Ben Wetzler Michael Conforto hug.JPG

With the season over, and the final team huddle of the season dispersing, Ben Wetzler and Michael Conforto found themselves lingering in the rightfield grass. As the rest of the team walked down the line in foul territory toward the dugout, the two stars instinctually held back. When they saw each other, they wrapped each other in a long and hard embrace. "That hug,'' Wetzler said, "was special.''

(Associated Press)

CORVALLIS – They like to teach players about life here in the Oregon State baseball program, but there was nothing Pat Casey and his staff could do to prepare or teach two of the program's greatest players how to say goodbye Monday night.

The top-ranked Beavers' season ended around 11 p.m. with a double play, a season destined for Omaha cut short, a season thick with school records abbreviated in dubious fashion with a 4-2 loss to UC Irvine.

With the season over, and the final team huddle of the season dispersing, Ben Wetzler and Michael Conforto found themselves lingering in the rightfield grass.

As the rest of the team walked down the line in foul territory toward the dugout, the two stars instinctually held back.

When they saw each other, they wrapped each other in a long and hard embrace.

"That hug,'' Wetzler said, "was special.''

Said Conforto: "With Ben, it was definitely one of the more emotional hugs I've ever had. It was almost like an 'I'm sorry' moment. Like, 'Sorry we couldn't do it for you.' I think together, both of us were feeling that way.''

They cried. Each said they loved the other. And they repeated a team-wide mantra to each other – "brothers for life" – before hugging again.

Then they went their separate ways, each legend unsure how to let go of something that had been so special to them for so long.

As they parted, I studied them, and shadowed their paths. In the process, I found something so moving, and so powerful that I will never think of Oregon State baseball again without remembering this night.

One last look

After the two embraced in right field, Conforto walked slowly back toward the dugout, where most of the team had already departed. But he couldn't bring himself to cross the line from fair territory to foul territory.

He couldn't take that final step off the field.

So he absently circled around the first base bag, looking into the stands, looking to the outfield, looking to the scoreboard.

"I was just taking one last look at the stadium,'' Conforto said.

His face was pained, as if holding back tears, and he said his mind was racing.

"Thoughts of what more could we have done? What more could I have done?'' Conforto said. "Just a painful moment.

"But I wanted to soak in some of the surroundings,'' Conforto said. "Moving forward, maybe I can go back to that and learn from it.''

Across the way, in the left field grass, the UC Irvine team finished their team meeting with a raucous holler. It seemed to break Conforto out of his trance.

He brought himself to walk off the Goss Stadium playing field for the last time. When he reached the dugout steps, somebody from the stands called to him, and he paused and raised his left arm.

"Somebody just said thank you to me by name,'' Conforto said. "That was awesome, cool to hear. Especially in a game where I felt like maybe I could have done more, maybe I could have done some other things ... but it didn't work out that way.''

Inside the dugout, he hugged the remaining players – Kavin Keyes, Andy Peterson – and then retreated to the quiet clubhouse, where he gave one last instruction to the team's young players.

"Me and Kavin told the young guys to use this pain as motivation,'' Conforto said. "We said it's amazing how much pain can do for a team. It brought us to the World Series (2013).''

Hung, out of respect

Long after the dugout had cleared, and Conforto and Keyes were inside the clubhouse, Wetzler emerged from right field and started walking toward the dugout.

On his way back, a young kid ran to the front row and stuck his hand against the protective netting. Wetzler paused long enough to put his hand on the kid's – the final high five of his Beavers career.

With his athletic bag around his shoulder, Wetzler entered the deserted dugout and plopped down. He knew his team was inside the clubhouse, but he let his head fall back to the concrete wall.

"Just not ready for it to be over right now,'' Wetzler said. "I mean, it's the last time I will ever play on that field in front of those fans. This is a special place.''

When he went back to the clubhouse, he said, he was the last one to take his uniform off. It wasn't a mindless task, but rather one of significance, one he noted.

It was the last time he would unbutton an Oregon State jersey, and he said he did it with respect. No throwing it in a laundry bin. No leaving it on the floor to be picked up.

"Hung it up,'' Wetzler said. "One last time.''

A true family gathers

Outside the Beavers clubhouse, there was a remarkable scene. It was a crowd of friends, parents and family of the players. It must have been 50 deep.

As each player left the clubhouse, he was given a rousing ovation.

The first player I saw leave was pitcher Brandon Jackson, who hit the only man he faced Monday, forcing in a run. As he was being applauded, he bee-lined to a man, who I assumed was his father. He buried his face into his chest and cried, all while being reassured and hugged tighter than I've ever seen a college kid embraced.

Then came Andy Peterson. Dylan Davis. Max Engelbrekt. Each time, the ovation was as if the player was a rock star.

Up to the right, inside the stadium, senior pitcher Scott Schultz was sitting on the field, still in uniform, eating from a box of pizza. Like Conforto and Wetzler, he didn't want to leave the field.

But unlike Conforto and Wetzler, Schultz got in one final game.

He invited his 3½ year old daughter Madison to the field, and he ran the bases with her, much to her giggling delight.

It must have been loud enough for the crowd to hear, for the parents and family of the players re-entered the stadium, walked up a short flight of steps and stood on the concourse watching.

Some gasped. Others took video and pictures with their phones. Some couldn't take it, and turned away, tears in their eyes.

Soon, more players came out – Andrew Moore, Jeff Hendrix – and more cheers rang out. With every player, the drill was the same: The player was hugged by nearly every parent, every friend, every relative in the group – age 75 to 14.

Moore, who figures to anchor the pitching staff next season, stayed and mingled for several minutes, enjoying the company of teammates' parents and friends.

"This is why this program is so special,'' Moore said. "It's why we all love this place.''

As the clock neared 11:45, the clubhouse door opened and a figure stood in the darkened entryway.

It was Pat Casey, the coach.

"You guys are fantastic,'' he told the crowd. "And the players appreciate it. And I will tell you: The Beavers will be back someday!"

One final goodbye

On Thursday, Conforto and Wetzler will be selected in the Major League draft and become millionaires.

But on Monday, as the most important chapter of their lives so far ended, they both would have paid a million dollars to put the orange and black on one more time.

"The hardest thing is not getting to lace it up tomorrow,'' Wetzler, a senior, said. "There is no tomorrow. I just got the jersey ripped off my back. It hurts.''

Conforto, a junior who said he "probably" played his last game at Oregon State, will leave as perhaps its greatest all-around player. He was a three-time All-American and two-time Pac-12 player of the year, and he did it with the composure and class of a professional.

He said his place in the record books "means the world" to him.

"This is all I've had for three years, and those guys have meant everything to me. Those are the guys who lifted me up and helped me get in the record books. Those guys. That's who I owe it to, and that's who I think about when I see myself in that position.''

He said the coming days will not be about anticipating the draft, or dreaming of a signing bonus that Casey estimated could be in the $5 million range.

It was going to be about being around his teammates as much as possible.

"I think in the coming days we are going to really realize it's over, and it's going to sink in and that's going to be really hard for us,'' Conforto said. "I think we are going to rally around each other in these last few weeks of school and make sure we spend as much time around each other as we can. For all the senior guys, for everybody, we will be together.''

Ben Wetzler leaves the field after he took some Goss Stadium grass and put it in his pocket shortly after 12:30 a.m.

And then, they all left. Some in a car. Some on foot. Scattered in different directions. Yet, as one.

And that's what really stuck with me as this Beavers season ended. No matter how much Monday hurt this family, it is and always will remain, a family.

"I will talk to these guys for the rest of my life,'' Wetzler said, before turning to leave with his family.

But I soon found that Wetzler didn't leave with his family.

As I opened my computer in the press box and started writing, I noticed a figure in the stands. I looked at my watch. It was 12:31 a.m.

Ben Wetzler had returned to Goss Stadium.

He walked through the stands, and down to the field. He stood with his hand in his sweatpants and absorbed the scene one more time, turning a full circle.

Then he bent down and tore some of the left field grass and placed it in his pants pocket.

He had found the perfect way to say goodbye.

-- Jason Quick | @jwquick