I’d hit
another grounder to the left side of the infield. It was probably going to be
an out, I knew. But I was 12 years old and I wanted a hit, so I clenched my
teeth and ran as fast as I could toward first base. As I neared first base, my
cleats pounding the dirt, I saw the first baseman reaching for the throw. I was
about a stride and a half short of the bag, so if I wanted to beat the throw I
was going to have to make this stride longer than normal.
I leapt
in the air like a clumsy gazelle, and landed just short of first base as the
throw landed softly in the first baseman’s mitt. I was still in hustle mode, though,
and recognized that I hadn’t yet touched the base. So as I lifted my right
foot, just centimeters in front of the base, I tried to graze the bag with the
toe of my cleat.
As I did so, I did more than graze
the base; I tripped myself. Before I knew it, I was flying headfirst toward
right field. I landed in the dirt and chalk behind first base, and closed my
eyes as a cloud of dust surrounded me.
My
parents, brother and mother’s parents attended nearly every game I played. At
this game, my mom, brother and grandparents were sitting in the stands right
along the first-base line. After my self-tripping belly-flop, there was silence
for a moment. And then, I heard it: My family erupted in laughter, much louder
than anyone else in the stands or dugouts. I turned my head, and they were
standing up, pointing at me, covering their mouths, crying tears of laughter. I
think I recall hearing the word “stupid” at least once. I know I heard my
grandfather’s contagious laugh, which had a rhythmic wheeze to it.
We all
play different roles in families, and sometimes those roles are unhealthy
reactions to family dynamics and personal struggles. Other times, those roles
are simply a natural part of who we are, and they serve to solidify our familial
bonds somehow. In my childhood, I was an athletic kid who also had a knack for
being clumsy in dramatic, hilarious fashion.
There
was the time in Wildwood, N.J., when I was on crutches with a broken leg and
walked into a restaurant with my parents. I leaned against a curtain, expecting
there to be a wall on the other side of it. There was no wall, and I fell to
the ground like Danny Kaye doing his best slapstick routine. A waitress rushed
over to me, and I smiled at her. “I’m just dropping in,” I said.
There
was the time outside Hershey, Pa., when I had just finished a bumper-boat ride
with my brother. I got up to step off the boat, and missed the deck. Next thing
I knew, I was underwater, looking up at the inner tubes of these boats, no
openings in sight. The attendant pushed the boats aside, reached in and pulled
me out before I could panic. I stood there, straightening my glasses, reeking of
gasoline, with water dripping off my clothes. My brother, then 8 years old, had
already watched too many commercials. He raised my hand and said, “Warren for
Pennzoil!”
The
stories go on – the day I tried to teach myself the harmonica and passed out
from hyperventilation; the afternoon I was throwing myself fly balls on the
front lawn and found myself waking up flat on my back, having missed a ball that
briefly knocked me out; the day I was climbing our flagpole and fell, only to
find myself hanging in mid-air by the hood of my jacket; and the multiple times
I found my Cub Scout self bandaged after trying to learn how to use a pocket
knife. It’s no wonder my grandfather nicknamed me “Charlie Brown.”
When I
tell these stories to my daughters, they laugh just as hard every time, and they
love to hear them again. It’s almost as if they were there, they know the
details so well. My parents and brother seem to enjoy the stories just as much
as ever, too. I know there’s something to that. In my adulthood so far, I’ve
been a pretty intense, earnest man, who has a tendency to take himself too
seriously. As I move into my mid-40s, I’m striving for the joy of the moment
more than the stress of perfectionism and to-do lists. Self-deprecating stories
seem like a good start.
I
eventually got up from the dirt beyond first base, and kept playing that game. My
team probably lost – we lost most of the games that year – and I probably
begged my mom for a soda and knish from the refreshment stand afterward. But
those are just guesses – I honestly don’t remember anything else from that game
except my flying leap. There really isn’t anything else that matters as much.
It’s funny how the sound of your family laughing at you in public can feel so
much like love.
