by Susan Lutzie, USA Today

8/1/2009: DRUMRIGHT, OK – It's another blazing hot August afternoon in Drumright, Oklahoma.  The dusty old ballpark in this backwater eastern Oklahoma town is mostly silent, save for the occasional crack of the bat.

As always, Matt McCormick, the Drumright Tornadoes (Hi-A) young catcher, is at the ballpark early.

Alone.

Crack

A roping line drive into the right field gap.

Crack

Another rope.

Crack

This goes on for about 10 minutes, the young left hand-hitting catcher facing off against a mechanical pitching machine.  The same swing over and over.  The same result over and over.  Ropes into right field.

Finally McCormick steps out of the batters box and acknowledges my presence.  He nods politely as he reaches for a towel and wipes the sweat from his brow.

"Be right with you, just give me a minute to catch my breath," he tells me as he wanders over to the dugout and grabs a bottle of water.  He motions for me to join him in the shade of the dugout.  I gladly joined him, thankful for the opportunity to get out of the grueling August sun.

I had heard the rumors about McCormick.  About his determination.  About his desire.  His never say die attitude.  The kid who couldn't get playing time in college.  The kid who went undrafted in the 2008 PEBA first year player draft.  The kid who called every front office, begging for a chance to play.

The San Antonio Calzones de Laredo finally extended an offer to McCormick to play in their minor league system.  And from the very first day, the legend of Matt McCormick has begun to build.

The legend of the kid who arrives at the ballpark often before the groundskeeper, whether the team is at home or on the road.  The legend of the kid who takes two to three hours of batting practice every day.  The legend of the kid who makes two to three hundred throws to second base every day, into a bucket, from his knees.  The legend of a kid who is the last one to leave at night, soaking up as much baseball knowledge as he can from anyone who will talk to him.

I was anxious to meet this kid who was quickly becoming a legend in the small towns of NAFTA's Amber Waves League.  He had graciously agreed to take some time with me during this hot August afternoon.  I joined McCormick on the bench in the dugout, where he offered me a bottled water from a cooler.  I gladly accepted, as the temperature had to be about 104°.

The young man from Hartford, Connecticut sat down and our conversation began.  "You’re becoming a legend in these parts.  What do you think of that?” I asked him.

"I don't know about that,” he responded nonchalantly.  "I think most people think I'm weird.”  He continued, "I just do what I think I need to do to get better.  I just want to play some ball at the PEBA level."

Somehow in his answer – in his demeanor as he answered the question – I suspected there was more to the story.  There was something else here.  I pressed him.

"Okay Matt.  What makes you come to the ballpark everyday and work harder than any other player?  Tell me why.  When the whole world has told you that you will never make it as a ballplayer, why do you push yourself so hard?”  I asked him.

He looked down for a moment, then excused himself and walked out of the dugout and down the tunnel into the clubhouse.  He was gone for a few minutes before returning.  He was holding what looked like a wallet in his hand as he sat down.  Without saying a word, he handed it to me.

I opened it.

Badge 3721.  Hartford Police Department.

I noticed the name:

Jonathon M.  McCormick

I handed it back to Matt.  He stared at it for a moment.

"My dad," he said.

He paused, and I remained silent, as I could sense him searching for the words.

"On August 1, 1999, my dad took me to a Boston Red Sox game.  It was the day before my 13^th birthday.  He would be working on my birthday, so he arranged for us to go the day before.

"The next day, he went to work before I was awake.  He was done with his shift and had pulled into the parking lot of the precinct house when he heard a call about an armed robbery at a grocery store several blocks away.  He pulled out of the parking lot and joined the call, even though his shift was over.  That was my dad.  The way he was.  Always helping.  ‘Above and beyond,’ he would always tell me.  He taught that to me.  And he lived by it.  And he died by it.

"The armed robber fled the store on foot.  My dad heard on the radio that the suspect was running down a side street.  He arrived there first and confronted the armed man."

He paused again, and I could see the tears forming in his eyes, though he bravely tried to fight it back.

"My dad confronted the armed man as backup was arriving, but the suspect immediately fired and shot my dad.  Perfect shot.  One in a million shot, they called it.  Through the right eye and into the brain.  He died in surgery an hour later.

"The suspect never made it to trial.  The other officers who had arrived quickly unloaded 21 rounds into him."

"I spent my 13^th birthday mourning the death of my dad.  At his funeral, they presented my mother and me with his badge.  I wear that badge under my uniform everyday.  Over my heart.  And as I approach the plate, I touch the badge and tell my dad this at bat is for him.  Every at bat, it's for him.”

Tears were rolling down the young catcher's face, but he composed himself.

"You see, my dad loved baseball.  And he taught me to love baseball.  He was my coach in the Police Athletic League.  We played catch almost everyday when he got home from work.  We watched the Sox games together.  It was his big dream that I become a ballplayer.  That's why I don't quit.  Above and beyond, you know?  Just like my dad taught me."

McCormick wiped away the tears and stood, obviously preparing himself to return to his days work.

"One more question?” I pleaded politely.

"Sure," he said quietly.

"What are you going to do if you come up short and don't make it to the PEBA level?” I asked.

"I have a degree in criminology," he responded, smiling as he did so.

And with that he walked up the dugout steps and back on to the hot dusty minor league field.  Answering his own call.  Above and beyond.