As Major League Baseball starts their spring training and Little Leagues across the world draft their rosters, I thought I’d share a little tale. It might be a little ‘inside baseball’ but that’s the game.
Bobby dug around underneath his batting helmet in his backpack, grabbed the bag of shredded pink gum, pinched a bunch, and munched. David Mueller lined out hard to third base in the fifth for the third out and now, for an entire inning Bobby knew that he would have to bat in the sixth. Bobby had been counting outs against the lineup card. That hard out set him up to be the last out of the game, if the other two before him got out, which he knew, they always did. Bobby wasn’t great at baseball, but he could count.
Down 7-6 in a game that included home runs from two of the leagues celebrated crushers, Bobby imagined it would all come down to him. Those two kids with homeruns had been drafted first to both teams and had proved their value in every game.
Casey Stone, a Rattler, like Bobby, was a speedy lefty who could throw fast and run faster. He even had pop. In the parlance of the majors, he was a five-tool player. A future high school star but not destined to even be paid to play the game; most people aren’t.
JJ Young, on the other hand, had two things going for him in the game: understanding (game awareness) and power. He was a catcher and, especially on this team, if the pitcher on any team was so important you would number him 1A, this catcher was 1B. It was JJ’s job to help the pitchers and control runners on base. JJ could throw out just about anybody on base. Most of the teams had stopped even trying to steal on the Aztecs because of his arm and his smarts.
Except Casey could beat JJ. Casey was that fast. But JJ could also hit balls farther than anyone in the league.
This field was situated just above an arroyo with a small parking lot in between the diamond and the small valley and, typically, the only people to hit it all the way over the fence into that arroyo were the dads who pitched to each other for a laugh after coaching practice once in a while. And JJ. JJ hit it as far as the coaches with Dad Strength.
However, until this point, JJ’s most celebrated HR came on opening day, smell of cut grass still in the air, immediately after a T-ball family parked their mini-van in left center on the other field that fronted the parking lot. They backed that baby in as five-year-old Jr. scuddled past the snack bar (in his mind, the only reason he was here) and Mom and Dad rolled his little sister toward that T-ball field squeezed between all the other slowly expanding versions of baseball diamonds, red-white-and-blue buntings flowing and balloons bouncing.
Well, that family had taken no more than five steps from the minivan when JJ crushed a low, middle-in fastball over the fence, into the back window of the minivan, shattering the window to the delight of everyone in the stands and on the field except the opposing manager and the opposing pitcher.
Kids who waited for their own games to start, or having just finished, raced each other to rescue the ball from the van’s broken glass and ensure JJ got his free Icee container before anybody else. You see, a homerun meant free Icees for the entire season.
Well, today’s game was on the other side of the season’s pendulum. Today’s game was the conclusive game of the season and through a quirk in the scheduling, these two teams played against each other with the exact same record. In fact, each team had only lost once, and that loss was to the other team in the opposing dug out. The league was so lopsided, both teams had mercied a full half of their games. A ‘mercy’ meant the game was stopped because one team was more than ten runs ahead. This was a mercy killing. At this level, one kid could make all the difference.
As a coach, if you got one of these future all-stars (Little League), you knew they were the difference maker. If you didn’t, the difference maker was at the other end of the line-up, at spots nine through twelve on the line-up card. These kids usually were here for the snack bar and a dream. The savvy coaches knew that if you could squeeze hits out of that lower part of the line-up, it would turn that lineup over and the team would get more opportunities to bat at the top of the order.
Well, these two teams didn’t worry about “coaching up” these kids at the bottom of the score card, those who were not destined to play a single game of baseball past this day. For at least half of the kids on this field today, this would be the last time they used that glove and bat or threw a baseball until that kid grew up and had a kid of their own. They never put on a protective cup again.
So, the game’s at 7-6 and the Florida A&M Rattlers are down to the San Diego State Aztecs. In a fit of coherence this middle-class league decided the youngsters were better off representing and aspiring to college rather than pro ball. In any case, the snakes had a tradition. They would yell and cheer but just as they stopped screaming (the rules were to respect the pitcher and quiet down before they pitched) the Rattlers would hush then shake their bean filled solo cups, ratatata-ratatata, like a rattlesnake.
Now remember, baseball innings are like pitchers of root beer: you start at the top and finish at the bottom.
To set the scene: It’s the top of the sixth (Little League play six innings not the nine the big kids did) and the Aztecs were batting. With the Rattlers on defense, Bobby played his required two innings earlier in the middle frames and he watched while Pete Chiu ran into a little trouble by giving up a lead-off double to Johnny Calagna. Johnny advanced to third base on a ground out to pitcher but the Rattlers had their best defense on the field. Pete induced a pop up to short and got a strike-out looking on Pete’s wicked looping curveball, to end the inning.
The game had reached the bottom of the sixth inning and the Rattlers were up to bat. This is their last chance to score or lose the game.
From in-the-hole, third batter up, Bobby watched in terror when Clay Zuniga grounded out. On deck, next batter up, he spit out his gum, when Trent Polonski struck out by getting walked up the ladder with the high cheese.
Two outs against the Rattlers. First Place and a trip to the T.o.C. is on the line. Some parents have been known to subvert the rules of fair play to get to the Tournament of Champions; to have the chance to play one or more games against the best teams in the surrounding county, not just the league. People have been known to discard morals and mores to escape a crushing defeat at the end of the season.
But not on this day. It wouldn’t be necessary to commit any skullduggery.
Bobby Thomas was up to bat.
The conventional wisdom was that this kid couldn’t be helped. He was slow and he was scared. In fact, the only hit he had all season long was when the ball literally hit the knob of his bat when he ducked. The inadvertently batted ball dribbled fair up the first base line while Bobby ran with all his might to first base. The catcher picked up the ball and hit Bobby in the middle of the back in his attempt to throw the ball to first.
Now, what everyone was hoping for was to turn over the line up. You see, Casey was lead-off, first on the scorecard, first in the lineup, and if one of these chuckleheads could get on base, Casey would have the chance to win this game for the Rattlers. But to have that chance, his teammate Bobby Thomas needed to do what he hadn’t done all year but once: get on base.
Not only the best kid on the team, Casey was a good kid. It’s known that the really good players in this league could be less than good teammates or competitors. Casey didn’t say mean things like “You better get on” or “Just lean into one so I get my chance”. No, Casey said, “You got this, Bobby. Find a good one to hit.”
Casey said this despite knowing that the poor kid couldn’t even find a hit when the coach was throwing the ball to hit Bobby’s bat with practice pitches.
In this instance, Bobby faced a kid who threw harder than anyone in the league. The only reason this kid didn’t start the game was because he had a travel ball game the next day and someone said there’d be college scouts there. To evaluate him. At twelve.
Now, Bobby was up. He walked up to the plate, both sides cheering from the stands. The other team felt confident victory was in their grasp. He glanced behind the backstop and there must have been a classroom worth of kids behind the fence sitting on the scorer’s table spitting seeds, chewing pink bubble gum, slurping electric blue Icees and thanking God their team’s season wasn’t squarely on their own tiny shoulders.
Bobby squeezed the bright orange grip of his bat and stepped in the batter’s box.
“Bobby!” bellowed from behind him.
Shoot. It was coach. Bobby forgot again. Bobby stepped out of the box and looked at Coach out there next to the third base coach’s box as he started a routine. Now, to someone who didn’t know the game, like someone from Mars or Jupiter, it would’ve looked like this coach was having some sort of fit or was mute and used an obscure, forgotten sign language, but he was delivering the signs. Signs were obfuscation, plain and simple. Teams didn’t want anyone to know their plans, so they used signs to confuse communication, but to those who knew the details, the message was perfectly clear.
Bobby knew what everyone in the whole ballpark knew except for Bobby’s mom. Bobby was going to get the “take” sign: Don’t swing.
“Go get ‘em, Bobby! You got this!” his mom yelled.
I don’t got this, Bobby thought. I never have.
Bobby loved baseball. He loved his teammates. He loved the snack bar. He loved it when Casey inevitably won the game for them with another perfectly placed hit. Bobby had imagined himself getting that same hit nearly every night all season long as he went to bed. However, he never saw it materialize in the game.
Bobby loved the uniforms and playing catch, joking with his teammates during warm-ups, hitting whiffle balls and soft toss. He just didn’t like all eyes on him in the batter’s box at the end of the game, at the end of the season, at the end of his baseball career.
With his take sign – don’t swing – firmly in his mind, Bobby stepped in the box and the umpire gave him an encouraging smile, “Ready, Bobby?”
He returned a single nod and faced the right-handed grease lightning, Ashton Filmore.
JJ was catching and he smirked, Bobby could feel it.
The ump said, “Play ball!” and pointed at the pitcher.
Bobby held his hands and the bat back near his ears like he had practiced probably thousands of times before and tried to relax his knees, which seemed to be knocking together.
The pitcher went into his wind up and, as soon as he released the ball, Bobby’s heart thumped, his stomach shot into his throat, and he jumped out of the box. The baseball went straight down main street, through the heart of the plate, THWAP, for a strike.
Bobby stared at the ump for a full three count until JJ cracked a grin stood up to throw back to the pitcher. “Atta boy, Ashton – Keep ‘em coming!” the catcher might have thrown the ball back to the pitcher harder than the pitcher had thrown that last pitch.
“Bobby!” It was the first base coach. “Look at Coach!”
The first base coach pointed to third base and Bobby studied the third base coach’s movements waiting for the indicator. The indicator was a particular move, in this case, a touch of the brim of the cap. When coach touched his cap, the next sign was the coach’s instruction. There’s a whole slew of options. You already heard about the take, there’s also swing away, bunt, steal, even hit and run. Also, slash (which is a form of fake bunt) – some guys even had their kids do a waggle which mostly flummoxed the pitcher and upset the opposing team. This was when the batter would not only show bunt but would waggle his bat around almost teasing the pitcher with the threat of a bunt. Depending on the child’s make-up, this would disrupt the pitcher into throwing a bad pitch. At the very least: a ball. At the worst: a wild pitch to the backstop.
Bobby got the take sign.
The pitcher reached back and hurled a screamer. It whizzed past Bobby’s face straight to the back stop as he ducked for his life. Even JJ couldn’t get a glove on that thing when the pitch was called low and away and the guy threw it high and inside. The umpire coolly called a ball.
And the ritual repeated.
Ball to pitcher. Catcher looked to coach for the pitch. Pitcher looked to the catcher for the sign.
Bobby stared wide-eyed.
“Bobby!”
Bobby stepped out of the box, coach threw signs to dispel interception until the indicator, then: Take.
Pitch: High. Ball.
Ritual. Pitch: In the dirt. Ball.
The count was now 3-1. This is known as a hitter’s count. Three balls, one strike. The pitcher has to throw a strike, or this kid gets a free pass. If Bobby walks right to first base, it brings up Casey who represented the winning run and, with two home runs in this game plus the best batting average in the entire league, a doozy of a pickle.
This pitcher didn’t want that. The opposing coach didn’t want that. The parents in the stands for the Aztecs didn’t want that. The rest of the people in the stands, the outfield, everybody in the rest of the whole world wanted exactly that to happen. Baseball is about the moment when the best player gets a chance to make a difference. They wanted Casey up to bat. Also, Bobby really wanted that.
Bobby’s coach was thinking this exact thing and this particular coach didn’t worry that this was the last at-bat Bobby would ever have and if Bobby should have a chance to swing. Bobby was not blessed with game awareness; he would do what Coach told him. He watched coach touch his chest and belt, his hat and swipe his right forearm. Bobby saw the take. The rattlers rattled and Bobby heard the players behind him, his team screamed from the dugout, all eleven with fingers clasped on the chain link fence. First base coach nodded encouragement. Bobby touched the top of his helmet in acknowledgment to third base, he got the sign: take.
Bobby settled into the box, relaxed his hands.
“Ok, Bobby,” JJ said. “This is an easy one. Right down the middle.”
Was he telling the truth? Was he messing with him? Would he do that? Bobby could never tell. He played baseball for eight years at this point, a full two-thirds of his life, and he never really understood what some of the kids were doing or saying on the field.
The pitcher reached back and threw the ball. Some pitches, you can tell they will be a strike before the ball even leaves the pitcher’s hand. Just by body movement and hand placement and eyes and feet and every tiny detail that humans have developed in their instinct for hand eye coordination. This would be a strike. Bobby went through a million calculations about what he was supposed to do and his life and his dream every night of lucking into the winning hit and the very instant the ball rolled out of the pitcher’s fingertips, Bobby knew one thing he wasn’t supposed to do, and was afraid to do, was swing.
That ball came straight down the pipe. No swing.
“Stee-rike.”
“You got this pitcher!” JJ said as he lobbed the ball back to the mound.
The pitcher was sweating. Bobby thought he actually might be nervous, too.
The count was 3-2 and Bobby hadn’t even swung the bat. Truth be told, Bobby hadn’t even taken a practice swing. He had stood there like a statue and watched the ball go one way then the other. He realized JJ and Ashton, the pitcher, might as well be playing catch. Is that what they were talking about all those years? Bobby had a moment of clarity. All that practice was actually meant to make this easier. The coaches really had been trying to make them better so when a moment like this came, they could succeed. Prepared to try, Bobby had practiced for this chance. Bobby stepped out of the batter’s box, looked at the dusty clay and chalk on his cleats and tapped his feet with the bat.
He took two strong, quick swings without even looking at his coaches, adjusted his helmet and looked at the pitcher with steeled eyes. He would make a difference in this game.
The rattlers rattled; the crowd silenced. JJ double checked the signs with his coach and relayed them to the pitcher. The pitcher threw.
Bobby swung as hard and fast as he had ever swung the bat while the ball looped slowly and easily right into JJ’s glove. Swing. Bap.
“Strike three. Ball game!”