Ankiel Rick - The phenomenon: pressure, the yips, and the pitch that changed my life

Rick:

To my wife, Lory, who helped me to love and trust again.

To my sons, Declan and Ryker: You have brought me so much happiness. In your lives you will encounter bumps in the road. I hope this book reminds you to never give up. I love you.

To Harvey: with your love and guidance, heres what I did about it.

Tim:

For Kelly. And for Connor and Timmy.

I have two sons. They give me a chance to be good. To be present. To be better.

Their names are Declan and Ryker. They fish with me, like I fished with my father. He was a great fisherman, near as I remember. Probably still is.

They like baseball enough. I loved baseball for a while, then wasnt so sure, then loved it again. Baseball was who I was for a very long time, for better or worse. Id still recommend it to them, if they were to ask, and it seems theyre getting old enough to start asking. Theyre free to decide for themselves. In the meantime, Ill throw them all the batting practice they want, as long as they promise to be patient and wear a helmet.

They are so young, at ages I barely remember. Theyre good boys. They generally mind their mothermy wife, Lorywho occasionally must believe she has three boys instead of two. There might be something to that, me taking a do-over on the childhood thing. Part of me wants a second one that Ill recall with more clarity and warmth.

I think all the time about raising two boys, about being good at something as important as being a father. I think about it when theyre laughing at the same goofy joke that makes me laugh, and when they cry on a day when Im sad too, and when were just driving down the road in my pickup truck singing along to Luke Bryan.

Maybe theyre missing a tooth that day, their hairs all crazy, and theyve half a chocolate doughnut stuck to their faces, and it makes me wonder how they ever got so perfect. It makes me wonder if I was ever one of those kids in that rearview mirror, strapped into their seats, so sure that today will be great, that tomorrow will be too, that Mom and Dad will be together forever, and that Ill be there for them forever too.

Declan is five. He likes math, and he sometimes kills time by practicing his ABCs, humming the alphabet song while hes turning Lego blocks into cars and houses and things only he recognizes. He watches American Ninja Warrior on television. He looks like me. We have the same eyes, my grandfathers eyes. When he was born, the nurse bundled him in a blue blanket and set him in my arms, and he was the most beautiful thing Id ever seen. He blinked up at me, his father, the man who would, I promised, be kind to him forever, and teach him to be kind to others, and love him and try never to disappoint him. I would not call him names. I would not abuse his mother. I would stand behind him when he needed a push, before him when he needed a shield, beside him when he did not. He was the next generation, different than the last. Better, I promised, for Declan, my first. He bats and throws left-handed, like me.

Ryker is four. He already understands that as the youngest and smallest in the house, he has to be tougher, feistier, and a little more clever than his brother. He is my firecracker. On first reference lately hell answer to Hot Sauce. He also likes whatever Declan likes that day, which seems to be his strategy to get under Declans skin. Ryker is a right-hander. He also came in a blue blanket, and with the same promises.

We watch baseball when its on at night.

Who are we rooting for, Papa? Declan asks.

Well, I say, Papa played with him, and hes nice, so well root for them tonight. Or, Papa hit a few homers and won some games for that team once, the one wearing red, so well hope they win tonight. In the meantime, Ill put Cardinals hats on them and tell them why later. For a few hours well talk about the game and the men who play it, why they play it, and how they got there. Well high-five the good stuff and try to ignore the losses and make plans to be back on the couch tomorrow night, maybe for more living-room Wiffle Ball. Anything off the chandelier is a home run. Their curiosity about baseball has drawn me back in. Not that I didnt like it. But there was always something else to doa tiny car to race around the carpet, dinner to eat and baths to take and teeth to brush and a book to read aloud before their breaths would become long and steady and perfect. There were road trips and new teams in new cities and short conversations on the phone when I told them I loved them and would see them soonHome in two sleeps, Id sayand, yeah, Id try to hit them a home run tonight. Now we do baseball together, and its uncomplicated.

Some evenings well gather up the fishing gear and carry it to the dock off the backyard. There are snapper and catfish and snook hiding in those depths. The suns setting and the airs cooler and whatevers left over from dinner might be on our hooks. Youd be amazed at what a hunk of chicken nugget will bring. In a half whisper, Ill tell them what my father told me about how smart those fish are, and what theyre hungry for, and when. How they seem to know whats coming. The boys are sometimes more interested in the bait bucket, where sardines or greenies or goggle-eyes or mullets await their turn on the hook, just as I was at their age. I find myself hoping they love this, the hunt, the wins and losses, the beauty of it all, because I love it so much, and because a father and his boys ought to be able to do this together forever.

Some nights, when the water is calm and the lines are taut, they look at me in a way Ive never looked at myself. Maybe Im imagining that. But I like the way it feels. I like what it has taught me about selflessness and accountability. About showing up. I like what it has taught me about myself and what I need to be today and every day after that.

See, there is the life you want. There is the life you get. There is what you do with that.