I loved baseball when I was a kid; after all, it was America’s sport, at least when I was small. Ok, I was and still am a Cub’s fan, but I won’t tell you my favorite players when I was a kid for obvious security reasons.

So, of course, I went out and joined a little league baseball team, fast pitch, well, sometimes fast, usually wild hardball – or at least they were solid, hard rubber coated balls that hurt when they hit you. Luckily, I joined “Optimist Club”, the number one ranked little league team in the city, and defending city champions.

But I didn’t know that. And if I did, it wouldn’t matter.

We had Charlie Cochran. Baseball pitcher extraordinaire and he actually could throw fastballs and curves over the strike zone. At age 9 to 11. Don’t think he ever hit a kid at bat, at least not on purpose, and I guess I need to mention he and our cleanup hitter Tim Cavanaugh, hit towering home runs nearly every time they were at bat. Unbeatable.

So I was randomly allocated to the team, and I was short, skinny, but a very fast runner. Did I mention I couldn’t hit?

Yeah, I couldn’t hit.

I tried but nearly always struck out swinging because I just couldn’t get the timing right or something. So our coach of course was the winningest little league coach in the world, and figured winning was all that mattered, no matter what the cost. We loved him for that.

Ah, the good old days. Back then, we had winners and losers. And if you were a loser, you went home sad and ate dirt. If you were a winner, you got a trophy. No one else got a trophy. Just the winner, and that’s why it was fun to compete hard. We wanted the damn City trophy!

Anyway, back to story. The coach realized he didn’t have enough time to work on my hitting, but he realized I had one talent besides catching balls in the outfield:

I could flat out run like the wind.

And he realized that running fast meant stealing bases, so that became my job. However, since I couldn’t hit, that means he had to figure out a way to get me on base every time I was up so that I could steal all the bases and either score, or have Charlie or Tim hit me home with their mammoth home runs.

Yeah, I ate bases for dinner. Get me on first and I always stole second, and usually didn’t stop there, and continued on home because the opposing players usually only had one or two players with good enough arms to throw me out. The rest of them panicked when I started wheeling it around the bases and threw the ball everywhere but where it needed to go.

Cool.

One problem. Again, I had to get on base.

“Carson! You couldn’t hit a barn if it was standing right in front of you.”
I looked down, kicked some dirt, and spat. “Yeah, reckon so coach.”
“What you suggest we do about that Carson, huh? We ain’t got time for hittin lessons cause Charlie and Tim can do all that. Tell you what. I suggest you become the walk king of the Optimist Club. That way, you get on base and we got ourselves pretty much a score most of the time.”

“Yeah, Ok coach. Whaddya mean?”

“Well you’re our youngest player and you’re a little squirt, so it’s hard for those opposing pitchers to throw to you. They can barely see you! That’s perfect. So, take all the pitches and get walked. Stand right as close to the base as you can too. Scares ‘em. When it looks like you got a 3 and 2 or a 2 and 2 count and the pitch looks good, step as close to the plate as you can and put your body in front of it and let it hit you for an automatic walk!”

“Uh, you mean, purposely let that ball hit me?”

“Yeah, do it for the team Carson. It’ll only sting for a little while and duck so it won’t hit your head. Just let it hit your side or your arm or leg or something. Just protect that noggin of yours. Hear you’re a good student or something.”

I really wanted to play, and understood I now had an important role on the team, and well, if I said no, I would be riding the splinter-infested bench more than usual. I was the only rookie and the other bench warmers preferred the comfort of the bench.

“Ok coach.”
“Atta boy Carson! Go get’em”

Figured I would give it a try, but some of those pitchers could throw some heat. So, I was relieved when I was walked frequently with four balls because the pitchers could barely see me and couldn’t find my strike zone, therefore, everything was a ball. Didn’t need to be hit at all to get on base.

So I stole many bases and always slid home. Even if I didn’t need to because the dirt on my uniform made me feel important.

Until I met Killer Kelly. He could pitch, almost as good as Charley and he knew how to hit the strike zone. I looked at coach and he smiled from the bench, and I knew what I had to do. So, he got ahead of me on strikes and I let him hit me. Right on the left thigh. Yeah it hurt, but I could still run. He tried to throw me out at second with a perfect throw, but I had a step on him, and the second basement couldn’t handle the heat. Ran all the way home, and I was the hero.

We played Killer Kelly and his team, Dwyer Instruments several times that season including the championship and each time, I knew I would have to take one for the Optimist Club. But I learned how to fake getting out of the way, turning, so that I put my butt in harms way, and it didn’t hurt as bad as bone against ball.

Got on base every time and yes, Optimist Club once again, won the city Championship, and I won the bruise championship.

I learned three lessons my rookie season, age nine on Optimist Club. One: I understood what it meant to be a team player and to “take one for the team.” Literally. Two: I would practice day and night to learn how to hit next year if it killed me because I wouldn’t be the bruise king anymore. Three: I would grow taller.

Then I spat and learned how to hit and man that felt good.

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