Going home is the whole point of baseball.
Home is the place from which you start, where all the action occurs. Staring down the pitcher. Taking deep breaths. Trying to do the nigh impossible task of squaring up a ball with a round object, to paraphrase Pete Rose. If you’re one of the lucky ones, home is the place you celebrate a return while teammates cheer you on.
Starting at home, touching all the bases, and returning home doesn’t sound as hard in theory as it is in reality. So far, I’ve only completed the circuit once this season. Since my first at bat, reaching first base safely has alluded me, to great frustration. And therein lies a mystery. How is it that something that causes me such great frustration, something to which my mind will drift during walks or times of thinking or (especially) at 3 AM, can also be such a great source of joy?
Brandon was my teammate on the Cyclones last year and again on the Mountain Ducks this year. He’s a brilliant engineer who gave me a blue wristband before the first game. I wear it on my left forearm to cover some of my lumps. It looks cool.
Playing against the Springfield Mets, the Ducks were down one run heading into the last inning. With one out, Brandon walked up to the plate. His nine-pitch at bat, seven pitches with two strikes, included three foul balls and ended with a single back up the middle. I’m fairly certain he broke his bat in the process. Even so, Brandon, the tying run, was on first base.
The following hitter struck out on three pitches. Brandon, now with two outs, still on first, still the tying run.
Shane walked to the plate. Shane and I have been rotating time in right field. Shane is an incredibly patient hitter. I, on the other hand, am not. I’ll hack at most anything, which is why first base and I are in the middle of a long distance relationship. Shane was the perfect hitter to have at the plate in this situation.
On the first pitch, a strike, Brandon stole second. On the second pitch, which got past the catcher, Brandon took third. The third pitch was called strike two.
The Mountain Ducks were down to their last strike.
Shane fouled off the next fastball.
A fastball low evened the count 2 – 2.
Somehow, the 2 – 2 pitch, just a little high, went through the catcher’s mitt. All the way to the backstop.
Brandon sprinted toward home and crossed with a head-first slide — SAFE. He had completed the 360-foot adventure.
The game was tied.
Shane worked a walk, stole second, and TJ, the best centerfielder in the league, followed him with a walk. Jacob, the Ducks catcher, laced a single to right field and Shane took off, not missing a beat as he rounded third. A bang-bang play at the plate and Shane was called out.
The journey home is not always easy.
* * * * *
It has been an emotional week in the Bryan household.
Leah went home on Friday.
To make a really long story relatively short, when MSU cancelled in-person classes in the spring, Leah lived with my family much of the time. Her parents work overseas and Covid-19 prevented her from being able to go home at the end of the spring semester.
When it comes to board games, Leah is incredibly competitive, as am I. Somehow, her strategies almost always exceeded my own. I think not only does she have a photographic memory, but she has some kind of telekinetic power where she draws whatever card she needs or makes the exact move you were planning on making. I’ve lost a lot of board games in the last six months.
My only retaliation was a good jump scare, and even those she started to predict.
Leah attended my first game as a Mountain Duck and witnessed my hit and scored run. She congratulated me the next day, “Even though I don’t really understand the game, I saw you run home.”
It took less than an hour after she boarded her plane until I started missing her.
I dedicated Sunday’s game against the Springfield Mets to her, hoping to write a story that would make her side of the Atlantic Ocean proud.
I didn’t really have anything to do with it, but the 11-inning win against the Mets was pretty amazing. I think she would have celebrated.
* * * * *
Ethan Bryan also went Home last week.
The 16-year old sophomore at West County High School was heading home from baseball practice Wednesday night and was involved in a car accident.
Ethan is the same age as my younger daughter. I found his story by accident, and choked up reading his obituary and the words of his friends.
A good student, athlete, and musician.
A good teammate, who hustled and worked hard.
A polite young adult, who said his “sirs” and “ma’ams.”
“What I will always remember about Ethan is his ability to bring out the best in everyone around him,” said one of his teachers.
Ethan Bryan went Home last week, and he made the most of his short journey.
I’m honored to share his name.
* * * * *
I have no guarantee that I’ll ever get on base again. I might swing and miss at off-speed pitches for the remainder of my playing days, however long that might be. That’s just baseball. I’m grateful to have such a vivid memory of touching home in that first game. I actually threw my hands in the air just a few feet before I crossed the plate.
My dream of a barreled-up, gap-shot double might always remain just a dream.
Sometimes baseball is like that.
Sometimes Life is like that.
Going home is the whole point of baseball.
Going Home is the whole point of Life.
Make sure you celebrate the journey.
And keep dreaming, too.
