Burnout in the Dugout

AGE SIX. When my parents helped me put on my first set of catcher’s gear, I thought it was the coolest gift ever. It was even cooler than the Hulk costume I wore for Halloween last year. My catcher’s gear probably weighed as much as I did but it didn’t matter because now I could play my favorite game in the world. It made me feel like the big men my dad watched on TV. 

That’s gonna be me one day.

AGE TEN. “Mom, mom!” I called out, pointing to the TV. “Mom, I need gear like the Phillies. I need red gear.”

“Honey, you don’t need new gear, you just got new gear for Christmas.”

“Yeah, but mom, look how cool the red and blue looks!”

I needed that gear. I was never the type of kid to ask for expensive toys, but for my catcher’s gear, I could only have the best of the best. And to emulate the very essence of my favorite team (despite the frustration they brought to all of Philadelphia and the surrounding suburbs) was to be the coolest kid in 10U baseball.

Every new set of gear, every new mitt, every new helmet and mask would immediately become my most prized possession. It is what keeps me safe during my favorite game and it is what makes me stand out from the rest of my team. And to stand out is to be the best.

AGE THIRTEEN. Kneeling down low to the ground, I felt electric course through my veins. I heard my parents cheering along with the other moms and dads and while I knew it wasn’t all for me, I didn’t care. The catcher was the most important person on the field right now. I control the game. The dark blue padding covering what felt like every inch of my body showed off my importance. The matching glove exemplifies my skills as I caught all but one strike. No other boys on this field could catch that many.

“Attaboy, Ryder,” my coach patted my back as I ran off the field at the end of the inning.

Attaboy, Ryder.

Attaboy, Ryder.

If I wear this gear. If I stand on this field. If I squat down and signal to the pitcher and catch every single strike, I’ll get a “Attaboy, Ryder.”

I pulled off the helmet to sip my water, leaving the rest of my gear on the whole time for good luck. Because it was. Lucky, that is. Until I grow out of this gear, I will never wear another set. How else could you explain the fact that I was the best catcher at this tournament? Yeah, I worked hard, but so did the others. It’s the gear. I need this gear.

AGE SIXTEEN. Though I shattered my knee two years ago, that never stopped me from putting on my helmet and mask and padding and guards and mitt, and marched onto the field, ready to catch another year. I ignored the pains shooting up from my knees as I squatted down in the blazing heat. This was my only chance to prove I’m good enough. It’s the only chance I have to show that I deserve to commit to a school early. 

I was no longer exceptional. Now every other catcher could do their jobs just as well as I could. I couldn’t stand out with everyone matching my skills. I needed to stand out. Committing as a sophomore will make me stand out. Especially if it’s D1.

I caught and I caught and I signaled and I caught some more. The other team struck out and soon I’d be at bat.

Taking off my gear, I felt like a child having their security blanket taken away from them. My comfort. My confidence. My talent. They’re all weaved through the threads of this padding. It coats the slick shine of the helmet. It’s in the palm of my hand as I wear the mitt. I wasn’t terrible at bat, but my confidence was always stripped away once the gear came off.

Two strikes, and a hit that allowed me to get to second base. I did fine, but I could’ve done better. When my teammates came up to bat, I ran and ran and ran with every hit until I finally made it back to home plate.

“Attaboy, Ryder,” I heard Coach say.

Joining my team back in the dugout, I participated in heckling the other team and pretended to hang my head low when the assistant coach gave us the stink eye. The entire time, though, Coach's words rang through my head. “Attaboy, Ryder.” 

Maybe the scouts thought so too.

AGE EIGHTEEN. My gear felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as I pulled the mask over my face. My entire body was hurting in a way that shouldn’t be the daily routine of an eighteen year old boy, and when I crouched down for what felt like the hundredth time behind home plate, I audibly gasped at the shooting pains in my knees.

This isn’t it. I reminded myself. You’ve still got four more years of this shit.

It felt like the gear was choking me.

I signaled the pitcher and the ball comes flying towards me, but doesn’t come near me as the hitter swings his bat and hits a home run. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

“RYDER,” coaches voice booms. “The hell was that, boy?”

That’s fine, blame me. It’s not like it was the pitcher’s fault at all. The catcher was the most important person on the field right now. I control the game. 

The deep red padding of my gear felt like it was suffocating me as I stood up after Coach pulled me out, subbing me halfway through the inning.

“The hell was that, boy?” Coach asked me as I sat down in the dugout. When I said nothing, he continued. “Are you listening? You know these guys inside and out, you know their weaknesses, their strengths. You’ve played with that kid for God’s sake. Why on earth did you signal for a fastball? Are you trying to give away runs?”

“The fuck you want from me, huh?” I snapped, standing up and ripping my helmet off my head. “I didn’t throw the ball, now did I?” 

I could see the steam pouring out from Coach’s ears and his face turned a deep shade of red. “That’s it, you’re done for the rest of the game go sit the fuck down.”

“Happily,” I barked. 

Get this shit off of me.

With the weight of my teammates staring at me in silence, a sound I didn’t think possible for this team, I ripped my leg guards off and my knee savers that have done absolute shit to save my knees. I shed off the chest protector and felt myself take in a breath for what felt like the first time in twelve years.

I’m done.

  To hell with baseball. To hell with college. I’ll find another way to pay. Or I won’t go at all. I don’t care anymore.

Because If I have to put that gear on one more time, I'll collapse.