Little League Legends

I never had a future as a baseball player. I had convinced myself of that as a child, and when I did play any kind of organized ball, I didn’t put in the necessary work to be the very best I could be as a short kid with poor eyesight. If I had, I believe now I could have been a bench player at the varsity level in high school at the very least. Still, not every attempt at playing was a disappointment.

My best experience by far was the Little League team I played for when I was in seventh grade. I was the third baseman (in homage to Phillies legend Mike Schmidt) and the oldest player on my team, which actually made it easier for me to get along with everyone. I wasn’t the best player, but I was certainly in the middle of the pack. That group was full of quirky characters, not the least of whom was our coach, Larry, a short, hot-headed man. Despite his tendency to yell, he was mainly very nice and encouraging. Plus, I never suffered his wrath, which he reserved for his son, Kyle, our team’s catcher, whenever he began crying after striking out.

The only other kid Coach Larry yelled at was Lucky, our enigmatic right fielder. The rest of us on the team avoided him because he didn’t seem to have a whole lot going on upstairs (I later found that was not the case at all). He didn’t pay attention during practice or even during games, as he was more interested in the state of the grass he was standing on. I can still hear Coach Larry yelling at him from the dugout, “Lucky! Stop pickin’ the flowers!” The rest of us tried our best to stifle our laughter during those moments. I think Lucky’s reputation even spread around the league. There was a strict rule against sliding headfirst, but in Lucky’s most triumphant moment of the season, he basically belly-flopped into home, kicking up a cloud of dust that completely enveloped him. Once the fog lifted, the umpire called him safe. Any other player in that situation would’ve been called out for breaking the rules, but it was Lucky.

I actually reconnected with Lucky 15 years later, and he told me that he acted aloof on purpose because his mother had signed him up for baseball against his extreme objections. Adding that context just makes those memories funnier.

Our first baseman, Jeff, was the largest 11-year-old kid I’d ever seen. I also remember him because of his grandmother, who attended every game and yelled in shaky, mousy voice, “Little hit, Jeff, little hit,” every time he came up to bat. Not only was the cheer annoying, but it was ironic because slugger Jeff was the only player on our team to hit the ball over the fence during the season.

We weren’t the best team in our league, but we won more games than we lost, and our absolute best game was toward the end of the season. We fell behind early, 13-3, but we made a furious comeback. I contributed to the surge with a two-run double, but Kyle punctuated it with a pair of inside-the-park grand slams in back-to-back at-bats. I think we were further spurred on after Coach Larry got thrown out by the home plate umpire after arguing vehemently that I checked my swing on a strike-three call. We went into the bottom of the last inning trailing by just one run, 19-18. We were still down a run with the bases loaded and two outs when I stepped to the plate. A sudden pain in my wrist made me skittish about swinging, but luckily, the opposing pitcher was wild, and I drew a walk to tie the game. We then won the game in the craziest way, as the batter behind me, Troy, was struck in the foot for a walk-off hit-by-pitch! I’ll never forget watching that ball curve downward and hit Troy’s left cleat with an anti-climactic thud. He shrugged his shoulders and trotted to first, and then we went crazy after the winning run crossed the plate.

That game and that season remain highlights of my childhood, and my parents and I still mention several classic memories from that team, which, of course, always end in laughter.

note: Simply because I revealed the outcome of every one of my at-bats in that crazy game in my journal back in 1995, I’ll share here that I went 2-for-3 at the plate with a single, a double, two walks, three RBI and a run scored. I didn’t write about any defensive plays in that game, but I can tell you that three days before, I caught a pop up, and then I caught a line drive before doubling off the runner at second all in the same inning. It was the only double play I participated in all season. J

May 21, 1995: Phillies vs. New York Mets

I would be willing to wager my entire collection of autographed baseballs that there is nothing cooler a 12-year-old kid could wear to a major league game than a Little League uniform.

You look just a little more important than the other kids in their normal threads. Other parents think it’s utterly adorable. It also brings a smile to the faces of the players on the field to see a child following – albeit distantly and unlikely – in their footsteps.

That cool kid was me on this sunny day in May. I got up bright and early to don my Orioles uniform (wonderful foreshadowing, as I would soon become a fan of the American League team 75 miles to the south) for the purpose of team photos. I loved my Little League team. I got along extremely well with my teammates, which was a refreshing change from the daily torment I received at school. I was also proud to be the third baseman, a position I picked as an homage to the best Phillies player of all time, Mike Schmidt.

To the relief of my dad and I, the photo session went much quicker than expected. That meant we didn’t have to cancel our plans to go to that afternoon’s Phillies game with his co-worker, Greg, who had two extra tickets. That’s always the best way to go to a ballgame. It’s typically unexpected and it’s like finding treasure. I also chose the game over attending the birthday party of my best friend at the time, Brian, but being just as big of a Phillies fan, he understood.

Unfortunately, the actual experience failed to live up to the promise. As is the case with any big city, traffic was atrocious, and the photo session robbed us of the extra time we needed to factor into our trip. We had to settle for cheering to the car radio as the Phillies scored four first-inning runs against the Mets. I was doing most of the cheering, while Greg and my dad lamented about our predicament. It’s much easier to see the silver lining in most situations when you’re a kid.

Parking was another issue since we obviously arrived at Veterans Stadium after all the other fans. By the time we finally got to our seats, the game was in the sixth inning.

The Phillies made our ordeal worth it by letting the Mets back into the contest. The 4-0 whittled to 4-3, and the bullpens on both sides were left to duke it out.

Darren Daulton started some two-out magic in the eighth with a double. Charlie Hayes followed with a catchable line drive to right, but the ball bounced off the webbing of Chris Jones’ glove, allowing Daulton to score. The Phillies won by that 5-3 score, and it came as no surprise to us.

Though the pitching staff had changed dramatically in two years, the Phillies still retained most of their starting lineup from 1993, and they returned to form over the first two months of 1995, jumping out to a 35-18 start. But injuries and a general lack of team chemistry eventually took their toll, and the Phils took a nose dive out of contention in July.

Sadly, those four innings in 1995 would be my last live look at Dutch, The Dude, Dave Hollins and Jim Eisenreich in a Phillies uniform. All things in professional sports seem to go full circle, and the basement from which Philadelphia furiously emerged would become their residence once again in 1996 and 1997.

My bandwagon allegiance to the superstar Dallas Cowboys of the National Football League around this time proved that I had yet to learn the value of loyalty, and so it’s no wonder I turned my attention away from the Phillies. My dad and I curtailed our viewing of them on television, and we stopped going to their games. In a way, I was saying goodbye to my childhood. This incarnation of the Phillies was at its end, and the Little League costume hung in the closet, never to be worn again.

It was the end of an era for sure, but my baseball tutelage was just getting started.