My Birthday with Yogi

Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

—Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire

It is hard to sound nonchalant when you write the words, “I turned 70 last week.” Maybe that’s why my wife and children decided to make the event even less nonchalant by adding in just a touch of . . . either drama or trauma.

My daughter Amanda had come up with a birthday party plan that combined two of my favorite elements—baseball and dinner. I was offered my choice of baseball venues, and I chose the local Jersey Jackals, who play in Yogi Berra Stadium in nearby Montclair, New Jersey. Yes, that Yogi Berra, whose home was in Montclair ever since he played for the Yankees.  There is even a Yogi Berra Museum filled with memorabilia located right next to the stadium, where you can probably share many Yogi-isms with other visitors. My favorite has always been: “Nobody goes there anymore because it’s too crowded.”

Attending a Jackals game held several key attractions for my birthday celebration: the team played professional baseball, played close by, and offered great seats near to the playing field along with free parking. Take that, Yankee Stadium! And relatively inexpensive peanuts salted in the shell, my personal favorite. Plus the stadium undoubtedly had a scoreboard, and maybe they would even put my name and a birthday wish up in lights on that scoreboard.

My birthday makes it to the Yogi Berra Stadium scoreboard.

So where is the trauma in this birthday story, you might ask? Let me explain. A week before the big event, Amanda slipped in the news that she had negotiated something special with the Jackals’ public relations staff. They had agreed to honor my birthday by letting me throw out a ceremonial first pitch before the contest between the Jackals and their Can-Am league rivals, the Ottawa Champions. They even promised me scoreboard recognition while I was throwing out the first pitch, which I was thinking was a mixed blessing. I had played softball into my 60s but hadn’t thrown a baseball in maybe 15 years, and even when I did, my throws were not always strong or accurate.

So I greeted Amanda’s “great” news with an inward sigh and maybe stunned silence. Throw out the first pitch? Yikes. Has a crowd at a baseball game ever booed someone who threw out an honorary first pitch? Would I achieve a first?

Seeing my blank expression, Amanda said she was sure the Jackals would let me out of my ceremonial duty, but I decided not to give up so easily. I had a few days to “train” for the event, and I planned to do just that—if only I could figure out a way to train. First I bought a regulation size baseball at a local sporting goods store. It needed to be the right diameter and weight for practice purposes. (It turns out those balls can be pretty expensive, but this was no time to be cheap.) Then I took my (one) ball and my old softball glove to a local ball field where I would have a mound and a home plate for my training purposes. I took the ball from its box, stood near the mound about 50 feet from home, took my windup, and threw the ball. It sailed about 15 feet in the air, mostly downward, and then rolled another 20 feet toward the plate. I walked the 35 feet, picked up the ball, walked back, and tried again, and again, and again. I noted maybe a slight improvement, but the prospect of getting booed on Sunday looked even more likely.

Then something almost miraculous occurred. I had noticed that I was not alone on the ball field. A man in his 40s was tossing and hitting balls with a teenager, presumably his son. The two finished their workout and began to walk off the field, carrying two gloves, a bat, and a wire basket filled with baseballs. They had to pass me to get to their car and probably were curious what this nearly 70-year-old man was doing throwing the same baseball into the ground and retrieving over and over. The father asked me about it, and I told him my “woeful” story. “Maybe I can help,” he said. “Throw a few pitches to me.”

He watched my form and immediately transformed into a coach, which I learned he was for a local Babe Ruth league team. “Turn your body as you wind up,” he suggested. I tried that, and the ball sailed at least 10 feet farther toward the plate. “Now, work on following through as you pitch to make it go straight. Right. That looks a lot better. You even look a little like a pitcher now.” That was probably a gross exaggeration, but it made me smile inside for the first time since I arrived at the field with my ball. He caught me and offered advice for another 15 minutes, then left me with 5 baseballs for more practice and a pep talk. As he drove off, I realized that we must have shared first names with each other at some point, but I simply couldn’t recall his name. But whoever he was, I certainly appreciate his kindness.

I immediately called Amanda at her workplace, which frightened her a little. Phone calls out of the blue can be a little scary in our family these days. I told her about my impromptu training session and that I would be ready to take on the awesome first pitch task on Sunday.

And I was. Sunday afternoon, I followed a PR person down to the field at Yogi Berra Stadium and met with a Jackals infielder from Marietta, Georgia, named Nelson Ward, who had been designated to catch my first pitch. We chatted about Georgia, took a few practice tosses on the sideline, and then headed onto the field. 

Nelson and me:
Two men from Georgia tossing a baseball.

I think my name was announced, but my heart was probably beating too loudly to hear anything. I asked Nelson how far I should stand from the plate for my toss. “Whatever makes you comfortable,” he replied. I found a spot a few feet in front of the mound, took my stance, and followed all of the instructions my coach had given me a few days before. The ball sailed out of my hand and landed in Nelson’s mitt in the air, Not a perfect strike, but no bounces, and no boos. I walked to Nelson, shook his hand, placed the ball he handed me into my old glove, and proceeded to join my birthday guests in the stands.

I accepted warm congratulations and asked if anyone had captured my momentous feat on video. “Not exactly,” Amanda said. “I was starting to video you, when Mom had a problem with her camera. I helped her, then turned around and you were done. I just got you coming off the mound.”

I watched that 7-second video, and could hear Audrey clearly in the background. “That was it?” she asked, perhaps expecting a little more ceremony, But it was definitely enough. Then I looked up at the scoreboard, and there was my name and a birthday wish in big white letters for a small crowd to see. Turning 70 … there’s nothing to it!

"That was it?" My 7 seconds of fame.