SL Essay

by Jamie Reidy

I fell for baseball like I did ice cream: instantly and irretrievably.

Like so many fathers, Rich Reidy encouraged his eldest son’s devotion to America’s pastime, playing endless games of catch. At first we tossed the ball in our tiny side yard penned in width-wise by the driveway and the neighbor’s property and length-wise by a willow tree and a Japanese maple. Later, when my throwing arm necessitated more space, we relocated to the much longer backyard.

That move north seemed like graduation day to me. Soon after, a pitch-back arrived, its silver tubing and a white net marking a highlight in the summer between third and fourth grade. Within a few weeks, I’d tattered the red ribbon that marked its strike zone. That winter, very my father and worked on my windup every night… in the kitchen. I am fairly certain that Nolan Ryan did not hone his delivery on linoleum in the area between the fridge and kitchen table. Why we didn’t practice in the living room or downstairs, I dunno. But Dad knew exactly what he wanted to see: a high leg kick and an exaggerated follow through. I thrived on every minute of that time with him, and I eventually got the mechanics down pat.

Our efforts paid off, as I established myself as my Little League team’s “back innings” guy. The Giants dominated the regular season, losing only once. In the championship game, we got the thrill of competing on “the big field,” a.k.a. where the boys in the Majors (11-12 year olds) played. I pitched the final three innings of the season, striking out the last batter. That prompted the first — and last — time my teammates ever carried me off a field.

Our manager Mr. Flannery invited us all to Carvel for a celebratory treat. A championship and Carvel? I felt like life could not get any better. Nearly forty years later, I realize that assessment was probably right.

Mom missed the game, staying home with my toddler brother and newborn sister. So, only Dad and I rolled to the Giants’ championship festivities. As we pulled into the shopping center parking lot, I spotted several of my teammates already inside Carvel. My old man had barely put his Ford LTD into park when I undid my seatbelt and flew out the door.

As I sprinted from our parking spot, I failed to look one way, let alone both ways.

“JAY-MEE!”

The urgency in my father’s voice brought me to an immediate stop. But that didn’t matter; the oncoming car wasn’t going to be able to halt in time. I braced for the impact.

Luckily, no one had parked in the spots to the driver’s right, so he screeched his brakes and yanked his car to the side, narrowly avoiding me.

I gave the driver a weak wave of thanks. He wagged an angry finger at me. Inside Carvel’s huge windows, the other Giants and their parents had seen the near accident. They smiled with palpable relief. So did I.

Rich Reidy was not smiling. In fact, he had reached DEFCON 5 faster than I’d ever seen before. He stomped over and grabbed my arm at the biceps.

“You never looked!”

I nodded in agreement as my body started trembling from the scare of the near death experience.

“Forget Carvel! Get in the car!”

Wait. Huh? I mean, sure, OK, I forgot the cardinal rule for crossing the street, but c’mon, cut me some slack: I just got carried off the field!

“But Dad, all the guys are —“

“In the car!”

Cue tears. I wished that car had hit me. In our car, I slumped down into the passenger seat. As my father sped us away, all my teammates stared, mouths agape, pointing. Where’s Jamie going?

At home, I ran crying into my room and shut the door. Mom assumed we’d lost the championship game.

I couldn’t believe Dad purposely ruined the best night of my life. I swore I’d never forgive him. It took years for me to I see I’d completely misinterpreted his reaction.

Rich Reidy watched helplessly as his firstborn ran into the path of an oncoming car. I don’t have any kids, but friends of mine with children assure me that there is no bigger fear for a parent. In the Carvel parking lot, Dad’s face wasn’t flushed with anger; it was ashen with fright. He just didn’t know how to express that panic.

A week later I arrived back at the big field for the league All-Star game. Our manager had actually skippered the team that the Giants had just defeated to win the title. In the dugout he turned to me and said, as if it had been the easiest decision of his life, “Jamie, you’re my starting pitcher.”

On the mound, I felt out of sorts. I hit the leadoff man with a pitch. I walked the next boy. Then I beaned the batter after that. Quite a start: no strikes, three men on, no outs. I finally threw a strike, which the cleanup man lined up the middle, right at me.

I managed to catch the ball inches from my nose, and quickly pivoted toward third base, trying to catch the runner leaning the wrong way. He dove back to the bag, and I checked the other two bases — everybody safe.

The next boy up hit a screaming line drive right back at me. Again, I made the catch in an act of self-preservation, before repeating the drill of checking all the runners. Two outs.

The sixth batter rocketed a line drive up the middle that made his teammates’ efforts look feeble. I made like Neo in The Matrix, bending backwards at an impossible angle to get out of the way while blindly throwing my gloved hand up. Somehow, the ball stuck in the webbing.

Our cheering section roared and my All-Star teammates pounded me with congratulations in front of the dugout. I don’t remember if we won the game or not. I only recall that top half of the first inning.

And my father’s post-game reaction.

Dad practically bounced to the car, he was so pumped up. “Wow! Did you shut them down in that first inning or what?!”

I looked at him, dubious, wondering if he’d been sneaking beers beneath the stands. I hadn’t shut anybody down. The only three batters to whom I’d managed to throw a strike nearly killed me with line drives up the middle, the surefire indication that they’d timed the pitches perfectly. But he continued.

“Everybody kept asking me, ‘How’d he make that catch?!’” Which time? I thought. “And then they couldn’t believe you had the sense to check the runners back to their bases!” OK, I had to admit that I’d been kinda impressed with that move the first time I did it. But by the third time? I mean, I was quite familiar by that time with what to do.

My father’s eyes glowed proudly. He began to speak, but then stopped. I knew he wanted to share something important. Maybe to apologize for the Carvel parking lot?

The moment passed without him saying a word. Finally, he threw an arm around my shoulder and squeezed me close. We walked to the car.

“Hey, All-Star, whaddaya say we get some Carvel?”

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Jamie Reidy, a former walk-on college wrestler and Army officer, is a Los Angeles-based author. His first book, Hard Sell: The Evolution of A Viagra Salesman, served as the basis for the movie “Love and Other Drugs” in which Jake Gyllenhaal played a character named “Jamie.” His latest book, Need One: A Lunatic’s Attempt to Attend 365 Games in 365 Days, is a collection of humorous and heartfelt essays about his father and him.