Dead Letters
Since I have baseball on the brain, I thought I would post a letter I wrote to one of my favorite players two years ago (before it was cool to like him). He never ever wrote back to me, but I like to imagine that he keeps it in a shoebox somewhere and reads it when he gets depressed. But I also just wanted to share it. Sometimes you write to simply communicate, or to release pent-up energy. But other times you write to celebrate. And those celebrations should be shared with as many people as possible. This letter was one of those celebrations.
Dear ____,
One of the things I have always loved about going to a baseball game is watching the people sitting around me. It always amazes me that an elderly couple, a biker and his girlfriend, and a family of four can all be sitting within three rows of each other and find some common ground in Americas pastime. Of course, I watch the game and look out for foul balls, but during inning breaks I can't help wondering what makes the people around me tick. Tonight I finally got an answer--baseball itself is what keeps some of these people going.
I sat in the outfield reserved seats at tonight's game behind two mentally challenged men and their chaperone (or friend...maybe both), and it was probably one of the most amazing games I've been to. Not because of the quality of the game itself (which was undeniably good), but because of what I saw in one of the disabled gentlemen throughout the whole game. You could tell from his enthusiasm that he was a true fan, someone who obviously loves baseball and watches almost every game on TV. He knew the line-up and cheered for every hitter. He seemed to catch every detail of the game and put it away to watch over and over again at some later day, in some other circumstance. He did every cheer, sang every little song, and clapped every time the organ prompted him to.
And he cheered for you. I know you can't really see the fans from the mound, but I wanted to tell you how he clapped and yelled and poured his heart out for the game you were pitching. Every fastball, every change-up, every strike and every ball, he was smiling and wishing you the best.
At the end of the game, you brought him joy--a palpable, honest, genuine joy that doesn't happen every day in our modern world. His smiles and his cheers were contagious, and he made me remember why I love baseball so much. The expression on his face during most of the game reminded me of how I felt the year I was 12, before baseball broke my heart and the Braves won the NL Championship in Game 7 (and it finally hit me that Jay Bell was too old for me). This man has so many disadvantages in life, but going to a baseball game was all it took to make him genuinely happy. He wasn't worried about what he was going to do tomorrow or if the nachos he ate had too much saturated fat. He just lived the game and took the happiness of it home with him. It was that easy.
Youre probably wondering why Im telling you this, and the reason is simple. If I brought someone that much joy by doing my job and doing it well, I would want to know. When you step onto the mound, people cheer--they cheer because deep inside they will always love baseball. Your pitching makes them remember why.
Dear ____,
One of the things I have always loved about going to a baseball game is watching the people sitting around me. It always amazes me that an elderly couple, a biker and his girlfriend, and a family of four can all be sitting within three rows of each other and find some common ground in Americas pastime. Of course, I watch the game and look out for foul balls, but during inning breaks I can't help wondering what makes the people around me tick. Tonight I finally got an answer--baseball itself is what keeps some of these people going.
I sat in the outfield reserved seats at tonight's game behind two mentally challenged men and their chaperone (or friend...maybe both), and it was probably one of the most amazing games I've been to. Not because of the quality of the game itself (which was undeniably good), but because of what I saw in one of the disabled gentlemen throughout the whole game. You could tell from his enthusiasm that he was a true fan, someone who obviously loves baseball and watches almost every game on TV. He knew the line-up and cheered for every hitter. He seemed to catch every detail of the game and put it away to watch over and over again at some later day, in some other circumstance. He did every cheer, sang every little song, and clapped every time the organ prompted him to.
And he cheered for you. I know you can't really see the fans from the mound, but I wanted to tell you how he clapped and yelled and poured his heart out for the game you were pitching. Every fastball, every change-up, every strike and every ball, he was smiling and wishing you the best.
At the end of the game, you brought him joy--a palpable, honest, genuine joy that doesn't happen every day in our modern world. His smiles and his cheers were contagious, and he made me remember why I love baseball so much. The expression on his face during most of the game reminded me of how I felt the year I was 12, before baseball broke my heart and the Braves won the NL Championship in Game 7 (and it finally hit me that Jay Bell was too old for me). This man has so many disadvantages in life, but going to a baseball game was all it took to make him genuinely happy. He wasn't worried about what he was going to do tomorrow or if the nachos he ate had too much saturated fat. He just lived the game and took the happiness of it home with him. It was that easy.
Youre probably wondering why Im telling you this, and the reason is simple. If I brought someone that much joy by doing my job and doing it well, I would want to know. When you step onto the mound, people cheer--they cheer because deep inside they will always love baseball. Your pitching makes them remember why.
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