A slow winding curve. The crack of the bat. An acrobatic diving catch. These are the banal phrases associated with baseball. Many Americans take this game for granted, but as a Polish immigrant, I have come to love every single pitch, hit, and catch of every game. Ever since my family emigrated from Poland over a decade ago, I have been a passionate baseball fan. Baseball, to some a frivolous sports game, caused a great schism in my family. As the American national pastime, it symbolized the struggle I faced living on the boundary of two cultures.
During childhood, I dreamed of playing for the Chicago Cubs. In sixth grade, I signed up for a little league baseball team and, on the first day of practice, the coach handed out our brand new, golden yellow Old Orchard Shells uniforms. When I put on those pinstripes, I felt like a knight in shining armor setting out to defend his country. When I arrived home from practice that day, I ran into the kitchen. "Look, Mom," I exclaimed. "Isn't this the coolest uniform you've ever seen?"
"Nylon?" she frowned as she felt the fabric. "That's what I paid forty dollars for? And in this yellow you look like a clown." Although I was wearing armor, those words pierced its steel and painfully struck my heart.
From that day on, I walked the two miles from my house to the practice fields alone. Yet, I did not mind the pilgrimage for the baseball field was a Mecca. Every time I stepped on that field, I was no longer Greg Wierzynski, the four-foot tall, sixth grader; I was Ryne Sandberg, the all-star second baseman. During these times I understood why the people of my new country had been playing this game for a hundred years. Baseball appealed to me because determination can make up for a seemingly insurmountable lack of size or natural talent. It did not matter that I weighed sixty pounds or could barely see over a kitchen counter: I was determined.
When the regular season began, my team was favored to win the championship. After a few games it appeared that we were, indeed, the best in the league. One night, my mom, brother, and I were eating dinner together. My father was, as usual, late coming home from his job as a cab driver, and I squirmed in my seat trying to hold back the news I had. When my father finally walked in, I burst out, "You know what? I'm batting .350." He looked at me puzzled: "Son, if a soccer goalie missed the ball seven out of ten tries, the fans would run him out of town." He did not realize that a major league star succeeds in just three out of every ten attempts.
My team ended the season in first place. But, instead of being overjoyed at the prospect of winning a title in just my first year, I felt unfulfilled. In the semi-final game of the playoffs the reason for my emptiness finally occurred to me. The batter ahead of me had just struck out, and as he walked into the dugout, his father jumped out of the stands. "Don't worry, son," he shouted, "next time you'll crush it." Then I came up to bat. The count reached 3 and 2. I swung. I missed. I struck-out. As I walked into the dugout dejected, no one encouraged me; no one gave me a hi-five for staying in the count; no one told me that I was going to crush the ball next time up; no one said anything. That is when I realized what was missing: my parents. Fittingly, the baseball season ended that day for the Old Orchard Shells in disappointment. After this experience, I compromised with my parents and chose pursuits beyond baseball. I devoted my effort to, among other things, academics, violin, and tennis. These activities have since shaped my character.
Yet, my love for baseball never subsided. I had always envisioned my dad and me, father and son, at Wrigley Field. We would watch the Cubs play on that glistening, perfectly cut grass while the harsh, cold wind, blowing off of Lake Michigan, stung our faces. We both would root for those eternally pathetic Cubs that I loved so much, and we would not need words to communicate.
Then, one day, I managed to lure my father to his first baseball game. An idyllic yet awkward moment, a son explained the rules of baseball to his father. Two rare victories resulted: the Cubs thrashed the Pirates and I defeated a cultural boundary. After the game, my father told me, "I understood about a third of what was going on." I said, "That's not bad, Dad. You're batting."