For Love of the Game

While the door on Zach's only season of Majors eligibility for Little League isn't shut yet, it's only open a crack at this point. But since Zach's not ready to give up hope on his being able to play again this year, neither am I.

If you haven't been following Zach's season, he was diagnosed five weeks ago with two forms of tendonitis and irritation of the ulnar nerve after "gapping" his elbow while overthrowing. At the time of the diagnosis, which came just a couple of days after Opening Day, Kelly and I never dreamed Zach would be out more than half of the season. But last week, he was told by his sports medicine specialist to hold off throwing for at least another four weeks. With his next appointment just two days before his final game, the entire season, save opening day, was suddenly in jeopardy.

A few years ago, this wouldn't have mattered much to Zach. Back then, I was coaching him in soccer, and he seemed to have no interest in baseball. He never played T-Ball, and after a useless season of quasi-instructional recreational baseball, he appeared to have left my favorite sport behind, despite attending summer camp with former San Francisco Giants players. Each year, I'd ask if he wanted to play Little League, and each year he'd say no. I began to lose hope he'd ever play.

But then we moved to Redding just as Zach was—unbeknownst to me—losing interest in soccer. And when Little League signups rolled around that winter, Zach said he wanted to give it a go. And in the uncompetitive, nurturing environment of "farm league," with its machine pitching and de-emphasis on scoring, Zach really took to baseball for the first time.

The following year, there was no question Zach would be playing. By that point, he was calling baseball "his" sport and making friends with other players. That was a season of huge growth for Zach under a very supportive coach, and in the end, his team, the Rockies, went all the way to the league's championship game. They lost, but it was a thrilling ride. And when he hung up his cleats for the year, Zach clearly had the bug. He was a baseball player, plain and simple.

Drafted the following season by the same coach—who had to broker a trade to get him. To my disbelief, Zach had initially been selected by a Majors team based on his performance at tryouts. But given his lack of experience, Kelly and I felt—and Zach agreed—that it would be more beneficial to spend another season in Minors. Returning to his old team, starting nearly every game, and developing on every level, Zach's performance started mattering to him more than pleasing his parents. And it showed. He earned a game ball, he became more consistent, and he fully contributed to his team's amazing performance, completely dominating the league before losing again in the championship game—ironically, to his former coach and the remnants of his farm team.

As this season dawned, everything was intensified. Because of his birth date, Zach was left with only one year of Majors eligibility, and this was it. He and I began preparing early for tryouts, and he did himself proud in them once again—well enough to be drafted third after the coaches' sons were chosen. I don't know who was more ecstatic over that news—him, or me and Kelly—even if we were collectively disappointed that his former coach, who had been so supportive, had not been chosen to move up to Majors. Regardless, all the pieces seemed to be falling into place for Zach's—and our—dream season.

But then, the walls of the proverbial house came tumbling down. After one early practice, when he was being evaluated at catcher—yes, catcher—Zach complained of excruciating pain and numbness in his arm. Then the same thing happened on Opening Day. And once the macho, overly-proud side of me gave in to the practical side, we it checked out—and got the bad news. Zach was left with a prescribed regimen of rest and thrice-weekly physical therapy, made slightly more bearable by the fact that his therapist, Mike, was a former minor-league pitcher who shared many common interests with Zach.

So that's where we stand. Bittersweet as it is, the moral of the story, should Zach not return before season's end, has already been written. When we got into the car after being told last week by his doctor that he wasn't ready to resume playing, I asked Zach how he was feeling. "I'm depressed on the inside, but I have to be positive on the outside," he said to me, matter-of-factly. What could I add to that? I'm sure the pride—and love—I was feeling for him was evident on my face, but I still complimented him on his level-headed thinking and great attitude. I mean, c'mon—the kid's only twelve years old!

In the end, all that's left is the hope that, through some small miracle, Mike clears Zach to resume playing ahead of schedule. With an 0-7 record and having been outscored 16-85, Zach's team is having a brutal season. It's been agonizing for Zach to just sit and watch, knowing he can't contribute. But as bad as it's been, he's conducted himself beyond admirably, staying upbeat and acting as a stand-in dugout coach and assistant. And his coaches have noticed and commended him for it.

And as for us? Kelly and I will just have to take things as they come, making sure that no matter what happens, we follow our wise-beyond-his-years son's advice and stay positive on the outside. Even if, yes, we're depressed on the inside...