If I think back hard enough, I can still feel the stinging in my hands, hear the ringing in my ears.
Growing up in northwestern Pennsylvania, those attacks on your senses were something you became accustomed to if you played baseball at a competitive level. I graduated high school in 1997, on the very fringe of the movement to turn youth sports into a year-round, practice-til-you-drop affair.
Problem was, baseball was, at best, a third-tier affair at my high school. Between football and basketball, with a very successful track program thrown in, offseason time in the gymnasium was difficult to come by. For guys on the baseball team to get work in while the ground was littered with snow, it meant finding creative solutions.
In my town, that meant a couple of rather, let’s say ‘involved’ individuals rented out space in a warehouse in the more industrial section of town, purchased a couple of pitching machines, and put up indoor batting cages. Unlimited access to the facility and equipment cost about $20 a month, which, given the limited availability of places to hit and the generally miserable weather of the region, seemed a reasonable price.
Ergo, from late September through early February, my father and I would trudge off in the evenings and on the weekends, as often as four times a week.
Did I mention that the heat in this building would only be turned on if someone was in there using it? In the winter, we would be lucky to get the temperature up to 40 degrees by the time we’d finish. As I wasn’t a big fan of batting gloves, and using an aluminum bat, pitches off the end of the bat or in on my hands would carry the nasty reward of a sting that would rattle all the way up to my elbows. In an unintended benefit, I learned to lay off of stuff I couldn’t really handle.
My father would use nuanced little tricks with the machine to help me improve, though. He’d kick one foot of the tripod stand a quarter inch one direction or another, and completely change my sight line, forcing me to truly ‘see’ the ball and react. On occasion, a kick would adjust a little too much, and send me sprawling backwards, cursing. In reality, though, the work turned me from an excellent defensive player with a mediocre bat into a well-rounded player with the ability to compete at the next level.
Looking back, I generally enjoyed the work, because I loved the game, and I truly enjoyed it. I still do. However, from the time I was 13 to the time I graduated from high school, I didn’t give myself more than a week’s break from doing baseball related activities.
Couple that with the fact that I played for three different coaches in four years at the high school level, and by the time I started my senior year, I had already made the decision that I would be unlikely to pursue playing at the college level. I knew I’d never play beyond that. I wasn’t big enough, fast enough, or frankly, good enough. Had I been willing to do to the work, I’ve no doubt I could have played at many Division II or III schools. But, I was burned out.
In retrospect, I’m guessing that I mostly enjoyed the time with and approval of my father. A great deal of the time we spent together when at that age was around the game. Were I to go away to college and play, I wouldn’t even have had that, while still doing the year round work. It wasn’t worth it.
Now though, I hold on to the memories I had playing the game, and do sometimes regret not wanting to take the next step. However, throughout high school, I completely stayed away from even alcohol and tobacco use, as a condition of being able to play on the teams on which I played. At least a part of the reason I walked away from it was to afford myself the time to date, explore other interests, and yes, go to the occasional party once I reached college.
That’s why, 15 years later, I find myself questioning the wisdom of the ridiculously competitive and intensive nature of sports involving high school age children. Even as a teenager, there can be a great desire, albeit tacit, to please our parents, coaches, and other authority figures. It’s how kids end up burned out, in my opinion.
Unfortunately, there’s money and glory in discovering and developing the next LeBron James, or the next Alex Rodriguez. Ultimately, it’s a trend that is unlikely to reverse anytime in the near future, given that fact. Yet, for every story like that of David Freese, there are likely thousands of stories like mine. Ultimately, it’s a trend that is unlikely to reverse anytime in the near future, given that fact.
