Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Wrigleyville - since Don threw that "first pitch" out.
More correctly I should say threw that first pitch anywhere from six to eight feet in front of him, just to the left of the mound with a roll that looked like a golf ball trying to make its way down a soaked fairway.
I was warned by my buddy John Coulter to "take your time". I was admonished by my friend John Powers to throw it high. I was drinking beer to calm my nerves - three before heading for the field with my good Abbott friend Karmin Maritato who helped engineer the evening.
Around 5:30, a good two hours before the game, we had the opportunity to go down to the field for pictures, I was handed a baseball - a brand new, slick as a piece of silk, baseball. Unless I found a way to scuff it up, it would be like throwing a marble. So I scuffed it up on the concrete floor. I scuffed it on the wall. I scuffed it on any abrasive surface I could find. I just forgot to scuff my shoulder, elbow, wrist and hand.
For all the practice before the big night, I could never deliver the ball consistently to the same spot no matter how much I tried. If I were a stock, Quincy Coulter, his dad John, John Powers and my son Jack could have shorted me and made a bundle.
With family and friends watching from upstairs, all I could do is take my time, throw it high, forget that my coefficient of variation was not just greater than 1, it was infinitely greater than 1.
It's important to note there are honorary first pitches and THE first pitch. THE first pitch was being delivered by Hope Solo, the U.S. Women's soccer goalie. She did it with aplomb. There were three ceremonial first pitches about forty minutes earlier. The first coming from ESPN Radio's Marc Silverman; Silvi to his listeners. He delivered a belt-high fast ball. I had to follow a belt-high fastball by a local radio celebrity. As he walked off I thanked him for setting the bar so high since I was quietly hoping he'd rear back and throw it backward leaving me a far lower standard to meet.
So what did I do? Marched to the mound while waving to those family and friends watching from upstairs, toed the rubber and checked to make sure the catcher was ready. In my mind it was 1968. Number 45 Bob Gibson pitching against the Detroit Tigers. Seventeen strike-outs, a World Series record that still stands. Number 45 Bob Gibson. I wore his number during a Cardinals Fantasy Camp - twenty years ago. With a "pitch thought" like Number 45 Bob Gibson, how could I fail?
I started my motion and.......dOOOOH!
The ball traveled in the air just slightly more than 45 inches before hitting the grass and clawing its way somewhere between 8-10 feet from where it started. I didn't take my time. I didn't aim at the catcher's head. The scuffing had no observable effect. I jogged off the field, shook the hand of the young lady who was next. She threw a lollipop that landed right in front of the plate. It actually traveled 60' not 60' 6" but it was about 60 feet better than mine.
I knew what was waiting for me upstairs......sympathy, but damn little of it. Mostly John Powers and John Coulter crowding around the baseball to get a picture of the green stain. It had hit the grass hard enough to leave a now legendary mark on the ball. So I'd thrown the ball hard enough for grass to stick to it.
Thank God the food was good and the beer cold and they weren't paying for either.
There are no more first pitches in my future, but hey coach! I can play centerfield.
A night to remember indeed! Wish I could have been there, well maybe not...
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