Baseball, Book of Job and me

Little league star spends career on bench

Baseball is ninety percent mental, and the other half is physical.

-- Yogi Berra

I was not seeking baseball immortality. But at age 9, who was I to say no to the potential opportunity? The occasion arose when my best friend, Wicky Carroll, informed me little league tryouts were coming up and that we should check it out. "They watch you field, hit and throw, and then the coaches decide who to draft for their teams. They take about half who try out."

Despite having never played a single baseball game in my entire life, I was armed with two secret weapons: I sometimes played catch with my Dad -- where to my limited understanding, I seemed to show some promise -- and I had it on good authority that my name was the same as baseball's greatest pitcher of all time: Cy Young. I was in.

A week after tryouts, I received a phone call from the coach of a team called Central Falls informing me they had picked me. Wicky had told me lefthanders like me usually play either first base or right field.

"What position do you want to play son?" the coach asked.

Without hesitation I responded, "First base."

Despite having never so much as even touched a real first base bag, my future major league career was slowly starting to materialize.

I soon did discover I was a natural practice player. My dad's one piece of advice was, that on ground balls, "Keep your head down." So I was seemingly unstoppable on the infield.

It must have paid off because, as we prepared for our opening game, the coach informed me I would be starting at first base. To mark the occasion, despite being on a tight budget, my dad bought me my own wooden bat. I visualized this magic bat would soon be producing towering home runs and further cement my pending baseball legend.

The opening game was to be played at night, which meant my entire family could be in attendance. Trotting out to my position prior to the first inning was the first time my little 9-year-old brain started sending me some distress signals. All our practices had been during the day. Under the glare of the big lights and with a large crowd present, everything looked very different. Did I mention very different?

The very first pitch of the inning was a hot grounder right at me. Despite having the author of the very advice concerning appropriate head positioning sitting 50 feet away, I jerked my head up to watch the runner coming towards me. Swoosh, right through my legs. (There was never a runner in practice!) Thus, started my real-life tribute to the Book of Job.

Thankfully, the next ball was a grounder to third base. Our third baseman expertly kept his head down, fielded it and fired the ball straight into my waiting glove. "Safe," yelled the umpire. "You took your foot of the bag," he responded to my confused stare. While I stared, the runner on second base took advantage and raced to third base. Sweat was pouring down my pink cheeks as my brain was entering panic mode.

The next batter hit a high pop-up just past the first base bag. I had caught thousands of those before, but none in my present mental state -- out squirted the ball from my glove. As I reached in shame for the ball on the ground, an elderly man by the fence leaned over and said, "You should have caught that son." (Well, that certainly cleared up any confusion on my part!)

The inning mercifully ended shortly thereafter, and that was the last time I got anywhere near first base. In baseball terminology, my new position was "riding the pine." Goodbye, New York Yankees.

Go forward 20 years. I am coaching a ladies' softball team, and a guy comes over and asks if I would consider coaching a men's team called Boise-Southern. "We all work together there, so we need an outsider to coach. We've watched you and liked your style."

"Sure," I responded but only if I play as well.

"What position?" he asked.

"First base" I said coolly, "I play first base."

We had a great year.

NAN Our Town on 05/24/2018

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