Honestly, watching the news about those baseball deaths last year? It hit close to home. Felt like a gut punch. Everyone kept saying “stay safe,” but what did that even mean? Just yelling “watch out” felt like a total waste of breath. So, I decided I had to actually figure this safety stuff out myself, for real. Had to see what actually worked.
Starting Simple: Just Paying Attention
My first step was stupidly obvious. I literally just tried paying attention. Like, really paying attention, especially when I was near the field during practice or games. Not looking at my phone, not zoning out chatting, but actually watching where the balls went and where people were standing.
- Yeah, I missed a bunch of texts. Big deal.
- Yeah, my friends called me paranoid a few times. Whatever.
I noticed things quick. How a player warming up just absent-mindedly swung his bat wide, almost clipping the coach walking behind him. How spectators near the dugout ducked way too slow when a foul ball came screaming their way. Just watching – that simple act – suddenly showed how many tiny accidents were waiting to happen every single minute.
No Half-Assing Gear Anymore
Next, I got religious about gear. Before? Might have skipped wearing my chest protector for casual catch, or grabbed a helmet with a cracked ear flap thinking “Eh, it’s fine.” Not anymore. I dug out all my stuff and went through it piece by piece.
- Found a helmet that took a hit last season. Looked okay from the front, but the back padding was basically dust inside. Trashed it.
- Old glove? Leather was dried out and stiff. Couldn’t close properly. Got it reconditioned.
- Bought a new, certified chest protector. Was it bulky? Yeah. Did I feel like a turtle? Sometimes. Did I care? Nope.
Wore everything, every single time, even for a quick pitch-and-catch in the park. People laughed at first. Until that one practice when a line drive hit me square in the chest protector. Stung like hell, left a bruise for weeks. Without it? Could’ve been ribs or worse. Silence after that. No more laughs.
Getting Loud About Danger Zones
Okay, here’s where things got awkward. Seeing how clueless folks (myself included before) were about standing in the wrong spot, I started pointing it out. Loudly. Politely at first. “Hey guys, maybe step back a bit behind the screen? Just until batting practice is done?” Got ignored sometimes. Felt stupid.
Then I got blunt. Real blunt. Saw a group of kids clustered way too close to the outfield fence while guys were launching homers.
- “Yo! Kids! Back up NOW! That fence won’t stop a cannon shot!”
- Or during BP: “If you ain’t got a bat in your hand, get behind the damn netting! Seriously!”
Annoyed a few people? Sure. But you know what? They moved. And you could see that moment when they realized, “Oh crap, that ball just hit where we were standing.”
The Ugly Part: Why This Even Matters to Me
Look, all this gear and yelling felt overkill. Until that one stupid, regular Tuesday league game. You know the usual scene: beer league, slow pitch, guys just having fun. Then a batter loses his grip. Bat flies – like, flies – straight down the third base line, spinning end-over-end.
It smashed into Joe, the third-base coach. Joe was just chatting, glove in hand, not even looking towards the plate. The sound… god, I can still hear it. Sickening thud. Knocked him clean out. Ambulance ride, hospital, the whole terrifying nightmare. Fractured skull, bleeding on the brain.
That bat flew from a swing where the guy didn’t even let go violently. Just… slipped. On a slow Tuesday game. Joe was standing in a spot I, and probably you, stood in a hundred times.
Management shrugged. “Freak accident,” they said. “He should’ve been paying attention.” His team? They just wanted the game to keep going after the ambulance left. Offered thoughts and prayers, sure, but that was it. Freak accident. Move on.
Seeing Joe later, struggling to talk, dealing with headaches months after… that killed the fun for me. Killed my trust in just “paying attention” when the guy swinging wasn’t meaning to hurt anyone. It wasn’t “freak.” It was predictable. I stopped playing in that league. Cold turkey.
So yeah, now I wear every piece of armor I can. I yell until my voice goes hoarse when I see people standing where Joe stood. I look like an over-cautious weirdo. Fine. Because watching a friend almost die from a simple mistake teaches you something brutal: “Stay safe” isn’t just a phrase. You gotta grab safety by the throat and force it, every single time.