The game had progressed into the latter innings; sweat beads ran down my cheeks; and the sound of a seamed sphere against my leather glove repeatedly resonated across the field. Catching was my position, possibly because no one else liked it, but regardless I played it as well as I could. On that day, however, playing at all would become incredibly challenging. Green, grouped, trimmed and proper, the only time tragedy becomes cohesive. Like any baseball field, ours was one that included the all too familiar grass outfield, along with a two-thirds majority grass infield. The diamond life is never a lonely one, but the companionship formed when you win will never be as great as that formed through loss. Standing under the good ole’ red, white and blue, while a local vocalist rips the national anthem, will forever be a cherished memory, but what happened on this day will forever be cherished comradery.
First you hear the whispers, then a teammate unexpectedly leaves with his father, unaware of his little brother’s fate. The tension was growing, and baseball is becoming an afterthought as we play more off instinct than concentration. As human beings, we realize that the expression “oh no” can never result in a positive outcome. Considering this realization, I want you to imagine those words said with the power of a jack hammer, and the pitch of nails on a chalkboard. That was exactly what I heard standing at the edge of the dust filled dug out; I would come to discover its origin, a woman we all considered our second mom, Pam. Standing in the dugout, I was momentarily paralyzed, becoming an extension of the concrete, where I stood. Then, nearly as fast as I had been frozen, I was released. Click, Clack, Click, Clack, the all too familiar sound of cleats on any hard surface gave me the kind of chills that knock a person to their knees. It was all I heard during the concrete walk over to discover, what I already subconsciously knew.
Hunter Thomas McDaniel was only fifteen years old when he died on that blistering hot July day. Hunter left this world doing one of the things he loved the most, riding his dirt bike. His mother never saw him coming as she was heading down the driveway. He shot out of the tree line and the collision was enough to cause the internal bleeding that would take his life. Gone before he could make an impact in our world… or so we thought.
After a brief consoling session, continuing to play seemed to be the only logical next step; voting was unnecessary. Our coach barely got the question out before my teammates and I began reassuring him that finishing this game meant the World to us; Hunter would want it that way. I quickly found out how much harder catching could be when your eyes are nearly blinded by tears and every part of your body is shaking like a box fan with a bent blade. With every pitch, the vice on my heart seemed to tighten, and I became extremely grateful for the mask I so often hated wearing. Two innings later the game came to an end.
Shaking hands after a baseball game has been an unwritten rule for as long as I can remember. However, on that day, we would not shake the hands of our “opponents”, but the hands of fellow baseball players, no longer playing for competition, but for the love of the game. I know this to be true because the looks on many of the visiting players’ faces were very similar to those of my own teammates—swollen, fighting back tears, and sporting reassuring smiles.
Over the next few days, I came to realize that Hunter had one talent that outshined all the rest; he had the remarkable ability to bring people together. As odd as it sounds, the day of his funeral became the greatest example of his most prominent character trait. For the rest of my life, that entire day will be a blur to me, but I will never forget the awe I felt when a large portion of six to seven separate towns, covering three to four separate counties, walked through my high school gym that day. There is something inspirational in bearing witness to a congregation of nearly 3,000 people celebrating a young boy’s life (all attending his showing).
The next day at the funeral nearly a thousand of us stood in the bleachers and sang “See You Again” in unison. That kind of respect and adoration sends chills down your spine that words can never fully express. Following the funeral, the procession of cars stretched the entire three miles of road that connected Tecumseh High School to Lynnville Cemetery. Cars parked in every possible space, on nearly every road in town. This kind of support continued for weeks, long after Hunter had been laid to rest. To this day hundreds gather at charity events and gatherings in Hunter’s honor.
For in the ashes new seeds are sewn.
From the ashes new life will grow.
Leave the past in ashes,
Let the old things give way.
Start a fresh new life right here today.
In the ashes,
From the ashes,
Out of ashes
(“Out of Ashes” Michael Mangan).
On that fateful July day, a brother, a son, and a life would be lost. As a direct result, scholarships were given, brotherhoods were established, unbreakable friendships were made, and a community became a family. Hunter’s older brother, Tristen, the teammate who left the game early with his father, would soon become my best friend. I have missed him every single day since I left for college, and I will continue to miss him until I see him again. You could understand this story as the heartbreaking tragedy it is, or you could see it for the lessons it contains.
Each of us will choose to interpret the true meaning of grass differently, but for me, it will always sound a little something like this: Cherish your friendships, nurture your relationships, and live a life that involves improving the days of those around you, because you never know when they’ll be going, going, gone.