First Pitch Bitch: An Essay In Humility

Rochester, New York. Home of the once-burgeoning, now-forlorn Eastman Kodak camera factory, Wegmans, and an assortment of 18+ nightlife spots that would make any father force his daughter into homeschooling. Long winters, short skirts, and low barriers for entry into the heroin trade have led the good people of Rochester to champion the “garbage plate” as a must-try for all tourists. It’s a trough of indigestible regret that requires a BAC of .35 or higher to prevent cardiac arrest. Still, a beautiful minor league ballpark sits at the city’s center. Frontier Field is home to the Rochester Red Wings, the triple-A affiliate of the Minnesota Twins. Early season games, like Darryl Strawberry community service hours, are often postponed due to snow. But the team is beloved and the fans come out in droves, for during the twilight hours of an evening game in early June, there is no better place to be. At least in Rochester. 

I flew in to Rochester airport on Friday and was collected by the owner of the comedy club where I was performing for the weekend. He was a wonderful, welcoming fellow of portly pretenses, proud of his city and eager to suggest that I would find a mate among the many young women who were coming to my shows. 48 hours later, back in New York, I unpacked the untouched condoms from my toilet kit with the defeated body language of a J.R. Smith press conference from here until his death. But on Friday afternoon in Rochester, the world was my oyster.

The club owner had organized for me to throw out the ceremonial first pitch at the Red Wings game later that evening. The plan was for me to take the diamond, accept the raucous ovation from the 10,000 fans in attendance, burn one down the middle, and syphon fans from the game to my shows the following night. I was very excited for the pitch. I had seen Big Cat’s first pitch at the Cubs game earlier this year, and I knew my Triple-A debut was the first step towards hurling in the big leagues. Our pitching opportunities reflect our status as Barstool personalities: Big Cat is an established major leaguer, but I’m working my way through the minors until I get that call from Dave, inviting me to his Nantucket house for a weekend where we’ll sip the coldest chardonnay in clingy Italian bathing suits during the golden hour, not saying a word, not knowing what to talk about, the silence closing in like the walls of the trash compactor in A New Hope, Dave regretting inviting me while I offer to mow the lawn and do landscaping work as an apology.

When we arrived at Frontier Field, the first thing I noticed was how many children were there. It appeared that the Red Wings had organized a charity night, opening their gates to all the orphanages of Rochester. Battered gypsy children ran around, off their leashes, begging for autographs from people who weren’t even on the goddamn team. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt but these uneducated castaways were too stupid to differentiate between a ball player and a celebrity brought in to throw the first pitch, so I signed a couple autographs so that when these kids turn 16, they’ll sell the souvenirs to pay for a decent batch of acid that will transport them to wherever their father is living. At least in their minds.

I did a little soft-toss on the field to get the arm loose. I hadn’t thrown a baseball since little league, and I didn’t want to bounce it and get laughed out of town. My toss was interrupted when yet another group of children was brought out to sing the national anthem. They were all completely tone deaf and I considered taking a knee to protest their horrific voices, but my pants were too tight. Minutes later, the field was clear and a stadium worker was waving me onto the diamond. And that’s when I saw the other kids.

As it turned out, I was not the only one throwing a first pitch that day. The Red Wings had chosen three other children to throw the “first pitch” as well. They lined us up like cattle heading to slaughter, and I was told to go third, after two 10-year-olds. Towering over the children to my left and right, I looked like a reformed child sex offender, participating in a rehabilitation program where they teach us how to properly interact with kids again. Honestly, I looked like a pervert. I was given the third “first pitch,” and the parents/orphanage workers hastily pulled their children back to safety as soon as the pictures were taken.

There was another kid who threw but he ran off before the picture because I called him a pussy for not throwing from the rubber. They all wanted me to be the comforting uncle on their big day, but I’m not going to fall into the trap of touching kids when that’s exactly what everyone is expecting you to do. Anotherother thing: NONE of the kids threw from the rubber. Had I known it was “pity the wimp” night at Frontier Field, I would have left my cannon arm at home. Oh, and if you’re wondering who that last guy is, he used to play for the fucking Yankees. Yes, the New York Yankees. I can’t remember what his name is, but due to his completely bald head, you can tell he’s a product of the steroid era before the drugs got good; that experimental phase before McGuire and Sosa that turned guys’ testicles to powdered cream. The point is, the Yankee threw last and received a standing ovation from the crowd, rendering my performance irrelevant. Not a single fan came to my show the next night because they were too busy donating money to the kids and reading that Yankee dude’s Wikipedia page (for the record, he didn’t throw from the rubber either, which is really pathetic).

As for my pitch? You make the call:

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Tough to get a true leg kick in there while wearing size 6 skinny jeans. You might even say I deserved to get roped… out to center, had there been a batter. Instead, I had a preposterous bird mascot wearing a glove that could cradle all the balls of all the lost children of Rochester at the same time. It’s tough to zero in on a strike zone when the target is so forgiving. Some said I came in a little high and a little soft, like sex after a deadmau5 concert. Personally, I think I painted the black and any umpire would have called it my way given that the bird framed the pitch like a fried pigeon perched on a busted power line. But to truly know whether it was a ball or a strike, you’d have to be there. And if you were there, as an adult, you were probably there to watch the kids through binoculars with a bouncing blanket over your lap. Shame on you.