Two Catches
Two Catches
By Jonathan D. Horn
The third-base coach stood along the foul line calling out positions for the scrimmage, finally bobbing his head my way. “Jonathan Horn, left field.”
With wide eyes and a pounding heart, I spun away from the ballplayers swarming the dugout and claimed my territory. It was the third and final day of tryouts for my high school’s baseball team, and a spot was within reach.
My only goal: Don’t mess up, like my friend Trevor apparently did. Minutes earlier, he turned to me out of the coach’s earshot and softly said, “I’ll never make it, I’m going to be cut.”
Out in left field, I bent my knees and pounded my glove as a right-handed batter dug in. Moments later, a clink of the bat, and the ball sailed toward me under a late afternoon gray sky. Shuffling forward, I stuck my arm out sideways, my elbow nearly locking. The ball landed softly in the web of my leather glove. Phew! I wasn’t the most confident fielder, but I batted something like .450 in Pony League, and felt ready for the next level.
After the final out, a coach yelled from behind home, “All right guys, bring it in!”
I trotted to the third-base dugout with my head high, joining at least 40 other hopeful freshmen. The head coach approached the top dugout step and everyone quieted. Cuts were imminent. Sitting on the right side of the bench, I stared up at the coach, a curly haired guy in his 30s who wore a letterman jacket. What I ached to see, however, was the yellow pad in his hand.
“We’re going to call your names for Varsity, Junior Varsity and Freshman teams,” the coach said. “If you’re not picked, we promise it’s not personal. It’s the worst part of this. When we’re done, please help us clean up the balls.”
The coach put his eyes to the notepad and began calling names, starting with my friends. “Brett, Michael, Tommy…”
The list went on, but no need to worry. Remember, I made the catch.
“Jonathan.” Yes! My shoulders arched in quiet elation. But that excitement instantly evaporated, because another Jonathan also tried out, and the coach said his last name before moving down the list.
“Trevor,” the coach said.
A gasp came from the far corner, followed by a breathy, “What? No way!”
The coach flipped to the next page of his yellow pad, while my face progressively turned to stone. Looking straight out, I could feel the stares of Michael and Brett and Tommy from across the dugout, the pit forming in my chest at the increasing possibility of the unthinkable.
“Greg, Garth, James,” said the coach, who without hesitation picked his head up and delivered the knockout blow: “That’s it.”
That’s it?
“For those we called, be here tomorrow, 3 p.m.,” the coach said. “Let’s get this all cleaned up.”
Players en masse began loading up baseballs into those big, plastic canisters, while others grabbed bases off the dirt. Not me. I couldn’t take the indignity.
I strapped my baseball bag over my shoulder and silently walked off the field, ashamed to be one of only four players to not even make the second round. By the time I reached the exit ramp, a tear trickled down my cheek. I never cried when I struck out, but I cried when I knew at the age of 15, I’d never strike out again.
My mother and grandmother waited in the field’s parking lot, and I broke it to them as soon as I got into the car. They were sad that I was sad, but that had nothing to do with baseball.
The next day at school, the guys asked how I was holding up. I was embarrassed, but told them I was proud of myself for trying out, which was true — one of my best friends was too nervous to give it a shot, so he’d never know. He continued to love baseball, but I lost interest in the game and didn’t replace it with anything noteworthy extracurricular. That nearly destroyed me when I applied to colleges, because I barely got into the University of California system. Only one of the six campuses I applied to accepted me, and it was my last choice.
My lack of motivation plagued my freshman year at UC Santa Cruz, with my social circle not extending much beyond the dorms. That same malaise carried into my second year, until, one day, a friend mentioned to me that there was a new sports broadcasting program at the student radio station. Growing up, I’d always been fascinated by radio play-by-play, amazed at how one person can paint a picture of the action solely with words. My friend gave me the name of the student in charge, a senior named Carl. I quickly emailed introducing myself, and he replied within a few hours: We’d love to have you.
That Friday, I stepped into the campus station and met the people who would change me forever. Standing in the studio, Carl handed me a piece of paper to read a Public Service Announcement. I approached the big, fuzzy microphone, took a deep breath and read in a voice I didn’t know I had. My new friends applauded, and eventually Carl started calling me Jon “Smooth” Horn. Nobody had ever referred to me as smooth before — certainly not on the diamond.
For the rest of my sophomore year, you could not pull me away from that student station. I did my first live play-by-play, then joined the student newspaper as a sportswriter. An article I wrote about the athletic department’s effort to raise fees to build a new arena became the talk of the campus.
Junior year, I transferred to UC Santa Barbara, which had a respected communications program and a student radio station that broadcast Division I sports. For my last two years of college, I lived on the radio, delivering live updates three days a week and calling volleyball and basketball games in the evenings.
The years were wonderful, my radio friends became my best friends, and even a few girls wanted to get to know me. My problem was that going into sports broadcasting almost always meant starting with minor league baseball, and baseball was the only sport I shied away from announcing in college. The games seemed endless with the power of aluminum bats, and I didn’t study up enough to have anecdotes to fill the dead air between pitches. When baseball broadcasts were being assigned, I’d often joke that my days around the game ended when I was cut from the high school team. What I failed to acknowledge was that my self-deprecating humor masked whatever pain or bitterness still lingered in the depths of my mind. In the end, I had virtually no baseball broadcasting demo tape to share with teams, so my chances to build a career as a play-by-play announcer faded fast.
I realized I’d need to become more well-rounded for any shot at a full-time job in the media. So, early in my senior year, I applied to some of the top journalism graduate schools around the country. In the anxiety-ridden months that followed, I dissected each school’s admissions statistics, trying to get into the minds of decision-makers. Then, in March 2007, three months left of college, I checked the mailbox outside my apartment. Turning the key revealed a gigantic white envelope with the USC logo front and center. I ripped it open by the complex’s pool and read the congratulatory letter, which said the university got more than 300 applications for 60 spots for its master’s in journalism program. My heart warmed in a new kind of way, because I finally made the cut. That letter is now tucked away in a drawer at home, and I still read it from time to time.
I’d like to think that when I got that acceptance, somewhere in my subconscious, I put my arm around that 15-year-old ballplayer and said, “There will be other things. Try your best, and victories will come.” There have since been many, and I’m now on-air daily for San Diego’s ABC station, covering news — not sports.
My successes also came with a realization: the high school baseball coaches got it right all those years ago. I was only 5’7, out of shape, and had little muscle. In fact, during batting tryouts, I never even hit the ball out of the infield because the minimum weight for a bat was too heavy for me.
There was, however, one thing I was wrong about at 15: I would strike out again, many times.
When I was 28, my friend Mike invited me to join his adult baseball team. I warned him that I hadn’t played in more than a decade, but he said not to worry, it’s just for fun and everybody bats, even if they’re not in the field.
“Sign me up,” I said.
I struck out swinging in my first at-bat, proud to at least foul tip a couple of pitches. Walking back to the dugout, I shook my head and laughed.
But my face turned serious and pulse quickened a couple innings later when it was my turn to play the field. Naturally, I volunteered for right field, because nobody ever hits the ball to right field.
“Go for it,” the team captain said.
Standing out there, the first batter dug in, a right hander. Slim chance he’d hit to me, but I still bent my knees during the wind up. The pitcher delivered an outside fastball, the batter stepped across the plate, threw his bat out, and… you guessed it… hit a low line drive… right…toward…me.
Instincts took over. I charged forward and slid, backhand swiping my glove against the top of the grass, the ball smashing into the webbing just above ground. I stayed down for a couple of seconds, then turned my glove toward my face to discover the ball resting peacefully in the leather. Out!
I stuck my glove in the air in victory and my teammates went wild at the acrobatic catch. I got up, threw the ball to the second baseman, then noticed a fresh grass stain on the right knee of my brand new baseball pants.
As if 13 years were only 13 minutes, I pointed my index finger to the sky and yelled, “One down!”
Jonathan Horn is a reporter for ABC 10News in San Diego, where he largely covers politics and the economy. Previously, he wrote for The San Diego Union-Tribune, and earned a master’s degree in journalism from the Annenberg School at USC. Jon is hoping to find a literary agent to represent him for his first novel, a mystery about a college student. Follow Jon on Twitter @10NewsHorn or feel free to email him at jdhorn12@gmail.com.