THE LAST PITCH

Watching the 2015 All-Star game I felt a sense of pride to see one of Millville’s own Mike Trout, become the most valuable player of the game, the second year in a row – and that got me to think about my own love of baseball…

And then I was in my bedroom on Stratton Avenue putting on my Babe Ruth League uniform again.

As a kid there’s nothing more thrilling than being picked to play on a team (yes in those days one had to try out and “make” the team, unlike today when everyone gets to play, no matter what their skills) and getting that first real baseball uniform was a big part of the thrill.

Putting it on before each game was, for me, like the Matador’s ritual with the traje de luces (suit of lights).  I used to start an hour before the game just to make sure I got it right.  I tried to emulated the pros I would see on the few games that were televised in my day.  Today most pro players don’t worry too much about their pants or knickers (as they should be called) – they wear them touching the ground and in my baseball purest opinion they look awful – and hats with the flat brims?  Don’t get me started on that.

Anyhow…the ritual began after putting on the very uncomfortable, but required protective cup! The next step was to roll on the elastic garters – then the cotton under socks - then the stirrups, mine where lime green.  The next step was to turn the knickers inside out and step into them.  Slide them up over the socks and stirrups.  Roll the garters down and when the pants where pulled they made a nice fold at the knee – the way they were designed to be worn.  

I guarantee there is only two players in the entire major league’s that do this today.  Ty Cobb or Connie Mack would never condone a player to play on their team who did not know how to fix his pants.  

I donned the hot and scratchy wool shirt with the Millville National Bank by the Clock logo emblazoned on the front and my number 3 on the back (which I always requested in honor of the Babe, my hero).  Finally I stood in front of the mirror, tucked in my shirt, tugged on my belt and was satisfied that I looked like a baseball player.

I rode my bike to the field an hour ahead of game time for batting practice.  A sentimental trip as this was the last game of the season and the last game of Babe Ruth ball career – gads I was getting old!  And the whole season came down to this last game.  The Bank versus Coombs Dairy for the championship.

Brad my South Millville buddy was the opposing pitcher.  Off the field we were best friends but on this day we were serious enemies.  Brad was over six feet tall, lean as a bean poll.  And he had a wicked curve ball for a kid.  Matter of fact he had a bunch of pitches his dad Bucky had taught him.  He was a formidable opponent for this last game.

The game turned out to be a classic pitcher’s duel.  I batted clean-up and had one of the 2 hits Brad had allowed so far.  Our pitcher was doing great until the sixth inning when Coombs scored a run on a passed ball.  

As we entered the bottom of the seventh (at our age we only played seven innings) you could cut the tension with a butter knife.  The fans were very quiet.  Even my mother and grandmother who came to every game were frozen in place. And as fate would have it I came to the plate with two outs and the bases loaded with Bankers.  

Sweat was pouring from everywhere.  Brad knew I was a good fastball hitter – but he also knew that I had trouble with the curve.  He grinned and threw a ball that took a minute and a half to reach the plate.  I watched it right into the catcher’s mitt.  Strike one! Called the hump.  Brad threw another pitch, it looked like it was straight for my head.  I backed off but it broke right over the plate.  Strike two!   That one really fooled me.  Brad’s grin turned to a sneer.  I hated that sneer.

 I took off my hat and wiped my brow as our third base coach called time out and waved for me to come down the line for a chat.  He put his arm on my shoulder and drew me close.  Brad watched and I’m sure he thought - a suicide bunt with two outs…NEVER...But what was the strategy?  He knew I was a good hitter and had a bunch of big homers that season.  But he didn't look too worried.

Coach whispered, “Cal, you’re on your own.”  That was it?  That was the plan???? 

Now I was really drenched.  Why me? was all I could really think to myself as I walked back to the plate trying to look as confident as possible.  I tapped the plate.  This was it.  My big chance to be hero or…bum.

Brad glared as our eyes met.  He did a double wind up and threw a side arm roundhouse change up sinking curve ball.  And just like Casey I missed it by about two feet and almost fell over.  And the game and the season was over.  

No storybook ending for me.  No trophy.  No picture in the Daily.

As the Dairy boys hooted and carried Brad off the field I had to look my teammates in the eye as we gathered up the bats and our gloves.  A couple of them patted me on the back.  My mom hugged me and went to her car.  But no one spoke a word.  And soon in the dwindling evening light I was still on the bench and the field was empty and it was time for me to go.

I peddled back home and went right to bed.  

I have learned over the years that life is rarely like the movies or a good book or the way we wished it would turn out.  Sometimes we win and sometimes, no matter how hard we try - we loose.

And guaranteed happy endings are why we write stories.