Author: Bob

When I was 11, I decided I wanted to play baseball. Most of my friends were joining and I didn’t want to be left out. It was the Summer of ’69 and we lived in Michigan.

My friend Carlton ended up on a team called the Blackhawks and I became a Panther. He was pretty decent and played first base on his team. I was awful and played right field. I couldn’t catch or field anything. I couldn’t hit either. Every time I got up to bat I struck out.

Somehow, we managed to be a fairly good team. In our last game of the season (I had turned 12 by then) we played a team with a lousy pitcher.  When it was my turn to bat, I closed my eyes and swung. I hit a ground ball to right field and made it to first base. The next guy hit a double and I made it to third. The pitcher then threw a wild pitch and the third base coach told me to run. Then something weird happened. Instead of the catcher trying to tag me, he tossed the ball to the pitcher. The pitcher then tossed the call back to the catcher, but I had already reached home. We won the game.

My mom was so excited. She went around telling everyone that I got a hit. I was embarrassed. It’s like announcing to the world that your kid sucks but finally did something good.

We ended up second for the season and we all got trophies. My mom tossed it when we moved.