For the right reason or not

In reality, my career as a sports writer can be traced back to a story my dad continues to tell people to this day. And for me, the story never gets old.

The story took place when I was four years old, and in the backyard of the house I lived in until I was 12. My twin brother (Evan) and I, along with my dad, were playing baseball, a daily activity for us. In this particular story, I was pitching and my brother was the batter. My dad was in the outfield.

And, in a rare occurrence, my brother got lucky and hit my fastball over my dad's head in the outfield. As Evan rounded the bases, thoughts raced through my head of how my life would change if I were to give up a home run to my brother, backyard baseball or not.

I have always been ultra-competitive with my brother. A grade card of straight A's looks a lot less impressive when your parents get another grade card with the same results. My competitive nature meant daily fights for my brother and me. But at the same time, it drove me. I couldn't let my brother beat me in anything. Still can't.

Anyway, as I watched my dad run after the ball, I immediately ran to home plate, hoping my dad would chase it down before Evan could complete the home run. Apparently, my dad was thinking the same. Forgetting his son awaiting his throw was only four years old, he turned and fired the baseball home as hard as he could. As the ball soared through the air on a line, my dad yelled out a few profane words, realizing his throw was right on target and left me directly in line for a black eye – something similar to Smalls in The Sandlot.

He shouted for me to move out of the way. Yeah, right, and let Evan achieve what previously seemed like an impossible feat? I don't think so. Never would I hear the end of that story. So, I reached out and snagged the ball, tagging my brother out before he touched the plate. For my dad, it was a relief that I had caught the ball. I tend to view it, however, as a moment that saved me from a childhood of torment from my brother.

It was at this moment that my dad thought I had a future in sports, especially in baseball. My first T-ball team, I was placed on a team with who is now my best friend, Jeff Porter. Jeff is the son of the 1982 World Series MVP, Darrell Porter. After seeing my brother and I play for the first time when I was five, Darrell asked me to autograph a baseball. "Some day, this is going to be worth something," he told my dad.

My childhood was spent playing baseball. It ran my life. And looking back on it, I don't really regret that. It included trips to what seemed like all 50 states, as well as Cuba. It was a year-long season for about 10 years. I don’t know how my mom could stand it, but she came to every game I played.

My "soon-to-be Major League Baseball" career ended in high school, the time I stopped growing (or continued to not grow depending on how you look at it). My freshman year I was still less than 5 feet tall, so my power hitting days were over.

I think it was about that time that I started to really develop the personality that has stuck with me, or what I call extreme cleverness. Others call it a smart-ass personality. Either way, it's a big part of my life. Some people view my personality as cocky or just plain mean. Those people, I tend to ignore. If you're someone who can't take a joke, then odds are you won't get along with me. And to be honest, you're probably not someone I want to spending time around anyway.

I had quit playing baseball in high school, but I decided I still wanted my career to include sports, just now in some other way. So for the right reason or not, I decided to become a sports writer in high school. After all, that is where all the washed-up athletes go. Or at least ESPN had instilled that thought into my mind. To be a sports writer, you don't have to be some amazingly good athlete. Just look at my colleagues at the Missourian.

People tell me I got into this profession for the wrong reason, but to me, that’s irrelevant. Fact is, I’ve stuck with it for the right reason. I wouldn’t be doing the work if it was something I didn’t want to be doing.

But the field does worry me. I don’t have a job yet. I don’t even know that I’m all that close. But in a time of stress like this, I look back at the story of me playing baseball in the backyard at four years old and remember its moral:

No matter what game you’re playing, and no matter how far behind I may seem, I always win in the end.

-- S McDizzle out