"I never called a balk in my life. I didn't understand the rule." - Former Major League Umpire Ron Luciano.
Everyone knows, in baseball, that it's one, two, three strikes your out as told by the simple ditty, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Others then learn, four balls means the batter can take their base. A hit means your safe. Rounding all four bases on a hit is a home run. A catch in the air or a tag of the runner with a live ball means your out. And so on and so on.
The nuances of the game get more complex as you go along. One minute it's three strikes your out and the next it's all about making a double switch in the 7th for a lefty outfielder so you can pinch hit a right-hander off the bench who hits screwballs with a .266 average to right-center field gaps to get the runner home from second, with the opponents outfielder's playing in "no doubles" position. What the fuck? The stakes can escalate quickly. Such is the case with the little known, little seen, much dreaded, and defensively crippling balk.
A balk is when a pitcher gets ready to throw his pitch, by placing ball and pitching hand in glove while standing on the pitching rubber, and then breaks his motion. He, or she (ladies), turns his body towards a base, takes his hand out of his glove, throws to a base while stepping towards another, etc., all while not stepping off the pitching rubber on the mound. If you do these things without stepping off, the guys on base get a free pass to move up to the next base, even if it means scoring a run. So now you know. I wish I had.
So with all that info absent from my timid and tepid baseball brain, my coach in seventh grade decided it would be a good idea to try me out as a pitcher. Our pitching staff wasn't exactly blowing anyone away, I can only speculate in hindsight. One practice, he had me take a few throws off the mound to our batters. "Good pitch Truchan," he said at first. "Nice speed." Then there was a lot of, "Wow, okay don't hit our men," and "Okay. We can't afford to drill any of our own guys anymore." I was named starting pitcher for our next game.
I was handed the ball and trotted out to the mound one April afternoon with some renewed confidence. At least I didn't have to boot the ball into the outfield while trying to play a routine grounder anymore. I just had to lob my pitches in there and hope the visiting team could hit just as poorly as I could. Piece of cake. I'd go a full game. My father was watching on anxiously, having given me tips beforehand. But I knew what a pitcher did. He threw as fast as he could, all the time, no matter what. Right?
I took the mound and the batter stepped in the box. "PLAY BALL!" I delivered the first pitch in for a called strike. Good start. My next pitch was a different story. I almost shaved off the batter's puberty blossoming mustache fuzz. "BALL" Then, I threw behind him. Then, I threw a pitch in the dirt. Then, I threw one down the middle but just off the corner. "BALL FOUR. TAKE YOUR BASE," the ump cried.
I was a little erratic to say the least. But here's where the problem started. I stood on the mound, the runner on first. It was then I heard everyone from the bench snicker. I delivered the pitch. "BALL ONE." More laughter from the bench. "BALL TWO." The whispers grew louder. "Why isn't he pitching from the stretch?" God knew what that meant. "BALL THREE." I threw again. "BALL FOUR." Fucking godammit.
This pitching thing wasn't as easy as I thought. My command had gone to lunch, for eternity, and didn't plan on showing up anytime that afternoon. But what happened next crippled me.
Turning my back to the runner on first, I began to pitch in that fashion. "There you go Truchan, now you're in the stretch," my coach yelled. Oh, news to me. I placed the ball and my hand in my glove and stared at the batter. I then took a peak over at the runner at first, just like on tv. But I turned my shoulder towards him. "BALK!" yelled the ump, throwing his hands in the air as if someone where shooting at him.
I looked over in confusion as my team's bench groaned. The runner on second strolled over to third and the guy on first took a leisurely walk to second. WHAT? I then set again, placed the ball and my hand in the glove, looked in at the batter, took my hand and ball out of my glove, and.... "BALK!" The kid on third came into score, and the kid on second went to third. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS SHIT?!
Was there no end to this conspiracy of ridicule and hatred against me? I stood on the mound, a deer in headlights, a possible stream of urine running down the front of my pants. My coach trotted out to me. "Truchan, do you know what a balk is?" I shook my head, thinking it's either a type of freshwater fish or everyone was having problems pronouncing the word "walk." Coach went on, "When a pitcher puts his hand in his glove with the foot on the rubber, you can't break your motion. You can't take your hand out of your glove, you can't move your shoulders, you can't walk around, unless you step off the rubber. That's a balk," my coach explained. He followed up his lecture with moves and reenactments and in-game examples. I just nodded, quivering as the words floated threw my ears and into the dirt of the mound.
I finally got it right, what ever the rule was, but I walked the next guy. And the next guy. The next batter got a hit. Or maybe it was the other way around. I don' t know. But there were suddenly two guys on and we were losing 2-0 with no outs. I had to stop the bleeding. So, I put my hand in my glove, stared down the batter, spit like a pro, and... "BALK!" The runner's advanced. I set again, looked in at the next kid, and... "BALK!" Another guy scored, the other runner went to third. I stood there looking at my dangling hands, wishing I could actually throw a pitch. So for the next batter, I thought I could try and throw him one inside, so I set and… "BALK!"
My coach ran out again, shaking his head. "Okay, Truchan. LOOK. When you break your motion after you set, you blah blah blah llekjfalkerfl kjllfkj adkj and then you blah blah lkjdfaoi blakhhoh and that's when blah lkdjf. So that's what a balk is. Okay?" I nodded again. The coach placed the ball back in my hands. I wanted him to call a funeral service on the way back to the dugout and make a reservation for one for next available seating.
Good God strike me down now. I looked up to the sky but it was relatively clear. A lighting phenomenon, perhaps? Anything. A tiger storms in from left field and mauls me to a pulp. LITTLE LEAGUE PITCHER MOURNED IN FREAK TRAGEDY AS HUNDREDS COME TO SERVICES; COLLEGE FUND STARTED IN HIS NAME. A boy can crap his pants and dream, can't he?
So, I set into my pitch, hand and ball in glove, looked over to third at the runner, took my hand out of my glove, thought about..."BALK!" The runner from third came into score. The visitor's cheered and laughed. My team groaned some more and laughed and cursed and sharpened spears.
The coach walked out slowly, hands in his back pockets, head to the ground. I couldn't wait to give him the ball and run, or beg him for a police escort to my dad's car. "Alright, I gotta take you out. We can't afford anymore runs," my coach said. "I didn't know this ump would be calling balks at this age level. Something we'll work on." With that, he motioned to our center fielder to come in in relief, with a 5-0 deficit, or possibly worse, and no outs.. "Truchan, take center." He held his hand out and I gave him the ball, as it dribbled out of my jellied grip.
Gimping out to center, tears began to formulate and gushed heavy out the sides. Who did I think I was? A pitcher? A ballplayer? An athlete? I was a kid who could sometimes hit wiffle balls and collected baseball cards. "Maybe I'll rob somebody of a homerun while charging the outfield fence?," I thought.
Later that inning, a ball was hit towards me, and I let it drop in the gap and roll to the fence, runners scoring like crazy. It was officially the worst inning of my life. When I got back to the dugout after the final third out, someone said to me, "Hey, here comes Balker, Texas Ranger." Any other day in my life, I would have found that clever, and brilliantly corny. But at that moment, I just wanted to find a hole.
The record for balks in a Major League game is 5 by Bob Shaw, pitcher for the Milwaukee Braves in 1963. In that game, he tied a 33 year old record for 3 in an inning. Sorry, Mr. Shaw, I had you beat. Dave Stewart set the single season record with the Oakland A's in 1988 with 16 balks. Don't worry Mr. Stewart, I'm sure if my coach had the guts to leave me out there, or put my in one more game, I'd shattered that.
"Sorry son. I wish I could have told you what to do out there. I saw you didn't have a clue what your coach was telling you out there," my dad told me in the car after the game. I shook my head. "Well, for future reference, a balk is when you blah, blah, blah, blah, blah..." I dropped my head further, and never forgot what a balk was.
(Part 4, and final installment coming tomorrow. Thank you.)
June 29, 2008
An Idiot's Guide to Playing Baseball as Told by an Idiot (Part 2)
When I finished my first grade season of little league, my mom asked me if I wanted to sign up for next year. I apparently told her, “Well, I don’t like hitting. And I don’t like playing in the field. But I like sitting on the bench.” My mom opted not to sign me up. I was thankful.
After I left the game of baseball, I started a lowly life on the defensive line of organized soccer. If there was one thing I hated more than being hit by pitches, it was playing soccer, and playing defense in soccer was the absolute worst. The games were so slow and boring. The coaches insisted on practicing three to four times a week to have our grammar-school-toned muscles dribble soccer balls around orange cones. My dream in soccer, year after year, season after season, was to play the front line where I'd be able to score goals, win games for the team, and get girls in my class to think I was athletic and, therefore, skinny. The problem was no girls were actually hanging out at the soccer fields at age 9, and I was flat out fat.
Finally, I gave up soccer at the age of 12, having scored just 3 goals in my career (2 of them in my first year, 1 of those against my own team, but my parents didn't have the heart to tell me until years later). It was around this time that I started to get the itch to play baseball again. I began to think of all the time spent standing on the backlines of the soccer field talking to the goalie and picking clumps of grass out of the ground to see which way the wind was blowing. I realized that I had been a complete wimp for bowing out of the game of baseball. I wanted to get back in there and show my skills. After all, I had been staying fresh in my backyard playing wiffle ball and having catch session with my father for years. I'd just slip back into the game, just like I'd never left. Easier reminisced then done.
In the backyard, the day before my first practice in the seventh grade, my dad asked me to show him a swing. Putting on my best Mo Vaughn, I slouched down, wound up like an awkward spring, and swung my bat into the hairs of the lawn and up to the heavens. I stood there, watching my imaginary ball fly over the Green Monster. I waited for my dad to say “Atta boy son. That’s how it’s done.” Instead, I got "What the hell kind of swing is that? This ain't golf."
I showed up for practice with my wooden bat I bought at Sports Authority. I thought it looked like Mo Vaughn's bat. Come to think of it, I never really liked Mo Vaughn. But his baseball cards were worth a dollar back in 1997. "Remember, keep the bat level," my dad reminded me as I left the car. "You got it dad," I said with a brash confidence and a complete knowledge of the great American game.
It was apparent I was horrendous from the moment I met my teammates, most of them kids I tried to avoid in the hallways of Middle School. God, why hadn't I though of this. The other's were kids from Catholic school, who if they had been in my school, I would have avoided in the hallways. There was some kid named Josh, a lanky, gawky, Jewish kid who just sat at the end of the bench the whole season. We became quick friends. Who said Jews and Christians couldn't mix? All it took was an inability to hit pitches over 40 MPH. We became quicker friends when everyone ridiculed me at my first practice for bringing that wood bat. This was the dawning of the age of aluminum and I was living in the dark ages.
As the practices wore on, and I began to mesh less and less with the guys, it became painfully clear that I was missing many links in the necessary chain of command. In my command of hitting. In my command of fielding. In my command of bench talk and baseball trivia. I was clueless. At practice, the more ground balls went through my legs or balls fell in the gap in outfield or lobbed pitches fell over my swinging bat, the more I thought I had made the worst mistake of my adolescent life.
The first game of the season, I was confident I'd be able to turn my lack of practice hitting and fundamental fielding around. Coach stuck me at third base, a position I can only assume was chosen for me from the old number in a hat game.
I remember the first batter for the other team reached safely. Then, the second batter hit a fast grounder to me. I froze a moment, charged it, and fired a sidearm throw to first. Immediately, my teammates and coach began to yell. "Throw to second. Throw to second. What are you doing?" But it was too late, the throw went wide and bounced off the fence behind the first baseman. The lead runner luckily held at second. They were both safe. With my head spinning inside my cap, my coach yelled, "Truchan. Ya gotta get the lead runner at second next time. K?" I nodded back to him with one of those I-don't-know-where-my-head-was nods. But I didn't know where my head was at all, or why I had agreed to this, or what the fuck getting the lead runner meant.
Then, I cemented my middle school baseball career in the annals of local legend. With two on and nobody out, our pitcher wound up and fired the first pitch to the batter. I watched as our catcher took the ball for a strike, jumped up in my direction, and began to fire the ball to me. "Holy shit, the runners stealing third," I thought, catching the runner barreling my way from second in my peripheral vision. I took two steps back, hovered around the base, and caught the catcher's throw. I looked at the attempted base thief with the ball firmly in my mitt. He was gonna be out by a mile. "Don't try, kid," I thought. But then, my mind blanked. Did I have to tag the base or the runner for the out? What were the rules? Who's writing this crazy script? Not knowing what to tag, I decided to try to tag both. I spun around in a circle, tagged third base with my glove, and finished my awkward 180 degree spin only to find the runner safe at third. My spin had drilled me into the ground. a mound of dirt rested around my twisted shoe. My fat ass sat on the edge of the kids cleats. "SAFE!" yelled the ump. "Oh my God," yelled somebody from the bench. Or maybe it was the whole bench, or the whole crowd. "Why did you tag the base, why did he tag the base, he tagged the base, who is he, why was the base tagged, never saw that before, tagged the freakin' base." I learned then and there the rules of baseball a little clearer. But I never seemed to grasp them any better.
My hitting quickly became the thing of locker room punchlines. Need a fan, get the Truchan brand. The Cherry Poppin' Daddies and Truchan's bat are leading the Swing revival. Okay, no one said that but at least that would have lightened the tension. As the at-bats and games and weeks piled up, I became the chuckle of the team and brunt of ridicule towards our losing season. While listening to a couple of teammates talk a little MLB on the bench after a game, I tried to chime in with a great highlight I'd seen the night before on SportsCenter. "Shut up Truchan. You're an embarrassment," one of them told me. When the coaches would tell us to watch pro ballplayers to see how's its done, I'd scoff at the notion, thinking Mo Vaughn taught me shit about hitting.
Coach stuck me in every position that season. I played first because I was chunky, but couldn't dig the balls out of the dirt. I played second once but had absolutely no idea how to cover steals from first or attempt double plays or where to stand on a shift. I found myself roaming around the outfield, from left to center to right, always running in on balls hit to me, every time, only to watch them sail over my head, every time. "Always run back on a fly ball Truchan, and then in on it if you need to," my coach told me. So, I'd take one step back before making a mad dash in, only to watch the ball drop in behind my outstretched glove.
The only logical move that season, my slew of failures, was to try to shape me into a pitcher, of course, and salvage the remainder of my middle school baseball career.
(Part 3 coming tomorrow)
After I left the game of baseball, I started a lowly life on the defensive line of organized soccer. If there was one thing I hated more than being hit by pitches, it was playing soccer, and playing defense in soccer was the absolute worst. The games were so slow and boring. The coaches insisted on practicing three to four times a week to have our grammar-school-toned muscles dribble soccer balls around orange cones. My dream in soccer, year after year, season after season, was to play the front line where I'd be able to score goals, win games for the team, and get girls in my class to think I was athletic and, therefore, skinny. The problem was no girls were actually hanging out at the soccer fields at age 9, and I was flat out fat.
Finally, I gave up soccer at the age of 12, having scored just 3 goals in my career (2 of them in my first year, 1 of those against my own team, but my parents didn't have the heart to tell me until years later). It was around this time that I started to get the itch to play baseball again. I began to think of all the time spent standing on the backlines of the soccer field talking to the goalie and picking clumps of grass out of the ground to see which way the wind was blowing. I realized that I had been a complete wimp for bowing out of the game of baseball. I wanted to get back in there and show my skills. After all, I had been staying fresh in my backyard playing wiffle ball and having catch session with my father for years. I'd just slip back into the game, just like I'd never left. Easier reminisced then done.
In the backyard, the day before my first practice in the seventh grade, my dad asked me to show him a swing. Putting on my best Mo Vaughn, I slouched down, wound up like an awkward spring, and swung my bat into the hairs of the lawn and up to the heavens. I stood there, watching my imaginary ball fly over the Green Monster. I waited for my dad to say “Atta boy son. That’s how it’s done.” Instead, I got "What the hell kind of swing is that? This ain't golf."
I showed up for practice with my wooden bat I bought at Sports Authority. I thought it looked like Mo Vaughn's bat. Come to think of it, I never really liked Mo Vaughn. But his baseball cards were worth a dollar back in 1997. "Remember, keep the bat level," my dad reminded me as I left the car. "You got it dad," I said with a brash confidence and a complete knowledge of the great American game.
It was apparent I was horrendous from the moment I met my teammates, most of them kids I tried to avoid in the hallways of Middle School. God, why hadn't I though of this. The other's were kids from Catholic school, who if they had been in my school, I would have avoided in the hallways. There was some kid named Josh, a lanky, gawky, Jewish kid who just sat at the end of the bench the whole season. We became quick friends. Who said Jews and Christians couldn't mix? All it took was an inability to hit pitches over 40 MPH. We became quicker friends when everyone ridiculed me at my first practice for bringing that wood bat. This was the dawning of the age of aluminum and I was living in the dark ages.
As the practices wore on, and I began to mesh less and less with the guys, it became painfully clear that I was missing many links in the necessary chain of command. In my command of hitting. In my command of fielding. In my command of bench talk and baseball trivia. I was clueless. At practice, the more ground balls went through my legs or balls fell in the gap in outfield or lobbed pitches fell over my swinging bat, the more I thought I had made the worst mistake of my adolescent life.
The first game of the season, I was confident I'd be able to turn my lack of practice hitting and fundamental fielding around. Coach stuck me at third base, a position I can only assume was chosen for me from the old number in a hat game.
I remember the first batter for the other team reached safely. Then, the second batter hit a fast grounder to me. I froze a moment, charged it, and fired a sidearm throw to first. Immediately, my teammates and coach began to yell. "Throw to second. Throw to second. What are you doing?" But it was too late, the throw went wide and bounced off the fence behind the first baseman. The lead runner luckily held at second. They were both safe. With my head spinning inside my cap, my coach yelled, "Truchan. Ya gotta get the lead runner at second next time. K?" I nodded back to him with one of those I-don't-know-where-my-head-was nods. But I didn't know where my head was at all, or why I had agreed to this, or what the fuck getting the lead runner meant.
Then, I cemented my middle school baseball career in the annals of local legend. With two on and nobody out, our pitcher wound up and fired the first pitch to the batter. I watched as our catcher took the ball for a strike, jumped up in my direction, and began to fire the ball to me. "Holy shit, the runners stealing third," I thought, catching the runner barreling my way from second in my peripheral vision. I took two steps back, hovered around the base, and caught the catcher's throw. I looked at the attempted base thief with the ball firmly in my mitt. He was gonna be out by a mile. "Don't try, kid," I thought. But then, my mind blanked. Did I have to tag the base or the runner for the out? What were the rules? Who's writing this crazy script? Not knowing what to tag, I decided to try to tag both. I spun around in a circle, tagged third base with my glove, and finished my awkward 180 degree spin only to find the runner safe at third. My spin had drilled me into the ground. a mound of dirt rested around my twisted shoe. My fat ass sat on the edge of the kids cleats. "SAFE!" yelled the ump. "Oh my God," yelled somebody from the bench. Or maybe it was the whole bench, or the whole crowd. "Why did you tag the base, why did he tag the base, he tagged the base, who is he, why was the base tagged, never saw that before, tagged the freakin' base." I learned then and there the rules of baseball a little clearer. But I never seemed to grasp them any better.
My hitting quickly became the thing of locker room punchlines. Need a fan, get the Truchan brand. The Cherry Poppin' Daddies and Truchan's bat are leading the Swing revival. Okay, no one said that but at least that would have lightened the tension. As the at-bats and games and weeks piled up, I became the chuckle of the team and brunt of ridicule towards our losing season. While listening to a couple of teammates talk a little MLB on the bench after a game, I tried to chime in with a great highlight I'd seen the night before on SportsCenter. "Shut up Truchan. You're an embarrassment," one of them told me. When the coaches would tell us to watch pro ballplayers to see how's its done, I'd scoff at the notion, thinking Mo Vaughn taught me shit about hitting.
Coach stuck me in every position that season. I played first because I was chunky, but couldn't dig the balls out of the dirt. I played second once but had absolutely no idea how to cover steals from first or attempt double plays or where to stand on a shift. I found myself roaming around the outfield, from left to center to right, always running in on balls hit to me, every time, only to watch them sail over my head, every time. "Always run back on a fly ball Truchan, and then in on it if you need to," my coach told me. So, I'd take one step back before making a mad dash in, only to watch the ball drop in behind my outstretched glove.
The only logical move that season, my slew of failures, was to try to shape me into a pitcher, of course, and salvage the remainder of my middle school baseball career.
(Part 3 coming tomorrow)
June 28, 2008
An Idiot's Guide to Playing Baseball as Told By an Idiot (Part 1)
For those who don't know me, I love baseball. I love to watch it, talk it, read about it, research it, think it, watch sentimental movies about its greatness. Yet, I am a horrific baseball player. Possibly the worst player to grace the sanctity of God's holy dirt diamond.
How bad am I, you ask? Well, the people I talk to the most have probably heard me go on and on about what a bad ball player I am the way other men tend to dwell on the minimal stature of their dick. I'm just trying to overcompensate for the fact that I'm so bad at baseball, I have to let everyone know. Some men buy big pickup trucks or sports cars to hide their lack of endowment , I air my hitting grievances out in the open. I also feel my manhood is always in question when I talk about baseball. I've met grown men who I'm pretty sure still get beat up by middle school kids when they go to the store for milk who tell me sandlot tales of glory, and beating out bunts in their Senior year of high school to win the state championship. But enough about bunts and dicks. Back to how bad I am at baseball.
I played a year of tee ball in kindergarten, which I don't quite remember but my mother told me the other day I was really good at it. Gee, thanks mom, no wonder I'm such a pussy. But the rules were pretty standard. If you swung at five pitches or so, the coach brought out the tee and you hit off that. Honestly, I don't remember even having to hit off the tee, which tends to make me think I was decent that year. I always put the ball in play. I remember arguing with a classmate once who played in that kindergarten league over whether or not a tee was used. He said it was always used. I said it was never used. Obviously, he sucked at hitting and I didn't. That kid moved to North Carolina later that year where his brother ran over his foot with a lawn mower. True story. I, on the other hand, was apparently oblivious to anything going on around me, since I couldn't recall 70 percent of the players in the league hitting off of a long rubber placeholder.
I then played a year of ball in first grade. This is where the downhill spiral started. I remember sitting on the bench worrying about getting a hot dog from the concession stand after the game when our big bat in the line up, Brian, was hit square in the finger by an erratic six year old southpaw. Brian dropped to the ground screaming in pain, sobbing in the dirt for his mommy. Good god, I didn't know this could happen.
Two days later, the dinky kid down the block who batted before me took a pitch square in the batting helmet. I remember the sheer terror on his face as he dropped the bat, spun around in agony, and fell in the dirt, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Take your base," yelled the ump as the coaches ran out with an ice pack and, if I recall correctly, a tray of orange slices, a fixture at any children's organized community sports game.
Well, I had seen enough. I was not about to take one of these leather covered killing devices to the throat. No fucking way. I didn't not sign up to be knocked unconscious. I had so many years ahead of me. Prosperous years of video gaming, and bike riding, and long division. I could not be forced to sit on the disabled list in the game of life all because some spastic kid fresh off of training wheels couldn't hit the strike zone.
So, I began to step out of the box every time the pitch was thrown. I closed my eyes, and took up praying as an in-between-pitch hobby. I ducked on pitches thrown anywhere above the knees. My nerve had flown the coop, yet I hadn't been hit by a single pitch myself. The horror of watching my teammates drop like flies was too much drama for one kid to take. Where were those goddamn tees I had heard so much about?I continued to get a hit every now and again, something I can only attribute to the fact that the pitches were slow and I was one of the best closed-eye batters in the league. Luck and lack of pitching talent where sometimes on my side.
But then it happened. I remember getting up to bat, sweating bullets as usual, wanting to go home to watch my wrestling VHS tapes and play with my action figures. The pitcher set, two men where on, the sun was setting out in right field. And then, I watched the path of the ball as the pitch left the righties hand. I watched it tail up and in. So far in, it smacked me right in the center of my helmet, rattling every pore in my forehead. Being the defensive worrywart, I swung the bat as hard as I could, just as the ball bounced off the helmet and into the batters box. I was beyond thankful when the ump told me to take my base rather than calling it strike one. I needed to get the fuck out of there.
It didn't hurt. It didn't even give me a headache. But as I stood there on first, I though, "what if that ball had hit me in the nose, or broke my glasses, or chipped a tooth? Fuck this game called Baseball?"
The next year, I signed up for soccer...
(Part 2 coming tomorrow)
How bad am I, you ask? Well, the people I talk to the most have probably heard me go on and on about what a bad ball player I am the way other men tend to dwell on the minimal stature of their dick. I'm just trying to overcompensate for the fact that I'm so bad at baseball, I have to let everyone know. Some men buy big pickup trucks or sports cars to hide their lack of endowment , I air my hitting grievances out in the open. I also feel my manhood is always in question when I talk about baseball. I've met grown men who I'm pretty sure still get beat up by middle school kids when they go to the store for milk who tell me sandlot tales of glory, and beating out bunts in their Senior year of high school to win the state championship. But enough about bunts and dicks. Back to how bad I am at baseball.
I played a year of tee ball in kindergarten, which I don't quite remember but my mother told me the other day I was really good at it. Gee, thanks mom, no wonder I'm such a pussy. But the rules were pretty standard. If you swung at five pitches or so, the coach brought out the tee and you hit off that. Honestly, I don't remember even having to hit off the tee, which tends to make me think I was decent that year. I always put the ball in play. I remember arguing with a classmate once who played in that kindergarten league over whether or not a tee was used. He said it was always used. I said it was never used. Obviously, he sucked at hitting and I didn't. That kid moved to North Carolina later that year where his brother ran over his foot with a lawn mower. True story. I, on the other hand, was apparently oblivious to anything going on around me, since I couldn't recall 70 percent of the players in the league hitting off of a long rubber placeholder.
I then played a year of ball in first grade. This is where the downhill spiral started. I remember sitting on the bench worrying about getting a hot dog from the concession stand after the game when our big bat in the line up, Brian, was hit square in the finger by an erratic six year old southpaw. Brian dropped to the ground screaming in pain, sobbing in the dirt for his mommy. Good god, I didn't know this could happen.
Two days later, the dinky kid down the block who batted before me took a pitch square in the batting helmet. I remember the sheer terror on his face as he dropped the bat, spun around in agony, and fell in the dirt, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Take your base," yelled the ump as the coaches ran out with an ice pack and, if I recall correctly, a tray of orange slices, a fixture at any children's organized community sports game.
Well, I had seen enough. I was not about to take one of these leather covered killing devices to the throat. No fucking way. I didn't not sign up to be knocked unconscious. I had so many years ahead of me. Prosperous years of video gaming, and bike riding, and long division. I could not be forced to sit on the disabled list in the game of life all because some spastic kid fresh off of training wheels couldn't hit the strike zone.
So, I began to step out of the box every time the pitch was thrown. I closed my eyes, and took up praying as an in-between-pitch hobby. I ducked on pitches thrown anywhere above the knees. My nerve had flown the coop, yet I hadn't been hit by a single pitch myself. The horror of watching my teammates drop like flies was too much drama for one kid to take. Where were those goddamn tees I had heard so much about?I continued to get a hit every now and again, something I can only attribute to the fact that the pitches were slow and I was one of the best closed-eye batters in the league. Luck and lack of pitching talent where sometimes on my side.
But then it happened. I remember getting up to bat, sweating bullets as usual, wanting to go home to watch my wrestling VHS tapes and play with my action figures. The pitcher set, two men where on, the sun was setting out in right field. And then, I watched the path of the ball as the pitch left the righties hand. I watched it tail up and in. So far in, it smacked me right in the center of my helmet, rattling every pore in my forehead. Being the defensive worrywart, I swung the bat as hard as I could, just as the ball bounced off the helmet and into the batters box. I was beyond thankful when the ump told me to take my base rather than calling it strike one. I needed to get the fuck out of there.
It didn't hurt. It didn't even give me a headache. But as I stood there on first, I though, "what if that ball had hit me in the nose, or broke my glasses, or chipped a tooth? Fuck this game called Baseball?"
The next year, I signed up for soccer...
(Part 2 coming tomorrow)
June 27, 2008
I'm Back (Here Come The Rome Plows)
Get it.
Good.
Well, I've decided to blog again. Some of my friends have asked why I haven't blogged in a while. I was on a bit of a roll, if you can call it that, back in the wintry months of 2008. I found blogging to be a beautifully exciting creative outlet. And for that last sentence I just wrote, I expect five hard punches to the gut.
But I've become too complacent in everything I want to do. Writing, music, working, thinking. I've taken to the path of drinking and watching television and thought that was okay because I was tired of the daily crap. It's only gonna get harder, much harder, and I have to realize that. Being tired is a bunch of bullshit. When you're tired, you need to kick your own ass into gear and do something. Write a poem, listen to a cd you've forgotten about that you used to love, paint a living room, read a book you've always wanted to, watch that 3 hour movie you promised a friend or professor you'd take in. Godammit, that stuff does wonders.
The biggest sickness I've had over the past couple months is complacency. It's so easy to throw all your creativity and imagination to the dogs in favor of sleeping or listening or watching or yesing someone to death. Why not do something about it?
Well, I've been unemployed for two weeks, now that the substitute teaching job has ended for the summer. I've been taking in more movies and started reading more books. My band, Atlas at Least, is looking to play shows and release our album by mid-August. Things are looking up. Call it an early summer's blooming but I'm feeling better. So here we go. Let's blog about the bullshit that seemed so unimportant so long ago. Let's take it from here. Send me some shit I can write about and I'll write about it. Tell me you're happy to hear me ramble on again.
If not, I'll keep rambling on anyway. Thank you very much.
Good.
Well, I've decided to blog again. Some of my friends have asked why I haven't blogged in a while. I was on a bit of a roll, if you can call it that, back in the wintry months of 2008. I found blogging to be a beautifully exciting creative outlet. And for that last sentence I just wrote, I expect five hard punches to the gut.
But I've become too complacent in everything I want to do. Writing, music, working, thinking. I've taken to the path of drinking and watching television and thought that was okay because I was tired of the daily crap. It's only gonna get harder, much harder, and I have to realize that. Being tired is a bunch of bullshit. When you're tired, you need to kick your own ass into gear and do something. Write a poem, listen to a cd you've forgotten about that you used to love, paint a living room, read a book you've always wanted to, watch that 3 hour movie you promised a friend or professor you'd take in. Godammit, that stuff does wonders.
The biggest sickness I've had over the past couple months is complacency. It's so easy to throw all your creativity and imagination to the dogs in favor of sleeping or listening or watching or yesing someone to death. Why not do something about it?
Well, I've been unemployed for two weeks, now that the substitute teaching job has ended for the summer. I've been taking in more movies and started reading more books. My band, Atlas at Least, is looking to play shows and release our album by mid-August. Things are looking up. Call it an early summer's blooming but I'm feeling better. So here we go. Let's blog about the bullshit that seemed so unimportant so long ago. Let's take it from here. Send me some shit I can write about and I'll write about it. Tell me you're happy to hear me ramble on again.
If not, I'll keep rambling on anyway. Thank you very much.
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