Hope for a Homer

By Brett Gardner, New York, New York

As appeared in

I’m an outfielder for the New York Yankees, and I can do a lot of things to help my team win a ball game.

I’m blessed with great speed—I leg out bunts, steal bases and stretch singles into doubles. I’ve learned to be a disciplined hitter—I draw walks and I get on base. I’m pretty good with the glove too—I get to a lot of balls because of my speed.

What I definitely am not blessed with is power. I’m no slugger. One look at me and you’ll know why.

The official Yankees’ guide lists me as 5’ 10,” 185 pounds, but that’s generous. When I walked to the plate the night of May 15, 2009, I had one career home run to my credit. And I didn’t have much of a prayer of hitting another.

Then again, prayer had already been a big part of my day. That morning I’d visited kids at New York-Presbyterian Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital, not that far from Yankee Stadium. I have to admit, when I walked into the hospital reading room, I didn’t know much about the boys and girls I’d be seeing—how sick they were, what they were going through.

Project Sunshine, an organization that provides free educational, arts and social programs to kids with medical challenges, had put the visit together. I was there with Linda Ruth Tosetti, one of Babe Ruth’s granddaughters. She told the story of how the Babe had once promised a sick child that he’d hit a home run for him, and how, later that day, he had done exactly that.

Then Linda introduced me. I explained that I almost never hit home runs. I told some baseball stories—about how I made the Yankees, about my better-known teammates, like Derek Jeter.

Afterward, one girl came up to me in her wheelchair. She was on the small side, but flashed a huge smile. She introduced herself: Alyssa Esposito, 18, of Long Island, New York. She told me she was waiting for a heart transplant. “I’ve been here since January,” she said.

Oh, man, I thought. To me, a bad day was going 0 for 4 at the plate. And here was this girl, just a teenager, fighting for her life.

Alyssa tapped me on the arm. I figured she wanted an autograph. Instead, she said, “I have something I want to give you.” She unhooked a bracelet from around her wrist. It was simple, a yellow cord with a small silver charm. She had gotten it that morning from Project Sunshine. “This will make you hit a home run tonight,” Alyssa said. “I prayed about it.”

“Thank you,” I said, slipping the bracelet on, praying that by some miracle I’d slug a ball out of the park. More important, I prayed she’d get the transplant she’d been waiting for.