Below is part 2 of the biogramphcal baseball story submitted by Jim. The event occurred in Southwestern Pennsylvania, where Jim still lives, albeit in a different community. To read Part 1 click on the Beanery Writers Group blog category BW Visitor Writings and scroll down. In retrospect, I must confess I was a mediocre player. In the outfield I could usually catch the ball if it was hit close enough to where I was standing. If a short pop fly was hit in my direction, I would take a few steps toward it and wait for it to land, my goal being to keep the ball from getting past me and rolling all the way to the fence. This task was made somewhat more difficult by my fear that the ball would hit a stone or clump of grass and bounce up and hit me in the face. If the ball was hit over my head, I would run toward it as best I could, but it would usually get there before me, and then all I could do was run and grab the ball off the ground and throw it back to the infield to try to limit the batter to a single or a double. If a runner was already on base I would throw the ball to the third baseman, who would then relay the ball to the catcher to try to prevent a score. Of course, there were many variations of this theme. I recall one occasion when the ball was hit over my head. I just stood there and watched it clear the fence by a few inches for a home run. Perhaps if I'd gone after the ball, I may have been able to catch it before it went over the fence. But, my fear of the embarrassment of trying and failing was like glue on the bottoms of my shoes that held me firmly in place. Our team's shortstop, one of the best players on the team, let me know right away that he disagreed with my assessment of the situation by shouting angrily at me, "You could have caught that" Then, he turned away and kicked the infield dirt in disgust. My batting skills were equally as advanced as my fielding ability. If a pitch was slow enough and in just the right place, down the middle of the plate and waist high, I could swing the bat and sometimes actually hit the ball. I did manage to get on base a few times. Sometimes a runner would be on first, and I'd hit the ball to the left side of the infield. The shortstop or third baseman would then throw to second to get the force out, and I'd sometimes be able to beat the ensuing throw to first to prevent a double play. In my mind, I would consider this a hit. Based on my method of calculation, my batting average at this particular point in the season was around three hundred. The coach on our team, who kept track of such things, apparently used a different kind of math. According to him, my average was something like point-zero something or other. I have to admit that his figures were probably more accurate than mine. I seem to remember that he did eventually go to college as a math major. Besides, my usual technique of just standing at the plate and hoping for a walk often resulted in a strike out. I guess it's kind of like what they say about the lottery: "You have to play to win." So on this particular day, after talking to Mr. Dillon, I went over to the fence and sat down on my glove. As I grimaced and rubbed my stomach, one of the other players asked me what was the matter. I said something to the effect that I didn't feel good, and then I lowered my head and closed my eyes. I just didn't want to talk about it. The reason I didn't want to talk about it was that it wasn't the Jell-o that was making me sick, it was the other team's pitcher. I was afraid of him. I had batted against him in previous games, and I'd done miserably. He was that team's best pitcher, perhaps the best pitcher in the league. He could throw the ball fast and with accuracy. But, what made things worse for me was that he was a left-handed pitcher, and I batted left-handed. When he threw the ball, it looked to me as though it was coming right at me, not at the plate. It was a truly terrifying experience. And, on this particular day, I just did not want to face him. I was scared, so I pretended to be sick. I also did not want to face Uncle Eddie, my dad's younger brother. He and his family were visiting from Florida, and he and some of his family and some of my family had come to watch the game. Our volunteer umpire was unable to come to the game that day, and Uncle Eddie, asked if he could fill in, said yes. Uncle Eddie's son, Joey, was my age, and he also played Little League in his town in Florida. He was a very good player. In fact, he'd been chosen to play in his league's all-star game. I think his batting average was something like five hundred. As Joey and I were swapping baseball stories on the afternoon prior to this particular game, he said something to the effect that his dad, Uncle Eddie, was very critical, and that no matter how well Joey played, Uncle Eddie was never satisfied. I don't know if Uncle Eddie really was overly critical, or whether I misunderstood what Joey was telling me. Nonetheless, what was going through my little twelve-year-old head prior to this particular game was: "Oh no! Mean Uncle Eddie is the umpire. He's not satisfied with Joey, who is a really good player. What will he think of me?" So I really had no choice other than to pretend to be sick. It was a matter of survival. If I tried to bat against this pitcher, I'd most likely die at the plate, because I wouldn't be able to buy a hit off of him. Or, I would literally die by getting hit in the head by a left-handed fastball. And worst of all, I'd die of humiliation when Uncle Eddie saw what a lousy player I was. I did what I had to do. Return to the Beanery Writers Group blog tomorrow night for the conclusion of Jim's story, PINCH HITTING. | 
