My first pitch in the big Leagues

The day was finally here. It was Tuesday, June 27, 2006. I was going to make my pitching debut for the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field!
 
Months of dreaming and practicing had led to this glorious moment.  For a lifelong Cubs fan like me, stepping onto the hallowed dirt of Wrigley Field wasn’t just another bullpen appearance; it was my pilgrimage to the epicenter of a century’s worth of hope and heartbreak. This is the "North Side Holy Grail," the ultimate high-priority item on a bucket list written in pinstripes and blue ink.

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Like a true professional, I practiced that first pitch feverishly. I did so by measuring off exactly 60 feet and 6 inches on my front sidewalk, throwing ball after ball until the neighbors started closing their blinds.
 
I decided to lean all the way into the absurdity. I showed up to Wrigley Field with a folded piece of paper stuck proudly out of my back pocket with “Free-Agent Contract” boldly typed across the top, because “Why not?” If they liked my pitch, maybe I’d negotiate a one-day deal.
 
The Cubs marketing representative saw my contract, smiled politely, and uttered some encouraging banter with me, as she handed me the ball. I took it in my hand and immediately entered a state of reverent spirituality. This was no ordinary sphere I had in my hand. It weighed a perfect 5 ounces of pure destiny—light enough to throw me into legendary status, yet heavy enough to embarrass me.  What would I do?  Throw a strike right down the middle? Throw it short?  Or throw it, “Juuuuusst a bit outside!”
 
Then I heard the deep resonate tones of the stadium announcer saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, please turn your attention to the pitcher’s mound, where tonight, Steve Shaner will throw out the first pitch for the Cubs.”
 
As I walked to the mound, the cacophony of the Wrigley Field crowd became increasingly muted, and yet every sound I heard seemed to be resonating a loud and boisterous round of, “Let’s Go Cubs! – Let’s Go Cubs! – Let’s Go Cubs!”
 
I looked at the ball again, trying to fill my mind with the routine of my recent nightly practice sessions. But, I couldn’t think of anything except that ––the ball and I were one!
 
Finally, I gripped the unblemished white cowhide that were meticulously stitched together with 108 bright red double-stitches. Those stitches created those famous raised seams that pitchers love, and I was about to betray in a spectacular way.
 
It felt alive in my hand—like a tightly wound dream wrapped in leather, silently pointing me to my destiny.
 
The roar of the crowd was slowly muting into a surreal background hum. I kicked the rubber like I owned the place, like I belonged there. Then I stopped, looked around in a full dramatic panoramic turn, soaking in the ivy-covered walls, the bleachers, the smell of hot dogs, and the broken dreams of many generations of Cub fans. Was I really standing on the pitcher’s mound at Wrigley Field?  Why yes. Yes, I was!
 
I realized that behind me was the iconic hand-turned scoreboard, an aging witness to the ghosts of Santo, to Kessinger, Beckert, to Banks. I could almost hear the voice of Pat Hughes say, “Aaand… Here comes the first pitch!”
 
Sean Marshall, the tall Cubs roster selected batterymate, had jogged out of the home team dugout to catch my perfectly pitched gem. He squatted down. I kept turning and admiring the view. He stood back up, pounded his glove with clear “let’s go, weirdo” energy.
 
I leaned in, one hand on my knee, looked in for signs that didn’t exist, and shook him off anyway. Marshall rolled his eyes so hard I’m surprised they didn’t fall right out of his head. I thought, “Sorry Sean, you do this every day. This is my major league debut, my one pitch to close out game seven of the world series, chalk up a save and claim a victory for the win deprived Cubs for oh-so-many years!”
 
I came set, checked the imaginary runner on first, then wound up with a theatrical flair, and unleashed the 5-ounce, 9 inch-circumference, perfectly stitched professional Major League Baseball toward my destiny.
 
As the ball left my hand it sailed toward the Home Plate. I wasn’t just throwing a pitch—I was cementing my soul into the bricks and mortar of 1060 West Addison.  And yes, it sailed magnificently… way over Marshall’s 6’7” frame, bounced on the grass, and smacked the brick backstop with a sad little thud.
 
For a moment there seemed to be dead silence – I thought I was going to wake up from my dream… But then…
 
The crowd erupted in exactly the mix of cheers and laughter I deserved.  As I walked off the mound I tipped my cap, grinning like a middle-aged man fulfilling his life-long dream to pitch for the Cubs. It didn’t matter whether they were cheering for me or laughing at me. For one glorious, ridiculous moment I had thrown out the ceremonial first pitch at a Cubs game in Wrigley Field.
 
And somewhere, that poor baseball is telling its grandchildren about the day a sidewalk-practicing madman from Woodridge, Illinois launched it into immortality.
 
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The next week I received this photo in the mail… It was the Cubs promotions department thanking me for my “pitch!”  

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The facts of this story came from my recollection, imagination, Wikipedia, and ChatGPT.