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I remember being 11 years old playing Little League Baseball for Mike Brantley and the Oakland Braves. We played on a diamond right next the town pool with a corn field behind it in right field. If I remember correctly we played a couple of years without a fence on this park. Occasionally a big hitter like Bert Agan or Jason Zeien would launch one and it would land in the corn field. But for small guys like myself, a home run would only happen if the center fielder would over run a line drive or let a hard-hit ground ball go through his legs.
After spending a few years on the bench and watching the older guys play I finally became the older guy on the team. I was one of the better players who pitched, played shortstop and batted lead-off. A late afternoon game continues to stick out to me to this day. We were losing a game going into the bottom of the sixth inning. Two outs and a runner on base is the situation when I came to the plate. This is exact situation that I had pictured in my mind for years. The chance to be the hero and help my team win the game.
You see…I used to practice baseball by myself. Kind of awkward, right? But as a young kid I used to throw the ball up, hit and run the bases while picturing all different scenarios. I played the field too. Practiced pitching while throwing a baseball into a bale of hay that my dad brought home from Richard Clapp’s field down the road. You could say I had an active imagination. But I loved baseball and wanted to play it every day. My two younger brothers, Jared – 4 years younger and Joel – 8 years younger, were not ideal playmates for my “Field of Dreams.” In fact, I kind of liked playing by myself.
But on this day at the plate I did not hit a home run or even a double into the gap. I grounded out to the right side of the infield for an easy force out. Game over. As I ran down the base line and was called out by plate umpire Terry Herrington, I threw my helmet in anger towards the right field fence. In my mind the frustration and anger that I displayed was justified. I probably did not have the words as an almost adolescent to explain what I felt. But I am sure that if I did it would have sounded something like “I’m a competitor. I must come through in the clutch. This is what my teammates and coaches count on me for.” You know all the typical ego driven, self-absorbed athlete talk that kids and adults spew in times like this.
What happened next is what sticks with me even today. My Dad grabbed me right after we went through the post-game handshake and told me to get into his Nissan pickup truck. He did not say anything as we across the Coles – Douglas County line. The ride continued to be silent as we drove past our house. We drove north towards where our Aunt Mary lived.
It was the middle of July in East Central Illinois, which means that the entire landscape is filled with tens of thousands of acres of corn fields that are well over six to seven feet tall. All with tassels and in the middle of pollination season. On these country roads that are flat and straight, a driver can drive up to speeds of 55, 60 even 70 miles an hour and be without relative danger. That is of course if the environment around the drive cooperates. The number of deaths or injuries from drivers hitting a deer in the middle of the night is well documented. Just ask around a local community and everyone has a personal experience or knows someone who has hit a deer.
Deer were not the only danger on the roads, especially at this time of year. Motorists that travel on an east and west road who needed to cross a north and south road could be danger when the corn is too high to see left and right. This is a unique experience that not every driver can relate to unless you have lived in the Midwest. You can come to a complete stop at a stop sign look left and right and your view could still be obstructed by the corn on either side.
Eventually my father gets to one of these intersections on the north and south road that we were travelling. He told me to get out of the truck as he parked the truck on the side of the road. My father who is generally a laid-back personality rarely gets in a mood where he is stern. He prefers to tell stories, laugh and be mildly sarcastic towards my mother. But on this day told me to get out of the truck and he pointed to skid marks at an intersection of two roads.
He said, “Do you see that?”
I shook my head.
“Those are my skid marks where I had to slam on my breaks because Uncle Lowell pulled out in front of me. I was speeding to get your baseball game on time. I nearly got into an accident because of it and could have been hurt or worse.”
He paused.
“I do not want to ever see you throw your helmet or act that way ever again. There are much more important things in this world than losing a baseball game.”
We got in the truck and went home. And it was silent all the way home.
I wish I could report to my readers that after that moment that I turned into a model sportsman that was able to balance life and sports appropriately. In fact, there is enough evidence to show quite the opposite. However, for some reason this story is with me and continues to be told. I think it is important for me to tell. Sports were important in my development. Working with athletes is my profession today. However, it is important that we keep our priorities in order. Athletes, parents, coaches and school administrators should remember that the outcome of a game is never a good reason to become something you’re not.
Jonathan Hemingway is a National Evaluator for the OTRHoopsReport. Hemingway serves on the Board of Selectors for the Naismith Trophy. also He is also the publisher of CoachHemi.com. He has been involved in the community since 1996 as a coach, camp director and evaluator. You can reach him via email at JonathanHemingway@PeachStateBasketball.com and follow him on twitter @JLHemingwayPSB
