The Hitch

The young boy was doing what he loved. A leather glove on his left hand. The smell of leather oil and summer flowers drifted in his nostrils. He was on a field, doing what he loved more than anything. He did it with a concentration that exceeded his seven years. He wanted to be perfect. He wanted to be Willie Mays. But, there was a problem.

His father and his coach had pointed it out to him many times. A slight hitch in his throwing motion. An extra movement at the shoulder, like a pump, that caused a momentary delay in his release of the ball from his hand. His throws were rarely off-line, but when they were, the hitch was blamed. When the ball arrived to it’s destination late, the hitch was blamed. He had spent hours trying to work it off, to remove it from his follow through. But, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t stop doing it. It was part of him. No cutting it away. Maybe he could just play first base. It was kind of boring, not as bad a catcher, but you didn’t have to throw as much. The hitch could stay and few would be the wiser. But, his love was shortstop. His legs had speed and agility. He had the range of a cat and didn’t mind getting dirty to get to the ball. And the shortstop had the largest area to cover in the infield. All the running and jumping made it his passion. But, the hitch. The darn hitch.

He was holding his position at short. His friends covered the outfield, with another hitting batting practice shots through the infield. Every ball that came his way was another opportunity to try and find a way around the problem. His feet were always set. His mind always seemed to be able to see the ball hit just a moment before and he was rarely out of position. All that didn’t make up for the hitch. He thought; “First base, here I come.”

Distracted by his disappointment, a ball shot past him and he leaned just short of making the catch. The ball sailed through the infield, into the outfield and out of play. The rule was, your miss, your chase. Balls were valuable and they never let one go unfound. So, he turned and started on his fetch mission.

As he got to the edge of the park, there sitting on a bench, was the oldest person he had ever seen. His hair was white all over and his beard, cut short, looked like Santa Claus on holiday. He was a stranger to him, but for some reason the warnings of parents and teachers just didn’t seem to enter his mind. Almost immediately, he knew there was no threat here. So, he continued forward to pick up the ball and return to his friends.

“Hey there, young man. What happen, sun get in your eyes?”

The boy leaned down to pick up the ball. He rose and stared at the man sitting there. He couldn’t place the face, but something about him seemed familiar. For some reason, the boy thought he had seen those eyes somewhere before. He paid a lot of attention to eyes ever since his English teacher (Mrs. Brishaber, whom he had serious childhood crush on, like, forever) told him about someone being quoted for saying that they were the gateways to the soul or something. He had heard all this talk in church about the soul and how it was this magical thing that made each of us special. He thought that if he looked long and hard at the eyes of others, he could get a glimpse. He stared at the old man for a few moments, trying to get a peek. Trying to determine if his idea of safety was accurate. To see if this was a monster in grandpa’s clothes.

He didn’t see that. What he saw was general interest. And wisdom. Kindness. And, for a moment, just a flicker of understanding.

He explained that he had been thinking about something and just wasn’t paying attention.

“It’s that hitch in your throw, isn’t it? Now, don’t look surprised. I have been sitting here watching you boys for weeks. I don’t know a lot of things, but I know this game. And I know a good ball player when I see one. You son, you have potential. But, you have one problem.”

“I know, the hitch. That’s what my dad calls it, too. He said it’s like the hitch of a wagon that slows down the horses. Only this slows down my delivery.”

“No son, the hitch is not your problem. The problem is you are thinking about it too much. You have allowed the unorthodox movement in your delivery own you and you are starting to let it feed on your confidence. You have to let that go. It’s not important.”

“It is important. I will never play in the bigs if I have this thing. Late throws are the death of a shortstop. The ball has to arrive on time. Accurate but late throws are just that, late. That’s what my coach says.”

“Son, can I tell you something? They said a similar thing to a boy not so long ago. It seems that he had this odd stance at the plate. He stood in the batter’s box with his neck cricked over like he just got out of bed and had slept wrong. The bat was mere inches from his back shoulder and his hands rode the bottom of the bat just under his chin. He was told from a very young age that this wouldn’t work. He had to change it. But, it was what made him feel comfortable up there. He worked on his bat speed from that stance. He learned to move his wrists quicker than most and he learned how to control is bat. He is in the bigs now, boy. He is one of the greats. He may not be remembered like Mays or Ruth. But, someday people will remember him not only for his amazing ability to play this game or his unusual stance, but because he paid the ultimate price to try and make a difference.”

The boy tried very hard to put all that in perspective. What was this man saying? Who was he talking about?

“Just ask, boy. I’ll tell you. His name is Roberto Clemente. When you get done here, you go home and you ask your dad about him. I know for sure, being that he is from Pittsburgh, he knows just who I am talking about. And, son…he is going to have amazing memories to tell you about. Just ask him. When given the chance, your pop can really tell a good story. And he has a bunch.”

“How do you know my dad?”

“Oh, we have known each other for a very long time. I haven’t seen him in a long time. Life has it’s rules, you know? And sometimes they mean that people leave us. I hope to see him again soon, when I am done here.”

“Done here? Like dead, you mean?”

The boy knew he shouldn’t have said that. It’s not nice to talk about death with old people. His mom told him old people are too close to it to want to talk about it.

But, the old man just laughed.

“Not exactly, no. I just have a job to do.”

“A job? Aren’t you too old to be working.”

“You are never too old to do what you love, son. Never forget that.”

The boy started to walk away, ball in hand. He was thinking about what the man had said. Could he speed up his arm, not lose accuracy, and overcome the hitch? Instead of trying to delete it from his motion, could he find a way around it? He wasn’t sure. It would be a lot of work. He would have to practice twice as much. But, the best he ever felt was standing in the grass waiting for his shot to make a play. Plus, what else did he have to do this summer?

He turned back to the old man and thanked him. Told him he would try to work through it. Told him that he would take his advice.

“Hey, boy…come back here a second.”

The boy looked back at the man. Again, he saw something in his eyes. Something that seemed so familiar. Something that told him something very important was about to happen. Because, there was wisdom in those eyes. And something else. He just didn’t know what. He just knew that his parents had told him to be respectful of older people. That they may just have something very important to tell us. And that, as long as we didn’t get too close, we should not only hear what they had to say, but we should listen, too. So, he turned back to his friends and relayed the ball back into the infield. He yelled that he would be there in a minute and he turned back to the old man.

“Listen boy, this is important. You have to remember that those slight differences in all of us make us who we are. Sure, there are some that may see those differences and ridicule them. The reason for that is jealousy and envy. They are afraid of unique because they are afraid of standing apart. Don’t ever be afraid to stand apart. Know yourself and make the best of what you have. You only go around this thing one time. You have to grab it all with no room for fear or hesitation. There will be times when you will be so afraid, that you won’t want to move. In those moments, move! Just make a move. Right or wrong, it’s better than doing nothing. Nothing gets you nothing.”

The boy stood there soaking this all in. He felt like this man was reaching inside him and filling him up with some kind of magic gift. Some sort of window to his own soul. Could the man see through his boyish eyes? Could he see his soul?”

“Listen boy, one more thing. I know right now this may not seem to make sense to you. I know how you look at those pretty little girls as the enemy. But, that’s going to change. And you are going to know a lot of them. I mean, a lot of them. And a few are going to try and steal from you what makes you unique. You have talents, boy. You have something inside you and it’s not meant to be stuffed in a box and kept hidden away. And one more thing. There is going to come a day, a little ways from now…when you are going to meet a woman that will change your life. You will find that the road to happiness is not always easy. And you will get bumped and bruised along the way. And those scars are going to make you want to run from her like a dog with it’s tail between it’s legs. There will be obstacles to your happiness. But, whatever you do…no matter what anyone may tell you…never give up the fight. Trust me, boy. She’s going to be worth it. Because in the end, when you put down your glove and bat for the last time, you will know that what’s really important isn’t what others may think. But, what you know in your heart to be true. And, that is one awesome power. Now, that’s enough. You run back to your friends and work on that motion. You’ll get it. And you may not make it to the bigs, but you will always find your heart in that grass out there.”

The old man rose from the bench and gave the boy a wink. The boy just sort of stood there, not knowing exactly what to do. He wanted to call out to the man. He wanted to tell him that he wasn’t sure he understood what he was trying to tell him. What was the point? And what’s all the talk about girls? All he wanted was to play ball. Girls just wanted to play with dolls and do their hair. Gross stuff. Why would he waste his breath telling him about girls?

He started to turn, to return to his friends. The confusion in him was full. He just wanted to get away from this strange man and get back to his place. The one place he felt at home. It was just then that another errant ball sailed past him, heading towards the bench where the old man had been seated. His friends screamed that he was already there, go fetch. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to get the ball. As he turned, he saw the old man rising, ball in his hand. He turned it in his bent and twisted fingers for a few moments. Just staring at it. Then a smile broke out on that wrinkled face. It was a smile drenched in memory and love. Something deep inside him had been touched. The old man looked up and saw the boy. He smiled again. And with a ease and grace, sent a perfect strike back to the boy.

And in the middle of that motion, at the top of the delivery…the boy could have sworn…he saw…just a hitch.