A Perfect 10

I received the email that I had made the Brooklyn Bulldogs travel club on July 2nd, 2013, my ninth birthday, and that summer was the beginning of my baseball career. Although I didn’t know it, I was signing away the next nine years of my life to baseball. If I told my nine year old self that I was deciding on baseball to be the priority of my life until I go to college, I probably would not have accepted it. I loved baseball, always have and always will, but to show that child just a glimpse of what I experienced would probably scare him away, and maybe steer him towards basketball, the first sport I had ever loved. Instead, my basketball skill became stagnated, and my jumpshot has never developed beyond average despite the time I’ve spent attempting to repair it. Regardless, I was absolutely thrilled to be a part of the Brooklyn Bulldogs, and treated it as if I was playing for an MLB team. The honor I felt when given the number 10 at the very first team meeting, and this number remains my favorite number to this day. It became a representation of me; I embraced the concept of trying to be a 10/10 in everything I did, and that mindset drove me to use maximum effort in every workout, practice, and game. At this same team meeting, I told my coaches I could play catcher, as recommended by my father. I still contemplate whether this was a good decision or not, but at the time, I just wanted to ensure that I would get on the field.

I wake up at the crack of dawn. It’s a summer Sunday, the sun shines through my window onto my uniform, which I had laid out on my bedroom floor the night before. Fueled with excitement, I quickly got dressed, and ran down the stairs to scrambled eggs and an energy drink, prepared for by my father. This was the very same meal I ate on gameday for the duration of my career. I stand at my first base fielding position with a perfect view of the very first pitch, the beginning of a long career, and the first of hundreds of early morning double headers to come. In game two that day, the coaches gave me my first stint behind the plate playing catcher. It had only been one inning when the batter in front of me swung at an angle in which the barrel collided with the glove on my left hand. The base of my thumb grew to be the size of a baseball quickly, and I had to be removed from the game. I shed a few tears, and made my way to the dugout, where I was treated with ice and gatorade. The physical pain was strong, but the mental pain was stronger. Maybe catching isn’t for me, but I have to get myself on the field no matter what! At that very moment, I thought I’d never put on catching equipment again. Boy was I wrong.

Despite the rough first experience, it didn’t take much time for catching to become my position. My combination of size, toughness, leg strength, and voice volume developed me into a team leader, a necessary trait for a catcher. I never really had a say in it, but within a few weeks I was catching two games (twelve innings) every Sunday at just the age of nine. It took about a year before coaches were setting me up with private lessons with semi-pro catchers, lessons in which I excelled amongst my peer position-mates. With this came expectations, not only from my coaches, but myself. As expectations grew, catching (as well as baseball overall) became less of a game and more of a responsibility. If the pitch was a ball, I didn’t frame it well enough. If someone stole a base, I didn’t throw the ball hard enough. If someone in the field made an error, it was because I didn’t have them in the right position. All of the sudden, I was no longer playing to succeed, but I was playing not to fail. Winning made it all worthwhile, however. There isn’t a more relieving feeling then the long car ride home after going 5-0 and winning a weekend tournament. The satisfaction of jumping and cheering along with your teammates after a hard fought tourney championship was as if we had won the World Series. When we were 12, we played in the Cal Ripken tournament in Baltimore, and we were expecting to see some of the best competition we’d ever seen. Instead, we were the competition. I had the tournament of a lifetime, with elite defense in all five games behind the plate and numerous clutch base hits. I won tournament MVP, one of the biggest honors of my baseball career. The feeling of accomplishment and superiority I shared with my teammates was addicting. I became addicted to winning, as if I wasn’t already, and it got to the point where I would do just about anything to get that feeling. The day after I won that MVP award, I could barely walk, and I didn’t make it to school. Catching five whole games took a toll on my legs, and before I knew it, this became a regular weekend occurrence. Bruises, aches, shoulder/arm pains lived with me rent free, and the more they grew, the more I developed hatred for playing catcher.

Catching made baseball a lot less fun. I honestly don’t know how anyone enjoys it. It’s so stressful, painful, and honestly gave me anxiety. To the common eye, it seems like the most basic position in sports, but in reality it is one of the most difficult, complex positions you can play. There are so many little details that are important to the position, and unlike other positions, each one of these details needs to be perfect on every single pitch. The amount of sheer bullshit I got chewed out for by coaches infuriated me. I felt as if there were constantly a million eyes on me, praying that I would mess up, but refusing to recognize the things I did well. This made baseball feel like a job, something no child should ever feel about their hobbies and passions before high school.

Unfortunately, that is what it takes to develop a child into one of the elite athletes in the world. The ones that get scholarships, the ones that get famous, the ones that pay their grandkids tuitions. Everything in life is a business, and in hindsight, it is incredibly clear to me. If the coaches developed me and my peers into collegiate athletes and even pros, that says a lot about them as a coach as well as the program they’re working for. More parents will be willing to pay their programs more money due to the increased chances of their kids getting free tuition. Essentially, these coaches are trying to reap the rewards of their young athletes' successes, even at the expense of their mental health. Coaches yell at their players if they play poorly because it is a poor representation of them and their program. The worst part is, given the situations of these coaches, I would do the exact same. This is their careers’ at the end of the day, and they’re doing whatever it takes to be successful in that, and for that I cannot blame them. Fairly enough, a lot of them really do know what it takes to make it big. These coaches would push us to our limits because they were under the impression that we all wanted to be great.

Greatness. It’s what I, along with millions of other young athletes across the planet, dream of. The games of imagination, pretending we’re winning a world championship, dreaming of running out of the locker room to a sea of roaring fans. We’ve all been there. Honestly, I didn’t feel that about baseball, but instead about football. Football was, and still is, my favorite sport. I would ask my parents to sign me up for tackle football regularly starting at the age of six, but they never budged. My dad wasn’t too opposed to it, but my mom viewed it as if I was going to the army. When I was about eight, I almost convinced my dad to sign me up for tackle football behind my moms back, but I couldn’t get it done. By the time I was applying to High School, my sporting career played a big factor in which schools I valued the highest. I was at a low point in my baseball career, and was ready to make one last push to play high school football, something I desired immensely. After an abundance of avoidance, I had a sit down discussion with my parents. Things got heated quickly. After hours of screaming, crying, and arguing, my mother did stood firm. I returned to my bedroom and my face hit the pillow. That was it. The dreams I had of playing wide receiver in front of thousands of people would never come true. I would never put on pads or a helmet and take the field with my team, a team that will never exist. My heart was shattered; this was my version of finding out Santa Claus is not real. Who’s to say I would have been a successful football player anyways. At the end of the day, I never took a single hit, never made it through hell week, and never had to deal with a football coach, who are as harsh as they come. I tell myself this all of the time to reassure myself that not playing football was the right decision. If I was a mother, watching my son play as dangerous of a game as football would rip away at my heart. She gave birth to me; it’s in her nature to protect me, and regardless of how much it hurt, I’m very thankful to have a mother who cares about me so much to the point where she couldn’t stand to see her son in danger.

Being an athlete has been a part of my identity for as long as I can remember. In fact, sports might be the most original factor in shaping my identity. I couldn’t let not playing football end my sporting career, so I kept playing baseball, regardless of how I felt about it. I made varsity my first year, as I was recruited by Midwood High School’s head coach. I was somewhat known in my community; I was the Bulldogs’ catcher with the crazy energy and the long hair. When the season first started, I would see some playing time, but when the starting senior catcher and captain fell to a season ending injury, I would get thrown straight into the fire. I felt young, intimidated, and unprepared, and I struggled adjusting to the speed of high school varsity baseball. I began spending lunch periods with the head coach training, praying I’d magically wake up on the same level as the seniors. I would get in my head, constantly concerned that I wasn’t good enough, that I was letting my teammates down. This is a fatal flaw for any baseball player, but as hard as I tried, I couldn’t fight away the anxiety. I, once again, found myself playing not to fail.

Despite my woes, I showed flashes of potential my freshman year along with a few of my classmates. That being said, it was time for a change. I joined a new club team, the Rising Stars, along with some of my old Bulldogs teammates as well as fellow Midwood Hornet, Brandon, who quickly became one of my best friends. When sophomore year started, we were going to Midwood practice together after school, and then going to tournaments with the Stars on the weekends. I had just cut my long hair and had a newly found confidence. Everything felt so fresh, I felt valuable on both teams, and that spark was back. I was having fun again, and dreams of playing college baseball were becoming very possible. The work was treacherous though; winter workouts for both teams reached a total of eight times a week (twice on Fridays). My sleep schedule was in the gutter, I would struggle to get homework done, and not a day would go by where I wouldn’t fall asleep in a class. I would come home drained, and didn’t hang out with many friends outside of school and baseball simply because I had no time. This wasn’t a problem though, as I loved my teammates. We bonded over our shared immaturity, our lack of free time, but most importantly, our shared goals. All of the sudden, I was in the best shape of my life, and with my sophomore season followed by a summer filled with college scouting on the horizon, I knew it was my time to shine. Until...

Covid. God damnit. That was it. The high school season I had dedicated months to preparing for had simply vanished. A few days later, we found out we would be out of school for six weeks, and little did we know we would be in online school until our senior year. I was pissed, and can’t even imagine how it felt to be a senior at the time. At least I got a senior season, prom and graduation. Many of those around me were hyped, and treated it as if we had just gotten 30 snow days. I, on the other hand, was scared. I was scared to be stuck at home without a purpose, afraid of being alone, and I wasn’t thrilled about spending 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, home with just my family.

Turns out, the depression I feared I’d face was nothing but a false fallacy. It took some adjusting, but I grew accustomed to the pandemic life. In fact, I grew to love it.

For the first time since I was a little boy, I felt free. Free of responsibility, anxiety, physical pain, and yet I was still just 15 years old. All I had known for the past six years was baseball, and now all of the sudden it was nothing but an afterthought. I feel guilty for saying it, but so much weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I thought without my sport I would have nothing, but what I realized was that I had myself. Of course I got bored, we all did. But it was a relaxed bored. I went from 7 A.M. planks to 2 P.M. breakfasts. Seems like quite the trade off if you ask me. Obviously, I missed sports, both playing and watching. I still wore my jersey on what were supposed to be gamedays. But I was OK. Everything was OK, and that was all that mattered.

Returning to baseball that summer (with a mask on), went just about as I expected. The pandemic lifted lots of pressure from coaches, and I definitely had a fun summer. That being said, catching was just as not-fun as I remembered. In one of the final tournaments that summer, I was essentially forced to play through a minor groin injury. I played both the semi-final and final game that night, and even had a big go ahead hit late in the championship game. That hit was quickly forgotten about the next inning, as the other team ended up walking it off. I was done. Simply done. I struggled to walk off the field that night, and felt checked out from my baseball career. If this is bad, I cannot play college baseball. I was 16 years old, and the aspects of party life were just being introduced to me. I liked a girl who liked me back. My life was changing, and whether it was due to the pandemic or not, I came to the conclusion that it was time for me to embrace this. It was a difficult discussion with my father, who I felt as if I had let down, but in the end he was proud of me no matter what. I continued with my high school baseball career and even played for one other club team after that, and still enjoyed these final days. I passed on the catcher position, which didn’t fix everything but made things better. I also partially tore my right labrum in my junior year. This injury at its worst would have killed my career, but I dodged its severity and it was only a minor setback. Minor enough, however, to give me an excuse to halt my pursuit of college baseball. Without these expectations, my play, character, and most importantly, my mental health all improved, and once again, baseball was fun.

In my final game ever, I was the starting pitcher in a playoff game against one of the best teams in New York City. This meant a lot. I was team captain and had spent a lot of time rebuilding my shoulder strength. Despite a good start, the other team eventually pulled away. In the final inning, with two outs, I step to the plate, knowing damn well this might be the last time I ever get the opportunity to do so. After a hard swing and a miss, I had struck out. And that’s the ballgame. I fought a lot of tears, but never fully broke down like I thought I would. The bus ride home was long, very long, and I didn’t open my mouth for a second of it. Instead, I looked out the window and reflected. I could have written this entire essay on that bus, but I’ll try my best to summarize my mindset for those 90 minutes.

I’m grateful. I’m grateful for the people I’ve shared the field with. I’m grateful for the coaches who believed in me and supported me. I’m grateful for all the rides I received from parents, and the parents who took me in as their own. I’m grateful for my own parents for supporting me in all my needs, both on and off the field. I’m grateful that my stresses growing up were simply over a game, and were miniscule issues compared to other childrens’ struggles around the world.

I still am the same boy I used to be at the heart, and truthfully it hasn’t fully sunk in that I will never be a professional athlete. I still dream of being a wide receiver at night and think about what could have been. I’m still way too competitive in games, even if they’re not a sport. I miss the days of being on a team and that feeling of comradery. I’m scared of becoming an adult, and the thought of my body aging rips me apart on the inside. Everyone faces their battles with father time however. I guess now is my turn, and anyone above the age of 19 will tell me I have plenty of youth left. I’m just thankful for how much I learned from being an athlete. I developed character, I became a leader, I battled through adversity, and I grew into a MAN. Any challenges I may face down the line, I will have no choice but to face them head on. Even through the darkest days, the competitive flame within me will always burn. Now, it simply ignites the fire that pushes me to be the best version of Jackson Berger I can be.

Thank you, sports, for I am so grateful that you took me under your wing. For all of the role models you presented me with. For all of the ups and downs. For keeping me in a good place in life. And simply, for its existence, as it has changed millions of lives around the world. Thank you for the dreams you’ve given us all, and for some even to allow them to become reality. Thank you, sports, for where would I be without you? Thank you.