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Drew Butera's walk off yesterday reminded us baseball is an awesome game because anyone can be a hero. |
You know everyone in Target Field and at home yesterday was thinking the following when Drew Butera was at bat in the bottom 9th with the game winning run in scoring position: “Why can’t Joe Mauer be up right now?” Nonetheless, with his 70’s porn mustache and circumvented bat, Butera avoided embarrassment and defeat when he pulled a hard grounder that had so much velocity and force it deflected off the diving third baseman’s glove into shallow left field.
Anyway back to the man of the hour, Drew Butera, who yesterday picked up his first major league hit that actually mattered. Like many sports fans, when a game ends in dramatic fashion I watch the post game show. At the beginning of the post game show Mike Pomeranz, one of the FSN Commentators, said, “No one expects much from Drew offensively.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at my TV over what was being said. “Expect much offensively”? That’s an understatement. No one expects anything from Butera offensively! Him getting a hit is like the Timberwolves getting a win: scarce and unexpected. And the chances of him getting a game winning walk off is like the chances of the Timberwolves winning the draft lottery: impossible. But that’s the beauty of sports when they aren’t rigged (cough cough NBA Lottery). Anyone, and I mean anyone, can go from being the laughing stock of the fan base or of his/her teammates in a matter of seconds all because of one single play. While Butera reminded us, I know from firsthand experience.
When I played little league in 7th grade I was the crappy kid who batted last and played right field. (I occasionally also got time at the infield version of right field, second base.) And this wasn’t because I was more interested in playing with the grass in the outfield than the actual game of baseball, rather this was the case because I just so happened to fl at out suck. I remember one of teammates jokingly call me Jose Canseco minus the steroids and batting ability. A different teammate more complimentarily called me our team’s Mark Madsen.
Despite my suckiness and the team’s – we were tied for dead last in the league during the regular season – we found ourselves in a ‘play in game’ to get into the playoffs. You see, we were so bad, along with this other team, the two us needed to play a game to determine who would go up against the league’s best team in the opening round of the post season. I don’t remember much from the game until the bottom of the 6th, where the game is tied at 4. The batters one deck our 5, 6, and 7. I am hoping they can win us the game. Batter number of 5 gets a single. Batter 6 grounds out to first, but moves the runner over to second. Batter number 7 hits a grounder to second and is out at first, but is able to move the runner to third. Two outs, in the bottom of the 6th a player on third and I am up next to bat. As I walk towards home base, I hear an imaginary PA announcer say the following, “up next to bat, with the game on the line is the Mark Madsen of baseball, Alex ‘Jose Canseco minus the steroids and hitting ability’ Smith.”
I am petrified. I am praying for a walk. The first is a ball. Second pitch is a ball. I am jumping for joy. Third pitch is a strike right down the middle I am too timid to swing at. Fourth pitch is the same as the third, and I am still too timid to swing. The count is two and two and the coach yells the following encouragement, “Don’t be afraid to hit the ball. Alex you have to swing.”
And so with the count two and two, and the game on the line, I make the decision no matter what is thrown I am swinging at the next pitch. The pitcher winds up. The pitcher throws the ball. I feel a sting on my hands as the force waves spiral down the metal bat. I start running towards first. The ump yells fouls. I am disappointed. I am emotionally drained at this point. As walk back to home plate for the next round of this pitcher and batter duel, I tell myself a 7th grader’s psyche isn’t built for this. As I enter the batter’s box, I see the same look of disorientation on the pitcher.
On the very next pitch, I feel same exact sting as before when I hit the ball on the previous pitch. The only difference is this time it goes fair. It is a sharp grounder to the third baseman. As I am running to first, I realize something weird needs to happen like the ball deflect off the third baseman. Unfortunately for me I see the third baseman defend the grounder perfectly, exactly how we were taught: knees bent, glove down, hand over. I see him begin his throwing motion. I know I am screwed if he makes a good throw, because like Delmon Young, I also have my struggles running, and more specifically running fast.
However I know this kid doesn’t have a very strong arm. He has an accurate one, but has needed to get the ball over to first on one hoppers all day. As I draw closer to first, I see the first baseman adjust for the one hop. I am hoping some error happens because if not, my slow ass will be out. I see the third baseman throw the ball perfectly. Just as I am within 2 feet away from first, the ball takes its hop. I see the first baseman prepare for it. I am a few inches away from first as I see the ball deflect off the first baseman’s inner thigh, and land near his foot. I step on first and as I run through it I yell safe and cross my arms at the first base ump, hoping for approval. The ump yells, “SAFE!” I jump for joy and have a rush of delight I don’t know how to describe in words, as my teammates topple on top of me in celebration.
It is for moments like mine in little league and Drew Butera’s yesterday that makes baseball such a wonderful sport. Thanks to sports, players like Drew Butera and my little league self can be heroes. Because of what I did, in the opening round of the playoffs I batted 6th against the best team in the league, in a game we miraculously won. And when we went onto the championship game, we lost, and our team’s sensational run was over. The worst team in the league almost won the playoffs. We were the little engine that could. But in the end we ran out of gas. When the game was over a couple of the players were crying, including myself. The kid who jokingly called me Jose Canseco minus the steroids and hitting ability shook my hand and gave me a hug. As did the kid who called me Mark Madsen. I loved those guys. But we never stayed in touch. We forgot each other names and probably wouldn’t even recognize what we look like now that we all have aged and gone through puberty. And I think that is why were crying at the end of the championship game. Not because we lost, but because this would be the last time us group of kids would ever be on the same team.
Drew Butera will experience a similar situation with the Twins in the near future. For a couple games now when Drew is playing in place of Mauer, fans won’t complain. Like when I hit 6th, the fans will be like teammates and be happy for him and think he deserves it. But pretty soon, just like how I went back to hitting 8th, over the course of the season, they will forget and want Joe Mauer. And then a couple years from now the Twins will find a catcher that is just as good defensively as Drew, but can also hit. And when that time comes Drew will be let go. And Drew will realize this is the last time he is around the teammates he loves. And Drew will be very sad and could very well cry just like I did. But when that time comes he will always look back on his game yesterday in way that is different from analysts and certain Twins fans. He won ‘t look back on it as a key win in the Twins surge during the month of May, winning 14 of their last 16 games, bringing them back into the AL Central Picture. Rather he will look back on his game yesterday in the same fashion I look back on mine in little league – as a reminder that baseball is one awesome game.
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