Don't Call it a Comeback

Thursday, May 26th was the day before the first-ever high school graduation ceremony at Grace Church School. But, more importantly, it was the opening game in the 2016 Flying Squirrels’ softball season. I had previously told the players on my team that I would manage them for the season, but on the walk over to the field I decided I would take one at-bat. This game was scheduled at the normally undesirable East River field, but since I was coming from work, it was actually the easiest field for me to get to on this particular day.

At about 5:00 p.m., I left my office in full squirrel uniform. I wore my Flying Squirrel t-shirt jersey, aqua-blue mesh shorts, a bright red knee-high sock on my left leg only, black ankle brace, grey sneakers, and backwards fitted blue Mets hat. It was not an ensemble designed by professionals, but I like to think that the mismatched outfit helped lull the other team into a sense of superiority regarding their matching clothing. Anyway, I called for a car that let me out on the west side of FDR Drive and Houston Street. I put on my backpack full of math tests as I exited the car and extended my cane to start my journey over the highway and down to the field. Butterflies filled my stomach as a combination of nerves and hot, humid weather weighed on my shoulders. As I walked down the ramp from the overpass and through the metal gating that surrounded the field, I was greeted by a bunch of my teammates who were finishing warming up for the season’s first competition.

Even though I was limping heavily, walking with a cane, and winded from a 500-foot journey from the other side of the highway, I was greeted with smiles and positive salutations.

“Hey Rufer. Welcome back.”

“You look great”

“Good to see you.”

And then from my buddy Dave: “Are you playing?”

“I’ll take one at-bat at some point during the game, but I’m not playing the field.”

“Obviously, but are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Dave,” I paused and put an arm around his shoulder. “I almost died a year ago. I’m taking a fucking at-bat.” He had no argument for that. And so I sloppily sunk into the turf and began stretching my bum leg. 

After about five minutes, I was called to home plate to hear the ground rules. The umpire was a man named Angel whom I had known for ten years. “It’s good to see you back, Dan,” he said before explaining the ground rules of the field, which had not changed in the twenty-five years since I played Little League on this very spot. I took in the view while he talked and then returned to my team.

“Okay, bring it in!” I yelled while limping to the first base dugout where we were stationed. Once everyone was huddled up, I asked for a slow clap while I read out the line-up.

“Leading off as the DH is me. Batting second and playing second is Karen, batting third and in left field is Eric….” When I finished the line-up, I looked around the huddle of confused faces and said, “Relax people. If I get on, I’ll take a runner.” That did not seem to ease the tension. “Look, I make the line-up and I almost died, so I’m batting first.” Some smiles and laughter broke through the nervous glances. “Okay, here we go.” I paused before yelling “One-Two-Three, Squirrels!” to which my teammates responded:

“Go nuts!”

I borrowed a batting glove from Eric as I walked up to the batters box using the bat as a cane. I had no idea how this was going to go, but I was damned if I wasn’t going to try to resume a normal life. I stepped into the batter’s box on the left side of home plate and instinctively tapped the dirt off my sneakers even though the field was entirely turf and it was completely unnecessary. Angel asked if I was ready. Once I nodded and pulled my sunglasses over my eyes, he squatted back and said, “Play ball.”

This was co-ed slow-pitch high-arc softball, so I wasn’t particularly worried about catching up to the speed of the pitch. However, I was very concerned with two things. First, I was concerned that I wouldn’t be able to hit the ball because of a lack of depth perception; I had taped over the right lens on the inside of all my sunglasses to avoid my double-vision. Secondly,  I was concerned that I wouldn’t be able to hold onto the bat through the swing. I thought there was a distinct possibility that as I swung the bat through the zone, the bat would go flying, and that I would be charged with murdering the pitcher or shortstop. The first was a worry of vanity, the second was a worry of legality. I tried to put those concerns out of my mind as I watched the first pitch land directly behind home plate for strike one. Ever since high school, I always took the first pitch to get a sense of the pitcher. It was probably unnecessary in softball, but considering this was my first at-bat in nearly two years, I think it was an apt strategy. I had followed the ball all the way to the ground and convinced myself that I could do this. As the next pitch came in, slowly reaching its apex at about twelve feet and breaking to chest height over the plate, I squeezed the bat as hard as I could with my left hand and swung the bat through the zone. Without even feeling it, I had struck a line drive over the pitcher’s head. I had (and still have) trouble picking up fast-moving things in my field of vision, so I didn’t see the ball until it was already past second base and in the outfield. It was at that moment that I realized I had to run to first base. I pivoted away from the outfield and sent signals from my brain to my legs that we had to run. I looked like Road Runner skidding in place before take-off as my right leg compiled and my left leg dragged behind. Before I could get my left leg out in front of me, I fell to the ground. The ball was already in the center fielder’s glove. With my teammates both cheering and laughing, I got up and limp-ran to first base, barely beating a throw from the outfield before collapsing five feet behind the bag in exhaustion. (See www.disconjugategaze.com for footage).

As I lay on my back trying to catch my breath, I looked up at the clear sky, reflecting on all that had happened in the past year. That was as ugly a hit as you are ever going to see, but in that moment I proved to myself that I was capable of anything. Well, not literally anything, but certainly more than most would assume were they watching me limp from the car to the field. After a few seconds I rolled over onto my right side, picked myself up, and walked to first base before calling for a runner and accepting the high fives from my teammates.

“Tell me you got that on video?” I asked, panting.

“Yep,” Joanna said before passing my phone back to me. As I sat on the bench watching the video of my first at-bat in two years, pride swelled in my chest. Because I don’t do social media, I forwarded the video to my wife, parents, cousins, and about five other friends with the tag line “Don’t call it a comeback.” (Shout-out to LL Cool J.)

I shockingly went 3 out of 4 that game and batted .500 for the season. To be fair, that was about 150 points below my normal summer softball league average, but not bad for someone with one functioning leg, one functioning eye, and numbness in his lead hand. I played DH in all ten games that season before retiring at the end of the season. In retrospect, it probably was not wise to play softball that summer. Had I rolled an ankle or twisted my knee I would have seriously endangered the recovery process. But as someone who played sports his entire life and feels most at ease on the athletic field, I chose to define myself not by what I couldn't do, but by what I could.