The Last First Day

I was talking with my brother about today, the first day of practice. He made a very meaningful point: today is my last first day. My eligibility is done with after this year, and everyone knows adult leagues aren't the same. And even though scout day is on Sunday, my name won't be one they're following closely. This starts the last time I will be able to compete at this level.

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It's worth briefly mentioning how much of an influence my brother has been on my baseball career. Well, no, it would be more accurate to say how much of an influence he has been on my life; but that would be a topic of such length and complexity that I have neither the patience nor the linguistic ability to appropriately write it. So we'll stick to baseball. My brother was a rags-to-riches story in baseball; he started as a kid who looked to have little or no future beyond little league. Teams picked him last, coaches left him off select teams-- the game of baseball essentially thumbed its nose at him. But instead of quitting, like most frustrated 13-year-olds, he decided that he loved baseball and would work to develop whatever talent he had. My dad, extremely proud of his young son's work ethic, would go out with him every Sunday morning when everyone was at church and the fields were open. And for reasons unknown, they decided to drag along the whiny, snot-nosed little bastard who did NOT want to be pulled away from his cartoons.

Obviously, that was me.

As I shagged ball after ball at what came in our family to be known as the Sunday Morning Church of Baseball, a few funny things happened. First and foremost, my brother got better. His arm got stronger, his bat quicker, his eyes sharper, and with every success, his work ethic grew to be unparalleled. He first became known in high school as the kid who basically willed himself onto the junior varsity team as a sophomore, short on talent but huge on hustle and heart. But then he became the workout maniac-- nobody ran harder, threw medicine balls with more fire, or could hold boards as long as he could. His senior year, he finally busted out and became the player he had wanted to be. His batting average from his senior captain season still ranks in the top 10 all time at our high school.

And then, soon as it began, it was over. He ended his baseball career at the top, moving on to conquer other mountains once he got to college. But in the meantime, the Sunday Morning Church of Baseball wasn't done working its magic. Shagging balls on those dewy morning fields, I learned and honed my greatest skill: tracking fly balls. When a ball was hit, I simply knew where it was going to end up. I also had the speed to get there. Although my hitting was never a problem, my greatest strength in baseball has always lain in my ability to cover an astounding amount of ground in the outfield.

But I got to draw on his greatest strength, as well. I learned what it really meant to work for something that you wanted, to hustle the hardest, to be the scrappiest, grittiest player on the field. And now, even though his baseball career ended seven years ago, I still see him in my head and hear him in my mind letting me know that if he was on the field next to me, he'd be working even harder. That helps me when I'm going well, picks me up when I'm down, and drives me all the time.

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So now you know a bit more of the background of the conversation. He reminded me to take just a minute, at the start of practice, to look around, take it in, and remember the road I've come down to get to this point. But not too long of a look, because I can't afford to lose focus on the task at hand. It's true: it is very difficult to be retrospective, especially about accomplishments, for any length of time without losing out a little bit on what you're working toward at the current point in time.

I looked over the field, breathed deeply twice, and smiled. Then I started my last first day.