Tag: Sports

Sports had no real meaning for me until spring of the third grade. My parents picked me up from school and had a surprise for me, my own baseball glove, something we had never discussed.

Right there, in that sentence, real baseball players just blew a fuse: “Nobody can buy a baseball glove for another person!” I totally understand, but the rules are a little different for a 9-year-old who has never caught or properly thrown a ball before.

To make my story sadder still, they had signed me up for Little League baseball.

Wait. The sad part was that it was too late to go through tryouts. As I understood it, kids would show off their skills and teams would pick them. It sounded just like the schoolyard stories of kids who were always picked last.

Considering I had never caught a ball with a glove or swung a bat at a pitch or attempted a genuine throw … I recognized right off that missing the tryouts might have been a blessing.

In absentia, I was drafted by the Apaches.

Highlight reel

I played two years with the Apaches and two with their older league team, the Warriors (different times, all right?), with little distinction. In fact, only my second year had anything memorable to it.

My batting average that year was something like .276 … nothing stupendous but respectable enough. I think that was the year I hit a double. That’s right, in four years I had only one extra-base hit, knocking one to the left-centerfield fence off one of the league’s best pitchers. Bottom line, he threw hard enough that me just getting a bat on it put the ball to the fence.

But the real highlight came on defense.

I was playing right field, which, I swear, was not my usual position. A fly ball headed to the gap between me and centerfield, which happened to be covered by my brother, Ward. We both raced toward it, I made a leap, stretching my glove across my body and as high as I could.

Thud!

I came down with the ball. Everything seemed to be spinning, but I saw our second baseman – Chuck, I believe – coming out to me and I thew it in. Ward congratulated me and I shook it off … no big deal; this is why we’re here.

But I knew this game was special.

A local radio station aired several ball games each year, making it a point to cover every team at least once. I remember the schedule printout noted on it which games would be on radio.

This was our game.

But the reason that was important to me was the hope my grandmother was listening.

All the way through high school, Ward and I tried to talk Mama Martaindale into coming to one of our baseball or football games. She was steadfast, though, claiming she was afraid she’d see one of us injured.

That night, she could see it on the radio. No injuries.

Out!

Then there was the time I struck out, looking at a called third strike.

I was crushed. There may have been a tear. I mean, I knew that pitch was a ball.

After the game, we were headed to the car when the home plate umpire caught up with me. I knew him through my dad.

He apologized, telling me he blew the call. That should have been a ball, he said, but he felt that once he made the call, he couldn’t really change it.

I understood … I really did.

I also knew that he didn’t have to track me down to make that confession.

There were many lessons wrapped up in that experience.

“Do you even play golf?” I was asked the other day.

Well, what do you mean by “play”?

My first journalism job, as a sportswriter with the Longview, Texas, twice-a-day newspaper, began in September. The fellow who hired me had been with the paper some 14 years, but he left in October to take another job and we soon had a new leader.

John Inman took over at the worst time for a Texas sports editor, smack dab in the middle of football season, but things seemed to work out smoothly and, by that winter, we had time for a little fun. John thought that his two sportswriters (the other guy had only been there a few weeks ahead of me) should learn to golf, and I bought a set of used clubs from a pawn shop.

We met at 8 a.m. almost every Wednesday at Longview Country Club, where we “learned” the game.

Now, Longview Country Club, which is not and never was in the city of Longview, was a great place to begin. Back then, the 18-hole course had nary a sand trap nor a water feature to play around. In fact, it didn’t have many trees, so losing golf balls wasn’t a huge worry, even for someone at my level.

But I needed more help than that. There never was a breakthrough. While I enjoyed a pretty shot here and there, consistency was absent except when I was consistently bad. I never broke 100 in 18 holes. Once, I hit 49 on the front nine before bombing out on the back. I wasn’t any good and it frustrated me.

A year into our golf education, I moved to Texas A&M to resume more traditional schooling and chasing a little round ball became secondary.

Over the next 20 or so years, I played occasionally. It became more fun because I was no longer trying to improve my game but was simply enjoying myself. Now, it’s been about 25 years since I’ve played a round.

So, do I play golf?

If you’re asking if I’m any good at it, the answer is no.

If you’re asking if I’m currently playing regularly, another no.

If you’re asking if I’d be willing to go out and give it another try … maybe.

Ready or not, baseball season is upon us.

Major leaguers and wannabes are wrapping up spring training in Florida and Arizona prior to tossing out the first ball of the season Thursday. Colleges and high schools are well into their seasons.

And, of course, Little League and other youth league participants are practicing their throwing, catching, hitting, running and infield chatter.

Do they still do that?

When I was playing almost mumble-mumble years ago, chatter was a big part of the game. Primary chatterers were at first base, second, third and shortstop. Catchers often took part, too. Pitchers did not because they were busy at the time. Outfielders may have shouted, but it wasn’t as expected.

For anyone not familiar, the chatter was intended to distract the batter, mostly nonsensical things like, “Hey, batter, hey-batter, hey-batter … swing, batter!” There would also be plenty of pep talk for the pitcher, just as steeped in substance, “Put it in there, Alvin, put it in there.” Finally, a little goading was not uncommon, “He can’t hit, he can’t hit.”

It must have worked because players were taught to just block out all the noise whenever at bat.

And that tidbit is a great lesson in life.

Take care of your business and don’t let meaningless chatter distract you.

One more thing

A Roman walks into a bar. He holds up two fingers and says, “Five beers, please!”