The Clumsy Interloper

From an early age, sports were the keystone by which all other facets of my personality formed around. My father, older brother and uncles huddled around the television at Thanksgiving while announcers spoke of esoteric concepts like the run-and-shoot offense and 46 defense. These terms echoed inside my 9-year-old skull as foreign tongues would, inscrutable yet nevertheless fundamental. There was a magnetism to this world that resonated with me – the roar of Soldier Field as 60,000 breath puffs flitted upward in unison, the opening notes of Sirius by The Alan Parson’s Project vibrating in my chest while my extremities went numb during a Bulls introduction, the hypnotic Wrigley ivy shimmering in the July breeze while the organ played on the next batter. These memories cleaved my young brain apart and filled it with tribalism and zeal. Before I knew my phone number, I was a disciple of 1980’s Chicago sports culture.

During my early elementary age, I was a painfully shy kid with a speech impediment. On the field, however, I was a grinder and a hustler. I could reframe my place in the world every Saturday morning. I wore my heart on my sleeve, which made me a target for bullies, but in the heat of competition that quality drove me to play with a silent fury.

Andy Schmiesing was my Scott Farkus from A Christmas Story. He was in the grade above me, had a mop of blond hair, a thin reedy voice and was regularly trailed by a cadre of lackeys. When I was in 2^nd grade he cornered me on the playground and coerced me stand on one foot while he tried to sweep my planted foot from under me, more proof that he descended directly from the Cobra Kai dojo. A teacher soon spied a boy, eyes moist with tears, frantically hopping on one foot while a crowd gathered and put a stop to it. Andy went to Mrs. Clayton’s office while I stewed and juggled all the things I wish I had said or done differently. After his trip to the head mistress’s office, Andy gave me a wide birth and I did the same.  

The next school year I joined the Menomonee Pirates (green) with a few neighborhood friends and played with some distinction although I was one of the youngest team members. I kept track of my batting average and RBIs, even notching a solo home run in my first game. Towards the end of the season we played Andy’s team, the White Sox (black), on the Lincoln Park Waveland ball fields. Andy was the pitcher and I remember his 4^th grade fastball being intimidating on a level that seemed ungodly at the time.

Thirty-five years later, I still distinctly remember the sensations I felt stepping into the batter’s box that first time. The pop of the mitt with each fastball was harrowing, his smug visage growing more sinister with each passing strike. The bat was heavy on my shoulder, my mouth dry, my stomach queasy. He struck me out without any fanfare, a foregone conclusion. I dropped my gaze and walked the length of the bench without acknowledging my teammates. I absconded behind the dugout and finally burst into silent tears. My Dad consoled me with a curt pep talk, something akin to “You are a good hitter, you are better than that. Don’t let him get in your head”. It was what I needed to hear. Tough love.

I vowed to be more aggressive. On the first pitch of my second at-bat I hit a towering pop-up to second base. 0-for-2 but the contact felt good in my arms and hands. The spell was broken.

The game was a back-and-forth affair. Both teams appeared evenly matched, however the White Sox held a 6-4 lead going into the bottom of the final inning. With our backs against the wall, the older neighborhood boys at the top of our lineup manufactured two runs to tie the game up. The Pirates dugout buzzed with high-fives and relieved coaches. The prospect of a loss was gone. Without extra innings, we would either tie or win depending on what happened next. With one out and a runner on first base, I stepped into the batter’s box.

The tension had been removed from the game. Andy was battling, disappointed with the string of hits he had just given up. After taking his first two pitches for a 1-1 count, I settled into the at-bat. I remember dragging my blue and gold Easton bat from the front to the back of the plate just like my heroes did a few blocks away in Wrigley Field.  My grip was easy. My mind focused on a single – keeping the rally going.

His third pitch arrived middle away and I belted it deep into the gap in right center. My soul temporarily left my body as I ran to first base, my legs moving by some act of divine providence. When I rounded first base I looked up and the centerfielder and rightfielder were still running backwards into the endless communal outfield of the four-diamond arrangement. I banked around second and saw the winning run streaking home from third base, a delirious gang of Pirates gathering by home plate in a jubilant frenzy. I raced home while my teammates encircled the dish, I stomped empathically on home plate to score a superfluous 8^th run. Immediately the older boys hoisted me aloft and tossed me skyward as high as they could muster, a moment indelibly etched in my mind for eternity.

*

The following Monday, I bumped into Andy at recess and he, surrounded by his friends, asked derisively, “What did you hit, a double?”

I quietly corrected him, “No, a home wun.”

They all laughed at me and my inabilities to pronounce my R’s.

I shrugged my shoulders, saw the masked pain in his eyes and walked away feeling ten feet tall.