Pressure

There it was - the pitchers mound.

Innocent looking place, out in the middle of clipped green grass, raised just a little with a plank of wood or plastic across it.

I had grown up standing there, throwing pitch after pitch after pitch. My father had stood behind the fence, cheering me on game after game. My mother had sat in the stands, her smile fixed and her voice raised with those next to her. She'd never really understood the game, or my fixation with it, but she'd been there.

The first time I'd seen the World Series on the television with my dad, I was hooked. I'd always been a good thrower, and from that day on I was going to be a major league pitcher. My dad told me there were worse things - football was the bane of civilization in his mind, but he was proud that I had chosen the sport of the true American.

I love everything about the sport. I love the feel of the grass and dirt under my feet. The sound of a bat cracking as it hits the ball, the thunk in the glove when the ball is caught, the sing song voice of the Ump yelling “Sterrrike!” It’s the feel of a breeze on a hot afternoon, the smell of the hot dogs wafting from the snack bar, the voice of the venders along the stands selling everything from banners to beer – all of these things are rounded off into my feelings about the game.

I had moved up the ranks in high school and college, getting picked for the local off shoot team my first year at the University. I'd had to delay one year because of scholarship obligation, but then I'd signed up more for the chance to play in a big field than for any money I thought I'd make.

Those had been the days...good and bad. Traveling from town to town, playing team after team. Seeing more of the inside of a bus and my eyelids than any scenery. It seemed like it took forever when I was lucky enough to be called up - in just six months. I'd been closing pitcher with the Houston Astro's just three months when I met my wife - Julie. What an amazing woman. She took my breath away and about made me lose the game, but I gathered my wits: winning the game and getting her phone number before the night was over.

Then came the time when they finally let me start. Those were the games…exquisite in the joy that was in my heart. That first pitch in the beginning of a game in the major league stadium - it was the columniation of all my childhood dreams and aspirations.

So here we sit – game three of the World Series. My parents are seated in the stadium along with thousands of fans...the buzzing is about to drive me crazy but the fans like it. 'Bee-lieve' posters were everywhere, but I avoid looking up into the stands as well as at the people.

I’m still a rookie in the sense this is my first chance at the World Series. I've been playing for two years but we haven't gotten past the divisions before now. This was my chance to stand and shine, and we had already lost two games. It was eating at me like an open sore. My teammates are hyped. We’re playing on our home turf, the Astrodome – we are kings. There’s no way we can loose this game. We had worked long and hard for this spot in history and we were gonna make it ours.

But I found I was unprepared for the feelings and pressure from the crowd. It's not the same as a regular game during the season - it's a whole different ball game. It’s like a living thing - passing through the air we breathed into our lungs and tightening up our abdomens and muscles used to play. Tension was live as electricity, zapping our strength and concentration. This game was a big step. If we didn’t win, the chance of winning another one was slim. The chances of winning the series were pretty much nil. Who could live with that? The fans were beside themselves. I could see it in their faces when I broke my self imposed rule and saw the desperation and clenched hands.

“Please!” I can almost hear them saying it out loud. “Please let us win! You can do it guys, we know you can!”

Never did any team have such great fans as we did. Man, they were the best. They cheered us even when we lost. They supported us during the long lean years when the team didn’t even go to the playoffs. They deserved this win almost as much as we did. But, we deserved to win. Didn’t we want it more? Although that was hard to say, the other team hadn’t had a victory like this in almost as many years as well. We were a couple of desperate teams that wanted that statue in our locker room – could almost taste the sweat of honest victory in our mouths.

Now here I stand, on that pitchers mound, hands clenched around a ball that suddenly seems slippery to my touch, the dust from the playing field choking my lungs. The roar of the crowd suddenly feels like condemnation – rejection – hatred. They weren’t behind me anymore. I had to strike this batter out or they were never going to let me forget the errors of this inning.

Baseball fans have long memories. Ask anyone who can tell you who played what position in what game of what World Series. It’s a hobby for most of them; they have all these old teams’ rosters memorized by heart. The knowledge struck terror into mine, suddenly knowing that I wasn’t in the same league as those guys. Let alone the rest of my team – they depended on me and I was letting them down.

The commentator had said something about how unusually quiet the stadium was during our last at bat – I remember someone turning off the radio (or was it a miniature tv?) and swearing. We knew the fans were tense – we can feel it!

Most people will tell you that sports are a team effort. Nothing rests on just one man. That person hasn’t played baseball. Sure, the efforts of the whole team are important, but I tell ya, if the players are hitting the baseball when we’re up to bat, the game can still be lost to the other team if the pitcher isn’t throwing right.

Well, it looks like that’s where we’re at tonight. We’re only at the fifth inning, and already everyone is looking edgy. Heck, we were up four zip and they’re still panicking. Why? Because the White Sox are hitting. They are hitting my pitches! I feel the creep of failure work it’s way up my gut to my throat, clenching my jaw in a grip that could crack teeth.

The strain is showing on everyone’s faces. The guys are trying to be up and concentrate, but it’s hard when I’m messing it up. I want SO badly to pitch correctly for them…it’s what I do for heaven’s sakes! That’s why I’m here! Isn’t that what they’re paying me for? To throw this stupid little ball as fast as possible and make sure the other guy can’t hit it? Isn’t that something I’ve always been able to do? 94 miles an hour, that’s how fast I throw. The other team knows it. They also know that I’ve got a pitch I use almost exclusively, and they’ve studied up on it.

It saps my confidence. They know my pitch. How to I compensate for that? I’ve become cocky the past year, assured in the knowledge that I can win games. I look for a moment at the spot where my wife said she’d be sitting. She’s gone. She’s gone? Where was she? My mouth was suddenly dry as cotton and my eyes blinked heavily at the sweat pouring from my forehead. I wiped at the sweat with my sleeve and swallowed heavily.

I’d dreamed of this day? This was a nightmare! I wished I could just step off the mound and have it all go away, but that wasn’t going to happen. The Umpire glanced at me, but I couldn’t read much of his expression in that mask. The catcher signaled to me and I looked at him closely, unable to read his expression either. I had to follow through. I had to swim through this sea of tension and pressure and do it right. If I didn’t, I’d never live down the memory.

I glanced once more at where my wife sat, and there she was. Gorgeous as ever in a black coat and yellow hat on her thick brown hair, her face showed her worry and concern as well as determination. She knew I had what it took – I’d told her that often enough.

I took a deep breath and willed my nerves to calm and my thoughts to clear. This was it. This was the moment I’d trained for all my life. I gathered my concentration around me and focused on the ball and the plate. I didn’t even look at the player at bat. My world was suddenly the ball and the catcher’s mitt. I remember vaguely hearing someone say that you focus on the things you control. You don’t control the ball after it leaves your fingers, you can’t do anything about the ball after that. All you can do is focus on letting it go.

I closed my eyes, breathed deeply in, and then went into my wind up. Turning, I let the ball fly, knowing that at least that part I could do well. That was all I could determine anyway. How I let the ball fly. This time I decided to let all my fears and tension go with it. I was free.