An Idiot's Guide to Playing Baseball as Told by an Idiot (Part 3)

"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.)