The Summer Project: The bat and the face (1979)
I had a love-hate relationship playing baseball when I was young. Besides enjoying watching the Cubs on TV, collecting baseball cards, watching "This Week in Baseball" every Saturday, playing All-Star Baseball and Strat-o-Matic, and going to the ballpark, I also generally loved playing the game. Unfortunately, sometimes, the game didn't love me back ...
In 1978, I played in a baseball league for the first time, t-ball at Norwood Park. I'm not sure why my parents just didn't sign me up to play ball at Oriole Park, which was closer, but I had fun nonetheless. The next spring, Dad signed me up to play at Oriole, and I was ready to move up to a league in which I could bat without a tee.
However, because of my birthday and the fact it was my first year playing at Oriole Park, I was placed in the Instructional League. We went to the informational night for the league at the park's field house, and to my dismay, the coaches presenting that night pulled out a tee.
This was t-ball again. Not only was it t-ball, but there weren't even teams. It was pretty much a season-long clinic to learn to play. We were given orange t-shirts and hats.
I ran out of the gym crying. I didn't want to do this. My friends the same age, with a similarly late birthday I had, weren't in this league because either it was new and they had played in it the year before, or because after one year of Instructional League you could play Pee-Wee. This sucked ...
My dad found me, and I think he understood why was upset. But there wasn't anything to do.
I don't think I learned much at the practices. I tried to enjoy them, but it wasn't easy. I was one of the oldest kids in the league, too -- it was all 6- and 7-year-olds. However, I kept going. It was something to do, and I did feel a little empowered being the elder statesman.
And then, one weekday night practice, Instructional League sent me to the emergency room.
We were just having batting and fielding practice, and kids were hitting off the tee. No lineup or order; this was just practice. I'm not sure how I volunteered to play catcher, but I had played the position the year before and it was kind of neat. So sure, I could hang behind the tee. And I was far back to, and maybe not even directly behind. If you could picture the scene, I wasn't even catching, but rather, standing in the general backstop area, ready for any throws home. And because of this distinction, there wasn't a need for me to put on the catcher's gear, because I was nowhere near the batter.
Yet, I was still in range of the bat flying out of the batter's hands ...
I don't remember who the batter was. I don't remember the bat being thrown. I don't remember it connecting with my face, right between the eyes.
I do remember being in a lot of pain and screaming.
One of the coaches (who, in retrospect, reminds me of actor Ken Berry) drove the three blocks from Diamond 7 to my house. He asked if I was wearing a helmet, and I wailed no, but I think he thought I said yes. I don't even know if any of the coaches saw what happened. Not good supervision, because someone should have told me an 8-year-old couldn't be back there without wearing the catcher's gear.
The accident was freaky, but it perfectly summed up what I thought of Instructional League.
The coach got me home, and my mother came outside to see my forehead and upper nose ballooning. The word spread through the block that I got hit in the face with a bat at baseball practice. I sat in the living room with ice, crying and watching "Eight Is Enough" before we left for the ER.
Whether one parent or two took me to the emergency room at Resurrection Hospital, I don't remember. Maybe I was concussed, too? (And it's funny, I recall better my trip to the hospital to get stitches in my head when I was 6 ...) Amazingly -- and I don't believe this diagnosis almost 40 years later -- nothing was broken.
I got home to find my friends had made me a get-well card with little trinkets as presents (including a few plastic yellow BBs; I'm not sure why). That pretty much ended my Instructional League experience. I stopped going to practices, and even though I think they started pitching to the players instead of hitting off tees (and they started playing actual games), I was done.
Three years later, I got beaned in the right elbow with a pitch and it hurt all summer. After 1982, I was done with playing. Baseball smacked me pretty good in my limited career, and as much as I loved the game, I hated getting hurt.
Nevertheless, a reminder of that night is always in the mirror. If you look at my school pics around the early '80s, my nose is straight, and then, one year, it's veering off to the right just a little. My face probably did get cracked that day because as my face grew, my nose headed in a different direction.
I wonder, if all this time later, there's guy who, if he's coaching baseball, emphasizes with the players that you never throw the bat. This guy is speaking from experience because when he was a kid, he threw a bat and sent someone to the hospital.
If that guy is reading this, you're forgiven, and I won't look down my nose at you ... unless you are standing a bit to the right.
In 1978, I played in a baseball league for the first time, t-ball at Norwood Park. I'm not sure why my parents just didn't sign me up to play ball at Oriole Park, which was closer, but I had fun nonetheless. The next spring, Dad signed me up to play at Oriole, and I was ready to move up to a league in which I could bat without a tee.
 |
| This is from the year before Instructional League, when I enjoyed playing t-ball and avoided busting my face. |
This was t-ball again. Not only was it t-ball, but there weren't even teams. It was pretty much a season-long clinic to learn to play. We were given orange t-shirts and hats.
I ran out of the gym crying. I didn't want to do this. My friends the same age, with a similarly late birthday I had, weren't in this league because either it was new and they had played in it the year before, or because after one year of Instructional League you could play Pee-Wee. This sucked ...
My dad found me, and I think he understood why was upset. But there wasn't anything to do.
I don't think I learned much at the practices. I tried to enjoy them, but it wasn't easy. I was one of the oldest kids in the league, too -- it was all 6- and 7-year-olds. However, I kept going. It was something to do, and I did feel a little empowered being the elder statesman.
And then, one weekday night practice, Instructional League sent me to the emergency room.
We were just having batting and fielding practice, and kids were hitting off the tee. No lineup or order; this was just practice. I'm not sure how I volunteered to play catcher, but I had played the position the year before and it was kind of neat. So sure, I could hang behind the tee. And I was far back to, and maybe not even directly behind. If you could picture the scene, I wasn't even catching, but rather, standing in the general backstop area, ready for any throws home. And because of this distinction, there wasn't a need for me to put on the catcher's gear, because I was nowhere near the batter.
Yet, I was still in range of the bat flying out of the batter's hands ...
I don't remember who the batter was. I don't remember the bat being thrown. I don't remember it connecting with my face, right between the eyes.
I do remember being in a lot of pain and screaming.
One of the coaches (who, in retrospect, reminds me of actor Ken Berry) drove the three blocks from Diamond 7 to my house. He asked if I was wearing a helmet, and I wailed no, but I think he thought I said yes. I don't even know if any of the coaches saw what happened. Not good supervision, because someone should have told me an 8-year-old couldn't be back there without wearing the catcher's gear.
The accident was freaky, but it perfectly summed up what I thought of Instructional League.
The coach got me home, and my mother came outside to see my forehead and upper nose ballooning. The word spread through the block that I got hit in the face with a bat at baseball practice. I sat in the living room with ice, crying and watching "Eight Is Enough" before we left for the ER.
Whether one parent or two took me to the emergency room at Resurrection Hospital, I don't remember. Maybe I was concussed, too? (And it's funny, I recall better my trip to the hospital to get stitches in my head when I was 6 ...) Amazingly -- and I don't believe this diagnosis almost 40 years later -- nothing was broken.
I got home to find my friends had made me a get-well card with little trinkets as presents (including a few plastic yellow BBs; I'm not sure why). That pretty much ended my Instructional League experience. I stopped going to practices, and even though I think they started pitching to the players instead of hitting off tees (and they started playing actual games), I was done.
Three years later, I got beaned in the right elbow with a pitch and it hurt all summer. After 1982, I was done with playing. Baseball smacked me pretty good in my limited career, and as much as I loved the game, I hated getting hurt.
Nevertheless, a reminder of that night is always in the mirror. If you look at my school pics around the early '80s, my nose is straight, and then, one year, it's veering off to the right just a little. My face probably did get cracked that day because as my face grew, my nose headed in a different direction.
I wonder, if all this time later, there's guy who, if he's coaching baseball, emphasizes with the players that you never throw the bat. This guy is speaking from experience because when he was a kid, he threw a bat and sent someone to the hospital.
If that guy is reading this, you're forgiven, and I won't look down my nose at you ... unless you are standing a bit to the right.
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