One, Two, Three Strikes...You're Out!

Summertime can really only mean one thing if you are a sports fan.

Sure, there’s the U.S. Open and Wimbledon. And now that the U.S. men’s team is winning, there’s World Cup soccer. But summer means baseball. Of course it does.

For old slugs like me, it has also come to mean recreational softball leagues. I played the last couple of years with a team comprised mostly of Mormons, called the “Fighting Pacifists.” Great name, but a mediocre team at best. We got our butts kicked a lot by teams from the Ballyhoo Tavern and the AC Delco plant, but we managed to hold our own some of the time, too. But we were also prone to needing to find players on short notice – hence the presence of this non-Mormon batting lead-off and playing 2B. There was also a group of students from China filling a good portion of the line-up, and when they left the area this year, the Pacifists folded.

Finding myself a man without a team, I decided to join the men’s senior baseball league here in Terre Haute. They have a 19+ league and a 38+ league. Since it’s been 25 years since I’ve faced live pitching, an since I grunt loudly now when I get up from just about any position, I decided to go with the 38+ league.

And so it came to be that I found myself playing SS for the 38+ Cardinals every Sunday.

Those of you who know me know that baseball is the one sport I was actually good at in my younger years. Sure, I could sink a basket and catch a pass as well, if not better, than most. But real honest to goodness competitive skill eluded me in every sport but baseball. It came naturally. My parents have films of me hitting a baseball around the yard with my tiny bat when I was 2 or 3. I could catch a ball early, and could throw a ball in the air and hit it by the time I was 5.

I used to dream of being a professional baseball player. My first memories of watching the pros were in Marshfield, MA, sitting in the basement of our house on Prince Circle watching the World Series (A’s vs. Reds, 1972) and watching Joe Rudi make one hell of a catch against the outfield wall. I tried to emulate him over and over by tossing a tennis ball in the air and leaping up against the white paneling, much to my parents’ annoyance, I’m sure. I also liked to play full games by myself in the backyard, tossing the ball in the air, hitting it and running the bases, all the while providing play-by-play and cheering as well (this latter element led to one of our neighbors thinking I had asthma).

When my brothers started to play little league, I wanted to be right there. I ended up being the bat boy on Steve’s team, the Cubs. I got to sit in the dugout and be around the big kids in their grey cotton uniforms. My fondest memory of that time was being given a chance to hit at the end of one of the team’s practices. I must have brought along my special small bat (I was an especially small kid) and I remember (perhaps incorrectly after all these years) the coach, Mr. Noyce, throwing me a slightly patronizing underhand pitch from about 15 feet away, and me hitting him in the knee with a line drive (a soft one, no doubt, but still, I was 6).

When we got to San Diego, and I turned 8, I finally got to play Little League. And I thrived. I just had it down. I could hit anything, strike out the side, pitch a complete game, play shortstop. And it stayed this way until I was about 13. And then the kids who were already bigger than me got even bigger, and I fell behind. I was overmatched and overpowered. I had my moments still; the talent was there, but the speed and strength just weren’t. I played all the way through high school – I always made the team, and even started – but I wasn’t the threat I had been as a young kid.

And then I went to college and it ended.

And now 25 years later it’s back, and I find myself having to think about strike zones and pitch counts, sitting fastball or curve, taking a pitch or swinging away, covering third on a bunt, and turning two. I’m happy to report that the glove – my real forte – is still there. My arm is weak from age, though, and my eye at the plate is taking its own sweet time coming back. I’ve been going to the batting cages regularly over the years, and I always crush the ball. But having a machine throw you strike after strike at a designated speed is not the same as having someone change speeds on you, brush you off the plate, or throw you a goddamned curve ball, not to mention a knuckle ball: a particular favorite of the over 50 crowd.

Between the ages of 8 and 18, I never struck out more than twice in a single game, and that I only did two or three times over 10 years. At age 42, I’ve struck out 5 times in two games. I just can’t seem to lay off the high stuff. And I never could hit a curve worth a damn. I have singled twice, drawn three walks and scored three runs, so all is not lost. And I hit the ball a lot harder in my second game than I did on my first.

My guess is that it will all come back to me in time…

We bought David a batting tee for the backyard and he immediately hit the ball hard and straight. Take a look! I’m particularly fond of his Ichiro-like slapping style that allows him to be a step down the first base line even as he is still making contact with the ball.

I think he likes it, too.