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 One Hundred Thirty-Six: Ian Desmond, Washington Nationals
It’s been a rocky rookie season for Ian Desmond. The 24-year-old Nationals shortstop is the runaway leader in the dubious category of most errors committed in Major League Baseball this year, with 31. Desmond’s hitting has also been erratic at times this season, as we often see with rookies.
But Desmond has been a much better hitter in the last two months, with a .342 batting average since the All-Star break. In September, Desmond has been out of this world, with 10 hits in 16 at-bats. He’s not really a home-run kind of guy, but the kid is smacking an awful lot of singles and doubles for the young Washington club.
When you’re hot, you’re hot. At times like this the pitcher’s best bet might be to just serve it up and get out of the way. Last night, I experienced this very feeling in the unexpected environs of my own backyard. And the Ian Desmond-like hitter was an 8-year-old who has already retired from softball.
Katie and I walked into the backyard on a gorgeous Saturday evening and decided it was a good time for a little batting practice. When Katie decided not to play softball this past spring, she said that while she liked playing ball with me, she didn’t enjoy the competition of team sports. She doesn’t like losing, and she also doesn’t like watching others lose. This is part of her sensitive demeanor, much of which I want to preserve like fine china. However, I also know that feeling the flow of those competitive juices, and knowing how to manage that flow, can be a very healthy thing. So I’m hoping Katie will decide to try another team sport when she’s ready.
Last night might have been a turning point in helping her decide to give softball another go. I was just tossing plastic baseballs to her, and she stood in a solid stance, her plastic, yellow Wiffle bat in hand. She started by spraying some outside offerings to the opposite field. I commended her on keeping her eye on the ball. As I came inside with some throws, Katie pulled a few balls off the neighbor’s fence. When I threw one down the middle, I got nicked in the shoulder by a line drive. Another one down the middle landed off the evergreen tree in the back of our yard. And, just before darkness fell, Katie finished her evening by lining a shot right off her dad’s forehead. She liked that one most of all.
As she smacked all these balls, Katie laughed while I showered her with praise. It was as low-pressure a situation as possible, as well as a time for bonding with Dad. But as we finished, I asked Katie if it might be worth trying softball again. She said maybe. She ran inside to tell her mom all that had happened out in the yard.
Maybe: On this day, that was all I hoped to hear. Not because I want to pick the kid’s pastimes, or relive my own baseball days through her, but simply because I want her to feel those juices. I want her to know what it’s like to drive your teammate in with one of those line drives, and to deliver her home with solid teamwork. And I want her to shake hands with the opponent, say “Good game,” and realize that no one’s life was ruined by the final score of a sports game. I think Katie would like that, and I think she’d be a great leader for a team.
For now, we’ve got the backyard. I’ll keep delivering the pitches, and I’ll hope for a few more shots off the forehead. I’m not masochistic; she just looked so happy with herself out there. When you’re hot, you’re hot. Be it Katie or Ian Desmond, you just can’t be contained. Serve it up, pitcher, and get out of the way.
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