
One time in sixth grade I took the mound against Our Lady of Mercy, some rich kid school. The distance between the mound and the plate stretched no more than 17 feet.
I had just had a big growth spurt so threw my fastball at 89 miles per hour. A perfect powder keg was about to detonate. I can honestly say I never knew where the ball would go. Just heaved it as hard as I could. Wanted to impress with power.
In the sixth inning when the score evened, I felt the pressure mounting and lost control of another one. A kid that day took 89 in his back. Dropped to the dirt. Parents revolted. “Get him off the mound.” Ambulance arrived. Twenty-five minutes of commotion.
Coach kept me in. Wasn’t confident in our reliever; we didn’t have one the whole season.
The home plate imbroglio got cleaned up but emotions escalated and chants reverberated around the ballpark.
OK, settle down I said to my 11-year-old self. Whatever you do, don’t hit anyone else.
Next batter up. An 89 scalder blasted his back.
Down he went.
So did Joey Peabody, our third baseman, laughing. Years later he told me he wasn’t laughing at the victim; he was laughing at me.
Which team was he pulling for?
Coach yanked me. Hit the showers traumatized but too young to process how the rest of my life would be impacted. A schoolboy town pariah.
Later that season in the championship game some kid got around on 89 and hit the ball 689 feet. Impressed me.
After getting the three outs, teammate and best frenemy Rudy trotted in from center field where he had stared at 689 jets over his head and out of the neighborhood.
“Chuck, man, that dude rocked you.” Being an unsupportive teammate was his forte. He showed he was far less interested in us taking the title than heckling me for letting a kid crack my hot tamale to Pluto.
Baseball stories capture American life like no other sports, the yearnings of Little League, the dreams of making the big leagues, and all the other stuff that happens along the way. The game moves at a turtle’s pace which frees up plenty of time to chew the fat, make up stuff, shadowbox boredom, and put America’s past-time in its place. Playing baseball is mostly dull. Storytelling is one of the upsides.
I am thinking about my baseball stories on this sad day when major league broadcaster and former major leaguer Bob Uecker died. A remarkable achievement to rise that high, but it was never about him bragging about that or how well he played. He focused on his downsides, how bad he was, and all he didn’t accomplish.
Bob Uecker told stories and had a laugh about all things baseball throughout his life. In a sport often serious this guy exuded non-seriousness.
He once said, “The easiest way to catch a knuckleball was to wait until it stopped rolling and then pick it up.”
And this: “I spent three of the best years of my life in 10th grade.”
Self-deprecating, humble, colorful, and unique, Bob Uecker showed us to not take ourselves or our lives too seriously. He made us laugh. He made us feel good. He taught us pro athletes don’t have to be pretentious.
It’s a rare man who goes through his life joking around most of the time, disarming everybody he meets. It’s a rare guy who makes fun of himself in public.
He used his pedestrian pro baseball career as an opportunity to make people laugh, to teach us all that having fun is often better for all of us than being serious and self-important.
What a gift he gave us: laughter. What a lesson he taught us: laugh at yourself.
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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