Somewhere in the bottom of an old drawer of mine is an old baseball. The ball sits there, with its scuffed leather surface unaltered since its last use. The tiny little scars that crease the surface of the red-stitched sphere still hold minuscule pieces of gravel and dust, remnants of this ball's childhood of being skipped across concrete streams. It used to play "grounders;" thrown high at the chin of a young friend, employed daily in the perfection of a knuckle ball.
Unwrapping a baseball is a unique feeling. The clear plastic that enveloped it leaves a subtle smell behind that is quickly dispatched with the ball's first exposure to the elements. The white leather possesses a soft sheen like an infant star awaiting its first trip to visit its brethren. And it all sits quietly in the palm of your hand.
But that is where the newness of a baseball dissolves and you can feel the age of the leather. At the core of a baseball is another tiny ball of cork, or wood, or plastic - depending on the "authenticity" of the ball. Tightly-wound string holds that ball in place while the pristine leather cover is placed around it, stitches for the scuffed knees of children on the sandlot, red as a reminder that this ball had a life before you were ever conceived.
The "authenticity" of a ball never mattered to me. Authenticity was something every tyke infused the ball with. At one time it was Nolan Ryan's fastball, at another, a home run from the bat of Mike Schmidt. The more scuffed it got, the better it got. If Jimmy pulled out a brand-new ball, it would take the back seat until Bobby's beat-up old orb was lost. It was always preferable to see a ball lost before seeing it destroyed. I remember the day Tony Gwynn called it quits, still one of the best hitters in the game; his retirement was like losing a ball. Who would really want to see Gwynn labour through another long season slowly succumbing to the injuries a forty-year-old diamond-runner inevitably gets? I felt the same way about watching a ball slowly unravel.
I grew up playing baseball. Dad used to walk me up the hill to the tiny diamonds at my elementary school and he would pitch to me with a huge rubber softball from ten feet away. He used to joke that if he stood farther away, he'd never get it over the plate. I struck out, mostly. But once in a while, I would sense where that ball was going to be as it crossed home and my undeveloped arms would reach out - bat in hand - and smack that beach ball with all my might. I never had to round the bases; it was much more fun to watch Dad pretend to misplay my dribbling little come-backers.
As I grew stronger and my baby brother grew older, Dad gave way to the youngest member of the family. I was a good older brother back then. Matt and I (and even my older brother Dave) would play catch for hours some weekends. We would take turns shagging flies in the street, turning an imaginary double-play or two and taking turns rifling a ball in to first. On weekdays after school, Mom used to have to come outside and remind us to come in and wash up. Dinner was being served and the sun had dropped low in the sky.
All three of us played softball in the local recreational league, but Matt and I were pushing for baseball; we were getting too good for softball. In my last year playing softball, I batted over .600 and I must have stolen a bajillion bases - give or take a million. I was around ten years old and had decided that I would be the next Jimmy Key (despite my right-handedness). Matt always loved Dave Stieb, so when we started pitching in the backyard we morphed into these new characters, overpowering pitchers from the unstoppable Blue Jays.
Matt's the only eight-year-old I've ever seen who could throw a curveball. His release may have needed work, but his mechanics were perfect; he knew to roll the wrist out as the arm comes over the top, then snap it hard as you release. The ball comes out spinning sharply down and to the left.
And there was not a ten-year-old brother in the world who could hit the thing.
Matt threw a curveball, fastball, change-up; I had a split-finger fastball (that didn't break, but we would swear that it did), a knuckler, and a side-arm curve.
I taught hi m that side-arm curve. He taught me everything I know about being an older brother.
I wonder sometimes if my older brother Dave had those same experiences with his younger brothers. There were many times growing up when I felt like the eldest; working both sides of the age divide. But once in a while, my crazy older brother would suggest something crazy, and I would crazily go along with him just to get a piece of the action. I think he does know.
I was twelve years old. It was the summer of 1989. I threw a new pitch - a knuckle-curve - and it quite unexpectedly did exactly what it was supposed to do. As it reached "home plate" (which was actually a frisbee, or occasionally a square piece of plywood) it dropped absurdly, slipping beneath Matt's outstretched glove.
That summer I hit my brother in the face with a pitch, and after that he got scared.
We never pitched in the back yard again. 1990 came, and new dreams developed in our young minds.
I don't see Matt much anymore. Adults, I find, often say things like that.
"Whatever happened to so-and-so?"
I don't know, I don't know...
Once in a while, Matt and I do spend some quality time together. Usually it is while skiing on one of our Dad-sponsored winter vacations in the Canadian Rockies. But on those trips, watch out! Matt and I magically zip back in time and you can see the pre-teen twinkle in our eyes. As the sun dips behind the mountains, we still need a reminder that we must come in and wash up. Dad and Dave are waiting to go to dinner. There is no more sign of the scared ten-year-old that was crying in the backyard, lip split by a fluke pitch with an old scuffed baseball sitting in the grass between his knees. It was a white ball with red stitching: red for the split lips of children in backyards, stitches to mend the holes in their memories. Matt is a young man now with a young daughter. I am a young man still, too. I'm married and thinking ahead to my future family.
Maybe someday, Matt can teach my son how to throw a side-arm curve. I would like to see that, watching from the sidelines with my wife while my younger brother plays big brother on a tiny diamond with green grass and dusty base paths.
I have already started saving for some catcher's equipment.
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