My Wheelhouse

Baseball announcers rarely make it through a game without saying, “That pitch was in his wheelhouse.” I’m sure it has other meanings, but in baseball the “wheelhouse” is the area where a hitter’s swing of the bat has the most power. I’ve been told that in blogging, my wheelhouse is the story with a lesson (I think my wheelhouse is commenting on your posts). I haven’t done one of those posts in a while—I think I’m running out of stories. But I thought of one today and it involves baseball (but not a wheelhouse).

I played my first little league game when I was 12. The game couldn’t have started better. I was playing center field and the very first batter hit a ball over my head. I ran back as fast as I could. When I looked up, the ball seemed to be just sitting there in mid-air, waiting for me to catch it. I did. The next batter did almost the same thing, but the ball was more to my right. Again, I made the catch. My teammates and their parents were cheering like crazy. When I went to hit for the first time, I was nervous—it was my first at-bat in front of a crowd. I think adrenaline took over because I crushed the ball. I hit a homerun. As I scored I heard a parent ask “who is that kid?” and my mom proudly said, “He’s my son.” I was a hero to my team. But I knew that even when you try your hardest, sometimes you’re going to strike out. That’s just how it is. So I stayed humble, I didn’t need to learn a lesson about that, I already knew it. But fate was determined to teach me a lesson that day anyway.

The score was tied in the last inning. The other team had a runner on 2nd base and there was one out. The next batter hit a ground ball to me in center field. If I picked it up quickly and made a perfect throw to home plate, I might have gotten the runner out before he scored the winning run for the other team. I didn’t have a strong throwing arm, but I was going to try my best. Then the ball hit a rock (it was a school playground, not Fenway Park) and took a funny bounce. I missed it and the winning run scored. I felt awful that we lost.

After retrieving the ball, I was the last one to get to our team’s bench. As I got close, I could hear the grumbling about how I had lost the game for my team. And it wasn’t just the kids. The parents were making cracks too—that it was my fault we lost. My mom didn’t know what to say, so she folded her lawn chair and headed for the car. Did anyone mention that the runner would probably have scored even if I had done everything perfectly? Did anyone mention that we would have been behind by three runs if I hadn’t caught those two balls earlier and hit a homerun? No. They wanted a scapegoat for losing. I went from team hero to team goat in an instant. It was a great introduction to little league and the all too prevalent "What have you done for me lately" approach to life.

That day played a part in me understanding that when you’re the hero, everyone is your friend. When you’re the goat, you learn who your true friends are. Also, I learned that when people are emotionally invested in something (as too many parents are in kids’ games), logic and graciousness can go out the window and you have to ignore their ignorance. I wasn’t the reason my team lost that game, but the people offering opinions said it was entirely my fault. ALSO II, I learned it’s important to: 1) console the “goats” in life; 2) be a good loser—don’t start pointing fingers of blame; and 3) be a good winner—don’t act like a jerk and rub it in.

Enjoy your victories, but don’t take your losses to heart—you need to be ready for the next game, the next exam, the next career move, or the next challenge. Don’t define yourself by a single moment in your life. But if you must, make it a positive one. =)