The fatiguing southpaw stares in for the sign - not much left in his tank, but maybe just enough to get those two last precious outs in the 9th. The runner on 2nd eagerly takes an extra step off the bag as the all-important tying run in the national championship-deciding game. The entire crowd is on its feet, feeling the weight of the moment, the majority shouting in unison, "Com-pi-egne! Com-pi-egne!" I eye the lead of the runner on second, "no pick-off, just get him at the plate, ALLEZ!" I mutter under my breath. The lefty visually checks both runners, kicks his leg toward the plate, and snaps off another tired curveball to the anxious left-handed hitter...there's an eery silence as the crowd holds its collective breath...followed by the crack of rawhide leather against wood...I can remember sitting in front of the little television in our basement, my history homework long before set aside and a baseball glove in hand, fully engrossed in the images on the screen. Game 7, bottom of the 9th, a 1-run game. Those are rare, sweet moments in life. Times when sport rises above mere balls and strikes to engage the depth of human emotion. I, after a 17 year baseball career, found myself on the other side of that television screen, glove once again in hand, but this time with the fortune of being an actor in the theatrics.
I could tell that it was a special day from the time I stepped on the outfield grass earlier that morning. I mean really, how many national championship games do you get to play for in life - even if not your native country? You hear athletes talk about "trying to turn on the switch", in order to get the adrenaline and focus going for game time. For me the day-long battle of keeping emotions in check began during warm ups and would continue throughout. It helped to follow the routine: eye black freshly applied, bill of hat flattened and slightly to the right, pants bottoms well-aligned over shoes, two batting gloves in right pocket...check, check, check, and check...team introductions and national anthem...game time! Stepping to the plate for the first time that day to the same "Let's go Jame!" cheers I remember hearing at age 12 from my little league days, and seeing my parents and sister in the stands (4000 miles from home) was truly something special - no matter the outcome of the series.
The first game began in typical fashion: Andre Sternberg domination. Our team was carried all year on the left arm of this laid-back Berkley, CA product. Never before has a pitcher in the French system ever thrown more than 100 strikeouts during the course of the season. In 2009, opposing teams wore a path to the batters box and back as Andre mowed down 178! It's rare gift, from a managerial perspective, to be able to enter into a 3 game series knowing you only have to figure out how win one game - the second one. In short, he had his toughest test of the year but in the end Compiegne had a 4-2 win and Andre another 13Ks through 9 innings. Now let the drama begin...
Much transpired in the short pause betweens games. Our number 2 starting pitcher (a French national team selection) was informed over the phone that due to drawn-out complications, he was ineligible to play, and this only 10 minutes before he started to loosen up. Andre was penciled-in to play center field before he "took one in the face" as the French say and required stitches. With our weakened lineup and the strongest offensive force we had encountered all year, Robert Brunard, the French Jamie Moyer equivalent was given the nod. "Bob", a 40-something year-old middle school gym teacher on the verge of hanging them up for his career, has two pitches: a sliding curveball and fastball that makes the aforementioned curveball look fast. The one thing this lifelong athlete did have on his side, the rare ability to "rise to the occasion" - and this was such an occasion.
After a few innings it quickly became evident that this was going to be a pitcher's duel. On paper it shouldn't have been, but that's what's great about sports. Bois-Guillaume's lanky right-hander wasn't blazing fastball past our hitters, he was just "missing bats" with a large assortment of bizarre pitches. Hitting from the 3 spot all year, I will humbly admit that I was struggling on this particular day. I got hit by a few pitches (my calling card) and also walked a few times, but otherwise, this crafty righty had my number. And on the other side there was Bob, using his two mediocre pitches to perfection - hitting corner after corner with pinpoint location. Whereas my bat was struggling, I, however, was in the middle of having the finest defensive game of my career. Bob was setting up the hitters perfectly and finishing them off with a backdoor curveball on the black. All they could do was roll over the outside pitch and voila, another groundball headed my way!
With 2 away in the 6th inning, the magnitude of the situation once again hit me. I had just made a charging, off-balanced throw to nip the runner at first, followed by another 6-3 putout deep in the hole on the 3rd base side that would have made Bruce Johnson, my college coach beam with pride. And as I gathered myself at my position after making my 5th play of the game, the crowd on its feet, I had to fight back back the emotions: national championship just 10 outs away, seeing my parents 4000 miles from home leading the cheering from the stands, knowing I was playing the defense of my life in perhaps the most important game of my life...I paused, took my glove off, looked around and took in the moment - I'll never forget that. It's one thing to enjoy the moment a long while after it has taken place; its quite another to soak it in while it's happening. 4 pitches later, the Bois-Guillaume hitter fanned at another perfectly located Bob curveball, and we charged back to the dugout riding on the wave of momentum. 9 outs away!
2 innings later I found myself pacing the dugout unable to sit still. The score was 2-1 and only three outs away. The heart of Bois-Guillaume's lineup was due up, and Bob was visibly tiring. As I jogged out to shortstop, I cracked a smile and couldn't help but laugh. Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody blasted on the loudspeaker - my favorite karaoke song. With what little voice I had left after encouraging the boys all game, I barked along with Freddie Mercury and the band, which in a strange sort of way actually calmed me down just enough - I was ready. Bob once again managed to change speeds and got the first out of the 9th on a gentle pop-out. Just two more to go...before the trouble started. The Woodchucks (yep, you read that correctly) gnawed out a solid base hit to start the late-inning rally. The following hitter brought the fans to nail-biting with a second sharply hit ball up the middle just past the outstretched glove of the second baseman. One out, two on, middle of the lineup at the plate, crowd on its feet chanting. I eyed the runner,"no pick-off, just get him at the plate, ALLEZ!" I mutter under my breath. Bob winds and snaps off one more tired curveball. Crack! The ball slowly hops to the second baseman. I charge toward second screaming, "Jeu double! Jeu double" Jean Taguchi fields it cleanly - 20 feet from the bag, turns and underhands it in my direction. "Too slow! Too slow!" my mind starts to panic. The ball feels like it's moving through jello on route to my glove. I do my best to speed the play up by keeping my right foot on the bag and lunging toward the throw with my left. To my surprise the runner from first is just watching the play ! In one swift move I catch and release the ball towards first. Coca, the Cuban first baseman, lunges and snags the ball a hair before the hitter arrives at the bag. Everyone turns to the umpire with baited breath for the call ... He's out! Double play to end the game! I leap in the air and sprint toward Bob who is on his knees, tears in his eyes, both fists in the air. Everyone jumps on the pile and I find myself on the bottom of a screaming mass of testosterone and joy, just like I had always dreamed of since a kid. We were national champions!
The moments after the game were filled with laughter, tears... and loads of joy. I even got to sign my first - and probably only - autographs when a bashful group of little kids ran up to me with baseballs and ink pens, just as I had done throughout my childhood. It was truly the highlight of my 17 year career, and all that with my favorite fans to witness it - my family!
