Towards the end of the movie Bull Durham, Crash Davis comes to the startling realization that his life as a professional baseball player is most likely coming to an end. An aging career minor leaguer, Crash spent many years in small town USA living the dream. All the while he battled his own moral hesitations and personal failures in pursuit of the ultimate goal...to make it to "The Show", or the Major Leagues. "The Show", as Crash describes it in the movie, is where "you hit white balls for batting practice, the ballparks are like cathedrals, the hotels all have room service, and the women all have long legs and brains."
There is a phenomenal exchange in Bull Durham that always seems to capture me. Towards the end of the movie when Crash (played by Kevin Costner) finds out about his release, he heads to the home of Annie Savoy (played by Susan Sarandon), who is his lover for much of the movie. He informs Annie of his fate, and tells her that his manager briefed him about a managerial opening in Visalia, a city in California with a minor league affiliate. Although he does not come straight out and say it, the movie is scripted in a way that the audience perceives Crash as intending on trying to obtain the managerial job. He sees it as his shot- his potential opportunity- to one day make it to "The Show".
This exchange isn't a particularly famous exchange with respect to the many quotable lines from the movie. However for me, it is the single most relatable line in the entire script. Crash Davis played in the minor leagues for 12 years and his only desire was to establish himself as a formidable and consistent Major League Baseball player. He dedicated his entire life up to that point in the movie to that goal, and pushed to all depths of physical capabilities to obtain that goal. And yet still, as evidenced by the events of the movie, he fell short. He was demoted in order to catch a young stud pitching prospect (Nuke LaLoosh, played by Tim Robbins), and then released once Nuke got his call-up to "The Show". Crash is a firsthand account of the misery of defeat, and the agony of distraught that baseball can bring on an individual. And yet, it is a part of him. It defines him. It consumes him.
Sometimes, I hate baseball. I hate it so much. I sit up at night and ponder to myself, questioning why I love this game so much. It is a game of failure, of perseverance. It does not have so much as but a drop of glamour, and very rarely does one ever excel in it to the point of mastery. But most of all, baseball tortures the mind more than anything else I can ever imagine. It pokes and prods and constantly disappoints. And people like Crash Davis, well, they're just stupid enough to keep on getting up.
Those times that I feel as though I hate baseball are times when I consider myself very much in the same boat as Crash Davis. Baseball is a sport that requires an incredible drive of mental effort and ethical consistency. Baseball is also a sport that can be bipolar in nature, and is more unpredictable than a young child's disposition.
Baseball has been a constant figure in my life since I was five years old. Those were the days of coach-pitch with wood bats, when we'd wear plastic gloves and squat in the outfield picking flowers. When I was ten, my Little League team won our District championship and we thought we were super heros. At 13, I was on the mound pitching for my school team en route to a league championship. I was hooked. It transformed into a passion of mine, something that I could look to for a means of escape from the stresses of the "real world".
That escape has been prevalent throughout my entire life until April 22, 2011. On that day, for reasons I still don't understand, that escape was taken away from me. I could no longer put on my uniform, jog out to the mound, and pitch. I could no longer know the feeling of a four seam fastball coming off the finger tips, or getting a batter swinging at a curveball in the dirt. My escape was quickly converted to a distant memory.
I've attempted to remain level-headed throughout the entire process. I took the responsibility to get the medical care that I desired from the doctor I desired to get it from. I took it upon myself to push through the physical therapy program laid out for me, knowing that it will prevail successfully in the eventual future. I began feverishly researching graduate school programs and contacting coaches there, in hopes that I could obtain a roster spot and play out my last year of eligibility. I've worked hard to maintain a full course load at school. When I need a mini departure from the stresses of reality, I've found solace in my friends and family. My girlfriend Nicole has been there for me through the countless ups and downs, and I've found myself being able to enjoy a sense of happiness and belonging in her presence. I know that in the entire large scheme of things, I am doing just fine. I am a senior in college, applying to some high-level grad schools with a good social life, supportive family and loving girlfriend. I have a good work ethic and have been applying myself physically in order to ensure that I will be successful in accomplishing my long term goal of playing baseball once again.
And yet with all this, I feel empty. I can't play baseball. I can't go out and have a catch, fool around with a friend. I can't feel the joy of the dirt beneath my feet, or the seams in my hand. I can't manage to cope with the pressures of everyday life by resorting to baseball, like I have for so many years.
Crash Davis went through a lot of tough times and failure in Bull Durham. He had plenty of highs and lows. What kept him going was his love for the game. He knew that no matter what happened in his life, the constant that is the game of baseball was something that he couldn't live without. And in that message is where I find myself. I can't see myself being any happier than when I am playing baseball. That ability was taken away from me...and I plan on getting it back.
89 days post-op.
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