Blue Malibu was also going to be our ride to the Syracuse minor league game. The ball smashed the windshield into a thousand pieces. The car was clearly undriveable. Mind you, this incident occurred in the mid-1980s and well before our modern era of on-demand windshield repair. Cue the commercial for, "Safelite Repair, Safelite Replace."
I instantly felt the blood drain from my face and body. I was mortified and speechless. My friends’ parents heard the noise and came running out of their home. Their reaction was completely reasonable, but it cut through me like the sharp shards of glass of from a broken windshield. “What the hell happened?” my friend’s father shouted. I don’t recall all the reaction and language that commenced, but suffice it to say, they were unhappy. “Who’s going to pay for this? How will it get fixed?”, my friend’s dad went on to exclaim.
The older brother stepped in and said it was an accident, that insurance would cover it, and not to worry, it will all be alright. I felt immediate comfort in his logical and thoughtful rebuttal to the reaction of his father. His parents went inside. I then went back to my parents, told them what had happened, and that it was my fault. I remember them speaking with my friends’ parents. The parents agreed that their older son could drive us to the Syracuse game in their small Chrysler station wagon. We piled in and drove to the game. The entire way there, I was incredibly embarrassed and ashamed. Not only did I break the windshield on the Blue Malibu, but it was abundantly clear, I had no throwing arm to speak of. Perhaps I was being too harsh on myself.
My friend’s brother and his friend turned on the radio and we listened to hard rock. He seemed unphased, cool and collected over the whole ordeal. He joked with his friend, and he was kind to me. He said it wasn’t my fault, and not to worry about it. He said he was the one who told me to throw it from a further distance, and that he was as much at fault for the incident. He said it was only a windshield, and that even though it was broken, we all still made it to the game. His attitude was everything. His attitude allowed me to quickly learn, forgive, and move on. We enjoyed the minor league game. I cannot tell you who Syracuse played against, or which team one the game. I also cannot remember if I had a hotdog and soda at the game. But with reverence and sincerity I can say, I am so grateful that the older brother met the moment with commonsense, clarity, and compassion.
This was my Malibu moment, a moment of truth and consequence. I have had many more moments like this in my life, and I expect more to follow. The important thing to remember in a ‘Malibu moments’ is that in any situation we have actions, choices, consequences, and opportunities for growth. How we react and respond in any moment has an immediate and often long-lasting impact on all of those around us, not to mention ourselves. Our ability to meet a moment, no matter what is happening, with a clear-headed, unbiased, and thoughtful humanistic response can make all the difference on achieving better outcomes. This is an important lesson in personal relationships, coaching and mentoring, and in business and professional settings.
Having Self-Awareness and a Positive Attitude Beget Making Great Choices
Looking back, I wish that my Little League coach had taken the care and time to put me and my friend inside the batting cage. The probability that we would have gone onto play any competitive baseball likely would not have changed from such an action. However, with the right temperament and attitude, I am confident that my friend and I would have at least discovered how to work through our own self-doubt.
As you know by now, this story is not about baseball, as the phrase goes, “there’s no crying in baseball!” It’s also not about broken windshields or broken childhood dreams. This is about making sure that we rise to our best selves in any moment. For it is in those moments, even the ones that may seem trite and insignificant, where we may be creating enormous ripples in the lives of others. Make great choices in your daily endeavors that influence the ‘Malibu Moments,” of others, and Go Mets!
Comentarios