I had one of those seasons you dream about as a Little Leaguer. It was my first taste of being really good at the sport. I was 12 years old.
So there was this day that feels like it was less than a week ago in my memory. My team was down two runs. There were two outs. There were two on base. It was the bottom of the sixth inning.
And I came up.
I remember a couple of parents in the stands yelling, “Take him for a walk!” Mr. DeClemente, the coach of the other team who had coached me the year before, actually yelled at me, “We’re not taking you for a walk, Mike. Let’s see what you can do.”
Very cool moment.
But the best part was the voice I heard behind me. My dad. He was always at the games, whether it was baseball or basketball, and always supported me. I heard that voice now.
“Wait for your pitch, son,” he said. “And try it out.”
I didn’t wait long. I got a pitch I liked. And I rode it. It cleared the wall by a good 15 feet. It would be the greatest and greatest sporting memory of my life. And it’s not a bad one. But it’s not perfect either.
Background: The Mets’ best hitter in those years was their first baseman Willie Montanez. He played my position. And he was a hot dog, to say the least. When he hit a home run, Willie did it his way: He hopped to first base. He hopped to second base. He hopped to third base. Then he went home from third base. I thought that was great.
You know where this is going, right?
I hit my home run. My teammates went crazy. My heart was about to explode. I heard my dad screaming louder than I ever had before. If I could rewind history, I would urge my 12-year-old self to put my head down, unpack it, and act like I’ve been there before.
I didn’t. I jumped to first base. I jumped to second base. My teammates screamed with joy! I jumped to third base. And went home the good old 20-second run. My coaches patted me on the back. Even Mr. D (who taught me more about baseball than anyone else, besides my dad, Buck Showalter, and Bobby Valentine) came over, shook my hand, and said, “This is a big moment.”
Then I looked to where my father had been standing behind the backstop. He wasn’t there. I went to look for him. He wasn’t there. I was already panicking when Mr. D turned around.
“Your father said we’d see you at home,” he said.
“But I don’t have anyone to take me!” I said.
“He said it was a beautiful day, maybe you should walk home.”
When I got home, there was no loud argument. But the home run was not discussed either until I sheepishly admitted that perhaps I could have handled the moment better.
“Have you ever thought about what the pitcher was thinking?” was all he said. “Not only did he lose the game, but he had to watch you act like a complete…”
He chose a different word than the one he wanted.
“… jerk.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I thought you might like some time alone. Think about it. I hope you enjoyed the walk.”
So I really understand how a great moment in sports can catch you off guard. I get it. I’ve experienced it myself. Maybe West Hempstead Little League isn’t the National League, but in my world, it was.
And in my world I have The.
Although a large part of me always seethes when there is too much complacency – and the Mets had three such outbursts at their most recent home game, Luis Severino, Francisco Alvarez and Jesse Winker – and although I would like to get up on my pulpit and rant about how silly they all look… well, I can still feel that way. But I do remember what it’s like to be so boisterous that you act like a…
And maybe they can do it if they have an older guy to get them on the right track, or if time passes, or if they just have a future fastball that comes high and tight and doesn’t “just get away” from the pitcher. Any of those things should work.
Vacs punches
There’s a difficult balancing act to be had in this profession: watching people you like risk their jobs week after week. So I hope Brian Daboll and Robert Saleh both have seasons that give them the opportunity to work here for many years to come, even though I know the chances of that happening are slim.
Forget 763, that’s still an unfathomable number in the distance for a 32-year-old man playing cleanly. The number I think Aaron Judge should be hitting is 74. Take that number away from Barry Bonds and you’ll take at least one star out of the record books. And if he doesn’t get it this year, I think there will be other years.
Wait, you’re telling me Vince Vaughn is in a TV show… based on a book by Carl Hiaasen? I feel like I must have done something good for Bad Monkey to be a part of my life now.
There is no bigger fan of John Sterling than me, and it was wonderful to hear him play a few innings the other day for the Yankees against the Guardians. And if he wants to play, say, three innings per game in the playoffs, that’s fine, as long as Justin Shakil is still part of the show. These will be the most important games of the season for Shakil, too. And maybe beyond.
Strike back at Vac
Jared Duncan: It was a great joy for me to see James Blake donate over $1 million to Memorial Sloan Cancer Center. As a survivor, it made me happy to see such a gentleman being honored for what he does.
Vacuum: He is and always has been one of our best.
Dennis Meltzer: I hope Judge and Soto stay together as long as Simon and Garfunkel (10 years if you count their high school incarnation as Tom and Jerry).
Vacuum: I think there are millions of Yankees fans who will sign up for this.
michael45rpms: Stop it! Stop the debate: Caitlin Clark is not only the best rookie, she is now the best player in the WNBA.
@MikeVacc: I think Breanna Stewart would like to have a word with me.
Robert Flintstone: Why do managers insist on pitching Aaron Judge instead of intentionally walking him when there’s no one on the field in a close game? No one behind him has proven they can beat you. As another Judge (Judy) says, “If it doesn’t make sense, something’s wrong.”
Vacuum: She, Judy and I ask the same question at least twice in every game.
