Is it too late to turn to a career in Major League Baseball? I ask this only because my greatest regret in life has always been that I never played Little League as a child. Not even T-ball. And that is a great shame, because I believe I could have been a great ballplayer.
Whenever I have a catch (which is what the pros call it), I imagine the scouts lurking just around the corner, watching and waiting to jump at the chance to sign me. As of yet, that hasn't happened, and that's a great, great tragedy. They found Randy Newsom here. Why not me?
I know it's too late for a college career, but there's still a chance for me to make it to the Big Show. If I practice now, every day, I think I could be ready for next season's Spring Training, at the latest.
If slow-pitch softball is any indication (and I think we all agree it is), then my first-at-bat home run and 4-for-5 showing in the scrimmage I played in on Sunday should clear any doubts as to whether I am ready. I mean, slow-pitch is about on par with what Randy Johnson's throwing these days. I just need a chance to prove myself. But still, I toil away at this column and this academic life when I could be on the field, livin' the dream.
I place complete and utter blame for this injustice on my parents. Rather than forcing me into a life of weekend Little League games and endless summer tournaments, my parents chose to ask me if I wanted to join a team and had the audacity to actually listen to me when I replied, "No thanks."
Parents should understand that a six-year-old has no conception of what it is that will make him or her happy later in life, and, as such, a parent must act as the decision-making surrogate. Because let's face it: Six-year-olds are stupid.
My idiot six-year-old self would have been completely content with dressing in only my awesome Ninja Turtle Halloween costume every single day of the year, eating nothing but jelly beans and living in the bathtub. My parents conveniently did not listen to those requests. The point is that the world is now devoid of what could have been a monumental baseball player, and that is a shame.
I believe Ted Williams would have nodded in approval at my natural-born swing. Had I been taught how to throw a curveball early enough, I could have taken the mound, but if I must be somewhat realistic, I am resigned to being a great outfielder.
Think of it this way, which would you rather have: the guy who hits home runs with perfect form or the guy who hits homers with an ugly swing? You take the guy with the ugly swing because he has nowhere to go but up.
That's me. I'm a clean slate. No coaching interference. Just pure, natural talent to be molded by whatever lucky manager picks me up. All I'm coming in with are some lessons on teamwork from "The Sandlot" and the art of fielding from Walter Matthau. Oh, and first and foremost: no crying. Got that.
Listen, I've seen "The Natural," and, minus the whole playing baseball before getting shot, I could be the real life Roy Hobbs. Or what about Jim Morris, the guy who got a chance to pitch in the Majors after years of injury and absence from the game? I mean, again, minus the whole "experience in baseball" aspect, that could be me.
So here's how I see it. You sign me to a Major League contract, and you're making an investment in the future. Movie and book deals are a sure bet, and since I haven't strained myself from years of play, I could be good to go well into my 40's. This is win-win, folks. Someone get Scott Boras on the phone immediately!
My only stipulation: I won't play for the Yankees. I play for a contender, or I don't play at all.
Andrew Bauld is a senior majoring in English and political science. He can be reached at andrew.bauld@tufts.edu.
