Covering CWS unforgettable regardless of outcome
It's the first thing you learn when you want to become a member of the sports media. You don't pull for teams. You pull for good stories. No cheering, no booing. You present the facts without bias or prejudice.
Like most aspects of the job, that part is easier said than done. After all, this is your team. It's been your team since you were in diapers. You never considered any other school, you never wanted to be anywhere else. Now you're being sent to cover your team as they try to continue the greatest run in the history of the athletics program and you can't cheer, not even a little bit? Good luck with that.
You try to be fair. Really, you do. You stay away from words like "we" and "us," even though that's the way you've discussed the team since you learned to talk. You are going to be professional if it kills you.
Pretty soon, you realize that it probably will. The feeling starts gnawing at the pit of your stomach about midway through the second game. It works its way through your body, slowly rising up in your throat until you can't take it anymore. Unable to verbalize it, you simply form the words with your mouth: They're going to lose.
It's not fair. This should be one of the greatest experiences of your life. You should be floating on cloud nine, ecstatic that you are getting to do something you love. But you can't because it's not going to end the right way. You aren't going to be reliving any game-winning hits days from now. You won't be retelling the story of the dramatic comeback that saved the series. They are going to lose and you can't even be sad about it.
You think to yourself, "I hate this game."
Now it's over and you're not getting to soak in the moment of glory. The confetti is falling down, taking its sweet time to reach the ground. You are certain it's mocking you. You walk into the press conference and watch the players that have represented your school so well fight back tears. After putting together one of the most impressive runs in the sport's history, this is not the ending they deserve.
You think to yourself, "I hate this game."
In come the newly crowned champions. It's all smiles at the podium for the next ten minutes as they laugh and joke and reflect. You look into their eyes and realize that they are living their dream. You think about all the blood and sweat and tears they have experienced to get to this moment. Your bitterness starts to subside, if only slightly. After all, they were the better team. Don't they deserve a moment in the sun?
You leave the crowded room and walk down the corridor to the field. After all, you rode 17 hours to get here and you aren't going to leave without seeing it up close at least once. You step out through the confetti-littered tunnel and onto the dirt.
And the anger and the sadness and bitterness vanish beneath your feet.
You're here. You are at the pinnacle of the sport, covering it for the school you've loved your whole life. You've dreamed your whole life of having a moment like this one and you're not going to waste it. You ate the vegetables, now it's time to enjoy the dessert.
You grab an empty water bottle and walk onto the soft dirt and the perfectly manicured grass. You walk to the huge logo painted behind home plate and run your fingers over it. You suddenly realize that no matter how hard you try, you can't stop smiling.
Now you're in the dugout, standing on the top step looking down the first-base line. You had told your friends that you had the best view in the house in the press box, but now you realize that was a lie. This is the best view and it doesn't matter that the stands are empty and the field is covered in tarp. You've got it now.
You suddenly get an idea. The event staffers aren't paying you any attention. Everyone else is working except you. You are the last person on the field at the 2012 College World Series. No one is going to see what you're about to do. You're going to be a college baseball player, if only for a few minutes. You sit down on the bench in the dugout and close your eyes. Slowly, you rise up, jog up the dugout steps and out to the foul line. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the cheers that rang out hours earlier for the players that stood in this exact spot.
You've reenacted the start, now you have to do the finish. You hurry back to the top step of the dugout and lean against the rail. You imagine the thwack of the catcher's glove as it hauls in strike three. And just like hundreds before you, you jump the railing of a dugout in Omaha. You stand outside the dugout and look around at the bright lights still shining. They seem so much brighter when they're aimed at you.
One more thing you have to do. You walk down the foul line and into the bullpen. You grab a seat on the bench and imagine what it must be like to be here during a championship, so close to the action, but so far away.
Now you can't wait anymore. You have to do it. You throw open the bullpen door and there you go, in your polo shirt and khakis, sprinting through the outfield towards the pitcher's mound. The rest of the world disappears. You stop just short of the infield dirt and spread your arms out.
No one can take the last five minutes from you. It will never be replicated. Maybe years from now, you'll look back on this night and think of how foolish all of this was. But for now, you're on top of the world.
The thought enters your head.
I love this game.