Falling Forward, Away From Home Plate

Eric S. Wyatt, 1996 and 2007

April, 1 1996—Cincinnati, Ohio
Associated Press

Opening Day of the baseball season is sacred in Cincinnati; a day when much of the city comes to a stand-still to watch the annual parade, honor the stars of the past, and cheer on the current team that will—hopefully—bring home a championship in the fall. Opening day is supposed to be a joyous day, heralding the return of spring and breaking the grip of winter.

The snow falling at dawn was an ominous beginning to the day. With a sense of foreboding, preparations for the pre-game parade were made with glances skyward. Nervous parade coordinators hurried about their last minute duties while the flakes continued to fall.

Just before the parade was scheduled to begin, the sky broke and sunshine came pouring out. The large white flakes which had fallen throughout the morning soon ceased their assault. The sun's warmth lifted spirits as the lead float inched its way forward, into the streets of Cincinnati. No one could know the joyful excitement would be short lived.

There is a smell which occupies the senses as you pass through the gate of the stadium; a smell which envelops you. It is the accumulative smell of hot dogs and popcorn; of nachos and pizza; of hot pretzels, beer, coke, and cotton candy. It is the ballpark’s own, unique odor.

My daughter and I were in line a half-hour before the large iron gates were opened to the public. We were the first in line and I watched as Ophelia stood on her toe-tips, straining to catch a glimpse of the field through the iron mesh. We stood in the bright sunlight which had replaced the early morning snow. (“It isn’t supposed to snow in April, Daddy.”) Ophelia was peering through the dark interior of the stadium where vendors were setting up, trying to see out onto the sunlit field one level below us. She couldn’t have seen much of the playing surface—maybe the right field foul pole and the edge of the bull-pen. Even at her highest extension she was only as tall as my shoulder. I would have offered a ride on my shoulders to give her a better view, but I knew her response without asking. “I’m too old for that now, Daddy,” she would say.

That smell—the ballpark smell—was concealed from us as we waited, hidden by the damp breeze from the river blowing against our backs until the metal gates had swung open and we had pushed our way through the turnstile. We were submerged in the scent. It surrounded me, pulled me under, scared me for a moment with the intensity of drowning. I fought it at first; held my breath to deny the intrusion on my senses. Like the dream where I am thrown off of a ship in rough seas and find myself underwater—fearing I’ll drown but knowing I can’t hold my breath forever—only to find I don’t drown when I can no longer hold my breath; I can breath underwater like a fish and the initial fear is swept away in the glorious freedom of my new environment. I looked at Ophelia. She had stopped walking and was inhaling deeply; much more trusting than I. She looked up at me and smiled that smile a daughter can smile and melt her father's heart. I gave in and inhaled too.

Ophelia pulled at my hand, tugging me forward through the crowd now swelling around us. I had secured tickets from a friend of a friend, in the field-level boxed seats, four rows behind the third-base dugout. It was good to have a friend who had the finances to buy season tickets, even if he rarely used them. Ophelia knew the seats well from previous trips to the ballpark, and she made a bee-line for them.

She pulled me down a dark, sloping corridor which led to the lower level. We flashed our blue-colored tickets at the man standing guard to insure only those who had paid for the more expensive seats would be allowed down to the lower level. Ophelia led me from the sloping hallway out into the yellow-lit concession area—a broad concrete walkway entombed beneath the second level seats with only small openings revealing the natural sunshine of the day.

We headed toward one of the openings, Ophelia increasing her pace to a slight jog, raising her right hand to hold her red baseball cap in place. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust as we emerged from the underbelly of the stadium into the crisp daylight. The sun was shinning off the brilliant green Astroturf, stinging my eyes. Ophelia dragged me along, past the usher who was ready to escort us to our seats. I smiled at him as we scampered by. “She knows where she’s going,” I told the man. It was all right with me that we passed him by. I hate giving a tip to a person for showing me to the seat I had sat in a hundred times.

The sky was clear and blue by the time the parade finished its tour of the city; the sun’s warmth was slowly warming the Ohio River valley. Perhaps baseball was more than a symbol of spring this year. Perhaps baseball had actually brought the sunshine and warmth with it.

When the gates of Riverfront Stadium opened 90 minutes before the game, some of the players were already out on the field, trying to warm up in the chilly spring air. The early snow had canceled batting practice and the large, netted structure used in pre-game warm-ups was nowhere to be seen.

“They aren’t taking batting practice today,” my daughter said. Ophelia sat in the first seat, with the aisle on her right. I climbed over her and sat to her left.

I knew she was disappointed. I made it a point to arrive early to the games so Ophelia could watch the players swinging at fat pitches thrown by the hitting coach. She loved to guess at which balls would make it over the outfield fence and which ones would come up short. She was pretty good at discerning the home runs from the long flies almost as soon as the ball jumped off the bat—something very difficult to do from the stands.

“I’m gonna go get some coneys.” Ophelia jumped up and stuck out her right hand. I plopped a ten dollar bill in her hand and she raced off to the Skyline vendor.

“Bring me one,” I called after her. Ophelia had become my Cincinnati girl; a girl after my own heart. We spent most of our quality time together in the city; in the parks, or at museums, or shopping. Baseball and food were our favorite things to share. She loved the Reds games and loved Cincinnati style chili. She knew exactly where the chili vendor was located in the stadium, and had visited him at least once during every game we attended.

While Ophelia was gone, a man and a young boy came to claim the seats to my left. I recognized the man from previous games. He had season tickets or—like me—knew someone who did. He nodded as I stood to allow him and his son to pass by. They settled in under a large stadium blanket which the boy pulled up around his chin.

“He hates the cold,” the father said.

“Hard to believe its spring,” I replied. The cool wind was whipping around the circular stadium. “I hate to see snow on opening day.”

The man nodded and stuck out his hand. “My name’s Ray, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Ray.” I extended my hand in reply. “I’m Geoff.”

Ray and I talked until Ophelia returned. I found out he was a doctor in Northern Kentucky, with an office just across the river. His son was six years old and not nearly as excited about baseball as my daughter. “I’ve watched her before,” Ray said. “She really loves the game.” Her obvious enthusiasm made me proud.

When Ophelia returned she carried a tray full of cheese coneys and two drinks. I knew better than to ask for change. I was positive Ophelia knew exactly what she could get with ten dollars and was even more positive she had used every last penny. We sat and ate and waited for game time.

Numerous ceremonial activities accompanied opening day of the new season. The biggest event was the pre-game parade. The theme for the Opening day festivities was a twentieth-anniversary party, honoring players from the glory days of the Big Red Machine — arguably the best team to ever play the game. The pre-game activities culminated in the ceremonial throwing of the first pitch. It is an honor to be asked to throw out the first pitch, especially on Opening Day. This year the honor was given to Sparky Anderson: the well-loved former manager who had led the Big Red Machine to back-to-back pennants in 1975 and 1976.

The crowd erupted as Sparky’s name was announced. Fans everywhere jumped to their feet and applauded wildly. Even my daughter was caught up in the excitement. Though she could barely remember Cincinnati’s most recent World Championship in 1990, she knew more about the Big Red Machine than most of the people who had lived and breathed baseball in the 70’s.

I had all of the games from both the ‘75 and ‘76 World Series on video. Whenever the Reds had a bad year, I would watch those tapes instead of the actual games. My ex-wife—Ophelia’s mother—hated that. Carolyn hated baseball in general, but she became irate when I watched those games from years before.

“How many times have you watched those stupid games?” she would yell, standing in the doorway of our newly remodeled family room, her hands on her hips and toe tapping. “You already know every pitch by heart.”

“You don’t understand,” was my reply. And she didn’t. I tried to explain it to her, tried to introduce her to the game I loved; the game that held such deep meaning for me. She refused to go to the games when we were dating, and I was young enough—and in love enough—to overlook her disgust with the sport. After we were married, we moved to Michigan where Carolyn was a librarian in an elementary school and I worked as a photographer for a small, local paper. The Reds were hundreds of miles away, never on TV, and seldom even mentioned. They were no threat to our marriage.

A few years later, we moved back to Cincinnati, and at my assistance we went to a few games. The first game we attended bored Carolyn greatly. After that, she took a book to read any time she went with me to the stadium. It was embarrassing to have my wife sitting silently even while those around her were jumping and shouting. Soon, she began to refuse to go with me. By that point, I no longer cared.

It wasn’t just baseball Carolyn didn’t get. It was everything about me, about my love for Cincinnati. She hated the city. She hated the chili, didn’t see any charm or history in Mt. Adams, thought Eden Park was filled with perverts, compared the river to raw sewage, found no beauty or elegance in the Genius of Water at Fountain Square. She never understood why I enjoyed those things. In the end, she never really understood me at all.

It was hard to believe Ophelia was Carolyn’s child. Ophelia understood me, shared with me a fascination with the city of my youth; the city of her youth.

When Carolyn and I divorced, Ophelia went to live with her mother in a small town north of the city. She hated living there; hated being so far away from the zoo and the park down by the river with a giant wading pool. She would call me, tell me she wanted to be there with me, make plans to go there when she came down to visit.

Nine months after the divorce, Carolyn met and married a man who promised to rescue her from her imprisonment in the mid-west. She had always dreamed of living in Colorado or Montana. She wanted to be on the outskirts of civilization. To promise to take her there was to promise her the moon. She probably slept with him the first time he mentioned the idea.

Ophelia revolted when her mother told her the news. She locked herself in her room and refused to move anywhere with Carolyn and her new husband. She even staged a hunger strike for seven hours—until Carolyn gave in—demanding she be allowed to stay in Cincinnati with me. She moved into my small apartment with a view of the city the next day.

Two large doors behind home plate opened and various members of the grounds keeping staff dashed in and out, putting the final touches on the field. Not long after the ceremonial first pitch was thrown, the umpiring crew appeared in the passageway behind home plate and made their way onto the field. The crowd was still buzzing as the managers of the two teams emerged from their respective dugouts to give the line-up cards to the home plate umpire. The managers and other umpires crowded around the man who would be responsible to call the balls and strikes for the game. It was a meeting which mirrored the festive mood of the day as jokes and handshakes were exchanged. With a final laugh, the meeting broke up quickly with the managers returning to their dugouts and the umpires moving to their positions on the field.

As the last of the grounds keepers scurried into the area behind the plate and shut the door, the public address announcer and organist joined together to introduce the team: “And now, your 1996, Cincinnati Reds!” The players ran onto the field as their names were called and the organ player heralded their presence in a crescendo.

The booming voice of the announcer: “At first base, Hal Morris. At second base, Jeff Branson. At Shortstop, the 1995 National League’s Most Valuable Player, Barry Larkin...” Ophelia squealed at the mention of her favorite sports celebrity. The other 50,000 fans in the nearly full stadium joined her, forcing the announcer to pause before continuing, “At third base...”

The announcer finished the introductions and the players took their positions on the field. Everyone in attendance turned to face the large flag whipping high over the stadium above center field. The crowd grew quiet in anticipation of the singing of the national anthem.

With the last note still ringing through the stadium, Cincinnati’s pitcher, Pete Shorek, climbed to the top of the pitcher’s mound and pawed around with his cleated foot to landscape the pile of dirt to his liking. He dug out a shallow trench along the pitching rubber so he could plant his foot against the white rectangle seated solidly in the middle of the mound. Windmilling both arms in an effort to shake of the April cold, Shorek yelled something in to his catcher, Eddie Taubensee, who was settling in behind the plate with a few landscaping improvements of his own. Taubensee settled into his crouch, pulled on his protective mask, and waited to receive Shorek’s warm-up pitches.

Ophelia and I watched in silence as the infielders tossed a ball around and the outfielders played catch. Everyone was practicing their movements, warming up the muscles needed to play their game. The sun found a hole between clouds and shone down brightly on the field. Sometimes when the sun shone just right on Ophelia's profile, I could catch just a hint of her mother.

Before I met my ex-wife—before we began dating, began the cycle of break ups and reconciliations which culminated in the ultimate reconciliation of marriage and ended in the more binding break-up of divorce—there were other women. Sometimes there were other women in between our stints as well, but never, never at the same time, and never were the relationships filled with serious intentions. I was too devoted to Carolyn, and I never gave up on her—on “us”—even when months would pass where she would refuse to see me, to talk, to touch.

The bitterness of the final break up—the formal one presided over by a stern female judge who looked down her nose, over the rim of her half-glasses whenever I spoke—left me shaken, but the hate-filled words, the half-truths, the blatant lies did not diminish my devotion. I remained painfully devoted to Carolyn throughout my hatred, in spite of my increased awareness of who she really was.

It wasn’t love. There was no more love; at least not the kind of love defined by sappy cards, flowers, diamonds, or chocolates. That is the love we seek, the love we speak about: tangible love we can see, and feel, and taste; love which benefits the lovers, reaps rewards for the toil, sweat, and tears.

Devotion was another love; less rewarding and more troublesome, a commitment to the ideal, a remembrance of the good times only. I remained devoted to that ideal woman—the Carolyn I knew she could be—desperately clinging to the romanticized notions of youth, of love. That devotion had brought me back to Carolyn time and time again.

The crowd was still on its feet when pitcher Pete Shorek delivered the first pitch; a fastball right down the center of the plate. Home plate umpire, John McSherry, called the pitch a ball, much to the visible surprise of the pitcher.

With the first pitch delivered, the fans nestled into their seats. The first two batters were retired quickly with just five pitches, a good sign that Shorek had not lost the fine pitching form he had shown last season. The third batter, Expos center fielder Rondell White, stepped in and Shorek quickly threw two strikes. McSherry—a large man, made larger by the bulky equipment he wore under his dark blue umpire’s blazer—stood with his hands on his hips between pitches, staring out toward the pitcher or watching the batter from behind the black, wire mask he wore.

The Montreal batter was perplexed by Shorek’s pitches and he stepped away from the plate in an effort to gather himself. He looked out toward the pitcher, gripping and re-gripping the handle of his bat. The catcher waited for the batter to return, kneeling behind the plate.

McSherry removed his mask, tapped the catcher on the shoulder, and waved his right hand in the air, motioning out toward second base. The umpire stationed in the middle of the field was McSherry’s close friend, Jerry Crawford. He was in his standard position, legs spread wide and his hands resting on his knees. He straightened up, looked confused, and started to step toward home plate.

In between pitches Ophelia pointed out a fan a few sections away who was dancing with the Red's mascot, Mr. Red. There was no music playing, but the folks in that section were certainly enjoying themselves. My attention shifted back to home plate. The umpire had taken off his mask and turned away from the field. He was a large man, and as he walked toward the green-padded doors behind home plate he moved as if he had pulled a muscle.

There are about fifteen steps between home plate and the doors leading off the field: McSherry took twelve of them. He was three strides away—on the red-brown clay of the warning track—when he slowed, then stopped. His right leg locked, then seemed to give way. His right knee buckled and for what felt like an eternity, he wobbled in place; his head lolling from side to side. Before anyone could react, McSherry’s body pitched forward, rushing face-first toward the ground. He didn’t even raise his arms to soften the blow. He hit the ground stomach and face first, bounced twice, and was still.

The crowd fell silent instantly. The cries of the vendors walking the aisles ceased and the fans rose to their feet without a sound. I stood with them, straining to get a view of where the umpire lay, hoping to see any sign the situation was less severe than it initially appeared.

Ophelia rose next to me, leaning forward to see. I put my hand on her shoulder and she turned back to look up at me. I could see the confusion and concern in her deep, green eyes—so much like her mother’s, yet so different. Ophelia’s eyes were brimming with tears. Carolyn, had she been there, wouldn’t have even noticed anything was amiss. She would have been submerged in her book.

McSherry was lying prone on the ground when trainers from each team reached him. He hadn’t moved since falling forward, away from home plate. The trainers turned McSherry over, loosened his coat, and removed the thick chest protector. The other umpires—men who were like family to McSherry—were soon at their friend’s side. Players from each dugout slowly wondered out onto the field, the two sides meeting, mingling somewhere in the middle. The players kept a respectful distance. The other umpires soon joined them.

I felt Ray standing next to me, then felt his hand on my shoulder. I turned to him and our eyes locked. Ray turned to where his son sat huddled beneath the blanket. When he looked back at me, I knew what he wanted to ask before he said a word. I jerked my head out toward the field and said, “Go. I’ll watch your boy. Go see if you can be any help.”

Ray nodded without speaking, turned to his son, whispered something in his ear, and pushed past Ophelia and me. He walked slowly and deliberately down the five or six short steps to the edge of the top of the visitor’s dugout. Two police guards had established themselves on the top of the dugout to make sure the crowd remained under control during the delay in the game, not that there was any threat of unrest. Ray approached the guard closest to him who squatted down so he and Ray were at eye level. The man in blue nodded as Ray talked, listening carefully. After Ray’s explanation, the guard stood up and motioned for Ray to climb out onto the dugout roof. From there, Ray jumped down onto the Astroturf field and sprinted across to where the trainers were attending to McSherry.

Several other people were allowed onto the field. Doctors, I assumed, or nurses. Two paramedics emerged from behind home plate just as Ray and one of the trainers started to administer CPR. Ray was hovering over McSherry’s chest, arms straight and rigid. He pumped repeatedly, his voice traveling across the still, silent air: “One, two, three, four.” The Red’s team trainer was taking deep breaths and exhaling into McSherry’s mouth. The rhythmic thumping of McSherry’s rib cage echoed through the stadium. No one moved. No one spoke.

I didn’t want to watch the attempts to resuscitate McSherry. It was something I didn’t want to see. I had viewed the CPR films in college—was even certified at one time—but had never witnessed anyone actually putting the technique to use in a life or death situation. I knew the severity of the situation and that the man’s life was balanced precariously. I felt dirty for watching this intimate moment; felt like a voyeur peering into the neighbor’s bedroom.

I could not turn away.

One of the paramedics slid in next to McSherry, relieving Ray of his duties. Ray rose from his knees, took a few steps backward, then stopped to watch. The other paramedic had returned with a plastic IV bottle and a long stretch of tubing. Ray helped make sure the needle was ready, then held the plastic bag while the paramedic inserted it into McSherry’s left arm.

I pulled Ophelia close to me, tried to get her to turn away from the scene in front of her. She refused to look away. She clung to me tightly, but continued to stare in the direction of the crowd gathered around the fallen umpire. I heard a woman sob behind me. Saw a man with tears flowing down his cheek. The guards on top of the dugout had stopped watching the crowd and turned to watch the continued attempts to revive McSherry.

Fans in their seats could tell the severity of the situation by studying the faces of the players and coaches. Ray Knight, the Red’s first-year skipper, stood with his arm draped around Jerry Crawford. The sight of a manager and umpire embracing told the story. One of the other umpires was visibly sobbing into his hands, and players stood silently with ashy, stoic expressions on their faces. The only movement on the field was the rhythmic attempts by the medical personnel to resuscitate the fallen man. The crowd remained hushed.

Ophelia began to cry. She didn’t sob, but tears began to flow and her breathing became erratic and shallow. She swayed forward and backward unsteadily. I begged her to sit down, to stop looking at the tragedy being played out in front of us. She shook her head no.

My daughter doesn’t cry often. When she is physically hurt she doesn’t cry. Tears well up in her eyes and she growls with anger, but she doesn’t cry. To my knowledge, she had cried only twice: when my grandmother—Ophelia’s great-grandmother and close confidant—died a three years earlier and when I told her about the divorce less than a year later.

Ophelia was eight when her mother and I had decided to make our dissatisfaction with our marriage official. When had been mentally and emotionally divorced for years, almost since Ophelia was born. Physically, we still acted like husband and wife, mostly out of habit and instinctive need, but even that physical copulation left both of us hollow and used. It was a way to inflict pain on the other person, even more than it was a fulfillment of sexual desire.

Carolyn found another way to satisfy the physical yearnings soon after my grandmother’s death, and her infidelity was the final push the giant boulder of divorce needed to begin its rapid decent into the chasm of our life. We were separated less than a month after Grandma’s funeral, and—with the help of expedient lawyers—were divorced two months later.

Our daughter was, of course, the center of our war. We fought for her through our attorneys, through our actions, through our words. Our feelings were intensified because of our little girl. Carolyn and I fought—threw flaming arrows of accusation, rumor, and innuendo—not because we felt our actions and words were justified, but we fought because we could. Ophelia gave us something of significance to fight over; even though there was nothing substantial about the way we thought the situation should be resolved.

Carolyn wanted Ophelia, wanted to raise her and show her how to be a proper little girl, then a flirtatious teenager, then a sophisticated woman. I wanted those things to. I thought the girl should have been raised by her mother, by the woman who would have competent, reasonable answers to her questions.

But I fought for Ophelia as if I found Carolyn to be an unfit mother. I betrayed myself. I betrayed Carolyn. Most of all, I betrayed my daughter in ways she would never know or understand. Carolyn won. She won because it was the right thing—and because the battle field was slanted in her favor—but the victory was only partial, and only temporary.

After twenty minutes of emergency CPR, McSherry was placed on a stretcher. With his friend and fellow umpire, Jerry Crawford, by his side, McSherry was transported to University Hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival. A local radio station had reported the umpire had a pulse at some time during the ordeal, but doctors later dismissed the rumor as untrue.

Ophelia continued to watch the men on the field until the paramedics took McSherry away. She sat down then, exhausted and still crying. I sat next to her, wrapped my arms around her, patted her back gently, and rocked. She buried her face in my chest and continued to cry.

She had cried the same way the day I moved out of the house. Carolyn refused to help me break the news to our daughter—actually left the house while I was packing my things, leaving me there to explain the situation to Ophelia alone. She wondered into my bedroom as I was packing a large suitcase with my clothes. She knew something was amiss; had probably known for years. She didn’t seem surprised at the sight of me packing to leave. I told her to sit down on the bed while I continued.

It didn’t take much explanation. Ophelia’s best friend at school was from a divorced family, and so were almost half of her class mates. She didn’t ask any questions about divorce. She already knew what it meant. She didn’t even ask, “why?” The answer to that question was painfully obvious to anyone who knew Carolyn and me. She nodded slowly as I explained where I would be living, and how often we would see each other, and how things really wouldn’t change much. She didn’t cry until I sat down next to her on the bed, hugged her tight, and told her that I loved her.

Ray returned as the players on the field slowly filtered to their respective dugouts. I had forgotten about Ray’s son until I saw Ray walking up the steps toward us. I quickly turned to check on the boy, ashamed of my lack of attention to the charge I had accepted. To my relief, the child was curled up beneath the blanket, his head resting against the seat, his knees drawn up below his chin. He was asleep.

The boy’s father didn’t speak, only shook his head slowly and averted his eyes. I didn’t ask any of the questions burning to be asked. Ray brushed by me, picked up his son, mouthed the words “thank you,” and carried his son into the aisle and up toward the exits.

I was happy for Ray. His son hadn’t watched the events of the day, hadn’t been affected by the somber scene. Ray probably wouldn’t even have to explain anything to the little boy other than his brief absence to assist other doctors in helping a sick man. Ray was fortunate, in that respect. I wondered what questions Ophelia would have, and how I would answer them.

Back at the stadium, the remaining two umpires were resolved to continue the game. “It is what John would want,” they later said. The players, however, were not in agreement. Led by Red’s shortstop, Barry Larkin, the players approached the managers, who in turn relayed their message to the umpires: there will be no game today. Larkin would later state the decision was the only course of action he even considered. Some people close to the team speculate the collapse of McSherry especially effected Larkin because of the history of heart problems in Larkin’s immediate family.