Congressional Baseball Shooting

“Shots Fired at Simpson Field”

It started just after sunrise—a humid morning in Alexandria, Virginia, washed in the soft blue light that falls before the day gets hot. At Eugene Simpson Stadium Park, the freshly manicured grass carried the soft, aimless chatter of lawmakers swapping batting tips and rolling out their shoulders. For a moment, it was just baseball: the kind of practice where a U.S. congressman could jokingly grumble about his swing, or a young aide might dream of hitting a home run before breakfast.

But on June 14, 2017, as the Republican team prepared for a charity game that—since 1909—had been one of the rare traditions to regularly draw laughter across the aisle, the field became a kind of proving ground for something America has never really learned how to talk about: what happens when anger and ideology cross the invisible threshold, and someone brings a gun.

By the time the sun cleared the treetops, the field was a crime scene. And the morning was no longer ordinary.

Practice as Usual—For a Moment

Every June, members of Congress put on uniforms—pants, caps, the works—and show up for early-morning practices in the muggy D.C. suburbs. The game itself is spectacle and relief; Republicans vs. Democrats, beneficiaries being local children’s charities, stakes being little more than pride and a grilling session over bad pitches.

That Wednesday, practice started around 6:30 a.m. Steve Scalise, the House Majority Whip, played second base. Zach Barth, a legislative aide, fielded grounders. Lobbyist Matt Mika watched from the sidelines, hoping to contribute. Two Capitol Police officers—Crystal Griner and David Bailey—stood watch; their presence, more routine than reassurance, was a quirk of Scalise’s leadership role. Most congressional members don’t have security details out on the diamond.

The air buzzed with tension, but not from the ballplayers. If you’d only been walking your dog past Simpson Field, you’d have seen the same jokes, the same swing adjustments, the same banter known by any team.

Nobody there knew they were already being watched.

James Hodgkinson: The Stranger in the Bleachers

James Hodgkinson had slipped into Alexandria a few weeks earlier, living out of his van. Sixty-six years old, graying, from Belleville, Illinois—he spent his days at the YMCA and, increasingly, watching the lawmakers practice. Hodgkinson’s social media brimmed with vitriol; he despised what he saw as the new Republican agenda. He’d posted angry rants, signed online petitions, left a trail of digital evidence that painted a clear picture: this was no random act.

Neighbors had once called local police on him back in Illinois—hints of a temper, some erratic behavior, nothing prosecuted. In the days before the attack, Hodgkinson blended in, more or less. But that morning, he parked his van, picked up a semi-automatic SKS rifle and a handgun, and made his way towards the chain-link fence behind third base.

“Gun!”: The Attack Unfolds

At about 7:00 a.m., the first shots cracked through the slow, soft rhythm of baseball. At first, it was confusion—a noise, a shout. The crack of gunfire often doesn’t sound the way movies tell us. And yet, once it started, nobody doubted what it meant.

James Hodgkinson took up position behind the third base dugout, a clear line of fire onto the field. In the chaos, he squeezed the trigger on his SKS and sprayed bullets towards the players and staff scattered across the infield.

Representative Steve Scalise was struck first—a bullet tore through his hip. He collapsed on the dirt near second base, bleeding heavily. Matt Mika went down next, a bullet hitting his chest and arm. Zach Barth felt a sharp pain and looked down to see blood. Capitol Police officers Crystal Griner and David Bailey—there, by the quirks of congressional protocol—rushed to return fire even after being hit themselves. Griner, shot in the ankle, stayed in the fight. Bailey, struck by shrapnel, helped keep Hodgkinson’s attention from zeroing in on the wounded crawling for cover.

The dugouts and fences—meant for routine baseball—offered little real protection. One surviving player later described hiding behind the only equipment available: a trash can and his own hope, praying the barrier would be enough.

Lawmakers and staff scrambled over fences or huddled behind the first-base dugout, calling loved ones, whispering prayers. They heard the gunman reloading, methodically, again and again.

The Police Response

The first calls crackled over Alexandria police radios within moments. But the first and most crucial defense came from the Capitol Police. Officers Griner and Bailey drew Hodgkinson’s fire, engaging him despite their injuries. Griner fired her weapon while on the ground. Bailey sprinted toward the gunman at least once, drawing bullets away from the huddled group.

Their actions bought life-saving minutes. Angelic in its speed, the Alexandria Police arrived within three minutes. From then, a coordinated volley erupted between law enforcement and Hodgkinson, bullets gouged the bleachers, snapped through the chain-link, and bit into the grass.

Roughly ten harrowing minutes after it began, it was over. Hodgkinson, shot multiple times, dropped his weapons. The gunfire gave way to the desperate scramble of first responders—tourniquets, compresses, frantic calls.

Representative Brad Wenstrup, a doctor and Army Reserve colonel, used his belt as a tourniquet on Scalise. The grass near second base was slick with blood, the kind of sight lawmaker and constituent alike hope never to see.

Six Wounded: A Tally of Human Cost

In the ambulance, Scalise’s life hung in gut-wrenching balance. Rushed by helicopter to MedStar Washington Hospital Center, he endured surgery after surgery, gallons of transfused blood fighting against a possible end no one was prepared to face. Zach Barth called his family from the back of an ambulance, his voice strained but alive. Matt Mika remained critical for days, with wounds to his chest, arm, and leg.

Officers Griner and Bailey survived their wounds—some physical, some unseen. Griner’s bullet wound was rated as “serious” but not fatal; Bailey’s, a mix of shrapnel and shock.

James Hodgkinson, the shooter, died later that day at the hospital. There would be, by the standards of mass shootings, no trial, no long legal battle, no further threat.

For those who knew the game, the day’s box score would look like tragedy: six sent to the hospital on a morning meant for camaraderie.

“It Could Have Been So Much Worse”: Aftermath and Consequences

If Steve Scalise hadn’t been there—as a member of congressional leadership, requiring a security detail—most likely, there would have been no armed officers. The shooter, according to survivors and investigators, would have had minutes of uninterrupted fire. There might have been a massacre.

There was no significant property damage; a few bullet holes and shattered windows, gloves and equipment left scattered. But what was broken was less seen and harder to mend: the sense, for many members of Congress and their staffs, that even routine traditions could become dangerous.

Donations poured in for the children’s charities supported by the Congressional Baseball Game. Bipartisan statements of unity filled the airwaves. For one shining, brief moment, Republicans and Democrats took to the field together the next evening, unified by survival and resolve.

But behind the scenes, the calculations changed. Security budgets swelled. Emergency response plans were revisited. Rank-and-file members, especially those traveling in public, started asking harder questions about protection—and about whether the vitriol of American politics had finally gone too far.

The Investigation: A Lone Gunman, A Troubled Nation

The FBI’s investigation, thorough and unflinching, found a clear line from digital rant to gunfire. Hodgkinson acted alone, fueled by political grievances he aired online, sometimes under his own name. His browsing history showed hours spent researching the baseball practice venue and Republican lawmakers’ schedules.

Investigators could find no evidence of co-conspirators, no secret messages, just a horrifyingly modern kind of lone-wolf rage—radicalization not by secret society, but by algorithms and angry comment threads.

Director Andrew McCabe and others laid it out: this was an act of domestic terrorism, one targeting members of Congress over their beliefs and the votes they cast.

What Changed—and What Stayed the Same

Steve Scalise’s recovery, slow and public, became a symbol for many: months of hospital stays, repeated surgeries, a painstaking return to Congress using crutches, then a cane, and finally the House floor in September. Cameras caught moments of raw emotion among his colleagues—applause from every side, a pause in partisan bickering if only for an hour.

Officers Griner and Bailey were commended on both sides of the aisle. Security for congressional leaders and at large public events received renewed scrutiny and increased resources.

But when the moment passed, so did many of the promises. There were hearings and debates, op-eds and speeches condemning political violence. Calls for new gun laws—including proposals around background checks and rifle purchases—rose and fell, but nothing passed directly in response to that morning at Simpson Field.

If anything, the shooting became another reference point in a larger, ongoing debate about guns, rhetoric, and the tinderbox of American public life.

The Congressional Baseball Game continues, now shadowed by metal detectors, more police, and a bittersweet reminder. Attendees are screened; players double-check entry procedures. Some survivors returned to play. Others quietly keep their distance.

“We Are Stronger Than What Divides Us”: The Lingering Impact

Survivors and witnesses speak of gratitude—for the quick response, for the lives saved—but also of scars. Several lawmakers developed symptoms of PTSD, and some staffers quietly changed careers or shifted to less public-facing roles. For a time, Congress found a way to grieve together. Bipartisanship, fragile and fleeting, briefly broke through the noise.

Yet the world kept moving. The news cycle spun a thousand crises forward.

Each June, the field at Eugene Simpson Stadium Park is lush and green again, groundskeepers working before first light. Every so often, runners passing the diamond might remember, as the day brightens and bats thwack balls in the air, that tragedy left its mark but didn’t end the tradition.

And in the shadow of the dugout, where a fleeting, terrible ten minutes changed so many lives, small acts of courage—seen and unseen—remain the story’s beating heart.