Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Draft #79
I just finished reading Bill Simmon's article about how crying has become more acceptable in today's sports world. Having said this, I started looking back on my playing days as a child to see if I've ever displayed that much emotion during a sporting event. It was Tom Hanks who once said that there is no crying in baseball, and I can think of three specific situations where I broke that cardinal rule of the game and not one of them involved getting hit with a fastball (or leaning into the occasional curveball). Instance #1: It was my first year of organized baseball, and I was one of the greatest eight-year-old phenoms to ever break into the West Bend Minor League baseball circuit. Which in itself is a joke because if I was actually any good I would have been in the actual West Bend Little League circuit instead of being delegated to the minors. Please remember though, this was back in the day when tryouts were held outdoors, in April, in the cold, and I believe the pitching machines were cranked up as high as 70 mph (or at least it seemed that way). I was at the tail end of a generation who had to tryout in those conditions, and shortly after that, the tryouts were held in gymnasiums with pitching machine speeds set somewhere between snail and two-legged dog. Anyway, I was one of the best of the worst and I played for the West Bend Elevator sponsored Red Sox. We may not have been the best team in the league, but we were scrappy and we had a guy on our team nicknamed Twinkie. We also had a guy named Luke on our team that moved like Forrest Gump (with the braces). He was a skinny lad but ran slower than a glacier pulling a tractor that was pulling a plow. Had the "special needs" league been formed at that time, he may have been the Jose Canseco of his peers, but this was the minors, and Luke just wasn't skilled enough to cut it at our level. And by the way, I hate it that the minor league's is referred to as Triple A now. Don't want to hurt the kids feelings now do we? They should have gone the other direction and renamed it the "Step above retarded" league or the "Semi-challenged" league. A title that exudes a sense of failure to the public, you know, something catchy.
So I'm in the middle of my one and only season in the minors with the Red Sox, and we're playing an equally crappy team on a field behind a bowling alley, oblivious to the fact that one of the greatest misjustices of this or any century was about to be served cold, on my lap, and without warning. I had reached base that game ala the 8-ball walk (a rule specifically designed for minor league play that states a batter can only receive a base on balls with the bases loaded if the pitcher throws eight balls instead of the customary four) a feat I was no stranger to since I had such a discernible eye at the plate. I eventually made my way to second base and inbetween pitches I started feeling a pebble in my helmet that was causing myself some mild discomfort. So I removed my protective headgear to shake the contents loose when all of a sudden the umpire called me out. I wasn't tagged by the ball, I wasn't out of the baseline, but apparently their was a "no removing your helmet" rule that neither I or any of my coaches knew about. The parents in the stands went balistic, my coaches were absolutely dumbfounded, and I.................after a few words of disapproval, was told to return to the bench where I proceeded to cry, like a girl. None of it made sense to me.
Instance #2: I was a rookie playing for Albiero Plumbing and we were matched up against Weilands in this particular case of the weeping ballplayer (Weilands was the name of the very bowling alley I had mentioned in the previous instance). Their star player was named Jared Beistle and he was on the mound that day. This particular 12-year-old stood about 6 feet tall and could threw approximately 82 mph (at least it seemed that way). Most men quivered in absolute fear at the mere sight of this boy, let alone a fresh faced nine-year-old who swung a 28 inch Easton as if it were one of Paul Bunyan's table legs. Since I was so young (and shitty) I only played a couple of innings per game and got an at-bat or two in the process. Since Weilands was so good, I only got one at-bat that game and boy did I not make the most of it. I struck out, and I struck out swinging. I was so upset I didn't even make contact with the ball, that I started crying. When I got back to the dugout the coach asked what was wrong and I told him I hit myself pretty hard with the backswing, not sure if he bought my pathetic excuse or not, but that seemed better than just telling him I was a pussy.
Instance #3: We are now moving from 2nd and 3rd grade memories and fast forwarding all the way to 8th grade and the championship game of the West Bend Senior League (the league between Little League and high school ball). It was one of the most lopsided championship matchups in recent history, on paper at least. It was the mighty Teachers vs. the less than steller team known as Bank One, a wild collection of misfits and scalawags who didn't even deserve to breathe fresh air let alone play in a championship game with such a high caliber team as the WB Teachers. We had these guys beat before the game even started which is why we had our team party before the end of the season, a day or two before the championship game, it just made sense.
Well, the Mighty West Bend Teachers didn't win the championship that day, largely in part to an umpire who was clearly paid off by one of the over zealous Bank One player's parents. This disgrace of an umpire decided to give David Steckel (Bank One's starting pitcher) 3 to 4 inches off of either corner that day. I'm not sure why, but I'm sticking to the paid off theory. This umpire in question turned a B- pitcher at best into a freakin All-American that day. Steckel ended the game with 17 strikeouts in a 7 inning game. Absolutely a disgrace, especially since I pulled off the ever popular golden sombrero by going 0-4 with 4 strikeouts. Like I said earlier, I had a very discernible eye at the plate and 50% of the crap being called a strike was definitely a ball. The ump took the game into his own hands and I wouldn't even be surprised if he showed up to the Bank One victory party. Now that I think of it, he was probably friends with Bank One assistant manager, Drunk Tom. I bet those two were in cahoots, yeah......., that's it, looks like I found me a new theory. Oh, I went home that night and cried, myself, to sleep.
# posted by hucklebuck @ 1:13 PM 
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"Tom Osowski is the best clutch hitter in the history of Dick's Pizzaria."
~Kenny Anderson (former coach of Weilands and Dick's Pizzaria)
~Kenny Anderson (former coach of Weilands and Dick's Pizzaria)
I remember being a bench warmer on that 7th grade Teacher squad. Nothing like playing back up first base behind the coaches kid. Not to mention the coaches kid was Erik Kraemer, he hit like 371 homers that season...just my goddamn luck.
This is a damn good way to start the day, just quality comments around the horn.
Kurt, did you get nailed directly in the face? Either way, whether it was ball to helmet or ball to skin contact, the mental image made me laugh out loud.
Where does John Osowski rank on the all-time clutch hitter list for Dick's Pizzaria? My guess would be somewhere between Cory Pamperin and TJ Strachota. Toss Wietor into the mix and you guys had quite the formidable lineup.
Haus, don't underestimate your toughness. Cup or no cup, you would have shrugged off the pain like a pro. Sure, you'd a been walking funny, your lower lip would have been shaking feverishly, and you would have thrown-up in your mouth a little once you got to first base but I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have cried.
Mark, you were probably too busy discovering your banjo to pay any attention to what was going on in the field, and I don't blame you one bit. Those were very confusing times.
Kurt, did you get nailed directly in the face? Either way, whether it was ball to helmet or ball to skin contact, the mental image made me laugh out loud.
Where does John Osowski rank on the all-time clutch hitter list for Dick's Pizzaria? My guess would be somewhere between Cory Pamperin and TJ Strachota. Toss Wietor into the mix and you guys had quite the formidable lineup.
Haus, don't underestimate your toughness. Cup or no cup, you would have shrugged off the pain like a pro. Sure, you'd a been walking funny, your lower lip would have been shaking feverishly, and you would have thrown-up in your mouth a little once you got to first base but I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have cried.
Mark, you were probably too busy discovering your banjo to pay any attention to what was going on in the field, and I don't blame you one bit. Those were very confusing times.
I wasn't so much the "clutch hitter", as I was the "take four balls from Mike Techmann and try to steal second" type of guy. I have never seen a more graceful runner than Cory Pamperin in my entire life.
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