Ball one.
Sweat slipped under my brow and stung my eyes as I briefly raised my hat and looked to the sidelines. There, the batter's father sat. Sunglasses on, he placed his newspaper in his lap and gave two claps for his son while cracking his trademark smile. It was a smile I had seen for years on my own television. It was a smile I remembered when the Philadelphia Phillies captured the NL Pennant in 1993, a smile so often paired with a lip of tobacco and one heck of a hustle.
It was Lenny Dykstra, the former Mets and Phillies star who led both teams to championship seasons. He was more than a fan favorite in Philadelphia, he was my favorite. He was as much a part of my baseball collection as he was a part of my dreams. I used to pretend I was Lenny when I would play baseball games between myself and the garage.
"Lenny rips one down the line!" I would yell as I circled my 20-foot wide driveway and crossed home plate.
And here I was, one ball down, pitching against Lenny Dykstra's son, Cutter. Cutter was as much of a star as his father. After every baseball draft, my friends and I would see which team landed Cutter. We were interested not necessarily because he was a good baseball player but because being his teammate meant a pretty good chance that Lenny Dykstra was going to slice your oranges at least one game during the season.
Strike one.
The batter left one looking.
"You got it, dude" my Dad yelled.
I leaned back and let one hurl.
Crack!
Cutter ripped a foul so hard it nearly shook me. His body mass was at least two times my own. Despite being three years younger than the rest of us, he was allowed to play in the older age group. He was that good.
Even so, I now was ahead in the count.
My parents always told me I could do anything I ever dreamed of. I remember the night when my father encouraged me to try pitching during the next practice. Me, pitch? I thought. That's only for the big guys, right? I was a second baseman. I was the sixth or seventh man in the lineup. Back in Little Leagues, pitching was meant for the home-run hitters, the kids who could smack the ball over the fence before I had the power to reach center field. It was for the kids whose parents dragged them through hours of private practices and made them miss out on birthday parties and Burger King meals. Not for the overweight, short guy.
Ball two. The nerves got to me. Ball three.
Nearly ten years later, Cutter is now one of baseball's hottest high-school prospects and will be a top pick in the MLB draft this June. Like his father, scouts say he carries the same tenacious, hard-nosed style of play and blue-collar attitude. He will soon sign his first million-dollar contract and, over the next few years, make his way to the big leagues. Cutter has come a long way from being my little league foe.
I, on the contrary, couldn't tell you where I will be tomorrow. Life seems so complicated and confusing that I yearn for the days when becoming a professional baseball player seemed like a viable career option.
But, on the night when I told my Dad that I wasn't the pitching type, he told me that I had two qualities that all pitchers needed: concentration and a level head. So, I picked up my glove and started pitching the next day. I was never a star, but I won some big games that gave me confidence to continue pitching. Dozens of batters later led me to Cutter. As memories of his all-star father streamed through my mind, my own father's lessons were ingrained in a way that didn't require thought. I took the catcher's signal for a fastball - that was the only pitch I knew at 10-years-old - and let it fly.
Strike three!
I will never become a professional baseball player. But at least I can say I once struck one out.
Marshall Bell is a columnist. E-mail him at sports@nyunews.com.
