For Roy

The following night never actually happened, but also happened many times.

At 3:30 PM, I finished high school for the day. I left my classroom and walked down to my locker to change for track practice. I went to an all-boys school, so we all just changed in the hallways instead of the changeroom. I was much smaller and skinnier than the other boys my age and felt awkward about how different my body looked. I knew there was a 50% chance that someone would make fun of the way I looked. On this day, luckily, nobody did.

After track practice, I returned to my locker and changed back into my uniform to go home. The subway ride from my high school to my parents’ house in Scarborough was a little more than an hour. The ride was always taken by myself because nobody else at my high school lived in Scarborough. I listened to whatever CD I had chosen for the day in my Walkman two or three times, depending on the length of the trip. On this day, the CD was Three Cheers for Disappointment by the Arrogant Sons of Bitches. I was lonely and pensive on the subway.

I got home just as my mom and sister were preparing to leave the house. I was tired and felt a little defeated, which was common at the end of every day in high school. My sister was a high-level competitive diver and to maintain her fitness and skill, went to practice on the other side of the city every weeknight. Being an athlete of that caliber requires significant contributions from those around you in addition to your own efforts, so my mom was the one to drive my sister to practice each day. As a result, my dad and I were left together at the house for almost every weeknight during my time in high school.

On this night, my dad and I were going to see the Blue Jays play a night game against the New York Yankees. My family had split Season Tickets for the Blue Jays for close to two decades at this point. While in the past the games had been divvied up somewhat evenly between the members of the family (In our youth, my sister and I each got to stay up and go to one night game per season. It was our most coveted and exotic night of the summer.), my dad and I were now left with the lion’s share of the tickets. The Blue Jays were awful at this point, so going to games was not a high-demand night out. What had once seemed like a rare treat was now an almost bi-weekly affair for my dad and me.

Though I wouldn’t say that I was bored of going to see baseball, by this point it had become a sort of routine for me. The current team did not seem as exciting as the one I had grown up watching. I used to get a thrill out of Shawn Green walking up to the plate just because it was happening and I was there. Now I kept wondering why the team was always so close to mattering, but still far enough away to remove any doubt of that happening. This was a new experience in sports. It wasn’t the bewilderment and exhilaration that overtook me when I was child. It was anxiety and anger and annoyance, with brief flashes of pure love, that was in many ways a lot like my adolescent life.

After a hastily eaten meal, the two of us drove downtown via Kingston Road and the Gardiner. We pulled into an alley near Front and Simcoe and were greeted by the same parking attendant we had seen each time here for more than a decade. He’s an thin elderly man in a worn out 2000’s-era Blue Jays cap. My dad hands him a 10-dollar bill. He knows us and tells us to enjoy the night.

On this night, Roy Halladay was pitching for the Blue Jays and that was exciting. Even though he had already won the American League’s Cy Young award and been an all-star multiple times, he felt like he was Toronto’s secret baseball treat. He was so good and somehow didn’t receive much attention in the American sports media. He quietly went about his dominance and Canadians liked that. My dad and I both mentioned multiple times how special we think Roy Halladay is.

In the 1st inning, Roy retired the side, striking out two. He only threw nine pitches. My dad ordered a draught of Alexander Keith’s India Pale Ale, as he always did. I did not get to drink beer because I was still underage. In the bottom half of the inning, the Blue Jays loaded the bases with two out. There was a couple behind us talking loudly and one of them asked if it would be “6 points” if the Blue Jays were to hit a home run. My dad and I chuckled to each other.

The SkyDome was mostly empty that night and my dad and I estimated how many people are in attendance. Maybe 5 or 6000? I told my dad about an article I read in Sports Illustrated that week. He told me a story about going to see the Yankees in New York in the 70’s. I was captivated.

In the 4th inning, Doc Halladay faced his toughest challenge of the night. Having thrown only 45 pitches, he gave up an opposite field single to Derek Jeter. The next batter, an overpaid free agent power hitter, who I resented for being rich and playing for the Yankees, hit the only mistake pitch that Roy threw all night into the right field 100-level seats. The Yankees now led the game 2-0. While the player rounded the bases, my gaze was fixed on Roy Halladay, who gestured to the catcher for a new ball and re-took his place on the mound. Stone-faced, he got the next batter to roll over on a cutter to end the inning. After the first basemen received the throw, my dad did a small fist pump in combination with a nod that he did any time a player does something “right”. Roy Halladay seemed to do things “right” almost always.

On that night, the roof of the SkyDome was open, so a cold breeze was coming in off Lake Ontario. Once the sun went down, I started to shiver because I had only worn a t-shirt. My dad gave me his sweater to wear, which I felt awkward putting on because it was much too big for me. Now being warm again, I was free to once again focus on Roy Halladay, who after one hiccup, had continued his dominance for the rest of the game. While the Blue Jays leave much to be desired while they hit, Roy Halladay demands my attention while he is on the mound. He occupied all my focus while he is pitching, and I didn’t pay much attention to how sad I felt earlier in the day.

In the top of the 9th inning, Roy came out once more, having thrown 96 pitches for the night. The Yankees hitters are still helplessly swinging at his masterfully placed corner sinkers and they are retired in order. Even though the Yankees were winning this game, I still felt like it was all about Roy Halladay. He had thrown yet another complete game, which was becoming more and more rare as a feat, but seemed like an everyday accomplishment for him. My dad and I both make comments about how “nobody does that anymore” and note that Halladay’s ability to completely take over baseball games is yet another symbol of him being a special player and the best pitcher in the game.

In the bottom of the inning, the Blue Jays put two runners on, but ultimately come up with nothing. They lose the game, despite Roy Halladay pitching all nine innings. We are used to defeat, so we weren’t so upset about the outcome. We walked out onto the bridge and down Front Street to where we parked the truck.

On the drive home, we listened to JaysTalk on the Fan590 radio station. Many callers phoned in to give their advice about how to improve the team, like trading for Adam Dunn. Nobody mentioned Roy Halladay, because everyone was used to him being the very best.

When we got home, I went to bed. I had to wake up at 6:30 AM the next day to get ready for another day of school, but instead of thinking about that, or how I was lonely, or how I felt isolated from my actual friends at school, or how mad I was at myself for being stupid and awkward, I just thought about Roy Halladay.

Thanks for everything Doc, you were one in a million,

Timmy

Author’s note: This was written while wearing a faded, black Roy Halladay t-shirt.