I was working overnights at this time last year, when Stephen Strasburg completed his ascent from laughably dominant college pitcher to perfunctory Minor Leaguer to magnetic force around whom baseball revolved on a bathwater-warm night in Washington. In retrospect, maybe that — my foray into nocturnal living — is what made Strasburg’s debut (and his too-brief stint in the bigs) feel like a dream.
On June 10, 2010, I hopped on the 12:53 a.m. train westbound to New York as I did on many other nights. I was camped out with my bag, coffee, peanut butter and jelly, soy yogurt, banana, Pepsi Throwback, iPhone (listening to The Roots’ How I Got Over) and computer for the hour-plus ride. The car in which I rode was empty save for a deadbeat who couldn’t pay his fare, and it was littered with reminders of its barrenness. A few half-empty beer cans were tipped on their sides, rolling to the front and back of the car each time the train started and stopped. A breakman had emptied his hole-punch so that ticket parings were strewn like confetti on the seat across the aisle from mine. And, of course, yesterday’s Newsday was gutted like fresh catch on a deck, its sections ruffled and discarded like unwanted entrails.
Despite the lifelessness of the setting, I was electrified and jittery. Maybe it was the coffee, but I like to think it was Strasburg. He had arrived and surpassed the immense expectations, striking out 14 batters. And I had a chance to write something about him, however insignificant. I knew then that no one would read it, and I’m sure no one did, but I didn’t care and still don’t. I had a chance to archive my marginalized existence in relation to this unlikely spectacle — a midseason game between the Pirates and Nationals — in a very small way.
Of course, Strasburg remained a story throughout the summer, but I slept through a lot of it, literally. I checked box scores, sure, but as I said, I was nocturnal then. I was only waking up when games began on the East Coast, so I was showering and eating and spending time with my obscenely patient girlfriend during those hours. There was always this disconnect, this feeling that I had just barely missed all the excitement.
And then, Strasburg had elbow pain, and anyone remotely interested in baseball experienced that crippling momentary dysphoria. The worst was confirmed, and Strasburg underwent Tommy John surgery, and his narrative shifted. For a short while he was the talking point for a tired debate, and then he receded into nothingness, into invisibility. That kid — that awkward kid — was gone. The tree-trunk legs and blood-red socks and steel-blue eyes all gone for at least a year and probably more, and no one could be sure what he’d be once he returned.
Now, Strasburg is just a grainy ghost in the baseball consciousness. And I want him to come back and be as good as he was on June 9, 2010, if only to confirm that I hadn’t dreamed all of it.
