I really shouldn’t trust my memory anymore

On a trip to Las Vegas many years ago, I stopped at a casino at the Nevada border with my friends Blue and Scotty to start our gambling weekend early.

At one point, Blue and I were watching Scotty play blackjack at the $5 table. More to the point, we were watching Scotty lose at blackjack at the $5 table.

Hand after hand, it seemed like Scotty would get a 15 and decide to stay, only to have the dealer beat him with a 21.

“Scotty,” I told him at one point, “You would be really good at this game if it were called 15.”

At least, I thought it was me who said that. Blue, since that day so many years ago, has asserted it was he who said the famous line.

We have argued about this point ever since then, both of us certain over who made the proclamation. But because I recently lost another bet based solely on memory, I must admit, finally but with a huge degree of trepidation, that it was Blue who said it.

What happened was this: a few days ago, I finally received the DVD from Game 1 of our January trip to Dodger fantasy camp. In my blog post about it, I wrote that in my first at bat I hit a ball that “sailed into left field and luckily bounced in front of the left fielder as I took the turn at first base.”

I added that I stood on first base and had the following thought: “One-for-one, I thought to myself. Batting a thousand.”

Here’s the problem. Blue, who made the trip with me to Dodgertown and was on my team, remembered that I didn’t get a hit in my first at bat.

He was positive about this. But so was I.

So when I got the DVD of the first game, I called him and told him I would watch it with him on the phone and we would determine once and for all who was right.

The bet? The loser had to relinquish his right to the blackjack story and would, for one full year, admit he was wrong over who told Scotty “You would be really good at this game if it were called 15.”

I popped in the DVD. The memories of the game came rushing back to me. Our team, San Bernardino, wearing our road gray Dodger jerseys. Steve Yeager, our coach, pitching to us. The warm Florida sun. the most beautiful diamond we’ve ever played on. Our proud team that would go 5-2 and battle for the pennant until the last day.

And then my first at bat came. I know I’m right, I thought. I know I got a hit. I played the DVD on my laptop while holding the phone to my ear.

First pitch. I smack it to the left side.

Oh shit.

It wasn’t a flyball single. It was a grounder to the shortstop. I watched the screen helplessly as he picked it up and flipped it to third for a force out.

A fucking fielder’s choice. Oh-for-one. Batting .000.

It’s amazing to me how our memories betray us. I watched the rest of the game and was incredulous at how different the game had gone compared to how I remembered it. It was just little things that my brain had twisted into memories that betrayed reality.

The pop-up behind the plate I caught? In my mental database, the ball stayed up in the air much longer. The line drive I snared at shortstop in the 9th inning? Looked different than how it “looked” in my mind’s eye of that moment. The groundout in my third at-bat? Not as close of a play at first as I remembered.

So yes, Blue, I admit. You are the one who said the “15 line” to Scotty. For one whole year, I will confess to this “fact”. My memory is obviously suspect and it is more likely that you said it than me.

But I still batted 189 points higher than you. That’s not memory. That’s a fact.