“What others think of us only matters if it’s more positive than we believe ourselves to be.” TC-2024
I’d never of heard him, but I was Andy Etchebarren for a while. I was seven or eight, and Andy Etchebarren never heard of me either. No one in the major leagues knew who I was—at least, not yet. But there was hope because my father said so.
We’d been to Western Auto in Bridgton, Maine. My new Rawlings glove was stiff, smelled terrific, and was the color of butter—with rawhide lacings and Tom Seaver’s signature. I didn’t know who he was, either.
I got a new baseball. It, too, was a Rawlings. My father rubbed that baseball for half an hour, explaining that the sweat and oil from his skin would rough it up a bit. He added some dirt from our yard on Upper Ridge Road; I was alarmed that my new ball was covered in grime before I even got a chance to play with it.
We started with a game of toss. Dad caught my best stuff barehanded, and I dropped every second or third ball with ridiculous regularity. But he saw me as gifted, worthy of a second look, and a serious contender for the MVP of whatever team picked me up for the spring Little League season.
“Nice catch, Andy,” he’d say. I thought he was using the short version of my middle name. Andy rolled off his tongue a couple of times before he shared with me that I was catching like Andy Etchebarren, and he was good, real good.
I had no way of knowing if I was good; I was as interested in playing baseball as my sisters were in fishing for brook trout.
I knew my father had been a standout. I’d seen the roof of his high school, which Art pointed out a few times as where a couple of his home runs had landed; the crowd was in awe. I knew he tried out for the Yankees in college. They gave him a shot at playing in the minors, but that wasn’t to be for reasons I’ve gone over before.
Dad believed I might have his skills, but I showed him—early—that I didn’t.
Still, I played, hoping his athletic prowess would show up like bad company does when you are getting ready to go to bed.
Oh, sure. I was okay. I played in Little League for a couple of seasons, trying to get noticed by the scouts. I had a decent arm and could hit a solid single, but it never showed that I had the timing of Ted Williams or the brute strength of other ball players I didn’t care about.
I played in other towns, too. We moved a lot. I played, still hitting the occasional single or catching an infield fly ball. Still, no one was talking about me during after-game ice cream unless it was because I’d told a good joke in the dugout or bragged about catching a twenty-one-inch pickerel on my favorite red & white daredevle lure. And, yup, that’s how you spell it, I know fishing. Dad took me there, too. It was not his favorite thing, but he knew what I liked. Like any good coach, he paid attention, watching me play and keeping track of my strengths and weaknesses.
Other than wrecking a couple of cars, smoking cigarettes for a whole week while I was in high school, and sometimes picking him up a couple of minutes late for breakfast at Denny’s near the end of his life, Dad never acted disappointed in what I’d done or become.
Regardless of how my sports career unfolded, I was always Andy Etchebarren, and he had a good run.
I’d never heard him, but I was Andy Etchebarren for a while. I was seven or eight, and Andy Etchebarren never heard of me either. No one in the major leagues knew who I was—at least, not yet. But there was hope because my father said so.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
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