Baseball Will Break Your Heart

By Ted D. Smith
©2002

It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, you rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then, just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. -A. Bartlett Giamatti

Bart Giamatti was right. Baseball will break your heart. But the Commissioner was only talking about the heartbreak a fan feels upon the ending of a single season. In a larger sense, to those to whom it matters most, the hurt is even more profound. To a ballplayer, heartbreak is inevitable, and the more you love the game, the worse the pain will be.

There was a time when I was a kid when I thought baseball was the most important thing in life. Not one of the most important things, the most important thing. At twelve years old, I fancied myself a pretty good ballplayer. I was the star pitcher on my team, and the league batting champion- the most feared left-handed hitter in the league (at least in my own mind). I had a good fastball that I could throw by many of the hitters in the league, and a good enough changeup to keep the better hitters off balance. I could hit consistently, with enough power to (on rare occasions) get the ball over the fence. I was, in other words, on top of the world. I was the kind of kid who would show up for practice an hour early because there was nothing else I'd rather be doing. Playing ball was so important to me that I skipped a family vacation to Florida because it would have made me miss two games.

At thirteen, I was ready to make the move to Pony League. Bigger field, better competition, more fun. I was the right fielder, and got to play first base when the regular first baseman (who was also our ace pitcher) pitched. Not bad for a thirteen year old in a 13-15 league. And our team was really good, winning the league championship. I played on the same winning team as a 14 and 15 year old, but I was never again a star player. Many of the kids I had regularly struck out and gotten hits off of as a 12-year-old Little Leaguer had quit playing, leaving only the better players who were at least as good as (or better than) me. I still got plenty of playing time, but batted down in the order, and could no longer get hitters out regularly.

Then it was time for high school ball. I was on the team, but by now the game was faster and the competition more intense. Furthermore, I had stopped growing, while some of my competition had not. I was never more than an adequate fielder, and no longer had the bat speed to catch up with a good fastball. Any decent high school pitcher with some velocity could throw the thing right by me. I knew it, the pitchers knew it, and my coach knew it. So I didn't play much, getting into games only occasionally as a late inning sub in blowout games. I mostly sat on the bench, keeping the pitching chart or the scorebook, and wishing I was still good enough to play every inning, like in the "good old days".

One day after I'd had a particularly rough time in batting practice, my friend Carl (who had been the first baseman/ace pitcher on my championship Pony League team) walked over to me and said, "Ted, if you had any sense, you'd quit playing!" I gave him an angry look, until he smiled and gently tousled my cap saying, "That's what I like about you." He sensed how hard it was for me to be getting passed over by the game I loved. I didn't think of it at the time, but I'm sure he eventually found out for himself just how hard it was.

Then it was time to try out for the local American Legion team. Carl, of course, made the team. I wasn't even invited to the tryout. I could have shown up to give it a go, but such a move would have been pointless. If I couldn't play regularly on the high school team, what were my chances in American Legion ball? After a season on the bench, I knew my run though the ranks of competitive baseball was over.

I have a son now who is a ballplayer. He loves the game almost as much as I did, and is playing on a Babe Ruth team for 13-year-olds. He is a decent player and knows the game well, but is not a starter on the team. The difference between him and the others players is not much, mind you, but it's enough that he's not a regular, so he spends a lot of time on the bench. He wishes he got to play more (as do I), but unless something changes that's not going to happen. I tell him to keep a good attitude, to just go out and enjoy playing ball and to make the best of the chances he does get. But deep down, I know how hard it is for him. I've been there.

I told my son once that almost every good ballplayer spends most of his last season on the bench. If he doesn't, he quit playing too soon. The game will tell you when your fastball isn't fast enough; your bat isn't quick enough; your fielding not good enough. Thirteen seems too young an age for my son to be having his "season on the bench", and maybe it is. Perhaps by next season, winter practice will have improved his skills, he'll have grown bigger and stronger, or a new coach will see something in him that his current coach doesn't. Maybe he'll play on, perhaps for longer than I did. But sooner or later, his season on the bench will come, and the game will ask him to leave. I know. I've been there.

The other day I was driving down the freeway from Portland with my wife. We passed a bus, a typical bright yellow school bus that said "Albany Public Schools" on the side. My wife remarked, "It looks like that bus is carrying a baseball team." Sure enough, as we passed I noticed the players in their uniforms sitting inside. Some were gazing absently out the window; some had their backs to the window, talking to teammates in seats across the aisle. Some were gesturing and laughing out loud. I assume that it was Albany High's team returning from a game against a rival in Salem. Seeing them brought back memories of many such bus rides I had had. Memories of how much fun it had been just to be a part of the team; of the camaraderie of playing the game; of the conversations on the bus before and after, usually about baseball but sometimes about girls or other weighty teenage matters. The rides home were more fun if we had won, of course, but always enjoyable, win or lose.

As we drove by, I envied those guys on that bus, on that team. Then I though about how some of them were probably in the same situation I had been in on my high school team. Not quite good enough to play regularly any more, spending most of the time on the bench watching their more talented teammates play. Still having fun, of course, but wishing there was more p-t for him. Wishing there was still enough pop in the bat; still enough quickness in the field; still enough speed on the fastball. Then I thought about the star player. He's enjoying the game, for sure, and who knows how high his skills can take him? But sooner or later, perhaps this summer in American Legion ball, perhaps in a couple of years in college, perhaps (if he is really talented and lucky) a few years down the line in pro ball, the game will break his heart, too. Like it did mine. Like it did (I'm sure) my friend Carl's. If it doesn't, he will have quit playing too soon.

Even the greatest players are not immune. I think of Tony Gwynn, one of the greatest hitters of all time. I think of him at age 40, with a berth in the Hall of Fame secured, squeezing out one last season on bad knees; still able to hit, but no longer able to run well enough to play regularly. Spending one last season on the bench, mostly watching his younger teammates play a young man's game.

In my mind twelve years old is the ideal age for playing baseball. Perhaps that judgment is tinged by my own experience, age twelve being the height of my baseball success, but I am convinced that it is true. At ages younger than that the kids are still honing their skills and learning how to play. Older than that, the game quickly gets more competitive, taking a bit of the sheer joy out of it. In a very real sense, the game is tailor-made for 12-year-olds. Nine-year-old baseball is good, and fifteen-year-old ball is also still good. Professional baseball is a glorious spectacle played by the finest players on Earth, providing endless drama, entertainment, strategy, and topic for discussion. For me, however, age twelve is when baseball hits its peak. Yet for all the joy there is in playing baseball as a twelve-year-old, for any kid who really loves the game there is heartbreak ahead. That's how it goes when you love the game. You can hang on for as long as you want, but baseball will eventually break your heart, because God created the sport with twelve-year-old boys in mind. And the farther away from twelve years old you get, the less the game really wants you. Sooner or later, the bat is no longer quick enough, the fastball is no longer overpowering enough, the legs no longer fast enough. Time to step aside, make room for new talent, new dreams.

I have another son who is a ballplayer. He is nine years old, and plays in the lowest level league in the organization, for eight and nine year olds. Trevor's team is not all that good, but he is one of the better players on the team. He plays shortstop most of the time and bats cleanup. Like any nine-year-old ballplayer worth his salt, he is sure he has the talent to punch his ticket to the Major Leagues. I love watching him play. His young teammates are so enthusiastic, and Trevor plays the game with passion and intensity. He stamps his feet in frustration when he or a teammate makes an error, and celebrates joyfully when a run is scored. I saw him play a game the other day in which his team was winning by several runs going into the final inning. Things didn't go too well in the field that last inning. There were several errors, and the opposing team scored enough runs to make it a one run ball game. Trevor was hit in the mouth with an errant throw, and got a fat lip. After the game, he walked off the field looking distressed. My wife and I were concerned that he was hurting from his mouth injury and asked him what was wrong. He responded, "I wish our team was good enough to blow somebody out for once!" What?! Kid, you just went 4 for 4 and scored three runs! Your team won the game by one run! You have a busted lip that is getting fatter by the moment, and all you can think about is how sloppy the fielding was in the last inning? That's how it goes when you love the game. But as much as I enjoy watching him play, sometimes deep down I feel a sense of melancholy. Because I know he loves to play, and that means someday baseball will break his heart, too.

John Kruk, the fine National League hitter during the 1990s, once said, "I'm not an athlete, I'm a ballplayer." Kruk wasn't putting himself down or being modest, and he had it right. An athlete is something you are based on God-given talent enhanced by hard work and training. A ballplayer is something you can become whether you're a gifted athlete or not, and you can really only become one if you love the game. To be called a "ballplayer" is a badge of honor. And you can't get it just by being a gifted athlete, you have to earn it. You earn it by ignoring a busted lip and hoping you soon get another chance to catch the ball before it hits you in the face, or by staying in the game after hurting you leg sliding into second base, in a game that means nothing to anyone except to you and the other guys playing it. You earn it by showing up an hour early for practice on a hot and muggy Alabama afternoon when everyone else is at the pool or staying inside under the air conditioner, or by coming out to play on a cold and drizzly Oregon spring day when most people haven't even begun to think about baseball. You earn it by coming back the next game after striking out three times the day before, eager for a chance at redemption, or by keeping your head up and holding back the tears while walking off the field after giving up the winning hit in a tightly contested game you know you should have won. Most of all, you earn it by spending that last year on the bench, trying to squeeze in one last year of competition when everyone else is telling you that you're no longer good enough to be playing. Trying to hold on, for as long as you can, to that boyhood dream.

Yes, baseball will break your heart, most of all if you're a ballplayer. But it's worth it. The joy of the crack of the bat, the thrill of scoring a big run, the satisfaction of hitting the corner with a good fastball, the satisfying teamwork of a well-executed double play, the fun of being part of a team, all make the inevitable heartbreak worthwhile. The really wonderful thing, though, is that the game will always let you come back. Come back to a relaxed and enjoyable pickup game on a summer afternoon. Come back to the nostalgia of a minor league ballpark or the excitement and glamour of a big league game. Come back to the drama and history of a hard-fought World Series. Come back to the pleasure of a backyard barbeque with a game playing on the radio in the background. Come back to sitting around the television with your kids late at night (when you know they should already be in bed), watching a team claw back from a three-run deficit in the ninth, and feeling that, for just that moment, whether that team succeeds or not is the most important thing in your world. Come back to the joy of teaching a child how to swing a bat or how to make the throw to first. Come back, most of all, to the memories of when you were a ballplayer, with an impossible dream that you didn't want to let die.