![]() As he fashions his own future, he figures he might as well preserve the legacy of the man he considers his guardian angel. Garrett is 30, recently divorced, honorably discharged from the Army, and after surviving his darkest hours, he’s nearly three years sober and staring at life’s blank canvas. When he meets someone who recognizes the moniker or recalls his dad’s unorthodox delivery or offers compassion for the tragic boating accident that claimed Steve’s life on March 22, 1993, he’ll hand them a card, his bid to keep his dad’s story breathing. Garrett shoves a few of his dad’s baseball cards in his pocket before he treks to the A-ball team’s stadium. 31 Cleveland Indians jersey, with navy and red stripes lining the sides, to five or six Hillsboro Hops games each summer in northwest Oregon. ![]() “I would probably smash a homer,” he says. And then, the fastball, the pitch Garrett prayed he would throw all along. As he whips his body around, his right knee scrapes the dirt and he flings the baseball from his hip to conceal it long enough to muddle the hitter’s swing decision.Ī first-pitch slider, designed to prey on Garrett’s foolhardy fixation with swinging for the fences. Steve tilts his head forward and raises his hands toward the clouds, hunches over and extends his right arm behind him. 31, the second digit extending into an arrow pointing toward home plate, a reminder of his most elementary instruction: Throw the ball straight. Beneath the brim, scribbled in Sharpie, is the No. Unimposing but undaunted, Steve flicks the bill of his cap. The scouting report is embedded in his DNA. He’s awaiting some 86 mph junk with heavy sink from a funky release point, a pitch he’s meant to pummel into the infield grass. Garrett’s stance is open, his left foot a step behind his right, his metal spikes planted in the dirt, his blood-red DeMarini bat resting on his shoulder.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |