I had spent second and third grade living in a neighborhood with no kids to play with, and no parks to play in. As a result, I grew heavily dependent on comic books and television to entertain me. I also “grew heavily” in the most literal way. I metamorphosed from an active, skinny kid to what children’s clothing tastefully labeled as “hefty,” which sounds so much better than “plump,” “portly,” or “walrus-esque.”
My unique baseball glove had required no ultimate bovine sacrifice in its construction. It was fashioned of seductive black plastic with red piping. It reminded me of the Batmobile, rivaled in coolness only by Star Trek’s Enterprise, and was therefore excellent and worthy in my mind. In actuality, it was cheap even by dollar store standards, only marginally better for catching a ball than wrapping your hand in duct tape.
This bit of style over substance (and the fact that my brother and all my cousins were naturally talented athletes) convinced me that I was ready to play some serious ball. I asked Dad to help me prepare for summer baseball tryouts. We shared an intense and productive 15 minutes of throwing and catching the ball, followed by a week of avoiding all sports related activity other than Dad having a few Old Milwaukee beers while watching a game.
At the tryouts, Dad stood on the far side of a chain link fence with other parents as we kids displayed our talents at throwing, batting and running. When finished, I ended up sobbing at the fence. A serious case of nerves had struck me while I demonstrated that, as a baseball player, I was unrivaled at sitting home reading Spider-man comics.
The coaches then made the kind of career-ending call that is ill-advised, clearly wrong-headed, and detrimental to the very name of baseball; they allowed me to join the league.
At practice, I was a fast runner and a strong batter. I imagined that I could lead the team to a national championship, thereby inspiring other kids who enjoyed fried chicken a little too much for their own finger-lickin’ good.
With minimal effort, I could foresee my heroic face plastered across cereal boxes! My baseball card likeness would flap against bicycle tires all across the USA!
Soon, everyone would throw out their dull brown leather gloves and demand black plastic ones with red piping!
Hollywood might even immortalize my ascent to baseball greatness. Frank Capra could come out of retirement to direct, or David Lean could give me the “Lawrence of Arabia” treatment. I eagerly awaited the Technicolor, CinemaScope glory of “Steven of Arkansas.”
When it came time for the actual games, it was a different story altogether. More like something starring the Three Stooges, although fortunately with less eye poking.
Every game day, parents arrayed themselves uncomfortably on the bleachers behind home plate. There they tried to get comfortable while the unyielding concrete wreaked havoc on their tender welcome-to-the-baby-boom-2.5-kids-and-a-mortgage hemorrhoids.
These disgruntled parents began shouting nasty taunts as soon as I stepped to the plate, leering like ravenous predators sensing the weakest (yet obviously well marbled) member of the herd.
Nothing was off limits. My height, weight, glasses, attractiveness, intelligence and penis size were all judged and found lacking. Okay, that last one may have been my ex-wife years later, but it was painful nonetheless.
Don’t think that the mothers were less brutal than the fathers, because they were far worse. These women, no doubt kind and nurturing at home, became mercilessly cruel and derisive harpies hell-bent on verbally eviscerating kids from opposing teams. Compared to spending time with them, the Viet Nam war seemed as inviting as the young lady covered in whipped cream on Herb Alpert’s album cover, which was very inviting, indeed.
Under the coldly confident stare of the pitcher, I grew panicky and my guts turned to water. My knees shook like a lime green Jello mold, complete with pineapple chunks and pecans, carelessly left atop an unbalanced washing machine. Set to heavy spin cycle. On the San Andreas fault.
With my wits scrambled and my self-confidence shredded, I would swing desperately at anything thrown at me. My style would be best described as a cross between Mom trying to kill a gnat with a soup ladle and a Samurai wannabe on the world’s worst acid trip.
On those rare occasions when I did hit the ball, I would stand in disbelief, mouth agape, until everyone screamed at me to run. I always forgot to drop the bat, carrying it to first base with me. There Coach would take the bat from me, and in his eyes I could see the temptation to wield it and put me out of his misery.
I logged a lot of hours in the dugout sucking on salt tablets and drinking cherry cokes, the glorious sugar filled highlight of the summer. By the end of the season, there were permanent indentations on the bench the shape of my butt alongside a 12 ounce plastic cup.
When the coach reluctantly put me in, I played left field. Left field is the place you play your least talented players. The ones you wish had gone out for golf rather than appear (complete with cheap glove) as if from a nightmare after too much Spicy Thai Crab Rangoon.
Among my long list of shortcomings, I could throw a ball with neither accuracy nor distance. Whenever I got the ball in play, I would rush to send it in the general direction of the infield. I threw with the uncalculated accuracy of a brain-damaged monkey flinging feces in a hurricane.
It was years before I realized I was terrible in part because I simply did not know the rules for baseball. Nobody had ever bothered to enlighten me, the assumption being that every red-blooded American boy knew the rules by the time the umbilical cord was cut. With regards to baseball, I was a test tube baby.
The team ended the season in second place, so we all received trophies. This was back in the day when only the players of the top 3 teams were awarded trophies; there were no participation awards. The design was of a boy at home plate holding a bat over his shoulder in anticipation of the pitch. The bat in my trophy was loose and would fall out no matter how many times I glued it back in. At some point it got lost, so my trophy depicted an idiot attempting to play ball without the necessary tool for the game. It was a totally appropriate award for me.
During the season, I had missed a significant number of games for vacation and other family obligations. At the presentation of the trophies, one of my teammates made a cutting remark to the effect that I did not really deserve mine because I missed half the games. I thought he was a bit of an ungrateful wretch, since the team did so well precisely because I had missed half the games.
Looking back on my singularly unrewarding baseball experience, I like to think that I rightfully earned the world’s first-and-perhaps-only Nonparticipation Award.
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