As most of you know, I negotiate and manage contracts fora large defense contractor in San Diego. My office -- OK, fine...cubicle -- is one of two thatsits apart from the dozen or so others in my department. The professional productivity born from thequiet solitude of this perfectly-acceptable separate-but-equal arrangement isbut one benefit for me. The other isMLB.TV.
When my Oakland A's are playing a day game during thework week; I'll fire up the "MLB at-bat" app on my Droid, turn downthe volume and slide the phone to the farthest corner of my desk -- behind bothmy computer and business-ubiquitous Dilbert desk calendar. I can glance over at the game between e-mailsor during interminable teleconferences. And, no one else can see the teeny screen unless he or she is sitting inmy chair.
Two weeks ago, the A's were playing the Angels in thefinale of a three-game series. Firstpitch was scheduled for 12:35PM, but I could not watch on this Wednesday afternoon. A large international proposal effortmonopolized my time and attention. Latein the day, I learned through Twitter that A's starting pitcher BrandonMcCarthy had left the game after a line drive off the bat of the Angels' ErickAybar ricocheted off his skull.
I re-tweeted the link immediately above -- withoutwatching the video -- and followed that up with a tweet of my own. The next morning, it was announced that McCarthy had surgery to treat anepidural hemorrhage, brain contusion and skull fracture. I cannot fathom the feelings of McCarthy'sfamily and friends in the immediate aftermath. But, as the father of an eight-year-old ballplayer, I felt nauseous.
My son Jalen moved up to the "farm" division ofhis Little League this past spring. Thiswould be the first opportunity for the kids to face live pitching. And, judging from the repeated 6:30 AM thump!thump! thump! wake-up calls of spongy Smushballsbeing hurled against our living room wall, J really wantedto pitch.
On the whole, J pitched pretty well. He ditched his fastball grip early on andthrew exclusively change-ups, but still ended up as one of the three mostdependable pitchers on our team.
Early in the spring -- in what was essentially an opentryout for spots in our regular pitching rotation -- I gave several kids theopportunity to pitch during scrimmages. After one of these informal outings, the mother of one of my playersapproached me behind the dugout. "Iwas so scared watching him pitch", she said of her son. "I had to hold another mother's hand andclose my eyes whenever he threw the ball."
I'm more than a little embarrassed to admit that myinitial reaction was a slight smirk that barely masked what was probably acondescending response. I might as wellhave quipped, "Pfft...women." Funny thing is that I heard variations ofthis mother's concern from other parents all season long. At one point, even my wife conceded theunease she feels whenever Jalen pitches.
It's possible that I was blocking it out. After all, before the season began, I sawthese "heart-shield" protectors on one of the racks at Dick's SportingGoods. I'd read tragic stories of LittleLeague pitchers who'd taken direct-hit line drives off the chest and laterdied. I got as far as the checkout linebefore opting to put the heart-protector back on the shelf -- rationalizing itaway by reminding myself how rare it is for a pitcher to be hit by a comebacker(with a little misplaced anger at the manufacturers for exploiting a parent'sworst nightmare).
I never gave it a second thought until earlier thismonth.
And, my above-linked tweet about not showing the video tomy wife and son? I was serious. When J came home from school, he didn'tmention the A's until around dinner time. He thought they were playing a night game, so I only told him that welost earlier in the day, 7-1. He asked afew follow-up questions ("Who got the loss?", "How'd we scoreour run?") but, thankfully, eight-year-olds don't require much nuancedcontext when their favorite team loses. Besides,J refuses to watch the highlights when the A's lose. If I'm watching, he'll leave the room.
Thursday and Friday came and went as the A's flew toSeattle to start a series with the Mariners. They won the opener, 6-1. Ihopped in the shower on Saturday morning, leaving J to his cartoons. The thought crossed my mind about 45 secondsbefore my son all but broke down the bathroom door:
"Did you hear that Brandon McCarthy got hitin the head with a line drive?! They said it waslife-threatening!"
Thanks, continuous loop of the previous evening's MajorLeague Baseball highlights on the MLB Network! Just before the recap of the A's victory, an update on McCarthy'scondition aired. The sobering"life-threatening" element meant that I'd have to put on my parentingpants, after all.
The next day, Jalen was scheduled to pitch in the firstgame of the fall baseball season. I usedmy shower time to rehearse assorted responses to J's likeliest questions in myhead. So, I was prepared when he asked,"Do you think I'll get hit in the head with a line drive?" Surprisingly, I was unprepared when he asked,"Is Brandon McCarthy going to die?" I mean, how did I not see that one coming?
Jalen and I watched the video clip together -- the firsttime I'd seen it, too -- and I fumbled my way through what I knew and what Ididn't know. The conversation might'vetook 10 minutes, tops. Iknow how this is going to sound, but I took it as a goodsign when J wanted to watch the video again ("No, J. Once is enough",I responded.) and then he immediately segued into the impact of losing McCarthyon the A's playoff chances ("He's our ace! How can we replace him?!",he calmly reasoned.)
Two Sundays ago, under unseasonably humid weather andintermittent drizzle, J pitched the third inning of our fall baseball seasonopener. He's still getting the feel ofhis four-seam fastball grip -- hitting one opposing batter right in the butt --but didn't give up a run and recorded the final out of the inning by taggingout a runner trying to score from third base on a wild pitch. Jalen didn't get hit in the head with a linedrive. Brandon McCarthy didn't die. And, I kept my eyes open the whole time.
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