08 - June 1974

About half way into June, my father’s team found itself undefeated. After nine games, we were 9-0 and had outscored our opponents 46-4. With only two games per week and the two Andys (Fitzpatrick and St. Pierre) on the pitcher’s mound, we were unbeatable.

Still, Mr. Johnson never let up on either of them. Whenever they tried sneaking in trick pitches like sliders and curveballs, Mr. Johnson would promptly call timeout and bring Byron and the infielders in for a conference on the mound.

“That’s some pitch, Fitz. What do you call it?”

“It was just a fast ball.”

“A fastball that drops six inches?”

Fitz shrugged his shoulders.

“Gimme the ball. You’re taking a time out on the bench to think about what you’re doing to your arm.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Fitzie plopped the ball in Coach Johnson’s hand. When Mr. Johnson rolled the ball gently between his fingers, he felt the imperfection in the rawhide. Then, he knew what was causing the ball to corkscrew and slide at the end of its trip. There was a large scuffmark along one of the seams.

 “Did you do that?”

“No, coach.”

Mr. Johnson gave Byron a hard look. Byron looked away.

“Byron? Did you?”

“No.”

“You should sit, too.”

“But, Dad…”

“The only butt I wanna hear is yours hitting the bench.”

“Yes sir.”

Byron obeyed his father dutifully. Meanwhile, since this was our second game of the week, Mr. Johnson couldn’t use Andy St. Pierre. He had just pitched two days earlier. So, he turned to the only other guy with a decent arm. That was me.

“Jake, can you give me three good innings?”

“I can try.”

“That’s all I can ask,” he said as he turned around and tossed the ball towards the home plate umpire.

“We need a new baseball. This one’s no good. Also, I’m changing pitchers and making a substitution for my third baseman.”

Needless to say, my pitching was lackluster. We returned to our positions and finished out the fifth inning. I walked the first guy and the second hit a double to drive the first one home. My fastball was a slow ball and my change up was just hitting practice for the other team.

When I took the mound, it was 3-0. In the fifth, I gave up three runs and we scored a couple more. By the end of the sixth, our lead was gone. After that, we failed to score while the Redbirds added three runs in both the sixth and seventh innings. The final score was 5-11. Still, even if we didn’t win, I managed to survive complete humiliation.

After the game, we made the usual trip across the field to the other team’s bench to congratulate them. As was always the case, the winning team seemed to gloat whenever they said, “Good game.’ The losing team seemed to apologize for not being enough of a challenge for the winners. Afterwards, my father circled us up in centerfield for a long talk.

“Boys, I know you’ve all heard this a hundred of times, but winning isn’t everything. Through your lives you’ll only win half your battles. Through it all, the only thing that counts is how you win and how you lose.”

I pulled my cleats together in front of me and rested my elbows on my knees as my father continued talking. His lecture continued well past sunset. The stadium lights came on so other games could finish. After all the other players left the field, we were still there. Finally, a click came over the Public Address speakers and someone cleared their throat. Stadium lights clicked off one at a time until just ours shone in the middle of the park.

“I guess I’ve gone on for quite a while, haven’t I?”

We all chuckled.

“I want you to remember this game. It’s important. I won’t take cheaters and I won’t take sore losers, either. Hold your head high and live by the Golden Rule.”

“What’s the Golden Rule?” someone asked.

“Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you. Never be a sore loser or a sore winner. Challenge yourself first, the rest will come later.”

Mr. Johnson simply shook his head.

“You don’t agree, Rob?”

“No,” he stated plainly, “Winning is the only thing. If you lose, you’re nothing. And you should never cheat to do it. royjrt. That’s even worse than losing.”

We all sat there silently as Mr. Johnson’s words hung heavily in the stagnant summer air. Even the parents who had now gathered behind us were utterly speechless.

“All right boys,” interrupted Mr. St. Pierre, “Let’s use tonight as a learning experience. What’s done cannot be undone. Let’s put it behind us and go home. We’ll see you at practice on Saturday morning.”

Parents approached quietly as the boys rose to their feet. We all went our separate ways, silently and solemnly.

My mother, however, wouldn’t let the evening fall away completely without putting in her two cents worth. On the card ride home, she did just that.

“That Mr. Johnson sure has some nerve.”

“Oh, Peg,” sighed my father.

“These are fifteen year old boys, not professional baseball players.”

“You have to understand Robert. He wants more for Byron.”

“He can have it, but he doesn’t have to act like that.”

Meanwhile, tensions at the Johnson house were high. It was the usual feeling whenever Byron didn’t live up to his father’s expectations.

“Did you scuff that ball today?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” said Byron as he stood face-to-face to his father. He looked him dead in the eyes. Mr. Johnson scowled at Byron as he stared into his son’s eyes.

“Did Andy do it?”

“I’m not sure how it happened.”

“Alright,” nodded Mr. Johnson.

As Byron and his father joined their mother at the dinner table, Mr. Johnson reached a long arm towards his son. His giant hand reached behind Byron’s neck and rubbed it gently.

“You know when I say ‘winning is everything’, I mean winning in life, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Just so we’re clear. Winning isn’t a number on a scoreboard. It’s a habit you carry with you through every aspect of your life.”

Dinner was as quiet as the few moments after Mr. Johnson’s speech.  There really wasn’t much of a reply for Byron or his mother. Instead, they just ate dinner and let the day end. It was all they could ask for.

Friday brought a rest day for us, but we still played Wiffle Ball over in Lee’s backyard. It didn’t take long at all for Byron to confront Andy.

“Hey Fitzie, did you scuff that ball?”

“What if I did?”

“Why didn’t you tell my dad?”

“I didn’t say I did it, but if I did, what does that matter?”

“If I catch you doing it again, I’ll punch your lights out.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Try me.”

We didn’t know it at the time, but Byron wouldn’t have even have raised a fist at Andy. Still, Fitzie didn’t like being told what to do.

During the Wiffle Ball game, Andy always gripped the Wiffle Ball so the vents faced to one side. Whenever he did that, he could throw curves, sliders, and corkscrews with the precision of Charlie Hough or Gaylord Perry. It really was something to see. We all assumed he did it just to get under Byron’s skin.

However, it didn’t seem to bother Byron one bit. He’d always watch the first pitch or two. After he timed the break, he was reading for anything Andy served up.

He’d slice the ball along the third base line and it’d land in the neighbor’s lawn. If we moved to that lawn, he’d simply drag his hit to the opposite field. Wherever we stood, that’s where he didn’t hit it.

By Friday’s end, we’d forgotten about Thursday night. On Saturday, Mr. Johnson and Mr. St. Pierre were busy with other things. That left my dad to lead practice alone.

“Our next game is against the Titans. They’ve already lost two games this year and if we can manage to beat them on Tuesday, we should be able to win the trophy.”

Mike Moyer raised his hand.

“Yeah?”

“I thought you said winning doesn’t matter.”

“Winning doesn’t matter, but they don’t give away trophies for second place in Tall Oaks, so I suppose it’d be better if you guys won. That way I can show it off to the guys at work.”

My father gave a wink and a smirk as he dumped the contents of the equipment bag onto the ground.

“Come on. Let’s practice.”

My father’s practice was nothing like the practices when all the coaches were there. He’d just stand at home plate and hit balls around the field. Sometimes he’d call out situations, like numbers of outs and where the runners were situated. Mostly, he’d tell one of us to ‘look alive’ and hit us a grounder and fly. Then, he’d tell us where to throw it. Mostly, we just returned the balls to Byron. Byron would toss them in a plastic picket bucket and my father would retrieve them from there.

“Alright, that’s enough for today.”

“But it’s only been one hour,” said Fitz.

“Let’s finish practice at Twin Kiss.”

A universal cheer came from the team as they gathered at home plate. My father rounded up a few of the parents and formed a caravan to Twin Kiss. The lot was small, but we still managed to find room for everyone.

My father offered to pay for everyone’s cones or shakes, but the other parents were quick to pitch in. After we devoured our ice cream, we all went home.

“How was practice?” asked mom.

“Lots of fun.”

“That’s because I took everyone to Twin Kiss for ice cream afterwards.”

That wasn’t it. It wasn’t because practice was easy, nor was it because Mr. St. Pierre or Mr. Johnson weren’t there. It was fun just because…

The rains came in late on Sunday night and stayed long into Monday evening. On Tuesday morning, it was threatening to rain again.

“You think we’ll have a game?” I asked my father.

“The paper says there’s only a 10% chance of rain. I like those odds.”

“Me too.”

Along with plenty of rain, the storm front brought cold, damp air. I waited inside throughout the afternoon, keeping an eye on the rain clouds that gathered overhead. Lee Heinz and Andy Fitzpatrick arrived at my house around 5 o’clock. By that time, the sky had turned dismal and gray. We all watched the picture window as we waited for my father. He arrived at home just before 5:30.

“If everybody’s ready, let’s get going!”

We quickly piled into his car and sped off. Although we left late, we made good time, arriving just before 6 o’clock. Luckily, our game wasn’t until 6:30.

A light drizzle fell as my father’s car entered Ault Park.

“What diamond are we on?” he asked.

I pulled the schedule from my back pocket and unfolded it.

“Number 15.”

Everyone searched for the tiny wooden signs posted at the top corner of each backstop until we found diamond fifteen. It was located at the farthest corner of the park, between the creek and the long sloping hill at the park’s edge.

My father parked his car in the closest parking lot and turned off the engine. Mr. Johnson was already there. Byron, Andy, and Mike were all in his car. My father rolled down his window and motioned to Byron. Byron rolled down his window, too.

“Have you seen the umpire?”

“Not yet. You think the game’s cancelled?”

“We’re supposed to play until we hear lightning or tornado sirens.”

“We’ll see what happens at 6:30.”

My father rolled up his window and we waited. Rain pounded steadily on the car roof until 6:00 p.m. An orange VW Beetle pulled up beside my father’s car about five minutes later. The umpire got out of his car and proceeded towards the diamond.

Some of the Titan players emerged from their cars and went to the diamond.

“Stay here boys, while I find out what’s going on.”

The three coaches walked toward the diamond while we waited and watched from the parking lot.

“Hey, I’m Craig Jolley,” my father introduced himself, “and these are my coaches, Robert Johnson and Guy St. Pierre.”

“You need three coaches?” laughed the other coach, “I guess that’s alright. I’m Tom McHolland. I’m the Titans’ only coach.”

Mr. McHolland didn’t resemble a typical baseball coach. He was short and thin. He had thick wire-rimmed glasses and a baseball cap pulled tightly over his little bald head. Tufts of short black hair stuck out the sides and back. Thin gray sideburns extended past his ears. In fact, he looked more like an equipment manager than a coach.

“Alright, Tom,” interrupted the umpire, “It’s Mr. Jolley’s team to manage, not yours.”

“Do you think we’ll play ball today?”

“The weatherman said the storm front has passed completely through Cincinnati. We should have clear skies the rest of the night.”

My father motioned for us to join him, so we did. As Byron’s friends emerged from Mr. Johnson’s car, several of the Titans players and their coach turned their attention towards them. That was followed by a collection of hushed whispers.

Nevertheless, Byron led the way as we took the diamond without paying attention to them. The Titans continued practicing on the infield, so Mr. Johnson took the infielders to leftfield and practiced there. Meanwhile, Mr. St. Pierre went to right field and hit pop flies to the outfielders. The umpire called for us to play ball approximately ten minutes later.

Andy St. Pierre took the mound at the top of the first inning. Those same condescending murmurs followed that had occupied the earlier whispers. 

When the Titan player approached the batter’s box, he gave the once over to both Byron and Andy.

“Hey catcher, don’t I know you from my Chemistry class?”

“Huh?”

“You’re from Hyde Park, right?”

“No.”

Andy reared back and delivered a fastball. It flew it at waist level for strike one.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re one of those boys from across the tracks on Bond Hill. I should’ve recognized you from the soot on your face.”

Byron ignored him as he called for another fastball. It crossed the plate at the bottom of the strike zone and slid into Byron’s mitt with a pop.

“Strike two!”

“You’d better watch it,” warned Byron, “or you’re gonna strike out.”

“Your boy from Bond Hill is weak.”

“I’ll send another fastball just to prove you wrong.”

Byron thought seriously about calling for a curve ball, but there were two things in his way. First off, Andy St. Pierre only threw fastballs, change-ups, and forkballs. His forkball, which had worked splendidly in the Bond Hill League, had not been holding up in Tall Oaks, even against weaker hitters. His only option was the change-up.

He flashed the number two at Andy. Andy nodded and delivered.

The batter timed the pitch perfectly, looping the ball over my head and into centerfield. Luckily, the centerfielder quickly ran it down and tossed it back to me as I covered second base. We’d held the batter to a single.

Basic baseball strategy calls for a man on first with less than two outs to advance to second in one of three ways: the sacrifice, the hit and run, or the steal. In our case, the Titans’ coach elected for a steal. The series of events that transpired after that eventually got Andy Fitzpatrick kicked out of Tall Oaks baseball for good.

“I’ve been watching your boy,” said the batter, “he’s only got two pitches. Either way, I’m gonna hit the long ball.”

Byron decided to call for the forkball. It was a slow, deliberate process, as Andy St. Pierre placed the ball in the pocket of his glove and stretched his middle and pointer fingers over the seams of the baseball. Then, he reared back and let it rip.

The magic of the forkball is that it often acted the same way as sliders and screwballs, dropping a few inches off center right before it reached home plate. Unfortunately for Andy, this was his slowest and sometimes wildest pitch.

“Here it comes,” warned Byron.

As Andy reared back into his wind-up, the runner at first edged toward second. When Andy let go, the runner popped into an all-out sprint for second. It was a race between Byron and the stealer.

Byron had practiced this move with his father over a thousand times. His pick-off move was poetry in motion. He pulled the catcher’s mitt as he pivoted to his feet. The gloved hand peeled the ball back towards the throwing hand as his left foot took a jab step forward. The mitt orbited toward the naked hand. Then, he transferred the ball into his fingers. The right foot strode forward as he fired the ball to second.

Mr. St. Pierre had drilled this move into my brain as well. I dragged to the right, shading towards second as the runner popped into his stride. I shuffled towards second and bracketed the base with my feet. The throw was perfect: about a foot above a foot to the left of the base. I placed my glove right in the runner’s base path.

The runner wasn’t going to make it safely.

The ball landed in my webbing before the runner even began his slide. I reached down with that left hand, ready to tag him out. He came in hot, butt on the ground and cleats in the air.

Still, I jabbed the glove at his leg and quickly pulled it away to show the ump. His fist moved forward as he shouted “Out!” The runner’s left cleat, however, scraped across my left shin. It happened so fast, I don’t even remember it hurting until quite a while later.

I flipped forward as he undercut me, landing on all fours. Still, I gripped the ball tightly in my glove. Someone in the crowd gasped as a pool of blood swelled on my shin.

“Come on, ump! Toss him out!” shouted Fitz.

“I was just attempting a steal, fair and square.”

“That was blatant!”

The runner headed right at Fitz. Fitz got up and went toward him. As the boys went for each other, Mr. Johnson came from behind the bench to stop them. He was too late.

Fitz threw the first and only punch. The boy lay in a heap clutching his nose.

“Son, go sit in the bleachers,” commanded Mr. Johnson.

“But Mr. Johnson…”

“Andy, I don’t want to hear another peep out of you. Go sit down.”

Although Andy had a mean right hook, it could easily be seen that a 13-year-old boy was no match for a large black man built like a linebacker. Andy bowed his head, skulked back to the bleachers, and sat with some of the parents.

The drizzling rain had not stopped and the umpire used it as an excuse to call the game. We were all relieved, except Andy, who had to endure the ride back to Mount Adams. My father dropped him off at his house first.

“Mr. Jolley, I was just defending Jake.”

“Andy, you know that’s not the way.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

Andy frowned as he glanced over at me. Although my shins were hurting like crazy, I felt completely fine otherwise. It wasn’t anything that a bag of ice and some time wouldn’t heal.

Mr. Johnson’s feelings about Fitz, however, would never recover from that night.

.