Little League Baseball.... Some of my fondest, most pure memories come from this time in my life. It was a time before beer and girls, so I guess that explains a lot. So many good people were involved from the kids playing ball, to the parents and fans to the coaches. I was real fortunate to have had some great coaches, and there was none better than Robert Fleming! Bob had the patience of a saint, and incredible ability to teach and I think almost everyone in the league wanted to play with us. I played with Bob and a good core group of guys for about 5-6 years, so in a sense, we all grew up together.
One thing that impressed me with Bob was his knowledge of the history of the sport. One thing that I enjoyed about baseball even before I played were some of the nick-names. "Catfish" Hunter, "Dizzy"Dean, "Hammerin" Hank Aaron, Ron "Louisiana Lightning" Guidry, Cal "Iron Man" Ripken, "Goose"Gossage (my personal favorite because of his kick ass mustache and his intimidation factor...) the list just goes on for days. But Bob being the baseball guy he was, issued a few nick names. I was the benefactor of such a nick name... Bubba. The nick name made sense. I was a bit bigger than everyone on the team and as Bob said, "we need a Bubba". That was a badge of honor for me and it got to the point were I wouldn't answer to anything else. Hell, it got to the point were I introduced myself to people as Bubba. League umpires, other coaches and players, even local radio personalities knew me as Bubba. Our sponsor for all of those years was a local radio station, KORK (if I'm not mistaken) and the morning guy (Jack London) always wanted to know how his guy "Bubba", "Bones", "Hollywood" and the rest of the boys did. It was friggin awesome!
Anyhow, I said all of that just to get to 2 memories that are etched in my memory. The first was one of 2 home runs I hit. I think we were playing on a diamond that had 60' base paths. I was not known for blistering the base paths, by the way. But, after getting the sign to swing away, I stepped into the batters box. The kid pitching was throwing them right were I wanted them, up and over the outside of the plate. I screwed my front foot into place, kicked up a good spot to plant my back foot and then it happened. The pitcher threw this pitch that was as big as a beach ball and I turned on it. I took this giant cut and I heard the tell tale "tink" of the aluminum bat striking the ball. I had to watch for a second because I hit the shit out of the ball. I heard the crowd go crazy and I started to run. By the time I hit first I was laughing because their left fielder and the center fielder were still running after the ball, so I round first and head to second. Before I hit the bag I check Bob, my third base coach and he is waving me in to come into third. Now I am laughing my butt off because I had never hit a triple before. I check over my right shoulder (against everything Bob had ever taught me) and the outfielder was just getting ready to hit the cut off man. I look back up at Bob and he is waving me around third.... I couldn't help but think, "What in the hell is he thinking?" Then I thought, "Surely he'll change his mind before I get to the bag". Nope.... he's till waving me around the bag.
Now, at this point I begin to go through all kinds of self doubt. I look towards home plate and whoever was on base in front of me was yelling. Things like, "Did Bob forget that I am fat, slow and have these stupid ass, little, stubby, crooked legs that are capable of only going so fast for so far" and "I hope I don't die from an asthma attack before I get to the plate", but I kept digging. I hit the plate standing up and it seemed as if the world had gone crazy! I"ll never forget that for the obvious reasons but there was an underlying caveat that most people didn't know about unless you were on our team. Trudy Fleming, our coaches wife and our first baseman's mother would come over and tell me or any of the other guys, "Little Bubba? You'd better hit a home run or I will come over there and kiss your little face." Back then, we hated girls and we even hated the thought of our own mother's coming over and kissing our little faces. It would be humiliating to have the coaches wife, my buddies mom, come over and kiss all over my little face. This was one of 2 times in my career at 3rd base were I didn't have to worry about that....
The other time probably isn't as warming as my "Corky" story above. I had the perpensity to get "plunked", and I got plunked a lot. Most of the time it was either in the left love handle because I would turn in towards the plate or somewhere on the left leg. My thinking was, it was too high to jump and too low to duck so I would just give it the "Ole!" move and hope it wouldn't hit me. It did, nearly every time. The time I am speaking of now is a bit different. The ball was headed right towards my left hip and I knew I wouldn't be able to get out of the way, so for some dumb reason I pull my left shoulder out which left me facing the pitch. This left me and my genitals directly in the path of this kids fast ball.
Instead of doing anything, I did nothing. I didn't stick a hand out, didn't try to move... just froze up, and the ball hit me square in the nuts! Not a little bit either... In the above story, the crowd went wild... in this story, everybody any where near the ball field knew what happened. "OOOOOOH" is the last thing I heard before I landed on the ground head first, with my hands grasped firmly on the family jewels. I don't remember but the ump may have said, "Oh shit!". It was an "oh shit" moment, and Bob knew it right off the bat. I heard him call "Time!"
Now, I've been hit in the head before and didn't get this much immediate attention. As I sat there in an inverted fetal position, Bob crouched down to me. I heard their catcher ask, "You okay, Bubba?" then Bob asked the same question. For those who don't know the finer intricacies of getting hit in the nuts.... you can't talk. I think its because your balls run and hide right behind your voice box. But as I am laying there, I hear Bob say, "We've got to get you up...." He and the ump are trying to get me up, but my knee's wont leave my chest area and my hands won't come off the place that used to house the jewels. I manage to get my legs straight and Bob asks, "You all right?". "NO" was the proper answer but I didn't say that. We kind of kept hobbling down the first base line and Bob patted me on the shoulder and told me, "Rub some dirt on it..."
I look at the man like he'd lost his damned mind. He kind of gives me his nob of approval, scooped up a hand of dirt and hands it to me. I figured that the man had never steered me wrong, so I grabbed the hand of dirt, jammed it down my pants, rubbed it all over my nuts and Bob then said, "That feel better?" I said "No, not really..." He patted me on the shoulder, looked at the ump and said, "Play ball". The ump called it, and there I was on first base with dirty balls and feeling for the first time that I got conned into feeling better. I looked across the diamond and Bob was smiling. I looked into the bleachers, and parents were laughing and smiling.... shit, I did feel better.
Afterwards we all laughed about it... especially after I got to put some ice on them. But its little lessons like this that I learned in Little League that I got to bring with me for the rest of my life. I am fortunate enough to have a couple of boys who played a bit of ball, and one of them was just like me. Frigging ball magnet! I was an assistant coach and Wade took a fast ball right to the right of his left love handle. The ump called time, and I ran over. He was about to cry and I had a flash back. "Rub some dirt on it, son" and I gave him a hand full of red clay dirt and he looked at me, just the way I must have looked at Bob. "Is this even going to help?" he said. "Nope, but its kind of funny isn't it." My son started laughing and asked me where I came up with that "witch doctor" stuff. "Play ball, son." I said. The ump hollered "take your base" and we all lived happily ever after.
I can't imagine my life without those times and without those people. Bob and Trudy are still involved in Little League in Las Vegas. And even though it wasn't their district, another district from Vegas just missed the finals of the Little League World Series. It's not a mystery. Good things happen around good people. Get good people involved and better things happen.
I've thanked Bob and Trudy before, but really there is not a way to thank them enough for their dedication to not only their kids and ball players but to everyone they have touched through the years. They have to have been involved for nearly 40 years, and that involvement means so much to so many. Not many can give like this, so it's truly a gift I will be forever grateful for.
I've "rubbed dirt" on a lot of things through life and I never would have known that little secret if it weren't for these folks.
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