With runners on second and third, a thick-limbed kid strolls to
the plate. He takes a few confident, smooth practice swings and
steps into the box, ready to announce his presence with
authority.
He quickly gets into an 0-2 hole chasing high fastballs. Without
batting an eye, he rips the ball into the left-center gap with a
stand-up double. He stands on the bag with a smile and a shrug, as
if to say “no big deal man, I do this all the time.”
‘Atta boy, I whisper to myself. There’s my little
brother.
In the bottom of the inning he takes the mound, the man-child at
work. He throws harder than anyone else in the league, and
sometimes gets a little wild too. The other children know this, and
they’re scared.
Happy feet go dancing around in the batter’s box, and the
weaker hitters on the other team just try and throw their bats at
the ball, or pray they get walked. It doesn’t work. The
little turd, as I affectionately term him, is on today. Three
innings, no walks, no hits, six strikeouts.
It’s days like this, when I watch my little brother
dominate Little League, that I truly wish I were a kid again. I
fondly look back on the days when the only things I worried about
were … well, I didn’t worry about anything at all. I played
sports, watched cartoons, ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
and hot dogs.
Looking out on the baseball diamond, I see myself, but
it’s a different version, something more grand, more special.
It’s like I’m outside of myself, but more importantly,
outside of time. It’s 1993 all over again, Teenage Mutant
Ninja Turtles are totally radical, and I’m wearing a uniform
and stepping into the box ready to announce MY presence with
authority.
I was a helluva baseball player; same goes for my father and
brother … something genetic I suppose. I still have a pretty nice
swing. But I was never this good. My little runt of a brother is
actually anything but ““ he’s humongous and tall, but
certainly not lanky like most kids his age. He fills out his
uniform and then some. And he’s damn good. He’s so good
that he was playing on a 10-year-old All-Star team as an
8-year-old. Now he’s 11 and he dominates 12-year-olds the way
Shaq dominates the NBA.
Every time he cranks a home run or strikes out the side
I’m tempted to yell out, “Throw it down big man, throw
it down!” but Little League decorum wouldn’t allow for
that. I’ll let deadbeat dads scream at umpires instead. Way
more entertaining.
Things don’t always go his way: if he strikes out he goes
completely mental, pulls crybaby stuff that gets him benched by his
coaches. When he’s wild on the mound, it affects his hitting
and he goes into a downward spiral of shame.
Sometimes I want to yell at him to toughen up … but then I
remember he’s 11, still growing physically and emotionally,
and harsh words might send him on a slippery slope toward, I
don’t know, figure skating or something. Egads, the mere
possibility of watching him try and squeeze into a leotard …
I watch him with tremendous pride, but also a little jealousy. I
wish I could go out on that field again and just play. Hell,
sometimes I do. I challenged the runt to throw a fastball by me,
and then promptly smacked a home run that still hasn’t
landed: “Feel my wrath!” I snickered, as I took my
sweet time rounding the bases.
I’ve accepted the fact that those days are over”“ and
yet they’re not. Not as long as he’s playing. Because,
really, he’s just me in another dimension.
One day he’ll probably be able to strike me out on a whim,
but until that time comes I’ll continue depositing fastballs
over the wall and taunting him mercilessly. After all, that’s
my job; I’m the older brother. I’ve gotta get my shots
in while I can, before USC and Stanford come offering him
scholarships.
(Gary Adams, hint hint).
Congratulations to gymnastics for their yearlong dominance and
to women’s water polo for getting the best of their arch
rival. I was wrong. E-mail Colin at cyuhl@media.ucla.edu.