Diary of a Senior Season

quote:

Originally posted by bigjd39:
This post is from the first chapter. Please understand that these are rough, unedited drafts.

The end is a good place to start.
It was perfectly fitting that Dennis Raben should be representing the winning run in the bottom of the seventh with two outs. He had meant so much to the team all year long and you want your best player at the plate in that situation. With a runner on first, the score was Barron Collier, Naples 1, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Fort Lauderdale 0. It’s a regional semi-final; you win, or you go home crying.
You didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what the Saint Thomas faithful were thinking; Raben puts one over the right field fence, the place erupts, and we go home a winner.
If it was Mileski, or D.J, or Jesse in that spot, you’d just be looking for a hit or a walk, just something to keep the inning alive, something to keep the season alive. But this was Dennis Raben, the six foot two inch, left handed hitting first baseman who had a ticket to the University of Miami in his back pocket. Rated among the top 100 high school prospects by Baseball America, he was a sure bet to be picked in Major League Baseball’s June amateur draft. When he transferred to Saint Thomas for his senior year, he was determined to take his place among all the great athletes who had worn the navy and gold, or for that matter, were still wearing it.
At Fort Lauderdale Orioles Stadium, the wind had swept in from left and across the field towards right throughout the game. There was only one place you could hit it out-- right field.
I had a vision of a pitch, a belt high fastball a little bit in, the big swing, a loud dink when ball meets bat, the white speck lofting high into the grayish sky and then descending into the aluminum bleacher seats beyond the “Hooters” sign on the right field wall. The boys would explode from the dugout, jumping and howling in spontaneous ecstasy as big number 28 circled the bases, thrusting a victorious fist into the air. With a final leap Raben would land with both feet on home plate and the team would collapse in upon him, creating a writhing pile blue pinstripes. Parents, students, and teachers, unable to contain themselves, would spill over the railings, wanting to be part of the wild celebration. At Saint Thomas, that’s how it’s supposed to happen.
I looked at my son, John Jr., who was in the on deck circle, about fifteen feet from where I was standing. Adrenaline was pumping through his body knowing there was a chance he could get up with the game on the line. His downward warmup cuts were hard and furious as if he were beating some imaginary enemy. Between cuts he would shout, “Come on D Ray, get it done!”
I didn’t want John to make the last out of the game; I didn’t want it to end like that. Dennis gets the hit, two guys on, two out, trailing by one, last chance…no, please…and then the fear flowed through me; a shiver ran through my buttocks, my stomach knotted, and my mouth went so dry I began to gag. Please God, don’t let it end like this.
I looked to my wife Marie and my eight year old daughter Kelly standing to my right, and then to my friend Lee Young on my left, their eyes riveted on Dennis, they weren’t aware of my distress. I needed to drink something, anything, but saw only an empty Zephry Hills water bottle under my seat. I pulled off my Aquinas baseball cap and ran my hand through my hair and concentrated on breathing evenly.
A pitch, probably a little high, Dennis holds off but the blondie behind the plate shoots out her clenched fist, strike one. The shrieks of disgust are heaped upon Blondie like rotten tomatoes. She was bad all day and was hitting her peak at just the wrong time. Leading off the bottom of the seventh, all state shortstop Mike Marseco--who had conducted himself in best traditions of the game for as long as all in attendance had seen him play--was ejected after drawing a line in the dirt with the knob of his bat, clearly delineating where the out pitch had passed him--about a foot off the plate. While the 1-0 score had kept the collective tempers of the Saint Thomas crowd at bay, the ejection was the tipping point, causing a venomous flow of frustration that culminated with, “Why don’t you just go home and bake a cake!”
My right hamstring fluttered and then tightened into a full blown cramp. I stretched my leg onto the chair in front of me and bent over to try and stretch the cramp, but it wouldn’t let up.
My wife asked, “Are you okay?“
I answered with a question, “Is this supposed to be fun?”
A big swing and miss at a fastball. 0 and 2.
The cacophony of shouts “Come on D Ray!“ echoed in my head, sounding as if they were coming from a giant, empty chamber. My dizzied gaze searched the faces in the crowd. The Saint Thomas family, scattered by the over abundance of seats, were on their feet shouting, many with their hands clasped before them as if praying to alter the will God. It had worked on occasion and it was always a last resort. You never know.
I had heard once that fainting was a result of excessive and overwhelming stress, and I can tell you that I was just about there. A cramp gripped right below my left rib cage and as I bent to my right to stretch it out, my right side cramp. What the hell was happening to me?
Blondie somehow allowed the count to get to 3-2, which didn’t help my condition as I stopped breathing every time Dennis didn’t swing. I was certain Blondie would leap to center stage and ring Dennis up with a final and decisive called third strike--no matter where the pitch. I was convinced that she was engaged in a game that had nothing to do with what was happening in front of her, but instead, what was happening behind her.
As you get closer to where you want to go, you see the path clearly before you. Two outs, a 3-2 count, the runner on first moves with the pitch, the ball is hit deep into the gap, the runner comes all the way around to score and the game is tied. Your child comes to the plate with a runner on second and delivers the win with the most memorable hit of his baseball life. For a day, maybe two, he is the focus of a small corner of the high school baseball world, his name emblazed in big bold type across the top of the sports page. It is what every parent dreams of and what every player plays for; it is the rare moment of retribution for every defeat, for every hushed criticism, for every lingering doubt. You want it so bad that some would consider their soul an adequate trade.
With a flawless swing the ball lurched off Raben’s bat and the faithful let out an immediate roar that that tempered into a subdued hush as the centerfielder moved a few confident steps to his left to settle under the lazy fly ball. The last act of desperation were a few shouts of “drop it!” The catch was secure and it was over.
I turned to my wife, who had already began to cry, and said “Well, that’s that.”
I turned to Lee, shook his hand, and thanked him for coming. He would stay a few more minutes, and then make his way out of the stadium.
Your eyes can only capture so much, and your memory only what it decides to keep. John was lying flat on the ground in the on deck circle, the big number “10” on his back facing skyward, his head held in his hands to hide his face. Raben walked dejectedly towards the Raider dugout on the third base side with his head down, and Coach Hill at his side consoling him. For just a moment Raben’s anger at himself would cause him to repel consoling, but his dignity and humility would pervail as he would be hugged by the men and boys who were more than just baseball players, they were his friends.
Dee Mileski, mother of second baseman Greg, cried wholeheartedly as if someone she loved had died tragically before her. Most of the other parents carried a look of disbelief. We had beat so many great high school teams--two of them ranked # 1 nationally at the time we played them--and here was Baron Collier, a good team, but a team that would never get past the Nova Titans from Davie, a team we crushed earlier in the season.
As I’m faithful, I’m not prone to superstition. However, the most recent issue of Sports Illustrated ran an article ranking the best high school sports programs in the United States. Saint Thomas Aquinas was ranked third nationally, and number one in Flordia. The article was the talk of the school and a widely discussed topic among parents before the start of the game. The twi-light zone feel to the day’s events had roused my suspicions as the subject was no longer discussed after the first nine Saint Thomas hitters were retired in perfect order. The Sports Illustrated jinx? Yes, that was as good an explanation as any, especially after the first twenty Saint Thomas hitters were retired in perfect order by a pitcher who was by most accounts considered average.
John would rise from the ground and join his teammates as the team started forming an orderly precession along the third base line in anticipation of the customary post-game hand shakes. The Baron Collier team respectfully interrupted their celebration and began to form a line. When all were in place, the players passed by each other slower than what was usual, shaking hands and exchanging words. It’s a ritual made more difficult when a team is not accustomed to losing. Young men, well trained in the manners of dignity and respect, can handle such rituals admirably, as did our young men. Such displays of solid character can provoke as much parental pride and emotion as success or failure during the heat of the battle.
As the Raiders moved in unison to settle in a patch of leftfield grass where Coach Lawson would say his final words of the 2005 baseball season, and Baron Collier began to collect it’s belongings for their trip back to Naples, the STA parents converged into small groups scattered in the stands behind home plate exchanging handshakes, hugs, and uttering repetitively the phrase, “I can’t believe it’s over.”
Over the course of four years you form a bond with the families who congregate in the bleachers and support the team--and your son--no matter if their kid ever gets to play. At Saint Thomas you see a lot of that because the roster is big and the talent so plentiful. My wife and I were among the fortunate few who were able to hear their son’s name announced before every game, to see him run out to his position, to see him take his hacks at the plate, and to see him bask in the glory of victory. It was something I wanted for every kid who wore the Saint Thomas uniform, especially the kids of some of the finest people we had ever come to know. It just doesn’t work that way.
Maria and Albert Cruz were standing in the aisle a section over to our right. Danny and Susan Adkins were a few rows in front, and a few seats over from them, Theresa and Terry Polistina. John and Kristen Davis were climbing the steps towards Maria and Albert who were now joined by Jay and Carol Connelly and Ruthie Moncilovich. Dee Mileski was still crying in the front row, her husband Dave doing his best to console her.
My wife, teetering on the edge of tears, said, “Let’s go by Maria and Albert.”
I looked down at Kelly. At eight years old she didn’t allow the gravity of the moment to escape her tender emotions. She looked up at me through watery eyes and said, “Daddy, I can’t believe this is John’s last game.”
“Niether can I, Kelly.”