Don't Call Me Babe

(Note to my fans:
I wrote this a number of years ago. It is a "remembrance", so it is only as true as my recollection makes it. Enjoy - or not - it is up to you.)

Don’t Call Me Babe

The time is 1962, early May. The place is Ft. Collins, Colorado. The city had just inaugurated little league baseball. I really wanted to play and so did my older brother, Mike, so we went to the spring tryouts. It was hard for me because I was only ten and that was the minimum age for baseball that year. Yes I was going to be one of the young-uns with great hopes for the future. But the real reason it was hard for me was that I wasn’t very good. I couldn’t catch. I couldn’t throw. I was afraid of the ball so I really couldn’t bat. The good thing about little league baseball was that you never got told what order you were chosen. Everybody got on a team, but, unlike school, you didn’t have to wait by the wall while everyone got picked for a team before you. That was why Mike and I were both real excited when my dad came home and told us we had both been drafted by the same team. It was the team sponsored by Dad’s work - Forney Industries. It didn’t take a genius to figure out how we got on that team. But still, we were excited.
The Forney Industries team was a “minor league” team. That is where the 10 and 11 year olds played while they got ready for “the majors.” My Dad had also joined Little League as the manager of one of the major league teams - the Reds. His coach was Jerry Wilson, a young man who rented a room in our basement. That first year, they held a “special draft”. It was a time when each of the minor league teams was supposed to send two of their best players for a tryout and see if any of the major league teams wanted to give them an early promotion. I was a little surprised when my dad told me that both Mike and I were supposed to go to that tryout. After all, I really wasn’t very good. Actually, I was really awful. I remember two things about that tryout. I had a set of large blisters on the back of my hand, and while doing a sliding drill, I tore one of them completely off. I also remember a pitching drill where we were aiming at a strike zone square made out of crossed ropes. I was surprisingly accurate, but there wasn’t any speed. The other thing I remember was Dad coming home after the “special draft” meeting and announcing that the Reds had picked up a couple of bush leaguers. It turned out that was Mike and I. So that is how I became the worst player in the Ft. Collins Little League - Major Leagues.
I suffered greatly for my father's desire to have his sons on his team. Oh, it was great being a major leaguer because we had real uniforms with socks and pants and shirts, instead of the simple T-Shirts the minor leagues wore. But I really didn’t belong. And to make it worse, my dad had to play me. The rule was that every player on the team had to play at least two innings of every game. I was delegated to right field, because most of the boys batted right-handed and none of them knew how to pull the ball to right. The hope was that I would never have to field a ball, because it was a sure hit for the opposition. I also was put in whenever there was little chance for me having to come up to bat. I was just an out. It was mortifying. I hoped for rainouts.
The first year passed. The Reds ended with a record of 2 wins and 12 losses. We called it a building year. I knew that the team wished I wasn’t there.
Season two started. I may have been a little bit better, but I was still the worst on the team and maybe in the whole league. I tried hard and eventually found something that I was really good at. I could bunt. Every time I went up to bat, I would ask my dad if I could bunt. It lead to my one moment of glory in little league.
There was just one moment amidst a sea of mediocrity, at best. I don’t remember who we were playing. I just remember that I had to bat, so I turned to my dad and said, “Can I bunt?” He told me yes, so I went to face a little league pitcher with nothing on my mind but trying to not get hit by a pitch, which would surely make me cry and increase my shame. My hope was in laying down a good bunt and then getting thrown out at first base. I did just that, as far as laying down a good bunt went, but when they threw me out at first base, they didn’t. The ball sailed over the first baseman’s head and on to the fence. I took off for second on the error. The other team decided to try to get me out at second, and again the throw was wild, and I found myself heading for third on another error. One more try to get me at third, and one more bad throw and a ball going to the fence. I ran on home with a bunt home run. I was excited. The team was excited. We won the game, not necessarily because of my run. I got my name in the newspaper. Anyway, I think I did. Dad read it to me along with the report they put in weekly on the little league. Deep down I think Dad might have just read my name into the report. I never saw it myself, but generally you don’t get credit for a home run based on a good bunt and 3 errors.
The Reds themselves had two really glory games that year. One was a rainy afternoon. We met at the ball diamonds and were sure that we were going to be rained out. All of the other team's games were called fairly quickly, but Dad and the other coach were friends, so we waited a while. The rain stopped and the sun tried to peak out. They decided to play our game. What made it a great game? All of the players from the other called games stood around and watched us play. It was a well played game. For me that meant that no one hit it to right field and I didn’t have to bat. The Reds won. We felt great.
Our other glory game was the next to last game of the season. We had to play the Braves. They had Edling, the fastest pitcher in the minor leagues. They also had the best batter (but I don’t remember his name.) Their coach, Joe Maple had a pretty big bet out that the Braves would go through the season undefeated. Dad and Joe Maple didn’t like each other. Our Reds were in second place. We had only lost two games. I guess in the final evaluation, it may be said that the Reds took every advantage that day. Edling was at a funeral. And their top batter had broken his arm, but he still hit a home run. We beat the Braves that day to ruin their perfect season. Dad was very happy to be the one to make Joe Maple lose his bet.
That season the Reds came in second, and we were the only team to beat the Braves. My dad kept every game ball from those victories and wrote the score of the game on them and displayed them on the mantle. Over the years, those balls all disappeared as Mike and I would lose one and need to get another to play catch.
The next season, Dad lost his managing position to Ray Montoya because Ray was a member of the Kiwanis (and probably because Dad beat Joe Maple). Dad went to manage a minor league team that Terry, my younger brother was on. Mike and I continued with the Reds. We were again a horrible team and again lost all but two games. Mike made the All Star team as a second baseman. I still played right field.
I played one more year, still for Ray Montoya on the Reds. Mike was moved on to a Pony League. He had outgrown the little leagues. The Reds did okay that year. I had gotten respectable. I got to play center field a couple of times because there were kids on the team worse that me. If I remember correctly they we Mr. Montoya’s kids. It’s hard being the manager’s son so you have to be hurried through you baseball development. I knew what it was like. I felt compassion, but still, it did allow me to play center field.