You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Throwing out the first pitch.
We’ve all seen presidents throw out the first pitch at the All Star game and Opening Day.
President Bush brought the heat. President Obama threw like a girl.
We’ve seen celebrities bang the brains of gophers bouncing the ball up to the plate. Mariah Carrey wore hot pants and go-go boots.
How embarrassing.
Comedian Bill Murray threw a pitch 50 rows deep at Wrigley Field.
Comical.
So Saturday night it is my turn.
The Channel 2 well of quasi-news-personalities has run dry and I’m the sludge at the bottom of the tank.
“Cordan we need you to go to the Sounds game and sign autographs and throw out the first pitch,” the boss man says.
As many of you know, I’m not a public appearance kind of guy. I got into news to kick in doors and shine a light in the darkness.
But after a lifetime of doing that stuff, it was time for a new experience. As I always say, life is just a series of stories that run together.
“OK boss man. I’ll do it.”
And with that the station begins promoting me throwing out the first pitch like I am Justin Bieber with less hair products.
It’s crazy how many times the anchor cut to a full screen graphic of me saying “And this Saturday is channel 2 fireworks night at the Sounds Game. And our own Andy Cordan will be on hand to throw out the first pitch.”
I feel a little embarrassed as I watch my grotesque publicity photo show up on the TV screen.
Just a note about this photo. The art director was having trouble getting the camera to work the day he took my picture. The flash didn’t register and the focus was off. After 20 takes he got one that he said he could work with.
Well it was hideous. My left eye was closed and my right eye looked like a cubic zirconia. I’d rather have had a jail house mug shot.
It was just plain horrible. But I was busy and I never got around to taking a better photo and now it was haunting me every hour on the hour as a full screen promo.
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| Gwynth my tiniest fan |
I show up at the stadium an hour before game time.
I sit at a table by the main gate. There is a big News 2 sign above my head and I am armed with a hundred publicity photos where I look like the elephant man.
Honestly, I look like something that was dug up in an animal graveyard, and Dr. Frankenstein put a cow’s eye in my head. I am so hideous in this picture I can literally roam the country side at night and have villagers chase me with pitch forks.
As I sign, I will try and blot out the eye with indelible ink.
But I sure hope I don’t have to sign for any kids. They will never fall asleep tonight, I chuckle to myself.
I sit at the table with Gil the Promo guy. He is easy going and enjoying the cool breeze. I would call this stadium venerable, but that might be too kind. Nashville Sounds Stadium is old like Betty White. You respect it because it deserves your respect. But in reality, when you pull back the curtain on this nostalgic park wedged between a train track and a housing project on the wrong side of those tracks, Sounds Stadium is little more than chicken wire, concrete and a massive guitar scoreboard in center field.
Standing beside us is Billy the cop. I’ve known Billy for a decade. He works security for extra money. Today he is protecting me from my crazy fans. Actually, he is leaning against the wall because it is shady here and the sun is blistering the stadium everywhere else.
The first fan arrives at the table. A little girl. I ask her name. She is hard to hear over the loud speaker and blaring music and loud crowds shuffling past the table.
Too many AC/DC shows as a teenager I think to myself straining to hear.
“How do you spell that sweetie?”
The little girl shuffles in place and says “K…”
She pauses as I write K on my horribly disfigured face in thick dark Sharpie.
“OK, K. What’s next sweetie,” I say hoping her name is short.
She stares at me wide eyed. Her brain is racing.
Oh no. She has seen my publicity photo, I think to myself. She sees my gigantic cow eye surgically implanted and she wants to run away and get a pitch fork. I just know it.
“What’s your name?”
“Anna,” she says softly.
“Is there a K anywhere in the name Anna?,” I laugh looking up at her daddy.
I toss the publicity photo to the side.
“Well maybe we’ll find a fan come through here whose name starts with a K,” I say smiling to officer Billy.
Good luck on that his quick smile suggests.
I finish signing the autograph for little Anna whose name has no K.
I thank her for coming and she skips away, presumably to get a pitchfork and warn the towns people that the monster is in the breezeway.
I show the photo to Gil who is smiling.
“Am I crazy or did she say her name started with K?”
“I thought she said K too,” Billy chimes in.
I pick up the photo with the K etched in dark sharpie. “OK. well maybe someone will come through here with a name that starts with K. Wouldn’t want to waste this exquisite photo of me looking like something dug up in the graveyard.
Gil laughs . “Good luck with that.”
A young boy steps to the table.
“Hey guy. What’s your name?,” I ask.
I show him the photograph with the K.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a name starting in K would you?”
I look to Billy who laughs out loud.
“My name is Konrad,” the kid says with a blank face not understanding the old guy humor at the autograph station.
“Konrad with a K?,” I say wishing I had bought a lottery ticket earlier in the day.
“K O N R A D” He says slowly spelling each letter.
I pull out the used photo, its value now heavily diminished, and sign the picture for him.
“Here you go Konrad with a K. Enjoy the game.”
The boys laugh out loud.
“What are the odds of that?” Gil quips.
I sign a few more autographs. Nobody runs. Nobody is armed with fire.
Then a teenager tells me his name is Dave.
I begin writing D A V …
“WAIT,” he shouts.
I look up.
“My name is Eddie.”
I look at him with a crazy smile.
“OK. I could swear you just said Dave.”
I feel like signing this photo “To Cybil”, but I write Eddie. Good Luck. Enjoy the game.
“He said Dave,” Billy the cop says as Dave-Eddie-Cybil walks away.
“Good luck finding a Dave,” Gill laughs.
If I’m lying I’m dying.
The next guy shows up at the table for an autograph. his name?
what else: D A V E.
“I’m coming to get a lottery ticket with you,” Billy says repositioning his lean on the wall behind the table.
All in all I probably sign 20 autographs in 20 minutes. It’s not like my hand is tired. It’s actually kind of fun to meet people who say they watch you on TV every night.
I’m sure the main anchors signed twice that many autographs, but then again, one a minute when you are the Frankenstein monster is not bad.
That’s when a member of the Sounds organization arrives table side.
“Ready to go?”
“Sure you got some farm animals I could graze with? A town I can frighten?”
“The guy looks at me crazy.
“never mind.”
We walk down the steps to the field.
The grass is like a soft sponge, every blade neatly manicured. The field is a deep lush green that screams “boys of summer.”
All around us, triple A ball players are warming up. Soft tossing and running wind sprints up from the third base line into the outfield.
There is a military guard nearby holding flags. The crowd above us is buzzing. It looks like a packed house tonight.
I am standing with four other people also chosen to throw out the first pitch.
There is some small talk and then suddenly we are lead by a Sounds Girl to the mound.
A Sounds player stands behind home plate. He is a huge man who seems exceedingly bored by this pre game first pitch activity.
“Hey Jimmy go catch the lame asses for opening pitch,” I imagine his manager saying from the dug out.
“ha ha – Jimmy has to catch the lame asses again,” I imagine his team mates chiding him.
The first guy up is an ex marine. They announce his name. his accomplishments are impressive, especially when read over a stadium loud speaker. People cheer and then he winds up and throws a knuckle ball that bounces 20 feet from the plate.
He laughs and the crowd cheers and the tall catcher hands him the ball and life continues.
I am sitting there thinking, damn i don’t want to bounce the ball up there.
I have been thinking about this moment for a while. I played high school ball. I had a pretty damn good arm once. But I fell off a ladder a few years ago and my skeletal system zigged while my musculature system zagged. Now my shoulder clicks when I walk like the Frankenstein monster I am.
I am a poor bastard don’t you think. One big cow eye sewn into my sorry face and a clicking shoulder that sets off airport metal detectors.
As I watch the lady from the radio station go next, I day dream about how I should throw the ball.
I could rear back and throw it as hard as I can. I could leave my arm and shoulder on the field and let the grounds crew just clean it up later.
I thought about throwing the ball at Ozzie. He’s the coyote like mascot, whose huge plastic head is a fitting target. I would love to just rear back and let one crack the plastic skull of that weird son of a bitch.
The woman before me throws like a girl and bounces the ball wide right of the catcher who is growing more and more weary of this triple-A B.S.
Next Up – Me.
They start reading my credentials to the crowd. Three Emmys. An Edward R. Murrow. It sounds pretty cool over a loud speaker in a buzzing baseball stadium.
I don’t even wait for the guy to finish.
I stand on the mound, just off the rubber. I was never a pitcher and standing on the mound is a little unsettling. It is high and rounded and I’m wearing sandals.
I didn’t think about the mound while imagining this moment. That’s going to add a new dynamic of stability I had not counted on.
I’m now staring down at the catcher who assumes the position behind the plate.
Damn that’s a long way away I think to myself. 60 feet 6 inches give or take.
I see him flash the glove. I guess that’s his sign for the next dumb ass to throw his feeble ass junk toward the plate.
I think the announcer is done. I don’t know. I tune it out. my adrenaline is rushing. No warm up pitch. no spikes. No time to think. one chance to bring it. this is my only time I will ever get to do this. That marine will always tell his story how he rolled it up there like a feeble old man. Is that the bar story I want for the rest of my life.
Frankenstein goat monster rolls ball in front of 6,000 angry pitchfork toting fans.
OH MY GOD.
The next part of this moment is sort of out of body. I feel my leg raise, slightly, like my brain has signaled for some kind of a wind up. What the hell are you doing leg? i think to myself. You don’t have a wind up. You haven’t practiced throwing with a wind up.
OH MY GOD.
Suddenly I’m rearing back and pushing off the mound.
I feel my arm windmilling forward. My shoulder is clicking like it’s sending out an S.O.S. to all ships at sea.
I step onto my left foot and with my arm now at my ear, I feel the baseball in my fingers. It feels perfect. A little comfortable spheroid of leather and stitching.
My wrist follows the arc of my arm and suddenly i snap the ball out of my hand. I watch it fly on a frozen rope to the catcher.
It only takes a second, but it travels in slow motion.
I sense flash bulbs going off. I sense cheer leaders screaming from the dug out cheering my name. I sense fighter jets flying over the stadium. I sense Morgana the kissing bandit running onto the field.
I sense all of these things which are totally not happening as the ball flies toward the bored catcher crouched behind the plate.
The ball has good velocity. It is not going to hit the ground. It is not sailing over his head. I think Ozzie the mascot is safe.
Suddenly the only question is, will it be a strike.
In a second it crosses the plate right at the knees popping the catcher’s glove.
OH MY GOD.
I dare say it was a strike with a considerable amount of Frankenstein, cow eye induced speed.
The catcher’s eyes widen. I think he is surprised.
I hear a few claps and ooohs from the crowd.
My arm hurts from one pitch as I straighten up and realize what I have just done.
A called strike right over the plate. My first strike. My only strike.
I walk to the catcher who hands me the ball.
“Nice cutter,” he says.
Wow a cutter. I guess that fall off the ladder gave me a little action on my fast ball.
The catcher signs each of our baseballs and we walk off the field.
As I head up the stairs, a variety of people smile at me and say “nice pitch Franky”
It makes me happy. It’s all I really want out of this night.
I sit with my 12 year old who is brimming.
Can I have the ball he asks.
sure I say.
That was cool his friends tell me as I take my seat still shaking from a cool adrenaline rush.
I scan the crowd for pitchforks and fire. I see none.
somewhere in the stadium, little Anna with a K is proud as well.
And that is crazy.™