I mentioned a few posts ago that my son was born in April - and of course, life has been inside out, the world is upside down (if anybody can name the reference there, I'll buy you a Coke.)
This past weekend was one of the most trying in my life - Adam was fed, changed and slept plenty - but he was still pissed. Here my wife and I are, both educated adults with impressive career credentials, at the mercy of a 10 week old who can barely hold his head up.
It occurred to me at about 3:30 on Friday night/Saturday morning that there is only one other thing that has ever made me feel this inadequate, and surprisingly it's not something to do with girls. Even when I went through my fat phase in middle school, I still was able to talk to girls - they didn't intimidate me to the point where I wanted to curl up in a ball and hide. Only one thing ever did - Mike Stewart, Gio Pupo and the 1993 Thunderbird Little League Blue Jays.
For those of you who don't remember the structure of Little League, it goes as follows:
3rd Grade - First year of player pitch, all kids the same age
4th Grade - Second year of player pitch, all kids the same age
5th Grade - Tryouts, 5th Graders can play in a league with 6th Graders. Uh oh.
4th Grade was a glorious season. Led by led by yours truly, the lights out pitching and slick fielding of Panch Romero and sweet lefty swing of Lee Mezistrano, the 1992 Thunderbird Little League "Ted's" Expos went 13-3, won a league and city championship, and were invited to play in several summer tournaments typically reserved for all star teams. Naturally, when tryouts for Major's came around in the following spring, I was feeling pretty good.
That March, I received the call that every 11 year old dreams of. "Paul? This is Steve Condiotti. I'm going to be your coach for this season on the Marlins. See you at practice."
I had done it - but I knew I would. My god, I hit like .600 the year before, hit three home runs and we won multiple titles. The best part? They kept the core of that Expos team together - Panch and I were going to run this league!
Practices did nothing to dissuade that thought process - I was hitting, I got to pitch, I was playing 2nd base and Short. The schedule came out, and our first game was approaching. I could not wait.
I'll never forget getting to the Major's Field at Newport High School on the day of our first game. We showed up at 8:15 for 9:00 am game. We were serious. We were ready. But one problem - the other team wasn't there. 8:30, no team. 8:45, no team. We were really, really confused. Then it happened. at 8:55, a bunch of grown men emerged from the HIGH SCHOOL batting cage area. They had been taking BP in the cages. THE CAGES! ONE DUDE HAD A MUSTACHE.
Coach Steve gave a great pregame speech. "I feel good guys. You should too. We got a good pitcher starting for us. We got a good pitcher ready to close for us. Our offense looks good. Let's go get 'em!"
Nerves were normal. We were ready. Panch was on the hill to start. He gave up two hits, but managed to wiggle out of trouble with no damage. We're up! I'm hitting second. Let's get it.
Then Gio Pupo walked out to the mound. A tall, lanky lefty. Didn't look like he was throwing that hard. First pitch to the first batter - line drive to left field, base hit. Pfff, this guy isn't too good. Then something happened that is burned in my memory forever. As the leadoff hitter jogs to first base after a sure base hit, the left field, the kid with mustache, fields the ball and fires to first base. On the fly. Beats the runner by two steps. What. The. Hell.
I'm up. First pitch fastball, strike one. Second pitch fastball, ball one. Third pitch fastball fouled off, strike two. I had him timed. Next pitch he threw in the zone was getting hit. Gio kicked and delivered....but the ball was so far outside, I didn't even have to think twice. Ball two, live to fight another day, right? Wrong. About halfway to home, the ball broke down like nothing I'd ever seen before - strike three called, thanks for playing. A curve ball. A CURVE BALL????? What planet am I on?
I walked away shaking my head. Nothing I could do, great pitch. I'd be ready next time. But there wasn't a next time. Gio literally was perfect. And in Little League, three innings is the limit. So nine up, nine down, and Gio heads over to 1st base. THANK GOD. A new pitcher. Wait...it's the kid with the mustache. The guy who threw out a base runner at first base from LEFT FIELD!!!! Mike Stewart. This isn't good.
So here we go again. I'm up second, which means I get to watch. And by watch, this is what I mean...
This past weekend was one of the most trying in my life - Adam was fed, changed and slept plenty - but he was still pissed. Here my wife and I are, both educated adults with impressive career credentials, at the mercy of a 10 week old who can barely hold his head up.
It occurred to me at about 3:30 on Friday night/Saturday morning that there is only one other thing that has ever made me feel this inadequate, and surprisingly it's not something to do with girls. Even when I went through my fat phase in middle school, I still was able to talk to girls - they didn't intimidate me to the point where I wanted to curl up in a ball and hide. Only one thing ever did - Mike Stewart, Gio Pupo and the 1993 Thunderbird Little League Blue Jays.
For those of you who don't remember the structure of Little League, it goes as follows:
3rd Grade - First year of player pitch, all kids the same age
4th Grade - Second year of player pitch, all kids the same age
5th Grade - Tryouts, 5th Graders can play in a league with 6th Graders. Uh oh.
4th Grade was a glorious season. Led by led by yours truly, the lights out pitching and slick fielding of Panch Romero and sweet lefty swing of Lee Mezistrano, the 1992 Thunderbird Little League "Ted's" Expos went 13-3, won a league and city championship, and were invited to play in several summer tournaments typically reserved for all star teams. Naturally, when tryouts for Major's came around in the following spring, I was feeling pretty good.
That March, I received the call that every 11 year old dreams of. "Paul? This is Steve Condiotti. I'm going to be your coach for this season on the Marlins. See you at practice."
I had done it - but I knew I would. My god, I hit like .600 the year before, hit three home runs and we won multiple titles. The best part? They kept the core of that Expos team together - Panch and I were going to run this league!
Practices did nothing to dissuade that thought process - I was hitting, I got to pitch, I was playing 2nd base and Short. The schedule came out, and our first game was approaching. I could not wait.
I'll never forget getting to the Major's Field at Newport High School on the day of our first game. We showed up at 8:15 for 9:00 am game. We were serious. We were ready. But one problem - the other team wasn't there. 8:30, no team. 8:45, no team. We were really, really confused. Then it happened. at 8:55, a bunch of grown men emerged from the HIGH SCHOOL batting cage area. They had been taking BP in the cages. THE CAGES! ONE DUDE HAD A MUSTACHE.
Coach Steve gave a great pregame speech. "I feel good guys. You should too. We got a good pitcher starting for us. We got a good pitcher ready to close for us. Our offense looks good. Let's go get 'em!"
Nerves were normal. We were ready. Panch was on the hill to start. He gave up two hits, but managed to wiggle out of trouble with no damage. We're up! I'm hitting second. Let's get it.
Then Gio Pupo walked out to the mound. A tall, lanky lefty. Didn't look like he was throwing that hard. First pitch to the first batter - line drive to left field, base hit. Pfff, this guy isn't too good. Then something happened that is burned in my memory forever. As the leadoff hitter jogs to first base after a sure base hit, the left field, the kid with mustache, fields the ball and fires to first base. On the fly. Beats the runner by two steps. What. The. Hell.
I'm up. First pitch fastball, strike one. Second pitch fastball, ball one. Third pitch fastball fouled off, strike two. I had him timed. Next pitch he threw in the zone was getting hit. Gio kicked and delivered....but the ball was so far outside, I didn't even have to think twice. Ball two, live to fight another day, right? Wrong. About halfway to home, the ball broke down like nothing I'd ever seen before - strike three called, thanks for playing. A curve ball. A CURVE BALL????? What planet am I on?
I walked away shaking my head. Nothing I could do, great pitch. I'd be ready next time. But there wasn't a next time. Gio literally was perfect. And in Little League, three innings is the limit. So nine up, nine down, and Gio heads over to 1st base. THANK GOD. A new pitcher. Wait...it's the kid with the mustache. The guy who threw out a base runner at first base from LEFT FIELD!!!! Mike Stewart. This isn't good.
So here we go again. I'm up second, which means I get to watch. And by watch, this is what I mean...
Mike wasn't throwing curve balls. He was throwing straight Jet Fuel. GAS. Three straight heaters that I couldn't even see from the on deck circle, and I'm up. I'm terrified.
I stepped into the batter's box and dug in, but I might as well have been up there with a yellow whiffle ball bat. The second I looked out at Mike Stewart, the big lefty with the strangely handsome mustache, I knew I was beat. Worse, he knew I was beat. So what does he do? Toys with me. First pitch is inside. I was on the deck in an instant.
The rest of the at bat went something like this.
I slunk back to the dugout hoping nobody would say anything to me. They didn't, because they all knew they had to face Mike as well.
My day was done. I spent the next three innings on the bench, exactly where I wanted to be. The only constructive thing that happened while I sat on the bench was I came up with a plan for the next time I faced Mike. I was bunting.
So there it is - the only thing to make me feel more inept than a 12 year old throwing 120 mph from 46 feet away is my infant son. The good news is this - my season as an 11 year old gave way to my season as a 12 year old, and soon it was my turn to mess with the little 5th graders. So it passes. But the memory never fades, the feeling of utter failure remains forever ingrained.
I have no doubt that in the next few weeks, maybe even days, Adam will go through a rapid transformation and the memory of being rendered helpless by a 10 week old infant will become something we look back at and laugh, just as the memory of Mike Stewart throwing 184 MPH whit his eyes closed is now nothing more than a funny story.
Until then, I will do what I did as a terrified 11 year old. Bunt. Do whatever I can to survive. Besides, it's not like I can stay mad at this face for very long.
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