6 Degrees of Seperation

Cubbies Curse

S. G. Lacey

Johnny Evers (Cubs 2B)
Chicago Cubs vs. Detroit Tigers
World Series Game 5
October 14th, 1908

Everything rests on the result of this game. And every person in this small, but primarily hostile, pro-Detroit crowd of 6,000 fans at Bennett Park is aware.
The majority of these onlookers are packed in behind home and down the 3rd base line, in sloping wooden bleachers, covered by a generous awning, and supported with narrow metal poles. The long leg of this L-shaped configuration does not run parallel to the chalk, but is instead rotated so that fans in the front row get progressively closer. Further from home plate, but nearer to the on-field action.
By my estimates, it’s a pretty meager gathering for a World Series game. Maybe the Detroit fans are already throwing in the towel based on our three games to one series lead to date. The poor turnout can’t be on account of the weather; a favorable Indian summer has continued throughout the midwestern United States well into October this year.
I know one person who won’t be in attendance today is our current president, Theodore Roosevelt. Winding down his second term in office, his hatred of this sport is well publicized in the tabloids. Maybe the incoming electee a few weeks from now will be more supportive of America’s national pastime.
The patrons who are here at the ballpark are desperately trying to make their presence felt. Despite this being only the fourth batter of the game, jittery nervousness pervades the air. We’ve already got a rally going, runners at 1st and 2nd base, with only one out. It’s important to plate the first run, thereby building confidence, while quieting the unfriendly masses.
Despite finishing the season with 99 wins, our Chicago Cubs squad is lucky to be in the World Series at all. We edged out two other teams in the National League by just a single game, including defeating the New York Giants in a one game playoff just 6 days ago.
Shuffling a few paces off 2nd base, I hear raucous yelling behind me. Turning to take a quick peak, I find the commotion is not coming from the outfield bleachers, which are sparsely occupied, but instead from a huge throng of people amassed on rickety wooden scaffolding atop a few tall barns just beyond the left field wall.
While this gathering does not appear to be part of the official ballpark attendance, based on the large cloth sheets that have been rigged atop the outfield perimeter in front of them, this rooftop clan is certainly some of the loudest, and potentially drunkest, game observers. Clearly, an obstructed view isn’t stopping these Tigers fans from having fun.
Turning back towards home plate, I’m suddenly frozen by the crack of the bat. A line drive right at me.
It’s past the pitcher, so I should run, but still high enough to be caught on the fly by the shortstop, so I should go back. Ducking my scrawny, 120-pound frame down as low as possible to avoid the incoming projectile, and the automatic out this impact would cause, I turn and see the ball skirt underneath the shortstop’s outstretched 5-finger, dark leather, glove.
After that, my motions are completely instinctual. Digging into the soft dirt, I finally gain purchase when the steel tips integrated into the heel and toe of my kangaroo leather shoes engage on the cobblestones buried underneath the infield, driving forward around 3rd base and towards the ultimate goal.
Sliding in safely, long navy blue and white banded stockings protecting my slender calves, baggy grey pinstripe wool pants filling with dirt, is an exhilarating experience. We’re in the lead, and the Chicago Cubs are only one win away from clinching the World Series title.

I stare out towards the pitcher, trying to pick up his next delivery, which is tough considering the terrible glare caused by the position and brightness of the afternoon sun. This glowing orb is currently situated just above the center field scoreboard, right in line with the pitcher’s right-handed release point.
To add insult to potential injury, the bright rays are reflecting off sparkly particulates in the crushed gravel path that runs between the mound and home plate, creating further sharp points of distracting light. Who designed this foolish field layout?
Stepping out of the box, I adjust my cap, pulling the leading edge down as low as possible to mitigate the arresting radiation. However, the brim is too short, and the lower I tip the hat, the more pressure it puts on my tender, oversized ears. Conceding defeat, I settle back into the left-handed batter’s zone, essentially blind.
The pitch comes in, a fastball, low and straight on the outer half of the plate, which at least allows me to pick the ball up halfway through its flight towards me. I focus on keeping my sun-struck eyes on the physical object through impact, but all I can really see are residual yellow halos.
Feeling the reverberations in my hand through the thick-handled, wooden bat, I know I’ve made contact and the ball is headed, somewhere. May as well run.
A few steps down the line, I’m able to find the baseball in flight, it’s still in the air well above the shortstop’s head. Based on the direction and speed of this strike, along with the center fielder playing me to pull, I’m confident this hit will split the outfield gap, and is proceeding towards the left-center field kink in the 10-foot-tall wooden fence.
However, I’m no longer watching the ball, instead focusing on the 1st base coach. Acknowledging the direction of the windmill arm, like an agitated train conductor, I make a tight turn across the initial bag, and head for the next objective.
The baseball, having been retrieved from the deepest alcove at Bennett Park, is headed for the infield, but not my way. Stopping directly on top of 2nd base, I immediately hone in, following the arc of the relay throw from short center field to home plate. My teammate is barreling towards this objective: runner, catcher, and ball all on a collision course in both time and space.
Safe. We’re now up 2-0 in this pivotal final game of the World Series.
Looking into the dugout, I catch the gaze of my middle infield cohort, Joe Tinker, and give him a not-so-subtle nod. He just scowls back out at me. I return his look with my own icy glare. We’re always trying to one-up each other, and don’t get along as well as a cohesive double play combination should.

Two outs in the bottom of the 9th inning. Us Cubbies are still up 2-0.
The offering comes in from our hurler, another of his signature slow, looping curveballs, delivered from the side, in an almost underhand motion, which imparts an odd spin, and gives the ball very unique breaking profile.
This pitch has befuddled Tigers hitters all night, just as it did in Game 2 of the series. The deceptive delivery works again, inducing the current Tigers batter to loop a meager pop-up behind home plate. Shedding the mask, our catcher shifts under the ball, and lodges the pill in his glove, securing the catch with his bare hand to ensure the white sphere doesn’t spring off the extra padding of the mitt and bounce out.
We’re the 1908 World Series champions!
Looking across the infield, I see the Tigers team milling around dejectedly near their field level benches. We’ve just taken the title fairly easily, four games to one, with limited stress. In fact, judging from the path of the blinding sun, which is still high in the sky beyond center field, this final beating couldn’t have taken more than an hour and a half.
The Detroit players’ facial expressions reveal the underlying emotions: anger, frustration, pain, acceptance.
The one outlier is a young lad, who stands stoically, tugging at his thick, cream-colored, wool uniform top, with the large navy Old English script “D” on the left breast. His steely, piercing eyes are glaring menacingly over at our celebration. Despite no number or name on the jersey, I recognize this personage as our newly acquired nemesis, Ty Cobb, “The Georgia Peach”, who, at only 21 years old, has already participated in the last two World Series against our squad, but has yet to come out on top.
I think back through my own stat line for the game: three hits in four at bats, scoring one run and driving in the other, in our clinching game for the Chicago Cubs. Plus, three assists and two putouts in the field to add to my league leading totals in these categories.
We’re looking at a nice payday after this World Series win. Even with the small crowds here in Detroit, I should be logging at least a $1000 bonus, an extra quarter of my salary earned in just five additional games. Not bad.
I debuted with the Cubs in 1902 as one of the youngest players in the league. Now, just six seasons later, at only 27 years old, I can’t image reaching a higher point in my career. Not bad for a saloonkeeper’s son from Troy, NY. Hopefully these Cubbies can keep the train rolling next season.

- The Cubs double play combination of “Tinker to Evers to Chance” has become synonymous with baseball lore. Johnny Evers was at the center of this combination; with Cubs pitchers focusing on ground balls Evers landed in the top three in the majors in putouts, assists, and errors every year between 1905 and 1908.

- Ty Cobb played in the World Series with the Tigers again in 1909, their third year in a row, this time losing to the Pittsburg Pirates. After that appearance, he never made it back to the title game in his 24-season career, despite winning 12 AL batting titles.

- The Chicago baseball franchise was established in 1870, with the Cubs name being adopted in 1902. They had a strong team in the early years of the National League, making the World Series six times between 1882 and 1908, and winning back-to-back years against the Tigers as noted above.

Mel Ott (Giants CF) & Johnny Evers (Braves 2B/Manager)
New York Giants vs. Boston Braves
Last Game of Regular Season
October 6th, 1929

I’m stand on wet, muddy turf, shuffling my feet back and forth to stay warm. A stiff wind blows directly in from center field, frequent gusts buffeting my backside. There’s a light drizzle falling, and it can’t be more than 45°F.
This inning has already dragged on too long. This entire game has already dragged on too long, and it’s only the 2nd frame.
Back-to-back walks leading off don’t help with the pace of play. It’s definitely too cold and damp to be idle out here in the outfield, watching our pitcher throw ball after ball. This is the last game of the season, and neither of our teams have any hope of making the playoffs, so we’re just out here for pride. And to pad our stats.
Currently, the Boston Braves have three runs in, the first two courtesy of a triple that I had to chase down in the deepest part of the park, the left center field alley, all the while trying not to fall down in these sloppy conditions.
It seems like every time I play at this field, they change the outfield fence configuration. This past off-season Braves ownership even moved the scoreboard, from the ground level base of the left field wall, to mounted high up on poles behind the right field bleachers. I have to keep catching myself looking right, to check the number of outs or pitch count.
A few years ago, the outfield area was cavernous, with a few points in play over 460 feet from home plate. At least now the layout is more manageable, at 387 feet to the deepest recesses of the yard. I know because that last ball I retrieved was sitting right under this distance marker in a puddle on the warning track. The way the baseball is skipping on this wet grass, there was no hope of cutting off that hit.
It appears the fans were at least smart enough to stay home today. Braves Field is one of the newest, and largest, ballparks in the majors, with seating for over 45k fans. Scanning the massive concrete bleacher structure that rises up behind home plate, I estimate they’re at a quarter occupancy today, at best. Pretty poor showing for the season finale on a Sunday.
Right now, there’s a runner at 1st base, and still only one out, but at least the Braves pitcher is up. I watch the long wind-up and methodical delivery from our hurler on the mound, skeptical this offering is going to be anywhere near the plate. To my surprise, the offering is right down the middle, and even more astonishing, the opposing pitcher makes contact.
It’s a weak bloop to the right side, but as I start charging in, I can already tell the trajectory is going over our 2nd baseman, who is backpedaling unsteadily, even before he catches his heel on the edge of the infield grass cutout, and topples over backwards.
Struck off the end of the bat, the ball has a ton of spin on it. Though it hits the ground just a foot in front of me, the rotating object inexplicably skitters straight right, heading towards the 1st base foul line. Changing direction quickly, my cleat gives out briefly, but I regain balance and pursue the slippery pill. During this chase, the mental clock in my head is ticking away.
Fast sprinter at 1st base, but slow dirt on the infield. Only one out, so play conservative for a big inning, but the wet conditions make throwing difficult. Based these factors, the runner is probably trying to score.
The object I'm chasing finally comes to a stop, almost fully coated in a mixture of moist green grass and slimy brown dirt. Undeterred, I pick up the sphere barehand with my back to the infield, and in one fluid motion wheel around, using my momentum to unleash a right-handed throw at my best guess for the direction of home plate.
The baseball travels like an arrow through the grey afternoon sky, droplets of water spiraling off as it spins. The projectile arrives in the catcher’s mitt on the fly, well ahead of the incoming runner, who inexplicably slides head first. This dive accomplishes nothing, besides soiling his cream-colored Braves home uniform. At least the large, embroidered Native American Indian with headdress logo on the back of his jersey has remained untarnished.
Perfect execution, my 29th outfield assist this season. Maybe I can get to 30. Someday, runners will learn to stop testing me.
It takes six more laborious minutes, which includes a hit by pitch, likely on account of the wet ball, but our pitcher finally gets out of the inning without any more damage. Only two innings in, and we’re already chasing three runs against the lowly Braves. Time for a rally.

I stand in the on-deck circle, watching the Boston pitcher with one eye, and our 3rd base signaler with the other. We’ve got a runner on 1st base with one out and our own hurler up, a perfect sacrifice situation.
There it is. The coach flashes the bunt sign via a series of hand gestures to our participant at the plate, who confirms by shifting the bat back and forth between his right and left hands, the universal verification gesture used by our Giants squad.
The bunt is an excellent one, right along the 3rd base chalk. Our pitcher is a big boy, over 6 feet and nearly 200 pounds, but at only 22 years old he’s got some speed down the line.
The Braves 3rd baseman charges, making a barehand pick-up and desperate toss towards 1st base. It’s a bang-bang play, runner’s foot landing on the slippery canvas bag with a “thump”, just as the ball impacts the moist leather of the 1st basemen mitt with a “thwack”.
“Safe!” yells the closest umpire, combining this verbal outburst with the aggressive horizontal hand motions which are ubiquitous with this call.
Almost, before the ruling has been made, the Braves bench erupts in a violent string of expletives. Charging out of the dugout comes their player/manager Johnny Evers. Weighing less than 10 stones, including the damp, baggy, wool uniform he has on, this would normally not be an imposing figure. But Mr. Evers temper is legendary throughout the league. There’s no official tally, but rumor has it that Evers is nearing 70 ejections during his increasingly infamous career.
I stand at home plate placidly, watching this increasingly comical tirade. Evers points and shouts, kicks and yells, jumps and swears. It’s as if he’s controlled by some comedic puppeteer in the sky. Next to me, though both the catcher and home plate ump have masks on, I can sense them smirking.
After nearly five minutes of this rant, with the accosted umpire making nary a notion to acknowledge his presence, manager Evers finishes with a flurried crescendo of gyrations and cursing, then storms back to the Braves dugout, making sure to disrupt a lengthy portion of the 1st base foul line on his way.
Back to baseball. Now, I’ve got a chance to open up a big inning for the New York Giants.
Striding up confidently, I wait for a pitch in my wheelhouse, then drive it right back up the middle. Watching the path of the bounding ball, I can see our runner at 2nd got a good jump on contact, and should score easily. My 151st run batted in of the season; I’ve averaged exactly one per game all year. Not bad for a young lad from New Orleans, who’s now playing in the biggest Northeast city.
By the time this 3rd inning is over, we’ve scored four runs, three earned, with the last aided by a dropped fly ball in right field. The wet conditions are impacting both teams. We’ve taken a 4-3 lead over the Boston Braves, who are demonstrating why they’ve only won 56 games all year, and will be finishing last in the National League. That temper their manager Johnny Evers has probably isn’t helping either.

I take a little extra time to extract the mud from my cleats with the knobby butt end of the bat, before setting into the batter’s box on the left side of the dish. At least the rain has let up. Figures, now that it’s the 9th inning.
I almost never swing at the first pitch, and in this case let the initial three offerings slide by, biding my time and dialing in the pitcher’s release. Each delivery, I take an exaggerated early step with my front leg; this helps with my timing and also provides added power.
The fourth delivery comes in with the telltale spin of a curve ball, breaking down and in from its right-handed release point. Low and inside, a dream location for most left-handed hitters.
My raised right, lead leg hits the soft earth, cueing my hips to start rotating, followed by my torso, and lastly, my arms fire through the hitting zone. On this bottom, inner quadrant pitch, the arc of the bat is more vertical than horizontal, similar to a golfer hitting a long drive off the tee.
Coarse grain ash wood meets horsehide covered yarn and cork squarely.
The ball shoots over the 1st basemen’s head before sinking back down to the ground, then on a few low, skipping hops, ends up in the right fielder’s glove, less than two seconds having elapsed. Meanwhile, I’m standing on 1st base after another clean, hard-hit, single to right.
As the season winds to a close, I take a second to reflect on my accomplishments. After signing a contract with the New York Giants at 16 years old, it’s taken me a few years to earn my spot here. This is my first season as an everyday Major League Baseball player. Having only turned 20 at the beginning of the season, I’ve hopefully got plenty more productive years ahead of me.
My short stature made scouts skeptical of my power, but the 41 home runs during this campaign should be sufficient to quiet these critics. I owe a lot to my former boss at the lumber yard in Louisiana, who convinced me to take a chance and hop on a train up north.
The last few years in the big city have been amazing; it’s the global epicenter of finance and entertainment, complete with beautiful women, fancy automobiles, and easy money in the stock market. Yep, I could spend the rest on my life in New York City wearing this red, white, and blue colorway, sporting the entwined “NY” emblem of the Giants.
Scanning the infield after my daydream, I see the Braves have brought in their manager, Mr. Evers, to play 2nd base. He’s lucky to still be allowed on the field after that tirade with the umpire earlier in the game.
Apparently reading my mind, my teammate hits a sharp grounder out towards Evers. Already with a solid lead, I immediately break towards 2nd base, timing my run to cross just in front of the bouncing sphere. The sequencing is perfect, and the baseball passes between my moving legs, momentarily disrupting the fielder’s view.
Just 15 feet behind me, Johnny Evers squares up, hoping to make a quick scoop and transfer to 2nd base to initiate the double play. However, my screen, and a small rock on the muddy infield, conspire to cause the ball to bounce up higher than anticipated, hitting the heel of his glove.
Sliding in safely, I turn back to see Mr. Evers pounding the dirty ball into his mitt, and whispering varied expletives at these two objects. “The Human Crab”, as players throughout the league, including his teammates, have dubbed him, is an apt description based on his fiery actions this game.
Looks like now we’ve got a chance to expand our lead over the Boston Braves, which already stands at 7-4, here in the last inning. It’s been a long season for Evers, overseeing the worst team in the Senior Circuit.

- In addition to Mel Ott’s impressive stats discussed, in 1929 he led the entire league in walks with 113, seeding his reputation as a patient hitter. Teams also quickly learned about his prolific outfield throwing arm; he never achieved the same number of assists in any subsequent season, mainly because runners simply stopped running on him.

- Johnny Evers, at 40, was the oldest player to play in a major league game in 1929. He also still holds the record for ejections as a player, though several modern managers have since eclipsed his tally.

- The Chicago Cubs made the World Series n 1929, ending an 11-year drought, but lost to the Philadelphia Athletics over five games in uninspired fashion.

Yogi Berra (Cranston C) & Mel Ott (Giants RF/Manager)
New York Giants vs. Cranston Fire Chiefs
Semi-Pro Exhibition Game
June 11th, 1945

“Cuuusanooo” yells an especially raucous fan sitting on the wobbly, wooden bleachers behind home as I walk up for my first at bat of the game. Looking around, it’s hard to call this gathering a crowd, since there can’t be more than 1,500 people in attendance. It’s still more than I’ve ever seen at this tiny ballpark.
Apparently, that’s what happens when the New York Giants professional baseball team comes to your small town. One of the perks of being on the train line between Boston and New York.
I’m still getting used to my new alias. Throughout my 20 years on Planet Earth so far, it seems like my calling card is always changing. My birth name was Lorenzo, a predictably Italian name from my Roman Catholic, immigrant parents. During childhood, I went through various iterations of Lawrence, Larry, Lawdie, and other hybridizations of my given name. It wasn’t until high school I found a name that didn’t start with “L”, which finally stuck. Yogi.
However, this new moniker, Joe Cusano, has been fabricated for a completely different reason. The New England semi-pro baseball league I’m currently in doesn’t allow pro players to participate. I’ve already signed a $500 contract with the New York Yankees, back in 1943, before enlisting in the military, which would be prohibitive based on this lame rule.
Paying $25 per game, which is a week’s salary for my position at the Navy base, makes it worth finding a creative solution. Hence, Joe Cusano was born, and now plays catcher for the Cranston Fire Chiefs. I’m especially amused by the fire helmet-wearing head emblem which adorns the left breast of our jerseys.
It’s still early in a scoreless game, and we’ve got our fastest runner on 1st base. He’s been swiping bases all summer, and I figure he’s going on the first pitch to me. Assuming that the shortstop is covering the bag, so the 2nd baseman can defend my pull side of the infield, that should leave a nice hole between 2nd and 3rd base. I’ll look for an outside pitch, then try to drive it to the opposite field.
As the pitcher goes into his abbreviated deliver from the stretch, the actions play out just as I anticipated. Our runner breaks from 1st base and the shortstop, sensing this motion, moves to handle the pending throw down. I narrow my peripheral vision, and zone in on the ball coming out of the hurler’s hand. It’s heading towards the outside portion of the plate. Perfect.
The one thing I didn’t anticipate is how far outside and high this pitch is going to be. Too late, I’ve already committed to swing. Stepping out across and in front of the plate, I extend the bat as far as possible to reach the fastball that is tailing away from me. Hopefully the umpire won’t notice my feet.
Contact is solid, with the desired angling of the bat, resulting in a scorching line drive right where the shortstop was previously standing. This rocket splits the outfielders, bouncing along the dry, hard ground, eventually banging up against the low, chain link fence in left center.
My speedy teammate, having gotten a great jump off 1st base, is already motoring around 3rd and on his way home. I cruise into 2nd base, winded, but elated. We have the lead over a major league baseball team.
Looking back towards home, I see the catcher animatedly arguing with the umpire. Shifting my gaze closer to the foreground yields the pitcher glaring out at me.
“That was a pitchout young lad,” he barks at me.
Whoops, I guess he didn’t know. I swing at anything.

Squatting behind the dish, I survey the field in front of me through the narrow slits in my welded steel wire mask. Peripheral vision on this protective face shield is not good, and the meager internal padding creates pressure points on my forehead and chin, but it’s a necessary safety precaution in this line of work.
I turn my neck and head left as a unit, initially to check what kind of lead the Giants runner at 3rd base has, then rotating my gaze further to see who is coming up to the plate next.
Here on the semi-pro circuit, we don’t get scouting reports, so my only player knowledge is based on newspaper box scores and the occasional accompanying pictures. Being located in the Northeast provides insight to five Major League Baseball teams that I can easily monitor.
The man striding up is average looking in every sense of the word. But I know not to underestimate his power, and appreciate someone who is deceptive in stature like myself. Even before seeing the number “4” on his back, I follow enough baseball to know this is Mel Ott, who has led his New York Giants team in home runs for 17 straight years, the last 3 while acting as player/manager.
He’s decked out in the Giants light grey road uniforms, with “New York” in blue lettering outlined in red across the chest. Makes a lot of sense to have the origin city on road jerseys, so the crowd knows where the out of town team is in from. It’s also amusing that us Fire Chiefs are defaulted as the home team today, with our meager fan base, and only one wardrobe option.
Up there in the big leagues, they must have a larger equipment budget, since his jersey has a slick zipper closure. I’ve never seen anything besides the standard button approach on a baseball uniform.
I know Ott is a patient hitter, so I set up my large, circular, padded glove low over the center of the plate. The pitch comes in right on target, hitting the middle of the ring I framed up, but Ott just stands stoically.
His seasoned eye is confirmed by the umpire’s gruff call. “Ball.”
Begrudgingly, I move the glove up one inch in the zone, and shift to the inside corner, hoping to provide additional temptation to this left-handed power hitter. Our pitcher delivers, again thumping the mitt, maybe just a fraction left of my target from the thrower’s perspective. Same indifferent stance from Ott, same ball call from the ump.
Turning my head around, my ears are met with a terse “Inside,” uttered from behind before I can even make an inquiry.
I fire the baseball back to my battery mate, who I can tell is getting perturbed as well. This time I place the target right in the center of the plate, and belt high. The pitch is released, and immediately out of the hand, I can tell it’s nowhere near the intended mark, instead heading towards Ott’s rib cage. He calmly steps back, bending his spine nimbly to avoid the incoming projectile.
Meanwhile, I’m forced to lunge up out of my crouch, my gloved left hand reaching across my body in a desperate stab. I land face first on the dirt, but with the ball firmly trapped in my catcher’s mitt. I’ve taken to keeping my pointer finger outside the finger sleeves, this allows me more dexterity when I’m required to close the unwieldy padded pouch with one hand. This technique paid off well on that diving stop.
Three balls and no strikes. This isn’t going well. Let’s try the breaking ball.
Again, I position my glove directly in the heart of the strike zone, a pleading gesture for my pitcher to throw a strike. This next delivery comes in with the tell-tale downward spin, but the release point was a split second late. The rapidly rotating ball spikes into the hard dirt well in front of home plate.
Unsure of what direction this orb will bounce, I drop to my knees and raise my chest, marginally protected by my foam-padded vest, up to a vertical wall position. My gloved left hand moves quickly between my thighs, and my right arm locks tightly along my side to provide a few extra inches of blocking width.
This technique proves to be fruitful, but also painful. After hitting the dirt, the ball kicks low and right, striking my bare right palm. Closing the fingers instinctively, I corral the pill, which now has a significant abrasive gash across the ivory-colored outer covering.
Another walk for “Master Melvin”, with his finely tuned batter’s eye and prodigious power. He simply drops the batt and nonchalantly jogs to 1st base. At least I saved a few wild pitches, and kept the Giants runner at 3rd base for now.

Standing in the on-deck circle, I bend down on my hunches and extend one leg out fully, then switch to the other, like a slow-motion karate kick. It’s important to stay limber after all the time spent squatting down with catcher’s gear on. It feels great to get those fiberboard shin guards off each inning; they’re too long for my short legs, severely restrict my range of motion, and have no padding.
This flexing move, and a variety of other unique stretching mannerisms, is what landed me with the Yogi nickname during American Legion ball, when my friend likened my calisthenics to a yoga instructor.
I don’t mind it. I’m not one to care how I look, or what other people think of me. My sentiment is, so what if I’m ugly. I never saw anyone hit with their face.
Enjoying a sunny afternoon playing baseball is a far cry from my recent time spent serving for the U.S. Navy in World War II. Just over a year ago, I was thrashing around in the English Channel on a landing support craft during the Normandy D-Day invasion. I served as a gunner’s mate, operating a turreted autocannon, and providing cover for our soldiers as they landed on the beach. By the grace of god, I’m here today, and able to play this sport I love, which happens to be our country’s national pastime.
Content with my humble prayer for the day, I step into the box. As usual, I don’t wait long to swing. The first pitch comes in belt high, and I catch it just below the equator. The baseball elevates off the bat, a towering fly towards center field.
Cranston Field sits on a peculiarly shaped plot of land, an irregular pentagon bordered by residential streets. The arc of the outfield wall essentially creates a fillet between two of these 90° intersecting roads, leaving a triangular patch of grass where spectators often post up with picnic baskets. This zone, essentially straight away center field, is the deepest part of the ballpark, as denoted by the spray painted “400” stencil numerals written on a wooden sign which hangs from the metal top tube of the fence.
Sprinting hard, I round 1st base as the ball reaches its apex, a small dark sphere outlined against the brilliant blue sky of this cloudless summer day. The shape starts back down earth with people converge from all directions.
The hang time of this epic blast has allowed all three outfielders, including the aged Mel Ott traversing from right field, to unite at the potential landing spot. In addition, several kids have jumped up off their blankets, and rushed down to the spectator side of the fence. The short outfield wall at Cranston is only 4 feet tall. The kids could easily be sharing sandwiches with the players.
I pull up at 2nd base, transfixed by the activity in the outfield. The baseball finally returns to earth, unfortunately in the glove of the leaping Giants center fielder. The children are ecstatic, especially when the outfielder tosses them the ball as a souvenir, since I just made the third out.
Darn, I just missed that one. Still, we’re leading the New York Giants professional baseball team 8-3 going into the 9th inning. They even used three of their best pitchers against us.
Getting back to the dugout late, I hurry to get my catcher’s gear on, including those accursed shin guards. As I lace up to leg straps, cranking them down as tight as possible without cutting off circulation, I see Mel Ott still out on the field, standing next to our 1st baseman, who is our acting player/manager. He also runs our team at the Navy Base, so has gotten to know my playing style pretty well.
Intrigued, I jog out to take my spot behind home plate for the last inning. I wonder what they’re discussing.

- After this game, Mel Ott went to Yankees management and tried to buy out Yogi Berra’s contract for $50k, 100 times his signing bonus from just two years earlier. The Yankees declined the offer, and by the 1947 season, Berra was the everyday catcher, leading the Yankees to their first of many World Series titles over the next two decades.

- Mel Ott hit his 500th career home run later this season, and finished with 511 when he retired in 1947; 200 more than the next closest National League-only player at the time of his retirement.

- 1945 was the last time in the 20th century that the Chicago Cubs made the World Series. This year also initiated the Billy Goat Curse, when a Cubs fan and his pet goat, both holding valid tickets, were kicked out of Wrigley Field during Game 4 of the World Series that the Cubs eventually lost in 7 games.

Hank Aaron (Braves CF) & Yogi Berra (Yankees C)
Milwaukee Braves vs. New York Yankees
World Series Game 6
October 9th, 1957

Jogging out to my position in center field, I take a moment to survey the iconic layout of Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. This is a far cry from my southern upbringing in Mobile, Alabama. It’s been a long journey for me, starting off in the Negro Leagues, and battling frequent racial persecution throughout the minors. However, I always knew in my heart I would make it to this ultimate baseball stage, the World Series.
The sun breaks through the high clouds intermittently, lighting up patches of the immaculately mown outfield grass. The most perceptible element of the weather for this afternoon start time is the humidity, which is pushing 75%, a value similar to the current temperature. Still, this is nothing compared to what I used to play in down south growing up.
Despite being a Wednesday, the stands are packed. These New Yorkers love their baseball, there must be over 60k fans in attendance. More accurately, they love their Yankees.
Earlier this year, the National League owners voted unanimously to allow the both the Dodgers and Giants, the other two “Big Apple” based baseball teams, to move to California. Next season, the New York Yankees will be the only game in town.
17 World Series titles in the 34 years since the team moved into this new stadium, including taking the crown last season, is a great way to grow your fan base.
The venue itself is three levels high around the entire infield, with the main building extending just past the foul lines in the outfield to create a closed horseshoe when viewed from above. These tall, steep concrete bleacher structures create an amphitheater effect around home plate, especially when the seats are this full.
Linear, white-painted, girders ring the rooftop eaves of the stadium; design inspiration clearly drawn from the many bridges throughout the boroughs. Red, white, and blue semicircular banners hang uninterrupted from the low wall which surrounds the field, providing a festive 4th of July feel, even on this late fall day.
Somewhere in those bleachers is my wife, nearly 7 months pregnant. Hopefully the Braves traveling secretary was able to get her a seat behind our bench, maybe even on the isle with some leg room. With any luck, I can spot this lovely lady on my trip back into the dugout.
Before the first batter, I trot out to the furthest expanse of center field, over 460 feet from home plate, where stone monuments of three Yankee legends sit. These tributes are still in the field of play, albeit requiring a majestic shot to reach them. I do a lap behind the trio of statues, my cleats crunching across the crushed red brick which the warning track is composed of, then return to the soft turf and settle into my position for the start of the game.
The 1st inning is going well, our pitcher having stuck out the initial two Yankee opponents. Now a walk to their third batter brings up New York’s clean-up hitter, their notorious catcher, Yogi Berra. Already having led the powerhouse Yankees to seven World Series rings behind the plate, Yogi’s reputation proceeds him.
On cue, and per his scouting report, Berra promptly takes a pitch nowhere near the strike zone, and lines it sharply into right field. I race over to back up the rapidly rolling ball; you never know what kind of bounce may occur at Yankee Stadium, with the short porch and sharply angled wall down the right field line. I played most of my games in right this year, but shifted over to center after the All-Star break on account of injuries to a few teammates.
Personally, I seem to have limitless energy these days, despite this being our 160th game of the year. I’m only 23 years old, and between my youthful exuberance, eating team provided pork chops three meals a day, and the excitement of the playoffs, it’s hard to get to sleep every night, and I’m up bright and early in the morning ready to play two.
Our pitcher throws a wild pitch, moving both Berra and his teammate up a base, but then recovers to strike out the current Yankee batter, ending any potential rally. One inning down, hopefully in eight more we’ll be hoisting the World Series trophy. I jog in towards our 3rd base line dugout, scanning the crowd above it for my wife.

We’re in the bottom of the 3rd inning, still no score. Again, two quick outs, then our pitcher yields another walk ahead of the Braves’ new arch rival, Yogi Berra. Not the person you want to put free runners on base for.
Berra strolls up to the plate slowly, soaking in the energy from the Yankee crown. He settles into the box, and the duel begins. As before, it doesn’t take Yogi long to put the ball in play.
Judging from the sharp pop the bat makes, and the trajectory of the ball’s flight, I know this hit is trouble.
Coming up through the minor league ranks, I played mainly 2nd base, hoping to follow in the footsteps of my childhood idol, Jackie Robinson. However, with my tall, sturdy build, scouts convinced me I was more suited for the outfield.
Now, having three seasons of outfield experience under my belt in the majors, I fancy myself pretty decent at tracking a fly ball, especially off a left-hand hitter’s bat. This one isn’t going to be caught by anyone other than one of the shrieking fans in the right field bleachers. The only hope is that this drive hooks over to the foul side of the pole.
Watching intently from center, I monitor the white orb as it floats through the blue-grey sky, then flickers in front of the yellow painted foul pole, before disappearing in the sea of ecstatic Yankees fans, most of whom are already bouncing around in a frenzied celebration. No such luck, it’s a home run.
I watch Berra round the bases, his short, stocky frame clothed in a dirt-stained jersey and loose-fitting pants. Like many Yankee legends, Yogi’s image is so iconic in the white pinstripe uniform, with the lone number “8” on the back, that no last name markings are necessary for identification.
We’re down 2-0, but still have time. Also, this is only Game 6, and we already have a 3 to 2 lead in the series. No reason to stress out yet.
After a pitching change, we get out of the inning without any further damage. I sprint in from my position in the outfield, anxious to take my turn at bat in the top of the 4th inning, when I’m due up third.

Before I stride out of the dugout to lead off our top half of the 7th inning, I take stock of the game. We’re down 2-1, with nine outs remaining in which to take the lead.
I also give my uniform a once over inspection, making sure everything is secure. I like my wardrobe trim and proper before batting; jersey tucked in, belt synched down, socks and stirrups pulled tight, pants slightly slouched, with the bottom elastic across my mid-calf.
We’re wearing our road off-white uniforms, which are almost imperceptibly different from our home bright-white attire. Both jerseys have the red “Braves” script with tomahawk icon underneath, and both pants have the solitary, thick, red stripe running down the outside.
We always use the same blue and red stirrups over white sanitary socks, and regardless of venue, sport the same baseball cap: red brim with tonal stitching for reinforcement, blue top with large white thread, embossed “M”, signifying our Milwaukee home base on the front.
This outfit design has not changed since our franchise moved to Milwaukee in 1953, just one year before my own professional debut. This is the only Major League Baseball uniform I’ve ever known. At least this wardrobe simplicity makes is easy to remember what to put on each day.
Lastly, I reach up and adjust the rigid plastic batting helmet perched on my head. The National League just mandated use of these protective hats last season, and I’m still getting used to wearing this clunky shell when hitting. I’ve been alternating between wearing this headgear as is, making it way too loose, and with my standard baseball cap, which is tight and restrictive. I’m going sans wool cap for this at bat.
Content with my gear, I climb the short flight of three risers leading out of the dugout, and step onto the playing field.
As I reach the plate, Yogi Berra calls out to me from his entrenched catching position, “Hey Hank, you’re holding your bat the wrong way. You should have the label turned up so you can read it.”
I’m used to hearing banter from behind the plate, but this is a new one.
Ignoring the yapping in my right ear, I focus on the upcoming battle with the pitcher.
I haven’t been seeing the ball well tonight, striking out in the 2nd, and pull off a pitch away to ground out with a runner in scoring position in the 4th. It seems like the Yankees are set on pitching me outside, hoping I’ll chase. This confrontation, I’m going to wait them out.
Showing restraint on some breaking pitches down in the zone, and off the plate away, I work the count in my favor to three balls and one strike.
I finger the bat lightly, trying to combat the sweat forming on my palms; a combination of the humidity of the air and the gravity of the situation. Growing up I batted cross-handed, and even five years after making adjustment to the conventional left-hand low approach from the right side, I still need to remind myself how to grip and swing the stick sometimes.
Stay relaxed, track the ball, quickness through the zone, focus on the point of contact. These are my key preparatory thoughts.
The next pitch, the fifth of the at bat, is a fastball, middle in and above the belt. It’s the first time I’ve gotten a drivable pitch today. As often happens for me, time slows down, vision sharpens, and my movements become precise. I turn on the incoming pitch, keeping my weight back, then unloading with a mighty uppercut swing. The connection is pure, one of the best sensations in baseball, my damp hands feel nothing at all.
The ball rockets into the air like the Sputnik launcher, which just five days ago, was used by the Russians to put the first satellite into outer space orbit around Earth. Hopefully this baseball travels that fast and far.
I take a few quick steps out of the box just in case, but it’s clear the ball is headed for the Yankee bullpen in left field, beyond the scoreboard built into the outfield wall, over 430 feet way.
Rounding the bases slowly, I think back through the most memorable home runs of my career to date. Just two weeks ago, I hit a walk-off dinger to clinch the playoff berth for our Milwaukee Braves. This blast feels even more rewarding, drawing us even with the Yankees, and only one run away from claiming the World Series trophy.
Meeting a few teammates for congratulations at home plate, I brush by the Yankee catcher and whisper, “Yogi, I came up here to hit, not to read.”
He snickers back, knowing this won’t be our last exchange of blows in these playoffs.

- The Yankees won this game 3-2, but the Braves closed out the series with a 5-0 victory in Game 7. These same teams met again in the 1958 World Series, this time with the Yankees taking home the title in seven games. Hank Aaron won the NL MVP in 1957, the only time of his career, narrowly missing the Triple Crown due to a third-place finish in batting average at .322.

- Yogi Berra appeared in 22 World Series as a player, coach, and manager throughout his career, winning 13 of them; both feats are MLB records. Berra also won three AL MVP awards, and was an excellent fielding catcher, winning two Gold Glove awards and having a stretch of 88 games without an error. Not to mention his endless “Yogi-isms”, which continue to live on in baseball lore.

- The Chicago Cubs finished dead last in the National League in 1957, winning only 62 games, compared to the league leading Milwaukee Braves 95 victories.

Nolan Ryan (Mets P) & Hank Aaron (Braves RF)
Atlanta Braves vs. New York Mets
National League Championship Series Game 3
October 6th, 1969

The right field bullpen door opens inward, a wall section of padded royal blue vinyl cloth surrounding a mesh screen swinging free. Hopping in the passenger side of the orange, 3-wheeled, cart, driven by our grounds crew manager, I’m motored out onto the soft outfield grass of Shea Stadium.
From above, the stadium looks like someone took a New York sized slice out of a classic pizza pie, leaving most of the outfield exposed to a view of numerous parking lots, and the developing city infrastructure beyond. The remaining crust, as it were, is a thick tri-layered ring, tiers of seating each denoted by a different paint color. Currently, that identification system is not obvious, as nearly every seat, in each level, is teaming with a rabid Mets fan. Some of these people probably haven’t had this much fun since attending Woodstock in upstate New York earlier this summer.
The liveliness of the crowd is understandable, at over 50k strong; they’ve come out to support their Mets squad in this first home playoff game ever.
The buggy drops me off at the edge of the infield dirt. As I walk towards the mound, I pass close by Hank Aaron, who is standing on the 2nd base bag. His recent double, combined with the two-run homer he crushed off the center field flag pole in the 1st inning, are the reasons I’m in the game. As I pass by, I can tell I’m definitely taller than him, though not as muscular. We shall see.
I didn’t have much time to get warmed up in the bullpen. Not an issue for me, as my arm always feels loose and lively. I’ve been throwing as many innings as my coach will allow since high school.
Just four years ago, as a senior, I lead my Texas squad to the state finals, going 19-3, and racking up over 200 strikeouts in our team’s 32 games, 27 of which I appeared in as a pitcher. Put me on the mound any day of any week.
While taking my allotted, and unnecessary, practice tosses, I assess the lay of the land, leveraging the massive scoreboard in right-center field. 175 ft wide by 85 feet tall, essentially four basketball courts stacked vertically in quadrants, the convenient display of yellow-orange halogen lights on a black background provides the key game insights.
Confirmed. Runners at 2nd and 3rd base, no scoreboard verification needed there. No outs, count of one and two on the inherited batter, and we’re already down 2-0, as displayed by the inning tallies in the middle-bottom of the display. Also, the enormous branded clock on the top-right identifies the time as just shy of 1:45 PM, which I mentally note. I like to track my pace on the mound.
This inning should be quick; I don’t plan to let any of these Braves batters put the ball in play. Spiking my last warm-up pitch into the dirt three feet in front of home plate, I step off the rubber and grab the rosin bag, taking a deep breath of the city in all its glory. Despite the stale air, it couldn’t be a better afternoon for baseball, with the temperature in the high 60s, low humidity, and no wind. I won’t be able to use weather as an excuse for my performance.
I’ve pitched a lot of important games and rarely get nervous, but this feels different. Not surprising, since it’s the first time I’ve played in a Major League Baseball playoff bout.
The umpire hands a clean game ball to our catcher, who passed it along to me. I give the runners a cursory check, unless they plan to steal home no one has anywhere to go, then wind and deal. I give us a less than 20% chance of winning this game as the first pitch leaves my hand.
My approach has always been to throw as hard as possible, through the backstop if possible. Granted, I broke a few catchers’ fingers in high school. They just need more padding in their glove, or should learn how to receive with a softer touch. Unfortunately, I don’t always know where the ball is going.
6 minutes and 16 pitches later, a weak fly ball to left, the only offering put in play against me thus far, ends the inning. I bound off the mound, the same Braves runners stranded as 2nd and 3rd base. Hopefully “Hammering Hank” got a good view of my repertoire from his stationary position directly behind me on 2nd base.

I’ve always prided myself on being able to put the ball in play. Granted, it’s easier when you’re the best athlete on the field in high school, as opposed to facing Major League pitching talent. Still, I won’t be intimidated. Plus, I need to release some anger after serving up that two-run homer to give the Braves the lead back in the top half of this inning.
Crowding the plate, I stand tall, foolishly hoping this display of masculinity will intimidate my opponent on the mound. Who am I kidding, when I deal to opposing pitchers, I treat them as second-class citizens, using the opportunity to buzz a 100-mph fastball in near their chin, or dial up my devastating curve ball.
Already down in the count, the next pitch comes in rapidly. I realize it’s a strike late in the proceedings, but still connect squarely enough to shoot the ball through the hole between the 1st and 2nd basemen. As I lumber up the line, I see #44 charging in from his right field post. I turn on another gear, intent on not temping Mr. Aaron to try throwing me out from the outfield on a clean single.
Safely aboard, I quickly try to dismiss the jacket offered from the dugout. It’s mid-day, and I run hot as it is. Plus, it’s not very manly for a young lad from Texas to put on a winter coat, and they never seem to be able find one that fits my broad shoulders. But this is what pitcher’s do these days apparently. Reluctantly, I put the silly royal blue windbreaker on.
The crowd is ecstatic, clearly appreciative that I made contact this time, after striking out in meager fashion my earlier at bat. Taking a conservative lead off 1st base, I’m impressed that the buzz in the stadium continues to escalate. They must really enjoy hurlers getting hits around here.
Suddenly, I realize the rising hum is a jumbo jet flying directly above on a takeoff path from LaGuardia Airport. The plane passes close by the stadium’s upper deck, its engines sending a deep bellowing echo into the cavernous expanse of Shea Stadium. This distracting flyover seems to happen a couple times an hour; a decided oversight by the construction planning team.
Airplane disturbances aside, if you’re going to pitch in the National League you need to know how to handle the bat.
It’s exciting to feel like I have a chance to contribute to the Mets success. The starting pitching staff has been dynamite down the stretch. As a result, I’ve been relegated to a bullpen and long relief roles. Shea is a great pitchers park, with deep symmetrical outfield fences, and multiple centerfield distractions, making it universally considered the worst batter’s eye in the league.
Now is my chance to finish out a key game on the mound. Granted, we’re already up two games to none in this best of five series, the first ever National and American League precursors to the World Series. Our opponents just moved from Milwaukee to Atlanta back in 1966. Now that they are on the same time zone as New York City, hopefully this is the start of a long rivalry between the Mets and Braves.
My distracted daydreaming is interrupted by a rousing fly ball from my teammate that looks promising. Choosing a conservative approach, I round 2nd base, then stop and turn back towards the right field foul pole where the projectile is headed, waiting for confirmation. The blast stays fair, landing in the second deck directly above the 341-foot marker in the right field corner. We’re back on top. That’s hallmark of great teams, being able to pick each other up, and answer back.
There’s a reason our Mets squad is being treated as an underdog, despite the great run of victories down the stretch. It took us until the spring of our 3rd year of Major League Baseball expansion to get our first 100 total franchise wins. Now we’ve crossed the 100-victory mark in a single year, rallying to catch the Chicago Cubs in the process. Ten games back from the National League East Division lead in mid-August, we’re currently on a stretch of winning 40 of the last 51 contests. It’s been a magical year.

This is it, at 22 years old, I’m only three outs away from going to the World Series with the New York Mets. Three outs I’m responsible for getting.
I tug at my three-quarter length blue cotton undershirt until tight on my bicep, then pull my white jersey sleeve at the shoulder to loosen it, giving my live young right arm room to maneuver. I like these Mets home uniforms, which pay homage to the cross-town Yankees via the pinstripes, and our prior Polo Grounds tenant Giants with the blue and orange, albeit different shades. Not to mention the intertwined “NY” logo that we stole from both of them. The one challenge is the stark whiteness of both our home and road garb, even as a pitcher I have a hard time keeping these outfits clean until the game starts.
It’s been a tumultuous path since being drafted by the Mets in 1965, with frequent sickness, pitching hand blisters, and active duty military commitments, all limiting my effectiveness in the majors until this year.
I recall my first appearance in the big leagues back in 1966. I struck out the first batter, then gave up a home run to the second, before being pulled. That rollercoaster of both performance and emotions sums up my entire Major League Baseball playing career to date.
Enough reminiscing, time to get down to business, and write my own pitching future.
   I think back through my mound activities thus far tonight; I’ve never been one to monitor pitch count, but do like referencing past at bats to adjust pitching strategy.
The curveball has been working excellent, accounting for over half my strikeouts, and keeping the ball on the ground. Like all my pitches, I throw it much harder than most others, but still focus on that 12 to 6 vertical drop late in the delivery, as opposed to the less breaking slider which is becoming more common around the league.
On my warm-up pitches, I focus on getting the timing right on this curve. Rotating the ball in my glove, I seek out the most raised portion of the stitching. Gripping the ball with my pointer and middle finger, parallel to the laces, provides two points of contact with which to impart spin.
During the delivery, I drive downhill off the mound, letting gravity and momentum propel my body toward home plate. My right leg pushes hard off the pitching rubber, then my powerful torso flexes forward, leading my right arm through: shoulder, elbow, and finally hand swinging in a vertical windmill motion. The key to this breaking pitch is timing the release of the baseball, with the desired cocking and snap of the wrist.
The baseball comes out tracking straight towards the catcher’s mitt, but hallway to its destination, the topspin takes over, creating a low-pressure zone beneath the rotating object, causing it to dip down drastically. Unhittable.
A flyout and two weak ground balls later, we’ve secured the victory 7-4. It took me only 2 minutes and 6 pitches, a far cry from my hard work in the 3rd inning, when I entered the game from the bullpen.
As my teammates rush towards me, I glance over at the Braves bench. The imposing figure of Hank Aaron stands stoically in the on-deck circle. I’m happy not to have to face him again tonight, even with no one on base. His younger brother Tommie, also a member of the Atlanta Braves, approaches the older Aaron, likely to lament about the series that could have been.
Feeling jostling, I realize I’m surrounded, not only by my animated teammates, but also by a few ambitious fans, who have raced onto the field to celebrate with us. I’m unacquainted with the New York spotlight, but can envision the front page of the Daily News sports section tomorrow. Our compelling squad has already been dubbed the “Amazin’ Mets” in the newspapers. This moniker is bound to continue now.
We’ve just won the first National League Championship Series in history. Next, hopefully we can become the first expansion team to win a Major League Baseball pennant.
Looking skyward, I picture my dad and I waking up to distribute the papers around our small town in southern Texas, him driving the beat-up pick-up, and me in the back, chucking the dense rolled tubes onto each house porch with all my might. As the youngest of six kids, this was one of my only chances to get quality time with my father. No wonder my arm is so robust. I’ve still got a few more innings in me.
Realizing my work is done for the evening, I use my height to peer over the hordes around me towards the big dial clock on the scoreboard. It’s not even 3:45 PM yet. I’ve successfully garnered 21 outs as a long reliefer in under two hours, and led our team to victory.
As fans continue to pour over the sidewalls, storming the field and grabbing bases, abandoned caps, handfuls of infield dirt, and any other souvenirs that aren’t tied down, it becomes apparent that the Mets home since 1964 has finally been christened. Mr. Shea must be proud of his efforts to get a second baseball team back in New York City. Hopefully my Major League career has been sparked as well.

- Nolan Ryan helped the Mets to their first World Series title over the Baltimore Orioles in 1969. Unfortunately, throughout his storied career, he never made it back to the title series. Ryan was traded from the Mets in 1971, and progressed into the game’s most dominant pitcher over the next three decades.

- Hank Aaron hit his 500th home run in 1969, also passing Mickey Mantle this season on route to the MLB record of 755 at the time of his retirement after 21 seasons in the majors. A model of consistency, from 1955 to 1974, Aaron hit 20 or more home runs and was selected as an All-Star every season.

- The collapse of the Cubs down the stretch in 1969 was so terrible that, despite their double-digit NL East lead in mid-August, they finished eight games behind the Mets by the end of the regular season.

Rickey Henderson (A’s LF)
New York Yankees vs. Oakland Athletics
Major League Baseball Historic Night of Records
May 1st, 1991

I bounce off first base, measuring my lead as I’ve done countless times before. I just kicked off our home half of the 1st inning with a walk, a rally starting technique I’ve perfected over the years. My next objective is 2nd base.
I closely analyze the Yankees battery, hoping to pick up some helpful information about the next pitch delivery. The New York Yankees are in town for a quick two game series, one of their rare visits to the Bay Area each season. The two teams battling on the field tonight are the only Major League Baseball franchises I’ve ever played for during my 13 years as a pro.
Behind the catcher and umpire is a wide notch in the generally circular ring of stands which frame the field. This alcove is a novelty of the Oakland Coliseum, offering over 60 feet of grass and dirt behind home plate. I know all the caroms baseballs can take back there, and am often able to go from 1st to 3rd base on an errant toss that goes to the backstop. Watching intently, my legs are tensed like a spring, ready to uncoil on the first dusty poof, which is the telltale sign of a delivery hitting the dirt.
This stadium was built as a shared use baseball and football facility back in 1966, hence the quirky features like this home plate recess, and very tight, angled seating around the left and right field foul poles. However, the Raiders left town for Los Angeles a decade ago, and us Athletics are now the only pro sports team which call the Coliseum home.
The prevailing winds favor left-handed power hitters, which helps me occasionally, but with the deep outfield fence dimensions, expansive foul territory around the infield, and typically damp, heavy ocean air, this venue is generally considered to be a pitcher’s park. That’s what makes my speed on the base paths all the more important to this A’s team.
Even before the pitcher has committed towards home plate, my body is already in motion towards 2nd base. Hopefully that tell I picked up on video analysis is correct.
I try to stay as low as possible when stealing, never really rising out of the initial crouched, launch position. My focus is on a rapid cadence of steps, maximizing the power and travel of each stride.
Approaching 2nd base at full speed, my head first slide starts early, bulky chest hitting the ground initially, followed by thick thighs, and finally the toes of my cleats. I keep my fingers and palms off the ground for protection, extending them out as far as possible, reaching for the bag as I near it.
Unfortunately, in this instance, the baseball is already in the 2nd baseman’s glove. I’m blaming than putout on my weak calf; I just came off the disabled list last week, and am still getting into regular season form.
Undeterred, I pop up and jog back to the dugout, sporting my characteristic smug grin. This isn’t the first time I’ve been thrown out. In fact, I’ve logged over 200 times caught stealing in the Major League alone. No need to wipe the dirt off my previously pristine, bright white, uniform; there will be more head-first slides today.
Back in the dugout, I do take a minute to dislodge the sand which has snuck in through the various gaps in my jersey and trousers. Pulling up the narrow stirrups, and resynching the wide belt, both dark green items that match our Oakland Athletics uniform highlights, I’m ready to go again.
I’m coming off an American League Most Valuable Player award last year, having helped lead the A’s to three straight AL pennants. But there’s a more pressing achievement on my mind currently. The all-time stolen base crown in professional baseball.
I was only three steals shy of the mark at the beginning of this season, and that record is going to happen tonight. Confidence has never been an issue for Rickey.

This inning started off innocently enough, a ground ball which the shortstop booted, allowing me to reach 1st base. Then, a slow roller to the 3rd baseman by the other Henderson on our team, no relation of course, moved me over to my current position. Two baserunners without having the baseball leave the infield. From here, the result is inevitable, it’s just a matter of timing.
We’ve now got the middle of our order up with no outs. If I’m going to steal 3rd base, I need to know for sure I can make it; recording the first out at 3rd base is one of the cardinal sins of baseball.
I decide to bide my time for now, and see if we can get a big inning going. However, after a fly out to center field, too shallow for even me to tag, it’s go time.
Leading off 2nd base, just offline from the pitcher and looking directly in at the catcher, it’s much easier to steal signs, and bases. Despite the shorter throw to 3rd base, I know I can get a larger lead in the middle of the diamond than when being constantly attended at 1st base. I stare at the crouching figure’s fingers, hoping to pick up signals for a breaking pitch which will provide that crucial extra tenth of a second.
I’m wearing sunglasses, even though it’s only 53°F and overcast for this day game. This useful piece of equipment allows my flitting gaze to go undetected, and protects my eyes from dust when sliding. The next pitch call looks like a slider inside. High potential for a bounce in the dirt. That should work. I widen my lead another two steps.
Perfect jump, good traction, glance towards home, pitch taken inside, headfirst slide, bounced throw, success imminent.
As my left hand hits the exposed front edge of 3rd base, I duck my head down and allow the left ear flap on my batting helmet to protect my face from an errant skip. My momentum carries me completely over the bag, like a stone thrown low which skips rapidly across the water. Fortunately, I hook the heel of my left cleat, while maintaining grip with my left hand, to ensure contact with this critical position marker.
Upon acknowledgement of the safe call, bedlam breaks loose in the Coliseum. I’ve just logged my 939th career stolen base in the majors, passing one of my idols, Lou Brock.
I immediately rise to my feet, tearing the base from its metal mounting post, and hoisting it over my head with green gloved hands in one fluid motion. The home crowd is going wild, a standing ovation in acknowledgement of the accomplishment. I thrive on this kind of energy.
I see my family being helped over the wall and onto the field. My mother, my wife, even Mr. Brock himself, are here to witness this milestone. Seconds later, I have a microphone in my hand, with a captive live audience of 35k screaming Oakland Athletics fans. I can’t resist the urge to brag, and pay tribute to my biggest hero growing up, Muhammad Ali.
"Lou Brock was the symbol of great base stealing, but today I am the greatest of all time!"
I’ve lived here in the Oakland area since I was 7 years old, growing up playing many sports, and earning college scholarships in both football and baseball. All the hard work, sacrifice, and dedication feels like it’s paying off in this moment of glory. And I’m only 32 years old, with a few steals still left in me.
After an 8-minute stoppage of the game, I’m back standing atop a shiny new 3rd base bag. The old one I tore from the ground is hopefully being stowed in a safe location by the A’s equipment manager.
Three pitches later, my teammate singles on a ground ball into shallow right field, and I trot home, increasing our lead over the Yankees to two. That’s the way to manufacture a run. You can’t win a baseball game if you don’t score.

The whirlpool is cranking vigorously and extra hot tonight. It’s very soothing for my aching muscles, and to melt away the adrenaline still pulsing through my veins. There’s a dull murmur in the clubhouse, morale is high after another solid win. Still, it’s only the beginning of May, and the season is long, hence the soak.
The TV in the corner is on, but muted, tuned to a news channel which shows American soldiers in desert camouflage boarding an enormous cargo plane. The United States lead coalition signed an armistice with the Iraqi Army less than a month ago, and it seems like the lengthy Persian Gulf War conflict is finally winding down.
Grabbing the remote from the side of the tub, I switch over to SportsCenter, hoping to catch up on the night’s baseball scores, and, more importantly, see how my record-breaking achievement from earlier today is being covered.
The Texas Rangers highlights pop up, one of our key divisional rivals in the American League West. The box score stats are typical for their ace pitcher: 122 pitches, 16 strike outs, 0 runs allowed. All pretty standard for Nolan Ryan, the veteran Rangers hurler. Then, the most important metric comes across the screen. No hits!
Tonight, Ryan apparently tossed his 7th no-hitter, clearly differentiating himself from all other pitchers in baseball history. The highlight real goes on to reveal that the powerful right hander had a stretch of 18 straight retired in the middle of the game, 12 of which were set down on strikeouts.
I remember Mr. Ryan’s last no-hitter, which came at the expense of our Oakland Athletics squad less than a year ago. I was lucky enough to only strike out once, but did have the demoralizing experience of making the second to last out in that game. His “Ryan Express” nickname is certainly appropriate.
One of my younger teammates walks up alongside the hot tub, intrigued by the baseball highlights on TV. ESPN is currently displaying Nolan Ryan as he’s hoisted onto the shoulders of his fellow fielders after recording the final tally, via strikeout of course. In the process, he loses his signature royal blue baseball cap, with the red, blocky, capital “T” on the front, which exemplifies his Texas upbringing. To me, without a hat, he just looks like an old man with a receding hairline.
“If he ain’t struck you out, you ain’t nobody.” I offer, pointing at the screen.
Seems like a good lesson to impart on this rookie now while he’s young and naïve. And I should know, having the pleasure of being Ryan’s 5,000th strikeout victim a few years ago. There’s no other player in Major League Baseball history who can make that claim.
Two impressive records in one evening, one on the mound and the other on the base paths. This is a day that will go down in Major League Baseball lore. Hopefully I will see Nolan Ryan in Cooperstown someday; pretty sure his ticket is already punched, but I still have some work to do.
Breathing the thick steam in deeply, I dunk my head underwater, and savor the soothing warmth of success.

- This season, part of Henderson’s second stint of four total with Oakland, is the final year in a stretch where he led the American League in stolen bases 11 times over 12 years.

- Nolan Ryan’s career stats are remarkable, a function of his skill and durability. He holds the MLB lead in total strikeouts, walks, and no hitters, despite never winning a Cy Young Award, or pitching a perfect game. His longevity is evidenced by the fact that he pitched in the majors four different decades, amassing 324 total wins, and was the first person to play for all four original MLB expansion teams.

- This was the Chicago Cubs 120th season as a major league franchise; they finished in the middle of the pack, 6 games under .500, with ownership firing two managers in the process.

David Ross (Dodgers C) & Rickey Henderson (Dodgers LF)
St. Louis Cardinals vs. Los Angeles Dodgers
First Game After MLB All-Star Break
July 17th, 2003

I’m sitting in a folding chair, staring blankly at my locker. Locker probably isn’t the right term, it’s more of a wooden shelving unit with no door.
My freshly washed uniform, bright white, with the “Dodgers” script in royal blue across the front, and my number “40” below in fire engine red numerals, is hanging on its normal hook. This fabric, made from a synthetic blend of polyester and nylon fibers, is much more breathable than the cotton offerings I grew up wearing. These duds also have a much more vivid sheen under the stadium lights.
Not that temperature management matters here in lovely Los Angeles. The car radio forecast for tonight’s 7:10 PM start is the same as pretty much every night all summer: 77°F temperature, overcast smoggy skies, medium-low humidity, and minimal wind.
What’s not lovely about this town is the traffic. It took me over an hour to drive six miles from my home to the stadium, even traveling well before rush hour. I didn’t miss that commute over the past week.
Today is the first game back from the Major League Baseball All-Star break. I was lucky enough to spend the past three glorious days off exploring the scenic Southern California beaches with my beautiful girlfriend; we’re high school sweethearts who have reacquainted. This West Coast experience is a far cry from our Tallahassee, Florida upbringing, and we loved every minute of it.
Now, it’s back to the grind for another two and a half months, hopefully longer if this Dodgers squad can make the playoffs.
Someone has put on the new 50 Cent “Get Rich or Die Tryin’” album, the deep base beats and guttural rap lyrics of “P.I.M.P.” are current blasting over the clubhouse speakers. I’m more of a country music fan, but I can appreciate the artist’s sentiments on working hard to making big money. Life as a professional baseball player can be a grind.
Getting motivated, I grab the royal blue fitted baseball cap, with its connected “LA” lettering in raised white embroidery on the front, from the top shelf cubby. Plopping in on my head, facing backwards per usual, I get up and walk over to the manager’s office. At less than an hour from game time, the starting line-up should be posted on the adjacent wall by now.
I start down the list, but immediately get derailed by the first name, “R. Henderson”. I’m not aware of any Henderson’s on our team, but can think of one mildly relevant Major Leaguer with that last name, whose first initial is “R”.
I quickly scan the rest to the roster to make sure I’m looking at our team, and not our opponents today, the St. Louis Cardinals. I recognize everyone else, especially my own name batting seventh, and catching of course. It’s the only position I’ve played since high school.
I’m ecstatic to be starting today. I’ve been occupying second fiddle as the Dodgers backstop, and coming out of the mid-season break, wasn’t planning to get the nod. It’s been quite a slog for me to get to the majors, and earn playing time here in Los Angeles.
They initially drafted me way back in 1995, but I decided to play college ball. Then, the same front office signed me again in 1998, so there appears to be at least some interest within the organization.
However, there are too many good catchers in the Dodgers farm system. I’m already 26 years old, and just made it to the big leagues last year for my first cup of coffee. Right now, I’ll take all the playing time I can get.
Still confused on who our leadoff hitter is, I wander back to my locker. This lingering question is answered before I even return to my seat.
Standing at a clubhouse post just three down from my own, is an African American man, completely naked, staring into the full-length mirror he has propped up in front of him. I’ve seen a lot of athletes in my competitive sports journey, but this person is a true physical specimen.
Many baseball players these days, taking advantage of modern weight room accommodations, have well-developed upper bodies with the toned biceps, delts, and traps needed for power hitting, however this build is different. The legs on this human are enormous: nearly circular glutes, bulging hamstrings which touch together, toned calves streaked with veins. It’s like looking at a well-bred race horse.
Suddenly, this unknown player starts methodically chanting “Rickey’s the best. Rickey’s the best.”
Great, this is our leadoff hitter for tonight. The “Man of Steal” indeed. It should be an interesting evening at the ballpark.

Leading off the 3rd inning, I enter the batter’s box for my first at bat of 2003’s second half. Quickly finding myself down in the count one ball and two strikes, I choke up on the bat, resolved to not start this new portion of the season with a strikeout.
The next delivery comes in straight and level, finally something I can drive. I turn on the pitch, hammering a line drive down the left field line. I’ve never been fast, even by catcher’s standards, but seeing the ball dropping just inside the chalk line, I commit to leg out a double. My freshness from a few days of relaxing in the sand pays off, and I make it standing up.
After a quick out by our eighth batter in the line-up, my battery mate steps in. Not much sense in bunting, sacrificing the second out to move me to 3rd base isn’t a very productive baseball strategy. So, our pitcher is swinging away, and swing away he does, driving a chest high pitch deep into the smoggy haze of the Los Angeles evening sky.
The ball zooms above me, headed in the direction of the left fielder. I hang half way between 2nd and 3rd base briefly, but it’s soon clear the ball is over the drawn in outfielder, and over the wall beyond the 375-foot mark. An impressive poke for the #9 hitter.
I wait at home plate, joined by the bat boy, and we both congratulate our typically weak hitting colleague, who arrives with a huge smile on his face.
As we head back to the dugout, my new teammate and leadoff hitter, Rickey Henderson, goes by us on his way to the plate, giving our pitcher a playful congratulatory smack on the helmet in passing.
I asked around a little bit about our recent arrival in the clubhouse before the game started. Pretty much every player in the majors knows Rickey, and his antics. He’s got a special place in my mind, as I often reference video tape from base stealing in his prime to help me with my pickoffs and throws down to 2nd base.
Through my inquiries, I quickly found out why I haven’t seen or heard anything about him this season. Apparently, Henderson, unable to find a Major League Baseball club to take him on coming out of spring training, played the first half of the year with the Newark Bears in the Atlantic League, waiting for a call-up to pro ball. His performance over the first half, culminating by being named the Atlantic League All-Star Game Most Valuable Player a few weeks ago, was enticing enough for our Dodgers executives to pick him up.
As I put on my catcher’s gear in the dugout, I watch Rickey’s at bat intently. I know how to manipulate the combination of hook and loop pads, mating metal clasps, and plastic snap clips on the chest protector and shin guards by heart, so can multitask.
This is the first time I’ve seen him play a game in the majors, since our paths did not cross paths in my limited games last year; he was playing in the American League at that time.
As it turns out, Mr. Henderson’s batting stance is unique to say the least. Squatting down low, Rickey’s knees almost touch his elbows. By the strict letter of the rules, in this position, his vertical strike zone can’t be more than 12” tall.
As a catcher, I always appreciate a lead-off hitter who takes a few pitches, letting his battery get settled and ready for the next inning. Henderson delivers on this front, working the count full, then lining the sixth pitch into center field for a single. He’s now seen 15 pitches total in his first two at bats in a Dodgers uniform. Rickey knows how to lead off.
After Henderson gets on, the rally fizzles out, but at least we’ve got a 2-0 lead over the Cardinals. And I had enough time to put all my equipment on.

The landscape surrounding this ballpark is quite majestic. From my position behind home plate, I look out over Chavez Ravine, tall palm trees just beyond the stadium wall down both foul lines, with rolling hills of green and brown scrub brush beyond. Other than the incessant honking of horns on the various bordering freeways, and the ever-present pollution in the air from all these vehicles, you would never know we’re currently in the middle of one of America’s largest metropolitan areas.
It’s a solid crowd for a Thursday, not at capacity, but still over 40k strong. School’s out for summer, and the Independence Day BBQ mentality is still lingering in people’s minds. The right field bleachers, some of the cheapest seats in the house, are especially full; mostly screaming kids and their accommodating parents. My lady and I don’t have any children yet, but is seems inevitable as soon as I get some regular playing time, and a wedding ring. Maybe this game is the start of my steady run.
Squatting down behind the dish, I flash the signs to our pitcher, then glance over to 1st base, where the Cardinals runner just reached on a single. No worries, there are two outs in the inning, so this inhabitant shouldn’t be an issue.
As the first pitch comes in, my peripheral vision catches the runner breaking off 1st base. These new hockey-style catchers’ masks have been a huge benefit for visibility, a valuable technology that I never had access to coming up through the development ranks. Plus, their deeper chin shape has eliminated the need for that floppy throat guard hanging from a string, which always seems to get tangled up in the chest protector or face mask.
Raising from my crouch, I catch the incoming pitch with the mitt fully extended, and immediately transfer the ball to my right hand. Exploding out of the chute, I unleash the throw towards 2nd base with all my might.
Unfortunately, in my exuberance, the release point is early, causing the projectile to sail high and right. Our covering fielder lunges for this erratic fling, while also trying to avoid the incoming runner. No dice. The baseball flies into center field, allowing the Cardinals runner to get up and trot to 3rd base.
I curse under my breath. I’ve been working on my throwing. That was not my best effort.
Settling back in, I flash another sign, hoping we can work out of this jam. The next pitch is put in play, a hard grounder down the 3rd base line. Our 3rd baseman is in position to make a backhand stab, until the ball takes a lower than anticipated bounce, just nicking off the end of his glove, and dribbling into the outfield grass.
Rickey Henderson comes charging in from his position in left field to grab the ball, scooping it up with his signature flair, using only his massive leather fielding glove, but the runner from 3rd base has already scored. Rickey tosses the pill in with his left hand, one of the few professional players who bats right-handed and throws opposite.
An unearned run.
I kick the dirt, a mixture of red brick and mountain clay, in frustration. If I hadn’t erratically launched the ball into the outfield, that Cardinals runner wouldn’t have scored, even with the error by our 3rd basemen. Any small mistake can have a big influence on my playing time with the Los Angeles Dodgers moving forward.
Crouching back down, using my blue, raised, calf pads for support, I check the next opposing hitter due up, then mentally run through the scouting report in my mind. Hopefully I can call the correct pitches to get us out of this inning without any further damage.

- David Ross continued to platoon at catcher throughout the 2003 season, and got his first taste of the playoffs with the Dodgers in 2004, before being traded around to multiple National League teams in subsequent years.

- This was the last year of Rickey Henderson’s major league career, during which he amassed some crazy stat totals, to match his crazy personality. He still holds the ultimate historical tallies for runs scored, stolen bases, and leadoff home runs. He ended up with over 50% more steals than the next closest player over his career, as well as the absurd record for single season steals at 130.

- 2003 was one of the Chicago Cubs fans most memorable exemplifications of their curse. Leading the Florida Marlins three games to two in the NLCS, and holding a 3-0 lead with one out in the 8th inning, Cubs fan Steve Bartman famously hindered a Cubs outfielder from catching a pop fly along the left field bleachers. The Marlins went on to win the game, National League title, and the World Series.

David Ross (Dodgers C)
Chicago Cubs vs. Cleveland Indians
World Series Game 7
November 2nd, 2016

The atmosphere in the stadium in palpable. I’ve been lucky enough to experience the thrill of championship baseball before, but nothing like this.
I went to the College World Series back to back years, first in 1997 with the Auburn Tigers, then as part of the Florida Gators after transferring; neither time we made it to the final game. With the Red Sox in 2013 there was intermittent excitement, but we were able to pull out the series in six games with minimal drama.
None of those experiences culminated in the ultimate thrill: a single game, 27 outs allotted for each team, to decide the World Champion. That tally is already ticking away.
We gained the advantage with a leadoff home run to start the game, a great way to quiet the crowd. Since then, the hostile hordes have been hushed, until this leadoff single to start 2nd inning, a line drive which glanced off our pitcher’s backside. He seems fine, and is back up on the mound ready to deal.
From my spot standing on the upper rail of our visitor’s dugout, which is located on the 1st base side here at Progressive Field, I have a great view of the entire ballpark.
Out in left field is a massive scoreboard, with huge “Indians” script signage adorning the top. The visiting team is definitely not going to forget who they’re playing with that prominent branding. The city of Cleveland is visible beyond, as the stadium layout offers wide gaps in the stands through center and left field. This modern stadium, build in 1994, has revitalized the town, and the local squad playing within.
I’ve always found it odd that there is no standardization in home dugout location across the league. Now, playing with my seventh major league team, and having travelled to pretty much every ballpark on the circuit, I often find myself wandering into wrong clubhouse upon arrival, or opposite dugout after warmups.
Fortunately, this snafu hasn’t happened in a game situation yet. Hopefully, this isn’t another symptom of the multiple concussions I’ve incurred while catching over the past few season.
I look back out at the game action, and see the Indians have swapped runners at 1st base, now with one out. The Cleveland fans are still trying to working themselves into a frenzy.
The next pitch is a hard-hit rope to 3rd base. Nice pick there by our charging fielder, a quick sidearm fling to 2nd base, then a quick turn on top of the bag, and strong throw on to 1st base. A double play. We’re out of the inning unscathed, and still leading 1-0 in World Series Game 7.
As our squad leaves the field, our 1st baseman tosses the ball to a young girl in a royal blue Cubbies jersey and matching hat, which is way too big for her. Despite the visual obstruction, she makes a nice snag with her small, black and pink, faux-leather, mitt. Behind this child, an older woman, presumably her mom, shrieks madly when her daughter makes the catch, waving a white foam-core sign, on which a simple phrase is written in blue and silver glitter covered glue. “Tinker to Evers to Chance”.
Not quite, but close enough. We’ll take all the rabid fan support we can get in this hostile Cleveland environment.

I’m playing in the last game of the 2016 World Series, I whisper to myself, with repeated prayers, as I try to calm my nerves in the on-deck circle. I’ve been working on having a more positive mentality for years, but ever-present encouragement is still a work in process. This strategy is not going well thus far tonight.
The last 30 minutes have been a whirlwind of emotions. Looking back over the previous half inning, when my battery mate and I entered the game together, there’s limited confidence to draw on. I’ve essentially been his personal catcher since our playoff run with the Red Sox in 2013; we just have great chemistry together.
Our dynamic duo came into the game together in the bottom of the 5th inning, with a runner on 1st base and two outs, our squad leading 5-1. A seemingly harmless situation.
However, a comedy of errors ensued, both literally and figurately, the Indians tallying twice without the ball leaving the general confines of home plate. The main culprits on this string of unearned runs were, in succession, my throwing error down the 1st base line on a dribbler out in front of the plate, then a wild pitch on a 55-foot curve ball, which bounced off my catcher’s mask, and caromed so far afield that two runners scored on the play.
I need to make up for these blunders somehow. In my younger years, I used to get very anger at myself, but now is the time for optimism.
The Cubs batter in front of me pops out, making it my turn at the plate. Making one more silent prayer, complete with a glance to the heavens, I dig in.
Fortunately, I’ve got experience against the current Cleveland hurler, having both batted against, and caught for, him in the past during my journeyman’s trek around the league. That’s one of the perks of being a catcher; you get a better understanding of a pitcher’s repertoire, and a different perspective on how various deliveries behave.
I know my opponent on the mound has a devastating slider. If that dastardly delivery is working tonight, I’m in big trouble.
Fingering the maple bat through padded batting gloves, I resolve to take a pitch. I haven’t played in three days, and need to determine how well I’m seeing the ball. This first offering is a slider, coming in very fast, with a late, sharp break. That’s going to be impossible to hit, since I’m unable to pick up the spin coming out of the hand, or the object’s location until it’s nearly on me.
The second foray is another slider, which I foul off weakly with a late swing. Down no balls and two strikes in the count, I choke up as usual, focusing on putting the pill in play at a minimum.
Taking a fastball high and outside, which I can actually pickup before it’s on top of me, the decision becomes obvious.
The fourth pitch comes in seemingly straight and low in the zone. I’ve already convinced myself it’s a heater, so just commit to the swing, knowing if the devastating slider materializes, there’s no way I’m going to make contact anyways.
I drop the head of the bat on the anticipated position of the ball, hands moving quickly through the zone as a result of the shortened lever arm. Amazingly, an impact materializes, as evidenced by the rewarding vibration in my calloused palms.
The spherical, mobile element of this unlikely physics transaction takes off towards center field, a disappearing bright twinkle in the darkening evening sky over Cleveland.
I’m running, but most of my focus is on the baseball in flight through the air, and the center fielder tracking this object from the ground below. This player drifts back, finding the fence, and leaps. From my angle, it’s impossible to tell if the ball is caught or not, until the outfielder’s glove comes back from the other side of the wall. Empty. I just hit a home run!
The trip around the bases feels like a dream, memories from the past rushing in. My two most memorable home runs are my first in the majors, back in 2002, off a position player during a 19-1 blowout, and inevitably my last, this one to take a 6-3 lead in Game 7 of the World Series.
Rounding 3rd base, I high five our coach, who’s wearing his now mandatory plastic protective helmet, and make the turn towards home plate. I’m greeted first by our next batter, then my remaining teammates on the top step of the dugout, executing a variety of complex celebrations we’ve been perfecting over the season. Perhaps tonight, good luck is finally shining on the cursed Chicago Cubs.

I watch as our manager shuffles out through the wet grass to the mound, for what he undoubtably hopes will be his final pitching change of the evening.
There are two outs in the bottom of the 10th inning, our Cubs squad clinging to a one run lead, but Cleveland already has the tying run on 1st base.
My work for the evening has been done for a while, being pulled for a pitch runner after earning a walk, way back in the top of the 9th inning.
Since then, I’ve gotten to sit agonizingly through 3 runs being scored, 7 line-up changes, including 4 different pitchers, and a 17-minute rain delay before extra innings even got started. I can only imagine how the Cubs fans must feel, after waiting over a century for this World Series title.
The Indians’ rally has brought the crowd to full throat. Despite the game being well over four and a half hours old at this point, nary a fan has left. The upper deck surrounding the infield at Progressive Field hangs out over the lower seats much more than most other parks. Currently, it feels like these fans are on the playing surface, boisterously willing their team to rally. It’s a passionate dedication I can relate to.
Being on this Cubs team is the most camaraderie I’ve felt in my entire career. At 39 years old, and only catching a couple times a week, leaves a lot of time interact with, and mentor, the younger players.
Granted, this role comes with its fair share of friendly ribbing. Like spring training in Arizona, when they left an electric sit-down scooter, complete with mini, tow-behind, wagon for hauling gear, in my parking spot. But hey, I like to joke around as much as the next guy.
It’s been a difficult road, uphill at times, not just for me, but for the Cubs franchise. Between the old Billy Goat Curse, a century-long World Series drought, “such a young team can never win” sentiment, and the recurring commentary that fate is against us which pervades the mainstream media.
All this chatter becomes even more prevalent in Chicago than when on the road. Maybe it’s a good thing we have to earn these last two games on the road, hopefully coming back from a three games to one series deficit, if we’re going to claim the title. This feels like our year, after 103 wins in the regular season, our Cubs team has continued to gel during each successive playoff round.
As the veteran leader, I’ve had to evoke a few clubhouse rules down the stretch; most notably minimizing video game play, and no talking politics in the clubhouse. With the presidential election less than a week away, this topic has become too polarizing a distraction for our Cubs team in the heart of our critical playoff run. Plus, we need to rest those nimble fingers and opposable thumbs for fielding balls and swinging bats, as opposed to updating social media profiles. I have to keep reminding the guys, we’ve got baseball games to play.
Pitching change complete, the umpire distributes a dry game ball to our new hurler, and we’re going again. One solitary putout stands between us and the Commissioner’s Trophy.
The first pitch is a fastball right down the middle, strike one called. The second offering is also in the zone, and the Cleveland batter puts it in play on the ground towards 3rd base. Our infielder charges, gloves, throws to 1st base.
Game over, Cubs win! Raise the white flag with blue “W” at Wrigley Field.
Our team pours out for the dugout, jumping around in a mosh pit of jubilation near the mound. Championship hats and shirts appear with surprising speed. I don one of these oversized T-shirts over my grey Cubs jersey. It’s been a long 15-year journey; I’ve represented many a city, and worn all manner of uniforms, but these $5 cotton tees, with “2016 World Series Champions” silkscreened on the front in gaudy text, are as satisfying as any baseball outfit.
Before I know it, I’m being hoisted on my teammates’ shoulders, and paraded around the field. Not bad for an old man.
Also, my “Grandpa Rossy” clubhouse nickname is apparently apropos. The TV commentary on the field just rubbed in the fact that I’m oldest player to hit a home run in Game 7 of the World Series. Time to ride off into the sunset on my scooter. If I don’t retire now when I’m on top, I can’t imagine when I would.
Realizing this, a wave of emotions runs over me. Today is the last time I’ll be suiting up in a Major League Baseball jersey as a player. The time has come. It’s not worth risking another concussion, or spending another long season on the road away from family.
In this game alone, we used 13 position players, 5 pitchers, and battled for 10 innings, 3 more than the 27 outs I anticipated would be necessary to resolve this series at the beginning of the night. But the result of all these numbers is worth it; the Cubbies 108-year World Series drought is over.

- All the players in this story are in the MLB Hall of Fame with the exception of David Ross. A platoon catcher in the league for 15 years, after not getting into the majors until age 25; these passionate grinders are the heart of what keeps the sport of baseball alive. While Ross’s playing career numbers aren’t sufficient to make the Cooperstown cut, he took over as manager of the Chicago Cubs in the abridged 2020 season, leading this crew back to the playoffs in his first leadership campaign. Signed at only 42 years old, he’s got plenty of time to create a legacy as a coach.

- In terms of players to keep the arc of this story going, there was a 22-year-old shortstop on the Cleveland Indians 2016 World Series team who may have Hall of Fame pedigree, and stats, if he can his sensational young career going. Feel free to research and monitor at your own leisure.

- Since winning the World Series in 2016, the Cubs have yet to make it back. Hopefully for Cubs fans, they can win the title again before 2124.