As a kid, I don't think I ever played catch with my own dad. I bet his mitt couldn't take the sting. By the time I was 13, kids complained that I threw too hard and wouldn't play pepper. Back in Jr. High, as a skinny runt not big and strong like the star athletes, I threw a softball the farthest in the whole school. I pitched Little League -- for the Cubs -- but may have looked too ethnic and shy to get a fair shot.
But who was I kidding? At Healy Field in Roslindale, a quaint 70s suburb of Beantown, only 3rd string losers wound up playing for the Cubs after all the good diamond urchins got to play for the A's or Red Sox. Usually, kids like me who were overlooked got one chance to pitch part of one game to make them feel good. I remember it well. I don't think I threw a ball for those few innings. And so I got shelled.
Be that as it may, somehow through my right arm it seemed mother nature was sending me messages that I was destined for a life that was far beyond my socioeconomic status. But the winds of fate and opportunity would have nothing of it. After I went onto Highschool and failed to make the Varsity squad, I grew into young adulthood and tennis became my adopted sport of choice. Borg, Connors, McEnroe and Lendl were my heroes. And not Nolan Ryan or Frank Tanana.
But the power in my right arm shone through just the same. When my serve was in, it was virtually unreturnable. This one time I hit a forehand to an opponent at the net and the ball hit his racquet frame which smashed in two on impact. Was it just a cheap frame? No. Did my shots have killer velocity? Perhaps. Yet I had never seen this happen in the pro ranks. Strings broke all the time due to high tensions. But not racquets unless they were abused on purpose out of unsportsmanlike conduct.
Looking back, there is nothing worse in life than to think you had one major tool that hinted at a potential for greatness but neither the inclination, the opportunity, the foresight or the guidance to do something with it. As I recall, the epiphany of my misgivings came to a head at a local SoCal amusement park 10 years ago when I was still young enough but too blind to see what God had given me.
After going the rounds on a few world class rollercoaster rides which had made me slightly dizzy, nauseous and looking for time out, I made my way to the sports camp section of the park in search of a diversion that would not make my head spin. There was a mini pitch and putt golf layout, half court basketball...and an area to pitch baseballs---with a digital radar gun backstop!
Of course, I had to have some of this even if my arm would feel it the next day. Fearful of being wild, I babied a few tosses to test the gun, then started to bring it. First pitch, 82 mph. Second, 88. Then a pause for contemplation. Since I didn't wanna hurt myself or feel the straining whiplash of an out of shape appendage, I figured if I can hit 90 I'll stop. Next pitch, 92 mph. Uh, oh. Must be something wrong with the readout.
Another pause. Then a thought: "This time I'm gonna let it fly so that the tips of my fingers sting". Next pitch---97 mph. NINETY SEVEN MILES PER HOUR. No way! More pitches. 95, 94, 97 again. NINETY SEVEN MILES PER HOUR. Then sadness over what might have been and a bittersweet realization to go with no aches or pains the next day. Bottom line---I missed the boat. Same as I did when I awed crowds singing Sinatra at karaoke. In short, I was Forest Gump without the dumb luck.
Now I'll be 39 in mid June. I'm 15 lbs. heavier and a lot stronger than I was a decade ago. But where did the time go? What did I do with my life? Once I saw the movie, "The Rookie", the episode with the radar gun came back to haunt me. The irony was beyond poignant and sentimental. The over the hill jock in that film could have been...ME.
Indeed, could I have been the living mound incarnation of Roy Hobbs? The old man from nowhere who never knew he had the goods to go somewhere until it was too late? Or just another dreamer who thinks a fastball is the ticket to the big time? I'll guess I'll never know. But it's nice to write about it. If somewhere some young kid is reading this, he may learn something. And then my arm will not have been wasted in vain. Amen.
Also by Hank Festa
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Copyright © 2002 by Hank Festa. Posted May 30, 2002.
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