The Little League Pitching Career Blues

The girl who sits next to me at work has a kid playing Little League and there's nothing I enjoy more than talking to hear about it; partly because of how into it she is (bordering on the nutso, but still fun), and of course partly because it lets me remember my own Little League experience, which is, as we said back then, a trip. Her son had a great game pitching the other day, which makes me think of my own Little League pitching career.

Late in my next to last season we were playing the Yankees, who up til then were undefeated. They were loaded with sluggers and had spent the previous two months slaughtering everybody; including, I'm sure, us at least once or twice. Suddenly we found ourselves in a dogfight in extra innings, and lo and behold we took the field in the bottom of the 11th with a one-run lead.  We promptly got the first two outs of the inning, and with this being the first time all year their supremacy was even mildly challenged the Yankees were starting to sweat; by "starting to sweat" of course I mean "immediately loaded the bases." I forget who was pitching for us, but by that point he looked like a limp rag that just wanted to get it the hell over with.

Up to the plate came walking...Mark something, I can't remember his last name - he'd just moved to town a few months earlier and was one of the best players in the whole league. He hit the hell out of the ball, threw what to our little eyes looked like 150mph curveballs and, worse, looked like Sean fucking Cassidy, driving the girls crazy. Obviously, we hated him; thankfully, his family moved away again before we entered the blood sport of  getting a girl to let us put our arm around them while saying how pretty they are  knockin' boots.

In my mind's eye right now not only was the whole league there watching and losing their minds but the whole town as well, although I know when he reads this Brothatime!! will call me to inform me that 1) no, it wasn't 2) I didn't even play Little League, so take from this what you will. Seeing who was coming up to the plate from my position at first base I turned around and did what any veteran Little Leaguer in that moment would do to impress the crowd: directed the right fielder. After screaming at him to get his attention I motioned my hand back, then left, then right, then back, then stop!, then back-back-back juuuuuuuuuuuust a bit before holding up my palm "right there!" The men in the crowd saw me doing this and thought "this kid really understands the game, he gets it - perhaps one day in the near future I will let him be alone with my daughter in our basement, listening to whatever will be Bryan Adam's greatest hits..." Of course throughout my rather impressive performance the right fielder hadn't moved an inch, simply staring back at me and praying the ball wasn't hit to him.  Since he looked like a Peanuts character holding a glove that took up half his body, I was praying for the same thing. Finally I turned back around, and standing in front of me was my coach and our team's catcher, ie Brothatime!!

"Can you pitch?" Coach bluntly asked me.  I'd never pitched before, not once, not even in practice or goofing around. I'm pretty sure I'd only been near the mound to make wisecracks while one of our pitchers was being replaced. "Don't worry buddy, I'm sure that last ball will land someday." With my testosterone (RIP,  ca 1997) surging through my body I said "sure!" and got a "go get 'em! from Coach as he walked away. Brothatime!! slammed the ball into my glove, looked me in the eye through his catcher's mask, and said what any big brother would say in such a situation to his little brother looking for guidance:

"Don't fuck this up."

I took the mound with the town watching me and, worse, the Yankees watching me, and immediately hurled my first warmup pitch into the foul line halfway between home plate and third base. The park was howling with laughter; Mark the Yankees batter about fell down laughing in the on deck circle. After another seven throws that wore out the dirt halfway between the mound and plate and the upper tiers of the backstop, Mark settled into the batter's box and waved his bat like he was King Kong. My first pitch was a ball. I'd love to know where that fucker landed, but then I somehow worked the count full on him - I can still see his teammates swinging on the dugout fence like monkeys, with their absolute belief that he would finally crush my next offering allowing them to openly make fun of him for whiffing on two of my pitches. I'm sure the Yankees coach had a smirk on his face, while mine was probably packing up the equipment in our dugout. Finally I let loose  and cringed, waiting to be spun around losing my clothes like Charlie Brown  a four-seam cutter and Mark swung with everything his noxiously pretty-boy self had in him and....WHIFF!!!!!!!!

We had beaten the mighty Yankees, I was a goddam hero and the now presumable ace in our rotation. The orange soda at Mickey D's following the game was extra sweet that day, my friends.

Coach informed me I'd be starting our next game against the Red Sox, and needless to those who know me best I spent the week inhaling my own fumes of what an incredible pitcher I was and sorry, but the Red Sox were sure in trouble, before taking the mound and giving up 13 runs without recording a single out; it coulda been even worse, but William Scott hit what shoulda been a home run off the fence and settled for a double because he was tired of running around the bases for the past hour. I was never, ever asked to pitch again.