Omaha, by Riley Breckenridge

I’m obsessed with the College World Series. I might even go so far as to say that it’s my favorite sporting event in existence. As a kid, I had drawer full of stacks of VHS tapes of College World Series games. Every summer, I’d camp out in front of the TV and watch as much of the week-long tournament as I could, but I’d make sure I taped each game so that I could go back and watch them over and over, to teach myself more about the nuances of the college game, admire the undeniable passion and dedication that players from schools all over the country brought to Omaha to compete for a national championship each year, and “dangle a carrot,” in a sense. I wanted nothing more than to be a part of what I watched on those tapes; to play college ball and have a chance to play in Omaha for a national championship. Almost twenty years later, a DVR loaded with games has replaced the old stacks of tapes, and my chance to play in Omaha has come and gone, but it hasn’t lessened the enjoyment I get from watching these college ballplayers live out their dreams on a grand stage every year.

After receiving a handful of recruiting letters as a high school junior, I tore three major ligaments in my knee while playing football the summer before my senior year. I missed all of my senior football season, all of my senior soccer season, and half of what was setting up to be a very important senior baseball season. The recruiting letters stopped coming, and I figured my chances of playing college ball and living out a dream were slim at best. (It should be noted that this was also the impetus for me taking up drumming, which ended up working out quite nicely, but that’s another story entirely.)

In that half of a senior season, I played fairly well, albeit out of position. I’d been a middle infielder for most of my life, but with a surgically repaired right knee, I didn’t have the range or speed I’d had, and was relegated to playing third base, first base or designated hitter. Things didn’t end up as I’d hoped. My recovery was slow, and my high school season ended without many options to further my baseball career. I probably could have landed at a Division III school or spent a couple of years playing at a junior college, but after spending years watching the CWS on TV and wanting nothing more than to be a part of a Division I program, it was a hard dream to let go of, even if my body seemed unwilling and my talent level was fairly undeserving. I probably should have thrown in the towel at that point, but I wasn’t ready to give up.

Just weeks before my injury, I’d watched an underdog Pepperdine Waves team run through perennial powerhouses Texas, Wichita State and Cal State-Fullerton to win the 1992 national championship. Beyond the local ties, something about that team spoke to me. Head coach Andy Lopez had put together a squad that wasn’t as rich in highly touted recruits and physically gifted athletes as its opponents, but it was a group of guys that played fundamentally sound baseball while buying into the team’s ethos of selflessness, accountability, dedication and preparedness. I watched those ’92 CWS game tapes while I was recovering from knee surgery and decided that Pepperdine was where I wanted to be.

Thinking that I had any business playing for a program that was two years removed from winning a national championship was probably delusional at best, but I managed to walk on and ended up redshirting as a freshman at Pepperdine in1994. Coach Lopez taught me more in that year about dedication, sacrifice, my own character (and how much running-as-punishment I could do before throwing up my lunch) and teamwork than I could ever have imagined. He taught me just how important the game of baseball has to be to you if you’re going to compete and succeed at the collegiate level. Day in and day out, I got to see that in my teammates (a handful of whom went on to play in the big leagues.) Much to my dismay, Lopez left Pepperdine to take a job at the University of Florida after my freshman year, and he was replaced by  a coach whom I perceived to be more concerned with honoring scholarships than rewarding hard work when it came to doling out playing time. I left Pepperdine after the 1995 season. Coach Lopez went on to take Florida and, later, a University of Arizona team, back to the CWS. After a year in junior college ball, and despite some offers to play at a Division I school again, I decided it was time to give up on my dream.

It was so hard to let go. And I think the reason that watching the CWS means more to me now than it ever did is because I know how hard it is I recognize that difficulty and the desperation that comes along with facing it in a lot of these players’ faces, how they carry themselves and how they play the game. Sure, there are plenty of guys on the field in Omaha who have been drafted and have already punched their ticket to the next level. But for me, it’s the ones who don’t have much of (or any) chance to play at the next level — the ones who realize that this could very well be the end of their baseball careers — that make the CWS so compelling.

Most of these guys aren’t playing for a contract or fame, and they’re not playing their hearts out because it’s a job or a business (because, as has been discussed on FlipCollective a few times, collegiate athletes are not paid.) They’re playing their asses off and doing it selflessly because they love the game, love their teammates, and know damn well that once their college careers come to a close, they’ll probably have to walk away from the game. The only reason I found a way to play baseball for as long as I did, was that I recognized that I was lucky as hell to be playing and knew it could all come to a crashing halt in a second. I also knew that that once it was done, I was done. There’s a level of desperation there that doesn’t seem to exist in the professional game.

I don’t even have to have a horse in the race to enjoy the CWS. Usually, I’ll latch on to a local team such as UC Irvine, Fullerton or UCLA in the regional playoffs and hope they make it to Omaha. Even if they don’t, by the time the 64 teams in the regionals have been pared down to the eight that make it to the CWS, there’s a team worth rooting for.

This year it’s Cal. Last fall, the university announced that it would be eliminating the baseball program after this season because of budget cuts. After an improbable journey through the regionals and Super Regionals to Omaha, and some serious fundraising ($10 million), the program was reinstated on June 17. Players that thought they were having their dream taken away from them are now playing on the college game’s greatest stage.

I have never had a chance to set foot onto Rosenblatt Stadium’s turf. (Although if I would have stuck it out and rode the pine at Long Beach State when I transferred there in 1997, I probably would have been a part of the team that went to the CWS in ’98 …whoops.)

But every June, I get to dust off that nostalgia from my college ball days, get revitalized by the passion for the game these college players have, and find myself glued to the screen, watching them give everything they have to prolong a dream.