Not to brag or anything, but I was the second best right fielder on my Little League team back in 1974. We were the Giants. We came very close to not losing a game too badly once, and I played in that game and got a hit, which caused my fans (Mom and my sisters) to erupt into stunned, wild applause, thinking my previous season-long slump was finally over.
My talents as a right fielder were still developing as the season ended, but Vegas odds were down to 3-1 that I would catch a ball in the air at some point.
(Hint to kids: If you're afraid the ball is going to hit you in the head, back way, way up in the outfield. Then, when the ball is hit, you're sure to be able to field it on the bounce or -- better -- as it rolls to a stop, which is much less potentially disfiguring.)
What I contributed most to my team in my one-year Little League career was attitude. The incredulous stare at the umpire after a called third strike -- I patented that. I could stare for long minutes at a time, eyes glittering with hostility from beneath the scarred batting helmet, until the next batter had to shove me out of the way so the torturous struggle with futility could proceed.
Of course, I had one near-sighted eye and one far-sighted eye, so I never really saw the third strike, but the odds were that all three of them couldn't have been in the strike zone. It was Little League.
After the inevitable loss, I could hurl a bat in frustration and pound my glove furiously with the best of them. I'd sit in morose silence in the back of the truck on the way home, pretending to replay the game in my head (what I could remember, anyway -- I never paid a whole lot of attention).
I still think we would have won a couple of those games if the coach had let me pitch. While it's true that I couldn't throw a baseball very fast or far, 90 percent of a pitcher's game is mental. I still can imagine the batter shuddering at my steely-eyed gaze as I shake off the sign again and again.
The coach's son, Todd, was our star pitcher. Todd and I didn't get along. He was kind of a loudmouth who made fun of the kids who didn't play to his level. He didn't bother to hide his contempt for me, but I think he must have sensed that I had incredible baseball talent just waiting to spring forth and steal his limelight. How he jeered when I was shuffled off with the 7-year-olds for soft batting practice with a bored assistant coach. I could hit pretty good when the ball was thrown from 15 feet away, underhand.
Midway through the season, just as our lousiness was beginning to become legend around the league, Todd was playing pepper at practice one day and didn't get his glove up in time. There goes the nose. I managed to hide my glee.
As a grownup, I have compassion and sympathy that I didn't have when I was 8. I don't think I inherited that from Mom, however, because on the way home from practice, she was heard to mutter, "Couldn't have happened to a nicer kid."
Late in the season when I finally got a hit, it didn't propel me to respectability with my teammates, because by that point, we were all striking out on purpose (except the jerk, Todd) just to get the thing over with.
Back then, losing teams didn't get pizza or ice cream. We got to go home and pull weeds in the garden.
The night after the last, futile game, I lay in bed, thinking about all the missed opportunities, the things I might have done differently. Finally, I got up and went into the living room where Mom and Dad were watching TV. Bravely, I announced I wanted to play next year.
They nodded soberly.
None of us ever mentioned it again.
Ken York writes a weekly column for The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
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