I am older now so most of my Saturdays are spent either cleaning or organizing. It was on one of these Saturdays when I was cleaning the garage that I found something I had not seen in many years … my baseball glove. I have only ever owned two—when you are a baseball player the first thing you learn is how to take care of your glove so it lasts forever—and there it was sitting at the bottom of a box.

I reached into that box and picked that glove up and put it on my hand; it still fit. I squeezed it a few times; it was like an old friend. It had been with me since childhood and had never let me down. In little league, in middle school, in high school and even in college, I rarely went anywhere without my glove. As I pounded my fist into the mitt, many wonderful memories came rushing back and each one brought a smile to my face. As I looked at that old mitt, I recalled one such memory from high school that changed my life forever.

Scott sprinted into the room, out of breath. The list is on the wall he announced. I took a deep breath. Today was the day. Several of my friends pushed me out of the room. Go see if your name is on the list they said. As I left the room, I had all these feeling rolling around in my mind. I was afraid. I was excited. I was worried … wait, what was I worried about? I didn’t know. What if my name was not on that list? What if it was? I walked slowly down the hall towards the gym. I was thinking about what my response would be if my name was not on the list. I rehearsed my it-really-doesn’t-matter attitude because I was sure my name was not on the list, but then, what if it was? Each step brought me closer to the gym and to the athletic department bulletin board. Was my name on that list or not?

It all started at the end of my freshman year. It was Trisha’s fault. She was the one who told me I should try out for the baseball team. We were playing softball in gym class. I was playing shortstop and enjoying myself as I always did when I played the sport.

            “You should be on the baseball team,” she said. “I know boys on the baseball team, and they are not as good as you are. Why aren’t you on the baseball team?”

            “I don’t know,” I said. “Never thought about it.”

            “You should think about it. You’re really good. I know good and you’re good.”

Trisha had an opinion on everything: boys, school, history class and baseball. She loved baseball. Her brothers played baseball, and she played softball. I was a bit shy, but I pondered her assessment of my baseball skills and started to wonder if I was good enough to make the baseball team.

            As I walked back from gym class that day, I decided right then and there … I would indeed try out for the baseball team. I had played the sport since I was little. I loved baseball. I was a kid from a small town going to the city for high school. I was a small fish from a puddle swimming in an ocean that was full of sharks, or so I thought. What I found out later was that there were very few sharks in this ocean called high school. Most kids were just like me … trying to find their way in this vast ocean called life.

Summer came and went and before I knew it I was starting my second year of high school. My first year had not been all that successful. I did not really study all that much. I was bright enough to put forth minimal effort and still do fairly well. All my teachers kept telling my parents that I only needed to apply myself to which I responded with my why-can’t-you-accept-me-for-whom-I-am attitude, which did not work with my parents.

            I was determined to be a better student in my second year of high school for purely selfish reasons. I realized that I had one job, which was school, and if I did better in that one job then everyone would pretty much leave me alone. I also had not forgotten the previous year’s gym class and Trisha’s comments; therefore I was also determined to try out for the baseball team. I wanted to give myself the best opportunity I could because I knew being from a small town would make it twice as hard to make that team. I was not a known commodity and would only have three days to show what I could do. In preparation for tryouts, I ran five times a week. I did pushups and pull ups. I practiced pitching with my dad. I did everything that I knew to do to ready myself for those three days of tryouts in February. When February rolled around I thought I was ready, but then again, I was not sure. I had that small fish mentality.

            Being Massachusetts, snow was still one the ground in February so tryouts were held in the gym. My forte was fielding and fielding a ball of a gym floor for me was very easy. I do not think I missed a ground ball the entire three days. I grew up playing baseball in pastures and railroad yards where holes and rocks were part of the infield. When a ball was hit off a gym floor it always had a true bounce, which for me, was easy to field. Hitting, on the other hand, was not something in which I had a lot of confidence.

In tryouts we did all of our hitting in the batting cage. Being from a small town, I had very little experience hitting in a batting cage. It took me a day to get my feet under me in the batting cage, but by day two, I was making regular contact in the cage. I hoped that first day did not set me back too much. The coaches walked around the stations taking notes. At the end of each day, the coaches ran us … hard. I actually ran more in baseball tryouts than in any other sport I played.

At the end of day three, I sat by my locker worn out. Day three was a surprise to me. We did very little hitting and fielding. We ran and ran so more. We did laps and suicides and then more laps. We ran the hallways of the school and the stairwells. It was, by far, the hardest day of the three, but it was over. “I made it,” I thought with relief. I wasn’t even thinking of making the team right now. I was too tired. I was just glad I survived the tryouts. That was a victory all by itself and I was content to sit by my locker and enjoy the moment.           

Now, here I was walking towards the athletic department bulletin board wondering if I made the cut. I had mixed emotions about making the team. I wanted to play baseball, but then, I knew making the team would require a huge commitment. I lived in a small town in the mountains about 40 minutes away from the city. My family had one car, which my mother used to drive to and from work. My father worked at the mill in the town so he walked to work. Making the baseball team would require a lot of sacrifice on the part of my parents as well as me, and here I was mere steps away from that board. Was my name on it or not?

I stopped in the middle of the hallway. I heard the commotion around the corner. Others were finding out the fate I was about to discover. I took a deep breath and step forward. I walked around the corner and found that a crowd had gathered at the bulletin board. I step forward and saw that there was a long sheet of white paper pinned to the board. I saw the blue ink and a list of names cascading down the white sheet. I was still too far away to make out the names, but I could see that there were indeed names on that sheet of paper. This is it, I thought as I took a deep breath and stepped forward; no one had noticed me yet. One boy walked past me with his head down and shoulders hunched over; I knew his fate right away. Another slapped me on the back as he ran by me. As I walked up to that paper, I was prepared for whatever that paper said.

            As I read the names, I saw a name near the top of the list that looked like mine. It had the same first name and … let me see. I couldn’t quite read the last name. I moved closer. It looked like my name and as I got closer I could see that the name I was looking at on that piece of paper was actually my name. I was shocked! I couldn’t move and just stayed right there staring at the list, expecting my name to disappear at any moment, but I did not. I had made the baseball team … I had made the baseball team! I just stood there and continued to look at my name on that piece of paper for a few more moments until someone slapped me on the back and congratulated me. That brought me back to reality. Another boy came up beside me and read the list. He looked up and down it twice, failing to see his name. He saw my name though and turned and congratulated me.

            “I knew you would make it,” he said.

            “Yea,” I said. “I didn’t.”

            “Come on, man. You didn’t miss a ground ball in that gym. You were the best fielder in there.”

            “Thanks,” I said. Not really knowing how to respond.

            “I tried,” he said.

            “I am really sorry you didn’t make it.”

            “Yea, no big deal. Outfielders are a dime a dozen. At this place, being a good outfielder will get you cut. You have to hit too. I didn’t hit too well.”

            “Hard luck.”

            “Yea, thanks!”

And with that he left and went down the hall. I finally pulled myself away from the list and went to share my news with my friends. As I walked down that hall, kids I had seen around the school who had never spoken a word to me came up to me and offered congratulations. Two girls walked by and congratulated me on making the team. As I walked into the area home to my friends, they all said congratulations at the same time.

            “How did you guys know?” I asked.

            “Everybody knows. Cara told us.”

            “Cara, I didn’t even know she knew who I was.”

            “Well, she apparently does,” said Scott.

“Odd,” I thought. I knew a few people in my school, but I was beginning to think I was about to meet a lot more and all of it was because I made the baseball team. I thought that was quite strange. As the bell range, Scott and I went to our English class. As I walked into the English area, Mrs. Chesterton pulled me aside.

            “Congratulations!” she said with a smile. “I am so proud of you.”

            “Thank you Mrs. Chesterton. I did not know you knew. I just saw the list myself.”

            “Well, word travels fast in this school. Now, do not let this affect your work in this class.”

            “I won’t. Promise.”

She went back to the front of the room and pulled her book out. Scott and I sat in the back of the room, putting our books on our desks.

            “Life is about to change,” he said.

            “What? What do you mean?”

            “Dude, baseball is huge here. You are about to be a celebrity.”

            “You are crazy.”

            “Not”

            “Yea, you are. Leave me alone.”

Mrs. Chesterton came to the front of the room to begin class. She asked us to pull out our novels as we were going to do something different today.

            I was amazed at how many kids congratulated me. Kids who had never spoken a word to me came up to me and offered their congratulations. I was from a small little mill town in the mountains so this was new to me. That little town also helped me stay pretty grounded so even though everyone else thought making the baseball team was a big deal, I didn’t. I really just wanted to continue to play the sport I loved. Making the baseball team meant one thing to me … I could play baseball for another year, and for me, that would be worth every sacrifice I was about to make. Mrs. Chesterton instructed us to open our novels, and as I opened mine, I smiled because I realized that from this point forward life would be different.

And years later, I now know that I was right back then; life was different. Yes, baseball was part of that difference. The game provided years of enjoyment that extended well into adulthood as I was also able to coach as well, but baseball, which was such a large part of my life for so long, did not change me as much as I thought it would. It taught me a number of lessons that I continue to put to use today but its impact on me was minimal.

Over the years, the game has changed as culture as changed and I am not sure those changes are good. I no longer enjoy watching most sports, baseball included, and my reasons are many, but maybe the most important reason is that the game has become what I imagined it was as a kid … everything! It is a business mixed with power and lots of money; loyalties are pushed aside in favor of market shares, lucrative contracts and selfish motives. The love of the game is a phrase few use today when describing the reason they play the game, and for me, that is so sad because baseball is still a game and should be still a game. I took my baseball glove off my hand and put it back in the box. It was now just a baseball mitt in a box that held some special memories. I knew I would never use it again, but for me, that was just fine.