Hey Jealousy

I'm going to go off the beaten path a bit today. No roller derby recap, no jetting off to see another ballpark, just some personal stuff. I'm sure that just about everyone who might read this is either a current or former participant in at least one team sport. As some of you may know, I have a very extensive background as such.

My first experience as a member of a sports team came at the age of five, when I was finally old enough to join tee-ball. By the age of seven, I was a rare left-handed shortstop, who turned two unassisted triple plays in one season. A year later, I ascended to "minors" baseball, the first level at which kids can pitch. I played every position but catcher, right field, and left field. In my first ever pitching appearance, I struck out all three batters I faced, preserving an extra-innings win. As my body grew (and grew, and grew some more), my days of moving around the field waned, and I became strictly a first baseman and pitcher. In baseball orthodoxy, there's not much choice for a lefty who's 5'11" and 235 pounds at the age of 13.

By that time, I had spent six years playing in the "minors" and "majors" of little league, along with some travel all-star teams. I certainly wasn't a one-dimensional adolescent. I had taken (and aced) two community college classes and topped 1400 on the SAT (back when 1600 was perfect). I played chess as well as youth basketball and volleyball. I worked tirelessly to help Super Mario avoid fireballs. Still, I woke up and fell asleep every day thinking about baseball (and often Alyssa Milano, but that's beside the point). Baseball was my social network, my joy, extra time with my father (my parents divorced when I was ten), and truly my identity.

When I started high school, I joined the football team. I had never played organized football before, but I was big, and a lot of my friends were playing. I wasn't very good, but I was smart enough to learn the game quickly and make myself useful as a multi-position backup. Football was something to do while awaiting baseball season, a competitive outlet, and a chance for a socially-awkward kid to avoid the discard pile of unpopularity. I also played basketball that winter season, again occupying the role of the guy who's just good enough to play once in a while.

Finally, baseball season arrived. I went to tryouts...and was awful. My swing was off, my normally excellent defense at first base left me, and I was lucky to earn one of the last spots on the freshman team. A week later, I realized that I could not read much of anything on the blackboard. My first pair of glasses followed, and quickly thereafter my swing and my glove. I ascended to varsity partway through that year and eventually became a starter. The next couple of years were a constant stream of summer baseball, football workouts, football, basketball, and finally baseball again. Rarely did a week pass with no organized sports. I did well in school, and by the end of my junior year, everything was clicking. I was #1 in a class of over 400, nearly perfect on my ACT, and getting some attention from scouts after a very good junior season. I tried not to get too caught up in things, but I was already wondering if I'd play in college or be drafted by the pros.

In the second game of my senior football season, I was playing defensive line for a few plays. At the snap, I diagnosed a quick run play to the outside and tried to cut off the ballcarrier. Just as I stepped to the outside, the offensive tackle went for a cut block, and the crown of his helmet hit squarely on the inside of my knee. I severely dislocated my kneecap and suffered ligament and cartilage damage. After rehab, I made it back, only to suffer a slightly less severe injury to my other knee. By baseball season, I knew something was wrong. I was officially healthy, but I had no explosiveness in my legs. My power vanished, my batting average dropped, and I couldn't make plays in the field that used to be routine. The scouts weren't coming out to watch, and I knew that my baseball career was on the decline at the age of 17.

That summer was my first without organized sports in twelve years. Friends were slowly disappearing to different colleges, and I left the state with a full ride for academics. After getting a look at the horrible astroturf at my school's football stadium, I passed on an offer to play football as a walk-on. I held out the possibility of trying to walk on the baseball team, but found that I was out of my league. I "retired" from competitive sports at the age of 18. Even without the higher level of competition, I joined intramural teams in a few sports, later joining a fraternity for whose teams I was a mainstay. In law school, I played in law student softball and basketball leagues. Even after school ended, I found my way into softball leagues and pickup games. Team sports offer a connection few other experiences can match, and many of my friends today played on those teams with me.

So, why all the long and boring history of my athletic life? At the age of 29, I got a cut on my big toe. It didn't heal over the span of a week or two, and I went to a podiatrist. Two days later, I was officially a diabetic. Despite multiple rounds of powerful oral and IV antibiotics, nothing worked, and I eventually had surgery to remove the toe. All that summer, I sat by as my friends went off to play softball or volleyball. Eventually, my incision healed, and I joined my friends at the big season-ending softball tournament for our co-ed team. It was a sight to behold, as I pulled my car into the handicapped spot, hung my temporary placard on the mirror, and stepped out in my cleats and uniform, carrying my bat bag. I played in two games over the first day of the tournament, and I cannot describe the feeling of being on the field with my friends.

We played most of the second game in a steady rain. By the time I sat down and took off my cleats, my wet socks had created a blister on my previously-injured foot. My tournament was over, and I was heartbroken. When I got back to town, the long series of treatments began again. Eventually, my doctors came to the conclusion that I needed a more radical surgery to even the pressure on my foot, hopefully avoiding further problems and the possible loss of my foot. The surgery was a "success," in that it did exactly what it was meant to and healed without incident. Unfortunately, it left me with no hope of ever playing sports, as I cannot do any activity that requires pushing off with the ball of that foot. It's been roughly five years, and on good days, I can walk with no obvious limp. My foot, calf, and ankle hurt every day, although it's usually manageable.

Honestly, what hurts the most is not being able to step on the field with my friends and teammates. I have only attended a few of their games over the past few seasons, as I can't stand to sit there and watch them play without me. Even attending pro sports, my brain is always playing the game. As soon as the ball is hit, I want to sprint to position to field it. I get upset with the offensive lineman who misses a block, even if it's not for my team. Even watching roller derby, a sport I have never and could never have played (I'm terrible on skates of any kind), I tell myself: "I would have seen that hole," or "I would have blocked to the inside there."

I am envious. I am aggrieved by fate. I wonder how something so wonderful, so central to who I am, could be taken from me. But in the end, this post is not a sob story. I don't want you to feel sorry for me. What I want, more than anything, is for those of you who still get to play to treasure every moment. Cherish the conflict that defines winning and losing. Take advantage of the drive to be better every day. Most of all, be forever thankful for your friends and teammates. Nothing I have experienced compares with the feeling of working together with people you care about to accomplish victory. Having teammates is by far the best part of playing team sports.

A day will come when you no longer put on a uniform. Age, injury, or changing circumstances will find you. Your former teammates (what a painful phrase) may remain your friends, as mine have. I hope that they will be a blessing to you throughout your life, as mine are. Lifelong friendship is the truest benefit of playing sports. But no matter what, at some point, they will cease to be your teammates. Savor every moment: every petty squabble, every road trip, every crushing defeat, and every soaring victory. I have known that privilege, and my life is vastly richer for it. May you truly appreciate and make the most of your chance.