He's back!Sorry Valley Sports Report sports fans for the extended gap between reminiscing chats, but there's a lot of craziness down in here in Lower Slower Delaware right now, as one might imagine.
Sussex County, Delaware has flared up with a couple coronavirus hot spots, first within the workers at the poultry plants, and more recently the younger generation in party gatherings in the beach communities. It's been a busy couple weeks on the news beat.
So let's talk sports. Today we're talkin' baseball.
July's arrival reminds me of Little League tournaments. I'll pitch you a
Little League playoff gem that is truly unforgettable, but one I'd
rather forget. It dates to 1967, the era of Vietnam, Petticoat Junction
and early reruns of The Dick Van Dyke Show.
As luck would have it, Pennsylvania District 15 Little League District
Administrator Joe Shaw and sidekick Dusty Shaw offered a real bracket
beauty - Athens vs. Sayre. A showdown of arch-rivals on the Pennsylvania
side of the border.
For me, there was more at stake than Valley bragging rights. I played
for Athens. My cousin Frank Bottone, and one of my best pals from South
Waverly, Jimmy Green, were all-stars for Sayre.
Back then, of course, Little League playoffs were one-and-done. Loser
goes home for good. No round-robin, double-elimination or second
chances.
With the pitching, hitting and overall talent that we had, I was
certain we'd roll. Who knows, maybe even all the way to Williamsport.
Game Day arrived and we gathered at the ballpark, next to Stroehmann's Bakery. A huge crowd was on hand.
The eyes of the world were upon us, or at least in the Valley and a few miles beyond.
I don't recall stepping on a crack in the sidewalk or breaking a mirror,
but from the time I set foot on the field, I was cursed. Or so it would
play out.
I was penciled in to bat second in the lineup and start at shortstop.
That changed abruptly during pre-game infield warmups. Our manager, Dick
Merritt, whacked a vicious knuckleball liner my direction. I crouched
down, like we were taught, but lo and behold it took a nasty hop and
knuckled into my right knee.
Down I went in pain. I quickly bounced back, but my mobility had taken a hit. Mr. Merritt stuck me out in left field.
Sayre struck first, scoring five runs with the aid of a couple errors
and timely hits. No problem. Down 5-0, we'll just whip them boys from
Sayre. I was thinking something along the lines of 12 to 5.
I stepped into the batter's box and dug in to face Sayre's pitcher. His
name was Mark "Tarky" Hutchison. I was told he had pretty good stuff, a
fast ball and something resembling a curve.
Curveball in Little League?
Didn't matter, whatever he threw I figured I'd bang one of his pitches
off the fence in left-center.
I'm not sure if it was the second or third pitch, but I sensed
curveball. It had a weird spin. Must be a curve. I zeroed in as it got
closer. Still spinning but no curve yet. I waited a tad too long.
BONK! Right between the eyes. Down I went, for the second time that day.
When I came to, I saw stars - like those I experienced from the
concussion I had suffered one year earlier when I flipped off the back
of my banana seat bike doing a wheelie going up McDuffee Street hill.
The medical consensus was I was OK. I waddled - literally - down to first base.
Dizziness set in. I was wobbly. I heard Mr. Merritt yelling my name. In
retrospect, I'm sure he was checking to see if I was all right. But as I
recall, one of our trigger signs for base-stealing had something to do
with your name.
I remember thinking: Why on earth would Mr. Merritt have me try to steal
a base when: A) we're down five runs; and B) I ain't no speed demon
even with a good right knee?
Here's the pitch. There goes Rolfie, hoofing to second base, sliding in
safely just ahead of the throw. One out, runner in scoring position.
At the plate was Paul "Gilly" Gilbert, one of our sluggers. Tarky delivered.
Whack! There's a long fly ball hit deep to right-center. It could be, it
might be, it is ... CAUGHT! My dog-gone cousin made a super-spectacular
catch against the fence. I was told my pal, Jimmy Green, got the ball
and relayed it back to the infield.
Of course, I didn't see it. At the crack of the bat I was off and
running and got the green light from the third base coach to head home.
Which I did, dancing on plate. I celebrated what I thought was our first
run.
At that moment, about the only thing that could have made me any
happier was a date at the Valley Drive-In with Lori Saunders (Bobbi Jo,
Petticoat Junction) or Mary Tyler Moore (Laura Petrie, The Dick Van Dyke
Show). Okay, I admit it, not quite 12, those two lovely ladies were my
first puppy love crushes!
Amid my celebration I heard chaos. Screams from our dugout, "Go back! Go back!"
Momentarily lost in space, I took the Archimedes route: the shortest
path between two points is a straight line. You guessed it. From home
plate Rolfie darted up over pitcher's mound and slid into second, again
beating the throw. After a brief discussion the umps rendered their
verdict: OUT ... for failing to properly retrace steps.
Inning over.
Eventually, I was yanked from the game and spent the last couple innings riding the pines.
We lost. Sayre won. I think the final was 5-1. Score didn't matter.
Embarrassed, ticked but mostly bummed, I passed on the post-game free
treat at the ballpark concession stand. To lift my spirits my wonderful
aunt and uncle took my brother and I to Bud's Dairy Bar / Driving Range on
the west side of Waverly Hill for hamburgers, hot dogs, French fries
and hot fudge sundaes.
The curse continued.
