part 2 of Larrys story written by James Myers How I met your redhead. part 2 of 2. So, my Dad (especially my Dad. cheese) and I always wondered why we never saw Larry Schmidtkes name splattered all over the sports pages of America in later years. Skipping ahead; Larry told me. Shortly after his dream season concluded Doctors discovered that Larry had contracted a rare childhood bone disease, affecting his legs. To leave out all the medical jargon; they basically beats his legs into little pieces, reconstructed him, put him in casts for several months, and told him to go learn how to walk again. So, being Larry, he shrugged his shoulders and went and did exactly that. But, his legs were never the same. And so much of pitching involves the legs. His new throwing motion put a different strain on Larrys pitching arm, and injuries to his once golden arm took away the magic. He became just another run-of-the-mill boyhood pitcher. Getting by more on guts, than goods. And his pitching career petered out and died. Like thousands of others. So, 41 years later Im sitting at my usual table, in my usual bar, during the LL World Series, and as usual; talking baseball. The guys I was sitting with were mentioning if and where we played LL. Just as I was noting that I played in CMLL, a tall guy walked by and said, ya, I played in CMLL.. And just kept going. I glanced up and saw the red hair, and a little spot twitched in my gut. I asked what the guys name was. Somebody told me that they thought his name was Larry. And a double gut twitch. Then we were back to our conversation. A short while later this Larry-guy walked over to the juke box, and I looked to see. He was punching in his song selections with his left hand, and I felt my stomach flip-flop. I got up and walked up behind him. Feeling very much like a skinny little kid with buck teeth. I tapped him on the shoulder (his right one. I wasnt going to mess with his left one. at all) and asked, hey is your last name Schmidtke? He glanced over his shoulder (his right one) and said, Ya, do I know you? And I said, no, no you dont. But, I know you. Youre Larry Schmidtke. You threw a perfect game for the Cowles Mountain Little League All Stars. And then you threw a one hitter and a no-no. Now I had his full attention. Ya, how do you know that? Kind of amused. And glad to be reminded. I started reeling off the names of all of the guys that had played on his All Star team. He smiled after each name. Lots of wows and yeps. Then, thats amazing. How do you remember all that? I told him about that summer. My Dads fanhood. My golden summer that didnt measure up to his unbelievable season. We sat down and talked CMLL, non-stop, for about an hour. We knew lots of the same guys. Wed had a lot of the same boyhood star experiences. His injuries caught up to him before mine did (like a hundred thousand others), but we both had gone on from devastating injuries. He never played again after high school. All of his magic was gone. And the pain was too much. I still had some left in the tank. Larry switched his passion to golf. I told him that when I hit the ball, I want someone else to chase it. He laughed, and a friendship was cemented. Two lefthanders whose boyhoods were so strikingly similiar, and then diverged so dramatically. I got married and had kids. Larry got married and tragically lost his wife. His window for Fatherhood slipped by him. There will never be another star red headed lefthander named Schmidtke. My son went on to win many more championships than I ever won. And I won a lot. He patrolled centerfield just like his old man. And he had a lot of success as a pitcher, as well. Larry smiled, and misted during my telling of my boys baseball life. I felt, for a moment, that the telling filled in, just a little, that empty place where he would have stored his own sons baseball memories. When I told him that Sean was the sound engineer at The Troubadour in West LA, I hope, that empty space for him completely filled up. Larry loves music. He just smiled, and smiled. And he never failed to ask after my son whenever he saw me. My son carried on his Dads baseball legacy with class, success, intelligence, and distinction. And, God willing, one day Ill see him pass on his own legacy to his own son. I could ask for nothing more. Granted, Larry was only 12, at the time, and in Little League, But, part of his legacy will be that he was for the majority of people in the 92119/92120 zips; the greatest pitcher they ever knew. The last time I saw Larry, awake, I gave him a Little League shoulder patch. And for a moment or two our Larry was completely with us, and he was toeing the slab again. Standing tall on the mound. bigger than life. He smiled the way he does. Then I put a golf ball in his hands, clasped under his blanket, and told him to try to keep it in the fairway. And another of those Larry smiles. I held his arm (his right one. Im still in awe of the left one) for a few minutes till he drifted back to sleep.
Posted on: Fri, 12 Sep 2014 14:18:38 +0000
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