Two stories stand out as I think back over my little league career. One would be my high point as a middle school ballplayer. The other, not so much. I wouldn’t describe it as a painful memory, in fact I find it quite humorous. It all stemmed from the fact that I’ve never been able to throw the ball very far. My second year coach figured this out early on and I was relegated to the role of catcher. This proved to be a rather unfortunate decision on his part.
The first game of the season and everyone was excited. Our team was the home team so I settled in behind the plate, ready to officially begin my catching career. We may have gotten the first batter out, probably not, but at some point the other team put a player on base. The opposing coach decided to test our defense and sent the runner, who easily stole second as my throw bounced somewhere in the vicinity of the pitcher’s mound and dribbled its way ever so slowly toward the shortstop. Like a group of sharks in a feeding frenzy, the other team proceeded to steal base after base with each of my attempted pick-off throws showing remarkable precision and abysmal accuracy. Finally, the umpire saw the writing on the wall and made a judgment call. For the rest of the season players would not be allowed to steal. In one half inning I had single-handedly changed the rules of the game.
I don’t remember being upset by the experience. This was probably due to the fact that I didn’t expect to be good at sports. I enjoyed playing them, but I understood from an early age that my strengths were more cerebral than physical and so my self-esteem was never tied to how well I performed on the ball field. Because of this, anytime I did something exceptionally well it was a bit of a surprise, as illustrated in the second story.
If there was one position that was even more of a wasteland for talent than catcher, it was the outfield. Coaches were resigned to the fact that any ball that made it past the infield would probably not be caught and would result in at least a double. I was unsurprised when I was assigned to left field my last year in little league. What was surprising was that I was good at it. Not with my arm, I still couldn’t throw too far and needed an extensive relay system, but with my glove. If a ball headed in my general direction, I could catch it.
My crowning achievement as an outfielder came in one of the last games of the season. We were playing the league leaders, who were an offensive juggernaut. They were anchored by a huge monster of a boy. I don’t remember his real name but we all called him “Ox” and it was rumored (although this was probably sour grapes) that he had been held back a few times. Ox’s specialty was hitting towering fly balls that made outfielders look like they were auditioning for a spot on the Keystone Kops as they ran to and fro trying to track down the small speck of white. As if that wasn’t enough, he was also a switch-hitter.
He came to bat at a crucial point in the game. I was standing out in left field fully expecting to be tested to the utmost. And then his coach yelled at him to hit lefty. Immediately, my coach yelled at me to switch with the right fielder. So I ran all the way across the field and got squared up, just in time to see Ox switch back to hitting right-handed. My coach yelled. I ran back. Ox walked to the other side of the plate. At this point, the umpire stepped in (seems to be a recurring theme) and made Ox commit to one side of the batter’s box. He chose to hit right.
The pitcher finally got into the action. I don’t remember how many pitches were thrown. I do remember the last one. Ox swung his bat and hit a majestic shot that soared high into the sky before rocketing back to earth and landing perfectly in my glove. As I came running in from the outfield, still tightly gripping the ball, the entire team converged on me in celebration. It was the pinnacle of my little league career.
To this day I remember how hard that ball hit my glove. My hand must have been sore for a week.
