(Author's note: I have told this story many times and I may have even written it down once before, but I think it still has some legs. Since I'm writing it quick I didn't flesh it out all the way with lots of dialogue. I hope that's OK)
Hot, dry, the afternoon sun was beating a hasty retreat behind the hills as I pulled Arnold, my 1973 Buick Centurion, into the parking lot at Anaheim Stadium.
The boys in the back were getting rowdy. Jim, Joe, John and me were all itching for a good game. We could all feel the excitment of the game calling us. It was June 7, 1985 and we were all 18 and just graduated from high school. With all the hormones racing through our veins it was truly a miracle that we could sit through a nine inning baseball game.
These were the days when the Angels weren't always winners, so you could just walk up and buy a good ticket. That dusk we were all flush with cash from graduation and part time jobs. Feeling like the kings of cash, we decided we would buy field level tickets. They were probably $12, but they were expensive to us.
We fairly sprinted through the turnstiles and over to the consession stand. Each of us quickly bought our two hotdogs, package of salty nuts and a large coke. John paused at the condiment stand just long enough to completely drown his dogs and tray and the KC helmet I loaned him in mustard.
Let's just leave it at the man loves his mustard and move on, shall we?
We were in time for batting practice. This was also a time when fans could watch both teams take batting practice. They don't usually have the ballpark open that early anymore. Geeze I'm old.
After watching John's former fav Reggie Jackson pop a couple out of the park and Dick Schoefield show us why he was a career .230 hitter, the Royals took a turn with the old bats.
That's when John comes to life and informs us all that the chubby, older guy blistering the baseball around the field is none other than Steve Balboni, the Babe Ruth of the minor leagues. John's massive cranium fairly thrummed into action producing a wealth of Balboni awesomeness. He had hit over 200 homeruns in the minor leagues and had over 700 RBIs and was once a Yankees prospect. Hence the reason John cared. Did I forget to mention John was a rabid Yankees fan? Well, I didn't want you to think ill of him.
Of course, the question quickly popped to a couple lips, "If he's so awesome why has he stayed in the minor leagues that long?"
John's smile darkened and he solemnly said, "Cause he strikes out like crazy and every time someone gives him a chance in the bigs he can't hit water in a pool."
We all looked at the forelorn little guy chubbily plunking away at pitch after pitch and pity grew. We were young, but we understood that sometimes things don't work out no matter how hard you try. And before us was the never give up attitude. He was the guy who kept playing because he loved it and because he sill had hope. Hope is all you have sometimes.
That was when we decided he deserved fans. No, scratch that, not just fans, he deserved super fans. The kind who believed as hard as Balboni did that he was right for baseball. The kind who would show that man past his spring that he mattered.
We were normally loud mouths anyway at a game. My full-throated plea to Michael Jackson to "Beat that thing, Michael. OH YEAH. You better make it hurt" everytime they played "Beat it" (which was often in Anaheim in the 80s) must be a legend in the Asshole Hall of Fame.
As Balboni finished his workout we began our warm-up. The chants began with a simple B-A-L-B-ONI BALBONI BALBONI BALBONI. Loudly, continuously we chanted, sweat beading up, throats warming to the challenge.
Wait. Did he hear us? I think he did. He's looking this way from the dugout. We notice that he notices and we redouble our efforts. Our throats are ready to give him praise.
"Come on now boys, what's the best reason to go to a game?" John shouts. "To watch Balboni hit a homer that's why" we reply. "BALBOOOONNNNNIIIII BALBOOOONNNNNIII"
The first inning is over and the second starts. Balboni is at the bat. He's still kind of looking over our way from time to time with what I can only assume is a puzzled expression. Maybe he's never had SUPER FAN treatment before. Well he's getting it tonight.
Balboni squares up and Mike Witt decides that this washed up bum can't handle his heater. The pitch is away. But Witt didn't factor in the power of the SUPER FANS. Balboni smashes that ball over the left field fence. Elvis has left the building. A home run in his first at bat.
We scream BALBONI BALBONI BALBONI which just devolves into us screaming our heads off. Not always a thing you want to do in a stadium where your man is on the visiting team. But lucky for us, California is live and let live about other fans showing up to games.
Was that it? Was that all we could expect from Steve Balboni? The SUPER FANS didn't think so and we let him know. We kept up our chants and encouragements, our throats begining to protest as the game wore on.
Balboni came up to bat for the second time and we increased our volume to give the baseball some extra lift when he hit it. Witt, once again miscalculated with a fastball, and Balboni and the SUPER FANS made him pay. A quick, powerful stroke and the baseball beat a hasty retreat over the left-field fence. Another homer. And we went wild.
Honestly, by this point, we were believers. We believed that BALBONI was special. This wasn't just some whim anymore. We were truly, even if it was for just that night, his SUPER FANS.
The Steve Balboni show wasn't over that night. With one man on late in the game, the new Sultan of Swat came up for the final time and promptly hit a single to drive in the run. At this point we were croaking our approval because our voices were almost completely gone. But we were satisfied with our man. He had proven that he could play with the big boys.
You are probably asking yourself at this point, how did you guys help the Royals win the World Series?
Well, turns out that wasn't the only big night for Steve Balboni that year, it was just the start of many. He had the best year of his career and he was a key component of their World Series championship team, playing well in the field and hitting .316. And it all broke loose that night. Well, at least, that's what I like to say.
Truth is, he might have gone on to have exactly the same night and season if we hadn't been there. What I actually like to think is that maybe all he really needed was to feel like he belonged in the majors and maybe we helped him realize that. A little praise goes a long way and SUPER FAN praise goes a little longer. Maybe all we really did was distract him enough so that he didn't over-think things and that helped him perform on the field.
As I get older, I realize more and more that showing someone that you believe in them has a lot of power. Telling someone they are doing a good job, or that they are worthwhile can really make a difference. That's the real point of the Steve Balboni story.
Some links to prove my point:
http://www.baseball-almanac.com/box-scores/boxscore.php?boxid=198506070CAL
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1985_World_Series
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steve_Balboni
Hot, dry, the afternoon sun was beating a hasty retreat behind the hills as I pulled Arnold, my 1973 Buick Centurion, into the parking lot at Anaheim Stadium.
The boys in the back were getting rowdy. Jim, Joe, John and me were all itching for a good game. We could all feel the excitment of the game calling us. It was June 7, 1985 and we were all 18 and just graduated from high school. With all the hormones racing through our veins it was truly a miracle that we could sit through a nine inning baseball game.
These were the days when the Angels weren't always winners, so you could just walk up and buy a good ticket. That dusk we were all flush with cash from graduation and part time jobs. Feeling like the kings of cash, we decided we would buy field level tickets. They were probably $12, but they were expensive to us.
We fairly sprinted through the turnstiles and over to the consession stand. Each of us quickly bought our two hotdogs, package of salty nuts and a large coke. John paused at the condiment stand just long enough to completely drown his dogs and tray and the KC helmet I loaned him in mustard.
Let's just leave it at the man loves his mustard and move on, shall we?
We were in time for batting practice. This was also a time when fans could watch both teams take batting practice. They don't usually have the ballpark open that early anymore. Geeze I'm old.
After watching John's former fav Reggie Jackson pop a couple out of the park and Dick Schoefield show us why he was a career .230 hitter, the Royals took a turn with the old bats.
That's when John comes to life and informs us all that the chubby, older guy blistering the baseball around the field is none other than Steve Balboni, the Babe Ruth of the minor leagues. John's massive cranium fairly thrummed into action producing a wealth of Balboni awesomeness. He had hit over 200 homeruns in the minor leagues and had over 700 RBIs and was once a Yankees prospect. Hence the reason John cared. Did I forget to mention John was a rabid Yankees fan? Well, I didn't want you to think ill of him.
Of course, the question quickly popped to a couple lips, "If he's so awesome why has he stayed in the minor leagues that long?"
John's smile darkened and he solemnly said, "Cause he strikes out like crazy and every time someone gives him a chance in the bigs he can't hit water in a pool."
We all looked at the forelorn little guy chubbily plunking away at pitch after pitch and pity grew. We were young, but we understood that sometimes things don't work out no matter how hard you try. And before us was the never give up attitude. He was the guy who kept playing because he loved it and because he sill had hope. Hope is all you have sometimes.
That was when we decided he deserved fans. No, scratch that, not just fans, he deserved super fans. The kind who believed as hard as Balboni did that he was right for baseball. The kind who would show that man past his spring that he mattered.
We were normally loud mouths anyway at a game. My full-throated plea to Michael Jackson to "Beat that thing, Michael. OH YEAH. You better make it hurt" everytime they played "Beat it" (which was often in Anaheim in the 80s) must be a legend in the Asshole Hall of Fame.
As Balboni finished his workout we began our warm-up. The chants began with a simple B-A-L-B-ONI BALBONI BALBONI BALBONI. Loudly, continuously we chanted, sweat beading up, throats warming to the challenge.
Wait. Did he hear us? I think he did. He's looking this way from the dugout. We notice that he notices and we redouble our efforts. Our throats are ready to give him praise.
"Come on now boys, what's the best reason to go to a game?" John shouts. "To watch Balboni hit a homer that's why" we reply. "BALBOOOONNNNNIIIII BALBOOOONNNNNIII"
The first inning is over and the second starts. Balboni is at the bat. He's still kind of looking over our way from time to time with what I can only assume is a puzzled expression. Maybe he's never had SUPER FAN treatment before. Well he's getting it tonight.
Balboni squares up and Mike Witt decides that this washed up bum can't handle his heater. The pitch is away. But Witt didn't factor in the power of the SUPER FANS. Balboni smashes that ball over the left field fence. Elvis has left the building. A home run in his first at bat.
We scream BALBONI BALBONI BALBONI which just devolves into us screaming our heads off. Not always a thing you want to do in a stadium where your man is on the visiting team. But lucky for us, California is live and let live about other fans showing up to games.
Was that it? Was that all we could expect from Steve Balboni? The SUPER FANS didn't think so and we let him know. We kept up our chants and encouragements, our throats begining to protest as the game wore on.
Balboni came up to bat for the second time and we increased our volume to give the baseball some extra lift when he hit it. Witt, once again miscalculated with a fastball, and Balboni and the SUPER FANS made him pay. A quick, powerful stroke and the baseball beat a hasty retreat over the left-field fence. Another homer. And we went wild.
Honestly, by this point, we were believers. We believed that BALBONI was special. This wasn't just some whim anymore. We were truly, even if it was for just that night, his SUPER FANS.
The Steve Balboni show wasn't over that night. With one man on late in the game, the new Sultan of Swat came up for the final time and promptly hit a single to drive in the run. At this point we were croaking our approval because our voices were almost completely gone. But we were satisfied with our man. He had proven that he could play with the big boys.
You are probably asking yourself at this point, how did you guys help the Royals win the World Series?
Well, turns out that wasn't the only big night for Steve Balboni that year, it was just the start of many. He had the best year of his career and he was a key component of their World Series championship team, playing well in the field and hitting .316. And it all broke loose that night. Well, at least, that's what I like to say.
Truth is, he might have gone on to have exactly the same night and season if we hadn't been there. What I actually like to think is that maybe all he really needed was to feel like he belonged in the majors and maybe we helped him realize that. A little praise goes a long way and SUPER FAN praise goes a little longer. Maybe all we really did was distract him enough so that he didn't over-think things and that helped him perform on the field.
As I get older, I realize more and more that showing someone that you believe in them has a lot of power. Telling someone they are doing a good job, or that they are worthwhile can really make a difference. That's the real point of the Steve Balboni story.
Some links to prove my point:
http://www.baseball-almanac.com/box-scores/boxscore.php?boxid=198506070CAL
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1985_World_Series
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steve_Balboni
