It was July 4th, 1983 and like any other 4th of July, we were at my grandparent’s house in Ridgewood, NJ where a party of epic proportions was just getting underway. It was an annual tradition for our family. First, we would watch my grandfather drive his gorgeous black 1969 Cadillac DeVille, with Cherry red leather interior, in the town parade. Then it was back to his house where friends and family would gather to enjoy a clam bake and swimming that lasted long into the evening.
It was 90+ degrees that day, so as soon as we got back, I got into my bathing suit and was anxiously awaiting the arrival of other kids from the neighborhood and family. But my swimming session got put on hold when I found my uncles in the back room gathered around the TV, instead of their usual spot in the kitchen. They were all watching the Yankee game with bated breath.
While many of them were HUGE Yankee fans, this wasn’t the usual attention that the game was receiving. That was because Dave Righetti was in the process of throwing a no-hitter, and against the Red Sox of all teams! I was mesmerized. It’s the first game that I can remember watching through its entirety. By the time it was over, I was certain that I was going to be a baseball player. Although, at the time, it didn’t even cross my mind that I might actually be a pitcher too.
The Yankees went on to win the game 4-0. Righetti threw 132 pitches to finish the complete-game no-hitter. Even in that room on the TV, the atmosphere was electric. I was hooked. From that moment on, baseball was the only thing I thought about.
That year, my family moved. Not far, but far enough that I was in a new school and suddenly found myself without much of a yard to speak of. I was lucky to spend most of my non-school time in my old neighborhood where I had friends to play baseball with. But some days, I found myself without a partner to even have a catch with, let alone field a sandlot game.
The yard was about a 40′ x 40′ square between my mom’s office building, the house, the garage, and the auto shop next door. Not a lot to be excited about. But, I had a glove, and a tennis ball, and was determined to do something baseball related. I came to treasure the 4 brick walls of the buildings in the yard. They created endless possibilities for me to throw a ball and have it come back so I could field it. It was my version of a pitch-back.
I spent hours fielding grounders, line drives, and popups (aka ricochets from the walls). The whole time, I was imagining that I was my favorite player, Don Mattingly. Interestingly enough, his rookie year was the same year of the aforementioned fateful 4th of July game.
By the time little league started in 1985, I was ready to take my place as the next #23. As it turns out, even as a young boy, I threw hard. Not that I fully understood what that meant, but all the adults in my life seemed to agree on that (and when did they ever agree on anything? So, I believed them).
My first time on the pitcher’s mound during a game was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I wish I remember it in as much detail as I remember the Righetti no-no, but the details are hazy over time. The lasting impression was the feeling that it left me with. I wanted to be that guy. The one on the mound that my team could rely on.
All I needed was one game to convince me that I wanted to be a pitcher. Nay, NEEDED to pitch every single day! Pitching became the air I breathed. My delivery was my heart beat. Without time dishing daily, I didn’t feel like myself.
After pitching just two games, I broke my pointer finger on my left hand through the growth plate (off the field) and wound up unable to play for 6 agonizing games. I tried to teach myself Jim Abbott’s style of pitching so I could keep playing, but by the time I was close to any meaningful progress, I was healed and ready to play the last 5 games of the season.
My mom saw how much pitching meant to me and how many hours I had been putting in at my own little training facility in the back yard. She knew she couldn’t give me a baseball field, but there was just enough space to give me a dream. I came home from school one day to find a strike-zone painted on the wall off the garage and two spotlights now pointing into the yard. Now the sun going down wasn’t going to stop me from getting my reps in. I was going to be a star and I was already pitching under the lights.
I spent thousands of hours pitching “big games” in that backyard, “at the wall”. I taught myself a pitching motion which was a mix of Doc Gooden’s and Nolan Ryan’s. Then I spent every minute I had pitching to every spot in that strike-zone.
That wall with its red painted zone, gave me what I needed to chase a dream. So that’s what I did.
My wife and I want to build a “wall” for every kid that wants to work on their fundamentals to be a better ball player. The goal of this blog is to share what we know to help others chasing their dreams, and the parents and coaches of kids chasing dreams.
There is so much magic left in baseball. It’s been an honor seeing it through the eyes of my boys as they have fallen in love with the game themselves. I hope you’ll join us along this journey and share your love of the game with us as well.
Even though my dream changed over time, due to circumstances outside of my control, I’m not sure that I have ever really stopped chasing it. And when I’m pitching to my kids, helping them to chase their dreams, I can still close my eyes and see that “wall”. No catcher required.
