The Walk

*FAN SUBMISSION by Jordan Fast of Newmarket, ON, Canada.*

Iconic moments appear in every sport. They transcend our everyday experience of the game to become the image of a generation, of an era. With the proliferation of media, we become even more integrated into this game. I don’t know if Wednesday night’s series-ender in Boston will produce such moments, but I do know that one scene will always play back again and again in my mind for years to come.

Baseball will always be the game that captures a connection between coach and player more than any other. There is something unique, something rich about those moments when a coach steps out onto the field that makes baseball special for me. Perhaps it’s some Freudian trigger in my brain as I remember tossing the ball around in the backyard with my Pops. But there are also empirical data to back this up: baseball seems (to me) to be the only sport in which coaches can take the field to talk to their players. Most other sports protect an unseen barrier, a platonic code that dictates no coach may enter the sacred space of play. Yes, headsets have elevated sports communications to the level of covert military operation. But there’s something classically simple about a meeting on the mound that no headset can capture. It’s drama at its finest. Baseball is also one of the only sports for which coaches will suit up in uniform along with the rest of the team. For better or worse, baseball coaches are uniquely linked with the drama of the game.

The other night as Farrell stood in the dugout, wheels turning, I could sense one of those moments happening. I saw the movie running onscreen.

Courtesy: NY Daily News

We all knew, collectively, as the pitch count graphic showed 105, Farrell on the edge of decision, that it was time to make the walk. Lackey’s face in close-up, glazed over from the pressure and exhaustion. Wishing it wasn’t with bases loaded that he would get the visit. If he would only have looked up, though, (cut to wide shot) he would see thousands of fans thanking him for a job well done. He was called on to give 5, hopefully 7 innings of solid pitching. 100 with command, movement, and craft. And he delivered. A day’s work cashed out.  Cue heartfelt soundtrack.

It could have ended a lot worse though.  Who knows what would have happened if the Cards rallied.  But in that moment, handing the ball over was the right thing to do.  It saved the day.

And what a day it was. The grass could get no greener.

But the hand off is always the same: ‘Great job kid. You gave it your all, but now I have to do what’s right for the game.’ The pitcher knows it, no matter how much he tries to say otherwise. It’s over.  And it’s a question of grace… Will he look up, from his locked stare at the ground, and tip his cap?