January 2010

Writing for One Person

Whether you are writing a book, a short story or essay, or a blog post, it’s important to know who you’re writing for — and, ultimately, to remember that you are writing for yourself first and foremost. See my latest post on Freelance-Zone for more…

Making It vs Not Making It as a Writer

The difference between making it as a writer and not making it is simply sitting down and writing every day. See my recent guest post on Freelance-Zone.

Tips for Writing Personal Essays

The Urban Muse is a great blog for writers, and they recently posted a guest blog by author Meredith Resnick about writing personal essays called “Getting Personal with Essay Subjects.” This is recommended reading for anybody who is writing creative nonfiction stories.

It’s Only a Game

It’s Only a Game
by Mike O’Mary

My earliest memory of little league baseball is of losing—which is strange since I played on a winning team.

As an eight-year-old, I played for Ray’s Jewelers. I was primarily a bench player that season, and although our team won the championship, I cannot recall a single game. What I do recall is things like getting a snow cone after each game because our assistant coach, Coach Ray, operated a refreshment stand out of the back of his garage on the alley bordering St. Michael’s Field.

The following year, I was more involved in the team’s success—and its failures. Even so, I don’t remember many details about our first twelve games, all of which we won. At that point we were in first place, but Fultone Photo was right behind us at 11-1, and Schanz Plumbing was another game back at 10-2. Our last two games were against Schanz Plumbing on a Friday evening and Fultone Photo on a Sunday afternoon. A win in the first game meant we could do no worse than a tie for first. A win in the second meant another championship.

Our team was built around three players: brothers Marty and Stevie Mudd, and their cousin, Tommy Mudd. With the three Mudd cousins, we were solid up the middle, with Stevie on the mound, Tommy at second, and Marty in center.

Furthermore, the father of Marty and Stevie and the father of Tommy were twins who served jointly as our head coaches, and while they were fraternal twins rather than identical, I never figured out which coach was which father. I’m not entirely certain that Marty, Stevie and Tommy knew either.

Telling one Mudd coach from the other was difficult because they did almost everything together. They arrived at practices and games together; they made out the starting line up together; and they complained to umpires together. Everything was a joint decision, but they left it to Coach Ray to convey their decisions to the kids. Consequently, the players seldom saw either of the Mudd coaches up close.

When I played, I was usually in right field, and such was the case when we went up against Schanz Plumbing that Friday night. I don’t remember much about the early innings of that game either, but something happened late in the game that woke me from my preadolescent reverie and brought me into the world of baseball: a ball was hit in my direction.

At the time, we were winning by one. There was a man on first and two outs. If I caught the ball, the game was over. We would clinch a tie for first. If I missed it…well, there was no time to think about that.

I remember the sound of the bat. I remember coaches and players and parents rising and cheering for me to make the catch. I remember running in on the ball. And I remember the ball sailing over my head. It was the only fly ball hit in my direction all season, and I missed it by twenty feet. Conclusion: I couldn’t judge a fly ball. Result: We dropped into a first-place tie with Fultone Photo.

We huddled up after the loss. There were a few sniffles here and there–we were a team that was not used to losing–but our coaches refused to let us get down on ourselves. The Coaches Mudd and Coach Ray talked quietly while we kids looked on, then Coach Ray turned and talked to us. We still had another chance when we went head to head against Fultone Photo, he said.

The plan was to regroup with a vigorous practice on Saturday and be ready for the showdown on Sunday.

“It’s only a game,” said Coach Ray. “We’re bound to lose one once in a while–but only one, right?”

There was an unenthusiastic response, so Coach Ray repeated the question with bravado: “Right?”

“Right!” we all yelled.

“Okay,” said Coach Ray. “Now, it’s snow cones all around.” With that, we broke our huddle and sprinted to the snow cone stand.

The Saturday practice went well. Concluding that I was perhaps a liability in the outfield, the coaches had me practice with the infielders that day where I promptly amazed them and myself with my ability to scoop up ground balls and fire them to first. After witnessing my newfound prowess on the field, the Coaches Mudd called Coach Ray over and discussed something. Afterwards, Coach Ray ordered everybody off the field except the first baseman and me. Coach Ray then hit ten sharp grounders to me at short. Moving left, moving right, charging in…I fielded every ball cleanly and finished with a chest-high throw to first. Coach Ray remarked for everyone to hear, “Is this the same guy we saw yesterday?” Then the coaches huddled up again. When they were done talking, I had been designated the starting shortstop for the final game of the season.

I’d like to give you a big buildup here. I’d like to tell you that I lay awake long into the night that night, visualizing the big play in the big game, or that I had butterflies in my stomach so bad that I almost puked up my Spaghetti-O lunch before going to the game. But that wasn’t the case.

Instead, I did the usual things that Sunday before the big game. I left a little early so I’d have time to stop and visit Mr. and Mrs. Sheehan. They had no children of their own, and they kind of took an interest in me after my parents got divorced. They insisted I stop by before each game, and I was more than willing since Mr. Sheehan usually bid me farewell by saying, “Here’s two bits for after the game.” After that, I would linger at the corner of Texas and Ash Streets–right across from Debbie Howell’s house–to suck nectar from the honeysuckle flowers there while secretly hoping that Debbie would see me and come out and admire my uniform.

I should have been nervous though. The night before the game, my mom got a call from Coach Ray’s wife informing us that Sunday’s game had been moved to Diamond One. That was a very big deal. Diamond One was normally reserved for the major leaguers the 10-, 11- and 12-year-olds. Accordingly, Diamond One had many amenities that Diamond Two did not. Diamond One had enclosed dugouts; Diamond Two had benches surrounded by chain-link fence. Diamond One had permanent bleachers; Diamond Two had no seating other than the folding lawn chairs that parents brought with them. Diamond One had a building with restrooms and a water fountain; the only running water on Diamond Two was in the right field corner where Beargrass Creek sometimes spilled out of its banks. Diamond One had a fenced in outfield; left field on Diamond Two stretched all the way to the stone wall around St. Michael’s Cemetery–some 300 yards away. Diamond One had an announcer’s booth and a public address system; on Diamond Two, there was just a lot of yelling mostly by irate parents.

So all in all, had I known any better, I’d have been nervous. But it was all lost on me. I was oblivious to the pressure. There was no pregame drama for me. I was more interested in honeysuckle and Debbie Howell.

As it turned out, I was not much of a factor against Fultone Photo. Early in the game, a ball was hit to me at short. I was all set to field it when the ball took a bad hop, bounced over my glove and hit me in the eye. The batter reached base on the error, and after play was stopped, Coach Ray came out to look at my eye. It was already turning black, so he made a substitution.

I watched the rest of the game from the bench. I was very happy when the next batter struck out. My error did not cost us a run. I was also somewhat relieved to be out of the big game. In the years ahead, I would become a pretty good player, but that year, I was still learning the fundamentals and did not have much confidence or ability. The fate of Ray’s Jewelers was better off in the hands of the Mudd cousins.

Things were looking good, too. When our team took the field in the bottom of the ninth, we were leading 2-1. Three more outs and we would be minor league champs for the second year in a row.

Stevie Mudd was on the mound. He got the first two batters out, but he walked the third batter on four straight pitches, then threw a wild pitch to the next batter. The tying run was now on second and the winning run was at the plate.

The Coaches Mudd called timeout and talked. Next thing we knew, Coach Ray was on his way to the mound. After talking to Stevie for a moment, Coach Ray made a pitching change: He brought Tommy Mudd to the mound and moved Stevie Mudd to second.

Tommy warmed up. It looked like we were in good shape now. Tommy had been our backup pitcher throughout the season. He had a good arm, and he only had to get one batter out.

Play resumed with the count 1-0 on the batter. Tommy threw the first pitch. A ball. The count was now 2-0. The coaches urged Tommy to take his time. Get the ball over the plate. Tommy stepped off the mound. He looked about as nervous and worried as a nine-year-old can look. He stepped back up and fired the next pitch. A swing and a miss. A 2-1 count. Tommy stepped off the mound again and rubbed the ball. He looked less worried now. He stepped back up and threw the next pitch. Another swing but this time contact. A little blooper right back toward the pitcher.

Tommy jumped up to make the play, but the ball was just out of reach over his head. It dropped to the ground between the pitcher’s mound and second base. Stevie Mudd moved to his right from second base to cut it off. Stevie prepared to backhand the ball behind second, but just then, the ball hit the bag, bounced over Stevie’s glove and trickled on into the outfield.

Marty Mudd was now charging in from center field. By the time he got to the ball, the base runner had scored and the batter was rounding second. The play was at third. Marty scooped up the ball and threw on the run. The throw was on line, but low, in the dirt. The third baseman made a swipe at it but missed and the ball scooted by him to the fence. The batter rounded third and headed home. Our catcher, who had been backing up the third baseman, picked up the ball at the fence and threw to Tommy Mudd, who was now covering home. But the throw was high and wide right. The batter scored. We had lost the game 3-2. Fultone Photo was the league champion.

The other team began to celebrate as our players slowly made their way off the playing field. It had happened so fast, we couldn’t believe the game–the season–was over. The coaches sent us over to shake hands with the winning team, then we had to hurry up and leave Diamond One. The big kids were taking the field. It was time for the major league game.

We huddled up outside the fence on the third base side of Diamond One. With the Coaches Mudd looking on sympathetically, Coach Ray offered words of encouragement. We had played well, he said. Not only in this, our final game, but all season long. He told us how proud of us the coaching staff was. The Coaches Mudd nodded in agreement. But most of us did not see them nod, nor did we hear Coach Ray’s words. We were all crying. We were learning what it meant to lose.

Coach Ray had a few more things to say, then he sent us off to get snow cones one last time. But this time, nobody sprinted. Players shuffled off in the direction of the snow cone stand, most with heads down and gloves dangling sadly at their sides. Some of my teammates were comforted by parents. Others walked alone or in pairs. All around us were other players and other parents, going to and from the snow cone stand, to and from the ball field. There were other games to be won and lost that day, other kids to cheer and console.

I was still crying a little, but not as much as some of the kids. I remember Stevie and Tommy crying particularly hard. And I remember their fathers looking particularly distressed. The coaches would have liked to have shielded us from the pain of losing, but we could not be shielded forever. We had enjoyed our share of success; now it was time to learn a little about growing up. We would eventually learn not to cry after every loss. But we would always cry after the big ones.

Afterwards, I was walking toward the snow cone stand sort of thinking about these things, but not really comprehending yet when I felt a pat on the back. It was Coach Ray. He walked toward the snow cone stand with me, trying to cheer me up. He told me there would be future games, and that someday, I’d grow up and have kids of my own and I’d look back on this and it would seem like a small thing.

The he stopped me and turned me toward him. “And always remember,” he said; “it’s only a game.”

I nodded and wiped my eyes. He gave me another pat on the back, then he had to move on. He had a snow cone stand to run. I looked up at him, and Coach Ray managed a smile of encouragement. But in his eyes, I saw tears.