Or, Careful what you wished for: A detailed description of my one ill-fated at bat as an all star.
LITTLE LEAGUE ALL-STAR or BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
5th In A Series About Baseball
By the time I was 12, I had played Little League for five years. I knew the names, mascots and cities of every major league baseball team and could also name most of the starting players for those teams. It was easier to do in the 1950’s as there were only 16 teams. I could recite the dimensions of every major league ball park and spout off the all-time records; not just the easy ones like Babe Ruth with 60 home runs, but records like Honus Wagner hitting 424 in 1924 or Bob Feller with 36 complete games in 1946. I had practically memorized the baseball rule book and would have Mom quiz me on sections just for fun. I also had compiled a collection of over 3000 baseball cards and had read my favorite book, “Little League Champs,” six times. I knew a lot about baseball. The problem was….I just could not play it very well.
But, I made the All-Star Team! I was as happy as my brothers were perplexed. How, they would ask, did someone whose batting average began with two zeros, make an all-star team? How, they wondered aloud, could a kid whose white uniform would stay clean for two or three straight games, make the all-star team? My Dad told them to shut up and be supportive and just maybe I was picked because I was a hard worker and a good teammate. That was true. I did work hard, was very coachable, and was a great teammate. However, the real reason I made the all-star team, unknown to me or my brothers, was that my Dad umpired several games during the season and the coaches owed him a favor. They also knew my Dad, normally a very friendly person, had a temper that would not bode well for the decision makers if I did not make the team. So, I was an All-Star! YES!
Once practice started I quickly realized my chances of playing hinged on two factors: 1) several kids going on vacation or getting hurt and/or 2) we got ahead or behind by 10 or 11 runs early and the coaches cleared the benches. I had no problem with either scenario. After all, I was an All-Star! YES!
The Lewis County Little League All-Star Tournament was held in Winlock, a town about 45 minutes west from where we lived. Since Marvin Howard was not picking kids up for this event, my Dad was took me to each game. This posed a problem as Dad was “hoot owling” in the woods at this time in the summer. “Hoot owl” is a term used in the logging industry for starting to work just before dawn, which, in the summer, was about 4:00 AM. The men could operate their heavy equipment until the dew evaporated from the morning sun, making the woods too dry to safely work. Dad would get up about 2:30 to leave for his drive to work in a crew van, called a crummy. He arrived at work around 3:30 AM, high in the forest near Mt. St. Helens, and began operating his D9 CAT around 4:00, hoping to get in at least 8 good hours of work before being told to stop by state timber officials on the scene with dew measuring instruments.
If he worked a full eight hours, he would arrive home by around 2:00, bathe, catch a two hour nap and then drive me to Winlock for my game.
The All-Star tournament was awesome. Winlock, like Mossyrock for Pioneer Days, set up their field on the high school football field. They had huge, covered bleachers, lights for night games, actual white chalk lines down 1st and 3rd and a real, chalked in batter’s box. This was class. But, best of all, we were going to have our name announced on a PA system. How cool is that?
There were eight teams in the tournament. Towns I had heard of, but seemed so far away, were there such as Adna which was clear on the other side of Chehalis and Toledo a large town with a doctor’s office, dentist and drugstore. Packwood, on our end of the county was represented as well as Onalaska and home team Winlock.
Before our first game began, each player’s name was announced as we ran to our spot along either the first or third base line. When my name was announced, I trotted to the 3rd base line and was so proud to wear my sparkling white Salkum Reds uniform (thank you Mom) along with my blue baseball hat with a gold star on the front. I lined up squarely on the line, gave a nod to the teammate who was already there, and then looked for my Dad. Dad was in the bleachers, coffee in hand, trying to stay awake. He gave me a little nod and a smile. My Dad, the tough logger, was not going to show much more emotion than that in showing he was proud. At least I think he was proud. It was hard to tell with Dad. But, he was there and that was important to me.
The first game was close and I did not play. I stayed active and yelled support to my teammates and made sure to always be in a site line of my coach just in case he needed a pinch hitter. We lost a close one and had to play in the losers bracket the next day. On the way home, we stopped for ice cream at Mary’s Corner and Dad said he was sorry I did not get to play and maybe tomorrow I would get a chance. For the next three days, as we kept winning close games, fighting our way through the losers bracket and me not playing, Dad would console me with ice cream and a short pep talk.
On the 5th straight day of the tournament, we had made it to our final game, playing for 3rd and 4th. This was my last little league game. I was really hoping to get in the game as much for my Dad as for me. He had driven me, sleep deprived, to five straight games, drinking luke warm coffee to stay awake, eating stale hotdogs, sitting on hard wooden bleachers only to watch other father’s sons play. This is when I became a bad teammate. I did not care who won or who got hurt or sick. I wanted to get in the damn game. “Just give me a blowout”, I was hoping, as the game began. I got one. We were down 8-0 with two outs in the 6th, when coach told me to get ready to hit.
I was excited and nervous all at once. I grabbed my 29 inch Louisville Slugger with the Willie Mays signature and started taking practice swings in the on deck circle. Yes, they had an on deck circle. As I was taking such mighty on deck swings that I was lucky I did not throw my back out, I finally noticed the pitcher. I had not really been paying much attention as I had during earlier games. We had no runs because the pitcher was one out from a perfect game. That is why the coaches left him in despite being so far ahead. I thought he probably drove his own car the game.
I quit my practice swinging, which probably saved some needed physical therapy afterwards, and took a better look at the pitcher. He was huge; at least six feet tall and 180 pounds or so. I then thought, he didn’t drive to the tournament. He came directly from the woods in a crummy after throwing chokers around all day. He may have driven the damn crummy.
I was petrified as I kept staring at the pitcher. Then I heard the ump say, “son, you going to bat or not? It’s hot out here.” I was still in the on deck circle. The previous batter had struck out and walked by me on the way to the dugout. Awakened from my scared crapless trance, I did remember him saying “good luck” and something about “don’t get killed.”
I then remembered my Dad saying to be confident and to always go down swinging. Never, ever, get called out on the third strike. I had those words of wisdom in my mind when I stepped up to the plate and took a practice swing.
I then formulated a plan. Actually, I had formulated this plan many times, but now I was finally going to put it into action to make my Dad proud. I figured the pitcher had to be tired. I would take the first pitch, hoping for a ball. I would keep taking pitches until I had a strike on me. With any luck, I might actually draw a walk, ruining the perfect game and making me a hero of sorts. However, remembering my Dad’s mantra, “never, ever take a third strike,” I would swing for the fences on the next two pitches after the first called strike. Who knows, I might actually get a loud foul or, miracles do happen, an actual hit.
I was feeling better now and took a couple of practice swings and faced the pitcher. Then the ump said, “son, you need to get in the batter’s box.” I looked down. Both feet were behind the outside line of the batter’s box. I may have been able to reach the outside corner of home plate with a long garden rake. I looked at the ump and said “sorry.” He replied, “No worries son” with a sympathetic look of “let’s get this over with.” All this may have tipped off the pitcher, whose five o’clock shadow would be the envy of most college kids, that I was somewhat scared.
I readjusted my helmet, stepped back in, making sure my rubber cleated shoes were both inside the box, albeit, barely, but inside nonetheless. I took a practice swing and stared at the pitcher, who I think voted for Ike instead of Stevenson, trying to look calm. The pitch came in belt high, very fast. The ump stuck up his right hand and yelled, “Steeerike Ooonee!” I gave the ump a pleading look, as if to say “please help me here!” He looked at me as if to say, “kid I need a beer.”
I dug in for the second pitch. Now I needed to swing at anything just to look good. Again, the pitch came in so fast I just froze. The ump did his hand routine again and yelled even louder, “Steeeerike Twooooo!” I gave him a dirty look. I knew, instead of strike two, he was thinking “Raineeer Beeeer!
I was down to my last strike. Remember what Dad always said…”Never”…”Yes, I Know Dad, but you did not face a little league pitcher whose fastball should be declared an illegal weapon.
I knew I had to swing no matter what. Obviously the pitcher, who I think was engaged to the umps daughter, was not afraid of me and was going to throw that fastball again. I dug in and was ready. I tried to give a menacing, mean look, but the small tear coming from the corner of my right eye, might have ruined that effort.
The pitch came in and I was just ready to give a mighty swing, when, “What the Hell!” The ball was coming right at me. I thought the pitcher, who would be in AA ball by summers end, had control. Obviously not! I spun around in corkscrew fashion, rolling on the ground, finally getting my uniform dirty after five games. I was thinking how I had averted sure death, when I heard the ump yell, “Steeerike Threee. You’re Out. Ball game’s over!” Still on the ground, I looked up at the ump and gave him my “What the Hell” look. He looked at me in sympathy and said, “curveball son.”
The game was over. I trudged my way to the car where Dad was waiting as he had been for the four previous games. He did not say anything, but looked kind of sad. He had seen my dismal batting performance and realized once and for all that I was just not going to be the ball player he was hoping to have in his last son. Dad never yelled at me for my subpar athleticism. He just supported me and quietly resigned himself to it. So long as I tried hard. That was what mattered.
That is what I was thinking when Dad said, “I’m sorry you did not get to play.
They should have at least let you pinch hit or play right field. The other kids were not doing that well.”
It took me a second or two to process what I just heard. Dad did not know I had played and he did not know I had batted. He must have gone to the car before the game was over. Part of me was relieved that he had not seen me strike out or, worse yet, get called out on strikes. But, part of me was mad that he did not stick around to see me in my last at bat as a little leaguer. I could just say, “Thanks Dad. I guess it was not meant to be” and it would be all over. But, before I had a chance to think, I blurted out, “But, Dad, I did bat….in the last inning. You didn’t see it?”
Dad kept driving in silence and I knew that was not a good thing. I could see the familiar Mt. St Helens (20+ years before the real St. Helens actually blew) ready for an eruption. After what seemed like 20 minutes, but was probably only one or two, Dad half yelled, “ &%$*&$@#& (Dad could really cuss) I spend five *&$#&*^$ days sitting in those %$&%&^ grandstands, eating cold hot dogs and piss for coffee, only to take five minutes to go take a pee and miss you bat.”
I had not good answer, although I felt better about the whole thing knowing nature called and Dad had had not just given up hope. I was trying to look sad so he might feel sorry for me and not be mad about missing my at bat. It may have worked too well. After a few minutes he gently asked, “Well, how did you do at your at bat?”
“Crap,” I thought. “Another decision to make.” He had no idea how I did. I could lie. He would never know I took a dreaded third strike. I could not do that. Once again, my innate and really irritating to others and now to me, ability to never lie, did me in again. I said quietly, “I struck out Dad.” He waited a few seconds and then asked what I knew was coming, “Did you swing?” No sense lying now. I was all in and would try to make the best of it. “I wanted to.” I said. Dad gave me a puzzled look mixed with a little anger and amusement, if that is possible. “What do you mean, you wanted to?” he asked quietly, but with a hint of impatience.
I broke into a 400 plus word, without taking a breath;
“Dad, I was planning on taking a walk so I would get on and break up the perfect game and you would be proud of me, but the goliath pitcher – he was way too old for little league – threw two straight strikes – really fast fast balls – messing up my plan and I was going to swing at the next pitch no matter what because that is what you taught me, but the ball came straight at my head and I had to duck and fall to the ground to not get hit in the head and be killed, but the ump called the third strike because he wanted to go have a beer, probably with the pitcher.”
I got all this out in one breath and then waited.
Dad, drove a little while, taking it all in and then gave a little smile and said, “Damn curve ball right, son?” I said, “Yes, Dad it was. And it was a good one.” We drove a while and then Dad said, “Well your little league days are over. You will do better in Babe Ruth. You ready to stop for some ice cream?”
Dad pretty much always ended up saying just the right words even if most of them started or ended with %$#&%R&^.
So, ended my little league career; eating ice cream at the café on Mary’s Corner with my Dad….in a dirty uniform.
And, no, it did not get better in Babe Ruth.