Last Sunday, in the hills of West Virginia, surrounded by strange faces, my mind flashed back fifty years. How couldn’t it? In that instant, in that one shining moment, I relived a lesson of long ago.
As a ten year-old in South Euclid’s Little League, I’d ride the White Sox bench, getting the obligatory one bat per game. We were at Negrelli, the big diamond—the one with the green, wooden fences…where if you followed the path through bushes, you could dreidle from behind first base through shrubs and come out at the Lawsons on Green Road.
Second inning, (maybe third)…I was up. (In a season that would see us win the World Series, defeating Lyndhurst’s champion in August), Mr. Wendel was no idiot. Regularly he’d start Ricky VInce, George Karabinus and me. We had to bat— had to play two innings in the field. That last thing the man wanted was to be stuck with us if the game went extra innings).
We had a powerhouse that year: John Capretta, Terry Chambers, Mike Tanker, Tom Lucia; we were loaded. I was insecure, even when we were so good I couldn’t hurt us…even that night, early in the season. The team was still undefeated then, and me? I was still hitless.
It was a shot I hit: a line drive earmarked for center field, just left of second. In the days of wooden bats this had the snap of an aluminum rope. And at the crack of my bat, head down I ran to first. I couldn’t have hit the ball better! Finally!
The shortstop, though, caught the ball. Reached up, they tell me, and snagged it. Some piece of sh$! with a name I can’t recall (but once thought I’d never forget), “robbed me.”
I remember the guys with generic encouragement: “You’ll get’m next time,” “Tough shot,” and all that crap. And I remember the hurt. Most of all, though, I remember my father. Standing behind the bench, arms stoically folded, he kept his distance. He wanted to approach, I’m sure, but waited.
Then, after the game…walking through the lot:
“The hits will fall,” he told me. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“But Dad! (I must have been thinking), “I’m 0 for May!”
“The hits will fall—I promise.”
It was a mantra that, give or take a few words, still rings true.
I picture my first years in recovery. These were ugly times Lonely times. Not a pot to piss in, estranged from Hal…Michael and Jamie were at school and there was a blockade on Woodway. Sober, on the inside I knew I was doing things right. On the outside, though, it was scary. Playing life at a better level, I was, for whatever reason, hitless.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” said my sponsor. He wasn’t Al Bogart, but I got it…and over time things fell into place.
And so it was that just a week ago, exhausted by three hours of tournament poker, I wound up at the final table. I’d played well all day—played my heart out, in fact. Felt good. Proud, even exhilarated by events, I texted the one person on earth who would truly share my joy: Walt.
We had a fifteen minute break before play’d begin. When I’m going well, even these respites aren’t left to chance. There’s a rote regimen—a discipline of activity I go through (just in case). One clockwise walk around the table, a trip to the john, and then, returning, I stand. I always stand—never sit—during the breaks.
I was seated though…waiting for the “Shuffle up and deal,” when my phone flashed. Quickly, while I could, I replayed the message. It was Marc: a pep talk. “Remember your table image,” he told me. “Take advantage of it.”
Buoyed, renewed with confidence, my mind raced through other things he’s taught me: Play to win, not just to cash. Play strong near the bubble. And more.
I was ready.
Four hands later my earth shook. Sitting first (after the blinds) to act, I’d been dealt two kings. Even without Walt’s input, my play was clear:
“All in.”
The players folded around to the small blind, who called…and for a moment, I was thrilled.
“Aces,” he beamed, opening his cards.
“Kings,” I showed, waiting for condolences.
And then it happened. The dealer flopped a king and I won the pot, knocking the other guy out of the tourney.
“Nice hand,” came the mumble. He was talking to himself, no doubt. About how he’d played four hours just to get his aces cracked and go home empty. And he had that look: the look you get when your line drive is snared by the shortstop.
Me? I wasn’t talking. I was thinking… about a summer long ago…and how my father promised me the hits would fall.
So did you win ??