I have a particular memory of Chico that I hold dear. I have occasionally shared it when asked what it was like to play baseball at Chico State, or to have been part of a National Championship team. In returning to Chico for the first time in nearly 20 years I felt the urge to share it with you all. Whether you remember that day as I do, or at all, it was a very special moment that my teammates and I will never forget.
 
It took place at Nettleton Stadium on a beautiful early-summer afternoon. It was the final game that the 1999 National Champion, Chico State Wildcats, would play in front of its home crowd, the winner would move on to play for the Championship in Alabama, the loser would go home. We won.
 
This story isn't about the game, in fact, I remember very few details about the game. Surprisingly few. Phil Derryman started the game

and cruised for a while. We got out to a decent lead at some point, some how. There were big hits and big plays, I'm sure. But, even as they happened I was aware I wouldn't remember them. This day wasn't about the game or the players playing it. It was about the event, the energy and the emotions.  

As the team progressed through the playoffs I felt Chico change. It didn't. My sense of place at Chico changed. As the drama of the season built I began to feel overwhelmed by the support of the student body, the faculty and the community. It was a daily occurrence for someone to stop me, or a group of us, and wish us luck. They would tell us they saw the last game or were going to the next. Professors singled us out in class and we headlined the news. What culminated on that final day was unbelievable.  Before I came to Chico I was aware that it was known for supporting its baseball team. I had heard that it could fill its stadium. I didn't know how that would feel. I'm grateful that I found out.
 
I first realized what was happening that day during warm ups. There weren't normally that many fans in the stands so early. Well before game time the stands were full. Then fans started to line the bullpen, and then the outer fence. There was a particularly raucous group on the train tracks behind the right field fence. Many of them were shirtless and their group grew as the game went on. There were friends and family in the crowd. I knew they were there, somewhere, amongst the throngs. There were homemade signs supporting favorite players. Young kids were sprinting after foul balls. We speculated about how many fans might have been there that day. Three or four thousand seems logical. It felt like more. The number doesn't really matter. Remember, this is a story about feelings.

 
We had a comfortable-ish lead late in the game. I got the call to warm up in the pen. As I made my way, I was followed by what felt like two-dozen kids. They reacted to each pitch I threw as though I was throwing 100mph. I wasn't, not even close. I would have been lucky to touch 80mph.
 
I recall standing in the bullpen, ready to go, but knowing it was going to be a bit before I got in to the game. The inning was over and the defense was running of the field when over the loudspeaker came the song "Sweet Home Alabama," a familiar song, but not in such a moment. It would normally play pregame and post win for every team in division II baseball. It was the anthem that was meant to drive us towards our goal, the National Championship in Montgomery, Alabama. For the next couple of innings it played on loop any time there was a break.
 
I remember coming into the game. I don't know if it was the 7^th, or 8^th,. But, when the music stopped a chant started. "Ala-Bama, Ala-Bama!" It was quiet at first, but it started to grow. By the end of that ½ inning I think the team was in a meditative state. The chant never stopped, it just got louder and louder. The dugout was mostly quiet except for the occasional comment about the crowd's energy. The chant went from a vocal sensation to a physical one. I could feel it in the concrete under my cleats. It reverberated in my chest.
 
Our opponent, whoever it was, must have felt up against the world. I know I felt like I had the world behind me. There was no way… no way we were going to lose this game. The lead was irrelevant, it could have been a one run game. With that kind of support it was over, cooked, put a fork in it.

 
I noticed as I ran on to the field to start the ninth that the music didn't start. If it did, I couldn't hear it over the chant. I usually like to work quickly, but before the start of that inning I paused an extra moment, shared some smirks with my infielders and soaked it in. As the inning got going I felt like I was in the clouds. I heard Coach T yell "down there right here," a verbal signal for a sidearm slider. Or, at least I think he did. We were pretty in tune by then. I remember that I missed a sign latter in the inning. It didn't matter much and no one else seemed to notice, or care. Like I said, that game was already over. The moment had consumed us and we were along for the ride. The last out was made. We had done it. Chico was on its way to a title.
 
While my experience was uniquely my own, we all felt it. I had never and will never receive that kind of support again. I'm a lucky man. I receive tremendous support from my parents, my siblings, my friends and my wife and kids, but very few get the opportunity to feel the support of an entire community in such a dramatic fashion.
 
I treasure that moment and am proud of my connection with Chico. In my home safe I have just my family's birth certificates, social security cards, passports… and my Championship ring.
 
On behalf of the 1999 National Championship Chico State Baseball Team, thank you Chico, for your love and support.