My One and Only Glory Day
An All-American Baseball Story
When I was about 5 years old, my father decided it was time for me to sign up for Mini Sox. He had been throwing a ball around with me since I could practically walk and was always telling me how much natural talent I had. I’m pretty sure he also wanted to re-live his glory days from his childhood when his father coached his teams thinking how could I fail with all this training?
So, of course, I was super excited the day of sign ups. He bought me a brand-new glove and we headed down to the field to wait in the long lines in the afternoon sun where volunteers took our paperwork and asked dad several questions. They handed us back a sheet and said welcome to the Bobby Sox handing me a blue cap and jersey. I felt so proud holding them. I mean, I was so excited!
1976 - My first year playing ball. Thanks for that awesome haircut for picture day mom!
This was the beginning of my six-year childhood career. Now considering that I played for that many years, you’d think I was an all-star, but this was simply just the beginning of what would prove to be an epic failure. You see I was terrible. I was always the smallest on the team, zero upper body strength. I was basically just a little runt who couldn’t hit a ball and was always the designated bench warmer for the other taller, more athletic girls. Funny thing was, I did not care. Not at all. I loved it, every waking minute of it. And surprisingly, my teammates always loved me. I was like their little mascot on the bench telling them how great they were doing, cheering them on, hanging out with the team mom, handing out refreshments to the girls who actually got play time. Every once in a while, the coach would throw me out into the far stretches of the outfield where extremely little action took place so he could make the league requirements of each girl being on the field at least one inning a game. I imagine when I got up to bat, the other girls’ hearts just sank as they prepared themselves for those words I always managed to make the umpire muster, “strike three!”
Regardless of all my short comings, twice a week, I would excitedly rush home from school. I could hardly wait for practice to begin. I’d run inside, grab a snack and my glove, yell goodbye to my mom as I hopped on my bike and rode down to the field. I’d lock my bike along the chain link fence and run out to find my friends and join in on catching grounders and pop flies. When I got home, I’d sit outside waiting for dad to come home from work just so we could practice some more. When mom finally realized she hadn’t seen me for a while, it would dawn on her that dad was home and she would come out yelling to us, “Get inside. Dinner is getting cold.”
While most of my other friends were dressing up their Ken and Barbie dolls deciding which outfits they should wear, I was taping paper portraits of Dodgers players on my bedroom walls that I collected from the local 76 gas station where mom would fill up the old wood-paneled station wagon. I could hardly wait for her to need gas just so I could get another one. I can still remember the sound of the attendant bell ringing as she drove the car up to the full serve pump, the friendly worker running out to greet me, asking which player I wanted this week.
As I got older and started my paper route, I’d use the money I made delivering the OC Register to my neighbor’s driveways to buy baseball card packs that always came with pieces of gum. My brother and I would lay on the green shag carpet of our family room (you know the tall nasty carpet you could easily lose an army man or Hot Wheels in) trading each other players we didn’t want as we blew bubbles.
Circa 1981, paper route days with the coolest socks in town.
Baseball was my life. My dad always had season tickets to Angels Stadium in Anaheim. My brother and I would grab our mitts, pile into the back of his old 240Z and head to the game. I always made sure to grab a program from the usher and keep impeccable score of the game, marking every strike and ball as my brother sat next to me wearing his lefty glove eagerly hoping to catch just one fly ball. During the 7th inning stretch, dad would take us upstairs for an ice cream Sunday served in little mini plastic collector baseball caps.
I always loved the late night games on school nights when we got to stay up past our bedtime. We’d fall asleep in the car on the way home. Dad would pick us up and carry us to bed to tuck us in. I wonder if he knew we were only pretending to still be asleep just so we could feel the warmth of his loving arms around us as he carried us inside.
Despite all my short comings, dad was my biggest fan. He came to every single game without fail. I don’t know how he ever found the time with his hectic work schedule. He would cheer me on from the stands, “way to hustle Jenni!” “Great job, keep up the spirit.” I honestly don’t know how he could stand to watch me play, I was just so bad. Yet, he always had encouraging words after every game at just how great I did, and “way to support your team.” Maybe he missed the part where I struck out every single time I got up to bat, or where I failed to catch the ball resulting in the other team scored the winning run. I cannot tell you how often I failed.
Circa 1979. Putting practice with dad after my game.
Over the years, I imagine the coaches would get their rosters at the start of a new season, their daughters peering over their shoulder reading the names whining, “Nooo, not her on our team,” my reputation preceding me. Don’t ask me how I ever kept up that positive attitude or why I kept coming back year after year. I think I just loved being part of the team and making friends.
So fast forward a little over 10 years ago, circa 2010. My now husband invited me to a Wednesday night BBQ and bon fire down at the beach. He and his friends had been getting together down there weekly for years. I was excited to meet his friends for the first time and eagerly said yes.
When we arrived, there was a stack of bats off to the side and a couple of his buddies were practice pitching to each other on the grass. My heart instantly sank. Oh God no, I hope they don’t ask me to play. Maybe I will get lucky and only the guys play. Then I saw one of the girls walk over and grab a bat. A pit began to form in my stomach as he yelled out, “let Jen hit. She used to play softball for years.” All eyes were on me with expectations I could not meet, my biggest nightmare coming to fruition. What do I say, how do I get out of this? I better think of something quick. I just could not stand the thought of humiliating myself again as an adult in front of a bunch of strangers let alone this guy I had just started dating.
But it was too late. There was nothing I could do. They were all chanting in chorus, “come on Jen, grab a bat, get up there, show us what you got girl!” So, I tried my hardest to summon my inner child and put back on that positive attitude of little Jenni, preparing myself for self-inflicted shame.
Maybe they would find it endearing that I suck so bad. Maybe it will rain, an act of God will save me. Perhaps, I will heal over and have a heart attack right then and there and they’ll have to rush me to the hospital, forgetting all about the game, never discovering how horribly bad I am. But the weather held and my heart simply sunk deeper in my chest as it beat on. There was no way out. This was absolutely, without a doubt, going to hurt.
I grabbed a bat and walked up to the paper plate laying on the ground serving as a make-shift home plate. I remembered my training, bent my knees, got into the perfect stance, feet apart. I could hear my father’s voice from childhood, “choke up on the bat Jenni, eyes on the ball, eyes on the ball.” So, I did just that. I kept my eyes on the ball and as it came whirling toward me, I swung, knowing it had whizzed right past and I would have to try again. Except, instead of silence, I heard the crack of the bat as the ball went flying right past the pitcher farther than any of the guys had hit it before me. It flew! He pitched another one and crack, damn I hit it again. What the heck was happening? Every pitch he threw, I hit that ball out of the park. Everyone was gasping in amazement, but nobody was more surprised than me. I couldn’t believe it. For the first time in my life, I played like a star. People were hooting and hollering. Finally, all those years playing, all that training, all the practice hitting with my dad, all the complete and utter humiliation of my childhood had finally paid off. It was my time to shine. My one and ONLY glory day was upon me.
Of course, I decided right then and there that I will NEVER pick up another baseball bat in my life because THIS was how I wanted to end my baseball career! Finally, a rock star.
Later that night, I called my dad. “Dad, dad, dad… you will never believe it,” I excitedly announced, recounting every moment of what had happened. My father just laughed and said of course you hit it better than anyone else, you were a star back in the day. Really dad? Really? I just shook my head on the other end of the line and rolled my eyes. “Not sure why you’re so delusional when it comes to my talents dad but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t… pretty damn sure I wasn’t.”
