Setting A Record That Can Only Be Tied, But Never Broken
4th In A Series About Baseball
MY EARLY LITTLE LEAGUE CAREER
Setting A Record That Can Be Tied, But Never Broken
4th in a series about baseball
I started playing baseball when I was about six. Jim and Rich, my older brothers, were pretty good ball players and they were hoping I would be as well. My Dad, who had been a really good player in the 1930’s, decided, along with my brothers, that I needed to be a catcher. I was pudgy and not very fast, but I made up for it by not being able to throw very far or accurately and not catching too well. I was, what coaches call…. a project.
No one else in the neighborhood wanted to play catcher, so the position was wide open. Dad, Rich and Jim figured that if I could master catching games with a wiffle or yarn ball, I could graduate to hardball. Wiffle and yarn balls did not hurt that much when you got hit with one, so the logic was that I would learn the art of catching these less harmful to the body balls and be ready to take the next step. I immediately recognized that we had no catchers gear – mask, chest protector, shin guards – and strongly mentioned that to Dad and brothers. Their collective response was that it was not a hardball and it would barely sting when I got hit.
And, so, I became a catcher. And……just as fast my catching career, thank God, was over. It had to do with physiology, or in layman’s terms, my pudgy, non-athletic body and the catchers crouch. I could never crouch very well. A somewhat heavy butt, combined with long, but not strong legs, does not lend itself to good crouching. I would attempt a crouch, which other kids did with so much ease, and I would not stop, just going all the way down, my butt landing with a thud on the ground with my legs flailing in the air. If I had on actual catching gear, I would have looked like a turtle flipped upside down.
I decided the best method was to start a crouch, but finish with being on both knees. I would hold out my mitt to give the pitcher a target and took my position about 5 feet behind the plate. I really did not like that bat swishing so close in front of me. My brothers solved this problem (for them, not for me) by moving home plate back close to the plywood we used for a backstop. I could actually lean on the plywood in a sort of crouch (success!) to give the pitcher his target. But, that damn bat was still going to be too close to my face for my comfort.
Now things got tense for me. The pitcher (one of many neighborhood kids), would wind up and throw to the batter in front of me. This is where the problems started. Balls clearly out of the strike zone were easy. Not that I caught them, but I didn’t have to worry about the batter swinging. I hated that! I was probably 40% on catching those balls. On the misses I would hurry to get the ball and throw it back to the pitcher so as not to endure the wrath of the other players. These were the same kids who refused to play catcher, but had no problem yelling, “Hurry up Tubby, get the ball. We don’t have all day.”
Pitches that were coming in as strikes were worse and painful. As the ball would come in and I saw it was a strike, I figured the batter would hit it. I liked that as I did not have to try to catch it. However, I would also flinch and close my eyes because I knew that bat was coming close to my head. Have I mentioned,I hated that? On the occasions, quite often in wiffle ball, when the batter took the pitch or swung and missed, the ball would hit me in the head, chest, shoulder, or worse, between the legs. The other players did not mind me getting hit because I did not have to waste their valuable time going to the backstop to get the ball. I remember some would say “Nice try Chimps.” I have no idea how I got that nickname (I assume it was derogatory) or what it meant, but I remember it distinctly 65 years later.
After several hits to the face, I adopted the practice of putting the mitt directly in front of my face, closing my eyes and hoping for the best. I did not catch a lot of balls, but I may have averted teenage dementia.
After a few weeks of this torture, Dad and my brothers, sent me to right field, which at our house, was by the lumber pile. Little did I know I would stay in right field a very long time.
By the time I was six or seven, Little League beckoned. Nowadays we have T-ball, minors, majors, midget U-10 and all sorts of intermediate leagues to cater to kids as they grow older. In the 1950’s there was Little League. That was it. We began when we could carry a mitt and swing a bat and ended when we were 13. Part of this was because we did not have all that many kids to fill out even one team. At age seven I was on a Salkum team that was comprised of a very loose knit group of kids ranging in age seven (me) to 13 (several kids). Someone bought us T-shirts with SALKUM printed on the front in black letters.
When playing games against other towns, we used the DeGross Field because we were playing “real baseball” with a hardball and some father as an umpire. Usually we kind of coached ourselves, with an older kid running the show. I do remember one year, when I was probably eight or so, Darrell DeGross, home for the summer from Central, was our coach. We all thought this was awesome as he was a starting catcher for a college team. To us, that was like being a pro.
We had a really good team. Rich Cook (along with the DeGross boys, Rich was one the best all- around athletes to ever play at Mossyrock) was our main pitcher. My brother, Jim, was a really good hitter and we had the Legg brothers, Robert and Harry (yes, Harry Legg), who were speedy defensive players. Along with those kids, we had several big, strong farm boys who loved to play ball. Oh, yes; I was on the team as well.
We had no schedule. Darrell would contact someone he knew from another town and arrange a game. We would recruit a dad to umpire and we were set.
As mentioned, I was the youngest on the team by about four years. However, I got to play quite a bit because quite often we only had eight or nine kids show up to play. On those occasions, the other kids would beg Darrell to play with only eight, rather than have me play. Darrell told the kids I had every right to play and I would head to my spot in right field.
Years later, Darrell and I were both athletic directors and on the State WIAA board together. Over drinks after one conference, I told Darrell that he may not remember, but I was appreciative of him letting me play all those years before. He said he did remember and then added, “Gary, we usually were winning by 10 runs. Of course, you were going to play. But, if that game got close, you were going to be out of there. We had a perfect season going.” Even as a 35 year old, that stung a little.
In retrospect, Darrell was correct. I was most definitely the weak link. I did have a couple of goals for the summer. I wanted to get a hit and I wanted to make no errors in right field. I almost achieved both.
As for hitting, by late season I amended my goal of getting a hit to just hitting one fair. I did do that a couple of times, dribbling to the pitcher. In my mind it took a spectacular play to get me out at first. So, I somewhat achieved my first goal.
I did, however, go into the record books (thank God, there were no actual record books) for my hitting……or not hitting. I batted last, of course. But, in one game toward the end of the season, the 8th batter made the last out, which made me lead off the next inning. I led off and struck out on three pitches. The team then “batted around,” which meant every player got on base and I was up again with one out (my strike out). I struck out on three pitches. Two outs. The team batted around again and I was up for the third time in the same inning, with two outs (my two strike outs). By now the kids on both teams realized that they were seeing something that rarely, if ever, happens. Most of my team mates (not all as I remember) were rooting for me to get a dribbler to first, walk or get hit; anything but a strike out. I struck out on three pitches. Nine pitches – three strike outs – one inning.
The silver lining was that I was no longer called chimps, tubby or wuss. My new nickname was non-verbal. My Salkum teammates would walk by me and hold up a zero sign using their thumb and forefinger and then hold up three fingers and smile. I kind of liked it. It was better than wuss or chimps.
On the defensive side I had better luck. Technically, I never made an error, but Rich Cook may differ. Going in to the last game, I had not made an error. This was mainly due to the fact that I had no balls hit to me. That was OK by me. If I had been in the major leagues I would have received a Golden Glove for least errors.
In the last inning of the last game of the season, I was minding my own business out in right, thinking about what snack I was going to have after Rich Cook pitched another no hitter. It was the last inning and I was bored and hungry. Then, What the Hell? A fly ball was coming my way. It was a high pop up too deep for the second baseman…dammit. Kids were yelling, “You got it Gary.” I calmly remembered all the times in practice when balls were hit to me. Then I panicked and also remembered “I RARELY CAUGHT ANY OF THOSE BALLS!”
I stepped in, stepped back and yelled loudly, “MINE!” The ball landed in front of me, almost hitting my left foot. I reached down to pick it up, but it spun under my hand and went a few feet behind me. I retrieved the ball and turned to throw to Harry Legg, who was on second, waiting for the runner. The throw went on about five hops, 30 feet to the left of Harry and to his brother, Robert, standing on first. Robert threw to the third baseman who tagged out the runner, who was trying to stretch what should have been an easy fly out into a triple.
As we were heading to the bench, I told Rich it was too bad he did not get a no hitter. He looked at me incredulously, and said, “Wuss, I got a no hitter. I should have had a perfect game, but you couldn’t catch a damn fly ball hit right to you.” For some strange reason, I decided to tell Rich that, technically, I did not make an error because I did not touch the ball. Rich gave me the “What the F” look and walked off. That was probably not a good decision on my part.
That was the end of my “early” little league career. I would go on to play in the more formal Mossyrock Little League for the next four years. Did it get better? You will have to keep reading.
Things did get better with Rich Cook and my reputation. A few years later, Rich was a senior when I was a freshman. He, of course, was student body president and, somehow, I was elected as freshman representative to the student council. Rich treated me with respect and actually was friendly with me. Other freshmen were kind of in awe that Rich Cook would go by me in the hall, give me a friendly punch and then put out the “0” sign and hold up three fingers in reference to my three strike outs in one inning performance from a few years past. My classmates would ask what that meant. I told them it was a secret sign just for good buddies from Salkum. Those three strike outs did come in handy after all.
Rich had a monster senior year. As an example, he was pitching a no hitter and between innings, he changed into track shorts and shoes and ran the high hurdles (the track was only a few yards from the baseball field). He broke the school record and then went back to finish his no hitter. He signed with the Cubs, and had a clause in his contract that they would pay for his college if he did not make it to the majors. He made it to AA, but then the Cubs paid his way as he went to WSU to receive his degree. He then received his doctorate from a Midwestern school and enjoyed a nice career in criminal science. He is one of many success stories for small town Salkum kids who grew up playing ball on the DeGross and Haslett fields.