“If the world were perfect, it wouldn’t be.” --Yogi Berra

Hardly anyone would dispute Yogi Berra, legendary Yankee catcher, had a unique ability to turn a phrase.  This pearl is also a paradox, applying equally to baseball and life.  I had three recent baseball experiences and each, I felt, offered lessons applicable to life in general and living sober in particular.  Over the course of a single week, I had the pleasure to experience baseball as a spectator, a participant, and as a coach.  I’ll discuss each in order.

As a spectator:  My dad has been saying to my son and I for several weeks that he’d like to get out to one more Kansas City Royals baseball game before he dies.  While I don’t expect my dad to die imminently, he is in his mid-70s and he has some health conditions he’s dealing with.  I wanted as much to take him to a game as he wanted to go, so we picked our night and found ourselves at a dull game, although played in tremendous weather.  The Royals’ had only two baserunners going into the eighth inning and had scored no runs.  They were down by two, but that slight lead seemed almost insurmountable with the total lack of offense put up so far by the home team.  The slow game, though, allowed plenty of opportunities for me to spend the time talking with my dad.  We spoke about the fantastic weather, how nice it was to have our team in contention in September, and games we’d seen at Kauffman Stadium over the years.  The first was in 1985.  I was five.  The Royals lost that game, but went on to win the World Series that year.  I became a lifelong fan.  I pointed to where we sat at Game 7 of the 2014 World Series.  We lost that one.  By one run.  My dad and I were sitting by the left field foul pole and we talked about how great it would have been if Salvador Perez had scored Alex Gordon to send the game into extra innings, or—even better—if he’d hit a homer and walked off the Series.  To sit there and dream about those outcomes was almost to have lived them.  The pain of that Series loss is well behind us.  What remains are the memories of being there together.

In the recent game, though, the Royals came alive and put together a modest lead.  They held it and the crowd erupted throughout the rally and the save.  The atmosphere was nothing short of electric.  The Royals manager said it was the best home atmosphere they’ve had all year long.  There are 81 home games in an MLB regular season.  We found ourselves at the most exciting one.  We listened to the postgame on the way home the way my dad and I always did leaving sporting events where we prevailed and we dropped my dad at home.  We exchanged hugs.  He told me he’d remember the night for the rest of his life.

Outcomes of sporting events, like life, aren’t guaranteed.  You get what you get.  When you elect to go to a sporting event with someone, what you’re really saying is, “win or lose, I want to experience this with you.”  Well, my dad and I have seen some big wins and some big losses in life and in baseball.  This night was particularly sweet.  Even if I get the opportunity to go with him again, I’d hesitate just because it would be very difficult for anything to top this one.  It was a perfect farewell to our days of watching the Royals at The K together.  

As a participant:  My work has had Royals seasons tickets since the team was founded.  As such, we were afforded a very rare opportunity to select two people to go to the stadium, take batting practice, field balls, throw in the bullpen, sit in the dugout, etc.  It was, by and large, a bunch of middle-aged men allowed to play baseball in a big-league stadium.  A dream come true.  While I loved the opportunity to do all of those things, I was reminded for the first time in a long time I’m not much of a baseball player.  I failed to hit a single pitch at batting practice.  I’m sure I’ve never stood in the box for 70 mph pitching before, but no excuses, I didn’t do anything there.  I missed my fair share of ground balls and pop flies in the field too.  I was struck by how easy the pros make a very difficult game look.  Whiff after whiff, I stood there, refusing to let the view from the batter’s box be spoiled by my lack of prowess in it.  We sat in the visitor’s dugout and drinks were offered.  I chose a soda.  Many around me had beer.  

As the folks around me drank their alcoholic beverages, I refused to let myself be down about not being able to have one.  I’m long over that.  It’s not for me anymore and I know what I am and what I was.  If I had consumed a single drink in that dugout, the alcohol would have been the star of the show.  Instead, I took my rest and refreshment and played catch with my work friend.  We explored the outfield.  We shagged balls hit by the people who actually managed to make contact.

In the days leading up to the event, I imagined how crazy it would be for me to go out there and blast one into the fountains.  Just to hit a moonshot 450 feet before the assembled masses.  Well, not only did that NOT happen, nothing close to it did at all.  The thing is, though, rather than be embarrassed that I did not do much out there, I chose to enjoy the moment and appreciate the extraordinary feats that are routinely performed by MLB players.  I left with a greater love of the game, despite being humbled by it in a way I have not since I was playing youth baseball over 30 years ago.

As a coach: After serving as a head coach of my son’s baseball team over the last three seasons, I am currently an assistant on his Fall Ball team.  Game 1 of the season was pretty rough.  We lost decisively.  Game 2 was going to be an important one for us.  A win would put us even and a loss would portent a potentially difficult year.  My son got the start as pitcher.  He played well through the first two innings, allowing two runs.  He got into a jam in the third.  Bases loaded, no outs.  The game was tied, so a big inning by the opponent would really put some stress on our offense.  He had been pitching well, just not well enough to record any outs through the first four batters.  I told the head coach I thought I should go take a visit to the mound, then I did.  

The infield came in and I looked at my son, who looked like he was ready to hand me the ball.  I said to him, “You’re staying in.  You need to clean up this mess.”  I went on, telling all of them, “These guys think they’re going to score a lot of runs here, but I don’t think they will.  Play for each other.  Back each other up.  Get three outs and then come get your bats.  One run scored before the third out was tallied and the opponent’s failure to make more out of that situation turned the tide in morale.  Our team ended up winning decisively.

On the car ride home, my son thanked me for having confidence in him to let him finish up the inning.  I told him that I knew he had the control to get the outs.  I also knew that another pitcher coming in would not have the same sense of accountability to get out of that jam as my son did.  His performance and the team’s performance wasn’t perfect, but the moments were.

Over the course of that week, baseball delivered lessons in gratitude, perspective, and accountability.  These are all useful tools in sobriety in particular and life in general.  I find the closing line of Moneyball apt, “How can you not be romantic about baseball?”