Grand Slam Double

I was small as child.  Well, I’m not exactly Andre the Giant now, but I was small.  And Skinny.  A toothpick really.  Small enough to the point where I vividly remember going to growth specialists and doctors to find out why I was so small.  Now I didn’t think I was that small, I was short, sure, but not doctors need to get involved short.  But you get the idea.

Now as you may imagine, due to my size, I was not exactly blessed with the worlds greatest athletic attributes.  But what I lacked in skill I made for in hustle and heart and other things little white kids were told to mask the fact that they sucked.

 

I was legitimately adept at the following things:  Stealing bases and getting hit by pitches.  One generally led to the other.  With limping.  And tears.  Lots of tears.  I got hit a lot.

Each year I followed a similar path.  I would start the first ten games with a batting average of about .075 but an On Base Percentage of about .600.  The rest was almost exclusively strikeouts.

After the first ten games I would stop being terrified and start swinging, scrounging a few hits.

Then, without fail, the last three or four games of the season, and then the playoffs I would become Ty Friggin’ Cobb.

I could pull the ball.  I could go opposite field.  I could put the ball into the gaps and anything hit in the infield I could outrun.

I could hit.

 

Mike Konstantinidis was not small.  A strong kid with decent command and zip on his pitches.  Though he didn’t have most “mustard” on his pitches in the league, he threw hard and had the ability to take a little something off.  If it wasn’t for him you could easily change over 3 or 4 wins yearly, to losses.

Mike and I were best friends.  We spent time in school together, were in a bowling league together and slept over each others house about 17 weekends in a row at one point.  We would play soldiers of fortune, reenacting scenes from our favorite video games

We would go swimming, play the new Super Nintendo and act like maniac children.

Sunday mornings, when I slept at his house, we would go to the Vegas Diner, a cultural and artistic hotspot, for breakfast where I learned two very important lessons from Mike’s mom, Janet.

Always tip well.

Never call a grown woman “She.”

 

It was wonderful.

Thus it was fated that Mike’s Phillies would play Carlo’s Reds in a one game playoff where the winner would have the right to slaughtered by AFR Steve’s Yankees.

It was a hard fought game but The Phillies were pulling away.  The Reds played valiantly, even at one time allowing a kid with a broken leg and full on leg cast bat.  Don’t laugh, the kid launched bombs and then walked to first!  Alas it looked like this wasn’t the year for Carlo and the Reds.

Final inning.  The St. Bernadette Phillies are holding on to a one run lead and the home team Reds come up to bat.

The bottom of the line-up is due up and it looks ugly.

They have called in Mike Konstantinidis to close out the season.

Broken leg kid lines out.  The coaches son races out a dribbler to third.  Hit batsman.  Ground out.  Walk.

The Phillies defense did little to help Mike.

Bases Loaded.

Down 1.

Two out.

Up comes Mike’s best friend.

Best Friends Forced To Do Battle.

I was going to use the Star Trek Fight, but come on, I’m totally Optimus Prime

I didn’t want to lose.  I didn’t want to let my team down.

I grabbed a different bat than one I normally used.  An orange bat with blue stars.  This bat still had hits in it.

I stepped in.

Mike stares in and comes to the set.

He throws a fireball that I could not even think about swinging at.

Strike one.

He throws another flame but this is in tight.  Mike is sending a message.

There is no friendship.

Ball One.

He checks the runner at first.  He’s tipped his hand.  He’s nervous.

He tosses a slower pitch and I get under it.  The pop up to catcher should end this.  The ball hits the fence.  A reprieve.

Strike two.

Mike wipes his brow.

The next pitch bounces.

Two and two.

Mike rears back and throws a ball with some movement.  He later called it a curve.  I was not expecting the break.

I wait.  My hands in tight.  I swing.

The ball rockets off my bat lining straight up the first base line.  I was late.  I did not intend to go opposite field.  And even if I did, I don’t have that kind of skill to go straight down the line.

The first baseman, Eddie Boyle leaps.

I haven’t left the batters box.

The ball goes over the outstretched glove of  the first baseman.

Fair Ball!

By the time I’m ten feet up the line the first runner has already scored.

The ball hasn’t landed.  I got all of it.

Running faster than I ever had, I make a turn wide enough to qualify me as an outfielder.  As I get to second and start for third, my coach is running onto the field, waving his arms in a circle across his body, in what to any other kid would be the sign for NO! STOP! GO BACK!

So I did what any other kid would do.  I ran back to second.

Then I started for third again, cause I wanted a goddamn grand slam.

I never got to third.  It didn’t matter.  I was mobbed between second and third, hugged and slapped, all the while screaming, Am I Out?  I have to get to third!  Is this ok?!

It was more than ok.

An hour or so later, when I got home, I was talking with my Mother about the game and how great it felt.  I said “I just wish it didn’t come against Mike.”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“You think he’ll want to talk to me?”

“Sure.  It’s part of the game.”

“Can you do it?”  I asked, meekly.

And she did.  I overheard my mother talking with Mrs. Konstantinidis and understood that Mike had been upset and was crying.

Winning didn’t feel so good.

“Well, would Mike want to talk to Carlo?”  and with that, my Mother handed me the phone.

I didn’t really know what to say, so I started with a simple “Hey.”

“Hey” he replied.  You could hear in his voice that he had been crying.

“You pitched a good game.  Heck you were the best player on your team.  I got lucky.”  That may have been the most honest sentence I’ve ever said in my life.

“I threw you the slowest curveball…” he seemed to be debating his pitch repertoire as opposed to talking to me.  “But you had a good game.”

“I thought Eddie was gonna catch it”

“Nah, I knew it was over once you hit it”

“Well, just wanted you to know that, you know, I didn’t mean it.”  Which is of course absurd given the very nature of sports is to intentionally succeed.

“Next time I’ll get you out.”

“I hope we got to try.”

We never got to try.  Mike moved across the country, very abruptly, about two months later.

Inasmuch as I meant to hit that grand slam double and win and beat my friend I didn’t.

I wanted to win.  I didn’t want to hurt my friend.

And at 10 years old I learned a pretty important lesson

Life is a zero sum game.

But man is it better when you’ve got the +1!

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