One of the pictures I came across brought back the most wonderful memory I have as a child. I was twelve years old and was playing Little League Baseball. We had sixteen teams and four divisions in our league. The divisions were originally named. They were the North, South, East and West divisions. Our division was the South Division and it consisted of four teams. They were the Senators, the Yankees, the Athletics and the Reds, which just happened to be my team.
The Senators were the best team and they were the shiftiest. They were the type that would do anything to win. Most of the players on that team were related and their coach and manager were brothers. They owned our division for about four years. Once it was discovered that the brothers routinely played thirteen and fourteen year-olds during games, they were banned and things began to tighten up among the teams.
My memory is from when we were in the semi-finals of the league championship. The winning team would be going to Ashland for the regional championship and who knew after that. We went into the tournament as the third ranked team and had made quick work of the Cubs and Indians. We were now facing the Yankees. They were the second best team in the league and they had beaten us two out of the three times we had played that summer. It was the bottom of the sixth and last inning and we were down six to four. I had only one athletic skill as a child, I could knock the socks off a baseball and as a result, I lead the league in batting average and on base percentage. I was the clean up batter for my team.
There were runners on first and third when I came up to bat. We had one out when I stepped up to the plate.
“Hey batter-batter, hey batter,” chattered the other team as I tapped my bat against home plate.
“You ready,” asked the umpire.
“Yep, I’m taking this one deep,” I bragged. This angered the pitcher because he threw one right at my head, but I ducked out of the way.
“Ball one,” shouted the ump. He then looked at the Yankee’s coach and pointed. “If he throws another one like that, I’m tossing him and I’ll file a complaint against you and your team at the board.”
“Lighten up. It was an accident,” said their coach even though everyone knew he was lying.
“Test me,” was the ump’s only reply.
“Lighten up Alan,” shouted the Yankee’s manager, the coach’s brother-in-law.
The next pitch was high and outside and I took it for a second ball. I was getting angry at this point, because I wanted to hit the gaming winning homerun, but they weren’t cooperating with my fantasy.
The third pitch was at my feet and another ball. I was now sitting on a count of three balls and no strikes. I looked down at my coach and he tipped his cap with his right hand. This was our signal to take the pitch. I thought about it for less than a second. I didn’t care what they coach said, I was going to swing at the next pitch. I was right because the next pitch was right down the middle. As I watched the ball come hurdling towards me, I could see the red thread just as plain as day. I took a deep breath, raised my left leg up and planted it just before I began to pull with my left arm and push with my right. I heard the crack of the ball just before I got half way through my swing.
The events of the next few seconds are as fresh in my mind as the day they happened. The ball shot from my bat like a round from a rifle. It whizzed past the first baseman before he even had a chance to open his glove. Dust bounced off the back of the infield as the ball hit the ground and kept on rolling towards right field. It was running parallel with the right field line. Gerry, the kid on third saw the ball hit the ground and he took off for home.
“Yippee,” I shouted as I dropped the bat and began to run towards first base. As I neared the base, my coaching began shouting, “Go, go, go,” as he waved his hands to motion me to keep going. As I neared second, I heard someone yelling, “Stop Randy, stop.” I jumped up into the air and slid into second base. As I hit the plate, I looked towards home and watched my cousin Timmy cross the plate on the run.
I then proceeded to call time out so that I could dust myself off. As I was wiping the dirt off my bottom, I heard by dad say, “Yeah, that’s my boy. You hear that? That’s my boy!” I then looked towards the stands and saw both of my parents standing and clapping. My older sister, Veronica, was so excited she was jumping up and down like a chimpanzee in a zoo.
I don’t remember what happened for the next few seconds because I was lost in that moment. That was the first, last, and only time I’ve ever seen my parents proud of me. I mean they were truly proud of me. I knew in no uncertain circumstances that they were pleased with me. They were and mother still is the type that is willing to point out your faults twenty-four, seven, three-sixty-five, but will not highlight your virtues. Therefore, seeing them brag on me was the most wonderful experience of my childhood. With the exceptions of my wife telling me she loved me on our wedding night and the instant I saw my child for the first time, I’ve never experienced the pleasure I experienced as I stood there on second base basking in the rapture of the moment.
I came to my senses only when the Yankee’s second baseman walked over to me and said, “Good hit.”
“Thanks, I got lucky.”
“Still was a good shot.”
“That’s my son,” yelled my mother. I tipped my hat to that side of the stands to show them that I appreciated their support.
The next guy up to bat was Jeremy Landon. He was small and not apt to hit it far, but all he had to do lay the ball on the ground or put a fly ball into anywhere but left field. He obliged my desires. He popped one into shallow right field and it dropped just past the first baseman’s head. Once it hit the ground, I tagged up and ran as hard as I could to third base. I made it rather easily. I started to head home but my third base coach stopped me.
“We’ll let the next man bring you home,” said Coach Collier.
Our sixth batter was my cousin Rodney. He normally batted first due to his quickness, but the coach had put him in at sixth that day. I don’t know why the coach did that, but he felt that was the best possible place for the fastest kid in the league.
As Rodney approached the plate, the Yankee’s third baseman, a kid with a reputation for being a bully at his school, walked passed me and mumbled something that I couldn’t understand.
“What’d you say?” I politely asked.
“You’re a bunch of whiny punks,” he replied.
“But we’re going to beat you guys.” I could hear the smugness in my reply. “Then we’ll see who does the whining.”
“You’ll be, because I’ll break you down with a bat before I lose to a piece of…”
“Watch your mouth!”
“You gonna make me?”
Before I could reply, I heard the crack from Rodney’s bat. It was a pop up to shallow center field. The outfielder ran in and caught it. He held the ball up to show that he had it. That was all I needed. I tagged the base and began to run towards home plate. I assumed that I’d be able to get to the plate before the outfielder was able to get the ball to the catcher.
As I began to head towards the base, the third baseman stepped in front of me. I ran him over, but also stumbled and fell. As I struggled to get to my feet, he grabbed my left leg and wouldn’t let go of it. Without even thinking about it, I kicked him as hard as I could in the chest with my right leg. He screamed but let go of my leg. I rolled out of the way and came up on my feet.
The smart thing would have been to go back to third and let the coaches argue over the third baseman’s interference. That would’ve been the smart thing, but I wasn’t thinking. I began to run towards home as hard as I could. As I neared the plate, I could see a grin on their catcher’s face. He was planted in place and waiting on me.
I knew that he had the ball, but I was not going to be denied. When I was about four feet from him, I leaped straight at him. As I took off into the air, I lowered my right shoulder and struck him in the stomach like a linebacker using his full weight to bring down a running back.
The instant I hit him he swung up and struck me across the face with his mitt. My teeth rattled and my helmet flew off from the brunt force of his tag. As he struck me, I heard a loud swoosh escape from his lungs. I remember tumbling over him and landing with a thud against the ground.
“He’s out,” cried the home plate umpire.
The slap from the ump’s call caused much more pain than did the actual hit from the catcher’s mitt. I felt like crying as I sat there realizing I had let my team down. I slapped the ground in disgust. It felt like the world had come to an end.
“Wait,” shouted my coach as he came running from somewhere near third base. “The catcher dropped the ball.”
My heart went from breaking to joyful adulation in less than a second.
“No I didn’t,” screamed the catcher.
“Do you have the ball?” asked Alan, the home plate umpire.
“Yes, I do,” barked the opposing player.
“Let’s see it,” demanded the ump, but the boy couldn’t produce it.
I heard Rodney shouting, “It’s over here. It’s over here. There it is.”
As Rodney was shouting, I was looking around for the base. I wanted to ensure that I tagged the plate just in case. It took a couple of seconds to realize that I was sitting on top of it. I sat there grinning like a dirty faced cat caught red-handed in the fish bowl.
The ump and both coaches walked to where a ball lay on the ground. The ump looked at the hind catcher and asked, “Do you have the ball?”
The boy tried to speak but couldn’t. He tried a second time and failed as well.
“Since you don’t have the ball,” said the ump, “I have to change my call. Safe! Game over! Reds win!”
That was the only time I ever felt like a hero and it was awesome. I don’t know how I kept from blowing apart as the sheer thrill of it all exploded from within me. I still get chills thinking about it. My team ran out and carried me off the field. My coach bought me a soda and rubbed my head to show his appreciation for what I did. Even though my mother wanted me to wash my face, I refused. The newspaper was there to take our pictures and I wanted the whole county to see me like that. I wanted them to know that I had given my all and had the face to prove it. That dirt was a badge of honor for me and I would’ve worn it for another month had mom let me, but she made me bath the instant I got home.
My dad bragged about it all the way home and into the evening. He would buy twenty copies of that newspaper and give them to his biggest customers. It was truly the greatest day of my life and it happened when I was only twelve. It was the only time I ever felt like I truly belonged. It was the only instant that I ever felt loved and it came with a condition. I had to win in order to receive it. This was a lesson my young mind fathomed very well and I’d spend my life trying to recreate that magic.