Fielding Grounders from the Ground (One Sixty-Two: Day 71)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day Seventy-One: Dustin Pedroia, Boston Red Sox

It was just a small item in yesterday’s New York Times, but the headline grabbed me right away:

“With a Broken Foot, Pedroia Fields From His Knees.”

The story, written by The Associated Press, focused on Boston Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia and his actions before Wednesday’s game with Tampa. Just five days after fouling a ball off his left foot and breaking a bone in that foot, Pedroia was on his knees at the edge of the infield grass before his team’s game. The former MVP was fielding ground balls and having a catch. The 26-year-old was wearing a protective boot over his left foot, as the injury is expected to keep him out for six weeks. After the practice, Pedroia had to use crutches to get off the field.

But he still got in his work. And his baseball. “He’s pretty unique,” said Boston’s manager, Terry Francona.

It’s obviously quite impressive to see the dedication Pedroia has for his job. The Red Sox are very lucky to have a player like this. But for those of us who feel the pulse of baseball within our veins each day, it’s not entirely surprising to see this kind of behavior. While Pedroia’s work ethic is obviously amazing, I’m sure he was also fielding grounders because he needs the game. He can’t just sit there.

It was the spring of 1979, and I was on crutches due to a broken right femur and hip bone. I was a lucky little boy, as I’d been hit by a car and could easily have sustained a much greater injury. After six weeks in the hospital, I was sent home in mid-May. My schooling would be done by tutor that spring, and my Little League career would have to wait and start the following year.

So as my grandmothers watched me each day, I got down to business. I drew up lineups – Yankees versus Red Sox was the usual matchup. I grabbed my glove and a ball, and hobbled out to our backyard.

I sat on the edge of our cement patio, my right leg outstretched, with the lineups and a pen to the right of the leg. I wore a baseball glove on my left hand, and held either a tennis ball or racquet ball in my right. I faced the back of our house, which had 18 inches of white-washed concrete beneath its white, wooden siding. I reared back and threw the ball at the concrete, and the ball shot back at me – either as a grounder, if it had hit the concrete on a fly, or as a pop-up, if it had hit ground before concrete. I reached for each ball, and if I fielded it cleanly, it was recorded as an out in my scorecard. If I bobbled it, or if it landed out of my reach, it went in as a hit or error and a man was on base.

So there I was, Graig Nettles, reaching for Rick Burleson’s fly ball to third. When Reggie Jackson was up at bat, I might throw the ball just a bit harder, so that it landed just outside my glove for a double. If the Sox were winning in the later innings, I might orchestrate a late rally for New York. It’s hard to be completely objective when playing off-the-bottom-of the house baseball. You can manipulate the score.

Dustin Pedroia wasn’t born yet when I was fielding those hot shots off the house in a tiny backyard on Staten Island. And he wouldn’t have appreciated the regularity with which the Boston Red Sox lost to the Yankees. But other than that, I think he would have understood quite well what I was doing out there. It is, after all, the life he’s living right now.

When those red stitches are woven around your heart, you can’t stop playing ball. It doesn’t matter what kinds of bones are broken; the games must go on. Just hit me a grounder, please. I’m ready.