I think I was about 8 years old when I realized I'd never play professional baseball.
This epiphany stemmed from two main factors. First, I wasn't very good at baseball. Second, and maybe more importantly, I was scared of the ball.
It took me quite a while to realize I wasn't good at baseball. (Conversely, it didn't take me very long at all to realize I was afraid of being hit in the face by a fastball and losing all my teeth.) Without fail, I'd always volunteer to play in games with my cousins and my brother, even though they were a couple years older than I and somewhat more talented in the athletic arts.
Anyway, in these familial battles of will, I would stride up to the plate confidently, possessing the swagger of a young Barry Bonds or Bo Jackson (one of my idols at the time), hunker down in the batter's box and prepare myself for my cousin's patented screwball...
And promptly strike out.
Actually, that's what would have happened if my dad hadn't been serving as the ump. Since he was, however, I got a lot of leeway.
As fastball after fastball flew through the strike zone, I'd swing and miss, sometimes spinning around completely and falling down.
\He tipped it!"" my dad would say. ""That's a foul ball!""
So, I'd get up again and swing at five more pitches without hitting a thing. But each time, my dad'who served as both catcher and ump in those days'would be there, calling tipped third strike after tipped third strike.
Finally, on the umpteenth pitch of my at-bat, I'd halfheartedly swing at a pitch and finally make contact, dribbling a weak ground ball toward first base. My brother would easily handle the ball and tag me out, and I'd go sit down and wait for my next at-bat, which, considering the fact there were only four or five of us playing at the time, would be in about two minutes. I'd step back up to the plate and go through the whole process again.
Looking back on those games, I realize now that my dad was just trying to spare me the embarrassment of striking out. But in reality, he was severely limiting my baseball potential. I mean, come on'strikeouts are nothing to be afraid of. Look at Babe Ruth'he struck out 1,330 times in his career. Do you think his dad was afraid to call strikes when he was playing in games as a kid?
Come to think of it, my dad inhibited a lot of my athletic potential. For example, when he coached my fifth- and sixth-grade basketball team, I wasn't allowed to shoot the ball. Nevermind that I couldn't make a basket if I was standing on the rim'he was keeping me down! I could have been the next Michael Jordan! But no, he made me pay attention to school work and made me study. Where did school ever get anyone?
It got me here, to the University of Wisconsin, writing sports for one of the oldest and most prestigious college newspapers in the country. Oooh la la. Now, not only do I get to sit in the press box, I get to talk to nationally known celebrities like Wendell Bryant and Lee Evans.
Now I'm a journalist instead of a superstar college athlete, and it's my dad's fault.
Dad, I just have one thing to say to you.
Thanks.
Oh, happy birthday, too. This one's for you.
