A high school baseball team helps
the author discover joy in Mudville
By Eric McCollom '02
Illustration by Brad Yeo
I have never considered myself a defender of the Baseball Gospel. Bob Costas's endless, overdramatic paeans about the impact of the game on the balance of the universe often end with me falling asleep, and I have little affection for old-timers who hang around dugouts lecturing the young players on how much better the game was in their time.
I have no answer for the critics who whine about the game being slow and boring. All I ever knew was that I loved to play. But with my collegiate career over, I had figured my involvement in the game would be limited to Wiffle ball.
But a year ago, I found myself returning from an internship in Los Angeles to my hometown of Woodstock, Vermont, to help coach the 2003 high school varsity baseball team, the Woodstock Wasps. As I crossed the country, I wondered what was drawing me back. Perhaps it was the escape from L.A. traffic, or maybe I needed the ego boost of returning to the small pond where I had once been a big fish. Or perhaps I was simply trying to right perceived wrongs (bad calls, bad luck, and a bad knee) by changing my role in the game.
I was still searching for answers when I met the team. I had heard nasty rumors around town that the kids in school were lazy now; any talent and integrity had fled to private schools, and the remaining lot—this motley crew that stood before me wearing undershirts and beanie caps—were just as likely to do drugs and get in fights as they were to field a baseball.
I'm not sure where these rumors originated, but there was no truth to them. Instead, the team proved to be a blend of intelligent, funny, thoughtful, and hardworking students who, when asked to run a wind sprint, would run two. They listened intently and wanted to improve. It quickly became apparent that respect and integrity were not this group's problem. Baseball, however, was a different story.
As the season started, the Wasps struggled. Technique was bad, and general knowledge of the game was limited. The season bottomed out in early May with a 21–2 loss to Burr & Burton Academy, a defeat punctuated by a collision between our 260-pound senior first baseman and a freshman pitcher while chasing a pop-up. The subsequent explosion of arms, legs, hats, gloves, and ball ended the freshman's season, and had further shaken my confidence.
But the team didn't falter. Fly balls that had been an adventure two weeks prior were routinely corralled, and balls hit on the ground were no longer automatic hits. Nine-run losses were becoming 4–3 nail-biters.
By the end of the season, we were doing things I had never seen before, such as scoring 10 runs in one inning to come back from a 12–2 deficit. But more important, we did things I had seen before, such as calmly spinning a key double play or drag-bunting with the third baseman back. We even won a play-off game (remember, Vermont isn't known as a baseball hotbed).
When the season ended, I realized that the concerns I had on my cross-country trek had slipped from my mind. Whatever ghosts were present had been exorcized—by tank-top wearing "punks" who had turned out to be honest kids and hard-nosed ballplayers.
Now that it's spring, I've pulled out my glove and returned for a second tour with the Wasps. My reasons for coaching are as simple as wanting to be around to see a team continue to improve. And I will try to resist drilling the players on how much better the game was in my day.
Eric McCollom '02 was a pitcher at Middlebury from 1998–2002.