Baseball: My Escape

Baseball: My Escape

My entire life, all I needed was a father to be there for me. Don’t get me wrong, my mother was more than sufficient in raising me, but something was missing. I never had someone to play catch with me, I never had someone to teach me to shave; to teach me how to tie a tie knot; to be my role model. Instead, I had a father who was always in and out of my life before I could really adapt to his presence. He always cared, but caring isn’t always enough. He would tell me how much he loved me, but he would be a no-show for arranged visits. One day, however, he did show up, and he showed up with the gift of baseball. A black Wilson glove, with the Barry Larkin tag and replicated autograph fresh in the palm of it was his way of making me smile, and it worked.

Living with my mother and nobody else meant that when my mother had to work, it was my turn to watch her car drive down the block and tell myself, “don’t worry, she’ll be back tonight. I love you, Mommy, and I’ll be waiting for you to get back.” Then I was alone in an unfurnished one-bedroom apartment that was barely paid for. I had no friends in the building, so I did what any eight-year-old boy would do to entertain himself; I played baseball. I would pretend to be a professional ballplayer for the Florida Marlins. I played every position, and I was incredible. I can recall quite well the times I would pitch no-hitters and drive away in my Lamborghini to my two-hundred-room mansion. It was my illusion; my imagination; my escape.

I moved from town to town with my mother in effort to find a reasonable life; a life in which we could enjoy every day without worrying that our lights wouldn’t turn on the following morning; a life in which we could spend days in the mall without having to “window-shop.” Moving around is hard on adults, but I firmly believe it’s harder on the children. With my mother being a traveling nurse, we would move to places that enthusiastically welcomed her to town, while I was left looking for someone to play with; some way to feel less alone. I was always either at school or with my mother until, of course, she would have to leave for work. Again, I would break out my glove and escape.

So, finally, my mother ended her two-year traveling phase, and we returned to South Florida. I maintained contact with a few friends before leaving, so I had some people to come back to. It all got better when school started. I recognized a few faces from elementary school, and joined a close group of new friends. The first friend I made was Anthony; Anthony had a military-style haircut and was wearing overalls with a hockey jersey under. His face was covered in acne, but his warming smile put that aside, and we instantly got along. He was very athletic; we met in Varsity P.E. class, and played all the sports on the same team as each other. We hung out together outside of school, too, which was where Anthony informed me of his baseball league.

The Boys’ and Girls’ Club of Miami’s South Beach Unit participated in a youth baseball league and was fielding a team for children aged thirteen and over, and he invited me to check it out. I went in one day and spoke to Andy Diamond, the athletic director of the club, and he notified me of an upcoming practice and suggested I attend. I brought my glove, which was a newer Wilson glove, and went out to practice. The coach positioned me at third base, and I just remember what it was like to be on a team for the first time. For the first time, I was part of a team effort; my contributions were expected to help the team, and not just myself. There was a certain sense of importance that I felt in knowing that I finally made the step up from competing with my imagination to escaping reality with a group of teammates.

Baseball was my hobby from then on, not just my last resort for entertainment. I played many seasons after in the same league, but then I was introduced to the looming reality of high school baseball. I was too old to participate in the little league, for I was, obviously, no longer “little.” With much angst, I tried out for the team on day one, and I was invited back to the second day of tryouts. I was fortunate enough to make the roster, and I played Junior Varsity until my junior year.

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