GIVING THANKS...FOR THE MEMORY
Close your eyes for a second. Can you recall any gift you received more than thirty years ago that you still have, or at least have a vivid memory of receiving? I hope you can. Mine was a simple item. And maybe things meant more back then, with fewer opportunities than are available to kids today. Or maybe I’m just the guy who thinks it was better “back then.” Doesn’t every generation has that guy?
The Item In Question:
A baseball bat. Simple enough, right?
I was just a small-town kid in a ballpark that seemed massive at the time. Omaha’s Rosenblatt Stadium, which no longer exists, but at the time was the home of the NCAA College World Series and the then Omaha Royals, AAA affiliate for Major League Baseball’s Kansas City Royals. In terms of standings and championships, I’d be willing to bet it was a meaningless game. That’s to say nothing of the individual battles being waged, though. As I’ve learned more about the game and met players along the way, I think it’s fair to say that every pitch is meaningful in some way, to someone on the field on any given night. Thousands of individuals across various talent levels, in stadiums scattered around the country, all chasing the dream of making it to The Show, or working to get back there, having tasted it already.
During the summer of 1985 I met one of those guys.
It was only a minor league baseball game, but as I would come to feel about it later in life, it may as well have been game seven of the World Series.
Summer usually meant a road trip that included watching a baseball game at some level. The College World Series, the minor leagues, or the brass ring; a Major League game in a city that was within a day’s drive of our corner in Northeast Nebraska. This particular trip was to the big city of Omaha for a Minor League game (Triple-A). It was pro baseball and it was beyond anything we had access to on a regular basis. Omaha, as it so happened, was (Omaha Royals), and still is (Omaha Storm Chasers), home to the Triple-A affiliate of MLB’s Kansas City Royals, which also happened to be the closest Major League club, about 350 miles south on I-29.
The lack of internet and smart phones meant, that unless you read the newspaper (I was eleven. I didn’t), you really had no idea who the opponent was. That particular night the Nashville Sounds were in town. By the way, that has to be one of the great city-themed nicknames; as simple as it is unique. I loved the Royals home of Rosenblatt stadium, possibly more for the College World Series nostalgia, and some twenty years later, I had a chance to attend a Sounds home game in the the now-defunct Greer Stadium in Nashville; another classic minor league experience.
We were a family of five and for some reason, my dad purchased two box seats that happened to be pretty close to Nashville’s dugout and within the first two rows of the field. At the time, I believe my older brother was with me, though he may remember it differently. My parents and my sister sat in an upper section of the stadium.
Now, why did I get the choice seats during batting practice? I don’t recall any sort of democratic process taking place. As far as I can tell, both of my siblings are prudent enough not to try to find meaning from a three decades-old experience and then write about it, so maybe I was sitting there for a reason 😮
It was a summer night. I was eleven. I was at a pro baseball game, and I was sitting at field-level watching batting practice. I’m sure I'd even been afforded sundry concessions by my parents, too. Life was good. Probably no better setting for a kid of that age, though seeing Back To The Future later that summer on opening night might come close.
As I surveyed the scene in earnest, I barely noticed as he approached the railing. When I eventually realized a real, live ballplayer was standing within inches of me, I think it became an out-of-body experience. But he wasn’t just standing there, he looked directly at me. He spoke to me.
“Hey, what’s your name, kid?”
“Steve,” I said, though it may have sounded like I was asking more than I was telling.
“Would you like a baseball bat?” he asked, as he offered it over the rail. “It’s broken,”
I wouldn't have cared if it was an armful of splintered wood.
At that point, I’m sure I stammered a “Yes,” and hopefully a “Thank you,” too.
My mom would not have appreciated it I’d forgotten my manners.
The whole interaction probably lasted less than thirty seconds and then Mike Laga probably went down into his dugout to get another bat. All I remember was sprinting off to where my parents were sitting, proudly holding the bat for my dad to inspect. He may have been as excited as I was, or at least as excited for me. I’m pretty sure I slept with the bat that night.
Since then, I’ve seen hundreds of professional sporting events, met players, and witnessed some pretty cool moments, but the only thing that even comes close to the impact of Mr. Laga’s gesture was the excitement of watching my son receive an autograph from then Toronto Bluejays knuckleballer R.A. Dickey, as we artfully avoided hotel security in an Anaheim hotel lobby, under the guise of playing cards (yes, we were registered guests). He was twelve at the time, and a student of the craft, so he followed Dickey incessantly. Mr. Dickey was as kind as you would’ve hoped him to be if your child had waited in the lobby until 1:00 a.m. for a chance to finally get an autograph from one of their favorites .
We took Mike Laga's bat home and with my dad’s help, hammered a few small nails into the cracked handle before wrapping several layers of athletic tape around it. You can’t imagine the ego bump that comes from operating in the neighborhood with a professional player’s bat. Never mind the fact that none of us could even swing it. It seemed like Paul Bunyan’s ax, back then, but it was a constant at backyard games whether we could use it effectively or not. Years later, I left home while the bat remained in the “sporting goods bucket” in my parent’s garage.
About four years ago, a package arrived at my house. It contained two items: Mike Laga’s bat and a letter from my father, written to my son. He explained the story behind it and thought my son would come to appreciate it one day, as his passion for baseball continued to develop. The bat had sustained some water damage over the years while sitting in the garage, but my dad had given it a light sanding and a clear coat of stain to preserve it. It currently appears two-toned, but that’s a combination of the elements and a loving grandfather’s preservation efforts.
Today, it’s proudly displayed in our garage memorabilia area and the goal is to pass it along for as many years as someone will appreciate and care for it. Superficially it’s about baseball, just an implement of the game. But it’s mostly about the power of a gesture that has stood the test of time.
My son has developed an appreciation for a good story. He’s now sixteen and among other things, a baseball card speculator, as well as a collector. One day he returned from a visit to his local card shop and he surprised me with a Mike Laga card. Monetarily, I have no idea what it's worth, but like most gifts from a child, the thought behind it makes it priceless.
And earlier this past season, he texted to tell me he was watching a game and one of the announcers described a well-driven foul ball, saying, “…he went Mike Laga on that one,” referring to the foul ball Laga hit out of the old Busch Stadium in St. Louis. Full-circle is a phrase that comes to mind, here.
My interaction in that particular place, has embedded a memory that’s essentially become priceless. It was an unselfish act by a pro ballplayer, who probably had plenty on his mind and more than his fair share of stress, but took the time to interact with a fan, a young kid. How could he have ever known that his souvenir would go on to enjoy a robust life all the way from Norfolk, Nebraska to San Diego, California?
Obviously, I never saw Mike Laga again, but we followed the box scores in our local newspaper, or at least my dad did. He would tear them out and keep me posted on how Mr. Laga, our real-life connection to The Show, was performing. Our connection and we had his bat to prove it.
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