On July 28, 2023, Bobby Witt, Jr. walked to the plate with a chance to win the game. The bases were loaded with one out and the Royals were down by one run. To that point in his major-league career, Witt had yet to collect a walkoff hit. In fact, through 252 career games and approaching 1,100 career plate appearances, he had just four opportunities to win the game with a walkoff hit of any kind.
In those four appearances, he was 0-4 with a strikeout.
Minnesota Twins closer Jhoan Duran threw a first-pitch cutter well off the plate, but Witt couldn’t hold up. Strike one.
I’ve been thinking a lot about firsts lately.
School is back in session, so of course social media feeds are filled with photos of children sporting backpacks and smiles (some more forced than others) as they depart for their first day of the school year.
But the firsts aren’t limited to the school calendar. They begin much earlier, before we even understand what a “first” is. Crawling for the first time. Our first word. First steps and first falls and the first time using the toilet correctly. Much of our early childhood consists of checking off those boxes, each achievement a developmental stepping stone to the next one.
At that stage, the significance of those accomplishments is generally the accomplishment itself, not how well the accomplishment was accomplished. It didn’t matter if I looked like a drunken penguin when I took my first steps, if my parents cheered and hollered after I climbed to my feet and pushed away from the couch, that must have meant it was a pretty neat thing.
As the years go by and we gain knowledge and experience more things for the first time, those firsts become less about just checking a box, and more about making the most of those first experiences.
Cutter in the dirt, 1-1.
On July 28, 2023, Bobby Witt, Jr. walked to the plate to face a pitcher whose fastball averaged 101.7 mph. To that point in his career, Witt was without an extra-base hit against a pitch thrown faster than even 98 mph. Fastballs had almost always given him fits, and those with velocity had proven to be arguably his biggest weakness as a big leaguer. In 30 plate appearances ending on pitches that fast, he was just 2-29 with a pair of singles, one walk, and 13 strikeouts.
Witt swings through a fastball in the zone, down 1-2.
I’ve always been a bit of a perfectionist.
I’ve given myself a bit more grace as I’ve aged, but as a child I held myself to a very high standard, not because I was pushed to do so, but simply because I liked the way I felt when I did things perfectly, whether that was in school or sports or anything else. I wanted to do things perfectly because it felt good, and doing things less than perfectly felt bad.
Whether it was my first day of junior high or my first collegiate wrestling match, I felt like they had to go perfectly.
(Editor’s note: Neither of those went perfectly.)
I would put so much pressure on myself to not just achieve things, but to do so without screwing up or looking silly. Sometimes that internal pressure helped, sometimes it didn’t, but it was nearly always there.
As a parent, I still find myself trying to do things perfectly on occasion, not because I want my experience to be perfect, but because I want my children’s experiences to be perfect. I don’t want to let them down. I know this isn’t an uncommon thought from parents, of course, even when it’s beyond our control.
I can’t be there on her first day of school. I have no way of making her dance recital go off without a hitch. I can’t even guarantee every family vacation will be 100 percent fun-filled.
But I can be there, and I can try, and hopefully, that’s good enough.
Fastball up and in, 2-2.
On July 28, 2023, Bobby Witt, Jr. walked to the plate with the bases loaded with a chance to hit a grand slam. Prior to that date, he had the opportunity 14 times in his big-league career, going 2-13 with a sacrifice fly, one double, one strikeout, and two groundball double plays.
Sharp cutter down and out of the zone, and Witt barely checks his swing in time. 3-2.
Our oldest daughter, Rainbow Flower1, recently entered first grade for the first time. She was excited, especially since several of her kindergarten friends would be in the same class with her once again. As my wife walked her to school, she recorded a video of RF making up a song about the first day of school, skipping as she sang.
Last week, she wanted to learn how to ride a bike without training wheels, so over the weekend we spent a couple of hours practicing. She learned how to ride. I learned I was terribly out of shape. I would run next to her, letting her do it all herself while also being close enough to keep her from veering off the sidewalk and down the steep hill of the park. We haven’t mastered it all yet, but we’re getting there.
A few days before that, RF threw out the first pitch at the Omaha Storm Chasers game. It was 102 degrees out and there were probably fewer than 100 people in that stands, but she got to keep the ball and the memory.
This week she had her first gymnastics class. She’s taught herself to do cartwheels and roundoffs and front splits, but now she’ll be receiving actual instruction from people who know what they’re doing. Aerials and handsprings and flips are likely just over the horizon.
The firsts are coming faster now, in the midst of a busy work schedule and an increase in activities. Lately it’s been difficult to pause and recognize just how special those firsts are, when they go perfectly or otherwise.
On July 28, 2023, Bobby Witt, Jr. walked to the plate in the 10th inning of a game his team should have won an inning earlier. It was hot and humid, the air filled with equal parts perspiration and frustration. A few sections down the third base line, a six-year-old girl from Omaha was experiencing a Major League Baseball game at Kauffman Stadium for the first time.
She had been there for hours, enjoyed the concessions and endured the heat. She brought her glove but never had the opportunity to use it. As the game wore on, her attention waned, understandably so, though she relished every chance to chant and clap along to “LET’S GO ROY-ALS.”
When the Royals blew a two-run lead in the ninth inning and surrendered another run in the top of the 10th, her father wondered if he had let her down. If he had brought her to the K on a 100-degree night only to see her favorite team lose in heartbreaking fashion. He wondered if this experience would turn her off from coming to other games in the future.
Then he looked down and saw his daughter playing patty cake with her grandma in between bites of a frosty malt, giggling and smiling and feeling absolutely zero of the tension in the stadium. When batters reached base and the crowd noise began to rise, she turned her attention to the batter. She clapped and cheered as Witt stepped to the plate. She stood in her seat as he battled back from 1-2 to force the count full.
The father stood as well, screaming and clapping in a Salvador Perez shirsey soaked with sweat and anxiety, and he paused to reflect on the day. His daughter’s favorite player, whose shirsey she proudly wore, had made game-saving defensive plays at first base and catcher. Her second favorite player, who bears a nickname she created, stood in the batter’s box with the game hanging in the balance. Her grandparents and father stood next to her along with 20,000 strangers who didn’t care in the moment that the team was careening towards 110 losses.
And the father realized, his daughter’s first experience at Kauffman was an unmitigated success, regardless of the final outcome.
After the game had ended, there would be a long fireworks show, a long walk to the car, and a long drive to the hotel. It had been a long day, a great day, that was nearly over.
But all of that had to wait for the last pitch. A few more things had to happen first.
Our oldest daughter’s self-selected, perfectly appropriate, pseudonym.
Dang Hunter, this is so good. Thanks for sharing