The Greatest, Part IV
A short story, concluded
This month, I’ve been rolling out installments of a short story called “The Greatest”, about a man whose long-forgotten childhood wish is unexpectedly fulfilled.
This is the conclusion of that story.
The White Sox.
Of all the teams in all the taxpayer-funded stadiums in all of the land, the one that offers me a chance to play in the bigs is the freakin’ White Sox?
I should be clear.
I’ve always hated the Chicago White Sox.
I get that that’s a bit weird. They’re not the Yankees or the Red Sox or the Dodgers or even the Astros—they’re not a team that typically elicits hatred from baseball fans. Heck, they’re not a team that usually elicits strong emotions of any kind. They suffered through an 88-year World Series drought without a fraction of the attention or sympathy that Boston’s similar drought got, and when did they break it, they were still stuck in the shadow of the more-lovable-loser Cubs across town.
They’re just not a team that many people think about, but through some quirk of age and timing and situation, they’ve always been an arch villain to me, a team populated by unlikable characters like Jack McDowell and Ozzie Guillen and Albert Belle. When I think of the Chicago White Sox, I think of the time that a father-son duo of hooligans rushed out of the stands and assaulted the Kansas City Royals’ first-base coach.
That all sounds pretty harsh, admittedly, so I’ll concede a few points here.
They’re a team with a smaller fanbase than their crosstown rivals, but a dedicated one. People go to Wrigleyville just to hang out; no one goes to Guaranteed Rate Field unless they really love baseball. The Chicago White Sox are a team with a long history of creative showmanship dating back to the Veeck family’s ownership years, a history that ranges from the sublime (baseball’s first “exploding scoreboard”) to the grotesque (the ill-fated “Disco Demolition Night”) to the surprisingly-applicable-in-my-situation (bringing retired great Minnie Miñoso back to make big-league plate appearances well into his 50s).
In the present, they’re a last-place team, still irritatingly stuck in the persistent shadow of their North Side rivals, and they’re trying to sell the city on shelling out hundreds of millions of dollars for another new ballpark.
Of course it was going to be the White Sox.
Maybe if I’d done things the right way—practiced and toiled and scrapped my whole life to get to the majors like everyone else there—I could complain that I wasn’t getting a call-up from an organization I find more personally palatable.
But, y’know, I didn’t.
I made a wish, waited 34 years, and it came true, and if that’s how it was going to come true, who was I to complain about it?
The only time I’d been inside a big-league clubhouse was the time I took a tour of the Diamondbacks’ ballpark on a weekend trip to Arizona, so I wasn’t sure what to expect on an actual gameday. A mid-season tilt between the White Sox and the Rockies—both firmly ensconced in last place in their divisions—wasn’t the sort of game that would normally draw much attention, but a healthy cluster of reporters was hovering inside the locker room when I arrived.
It was only when they thronged me that I realized they were there for me.
“Garrett, you’re going to make your Major League debut tonight, are you nervous?”
“Well, you know, we’ve just gotta play them one day at a time.”
“You’re starting your Major League career at an age when most players have already retired, what are you hoping to get out of this?”
“I’m just hoping that I can help the ballclub.”
“You put up some staggering numbers in the Midwest League, but the White Sox have elected to bring you straight to the majors without any stops at their minor league affiliates. Are you concerned about making such a large leap in competition?”
“I just want to give it my best shot, and the good lord willing, things will work out. Also, hey, the Midwest League might not be an affiliated minor league, but there’s some real talented players down there. Actually, my teammate Ryan Figueroa—”
“Garrett, I spoke to one of your new teammates earlier today, and he dismissed this move as a ‘dumb stunt’ and suggested that the organization is doing it only as a cheap way to goose ticket sales instead of investing in the ballclub. He also said that you’ll be taking playing time away from—quote—‘real ballplayers’ to—quote–‘play old-man fantasy camp’. How do you respond to that?”
I was briefly stunned into silence.
I’d had some concerns that my major league debut might not be welcomed with open arms, but I didn’t expect such a full-throated denunciation. Did all of my new teammates feel this way? Was I going to be ostracized for whatever length of time I spent here?
“Well, I guess I’d tell him that I looked into the real old-man fantasy camps, and they were way too expensive, so I had to do this instead.”
A small round of laughter rose up from the crowd of reporters. Whew.
“But really, I’d say that I feel very lucky to be here. Some people are blessed with natural talent, and some people have to work and scrap and toil to make it to the majors. Everyone who makes it had to be lucky, too, because there are plenty of players out there with talent and drive and motivation who never make it. In my brief time playing in the Midwest League, I played with and against guys who could absolutely be playing in the majors with a little bit of luck. And you know, maybe bringing me here is a stunt. I don’t know. You’d have to ask the front office, because I sure didn’t. When someone offers you the chance to play in The Show, you don’t question their motivations. You just say yes, and then you go out there and give it your all. That’s what I plan to do tonight.”
I was seething as I went out to the bullpen to warm up. Whoever gave that quote was a real asshole—and what’s worse, he was right. I shouldn’t be here. The only reason I had gotten this chance was because the White Sox were a moribund team who needed to stir up a little excitement. I wasn’t a ‘real ballplayer’, no matter how well I’d played so far.
But what was it accomplishing to say it out loud?
“Hey, save some for the game,” the catcher said, having caught a few angry fastballs in a row. “You gotta pace yourself out here.”
Brian: sup fellas Mike: not much Chris: think I’m gonna make tacos tonight Jeff: hell yeah Brian: great idea Mike: love tacos Brian: I think I’m gonna check out that new X-Men show Mike: oh yeah I heard that was good Danny: I’m meeting Matt for beers tonight Chris: Matt! Tell him I said hey Jeff: love that dude Danny: oh also I think Garrett is making his major league debut tonight? Mike: is that tonight? Chris: Garrett who Chris: I don’t know any Garretts Brian: I already pressed play on the X-Men show Brian: and I can’t find the remote so I think I’m just gonna watch this Garrett: motherfuckers I know you are all here Garrett: I can see your Instagram stories you know Garrett: also thank you for coming tonight it means a lot to me Jeff: we wouldn’t miss it dude Brian: any time any of you dudes make your professional debut in a major league sport, I will attend Brian: just once per person though Brian: don't go pulling any Bo Jackson crap on me Chris: I am still making tacos tonight though Chris: if you buy a hot dog and a slice of pizza from the concession stand and wrap the hot dog in the pizza, that is a ballpark taco Danny: that’s just science Brian: honestly I’ve had worse tacos than that. It’ll play Mike: hey I read a stat online tonight, you’re going to be the oldest player ever to make his Major League debut Mike: breaking a record held by Satchel Paige Jeff: wow smh problematic Jeff: like, Satchel Paige was always good enough to play in the Major Leagues Jeff: he would’ve been an all-time MLB great Jeff: but he had to wait until 42 to play in MLB because of baseball’s color barrier Jeff: and you just had to wait because you were bad at baseball until you met a genie or whatever Brian: smh time for the backlash Mike: I always knew Garrett was problematic. I’ve been saying it Danny: I’m not going to boo him tonight but I am going to look stern and disapproving Danny: like that time Mike Pence went to the DMZ and frowned at North Korea Chris: does anyone else want pizza while I’m in line Danny: can you ask what the soup of the day is Chris: they don’t sell soup at ballparks, Danny Danny: well now I’m going to look stern and disapproving for two reasons Danny: I hope you’re happy with yourself, Garrett Garrett: I love you guys Mike: knock ‘em dead tonight, buddy Brian: kick some ass out there Chris: and just remember, if suddenly you discover that you can’t throw 100 mph fastballs again, you can always float in an eephus pitch just like your mother did back when she was a softball player Chris: a fact you will not be aware of until the exact moment you need to be aware of it, and then you will easily communicate with her about it even though she’s like 300 feet away in a loud, crowded stadium Chris: and even though you haven’t practiced an eephus pitch you will deliver it perfectly and strike out the other team’s cleanup hitter Garrett: this is Rookie of the Year (1993) again right Chris: there’s a lot of parallels
If you’d told me three months ago that I’d be toeing the rubber in a Major League game, I’d have thought you were crazy.
My life had been completely upended since that call from Carl the Birthday Angel; I’d taken a sabbatical from work, I’d spent weeks away from home, and I’d become a minor social media sensation.
Now, I was on the cusp of realizing a dream I’d given up on decades ago, the kind of dream that only a vanishingly-small number of people ever see come true.
And I wasn’t enjoying it.
… pitching tonight for the White Sox and making his Major League Baseball debut, number 74, Garret Patterson!
A nice, knowing cheer rose up from the crowd. Some of these people were here specifically to see me—people beyond my family and The Guys. I just hoped I didn’t get shelled. If I pitched badly tonight, that’d be it—they’d drop me as fast as they picked me up, and I’d end up a weird footnote, a bar trivia question, a piece of baseball esoterica like Eddie Gaedel or Moonlight Graham or John Paciorek.
I had to put it out of my head.
Colorado’s leadoff hitter was digging in, and the pitch clock was running. Through the PitchCom, my catcher called for a fastball. Just think about it and throw it, I thought. Think about a fastball, and you’ll throw a fastball. Fastball. Shouldn’t I throw a curveball? He’ll be expecting a first-pitch fastball. What about a slider? No, fastball. That’s what he called for. Shit, two seconds.
I let it rip, and—CRACK.
I spun to watch the ball soar majestically through the early-evening sky and land halfway up the bleachers in left-center. The crowd murmured the specific kind of low-grade discontent that registers when your team’s already down as you’re still settling into your seats. As the hitter trotted leisurely around the bases, the catcher arrived at the mound, patting me on the back with his mitt and handing me a fresh ball.
“Okay, well, you got that out of the way. You’re not throwing a shutout today, so the pressure’s off. Now just pitch, and don’t think too hard about it.” He started back toward home plate, and called over his shoulder. “I watched your tape, you can do this.”
Hey, he watched my tape.
The next hitter was already up, and there wasn’t time to dwell on it. Fastball, the voice in my earpiece said. The pre-recorded messages on the PitchCom didn’t leave room for editorializing in the moment, but the cock of the catcher’s head as I looked in gave his intent.
Just throw it.
I threw it, and he swung and missed.
Curveball. Swing and a miss.
Fastball. A sharp grounder to third, cleanly fielded. One out.
Okay. I can do this.
I made it 6-⅔ innings, giving up five hits, three walks and two earned runs. That’s technically a ‘quality start’, the lowest baseline for statistical sufficiency as a pitcher. At the plate, I went 1-4 with a double and a run scored, and though I didn’t get the decision, the Sox won 5-4.
I hadn’t looked like the greatest baseball player in the world tonight, but I had looked like a Major League Baseball player, and that was good enough to keep me on the team a little bit longer.
Mike: okay so when do you start getting sponsorship deals Mike: you’re big-time now, I’m going to be disappointed if you don’t sell out Brian: do baseball players get shoe deals Brian: I feel like some have, right? Mike: Ken Griffey, Jr. had a shoe Mike: I wanted that shoe so bad Brian: Nike could make a special-edition white Air Monarch for you Brian: you know, because you’re an old dad Garrett: I must remind you that I am in the middle of the age distribution for this group chat Brian: yes but have you also considered that we are all old Garrett: hmm good point Danny: checkmate, libs Jeff: you’re already with the White Sox, they could probably connect you with the ad people at Nugenix Jeff: “Nugenix extra-strength, for when you didn’t start out as Frank Thomas” Mike: Werther’s Originals Sport Mike: they’re like Werther’s Originals, but with electrolytes Jeff: I would buy those Brian: yeah that actually sounds good Chris: I think Prilosec OTC would be a natural sponsorship fit for someone your age Chris: please do not connect this statement to my having eating a hot dog wrapped in a slice of pizza earlier tonight Chris: those two things are unrelated and correlation does not equal causation Brian: hey Chris are you coming out to the bar tonight Chris: no thank you Chris: I am not well Garrett: I think it’s a bit early to be talking sponsorships Jeff: nonsense, you’ve gotta strike while the iron is hot Jeff: not that I don’t expect you to have a long and storied major league career Jeff: but you should cash in quickly Garrett: I’m not just going to endorse old man products though Danny: what about Subway Danny: “Subway: I Don’t Know How I Ended Up Here Either” Danny: it’s not as zingy as Eat Fresh but it does capture the vibe of both your baseball career and eating at Subway Garrett: I am the BMT on Italian Herb of baseball Danny: Bigger, Meatier, Talentedatbaseballer Chris: okay but seriously do any of you guys have Prilosec back at the hotel Chris: I don’t want to say that it’s an emergency per se but if I do die please avenge my death
I hadn’t set the league on fire, but I was doing pretty good, all things considered.
A month and a half into my Major League Baseball career, I was 4-1 with a 2.88 ERA and a healthy K-BB ratio, and was hitting .298 with 11 home runs. They were entirely respectable stats—especially for a 42-year-old rookie—and the crowds at my starts were getting bigger each time. It wasn’t quite Fernandomania or Linsanity, but the team’s gamble was paying off at the turnstile. We still weren’t a terribly good ballclub, though we were playing better since I’d joined, and there was a glimmer of enthusiasm around the ballpark.
I took the mound in front of a sellout crowd in my next start.
Sure, it was a crosstown clash against the Cubs, so the crowd wasn’t all behind me, and surely some of them were there just for the post-game fireworks, but it was as close as we’d come to a Big Game since I showed up.
“Alright, this next guy feasts on breaking balls, so don’t get cute,” the catcher said, having visited the mound more to give me a breather than to talk strategy.
He wasn’t going to mention the no-hitter, and neither was I.
“Just throw him your best heat, and he’s not gonna come around on it.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Hey, did you notice who’s here?”, he said, nodding toward the box seats.
“Oh shit, is that Marlins Man?”
“I guess this is officially a big game. First time he’s been at one of our games. Alright, let’s get to it. Remember, don’t get cute.”
His scouting report was right. Three high fastballs, and we were out of the inning. Eight innings, fourteen strikeouts, no hits. If I hadn’t hit Bellinger with a pitch in the first inning, I might be working on a perfect game. Then again, the sound of him taking a 103 mph fastball to the back might’ve been what kept the rest of the Cubs from digging in too much since. I also had two home runs on the night, putting me on pace to match Rick Wise for the best hitting performance during a no-hitter ever.
It had taken some time, but I was finally playing like The Greatest Baseball Player In The World, and there’d be no denying it once I closed this out. That’ll show ‘em.
Our side was retired quickly in the bottom of the eighth, and I ran back out to finish the job. The first batter struck out on three pitches.
Two outs away from a no-hitter.
The second batter popped up to right.
One out away.
The leadoff hitter dug back in, the only person standing between me and baseball immortality.
Slider, the PitchCom voice said.
I nodded, and delivered. He swung, and hit a sharp ground ball to the shortstop’s left, playable. There it is! As the shortstop stretched to scoop it, the ball took a strange hop, glanced off the tip of his glove, and dribbled into center field.
That’s an error. That’s an error.
I whipped around to face the scoreboard.
It’s got to be an error.
“The official ruling on the play is a hit,” the PA announcer intoned grimly to a chorus of boos from the crowd.
“BULLSHIT! That’s an error!” I shot a glare at the shortstop, who avoided eye contact. “That’s a goddamned error!”, I yelled at the catcher, who'd come back to the mound to calm me down.
“Alright, settle down. Sometimes they just don’t hop how you need them to,” he said. “Shake it off. You’ve pitched a great game, just get the final out and be proud of it.”
“It’s a fucking error,” I protested.
“Hey, man. He played that ball well. It hit a rock. That’s baseball.”
“They need to fire the goddamned grounds crew, then!”
“You need to get your head out of your ass and finish this game,” he growled.
“It’s an error,” I hissed.
I was still boiling as the next hitter dug in, and let a fastball tail up and right into his elbow-guard. Against the following hitter, I hung a curveball, and he ripped it down the line for a double, scoring the lead runner. That got me the hook, and I took out my frustrations on the dugout water cooler before disappearing to the clubhouse, not hanging around to watch our closer record the final out in a 7-1 victory.
I hung my head in my locker after the game, avoiding reporters. Overall, my line was still great: 8-⅔ innings, two hits, one earned run. But I was livid.
Once the clubhouse had cleared, the shortstop approached me.
“Hey, man. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said, not fully believing myself. “It took a weird hop. It’s not your fault.”
“Yeah, I mean, that, but also… I’m sorry for what I said back when you started. You pitched really well tonight. I wish I’d gotten to that ball for you.”
“Daddy, you played really good tonight!”, my daughter chirped on FaceTime after I’d gotten back to my hotel room.
“You guys should really be in bed by now,” I said.
I was glad they weren’t.
“Mom said we could stay up to watch your game,” my son said. “Did you know you had a Game Score of 91 tonight? That’s really good!”
“Oh, yeah?” I had no idea how Game Score was calculated, but he’d gotten really into baseball in the last few months, and had time to think about these sorts of things.
“That’s cool. I should’ve finished the game, though,” I grumbled. “I almost had a no-hitter, you know.”
“You won!”, he reminded me.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just could’ve done better.”
“Okay, goodnight, Daddy!”, my daughter added, unsubtly hinting that she was now fully ready for bed.
I tossed my phone on the bed and closed my eyes. I shouldn’t have thrown a freaking slider. I could’ve finished the game myself if I’d just brought the heat. A great player wouldn’t have relied on his infield to do it for him.
The phone rang again.
“Seriously, you guys need to be in bed by now.”
“Mr. Patterson?”
I sat up in bed.
“Yes?”
“Ah, good, it is you. These phone records aren’t always reliable.”
“Who is this?”
Mr. Patterson, I’m calling from the Wish Fulfillment Department…”
“... Carl?”
“No, Mr. Patterson, my name is Leo.”
“Oh. Do you know Carl?”
“This is a very large department, Mr. Patterson. We don’t all know each other.”
“Oh.”
“Anyways, I’m calling in regards to a wish you made some time ago, and—”
“Right, yeah, the birthday wish, it’s been going great, I’ve made the majors and I’m in preliminary talks with Subway about an endorsement deal—”
“No, Mr. Patterson.”
“Hm?”
“I’m not assigned to the Birthday Wish Division.”
“Oh. Wait, is this about a different wish?”
“I don’t have access to all of those records, Mr. Patterson, but what I do have is a case-file regarding a wish you made in July 2008, when you saw a shooting star in the sky and wished upon it.”
“Oh. Huh, I guess you guys work faster than the Birthday Division, huh?”
“It’s a matter of scale, Mr. Patterson. Lots of people make birthday wishes, and most of them do it every year. They have the highest volume of any wish department, more than Turkey Bones, more than Coins Thrown in Fountains, more than Eyelashes, Dandelions, Ladybugs, Clocks Showing 11:11, and—somewhat to my chagrin—more than Shooting Stars.”
“Don’t a lot of people wish on shooting stars? I mean, it’s a whole thing with Disney, and Disney fans are awfully dedicated.”
“People are far less successful at executing wishes on shooting stars than you might think. Light pollution is a big factor—you can’t wish on a star you can’t see—but also, there’s a lot of things people think are shooting stars that aren’t. Satellites, mostly. People think they’re wishing on a star, but it’s actually some StarLink space junk, and when it doesn’t come true, they lose faith in the concept and stop doing it altogether.”
“Oh.”
“Now, I don’t think that necessarily excuses the relative depth of Birthdays’ backlog—they have more staff than all of the other Divisions combined—but suffice it to say, the rest of us aren’t quite as far behind as they are.”
“Can I ask a personal question?”
“What’s that, Mr. Patterson?”
“Are you a biblically-accurate angel composed of wheels covered in eyes?”
I could hear a sigh on the other end of the line.
“No, Mr. Patterson. It’s only the Birthday boys that look like that.”
“Oh. Okay. Sorry if that was rude.”
“I am a giant ball of explosive super-hot gas.”
“You ate the ballpark taco too, huh?”
“What?”
“Nevermind, it’s just a thing a friend did when he was away from his wife for a weekend. So anyways—a second wish, that’s great, what did I wish for? You said 2008, I would’ve been in my mid-twenties by then, so I probably didn’t wish to be an astronaut or a Ninja Turtle or anything like that. Did I ask to be super-rich or to travel around the world or something? Oh god, I didn’t wish for anything that’s gonna cause problems at home, did I? I was single back then, but I’m married now.”
“No, Mr. Patterson, nothing like that. We try to keep our hands out of those sorts of wishes.”
“Okay. Whew.”
“You wished to be happy.”
“Huh. That’s awfully vague, isn’t it?”
“I’m not the one who made the wish, Mr. Patterson.”
“Well, I don’t know if it’s in your case file, but thanks to the birthday wish, I’m a Major League Baseball player now.”
“It’s not in the file, but I do play fantasy baseball.”
“Gotcha. Anyways, yeah, I’m on television every night, I’m playing in front of big crowds, I’m hitting home runs and striking out batters—it’s everything I dreamed of being when I was a kid.”
“That’s lovely, Mr. Patterson, I’m very glad to hear it.”
“Yeah, it’s great.”
“But are you happy?”
Shit. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask that.
“I thought I would be. You know, when you’re a kid, you dream that you’re going to be The Greatest some day. Maybe you’re going to be a baseball player, or maybe you’re going to be an artist or a rock star or a marine biologist or something. Whatever it is, you’re sure you’re going to be The Greatest one of those there ever was. You’re going to do amazing things and go amazing places and everyone’s going to love you, and that’s your vision of what being happy is, you know? That’s not the way it’s worked out, though. I’m doing stuff I couldn’t have possibly imagined doing just a few months ago, and all I can think about is how I should be doing even better, or how people are going to judge my performance, or how I’m not living up to a standard that I can’t even define. I thought this would make me happy, but it’s just making me miserable.”
“Wishes don’t always turn out the way people expect, Mr. Patterson.”
“I guess not.”
“I’m going to ask you this: what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I’ve had fun doing this, I guess, but I really just want to go back home and be with my family. But I’m getting to do things that most people can only dream of. How would it look if I just walked away? People would think I’m crazy.”
“And what if they do, Mr. Patterson?”
“Huh?”
“Greatness is a difficult concept, Mr. Patterson. It’s subject to the interpretations of others, except that those others will never fully agree on one interpretation. LeBron James has had one of the most remarkable athletic careers that anyone has ever had, and you can’t have a conversation about that without someone butting in to say that someone else was actually better. You can drive yourself mad worrying about greatness, or you can simply do the best you can at the things that give you satisfaction and not worry about what anyone else thinks. Only you have the power to define what makes you happy. Recognizing that? That’s real greatness.”
“Damn.”
“Pretty good, right?”
“You’re very wise.”
“It helps when you view the world from far above. Gives you perspective.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“Well, I don’t want to sound like one of those Birthday boys, but I think you’ve already got everything you need. You’ve just got to decide what makes you happy.”
“Alright, keep your head in between your feet. Your back knee, back hip and head should be in a line. Keep your head down, and your eye on the ball.”
“This is a lot to keep track of, Dad.”
“I know, but you’ll get it. Alright, you ready?”
“Yeah.”
I tapped the start button.
WHOOSH. THWUP.
“Eye on the ball, bud.”
WHOOSH. CLANK.
“Nice, good contact!”
WHOOSH. THWUP.
“Keep your head down.”
WHOOSH. PING.
“Ohhhh look at that one!”
WHOOSH. PING.
“He’s belting now!”
WHOOSH. PING.
“HE’S ON FIRE!”
“That’s basketball, Dad.”
“It counts here too!”
WHOOSH. CLANK.
“Foul, out of play, still good contact!”
WHOOSH. PING.
“SWUNG ON AND BELTED, DEEP TO LEFT, AWAAAAAAY BACK—THAT ONE IS GONE!”
The machine whirred to a stop.
“Awesome work, bud.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You want to do a little bit more, or you want to go see how the girls are doing at mini-golf?”
“I want to get ice cream.”
“Well, shoot, now so do I.”
“Excuse me, sir, but are you Garrett Patterson?”
A man and his son were standing outside an adjacent batting cage. I chuckled.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Man, you had a heck of a moment there, huh?” He turned to his son. “This guy played in the majors last year.”
“It was a fun little run, that’s for sure. Never thought I’d get that chance.”
“What happened there at the end?”
I shrugged.
“No one can play forever, y’know?”
“Would you sign a baseball for us?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks a bunch. Real pleasure meeting you.”
“Hey, you too.” I turned back to my son. “Alright, bud, you ready to go get that ice cream?”
“Yeah!”
As we stood in line at the snack bar, I could hear the man explaining to his son.
“That guy played for the White Sox last year. He was the oldest player to ever make his major league debut. Played for two months, and was playing real well. Came without one out of throwing a no-hitter. The next game, he comes out, hits a home run in his first at-bat, then pulls himself from the game. Retired on the spot. Never explained why. Just hung it up and went home.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yeah. But to play that well in your forties… you just think, man, if he’d started earlier, he could’ve been an all-time great.”
My son looked at me, his brow furrowed in concern.
“Does it bother you when people say that stuff, Dad?”
“Nah. I had fun playing baseball, but it wasn’t really my dream. Sure, it was something I’d daydream about, from time to time, but it wasn’t something I’d cared about enough to actually work for. If you love doing something, you should want to work at it. If you work hard at something and if you give it your very best shot, it doesn’t matter how good you end up. You can be proud of whatever you did do.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true.”
“I’m very wise, you know.”
“Hey, dad?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re the greatest.”
—Scott Hines (@actioncookbook)
I hope you’ve enjoyed this story, and thank you for supporting The Action Cookbook Newsletter.
For the record, this is *not* the big writing project I've been alluding to working on, but it was a fun way to work a few things out and get loose again. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Just couldn't resist getting some drive-by emotional terrorism in there at the end, could you?
This was all just so lovely, Scott. Truly a joy to read.