Little League: Impression One

In 1964, my parents signed me up for Little League. I wanted to be #7, like Mickey Mantle, and a switch hitter, too. Maybe roam center field like the Mick.

Alas, I was slow afoot and a natural right hander, but I could catch the ball better than almost every other kid on the Tigers (our team name; school kids in other leagues had team names like “Bob’s Drugs.”) except for Augie and Steve, so the coach put Steve at shortstop and Augie behind the plate, and I played first base. My little brother played center field

Steve also pitched.  He was nearly unhittable among the 8, 9, and 10-year old boys playing this game.  But they had rules to protect pitchers’ arms in those days, no more than 6 innings per week.  Our coach thought it would be a brilliant plan if he pitched Steve the first 3 innings of the weeknight game and then the first three innings of our Saturday game.

Trouble was, there was no other kid on the team who could consistently throw strikes from the 45-foot pitcher’s mound.  I truly believed I could, but my Dad wouldn’t allow it, so I stood glumly at first base in the fourth inning of my first organized baseball game with my Gil Hodges-signed first baseman’s glove as the other kids on my team walked batter after batter until the Yankees had scored 22 runs, at which point the game was called for time (1 hour and 50 minutes, max, per game, 5 games per Saturday in each of the two diamonds.)  We lost 26-6.

One of the players on the Yankees was also in my class at school, although I don’t remember his name. “Jimmy?” “Jimmy Fields?” I can see him.  No, I’m mixing him up with a college acquaintance.  Anyway, the next day at school he kept saying, “You poor kittens,” and I didn’t understand what he meant until he told me, “’Tigers’? ‘Kittens.’”

The Tigers were the laughingstock of Little League all year.  We were OK when we were batting and when Steve was pitching, but as soon as the coach put Barry or Larry or Charly or Tommy or Wally or Ricky on the hill, the walks would begin, and I would stand alone at first base gamely chattering, “Hey batter batter batter hey batter – SWING.” The opposing coaches counseled their players not to swing until they had two strikes on them, so the batter rarely swung.

We were 0-17 going into the final game of the season against the Orioles, who were 17-0.

The Orioles had a big-for-his-age 10-year-old named Greg Something who usually pitched all 6 innings of important games, so no chance he was pitching against us, the lowly Tigers.  Except it was the final game of a potentially unbeaten season, so their coach held him out of the weekday game that week so he could go all the way against us.  Fortunately, our coach finally saw the light and saved 6 innings for Steve on this final game as well.

Bigger kids tend to throw the ball harder and faster than regular sized kids, but they are also kids, and so they are wild, like Ryne Duren wild or, later, Nolan Ryan wild. That makes all the opposing 8, 9, and 10-year olds a little leery at the plate, with a tendency to bail out.  But in addition to coming to his senses about our best (and only) pitcher, Coach had also acquired a scouting report.  “I want you all to crowd the plate on Greg,” he told us.  “That makes him wild.  Don’t worry if it hits you; it won’t hurt.”

Greg hit me with pitches twice; I don’t remember where, but it seems like the small of the back was one likely spot.  He also began aiming his pitches, one of which I laced into the gap in right center for a bases clearing double.

Steve got whacked around, too, especially after the 3^rd inning. He hadn’t thrown more than 3 innings in a game all year, and his arm got tired, but his defense supported him.  I personally executed an unassisted double play on a liner to first that the runner thought was going to get through.

At the end of 5 innings, the score was 10-10, a real pitchers’ duel in my limited experience.

Then the umpire called the game on time limit, even though we were the final game of the day and of the season, and the crowd had swelled into the high 70’s.

How disappointed we were not having one more chance to beat the mighty Orioles, but the free fountain soda after the game tasted just as good as the other 17 free fountain sodas that year.

We finished the year 0-17-1 that year, my first and worst year in organized sports.

But at least I got to be #7.

(FWIW, my best year in organized sports was a 12-0 football season in which we were never behind in a game.)