Securing your name in history is no simple task, especially when you are trying to defy the odds of sports and carry a city on your back. Twenty years ago a group of teenage boys accomplished the unthinkable and etched their names in history by becoming the first team to earn a trip across the country for the once in a life time opportunity to compete in the Babe Ruth Baseball World Series. Two decades in the future, a group of my friends and I set out on an ambitious journey to engrave our names beside our heroes in the record book.
The regional tournament is used as the qualifying tournament for World Series participation. Each State in New England has their best team compete in regionals. The winner of the New England regional travels to Washington State to be introduced as “Team New England”.

The newspapers roared with excitement as they joined the band wagon of baseball fans; “Local Team Prepares for Regional Tournament”, “Can 13’s Make Baseball History”.  We didn’t have the most talent or skill, especially against New England powerhouses from Connecticut and Maine; however we brought something to the table that no one else could offer. We had a whole city on our side that supplied us with a devastatingly strong will to win.

We came out of the gate at astronomical speed with our hearts and minds set on the one goal somewhere high in cosmic space. The road we had to take was not easy, or even defined, the only direction we knew to go was forward. We set the tone immediately with a 10-0 victory over New Hampshire. I will always look at that first win as a large contributing factor to our development as team. It was not only a confidence builder for us, but a warning call for any team that dared stand in our way. The region had seen us an underdog, a long shot, and they took us lightly. Catching New England by surprise, we proved to them that we don’t need physical size, a shutdown pitcher, or even an ex MLB coach to lead us to victory. The only criteria necessary was a focused mind and a strong heart. Our name had been established and forward we went.

My team had the momentum of a freight train on ice and we were the only ones who could stop it. The games flew by in a blur of all things baseball as we continued to defeat our opponents. The quantity of fans in attendance seemed to double with every pitch that was hurled towards home plant. The pressure of the games was at an unprecedented extreme for 13 year old kids. It took a mind numbing amount of focus to keep your sanity from spiraling out of control. Practicing no longer meant getting your repetitions of ground balls in, it was about mental toughness. We were riding a wave of confidence that was bound to carry us to a regional championship. The hard part was making sure that wave didn’t crash too soon.

It was time for the regional championship and we had earned our spot there with an undefeated record in regulation play. Connecticut mirrored us with an impressive record as well and would be our worthy opponent for the anticipated night ahead.
The towering stadium lights flashed on above Bullens field illuminating and magnifying the task ahead of us as we walked side by side to the dugout. Friends, family, business owners, teachers, high school baseball players, the mayor, veterans, regular baseball fans, even small a portion of the school bomb squad, all looking up to us heroic figures, piled into the stands and packed themselves around the field as dense as 4 rows deep. Everyone had thrown together outfits made of any school apparel that they could scavenge. All fans that entered were thoroughly filled with joyful laughter and their faces became morphed due to over excited smiles. We were not smiling. Our faces were stern and intense. Our age had been discarded and we were imbedded in the most important moments of our lives. Our school was stuck in a drought for 20 years and had deemed us 13 year old kids as their saviors. The weight of hundreds of eyes watching your every move and entrusting you with the mental well being of a city is beyond unbearable for some. We saw it as motivation. It was clear at this point that failure was simply not an option.

The game was comparable to war a scene straight from a movie. Both sides would earn an edge on the opposition before losing it for a period of time. They would score and we would answer with 2 points and then before you knew it they would score three more. The crowd roared with earthquake force. Different strategies were put into effect to try and maintain a lead. The duel raged on into extra innings when our second basemen stung a line drive to right field, allowing us to take an 8-7 lead heading into the bottom of the 8th. All we had to do was prevent them from scoring. I was up to pitch. Three outs were all we needed to make history. The first batter I faced struck out and my name bounced across city buildings as the crowd belted it out in excitement. The excitement shifted to anxiety as the next two batters earned base hits. My stomach sank. A ground ball to our third basemen provided us with the second out. I stared into the stands at hundreds of people that I was not willing to let down. With 2 outs and runners on second and third, I toed the rubber and prepared to face Connecticut’s best batter.

Fans rose to their feet and reached a record breaking volume as I delivered two strikes. “Lets go, Lets Go” the fans woke neighboring towns. I closed my eyes and drew a long deep breath. Knowing that my next move was either going to be defined as “history making” or “what could have been” for years to come, I prepared myself to deliver everything I had and prove that we have what it takes.

I felt the ball roll off of my fingers as it began its quest towards the batter, whose muscles flexed and pupils enlarged as he planned to pounce on the pitch I was offering. His barrel spun through the zone and connected. The world fell silent as the ball floated well over my head and high into the sky. What the ball had in height, it lacked in distance. Crashing down at incomparable speeds, the ball had me scrambling to find positioning under it.

All at once the city leapt a mile high and cried with both their voices and their tears from the small fraction of emotional strain that had been lingering within. I stood in awe as the ball landed securely in my glove. We achieved the impossible merely by believing that it was possible. A group of 13-year-old men had punched a ticket across country to compete in The Babe Ruth World Series.