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Pitching Game Two In Style….

Okay! It’s Father’s Day once again and we at PhilYouIn have counted and recounted your votes and have finally arrived at the third annual Best Father’s Day blog winner! Enjoy! (The vote was close. Honorable mention to the unforgettable runner up, “Carpet,” about the time Mike gave me a carpeted floor mat for Father’s Day.)

Our son Matthew is the youngest of our five children. A baseball player since he was six years old. Played all the way to Division 2 College ball.

I suffered through all of it. I was always afraid he would play like I ‘played,’ which meant I always expected a disaster.

When he was 22 he joined an older team of ex-college players. The games did not mean much to anyone but the players. And me. One Father’s Day, they had a double-header scheduled against a successful Latino team, to be played in Queens.

I came by with the family: my wife Nellie, son Mike and his wife, Juliana, who was one month short of giving birth to their first son, and daughter Dana with her soon-to-be husband, Anthony.

I was never a meddling dad, but I did teach Matthew to try not to show emotion during a game. The most you could expect out of him would be an occasional, slight fist pump after striking a batter out with men on base.

Although he was a terrific player and fun to watch, I agonized through all of his games, worrying he might fail.

Not this game, I thought. This would be a fun game, during a family picnic. No pressure. Nothing to worry about. I’ll be fine, regardless.

Sure.

That day, Matthew played his usual flawless defense at first base, scooping throws left and right. But he was having problems when it came to hitting the baseball.

As I took my regular position by the fence directly behind home plate – joined by Anthony, who was witnessing Matthew’s athletic ‘prowess’ for the first time after hearing from me about it for a year – I soon began to panic. Just as I did when he played in school.

His first time at the plate, Matthew swung and missed at the only three pitches he saw. Second time up was not any better; he swung through two pitches, then looked at strike three. Anthony glanced at me and chuckled before walking back to Dana. Great, I thought. Just great…

For his third at-bat, the score was 5-2 in favor of the increasingly obnoxious opposition. They were all chattering away in Spanish; really yucking it up.

It was unbearable; their wives were on the sidelines, singing along to the music blaring from their boomboxes. They had food sizzling on their grills. Their children were playing and laughing. All was right in their world.

With two men on base, Matthew was the potential tying run. He took a huge swing at the first pitch thrown…resulting in a six foot high pop-up. The catcher took two steps back, then watched the ball fall harmlessly into his glove.

The opposing team then danced and cartwheeled off the field and into their dugout, laughing joyfully, pointing at Matthew, who took his bat and slammed it into the fence. Nellie gasped in surprise, shocked at his emotional display. I looked for a hole to hide my head in.

I was really panic-stricken during the 8th and 9th innings, actually hoping Matthew would not have to ‘hit’ again. I calculated how many at-bats would be necessary before he would have to come to bat, only to embarrass himself.

In the bottom of the 9th, still three runs down, it was highly unlikely that Matthew would get another turn, as he would be the fifth batter of the inning.

The first two batters grounded out to second base. Whew! What a relief. The pressure (on me) was almost gone! But the next guy hit a ground ball up the middle for a single. Praying for an out here…but no. Next hitter took ball four after a full count.

Oh no. Matthew’s turn. Last out of the game.

My world was about to crumble.

He took a few practice swings, then took his place in the batter’s box. Raised his right hand to the home plate umpire standing behind him to call for time, then settled in to his stance.

I was beginning to hyperventilate.

First pitch: a big swing…and a miss. Strike one. Second pitch, he did not swing and miss, but the umpire called a big curve ball strike number two. Anthony, standing next to me, groaned. The catcher chuckled derisively. The other team’s music got louder on the sidelines, and their kids’ laughter increased a couple of decibels. Almost time to get their party into high gear.

Their wives were chanting their husbands’ names in triumph, as if they were married to gods of the baseball diamond. The outfielders were not even paying much attention to the action; they were turned toward one another, blabbering away. After all, the ‘automatic out’ was at the plate. With one pitch to go. Food, beer and dance awaited.

Good times.

Matthew stepped out of the batter’s box and took a long, slow practice swing. Then he turned around and winked at me.

What the hell, I thought. I can barely breathe, and he’s winking?!

Finally, I realized what was happening. That wink was meant to teach me, his father, a lesson; that a silly game didn’t really mean much; that I was stressed about nothing that really mattered; that even though he was about to strike out to end the game, he would always be the same sweet, terrific kid he had always been.

This ballgame was about Matthew having fun, not his father’s ridiculous insecurities. It took my son to teach me that just because I didn’t have confidence in myself at his age, it did not mean that he was not confident, that he could not handle failure.

Matthew got back in the batter’s box and the pitcher threw one final heater, down the middle, and Matthew swung through it to strike out and end the game.

Mmm…not quite.

Because what that wink actually meant was: stop whining already, dad.

Have I ever let you down?

The bat made a loud crack as it made perfect contact with the baseball. As the ball rose high in the air, over the head of the helpless shortstop and toward right field, the music suddenly stopped playing. The children stopped laughing. The wives stopped dancing.

The right fielder looked up, seemingly frozen. Just a high pop up, I thought. Then he started to back pedal. Then he turned his back to the infield and made a mad dash in the general direction of Hoboken.

I leaped high onto the fence and hung there, clinging four feet from the ground, as the ball landed 50 feet beyond the right fielder and kept bouncing. I started screaming along with his teammates as Matthew approached 2nd base, head down, running like the Flash. The two baserunners scored ahead of him. As Matthew rounded third, the right fielder was just picking up the ball.

There would be no play at the plate, but Matthew slid anyway, just for effect.

I dropped off the fence and started jumping up and down and screaming like a happy idiot. Much like the rest of his team. I ran onto the field with everyone else and hugged him, practically carrying him into the dugout.

The other team was in desperate need of psychoanalysis; the wives had left for home, taking their distraught children with them. They left their food to burn.

The game was won two batters later. Before the second game (in which Matthew pitched a complete game, three hit shutout), many of his teammates stopped by to congratulate me for my terrific Father’s Day. I smiled and happily returned everyone’s high fives.

It was the best Father’s Day ever.

About to do damage…