LAST DANCE
We traveled a week ago, as a family, to Atlanta to attend my son Connor’s graduation from Emory University.
I had prepared myself for the emotional thud that these moments can deliver. But on the day, the parking plan, gathering the relatives, and finding a close vantage point on the quad, but out of the blistering Georgia sun, occupied our minds to distraction.
The ceremony was long, three hours long, with a wonderful commencement speech given by Salman Rushdie that was equal parts irreverence, colloquial hipness, and poetic erudition.
When my son crossed the stage I was more concerned with dodging the craning heads to capture a good image of the event, than the event itself. Later, Connor met us not as a beaming college graduate with the world’s infinite possibilities awaiting him, but as a sweaty distracted young man with his cap and gown wadded under his arm.
He placed the symbols of 4 years’ hard work and enlightenment on a plastic chair and said, “I need to get lunch, I’m hungry”. His sister said, “Don’t you want your gown and hat?” to which he replied, “Why? It’s not like I’m going to wear them again.” Tessa grabbed the cap and we headed off to lunch.
The congratulations were just that. No defining moments.
Because, what mattered the most to Connor on commencement day is what has mattered the most to Connor since he was ten years old…
Baseball.
He was to start his last time on the mound, potentially, as the Emory Eagles’ number one pitcher, just three days after graduation, at the NCAA Southern Regional Playoffs.
Commencement was just a silly formality that got in the way.
Serene, Zach and Tessa headed home and I stayed behind to be there, in Demorest, Georgia for Connor’s start against Methodist College, their second game on the schedule. Emory lost their first game 9-6 placing them in the loser’s bracket. Like last year, the Eagles would be facing single elimination for four more games.
Connor took the mound with a sore elbow from a senior season that asked him to go deep into pitch counts all year long. First inning went like all first innings when you are dialing in a curve, bases loaded and a run scored for Methodist.
But the kid got into the zone and the Monarchs would post nothing but zeros for the rest of the game. He allowed just four hits in 8 innings. Connor was a stud out there.
When he came off the mound headed to the dugout, the parents in the stands stood and cheered like I had never heard before. And not like they would if our team scored a significant run or made a great defensive play, you could feel the thanks in their voices. Thanks for being the guy they could always count on to get the job done.
I watched his walk off, as I do most of these moments, through a long lens. I wanted to know what my kid was feeling as his run with baseball, his beloved, all-consuming baseball, ended.
I also felt like I could hide from the overwhelming emotion that was erupting inside me. Why did this hurt so much? Why was it so sad? I think I wanted to protect my son from what he was going through. I wanted an MLB scout to sprint out to meet him and say, “It’s not over, kid!”
Instead, he was met just outside the dugout, first by his coach who embraced him like I would have, then each and every player, in turn, thanked him with hugs of their own.
The closer came in and did what good closers do, and it was over. Emory 8, Methodist 1.
The guys headed across the field to meet the vanquished Monarchs for ceremonial handshakes. I followed Connor with my camera. He alone carried a baseball, tossing it from hand to hand, seemingly lost in thought. As they reached the other team, he tossed the ball aside and went through the motions… “Good game, good game, good game…”
At the end of the line, the Eagles turned, as a team, and headed back to their dugout. Everyone jogged and laughed and slapped each other on the back. Everyone but Connor.
He walked, staring straight ahead, the weight of the moment slowing him. At least that’s how I saw it, I could be wrong, silly old soppy dad.
I was about to put the camera away when my son did something that broke my heart. He slowed, paused and looked back at the mound. The lens focus shifted and somehow made the image more poetic. But it was clear that he was taking it all in, knowing that he might not ever make that walk again.
Little league, when he hit that 2 out, 2 strike shot down the first base line in the bottom of the ninth to save the season. Club ball, when he hustled out to warm up the other players for weeks until he was finally put into a game at 2nd base. High school, where he bounced around, from 2nd to 3rd to Catcher until Matt LaCour thought it might be a good idea to turn him around to throw at batters for Harvard-Westlake as their ice cold closer. Becoming Emory’s ace, D3 Rookie of the Year, Southern Region Rookie of the year, All-South Teams, All-UAA Teams, All-Tournament teams, pitching clinching games in the Regionals, and last year, knocking off a number one to stay alive in the World Series…
All of it would end here.
Then they won again.
And again, and again.
As if from somewhere out there in a cornfield, the kid gets blessed with one more time on the bump.
The Emory Eagles are going to Appleton, Wisconsin and the Division III World Series. Congratulations Connor, it ain’t over yet.