Newton's Third Law

One of my most vivid memories is my first home-run.

I was 10 and playing shortstop for the Orioles sponsored by the 14th Infantry Division - The Golden Dragons - at Schofield Barracks in Hawaii. It was the second game of the season and the last inning of the game.

Since I started playing in Little League just after my 8th birthday, I had always maintained a good batting average which was only topped by my on base percentage as I was walked or beaned almost as often as I hit for bases. At that game in June of 1961, I had been at bat three times before the final inning and had hit a single, a double and a triple, although not in order. When it became obvious I would bat a 4th time, my coach taught me about hitting for the cycle.

I had never heard of the phrase, let alone the event. My coach, a former minor league player, told me he had never witnessed anyone hit a single, double, triple and home run in a single game - the cycle - in his entire life. At that time, I was 10 and he was an old guy; probably all of 25.

I have since learned that in the history of major league baseball, there have been only 277 times a player has hit for the cycle, beginning in 1882 until this moment. Only 23 players have done it more than once and only 3 players have done it three times. I did not know it in 1961 on that sultry Hawaiian afternoon that I was about to join a very exclusive club.

The coach's final words were "Don't think about it; just hit away."

Easy for him to say...

I swung at three pitches, missing the first two. As the third pitch was being delivered, I decided that three hits that game were enough and that a strike-out wouldn't kill my average. I decided to really, really strike out and swung harder and faster than I had ever remembered swinging the bat before... CrrrRRRackkk!

Now let me tell you about that ball field.

The diamond, backstop, dugouts (that's what we called them but they were really only benches) and bleachers were located on one corner of a large parade field located in the center of the base. This meant there were no fences that would facilitate a walk-off home-run. Lot's of speedy players turned doubles into home-runs because they could outrun the outfielders. I was not a speedster. My top speed has never been faster than pathetically slow and on that afternoon, with the heat and humidity, I had settled for one double and one triple that others would have turned into home-runs.

My last at-bat, however, produced the hardest hit ball in my short baseball history and I was able, by only a few seconds, beat the throw from the cut-off man to home plate.

I had hit for the cycle.

My dad was there but he didn't really understand what hitting for the cycle was, nor, apparently, did anyone else except my coach.

My dad was proud, of course, because I had actually hit a home-run. The rest of my team did the expected cheering for the run and the families in the bleachers either cheered me or booed me, depending on the team to which they were loyal. My coach, though, actually had a tear in one of his eyes as he thanked me for allowing him to witness such a sacred event. I was ten and thought he was a little queer.

I finished that season as the league's MVP. I hit 31 home-runs (all the others were produced on fields with fences) and closed the season with a batting average of over .800. I also managed, as a substitute for a pitcher who got the flu, to pitch a no-hitter after which my right shoulder has never, to this day, been the same. The Orioles won the state Little League championship.

It was a great season where I learned a lot about baseball but turned into a cocky, little punk.

The next season, we had a different coach as our old coach had served his time in the Army and went back to his dream of playing in the Bigs. I don't think he ever did but since I have long ago forgotten his name, perhaps I am wrong. I had a good year but not as good. I made the All-star Team and our team won the base championship but we lost to a team from Wahiawa in the first round play-offs.

I played baseball every summer until I graduated from high school but never came close to my best year; the year I hit for the cycle. My dream of playing pro-ball was never even approached, although my best friend in 9th grade, Leon Roberts, went on to a successful career that started with the Tigers when he made the show and ended as a Kansas City Royal before becoming a manager in the Minors.

So what's all this have to do with the title of today's entry?

I learned, at that third swing at my last at-bat in that game in 1961, that the harder I swung the bat, the farther a ball would travel assuming a solid hit was made. I later learned that it's easier to hit a home-run with a fastball than it is with any other pitch. Then, finally, in 9th grade, I learned why. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction... Newton's Third Law of Motion.

I have also learned that Newton's Third Law can also apply to things having nothing to do with motion, but rather, with emotion.

In yesterday's entry, I wrote of a the tension that generally accompanies the close proximity of me to my oldest son. Some may have taken my words to mean that it is my son who creates the tension and that I didn't enjoy being with him because of the anxiety. Nothing could be further - or farther - from the truth.

I love him with all my heart and look forward to seeing him whenever it's possible. Any pain he feels, ever, I inflicted. Any distance he feels that is between us, I created. Any anger he might ever feel I caused. I was never a good father to him and, at times, I wasn't a father at all.

If I could shoulder his pain and remove his burden, I would gladly do it.

While I have changed and repented of my evil past, I began that process after he had left home. He has never experienced the fruits of either my repentance or my affection as a repentant father. I can and have, talked to him, but we all know how cheap talk can be.

Frankly I owe him a debt, I doubt I can ever repay but I can continue to try.

Some may think, because of my entry yesterday, that I am not looking forward to his upcoming visit. They are wrong. I wish, in fact, that he could stay longer. I wish he would want and be able to join me on the trout fishing camp in July. I wish we were neighbors. I wish, with all my heart, that we were friends. I love him. I respect him. I honor him. He, unlike me, has never been anything but a great father.

I wish him every happiness and pray daily for his life to be filled with joy.

I am hoping that the terrible at-bat that wounded him, took place in a field where there are no fences; where there are no walk-off runs from which there is no chance for a tag-out at home plate. I want him to catch me there and tag me out.

I want him to love me as much as I love him, but more than that, I want him to be happy.

Last evening my wife wished out loud that I would be less inclined to write such personal feelings in this blog. I considered her request but determined that it's really good to reveal my warts, my sorrow and my joy. If I offend or anger, I apologize. It is not my intent and I hope, someday, all who read this will understand that I am merely drawing a caricature of myself that highlights my weaknesses with the hope others, who might be tempted to do things I have done that bring sorrow, might think twice.