Memoir Essay- Baseball Memoir

Ian Youngs
Robert Bricker, Kristine Kelly
SAGES
9/21/08
Baseball Memoir
I believe that I have endured every hardship common to baseball players from jammed fingers to dehydration. But no injury was worse than the raspberries. My skin just seemed to swell, as if someone shoved a balloon under my leg and started to blow it up. The bubbles came next. Not big bubbles, more like bubble wrap. And oh, the color! The color was the worst. Bright red like a stop sign, which turned to maroon after a couple of minutes. And the darker the raspberry became, the more it throbbed.
But no matter what happened, I would play on. I had to play on. The grass and clay called to me, the field called to me, the game itself called to me. It wanted me, and I wanted it. And there was absolutely nothing that would keep me away from participating, not even my raspberries.
As I played, I got better, and wiser. And so did the game. With every new experience I had, baseball would throw me another one. (No pun intended.) If I do say so, I have been around the block when it comes to baseball. I have been on all-star caliber teams, as well as teams that should just be put out of their misery. I have hit in the .400’s and fielded terribly; and I have fielded like a pro, and not been able to hit a small planet. So, as I see it, I know baseball pretty well.
Every player has a goal. Whether it is baseball or some other sport, every player has some goal that he wants to attain. These goals are important. They are iconic moments that almost never happen. Winning a world title, getting eight gold medals in one Olympics, becoming the “world’s fastest man.” And when these events do happen, everyone knows who did them. People remember the names and pass them down through history. Jesse Owens, 1972 Dolphins, Wilt Chamberlain are names that can and will never be forgotten. I wanted to achieve one of these goals. I was going to hit a grand slam.
My last year playing in little league was one of my worst years ever. But I still wanted to go out with a bang. I wanted my iconic moment. I didn’t want fame or fortune. I just wanted people to remember what Ian Youngs did for the Indians in the Milford International Little League. I wanted to feel the glory that comes with leaving a piece of history behind. And I would do it.
If my last season was terrible for me; it was even worse for my team. We would have been in last place if not for the team that forfeited out. We were awful. In this particular game we had no chance of winning, at all.
It was the last inning of our six-inning game. I got up to bat and figured that I would do what I had done the rest of the year, strike out. I watched the first two pitches go by. They were balls. I swung at the next two, and missed. But the next pitch was different. I was able to see it. Right out of the pitcher’s hand everything clicked. I was batting, I had a hitter’s count, and the bases were loaded. Wait the bases were loaded? Holy cow, they were. Everything clicked.
I saw the spin on the ball. It was a fastball, and it was dropping. Not where I like to hit the ball, but I could see where it was going. I knew that this pitch was different. This pitch was not like the others I had seen in the game. This one just seemed, unique. I swung.
I remember at the beginning of the year saying, “I can feel myself hitting. I can’t explain it, but I can feel it.” That day, when the bases were loaded and I had a two and two count, I could feel it. I did feel it. The ball flew off my bat.
I watched the ball elevate quite quickly. This was strange. My hits don’t elevate. They are more lobbing, even when they go far. But this one really rocketed straight up. I dropped my bat, and started towards first base. I still watched though. In baseball, this is a no-no. You do not do this. In high school, you would have to run laps if you watched your ball long enough. But I was glued to this ball. It was so out of place, so unique.
What made it even more unreal was the sound that the crowd made. Yes, I had heard the ping of the bat, but the crowd was what intrigued me. At first there was collective amazement. They all kind of spoke at once like, “Oh my god!” Then the crowd all got quiet. They had to be inside of my head thinking, “My hits don’t do that.” But this one did.
I was a halfway to first base when the ball started its decline. I cannot describe how it fell, because it just fell. Like when a pen drops or money falls. It wasn’t special in any regards.
When I was just a few feet from first, the ball stopped. This was a surreal moment. I wasn’t sure how to act. This had never happened before. Should I jump? Should I stop? I was at a loss as to what I should do. Then after I rounded first, I knew exactly what I should do.
I clapped. I clapped so hard that my hands hurt. Not like the pain you feel after you have hit the ball on a cold day, but a throbbing pain. A victory pain.
I had just hit a grand slam. The ball had stopped ten feet over the center field fence. I could see my best friend’s little brother sprinting, knocking over everyone to get the ball for me. The crowd gave me shivers. Everyone, not just my team’s parents, everyone’s parents and friends were all screaming. I could feel their excitement. I was their excitement.
My cheeks expanded so far as I rounded third base. I wanted everyone to see my smile, to see my pride as I triumphantly trotted towards home. I crossed home plate, that white spot of glory, that speck of ivory that gave our team runs, and me a place in history.
My team jumped all over me. Everyone jumped on me. Coaches and staff, almost everyone that could leap on me, did. And I leaped too. I don’t know why we were jumping. Was it to celebrate our four runs? I don’t think so. Was it tradition? Possibly. I think it was because a grand slam is so rare, that it deserves celebration. It is the royal flush, the 300, the 19-0 season. That is why we jumped. We all knew that we would probably never, ever be able to bounce and leap like this again.
Anybody walking by would have thought that we had won the game. It was so noisy. I could swear the whole field, no, the whole neighborhood was saying something about this hit. There was nothing silent at the time. Every alarm, clock, dog, cat, fish, beeper, cell phone, pager, went off to show appreciation for my rare feat.
I could have floated. I could have wafted off with a breeze. I had done it. I had completed a task that can and will be remembered. Kids may go pro, or become doctors or world leaders, but they cannot say what all baseball players dream of saying, “I hit a grand slam.”
I know that this story sounds very grandiose and overplayed, like something out of a cheesy baseball flick. But that is how I can remember this moment. If you come from the town I am from you will understand.
Milford is a medium sized city where sports are not really high on the priority list. So when something big happens, everyone remembers. For instance, when I remember the crowd going absolutely crazy and everyone jumping; that is all absolutely true.
There is the possibility that I was wrapped up in my elation in that moment that everything seemed overblown. I don’t doubt that this was the case, but I would rather have people enjoying themselves rather than being bored.
I would like to concentrate on the part when I zeroed in on the baseball. This moment really happened. I felt as if I was in the Matrix. Everything about that moment seemed to be in slow motion. I was so focused on that pitch that I was able to zero out everything around me.
This may sound like a superhuman ability, but this is not the only time when I have focused on something this hard. I was able to do this many more times in my baseball career. When I zero in on a pitch everything else means nothing. Everything else is nothing.
I can actually remember when I hit this ball. I can see exactly where the ball was when I started my swing. I can remember the moment after it left my bat. There is so much about that moment that I can recall that it scares me.
I chose this moment because it was the defining point of my team’s year. We rarely won and played horribly. Anything that could go wrong with a baseball team did. But at the moment I swung at that pitch, our team was special. We were the Milford International Little League Indians, the comeback kids. And I was Ian Youngs, the kid that hit a grand slam on a cloudy summer afternoon.
That one moment changed our team. For that moment in time we were the all-stars, the MVP’s of the Little League World. That is why this moment sticks out in my mind. I had changed the entire face of my little league team. I was the icon. I was the kid that hit the grand slam, the kid that achieved history.