By Jay Burney
The setting: a few years back, a hot summer early afternoon. I was at the ballpark. The team was conducting a “Legends Fantasy Camp” in which former major leaguers were performing and instructing, for paying customers. I didn’t know which former major leaguers were involved the camp that day, but in the past we had former professionals from the Yankees, Orioles, Red Sox. A lot of big names including Yogi Berra, Ozzie Smith, Steve Carlton, Brooks Robinson and others had participated in some way with these camps.
That day, for whatever reason, I was the one that had to set up the camera on the field near the first base dugout for the upcoming evening game broadcast. Usually its not too difficult of a job as one would roll the camera on the wheeled tripod down the hall to the elevator, down to the ground level, and then roll it out through the tunnel behind home plate, across the dirt, to the camera dugout.
But this day, the elevator was not in service. So I had to carry the heavy load down the four flights of stairs to the concourse and out across the seats in the lower bowl, to the top of the dugout and hoist the whole thing off the top of the dugout and on to the ground, about an 8 foot drop.
It was hot, humid, and more than a little blustery and dusty. By the time I finished the struggle of getting the awkward camera/tripod apparatus across the seats to the top of the dugout, I had worked up a pretty good sweat. In fact I was drenched and the salty perspiration was running down my face into my eyes, and nearly blinding me. I wiped my face repeatedly. From the top of the dugout I was able to dismount the camera from the tripod and lower the tripod down to the field. The next objective was to get me onto the field so that I could lift the camera itself off the top of the dugout and put it on the tripod. I stood up on top of the dugout and looked around. In the past, in my youth, I had hopped off this dugout fairly often. I always, more or less, landed on my feet in the red dirt below. However these events took place years ago. I had not been on this kind of duty for at least five summers. And on this day, I am tired, and my memory and self-awareness seems to have avoided me. On top of that, a fact that completely slipped my mind, I had gained a few pounds somewhere in the intervening years.
So as I stood up and looked around the empty stands, some seed in my peanut brain, -some jock seed perhaps, entreated, coaxed, and urged-, “just jump, like you used to”. And so without further review, I did.
The last things that I remember as I decamped uncritically from the aerie at the top of the dugout, was seeing a bunch of ballplayers approaching the infield from the centerfield area. I realized at that moment, that I had just made a mistake. How big it was, I was not yet aware, but my appreciation of the blunder was about to grow significantly.
As I witnessed the ground rapidly approaching, a somewhat specific series of expletives passed from my brain directly through my lips in a quick series of semi-sounds that seemed to me to be impressively regretful if not entirely effective.
My arms flailed, beating awkwardly like a pair of naked bony wings.
The landing was rough. I collapsed rolled and that saved bones. My youthful training in gymnastics caused my intuitive reptilian brain center to act as I attempted to roll once my legs and then the rest of the storied body made impact. The dirt was hard and it was a painful landing. I was cut, and there was a little blood. To the best of my recollection, I did not hit my head but for at least a few seconds, things went dark.
When I opened my eyes, I was a little disoriented. For a few dizzied seconds I gazed straight up into the deep blue sky through what was now a surrounding cloud of dry ochre dust.
The dust cloud settled on me. It seemed to be taking forever but I was content to lie there in my own serenity, taking it in. I was impressed by the fact that I avoided thinking about pain. For a brief moment I even wondered if I was still alive.
Somewhere in the background there was sweet and soothing music. I am not a particularly religious individual, but I did wonder if the angels were serenading me.
I learned later that the field sound system was on and “relaxing music” was playing to give the fantasy players the appropriate post lunch atmosphere.
As I lay there hoping that the wetness streaming down my face was sweat, (it was) and as I tried to catch my breath which had been knocked out of me, a face appeared directly above me, reaching out through the red dust cloud. At first it seemed like a shadow, and then it a silhouette. Gradually the face came sharply into focus. It was very dream like but as the face and eyes became sharp, it was clear that there was concern hovering above me.
And then I thought to myself, that’s a familiar face.
“Are you all right?” said the face.
Then I realized who it was. I was able to utter, “yes, yes, just fine”.
I tried to smile and as I regained my breath, I stuttered a bit. Finally it came out- “You, you, you are Tommy John”. I do admire great athletes and I am a big lifelong fan of baseball. Tommy John, for those uninitiated, was a major league left handed pitcher who should be in the Hall of Fame. His 26 Major League seasons with such teams as the Yankees, the Athletics, the Angels, the Dodgers and the White Sox include 288 career victories, the 7th highest total amongst left hander’s in Major League history. In addition he was a pioneer in that he was the first to have a kind of reconstructive arm surgery, now named after him, to repair damaged ligaments in his pitching arm. This surgery has successfully rehabilitated many pitchers and allowed some really great athletes to have longer careers.
As I looked up at him and as he looked down at me, it clearly was Tommy John. He offered me his hand and helped me to stand up. “I am”, he said. And then looking directly at me with a big laugh he said “And you sir, are quite graceful”
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