Senior Year
Page 22
And Newton was no-hit by Steven Peterson, an impressive lefty bound for Marist.
The Tigers had only four base runners all day. Sam got hit by a pitch, struck out on three mighty swings, walked, then came to the plate with one out in the ninth for the final at-bat of his high school career. This was it.
I'd abandoned our big group and found a private spot in the top row, far corner of the first base stands. I just had to be alone. I thought about all the driving and all the games and all the trips to the various fast-food emporiums—Sam eating his double cheeseburger in full uniform. I thought about twelve years of Newton baseball and all the times I had my heart in my throat when he walked to the plate. I thought about the joy. And I thought about how I cared too much and didn't want to let this happen again. This was Sam's life, Sam's game, and he'd do fine with or without me. There would be more strikeouts and maybe some hits in his future, but it was time to let him go and time for me to stop caring so damn much, ever worrying that the happiness of my son was entirely dependent on the quality of his last at-bat.
And then Sam, overswinging madly, hit a 'scuse-me-while-I-kiss-the-sky popup on a 3-1 pitch ("I was going for a home run," he admitted), which was easily gloved by the left fielder. Ryan Walsh followed with a routine fly to center, and it was over for our guys. Sam had his shirttail out and uniform jersey buttons undone by the time Walsh's fly ball settled into the glove of the St. John's Prep centerfielder.
We waited around by the dugout and applauded our boys when they came through the gate, en route to their bus and their final ride home. Sam was the last one off the field and I greeted him with a hug, saying, "Congratulations. That's the end of high school. Not everybody gets no-hit in the final game of their career."
"Pretty special," he said, smiling.
Good irony there. I think.
The thing about high school sports is that if you are on a winning team, it is almost a certainty that you will lose your last game. All the good teams make the tournament and only one wins the championship. This means most kids are going to lose the last one, and the trick is to not make the final game the eternal memory. Sam and his friends seemed to get over this beating fairly quickly. Ten-to-nothing is often easier to take than 2–1. You just tip your hat.
So that was that.
It was time to cancel my subscription to the Waltham Daily News Tribune, the local paper that covers Newton High School sports. It was time to cut back on the weekly milk delivery order. It was time to start thinking about home improvement projects for the second floor, which would be empty in a few months. It was time to have Sam gather up those wood bats and put them in storage—he'd be using aluminum in college. It was time for me to turn away from high school sports and get back to my job covering the Red Sox, Patriots, Celtics, and Bruins.
There was one final errand. Sam called me on his cell phone and said he'd be needing a ride home when the bus returned to Hull Street. My well-worn route to Newton North took me past Cabot Field where the Athletics and Cubs were playing a Little League game. Slowing down as I rolled by the ball yard, I saw a dorky-looking man holding a small camera to his eye, leaning over the chain link fence on the first base side.
And I thought to myself, Put the camera away, Dad. You won't need a photograph to remember any of this.
* * *
Acknowledgments
I was lucky to grow up in Groton and owe a great debt to the family friends, neighbors, teachers, and coaches of my little town. And now there is Newton, Massachusetts, another wonderful child-raising city. Thanks to everyone at Newton North High School, particularly athletic department veterans T. J. Williams, Tom Giusti, Bill McAndrews, Christopher Drakos, and Tiz Bailey. Thanks to coaches Joe Siciliano, Tom Donnellan, Walter Birchler, Rob Kane, Rich Barton, Dick Fletcher, Celeste Myers, John Staulo, and Lauren Baugher.
Thanks for once and present bosses Bill Tanton, Dave Smith, Vince Doria, Don Skwar, and Joe Sullivan. Also brother Stan Grossfeld, Kevin Dupont, Stephen Stills, Ken Nigro, Laurel and Wendy Selig-Prieb, Mike Barnicle, Hank Morse, Mike Lupica, Leigh Montville, Tim Russert, Mitch Albom, John Iannacci, John Horn, and Sean Mullin.
Houghton Mifflin editor Susan Canavan kept this going. Thanks also to Megan Wilson, Will Vincent, Sanj Kharbanda, and Beth Burleigh Fuller at Houghton and to Susan, Dave, and the rest of the staff at Skipjacks.
Thanks to all those who gave the manuscript a preread: Sarah Gabert, Christy Lemire, Ed Kleven, Rob Greenfield, Lesley Visser, Suzanne Doria, Eric Monroe, Paul Comerford, Susan Lodemore, John Lowe, Steve Buckley, Mike Reiss, Eileen Sviokla, Jane Wit, Jane Kenslea, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Jeremy Kapstein, Lenny Megliola, and Doug Richardson. Rick Telander gave me an important kick-start.
Bill Shaughnessy is the original inspiration. Thanks to sisters Mary, Joan, and Ann and my second set of parents, Lou and Mary.
I knew I'd been working on the book too long when I had a dream about playing Little League baseball and found myself in the lefthanded batter's box at Newton's Murphy Field. I bat right. Sam bats left. Clearly, it's time to let go.
There would be no book without the collective voices and spirit of the young people who've filled our home with noise and laughter for eighteen-plus years. And as ever, the home team of Sarah, Kate, Sam, and Dr. Marilou took good care of the man at the keyboard in the corner office upstairs.
Dan Shaughnessy
Newton, Massachusetts
September 2006