“Now batting for the Washington Nationals, number 26, Luke Zimmer.” The announcer called out. I walked to the plate for what had to be the billionth time in my career. But this at bat, this at bat was different. The brightest lights in the world were on me. Everyone was watching me, my parents, my wife of two years, my best friend, who had already made his MLB debut about four minutes ago, was standing on second base after he hit a bloop single and advanced on a throwing error. This was the dream right here. This is what Pete and I have been talking about and dreaming about since we became brothers in middle school. This was it; we were finally in the show.

I dug in for my first career at bat against Jose Fernandez. The young phenom was throwing absolute gas, and the score was 0-0. He blew a 98 mile per hour fastball past me for a called strike. I stepped out and looked down at my coach, who ran through a bunch of signs that didn’t mean anything. Pete took his lead off of second, and Jose reared back and snapped off a curveball that bounced in front of the plate, 1-1.
The Marlins weren’t a very good team, but this kid was a stud. He had come up just last year and got consideration for the Cy Young, and took home second in the NL Rookie of the Year award, only to Yasiel Puig of the Dodgers.
I was batting left handed off the righty out of Cuba. I’ve been a switch-hitter since I was four, which meant I could do something not many in the Major Leagues, nor any league could do. I could hit from both sides of the plate, which helped a lot in trying to hit breaking pitches, and it was just easier hitting right handed against a lefty and vice-a-versa.
The 1-1 pitch was on the way, it was a change-up out on the bottom outside corner of the strike zone. I used my 6”4’ frame with my eagle-like wing span to take a hard hack at the ball. I drove it hard the other way (something I rarely did, being a big guy with a lot of power) and into the left-centerfield gap. I was overcome with an immense amount of joy and happiness, and I wasn’t even sure if I had gotten hit. I took off for first base, watching the ball as it flew and flew in the cool, crisp April air. The ball tailed away from the Marlins centerfielder Justin Ruggiano, and it finally came down on the warning track, kicking up dirt as Justin scrambled to pick it up. Pete, being a speedster, had to wait and see if the ball was going to be caught, or if it was going over the wall he would score anyway. He darted around third as I coasted into second for my first career hit and first career double. Pete was busting his tail, trying to add one more milestone to that list and get me my first career RBI as well. Ruggiano threw it to the cutoff man and they relayed the ball home to Rob Brantly. Pete slid into home a millisecond before the ball reached the catcher, and the crowd went nuts! Pete shot up and pointed to me on second, and I pounded my chest and pointed back at him. He chuckled and jogged into the dugout to get congratulations from our teammates.
This whole thing was unreal! I got stranded on second when Anthony Rendon struck out trying to knock a satellite out of orbit. I jogged back to the dugout with high fives all around from stars like Ryan Zimmerman, Bryce Harper, Stephen Strasburg, the rest were kind of a blur. I finally found Pete in the crowd of Nats, the expression he was wearing was priceless.
“Dude! Dude I thought that ball was leaving the yard! Bro that was crazy!” He was like a puppy whose owner had just come home from a long vacation. I was pumped up, but he was ecstatic!
“I know man! Thanks for busting it so hard, I thought you were getting thrown out for sure. I’m one up on you for RBIs.” I said with a slap on the back as we ran out onto the field for the top of the third inning. Pete had a long run out to centerfield, while I had about eight steps to first base.
The rest of the night went about like that. I was 3-4 with a double, two singles and three RBIs, two of them being my buddy Pete. The only out I made all day was a fly out to the warning track Giancarlo Stanton caught with his back against the wall. An extra 2 feet would’ve given me my first career homerun and capped off one crazy day. My buddy Pete was 2-4 with two singles, two stolen bases and a diving catch that made me jump up and down like a little leaguer. He also drove in Bryce Harper; who was the most hyped prospect in the league since us.
After all the post-game interviews and media junk that follows your debut, Pete and I hopped in his car and were finally headed home. We had ridden together to the ballpark that morning because we were so excited; we wanted to relive our days of talking about that day’s game like we would in middle school and high school.
It was 12:04 a.m. on May 1st, 2014, when an absolutely incredible day took a turn for the worst. We were driving through an intersection after we had exited highway 695. Pete did nothing wrong, I did nothing wrong obviously, being in the passenger seat and being completely helpless. A man by the name of Russ Michaels was having a tough time at work lately, he couldn’t find a job that lasted more than a month and a half, and it was getting to him. He had been out drowning his sorrows at his fourth bar of the night, and when he finally answered a call from his wife telling him to come home. We had been sitting at red light talking about how great tomorrow would be because Fernandez was their only good pitcher and we’d done so well off of him that day when it happened. The light flipped to green and we proceeded through the intersection when Russ didn’t realize that his light had turned red. He just kept on driving through at ten miles an hour faster than he should have. His black Cadillac slammed into the passenger’s side of Pete’s car at sixty-five miles an hour. I was sitting in the passenger side, and I didn’t remember a whole lot after the collision. I remember an enormous loud crash followed by the awful noise of metal bending and twisting and becoming contorted. It was like nails on a chalk board, listening to the two cars grind with its metal together like some sick way of getting someone’s attention. Pete’s car started to turn on its side, and Russ just kept on keeping on. It was still heading forward full force and it pushed us a football field’s length into oncoming traffic from the other direction. Lucky for us everyone saw it happen that was coming from the direction and wasn’t caught by surprise when we slid into their lane. They all slammed on their brakes and rushed out of their cars to help us. I don’t remember much after the car was turned on its side, but I remember Pete’s voice. It was so distant, but at the same time it was so panicked, he kept yelling at me to stay with him and not to go anywhere. The whole world had gone into a slow motion, foggy, unreal state. Pete was moving incredibly slow, and his voice was really slow as well. He looked scared and sad, and had streaks of red running down his face. I wondered what it was and couldn’t put together that he had been cut pretty badly, but not nearly as bad as what had happened to me. I was still buckled to my seat but the world was sideways, and so was my panicked best friend. He was struggling to get out of his seatbelt and help me, and I just watched him for some reason. I couldn’t move, I wasn’t thinking straight, nothing made sense. What happened? I kept asking myself. Finally after some amount of time, I had no idea if it had been an hour or five minutes, a strange man’s voice called out to us. I couldn’t make out what he had said, but Pete yelled, to him that we were alive and that we had someone in here that needed immediate medical attention. Who? I wondered. Was he talking about me? Nah, I’m fine. I was trying to figure out who he was talking about when he leaned over to me and said “You’re going to be fine, man, they’re going to get us out of here.” I knew I was fine; I was just worried about the other guy, even though I didn’t know who he was. I had no idea Pete was talking about me, and I had no idea how bad off I really was.
After I guess a long while the car started to shake, and the top ripped off. Men dressed in neon yellow and tan uniforms helped Pete and me out of his car.
“Hey,” I said. “You tore his car in half.”

“It’s ok, it was totaled anyway.” One of the strange alien looking men said to me.

I was more upset about the car than anything else at that moment. I clearly didn’t have my priorities in order, and I had no idea what was going to happen to me.

“Hey bud, we’re going to sedate you now,” someone said to me.

I didn’t know why they were doing that, I thought I was completely fine. They put me on a stretcher, and I felt some discomfort in my abdomen. I felt what I thought was a bee stinging my arm, and then all of a sudden I was out.

“Hey baby, I’m right here,” I heard my wife’s voice say.

“Hey bro, how are you feeling?” I heard shortly after.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t for some reason. I looked at my wife; she had this awful look in her eyes, a terrible look I didn’t want to see. Her eyes were usually so beautiful and full of happiness, now they were full of sadness and remorse. I looked over at Pete, and his eyes looked the same as Michele’s, minus all the beautiful stuff I just said.

“It wasn’t my fault, the light turned green and I started driving and the stupid… I’m so sorry Luke it really wasn’t my fault there was nothing we could do. The guy had been drinking and ran the light; it isn’t fair man we had finally made it. God I’m so sorry bro I’m so sorry.”

I wanted to tell him it was okay, I knew it wasn’t his fault, but I couldn’t speak. I had just woken up and I wasn’t exactly sure what was happening. The world around me was still hazy and kind of slow, and I was really confused about where I was. The last thing I remembered was a bee sting and all of a sudden I was here. I tried to move.

“No no no, don’t move sweetheart. The doctor said not to. You need to rest.”

I tried to ask her why but I still couldn’t speak. I looked down to see a tune running out of my mouth. What happened to me? Why did I have a feeding tube?

“The doctor said you have to stay here a while. The injuries you sustained should’ve killed you but…” her voice trailed off. “You won’t be able to play again this season. Or next season. I’m just glad you’re alive.”

I wasn’t going to have any of that. I was going to finish my rookie season the way I started it: With a bang. I don’t care what physical therapy or strength training I have to do. For the second time in the team’s history it was looking like we would make the playoffs. I wasn’t going to let some drunk who was feeling sorry for himself ruin my chances at a ring in my first season in the show.

I had to stay in the hospital for a little over a month. I had a collapsed lung, eleven broken bones, some separated ribs, burns to parts of my leg, and a dislocated shoulder. Of course it was my throwing shoulder, which would only make for a more difficult rehab. The days blurred together, all I could do was talk to my wife and watch my team on TV. Doctors and nurses would come in and tell me things, and all I heard was “you got messed up bad, we need more time” which made me angry, because I didn’t have time. I should’ve been out on that beautiful green field that was on TV behind them, I should’ve been playing first base and having myself an insane rookie season like my best friend. Instead some washed up thirty-seven year old with bad knees had taken my spot. Never once did I complain though, I did everything the nurses said. I took it easy, I went to all their stupid surgeries and tests and everything else. I got poked and prodded and I had blood taken and more radiation than a man should. I was surprised I didn’t grow a third arm or pick up the ability to fly or something like that. Flying would’ve helped a lot with baseball, but oh well.

I hated the smells and sights of that horrible place. Everything smelled like that horrible hand soap with the scent that follows you around all day. June 4th was one of the happiest days of my life, the day I finally got to leave that God forsaken place. Now began the months and months of physical therapy. I was thrilled to get out there, but I was still a long ways away from getting back on the field. The Nationals were great to me; they worked with me and really cared about getting me back out on the field. I had to work harder than I ever had in my entire life, and the ridiculous thing was that I should not have had to. I should have been on the field with my best friend and teammates. This was unfair. At least I survived, which was more than I could say for Russ. This was ridiculous, some idiot slamming into me and making me rehab for three months. I’ll admit, Pete and I did dangerous things when we were younger, but nothing like drinking and driving. We were just kids hanging out and doing stupid things and we always turned out fine, and when we’re being completely safe, I almost died. It’s funny how life works.

I hated physical therapy. All of the little exercises I could do without feeling anything were a waste of my time. I was only allowed to actually lift twice a week! What a joke! I had to do them though, because apparently they “helped me”. I think it was a waste of time, but I did them all anyway. It was the longest time of my life. I had to work and work and work and it took me so much longer than I would have expected. The hardest part was late in August when my team was struggling and I knew I would’ve been able to help.



The months rolled on, and I just kept working. I was determined to get back to playing by the time The Nationals were in the playoffs, but I was going to cut it close. I wasn’t going to let anything stop me, even if that meant doing all my ridiculous two pound weight exercises and riding a stationary bike for miles and miles and not getting anywhere: literally. God it was frustrating!

The Nationals clinched the playoffs with about a week left in the season. I was so close to being ready, but the doctor wouldn’t clear me! I never yelled or carried or blamed anybody because it wasn’t anyone’s fault—except for this time.

“My team is going to the playoffs next week and you won’t clear me to play? Are you out to get me or something? I’ve done everything you’ve asked! I’ve done all the ridiculous physical therapy, I never once complained, all I wanted and all I worked for was getting back, now I’m stronger than ever and you won’t clear me! Are you trying to kill me too?” I shouldn’t have screamed as much as I did, I heard my surgically repaired lung yelling at me to stop. I also heard my ribs join in to make a nice chorus of pain.

“You didn’t let me finish.” The strange man with a handle-bar moustache told me. He sounded quite irritated. “Give it three-and-a-half weeks and you’ll be able to play.” And with that he walked out.

Two weeks came and went. It made Christmas coming look like Formula One racecar. The Nationals finished the season 97-65, which was pretty impressive considering they had no offense coming from first base. I promise I’m not being arrogant, that’s all ESPN would talk about when they discussed our team. They also said that we and I quote: “need their rookie first baseman for the stretch run. Oliver’s knees just aren’t holding up and the injured kid has sick power.” Those people saying all those things about me made me feel great and horrible because of how much hype I had and I only had one game to show it. That was about to change.

The Nationals handled Cincinnati in the NLDS and now we were facing elimination in the NLCS against the St. Louis Cardinals. It was game five and we were down three games to one. We were in St. Louis, and we would go back home tomorrow if we could force a game six. First we had to get past their stud young buck: Michael Wacha. He had come up big last year in the playoffs for them, winning the 2013 NLCS MVP. He had put himself in a good position to win it again, going eight innings of two-hit ball in game one. This kid struck out nine of my good friends, which I promptly gave them grief about after the game.

“Welcome back, man!” is what I kept getting all day long. I hadn’t even been able to sit in the dugout with them, and now all of a sudden I would be starting the most important game of my career.

The first two innings went by quickly. Both pitchers had their A-Game, which was great considering Gio Gonzalez would probably be in the top five for the Cy Young award. Nobody had reached base until Pete came up in the top of the third. He had such a great regular season that he was favored to win this year’s Rookie of the Year, but struggled mightily in the NLDS and got bumped down to 7th in the order instead of 2nd, where he spent most of the season. I was hitting 8th, because I hadn’t had any at bats in about six months.

Pete took a huge hack on a 0-2 fastball and was way late on it, sending the ball flying my direction. It was a sniper shot heading straight for my head, so I hit the deck as if I was really under fire. My bat went flying when I threw my hands up, and the ball ricocheted off the dugout and back towards the mound. When I finally gathered myself, Pete was laughing pretty hard, along with Yadier Molina behind the plate.

“Welcome back!” he said with a chuckle.

“What, are you trying to put me back in the ER?” I asked with a grin.

He winked, took a few practice swings and stepped back in the box. Wacha wound up fired a breaking ball that hung up in the zone too long, and Pete took advantage of a rare mistake from the rookie phenom. He smashed a liner down the right field line, and Beltran, who doesn’t run well, had trouble with the ball in the corner, having it kick off his glove and squirt a few feet away. As soon as Pete saw the veteran having trouble with it, he took off! Watching my best friend run was something special. He darted around second and was booking it for third as the ball reached Wong at the cutoff spot. He fired the ball to third a millisecond too late and Pete popped up on third as David Freese tried to tag him.

“Atta kid!!,” we all yelled as he clapped his hands.

Oh boy, here we go. Elimination game, NLCS, rookie season, best friend is on third, tied ballgame. This is what I’ve been dreaming of. This is what I’ve worked for since April. Here we go.

Wacha was gathering his thoughts behind the mound, tossing the rosin bag back and forth between his sweaty hands. My heart was beating a mile a minute. I was wondering if the catcher could hear it. I did a quick glance at third and saw my best friend smiling at me. I read his lips when he mouthed “Let’s go, man.” I nodded. I looked around the ballpark to see millions upon millions of flashbulbs going off. Were they taking pictures of me? Was it because it was my first game back? I couldn’t help but smile. This was the dream right here. This was everything I could’ve ever dreamed of. Once again: Here we go.

I stepped into the box after getting my sign. Wacha came set and fired a fastball past me for strike once. I’d forgotten how fast pro pitching was. I stepped out, took a breath, and stepped back in to continue the battle. Wacha came set and fired another fastball, but this time I didn’t take it. I took a huge swing and set a soaring fly ball deep into straight away centerfield.

“Heh, no way!” I thought. First at bat back and I was about to have my first career homerun. Jon Jay raced back and got to the warning track, put his back against the wall, and caught the ball 400 feet away. I was stunned. I could’ve sworn I got all of that ball, but nope! I didn’t think about the possibility of a sac fly, until I turned my head about forty-five degrees to the left and saw Pete rushing home for the first run of the game.

I jogged back to the dugout and got slaps and slaps from a blur of my teammates.

“Atta boy, Rookie!” Ryan Zimmerman hollered as he pounded my back.

“What is it with you and dramatic debuts?” Bryce Harper asked. “You got some kind of power, man.”

I finally found Pete, who was sucking down a cup of water and was sitting on the bench. All he did was smile and say “We missed you.”

The Cardinals scored three runs in the next six innings to take a 3-1 lead. I couldn’t touch any of Wacha’s breaking pitches, which led me to strike out twice in my next two at bats.

In the top of the ninth we had Rendon, Pete and I scheduled to hit. The Cardinals put in their young flame thrower, Trevor Rosenthal. He could touch 101 on the radar gun, so this would be fun.

Rendon took the at bat to 3-2 and walked on a 99 MPH fastball that almost knocked his teeth out. Pete came up in the biggest situation of his life, and boy I wanted him to come through. He was always “too small” or “too weak” for some of our coaches, even though he was the best player in our age group. He had five tools for being a small guy, and once he hit a growth spurt in 9th Grade, there was no stopping him.

Rosenthal fell behind 2-0 to Pete before he fired a fastball low and away to him. Pete took a hack that splintered his bat and sent it flying towards the first baseman. The ball seemed to hang up in the air forever, until it came down behind the third baseman. Neither Freese nor Holliday ran very well, and the ball was perfectly placed. Rendon had to wait and see if the ball got down, but once it did he took off. He rounded second and once he saw nobody was at third, he busted his tail faster than I had ever seen him run. Pete was to first by the time Rendon decided what to do, so he just followed casually behind him because he knew nobody was on third.

Okay. No outs, runners are on second and third, we’re down by two and if we lose we go home. The situations were getting better and better as we went.

I stepped into the box, looking into the eyes of Rosenthal. He had sweat running down his forehead.

“I got this,” I thought to myself. “I’ve gotten through everything this last year, this isn’t anything.”

I did a rather cocky grin towards Trevor to show him he wasn’t going to beat me.

He didn’t beat me.

He tried to sneak a 100 MPH fastball past me up and in, which was the biggest mistake of his career. That just happened to be my wheelhouse, and I loved fastballs. I took a nice, fluid swing on the ball, and hit it about as square as you possibly can. The ball came off my bat sailing high into the cool October night. I hadn’t missed this one. The ball cleared the fence with ease and traveled an easy eighty feet extra into the field stands. I watched the ball as I took off into my homerun trot. The crowd at Busch Stadium had fallen silent, the only thing you could hear was Trevor cussing at himself and my teammates screaming and hollering and chanting. I looked into the dugout to see everyone dancing and partying as if we’d already won. I rounded second pretty slowly and really looked around and soaked in what was happening. This was insane. This was what I had been dreaming of. It was like every dream I had as a kid wrapped up into one. I stepped on home plate and immediately got mobbed by Pete and Anthony. It was unbelievable. I felt like a million dollars, and I knew what it looked like, because my signing bonus was quite lucrative.

The rest of that game and the playoffs were kind of a blur. We won that game and wound up coming back in the series to advance to the franchise’s first ever World Series. We lost in six games to the Texas Rangers. However, that bat I hit the homerun with is in Cooperstown. They wrote my entire story on a bronze plaque titled: Dreams Never Die.