I woke early for my 5 AM training breakfast of eggs and hash browns at the Waffle House. As usual (ok, I’d only been then once before but this is how patterns start), I was the only customer at that hour. However, just as my eggs were served, who should walk in the door but my arch nemesis for the day – the batting coach, Ike Blessitt! Just a couple hours ahead of our Batting Duel of the Century and he just happens to come into the Waffle House? I think not. What I do think is he was up all night tossing and turning due to worry over our impending contest. He must have finally decided that he needed an edge so he sauntered over to have a look at what my training meal looked like. He sat across from me in the booth and proceeded to tell me some fantastic stories for 90 minutes, obviously trying to distract me. When the check came, I offered to pick it up. He thanked me and said he’d let me off the hook on our $100 bet in return. Off the hook? Batter up, buddy! However, since my mama raised me to respect my elders, I allowed him to retire gracefully from the contest. I will relate his stories later. They are nearly as colorful as some of my own! We rode together to the clubhouse and dressed for another full day of athletic excellence or adventure anyway. A small ragged group of fellow players showed up shortly afterwards. Ike, a man of simple but nonstop words, told me to get my sorry ass in the cage and he’d teach me to hit. As I so often do, I absolutely lit up the cage with screaming line drives. When games start being played in batting cages, I’ll be a unanimous All Star pick. Fearing for his own safety, Ike soon told me to get out of his cage so he could actually work with someone who needed some instruction. Every few minutes, however, Ike would yell out to me, “Do you think you can still hit? Well, get your ass back in here!” at which point I would once again smash everything he threw at me. Most guys got one or two rounds with Ike. I got seven. My arm was pulsing afterwards. Not in a good way. “There! Now that I’ve taught you how to hit, get your ass on the field and actually play some baseball!” was Ike’s final bellow before we headed back to the clubhouse for team pictures. A couple of the former pros also asked for pictures with me so I obliged and didn’t even charge them! When I came to the plate for the first time, I remembered what both Ike and Grant (my Greensboro coach) had told me about the key to good hitting. Wait for your best pitch and hit it hard into the ground. That way you won’t swing at bad pitches and you won’t pop it up. Naturally, I pounced on the first pitch (because every pitch is my best pitch) and absolutely slammed it exactly as I have been taught. Never in the history of baseball has a ball been hit so hard into the ground. In fact, I hit it so hard that it actually STUCK in the ground. Two inches in front of home plate. A hit’s a hit so I sprinted for first base. Three steps away from the bag, I introduced one of my special base running techniques to the camp. I let out a bloodcurdling scream as I saw the first baseman reach up for the throw. As often happened during summer softball, he promptly bobbled the ball in surprise and I obtained safe residence on the bag. An error to be sure and it will drive down my batting average but my on base percentage remains exceptionally high. A couple plays later, I scored the first run of the game after some exceptionally skillful baserunning. There was very little defensive work for me at first base as our pitchers continued to walk batters onto and around the bases so I eventually retired to right field where I could relax and pray that no one would hit anything towards me. God was listening and I had a quite pleasant and uneventful time out there. On my next at bat, the infield pulled in close and the first baseman plugged his ears. I took a few pitches just to confuse the opposition and then rocketed a line drive over second base and into center field. “I taught his ass how to hit!” Ike screamed from somewhere in the complex. There’s a rule in camp stating that after a team scores five runs in a single inning, their turn at bat is over. We exercised that rule quite a bit, taking turns running up the score on each other. As the morning wore on and people grew hungry, I decided to put a stop to this nonsense. I approached the plate and stood facing the field for a bit so the defenders could see who I was. “Now that you’ve seen me twice, are you going to play me close or hang back?” I asked. I tend to talk a lot more on the field than the average player. The players arranged themselves in a very confusing scattering of some people in and others hanging back. I confused them further by striking out. They didn’t see that one coming! We came into the seventh and final inning all tied up at some astronomical level. Our opponents, as the away team, batted first and promptly scored a run. At least breaking the tie would get us to lunch more quickly but then in the bottom half of the inning, we miraculously scored a run, knotting the score at MANY to MANY. With grumbling stomachs, we headed into extra innings. Our opponents had not learned their lesson and promptly scored another run, which was a major mistake because I was due to bat in our half of the inning. I ended their half of the inning with a spectacular catch of a routine pop up. (All of my catches are spectacular and many are miraculous.) With runners on first and second and one out, I strutted into the batter’s box with Ike screaming in the background, “I taught his ass how to hit! You better back way the hell up! Just keep going all the way to the cafeteria.” Or something to that effect. I patiently took three mighty swings, never endangering my strategy by coming anywhere close to the ball. After the third strike, I took off for first base at a dead run. “What the hell are you doing?” the umpire screamed. “Getting into coaching position,” I hollered back. All part of the plan. As first base coach, you play the key role of instructing the runners on tactics for every situation. I called over the runner and whispered in his ear, “There’s two outs, run like hell on anything.” I had struck out both to make baserunning tactics perfectly clear and to bring up one of our better hitters. He promptly hit the ball softly into the infield to start one of the most bizarre plays I have ever witnessed. I swear the ball was caught and thrown by six different people, some multiple times, before the winning run crossed the plate. The umpire shrugged his shoulders, yelled, “Lunchtime!” and we left the field with a solid win in hand. After wolfing down nothing but carbohydrates, I ran (yes, ran) all the way back to the diamonds ahead of the rest of the team in order to work on a secret plan for game two. I paced off sixtysix feet, took a bucket of balls and started chucking them at the backstop. You might think I could find someone to play catch with given there are 72 baseball players here but I did not want to give away my surprise. Eventually, our catcher showed up and I tossed a few balls to him before going up to our coach. “Steve, we’ve got some control problems on the mound,” I told him. “Ya think? Just because the score of the last game was like a million plus one to a million?” “I’ll take care of it for you. Put me in as a middle reliever.” “You want to pitch?!? Are you crazy? I’ve seen you throw and you don’t throw!” “It’s all part of my plan. Get a couple of innings squared away and then bring me in. It’ll work fine, you’ll see.” He walked away muttering and throwing his lineup card in the air. I took that to mean I had the job. I took first base, made a few key plays and bided my time. I was the lead off batter in the bottom of the second inning. The score was tied as tight as can be at 0-0 when I stepped to the plate. I turned back to my teammates and said, “Limber up. I’m about to start a rally.” I actually talk a LOT more than most people on the diamond. I then stroked a line drive, but an on the ground kind of line drive, right at the shortstop. He gathered it up cleanly, pivoted and rocketed a throw to first base. “What the ?!?” the first basemen screamed as I hit the bag a half step ahead of the throw. Yes, I beat out an infield grounder for the third time this week for a hit. I could echo the first baseman’s comment as I have never, NEVER, had an ounce of speed in my life. Maybe all that running in the past few months was making a difference. That and the fact that my legs have rested comfortably for 50+ years and so are quite fresh and ready to go. Inhaling cubic miles of air, trying to get my breath back, I waited for the next batter to either strike out or walk – anything to give me a break. He hit a line drive to left field on the first pitch. I took off running and watched as the ball fell in front of the left fielder. God only knows what possessed me to make the turn at second base and head for third. Only 90 more feet I told my oxygen starved body as the third base coach, a bona fide retired professional baseball player, did the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen. He waved me home. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the left fielder stepping into his throw even as I rounded third. I didn’t have enough air left to squeak, much less let loose a rebel yell so I just poured on a little extra speed and hit the plate a quarter step ahead of the throw. The dugout went absolutely nuts and I went seriously anaerobic. Having started the rally, I would have liked to watch it develop but I was far too busy trying to keep my lungs inside my chest as the team rapidly scored four runs, thus ending the inning. I went to sit down and let someone go in for me when the coach shouted, “You’re up Parrent! Ya got a five run lead. Don’t blow it. Take the mound.” Huh? Still gasping, I tottered out to a place I have never in my life been before – pitcher’s mound. I rolled a few balls to the catcher as a warm up and then squeaked, “I’m ready. I guess,” and the first batter stepped into the box. And all over the box. He filled the box. My first batter was at least 6’6” tall and by far the best athlete in camp. Young, long legged, thin and strong, I’d seen him hit the stuffing out of the ball and then speed around the bases without seeming to touch the ground. At least he presented a large strike zone. I threw the first ball over his head just to show him that I could actually get it that high (a feat in itself) before delivering a perfect strike right at waist height. Well, it would have been a perfect strike if he hadn’t ruined it by making solid contact and rocketing it back at me. The ball bounced hard once, somehow ended up in my glove and I turned to throw to first. Except the first baseman wasn’t there – or anywhere in the vicinity. He had been playing very deep in case tall boy got hold of one. If tall boy got hold of one, it was going over the fence and the first baseman might as well have been over the fence himself for all the good he was going to do for me. “You have got to be kidding me,” I thought as I raced for first base while the batter did his cheetah floating over the Serengeti imitation. I saw him, fangs fully exposed, a split second before I hit the bag, crossing it no more than a quarter stride in front of him. He did not look happy having been run down by a rhinoceros. This rhinoceros didn’t look all that happy either having sprinted more in the past ten minutes than I ever planned to sprint in my whole life. I stumbled back to pitcher’s mound, called for oxygen and faced my second batter. The sound of a solid strike of a wood bat on a leather ball is a wondrous thing indeed – unless that ball has just left your hand headed for home plate. My no hitter ruined, at least I could take solace in a very nice play in centerfield that limited the batter to a single. The next hitter grounded out but advanced the runner to second. One crack of the bat later and I had runners on first and third. Batter number four stepped in, smiled and promptly hit a hard shot back at me. I fielded it again on one bounce, turned, stood defiantly flat footed and glared at the first baseman. He sauntered over to the bag and I threw the runner out to close out not only my first inning pitched but a shutout inning at that. After scoring so many runs so quickly behind me in the previous inning, my teammates had far too quickly arranged for me to be at bat again. I waited patiently through several pitches, fouled off a few and then pounced on MY pitch, a high floater well outside the strike zone. I popped it high into the air right along the first base line. “I didn’t teach him that ,” screamed Ike from behind the bench. I reached the first baseman just as he was catching the ball and let out another of my patented rebel yells and, sure enough, he bobbled the ball just enough to let me reach the bag in time. As I stood bent over on the bag, gasping for air, I said to the first baseman, “Would you guys just please get me OUT for once? I can’t take this anymore!” A short time later, I found myself crossing the plate yet again, legs dog tired, lungs worthless and arm pulsing with pain from all that pitching. Having scored our five runs again, the inning mercifully ended and I returned to the dugout for a well earned rest. “You still got arm?” the coach asked. “Sure, whatever,” I replied, hoping that if I just went along with this he would let me take a nap. “Well then get out there and pitch! I’m warning you though, I’ll yank your ass out of there if you start walking people!” There is a god. I promptly walked the first three batters to earn my nap in the dugout. The relief pitcher promptly escorted all of my stranded runners around the diamond and safely home to boost my earned run average. Lots of stuff happened in the next inning that I have no recollection of because I was zonked out of my mind until I heard, “You’re up Parrent!” Oh for crying out loud, again? One of the rules in camp is you can substitute people in and out all game but the batting order remains in place. Stupid rule. I just wanted to sleep. I stepped into the batter’s box, muttered, “Screw this,” and promptly hit a line drive into right field, driving in two runs as I yelled, “Shut up Ike!” and WALKED to first base, taking my own sweet time. Some bizarre stuff then happened that I frankly can’t remember and we ended up winning by one run, thus avoiding a truly unjustified black mark on my pitching record. I stopped at the trainers on the way out and had them wrap my arm in ice ‘cuz that’s what us big league pitchers do and then returned to the hotel where I had a dinner that consisted mostly of apple pie, lots of apple pie.
Posted on: Wed, 21 Jan 2015 04:52:51 +0000
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