Embed Doc
Copy Link
Readcast
Collections

CommentGo Back

The call came in the bottom of the fourth inning at Fenway Park on Sunday,May 18

, 2008. Bill Castro, our bullpen coach, reached for the phone like hewas clairvoyant. He was expecting the call as much as I was. I and the restof the Milwaukee bullpen had just watched our starter, Carlos Villanueva,surrender 6 earned runs in 4 innings to the Boston Red Sox, including back toback long balls to Dustin Pedroiaand David Ortiz. We were down 6 to 4. If there was ever a scenario for calling in a long reliever, this was it. But Iwasn’t always a long reliever. Then again I wasn’t always a major leaguebaseball player. Just three short days prior I was a starter for the Nashville Sounds, a triple Ateam in a town home to the Grand Ole Opry and streets filled with musicianswho came to Nashville with heads filled with hopes of getting onto its stage.I could relate. For me it’d be like having a beautiful major league ballpark inthe same town where I played minor league ball: something colossal staringme in the face every day that reminded me how close I had come. Close, butnot close enough. It was so close that each passing year made it seem moreand more unreachable, like cutting the distance between yourself and yourdestination in half with each step: yeahyou keep getting closer, but you’llnever get there. The most difficult part was that it was close enough to give me hope. But I’dbecome wary of hope, something ten years in the minors and a year inindependent ball had taught me to be. I found out that fantasy can look a lotlike hope, and that the best thing I could do was figure out how to tell themapart. It was only then, sitting in the visitors’ bullpen at Fenway that I knewwith complete certainty I hadn’t been chasing a fantasy. I had finally made itto my major league debut. I was 31 years-old.Castro listened on the phone for what seemed like forever and then turnedand pointed to our bench. He pointed at me.“DiFeli-ché, get warm.” The way he said my last name with the correctItalian pronunciation—the one my ancestors had left on the ship that broughtthem from Italy in 1906—would have made me smile if I could’ve focused onanything but the pounding of my heart. I never got rattled, ever, but the airall around me seemed heavy. Maybe it was the roar of the nearly 40,000Boston fans, or my parents who sat quietly behind home plate in their newlypurchased Brewers gear; maybe it was the knowledge that the game wastelevised nationally and that my little girl could be out there watching, even

though I knew her mother would never let her. Maybe it was all those yearsof “almost”. They have to catch up with you sometime.DISCUSS WARMING UP AND WALKING TO THE MOUNDI was supposed to face the lineup of the New Orleans Zephyrs this weekend,but instead I stood staring down sixty feet at the lineup that won the 2007World Series. It was only sixty feet, the same distance I’d thrown countlesstimes. How many innings had I looked down that length at a batter as Idissected his stance, his position from the plate, the way he held the bat,every little tick, flex, and other involuntary movement that could give me anedge, give me something that could help me but the ball past him if that’swhat the situation called for.But it wasn’t just sixty feet. It was eleven years. That was the real distancebetween meand home plate. Eleven years of scraping by on the kind of money I could’ve made mowing lawns; eleven years punctuated withshoulder surgeries and knee surgeries and surgeries that were named afterpeople; eleven years of failed relationships, life changing surprises, and allthat time on the road alone.My parents sat in the stands somewhere. They had sacrificed much for meover the years and supported me every way possible. They put many avacation on indefinite hold so they could drive me to games andtournaments and sit in the stands like they were today. I also had sacrificedmuch. I thought of my four year-old daughter, Mia Rose DiFelice. My rose of happiness. At some point in my journey, the happiness up and flew awaywhile I was in Mexico or Venezuela or Huntsville Alabama, or PortlandOregon, or xxxxx, xxxxx, xxxxx. Her mother and I were estranged, whichmeant I was estranged from my daughter as well. That was my sacrifice tomy baseball dream, and it had been the biggest. But that’s how sacrificesshould be. It wouldn’t be right if anyone sacrificed more than I had.I was alone again, standing on the moundDESCRIBE THE CONVERSATION WITH KENDALPedroia dug into the batter’s box as effortlessly as someone walking to a dayat the office. He dropped the bat on the outside corner of the plate, gave ashort check swing toward me, and then settled into his stance. He was

practically motionless. There was no extraneous movement, no wastedenergy. He looked perfectly balanced with a stance that told me he wasplanning to stay awhile. He wasn’t close to the plate, but he wasn’t far awayeither. According to Castro’s sheet, he was an aggressive hitter who liked toswing at the first pitch. He had a simple stance and a long swing with goodplate coverage. He had power, but not as much as the next two guys whofollowed.Kendall gave me the signal: cutter on the outside corner. Eighty percent of my pitches were cut fastballs, so that came as no surprise to me. It wouldn’tcome as a surprise to any announcer, knowledgeable fan, and certainly notto the batter in front of me. The pitch presented like a fastball down the center of the plate then tailedaway, cutting sharply to the outside. The bat chased and hit it with theweakest part, breaking it in half. Broken bat foul ball, strike one. My firstmajor league pitch and first major league strike. It wasn’t how I expected itto happen, but that was fitting. Little in my career had gone as expected.