I feel like over the past few years, I’ve devoted a lot of space in my column to retirements. Whether it was Derek Jeter’s emotional farewell at the end of the 2014 season, David Ortiz’s historic 2016 season or Tim Duncan’s perfectly understated announcement last week, I’ve always had a fascination with an athlete’s decision to hang ‘em up. And now, I understand why.
A few weeks ago, I told some of my teammates on my men’s baseball team that this, indeed, would be my final season.
My body is too battered, my arm is hanging on by a thread, and lately, I realize that there’s more that I want to do in life than spend every single weekend of my summer on a hot, dusty field somewhere in the five boroughs.
I couldn’t tell you the last time I went to the beach.
So I decided that, no matter what, 2016 would be my last summer playing baseball.
Baseball has been a constant in my life ever since I was old enough to play T-ball. With the exception of two years in college when I decided that living the fraternity life was more important to me than taking the mound, I’ve been out there on the diamond.
So as confident as I am that my decision will stick, I can’t help but wonder how I’m going to deal without the sport I love.
Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not equating myself to the figures I mentioned above. These guys were titans in their fields, and I’m a weekend beer league player who had a spectacularly unsuccessful collegiate career that saw my ERA rise way higher than my GPA ever would.
But still, when something has been so important to you for so long, it’s always tough to walk away.
And to be perfectly honest, I’m starting to rethink my stance on the whole farewell tour.
My teammates spoke to a few other players around our league and word of my impending retirement got out. I may not have been one of the best players out there, but I served as a player, manager, league official, photographer—and on some occasions, sports psychologist—to a wide array of people I would never have come into contact with otherwise.
Sure, my own guys wanted me to stay on; I don’t think any of them want the unenviable task of running our team after all. But the pleas to stick around for one more year that came in from opposing players, coaches and umpires? That was touching.
Watching Ortiz at this year’s MLB All-Star game, being hounded by other, younger MLB stars to keep on playing, I understood that, as much as these season-long farewells are about saying goodbye to the game, they are also a chance to gain validation from peers, which, no matter how many accolades these guys may accrue over the course of a career, may be the most important thing.
I took what will likely be my last-ever at bat on Sunday afternoon. My team may be playoff bound, but as the skipper, I can’t, in all honestly, envision giving a guy who is hovering around the Mendoza Line a meaningful postseason at bat.
On a 1-0 count, I turned on a high fastball and drove a pitch into the left centerfield gap for what will likely be my last-ever hit on a baseball diamond.
Five years ago, it would’ve been a double. But now, creaky knees and all, I didn’t see any reason to push it. I made a hard turn around first, and shrugged as I headed back to the bag, where the opposing first baseman, a huge teddy bear of a guy I’ve played against for the last decade, greeted me with a grin and a warm hug.
It was a close game, it was a big spot, but he also knew it was time to say goodbye.
After the game, both teams decided that a couple of pizzas and a few cold ones were in order.
We hung out behind the backstop, trading war stories from games across Brooklyn, The Bronx, Queens and Atlantic City. Their first baseman starting harping on my looping curveball, and I had to quickly remind him that in 10 years, he still never got a hit off me.
We parted ways, dirty, sweaty, tired and happy, and once again, he implored me to give it one more shot.
I’m not going to rethink it. But now I understand why saying goodbye can be so damned hard.
