The Streak

The Streak

         Between the ages of nine and twelve, I played local Little League baseball. My apprenticeship began by gathering butt splinters at the end of the long wooden bench. Occasionally, when my team, the Sheriff’s Department, was so far ahead or so far behind that it didn’t make any difference, the coach sent me in to play right field. I’m sure he hoped and prayed that no one would hit the ball in my direction. By the age of ten I played right field a lot and even second base once in a while. At age eleven I was assigned second base on a steady basis. And when I turned twelve, I became a star. I was our team’s ace pitcher and played every position at one time or another—except catcher.

        “The Streak” happened that year. The whole thing started, oddly enough, because I was bored. During one game my team found itself several runs ahead, and by the final inning I had collected my third base hit. With no one on base in front of me, I decided to try something unorthodox.

        Technically, in Little League base stealing was not permitted because the runner could not leave his bag while the pitcher’s foot was touching the pitching rubber or until he had released the ball. If the runner left the base and violated any of these conditions, the umpire called him out. However, if the pitcher didn’t have his foot on the rubber and wasn’t paying attention, it was possible to advance to the next base—if the timing was right and if he was fast enough.

        So, this was the situation: I was at first base, second base being empty. The pitcher was standing on the mound with his back to me, rubbing the baseball. As he bent over to pick up the rosin bag, I took off like a cat after a wounded chickadee toward second. By the time the pitcher realized what was happening, I had slid safely into the bag and was nonchalantly brushing the dirt off my uniform. Safe by a mile.

        Success served to make me bolder. The following games lent themselves to my creativity. I concocted different ways of stealing bases. The most common was to break for second a millisecond after the pitcher released his pitch. Gradually, I refined my techniques of base theft. I stole third base—much more difficult because the catcher was closer. He could deliver his throw quicker. The pitcher’s throwing angle to third was also more direct, so I had to pick my spots carefully, and the timing had to be perfect. This enterprise that had begun out of boredom had become a challenge.

        Game after game the streak continued. I was untouchable. Although close calls happened, I either slid under the tag or was able to avoid it. Sometimes the second or third basemen dropped the ball, or the catcher made a wild throw. Once, the shortstop, who was covering second base, lay down a perfect tag. I slid right into his glove, but the force of my lead foot wrenched the glove from his hand. Relieved and smug, I dusted myself off safe at the bag while the shortstop retrieved his glove and the ball from the cut of the grass, uttering some unmentionables beneath his breath.

        The first half-season championship game pitted us against the Kiwanis Club, the New York Yankees of our league. We both had earned identical 5-1 records. The second game of a twin bill, the beginning was delayed to seven o’clock, and the lights needed to be turned on. That was great. The artificial beams bathed us in the spotlights of the main attraction adding glitter to the championship glow.

        The Kiwanis Club rocketed off to a blazing start and scored three runs in the first inning before Carl, our starting pitcher, settled down. We got one back in the second on an error, a bunt, and a base hit. It was still 3-1 when I stepped to the plate in the fourth for the second time that evening. With the count two balls and one strike, I popped a soft liner into left field. Their fielder took it on one hop and threw a bullet to second, holding me to a single. John Laha was their pitcher, a solid player with good knowledge of the game. He made quick releases to home, making it hard to steal on him. But I felt it was up to me to get something started. On the delivery of his third pitch, I took off. The catcher’s throw arrived at second a split second too late.

        Safe at second, I stared at an empty third base with one out. J.D. Larosa, our cleanup hitter, sauntered to the plate. J.D. could swat the ball a mile when he connected, but he struck out much too often. I don’t know what got into me, but with the count two balls and one strike, I bit my lip and took off for third. The pitcher had his back turned, bent over tying his shoe. The third baseman screamed, “Now!” As if rehearsed, the pitcher wheeled and fired a perfect strike to the third baseman. He caught the ball, blocked the bag, and tagged me out. It wasn’t even close. My foot never touched the bag.

        Man, was I pissed! I stalked to the dugout, throwing my bat against the bat rack. Inside I grabbed my glove and hurled it against the protective screen, prompting a warning by an umpire. I was really more angry with myself than anything else. I didn’t question the call. I knew I was out by a mile, but that knowledge didn’t make me less disappointed.

        Frustrated and depressed, I stuck my nose through an opening in the chicken wire screen and glared at the rest of the inning. The next pitch to J.D. brought a swing and a miss. Strike two. The count was now two and two. The wind up—the pitch. J.D. swung, not hard, but with a controlled, slight uppercut that met the ball cleanly. The ball jumped off the bat. Back, back, and the ball cleared the scoreboard in centerfield. My mouth hung open, slack-jawed with amazement.

        The significance of his homerun only struck me when the assistant coach said, “See, you didn’t have to try to steal third. You didn’t have to put everything on your shoulders.” Wow, was he right! If I hadn’t been thrown out, the game would have been tied. As it was, we ended up losing by a score of 3-2, coming in second place.

        Although we fell short of our goal, we ended up having an impressive season. My coaches were great and so were my teammates. And J.D. and I received the ultimate honor. We were selected to play on our league’s all-star team.