Since it is opening day today for most of the Major League teams around the league, it only seems fitting that we share a nostalgic baseball story. Unfortunately, this one is not quite ready for the big leagues, but it will have to do. It was a long time ago, yet I remember it like it happened yesterday…….
Now, as a frame of reference, my natural position when playing baseball was pitcher - it would seem that my ONLY athletic talent involved being left-handed and throwing round objects as hard as I could towards other people….really, it should be viewed less as sport and more like self defense when you’re a fully grown thirteen year old measuring in at 5ft. 6″ and weighing a sickly 120 pounds. Plus, when you have Coke bottles as glasses, hitting is a difficult proposition. It turns out that nearsightedness makes batting a moot point. So, why exactly did the coach put me in the outfield that one fine day? It must have been for my defense……
For the most part, it had been a forgettable game, because the majority of things involving high school freshman are. Sloppy play had abounded, and both teams were tied. Simply put, the game would come down to who screwed up last.
After valiantly going down on three straight strikes for three consecutive times (which I was told is called a Golden Sombrero-not a respected achievement), all signs pointed to me being that infamous poor schlub that had cost his team the game. Now, because of this fact, my only goals for the rest of the game were to
a) man it out until the coach wised up and finally replaced me in the lineup
b) try to get hit by a pitch in my next at bat…because everyone knew that there was no chance of me making contact with the ball any other way- hey, I’d still be on base….surely better than striking out for a fourth time (is there a Platinum Sombrero?)
c) not be the chump who everyone will laugh at upon the end of the game
It was all going according to the script. Close enough, at least. For starters, I had succeeded in my attempt to get “plunked”. In fact, after getting on base, my teammates had managed to bring me home for the go ahead run. Not a bad gig for turning into a pitch. Even though there were no apparent signs that the coach would be pulling me from the game, things were looking up. It was the last inning. Since our team was the visiting club, all we needed was to get three outs. And all I had to do was hide in the outfield and let the game wind down to a boring conclusion.
Going back into the outfield after our team had finished batting, I nervously surveyed the many possible scenarios that could play out from my Left Field position………if I have to make a throw, simply hit the cut-off man….make sure to back up all the throws from the infield that are headed to 3rd base….for a fly ball, go out and just make the catch…..I’m almost embarrassed to mention this, but I had even constructed a plan in which I would play much deeper than I should, thus increasing the chance that a ball would drop in front of me, eliminating the chances of dropping a pop-fly. Heck, I had even justified it to myself in a very rational way-there were no outfield fences on this field, so as long as I didn’t have to chase the ball for a long way, we would win. Make the other team beat us by hitting the ball over my head. Now it was down to “Just keep it in front of you”. Easy enough….
Only, the pitcher for my team didn’t get the memo. Apparently, he felt like complicating matters without consulting with me beforehand. Possessing a strong fastball, he had managed to strike out two batters….and walk three more….
Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, my previous plan has seen it’s demise. Every little detail that I had concocted might as well be thrown out the window. If the ball is hit to me, I MUST PERFORM! Just as this thought was starting to register with me, there was a loud crack of the bat (actually a “ping”, because amateurs use aluminum bats) and sure enough, the ball is headed right towards me. Well, not exactly. To me, but not at me. You see, when balls are hit especially hard, they tend to curve in an odd fashion due to the rotation applied during a violent collision with the bat. Accelerating as hard as I could towards the 3rd base line with my back towards home plate, it appeared that the ball may land in a spot were I would be able to catch it. Now in a dead sprint, the distance between the ball and myself was quickly diminishing.
A lot of times, when catching a line drive in the outfield, the player must decide if it is prudent to dive. This decision needs to be made in the blink of an eye. And I am only a couple of strides away from the ball! At three steps away from the ball, I choose that yes, I am going to commit to the play and “superman” it, going horizontal with the ground when the precise time arises………two steps left….now loading all of my weight into the burst for the ball…….one step left and then the dive…..lifting my right arm up so that I could catch the ball that is rapidly tailing away from me into my glove……..I THINK I’M GOING TO…….!!!PING!!!!!!!
From what I am told, the sound itself was louder than the ping of the ball off of the bat. The crowd that had witnessed the unfolding events likened the sound to a church bell being rung. It turns out that, even though there were no outfield fences, there were still foul poles marking the outfield. I had managed to run full speed into an immovable steel object, using my head and torso as a battering ram. And with Wile E. Coyote results. Upon finally coming to (with my legs literally wrapped around the foul pole), people informed me that the ball had hit the pocket of my glove…..on the opposite, foul territory side of the pole. The ball dribble off harmlessly at about the same time that my arms began to wrap themselves around the steel post. If only I hadn’t tried to hug the pole. Needless to say, my game was over. Walking off of the field, I was the proud owner of a brand new concussion, a bruise from my previous at bat and a welt that started at the crown of my forehead, continuing down through my sternum and ending at my belly button….not to mention the gilded Mexican hat that was bestowed upon me for my three consecutive strike outs…..
Forgive me, but I don’t remember if our team won or not….
