Kyle Massa: Jeter-esque (Nonfiction)

My Grampa's old house was the best place to watch baseball, because no matter what room you were in, you could always hear the Yankees game. For a while, the broadcast was narrated by the low bass of Jon Sterling. A few years later, Sterling went to the radio, and the reins were given to Michael Kay and his near-perfect non-regional dialect

"Going back, at the track, the wall, looking up...See ya! A long two run home run by Jorge Posada, and the Yankees lead two-to-on."

Though the announcers might've changed, the crowd never did. Even on TV, I could hear the Bleacher Creatures chanting players' names as the game started. Yankee fans have a sound all to their own they're louder than everybody else.

***

I liked the game of baseball from the first time I saw a pitch cross a plate. While some kids found its easy pace to be tedious, I found it somehow soothing, more conducive to thought. I became fascinated by the infinite statistics and match-ups. I often tried to guess what pitch was coming next, how the infield would be configured for a particular batter, what the managers might be thinking. If this guy gets on, how will they handle the next hitter? If they strike him out, will their pitcher come back out for the eighth? I had soon come to think of the game as athletic chess.

Every few weeks or so I’d watch a game over at my Grampa’s house. Carl Mueller was a man who had never thought much of himself, despite the fact that he’d lived an extraordinary life. My Grampa fathered two beautiful daughters, served in the Navy during World War II, then returned to the mainland to become the vice-president of a successful insurance company. Whenever my mother tried to compliment him for his accomplishments, he’d simply shrug and say, “Well, I don’t know about that.”

Grampa had a story for everything. There was the time his pants split during a church service, the time my aunt sprayed him with a hose while he was napping, the time he saw Babe Ruth hit three homers in one game. Those were the stories I liked best––the ones about the Yankees.

Grampa told me about Alfonso Soriano and his lethal blend of speed and power. There was Mariano Rivera, at that time already being hailed as the greatest closer in baseball. Veteran first baseman Tino Martinez was one of Grampa’s favorites; always good for a clutch hit, and he had a sure glove at first.

But among all the superstars on the Yankees, Derek Jeter quickly became my favorite. The iconic throw from the hole at short, the near-automatic 200-hit seasons, the leadership, the clutch play––he had it all, and on top of that, he was a nice guy. I’d never seen an athlete who was so successful and simultaneously so humble. He never even got upset when he failed. If he ever made a mistake, it was no big deal. He could just forget about one play and move on to the next, something I could never seem to do. The truth was, I didn’t just love Jeter.

I wanted to be Jeter.

***

Every morning I’d wake up and head out to the yard with a bat and a bag of baseballs in my hand, a number two Yankees jersey on my back. Any great batter needs a great stance, so I modeled mine after Jeter’s. I would start by holding a hand up to the imaginary umpire, calling time while I dug in. Then I would look out at the imaginary pitcher, trace two circles in the air with my bat and nod, letting everyone know that I was ready.

After mastering my technique, I proceeded to a new exercise: toss a ball up, then take a hack. Most of the time I’d miss, but those rare instances when I made contact were enough to keep me practicing. Soon, I’d gotten pretty good at that, so I tried a new trick: golfballs. I figured that if I could hit a golfball with a bat, I’d be able to hit a baseball with ease. This took a while too, but eventually I got a handle on it, and soon the Titleists were soaring over my backyard fence and into the woods.

But my practice didn’t translate to success on the field. Baseball was and is the most demanding sport I’ve ever played, not so much physically as it is mentally. A sport like basketball is much more instinctual; if you make a mistake, there’s no time to think about it––just run back on defense and make up for it. Baseball is far more cerebral, and at my age it was all too easy for me to get lost in my own thoughts. Make a mistake in baseball, and that’s too bad. You head back to the dugout with your tail between your legs, and you just think and think about it. You’ve got plenty of time to sit on the bench and ponder your failure––plenty of time in the field, too. You might not even get a chance to redeem yourself for another twenty, thirty minutes. And if you fail again? Think about it some more.

In the back of my mind, I began to realize that my love of watching baseball didn’t translate to a love of playing baseball. Maybe it was the pressure of being alone on the field against nine other guys who wanted to get me out, or maybe it was the constant failure so inherent in the game itself. For whatever reason––though I wouldn’t admit it to myself for many years––I wanted only to watch baseball, not play it.

***

It was a beautiful July night at the ball field down the road from my house. There’s something special about playing beneath the light of two monstrous, thousand watt banks. For those nine innings, you’re a big leaguer. The spotlight is on you, quite literally. I almost wanted the ball to disappear into the lights, just so I could lose it for a second and then track it down, like I’d seen Bernie Williams do on TV.

I was a freshman in high school, right on that awkward line between boyhood and manhood. Physically, I’d say I was more the latter; I was already nearer to six feet than most other guys on the team, and I was making a decent attempt at facial hair. But mentally, I was still an adolescent. Even the slightest mistake would send me into a state of permanent frustration. In a game built on failure, that mindset was dangerous.

The game started off well enough. We took a two-to-nothing lead on a two-run double, and our starter was looking un-hittable. I was playing right field and hitting seventh, and I’d managed to get through the season more or less on the strength of my own reluctance. That is, I rarely swung at any pitch. Despite my constant practice, I really wasn’t much of a hitter, and I had a terrible, terrible fear of striking out. However, I had decent speed and could make infield groundouts at least close, if not pick up a hit. Occasionally, I’d even get lucky enough to draw a walk. But making solid contact was still a rarity.

My first at-bat of the game was short and sweet. I dug in, asked the ump for time, then nodded to the pitcher, just like Derek Jeter. Three pitches, three called strikes, and that was that. I walked back to the dugout in a daze. No big deal, though. I did what Jeter would do, and I forgot about it.

My next at-bat didn’t come until much later. The opposing team had batted around for four runs, and we went quickly in order. The score stayed the same when I finally came up three innings later. I had no idea who the pitcher was, but he seemed to know me quite well. Everything was a strike, and it was clear that he wasn’t going to let me walk. I tried to pick up a hit, but only managed to embarrass myself by hacking at three breaking balls in succession. Time to sit down.

Now I was getting mad. I had never been an angry kid, but the frustration was building. The truth is, I had never lost my temper the way I was about to.

My third at-bat came in the 8th. We were down by two runs with men on second and third, two outs. Needless to say, we could blow the game wide open. It was up to me, in the perfect Jeter situation. Game on the line, my team needed me. I was going to get a hit.

First pitch: ball one. Alright, too low. Stay focused.

Second pitch: low again, ball two. Maybe I’ll get a walk, I thought naively, and it’ll all be up to someone else. Even stronger than my desire to get a hit was my desire not to strikeout––or more accurately, my desire not to fail.

Third pitch: strike, right down the middle. Alright, alright, not your pitch.

Fourth pitch: strike two, same spot. Why aren’t you swinging?

And then it came: the fifth pitch. This time I was ready. I watched it all the way in, swung, and...

...missed.

It was my third strikeout of the game, the kind of hat trick that you never want to get. As I walked off the field, I remember having an odd thought: Don’t do it. What did that mean? Who was I even talking to? Myself, I realized. But it was already too late.

I hoisted my bat and threw it as hard as I could at the backstop. All the frustration, all the anger, all the disappointment I’d been feeling during the game came out in that one moment.

In hind sight, it seems like nothing. Paul O’Neil had done far worse to water coolers in his day. And besides, I wasn’t a robot. Everyone gets angry. I was just a young kid, overcome with failure and embarrassment, and in a moment of weakness I made a mistake.

But right then and there, it wasn’t so easy to brush off. To a guy who wanted to be like Jeter, I’d done one of the most un-Jeterlike things imaginable. My dad was there to see it, and my mom. I knew instantly that I’d let them down, and let myself down. Most of all, I thought of Grampa, and what he would’ve said if he’d seen me throw that bat. Luckily, he wasn’t at the game. But what if he had been? He was the one who had introduced me to the Yankees, and to Derek Jeter. What would he have thought if he’d seen that bat go flying?

I remember walking to the bench with my face all red, tears tickling my eyes. My coach was the first to come out of the dugout, a big tall guy with a keg belly and cannonball biceps. The first thing he said was, “Go apologize to the ump.” I’ll never forget what he said next:

“That’s not you.”

That was the worst part of all. Not only was I not Jeter.

I wasn’t even me.

***

The lights were back on at the ball park a few weeks later. It was one of the last games of the season before playoffs, and a meaningless one at that; we’d been hovering near the top of our division for the entire season, and even if we lost out, we’d still make the playoffs.

Since my incident a few weeks prior, I’d scarcely touched a baseball bat, except during games. Even then it was with great reluctance, as if the bat might turn into a viper at any second. I continued to look for walks, but I found more strikeouts than anything. I didn’t really care anymore. I just wanted the season to be over.

It was a good game despite its meaninglessness. We traded runs back and forth each inning, made great plays on both sides. I’d even picked up a walk in my second at-bat, probably the first time I’d reached base in weeks.

Then came the ninth inning.

I suppose I should’ve expected that I’d come up in another clutch situation. If you watch enough baseball, you begin to realize that the baseball gods are cruel; they love it when the worst hitter comes up with the game on the line.

The score was knotted at seven, and I was on deck. It was alright, though. I wasn’t worried. Our number eight hitter, Tommy, was up (I’d been moved down to ninth in the order), and he was already three-for-three on the day. Josh was on third, poised to score. No worries. Tommy would get a hit, and none of the pressure would fall to me.

But instead, Tommy walked. Of course he walked. Of course it had to come down to me. I’d never actually believed in those baseball gods, but at that moment, I remember wondering if I was being punished by some higher being. It was all too similar to the game three weeks prior.

Where’s Derek Jeter? I thought. If he was here, he could pinch hit for me, and we would actually win this game.

I stepped into the batter’s box, so nervous that I forgot to get into my Jeter stance. Might as well get it over with quickly, I thought to myself. No reason to prolong the suffering.

With that thought in mind, I decided that I was going to swing at anything. Absolutely anything. I didn’t care how far outside it was, I didn’t care what pitch it was, I didn’t even care if it came at my head. If I was going to let the team down, I was at least going to get a few goddamn swings in while I was at it.

The first pitch was waist-high and slightly outside. Good enough. I swung, and suddenly I had a prophetic vision of the result: an ugly hack for strike one. Maybe some parents in the crowd would laugh. Two more of those and then I’d have to go sit and think about it. Oh well. At least it’ll be over.

But it wasn’t over.

I felt a shock go through the bat. The ball wasn’t in the catcher’s mitt––it was rolling through the infield. It had to be the lousiest little grounder I’d ever seen. It rolled––no, inched––across the infield grass to deep short. I took off, barely concentrating on putting one cleat in front of the other. My head was swiveled around over my left shoulder, my eyes fixed on that little white and red ball making its leisurely way to the dirt between second and third. The shortstop must’ve been playing up the middle, because he was running to his right, trying to make the backhand grab. I had no idea where the third baseman was. I suppose I should’ve been sprinting like mad in case someone got there and threw to first. But I wasn’t. I was mesmerized by that little white and red baseball.

The shortstop finally got his glove down, and I knew it was over. There was no way the baseball gods would allow such blasphemy as that. Me, getting a game winning hit? Impossible. His glove touched the dirt, he turned, and the throw––

There was no throw. The shortstop halted and glanced behind himself, his face all screwed up in disappointment. Did it get stuck in his glove? Then I noticed a little white and red bump in the outfield grass, placed in the perfect spot between the shortstop and left fielder. A baseball, I realized. The one I’d just hit.

It certainly wasn’t a Jeter-esque moment. I didn’t work the count, didn’t wait for my pitch, sure as hell didn’t get a neat liner into right field. My hit was a grounder to left that would’ve been fielded if the shortstop hadn’t been shaded just a few feet toward second.

You might call it the ugliest game winning hit you’ll ever see.

***

Fast forward a year, and I was playing baseball out on the diamond near my house with a few friends. I was still a Yankees fan––and still am, and always will be––but I no longer wore the Derek Jeter jersey. Jeter was still my favorite––and still is, and always will be––but I haven’t worn his jersey for a long, long time.

My friend John was pitching, and pitching well. I’d been playing with him ever since the early days, back when I was still hacking at golf balls in my backyard. He had a live fastball and a bizarre, twirling delivery that made it difficult to see the ball come out of his hand.

I stepped into the box and did a few half swings, not bothering to ask the imaginary ump for time. I didn’t do the little head nod anymore, either, only stood at the ready with knees partly bent.

John looked in at the imaginary catcher and shook off a few signs, then settled on one, readied up, and pitched. It was a speedy fastball, just like it always was with John.

I swung nice and easy, got the barrel out in front. There was a pleasant crack, and the ball went sailing toward the pink afternoon sun, off and away beyond the tree line that marked the edge of the field.

It was the farthest I’d ever hit a baseball. 

Kyle Massa is an undergraduate student currently residing in Ithaca, New York. He grew up in a small town called East Greenbush, just a short drive from Albany. His favorite literary genre include fantasy, science fiction, and horror, though he's also partial to a little non-fiction now and then.