What Would He be Doing?

The pitches aren’t tricky—no surprises—always straight, always across the plate. Fastballs, of varying height, but by Major League standards, slow—70 miles per hour. I swing. I miss. I swing. I miss. I swing again. I get a piece—a foul tip. This is harder than I thought it would be.

It’s a rainy afternoon and I’m at the local batting cages, swinging an aluminum bat at orange rubber balls. The slow pitch cage—35 M.P.H.—was cake, and the 45 M.P.H. didn’t seem so hard either, but now the rubber balls are zipping by me like lightning, and I’m thinking to myself: How do those guys on television make it look so damn easy?

When I watch the World Series—watch grown men play a children’s game—I like to play a game of my own, a game called “What would he be doing?” As in, what would he be doing if he wasn’t a Major League Baseball player? Though this game can be played while watching most sports, it works best for baseball, because unlike other sports, where the participants clearly look like professional athletes, many baseball players look more like everyday, ordinary guys—guys you see walking down the street—guys like you, or me, or your Uncle Bob, or that guy that picks up your garbage every other Tuesday. Here’s a quick example of the game, World Series edition:

What would Billy Butler be doing?

Plumber, or Truck Driver

What would Tim Lincecum be doing? 

Pot farmer in the Pacific Northwest (Not to say that he isn't already doing this in the off-season)

What would Eric Hosmer be doing?  Inmate

What would Hunter Pence be doing? 

Alligator Wrangler (Not to say that he isn't already doing this in the off-season)

What would Brandon Finnegan be doing? Country Music Singer (Under the stage name “Tex Brandon”)

What would Pablo Sandoval be doing? Amusement Park Mascot

So, playing this game got me thinking: If these guys can play baseball for a living, maybe anybody can. And that’s why I’m at the batting cages, whiffing at pitches that any good little leaguer would be crushing. But then again, I haven’t swung a bat since I was a little leaguer myself, so perhaps I’m just a bit rusty. I put another token in the slot and wait for the red light to turn green. The buzzer sounds. I swing. I get a piece. I swing again. Another piece. Pitch after pitch, I make contact—mostly ground balls that would most likely be foul—but contact nonetheless. Finally, on my last pitch, I crush it—a high line drive. It’s going, it’s going, it’s gone! (Actually, it hits the net above the pitching machine fifty feet away, but I’d like to think it would have sailed about 400 feet otherwise.) Maybe, just maybe, I was right—maybe anybody can be a ballplayer. Maybe if I try really hard—if I invest more time and more money in the batting cages—maybe I could be a ballplayer. Maybe I could make it to the big leagues. Maybe some guy at home will see me on television. Maybe this guy will be playing “What would he be doing?” Maybe he’ll say, “If Jon Penfold wasn’t a Major League Baseball player, he would be sitting on his couch, watching the World Series, writing a weekly blog.”