Captain Pike's Ship Log II

My mother loved baseball. I was a tall, healthy boy, she always wanted me to play Little League. The trouble was, I was kind of spastic and uncoordinated. I went to the tryouts basically unprepared -- if I didn't make a team, well, then at least I would have tried.

I got picked up by the Pirates. I soon found out that the Pirates were a team that seemed to be made up of players that hadn't been picked by other teams. The coach of the Pirates wanted me to play first base. If you are tall, and have long arms, then you can be a good first baseman. See, the idea is that a throw to first doesn't have to be perfect if you can "stretch": keeping one foot on the base and reaching way out to catch the ball. My mother was really happy. She took me out and bought me a special first baseman's mitt.

The first thing we did as a team was to select our uniforms. I don't know whether I got there late, or came on the wrong day, but there didn't seem to be a pirate uniform tall enough to fit me. The coach said that the best thing we could do in the interim was for me to wear an old Mets uniform. "Interim" here meant that soon I would have a real Pirates uniform like all the other players on my team. To tell you the truth, the Mets uniform felt kind of sexy, like thin flannel pajamas. But it was embarrassing going out on the field, standing at first base with the Mets uniform on and Pirates all around me. There was always some crack from the audience, like "look, the first baseman's lost".

That summer, playing baseball on the Pirates instilled in me the feeling that I didn't fit in. Don't get me wrong, I have no quarrel with baseball and I liked playing catch a lot. I remember being up at bat. The star pitcher for the Senators was this guy named Phil Sullivan. Sullivan was a lefty, and he had a curveball that would kill. It would come in low and seem to bend right at the plate. I never knew you could throw a ball and make it do something like that. It would just fly over four or five inches. Phil Sullivan had been playing catch with different people than me.

And another problem was our practices. When we would have batting practice, the coach always threw the ball easy, so we could hit it. It was nice and all, but I could remember thinking when we were in a game, "we're not ready for this". Our coach was a nice guy, but here was a case where a little kid knew better than an adult about something very important. When you were up at bat, you were really near the bleachers. When it was my turn, I'd be up there, and somebody's mother would always yell out "get a hit, Ol-i-va!" (Oliver is my last name) It seemed like Sullivan was always pitching. And with every teeth gritted, swinging strike, my face would turn redder. I would usually strike out. It is very disconcerting to see the outfield players walking in towards you when you're up at bat, resting assured that they won't be involved in this out. And even though the quips like "easy out" are said by the opposing team no matter who is up at bat, it is still aggravating, especially when you begin to believe them. And the most painful thing of all is when the audience doesn't even boo you. When an average player strikes out the reaction from the fans is one of supportive disappointment -- "Aww, you'll get her next time Johnny". But when you're a dub, everyone is embarrassed. When you go to watch a baseball game, you go ready to clap and cheer.