Personal story, or stories

[DiO'Bolic]

Has anyone who ever played sports as a kid have that one memorable moment or game they will never forget?

I played little league baseball for many years. That’s just what you did back then. During that time I was undersized, underweight, weak and unmotivated. I was always one of the last to be picked, and little league was excruciating for me.

If people ask me what position I played back then I answer "benchwarmer." Striking out and missing fly balls was my forte.

I had an uncle who played major league baseball for over 20 years. If I had a nickel for every time I heard "why can’t you be more like your uncle" from the coaches during that time, I could have retired years ago.

But there was this one game...

Only 10 players showed up for the game. I knew what my responsibility would be… collecting splinters in my butt from those old benches badly in need of replacement. Maybe getting in for an inning, if I was lucky. But the gate to the ball field was locked. One player decided to climb the fence to open the door from the inside. The fence was better suited to a prison rather than a ball field. He ripped a hole the size of a JFK half dollar in his bicep on the barbed wire topping the fence, and had to be taken to the hospital.

So they had to put me in. I got to play right field and bat for an entire game.

It was the top of the 9th inning, game tied, and I came up to bat. I don’t recall if there was one or two outs. I had either struck out or been thrown out on every at bat up to that point. One of our players was on second. I remember glancing at the sign located way out on the right field fence. It noted something to the effect that my uncle was the only person to ever hit a home run over that fence. I thought to myself... I can do this.

I swung and hit the ball. It went between 2nd and 1st and into the outfield. My first double ever. And I brought in a run.

Our last place team was winning in the 9th against the dreaded first place Yankees, who’s players I swear were required to be children of steel workers or coal miners, married to amazon women.

Life couldn’t get any better. Little did I know, it could.

Bottom of the 9th. Runners on 1st and 3rd. Two outs, and me in right field praying to god the ball comes nowhere near me. Up to the plate steps Bronko Nagurski (the nickname we gave this monster of a kid because of his size and boxer-like looks). He hits one into the heavens and deep into center field. I ran over to give assistance if needed. The center fielder had plenty of time to get ideally positioned to catch the ball on it’s decent. No worries I thought, I can’t mess this one up.

The ball missed his glove, bounces off his forehead some twenty feet into the air and directly into my glove. The center fielder went down like a sack of potatoes and I was acting like I had just won the World Series all by my lonesome. Game over! We won, and the crappy kid made it happen.

Everyone was cheering me and laughing. Well... except for the center fielder, who was out cold. But it was glorious.

Every kid should have an experience like that to cling to. It will forever remain immortal in my mind.

 

[Walter Oobleck]

Tough to top a story like that, DiO'Bolic. Nice catch! Have a few stories none remarkable. The one I won't forget, ever, is not being allowed to play by the coach of a Little League team...something that did not happen every year for us...someone to coach sponsor a team. Was the last year I'd be eligible to play, thirteen or something like that. In August. Timing. Had a paper route and the day they had kids sign up for the team was a Saturday...when I delivered papers. The assistant coach, neighbor across the street, said he'd tell Ken to save a spot for me. I did my route. They signed kids up. With fifteen minutes to go for signing up, a man walks in (King was his last name, alas) with two sons...there were two positions left open. Guess who lost?

Anyway, fast forward ten fifteen years, I'm heading home from Florida to watch my mother die of cancer. No it wasn't senioritis, as one professor thought...just Ma, cancer, and a word I did not look up nor was Google available...metastasized. She was resigning her position as treasurer of Osceola Township, democrat, dyed-in-the-wool, same as the old man...when I walked in the door. At some point a week or three later, Ken swings by the house, meets with Ma in the kitchen, apologizes to her for not allowing me to play baseball, confessed that yes, he had done so because she would not politic for him (he wanted the township supervisor position) nor would she endorse him. He didn't say a word to me. They (the assistant coach) allowed me to practice with the team...the Tamarack Mills Lakes...and that was a blast but after going to maybe two or three games and watching from the sidelines, sans jersey, I spent the summer on Quincy creek.

Basketball, I had the opportunity to guard an opposing player whose uniform shorts looked like they'd been soiled...bad soiled...one of those wtf moments. I've told both stories before.

 

[DiO'Bolic]

Thanks Walter. It was a basket catch. I don't think I even moved my glove. Just dumb luck to be honest. LOL

And that sucks when kids pay the price for adult grudges. We had tryouts for softball on Saturday. It has always been a problem in the past with favoritism and parent influence. This season we did things a bit different. The coaches for the 14-U teams helped out with tryouts, but coaches from 12-U did the evaluations (and visa versa). And the girls who couldn’t make it Saturday were given the opportunity for private tryouts on Sunday if they had a legitimate excuse for missing Saturday. I worked the batting cage. It took all my willpower to keep my mouth shut, other than telling them to only swing at good pitches because the evaluators were also looking at their ability to judge balls and strikes. I thought to myself during the day that some parents are not going to be happy, but at least they can’t blame me LOL.

 

[Grandpa]

I was generally the last one picked too.

But on the fifth-grade school track team, one great meet day, I was entered in the 50-yard dash. Won it, and broke the grade record doing it. (Since the school's been torn down now, I'll hold it forever.) Hundred-yard dash. Won it. Coach said, "I'll enter you in the long jump. Give it a try." I sailed for 11 feet 7 inches, not that it was something I'll remember, and that distance doesn't sound like much, but this was fifth grade, guys. Got third place.

The coach (parish assistant priest) was so happy with my performance that day that he put me on the first leg of the 400 relay. I ran with the adrenalin pumping so hard that I was out of gas at the end of the first leg, and when Bernie, running the second leg, started running off, hand out for the baton, I was thinking, Don't run away!! I can't run any more!! But I had gotten a good jump, was way ahead of the competition, the handoff was clean, and we sailed through the rest of the relay without a challenge.

My dad met me in the infield as I came away from the handoff and walked me back to the finish line, telling me how proud he was. Such words didn't come easily from my parents. I went home with three blue ribbons and one white one. Yeah. It was a good day.

 

[mustangclaire]

Can I just say what an absolute pleasure it is to read all these stories. You are all so eloquent. Your baseball tales read like they are written by Bill Bryson.

 

[ghost19]

AHHH, this is the thread the ZZ Top story should been posted in....I'm getting old...

 

[Shasta]

Hey, Grandpa - I said it twice so it should count as another 1/2 at least!

I have a very similar to story to Curt's fire story, except Curt was my incredibly stoned ex-boyfriend, the cistern was a stove, and he lost both eyebrows, most of the tip of his nose, most of the flesh off his hands, and some of his butt to replace what was on his hands.....

Yours is better.

 

[Shasta]

Has anyone who ever played sports as a kid have that one memorable moment or game they will never forget?

I never was into sports but in third grade we had "The Friendship Games," where all of the other elementary schools in the town (a whopping two) would come and we would participate in a mini-olympics.

My best friend, Alisa, and I signed up for the three legged race. Man, did we practice and practice and practice.

Finally the day came and we were so nervous. The little gun went off (you could still do that in the 80's) and we took off.

We crossed the finish line - NUMBER ONE!!!! We looked back and there wasn't even another team that had made it half way up the field.

Man, that felt good. I kept that blue ribbon for years.

 

[DiO'Bolic]

I never was into sports but in third grade we had "The Friendship Games," where all of the other elementary schools in the town (a whopping two) would come and we would participate in a mini-olympics.

My best friend, Alisa, and I signed up for the three legged race. Man, did we practice and practice and practice.

Finally the day came and we were so nervous. The little gun went off (you could still do that in the 80's) and we took off.

We crossed the finish line - NUMBER ONE!!!! We looked back and there wasn't even another team that had made it half way up the field.

Man, that felt good. I kept that blue ribbon for years.

Imagine that. You practiced and won. Can you come and speak to my softball team... please? I can't get my girls to practice on there own for nothin'. It's a chore these days just to get them to put their smartphones down for ten minutes. I'm apparently a monster!

 

[MadamMack]

Really love this thread . . .

 

[Grandpa]

Hey, Grandpa - I said it twice so it should count as another 1/2 at least!

I have a very similar to story to Curt's fire story, except Curt was my incredibly stoned ex-boyfriend, the cistern was a stove, and he lost both eyebrows, most of the tip of his nose, most of the flesh off his hands, and some of his butt to replace what was on his hands.....

Yours is better.

Perhaps... but yours sounds eminently worth the telling.

 

[Grandpa]

I started motorcycling when I was 16.

I was working for a department store at the time, which was also the local Honda and BSA (defunct motorcycle company) dealership. You can't work part-time and on weekends at minimum wage and make enough to buy a car. The motorcycles started to look inviting.

I brought the idea home. My mom shrugged and said, "We're not helping you. If you can buy it, register it, insure it, keep it maintained and gassed up all on your own money, go ahead." She was sure that she had me thwarted.

As an employee for the dealership, I got a 25% discount on the motorcycles. I bought a used Honda Trail 90 for $125. The dealership also had forms for insurance, and I got minimum coverage for $12. For six months. I don't remember how much registration was, but it was cheap. When I'd gas it up, gas was about 30 cents a gallon at the time, and the little thing got over 100 miles per gallon.

After buying it and practicing out back of the store, and only taking out one drainpipe, I pushed the bike to the vehicle registration office a block away and took the test for a motorcycle endorsement on my license. The guy told me to circle the block. He watched me leave, then watched me come back, and gave me the endorsement.

So within a week of Mom giving her conditional approval, I rode the bike home. Mom was both appalled that I had a motorcycle and weirdly proud that I'd taken such initiative. She hid her reactions, but not very well.

One thing leads to another, and that bike soon led to an upgrade, a Honda 100 that was actually street-worthy, if still pretty small, with room on the seat for a passenger. And when I couldn't get the family car, or when we just felt like it, that was the chariot for Curt and me, buzzing around town.

Curt started hitching a ride with me to parties and other social events of his, and that served two purposes: 1) He had a ride that wasn't his parents and 2) he was getting his morose friend (i.e., me) socializing. So although we went to two different high schools, my social orbit revolved around the sun of Curt and his school friends.

It was at a party in Nina's (don't worry about the name; I won't use it again, and I wouldn't recognize her now) basement when I first saw this enchanting blonde, back to the wall, smiling at her conversation partner. I wondered how a pretty creature like that could have wandered into a place that would have someone like me. With my pathological shyness I didn't talk to her that night, but now I had extra motivation to go to the next party.

Curt urged me to the next party, too, so you could say I was the ride, but it was effectively Curt towing me along. The blonde was at that party too. I still didn't talk to her. She was simply out of my league. I sat on the bottom step to the party room, staying quiet, listening to the music, watching the partygoers dance, until finally a gregarious redhead came up and engaged me. She was cute, but terribly annoying because she kept talking, and I was working up my courage to ask her to dance just to scare her off, if nothing else, and the blonde girl kept walking back and forth in front of us.

I was just opening my mouth to say the magic words, assuming I could get them out, which was no sure bet, when the redhead pointed to the blonde and said, "I think she wants you to ask her to dance." I was dumbfounded. Here I was, on the brink of asking Red to dance, and Red was diverting me to the Unattainable. The blonde came back around, and the redhead said to her, "Hey, he wants to ask you to dance," pushed us together, and we danced.

So it was a good night. One night in the following week found Curt and me in his basement, a favored hangout. I told Curt I wanted to ask the blonde out. He had her phone number. I paced, went to pick up the phone, left it alone, paced again, went to the phone, walked away, and paced. Curt talked me through it. He said, "The worst she can say is no," which was kind of like saying, "The worst she can do is completely shatter your psyche with a single word."

But finally at his urging, and just before he got annoyed enough to shove the phone up my - never mind. Anyway, heart in throat, I finally picked it up, dialed the number (and this is when you actually did dial), got her, talked to her, asked her out, and she said yes.

Now, it wasn't easy from that point on. There were peaks and valleys, drama and bliss, separations and dates with others, and all the stuff that goes on with young love, but we got settled in finally, and a few states and a foreign country and a brace of kids and grandkids and four decades or so later, here we are.

So thanks, Curt.

And sure, the redhead played her part. But it was really Curt.

 

[Grandpa]

Wrong thread. How did that happen? It obviously could not have been my own stupidity.

 

[DiO'Bolic]

Wrong thread. How did that happen? It obviously could not have been my own stupidity.

LOL. I love cryptology.

I’ll take a stab in the dark. The website doesn’t afford one the option to delete a comment... so you gotta say something, right?

 

[Grandpa]

LOL. I love cryptology.

I’ll take a stab in the dark. The website doesn’t afford one the option to delete a comment... so you gotta say something, right?

Bingo. I discovered that I'd posted my theme song for the day here. Whoopsies.

 

[ghost19]

Wrong thread. How did that happen? It obviously could not have been my own stupidity.

It might have been MY stupidity, I've got enough stored up for a gaggle of people.....

 

[no bounce no play]

I'm curious... all y'all are such wonderful writers... what genre are the stories y'all submit to publishers?

 

[DiO'Bolic]

I'm curious... all y'all are such wonderful writers... what genre are the stories y'all submit to publishers?

LOL. Hmmm... I don’t think SKMB could be considered a publisher. As for genre, I would have to say Tragedy.

When I kissed the Blarney Stone it only bestowed the gift of eloquence, not imagination. And in my case, even that is pretty questionable.

 

[Grandpa]

I'm curious... all y'all are such wonderful writers... what genre are the stories y'all submit to publishers?

On a blog, I've got a collection of short forms - fiction, nonfiction, essay-ish things, photos, and recipes.

For submission (and consistent rejection), it falls in the realm, I suppose, of magical realism. That may be an apt descriptor, but I don't like it, because it just seems to ring dismissive. Some really good books by Mr. King would fall in that category, such Carrie, The Dead Zone, Firestarter, and so on.

Physically, I'm a sprinter, not a runner. Likewise, I've come to the conclusion, which I'll still try to overcome, that whatever writing strengths I may have lie in the short form. I guess in terms of brain muscle, mine are fast-twitch. I don't really envy Mr. King (that's a lie) and his impressive and well-practiced literary skills, but I do admire them greatly. He can write flowing, compelling symphonies of literature. I can sometimes whip up a decent little song. The symphonies are what endure, and more power to him for it.

 

[HollyGolightly]

On a blog, I've got a collection of short forms - fiction, nonfiction, essay-ish things, photos, and recipes.

For submission (and consistent rejection), it falls in the realm, I suppose, of magical realism. That may be an apt descriptor, but I don't like it, because it just seems to ring dismissive. Some really good books by Mr. King would fall in that category, such Carrie, The Dead Zone, Firestarter, and so on.

Physically, I'm a sprinter, not a runner. Likewise, I've come to the conclusion, which I'll still try to overcome, that whatever writing strengths I may have lie in the short form. I guess in terms of brain muscle, mine are fast-twitch. I don't really envy Mr. King (that's a lie) and his impressive and well-practiced literary skills, but I do admire them greatly. He can write flowing, compelling symphonies of literature. I can sometimes whip up a decent little song. The symphonies are what endure, and more power to him for it.

You have a blog? Do send me an inbox message with the link please.