It has been eight years since I abandoned my dream to play professional baseball, and I have finally accepted that decision completely.
I knew that I would never wear the jersey of an MLB club or appear in a starting lineup as soon as I gave up the dream. However, peace with that decision has come in waves, the last of which happened last weekend.
My school hosted a teachers’ volleyball tournament, and when the volleyball coach heard that I used to play in Fukushima, he asked me to join in. Volleyball captivated me in college and I really enjoyed playing, so I accepted the offer.
We practiced after school every day in the week before the tournament, and the coach put me on the B team as the middle blocker. It was supposed to be a friendly tournament, but the B team was trying to run plays and I had never played in the middle before, so I didn’t know what I was doing and we didn’t mesh well at all.
The brackets sacrificed us to another school’s A team, and the match looked every bit of it after five minutes of “play.” Who am I kidding, it didn’t even look like volleyball. We were down 15-1 and hadn’t even rotated once. We couldn’t pass, we couldn’t attack, we couldn’t block, and I was absolutely no help.
I can’t imagine that anybody on either team was having fun. It was embarrassing and I was doing my best not to show how frustrated I was. Then came a chance - I got a great set and pounded it down for our second point.
FREEEEEEEEET!!!!
The whistle blew and the tower ref gently touched the net on our side. I had touched the net on my downswing and the point went to the ringers on the other side of the tape.
I blew up at the ref, “Look at the scoreboard! We’re losing by 15 points! What kind of call is that?” My teammates rushed to get between the tower and me and told me to calm down.
Speaking objectively, I had gained no advantage by touching the net; I hadn’t pulled it down to spike someone in the face. Given the situation, the ref making that call would be akin to an ump squeezing the strike zone in a blowout baseball game.
But for me to say what I said and point the finger at the ref is a decidedly more serious offense in Japan than it would be in the States. I knew it, but I had reached my boiling point and had to let some of it go.
I went up for a joust on the very next play and pulled back, apprehensive and thinking about the damn net. I ended up with my whole arm in one of the squares this time and brought the net down with me for an obvious net violation.
I was seeing red as I growled and ripped my arm out of the net. I stalked off the court and pointed at our sub: “Get in there! I can’t take any more of this! This is ridiculous!”
None of this looked especially great considering that I was wearing a jersey with my school’s name on it in my school’s gym. The rest of the team played on and lost Game 1, and we had to go out for the ritual of Game 2. I didn’t want to go out there, but knew that it wouldn’t look good to sit out and pout.
I didn’t bother blocking or attacking at all, I just did what I could to keep the ball in the air. That A Team purposely kept it close, which put me in an awkward position. I was really trying not to care and let it be “just a game,” but I didn’t want there to be a Game 3 just for the sake of sportsmanship. I served the ball into the net to lose it, 28-30.
The baseball coach chewed me out after the game: “This is a FRIENDSHIP tournament, Mac! FRIENDSHIP! There’s no reason to get all excited!”
I failed and still fail to see what is friendly about a single-elimination tournament complete with refs, line judges, and scoreboards. When I saw the attackers’ faces as they went up to the net, I sure didn’t feel friendly vibes.
It’s no secret that I have and have always had a problem with competition. I came to understand it a step at a time, to the point where I could finally concede that getting worked up over a round of golf or a blacktop basketball game was foolish. But, when tested enough, I still caved.
Most of it is me expecting myself to do well. I studied volleyball in college, both in theory and action. I played once a week in Fukushima. I expected to pass and attack correctly with just a bit of rust when I stepped on the court.
I have these expectations because I started with nothing in baseball and got to a decent level through practice and study. As a player, baseball teased me with small successes and I chased the carrot every time. Staying after practice for an extra bucket of ground balls and heading to the batting cage during lunch had an effect on my performance.
So I expected to learn how to do athletic stuff with my body through practice like this, even though I have not devoted the same amount of time or effort to any other sport. About a year ago, I accepted that I am not a professional athlete and that it is ridiculous to expect anything close to that level out of my body with respect to any sport.
The volleyball outburst showed me that there is something deeply wrong with me when the whistle blows and I’m between the lines. Something about doing well in athletics that is inseparable from my soul. Something that says I’m not telling the truth when I say that this is the last meltdown.
And so, I am finished with physical competition. I would love to throw the football around or go to the driving range, but if there’s a scoreboard or an official, no thanks. If we are truly out there to have fun, we don’t need a prize or a bracket or someone wearing stripes.
All we need is a ball and a stick…
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