My daughter's baseball team almost won their first game of the 2009 season on Monday night. Although they were playing better than they did 6 weeks ago, they had met a team on that field, that raining Monday night, that was their equal. For the first time all season, my daughter Bree knew what it felt like to be a winner. Unfortunately, the game would flip the other way on one crucial error in the 2nd inning. (I should also state that little league games are 5 innings or an hour, 45 minutes. And most these games rarely get past the 3rd or 4th inning.) The other team would pull off three runs in the bottom of the third and leave the field on a walk off win-- 12-11.
So, when I was her age, I played baseball every spring. My mother's boss and owner of Chewning Footwear sponsored a team. Usually made up of the children of his employees and friends, the team performed very well. We were never a champion winning team but it was fun. The first year I played I was so young that I could barely hit the ball off a tee. I wasn't the greatest player in the field either and delegated to Left Field (although my desire was to play 3rd Base). When you hit off a tee, the ball rarely, I mean rarely goes past the infield. Thus, the outfields are pretty quiet during games. Year Two, nearly the entire team moved out of the pee wee class and now were hitting off a pitchers throw. Again, I wasn't that good but I managed to hit a few dingers, run to first. But what I do remember is that little league baseball in 1981 had something it no longer has -- chatter. Hey batter batter batter, hey batter batter batter, swing! The coaches weren't afraid to tell us that we sucked and we failed to play baseball when we lost games. The coach would load us all in the bed of his pickup to take us to the Tastee Freeze for ice cream if we won. If we lost, we got nothing, unless you count the laps around the bases we had to run at the next practice. Our uniforms were gold and black. we bought Big League Chew or Fun Dip candy from the concession stand. I remember going behind the concession stand to put a cup that was about five sizes too big into my pants so I could gear up as a catcher one game because Chad wasn't able to play. I remember that little league was extremely competitive. Parents would yell at the umpire, sometimes yell at the coaches. When I finally reached the age to go into the minors (that's what we called the 12 year old division) Chewning's no longer sponsored a team. Thus, I was now in a pool of kids being assigned to teams sponsored by other local businesses. That was my final year of little league baseball. Not that I lost the love for the game but because I lost interest in a team and league that cared more about winning than teaching and improving one's skills. That final year was 1983, I was playing for the Albertson's team. Our uniforms were a baby blue which I always hated. I wanted to play for the Gibson's team. Their uniforms were red and gray. During that final year, I was getting better. I won't lie, I wasn't a great hitter but I could make contact. It was that year that I broke my arm and would nail the fate of my baseball career. I remember that game to this day. I was on second, runner on first. Some kid named Scott hit a nice chopper to short stop. Being forced to run, I headed for third base. Yet the opposing team's third baseman which I think was the Gibson's team, was blocking the base and standing strong in the baseline (an illegal action by the way). We collided with full running force. Not sure how but I broke my arm on impact. Yet I didn't know it at the time. It wasn't until the next inning that I couldn't hold the bat that I realized I had a problem. The coach thought I was being a pansy and I needed to get out there and hit the ball. I would drop the bat in mid swing. It was the ump that called for me to be pulled as injured. My mother would take me to the emergency room and I would find that I had a broken arm. I would be out for 6 - 8 weeks and the season would be over. When it came to signing up for baseball the following summer, I conveniently let my application miss the deadline. I wouldn't play baseball again. It was the game...the day...the magic died.
I regret not playing baseball during high school. I wouldn't play something similar until I played on a friend's beer league softball team. I played Third Base and my jersey number was 5. And I was pretty good.
Maybe Bree's team will win this Saturday. We'll have to wait and see.
Denver Comic Con
