A Benchwarmer’s Little League Field of Dreams

The homerun quest of a young, not-so-great baseball player.

In the 70s, six-year-olds played real baseball. The ball was not teed up, no adults pitched, and we kept score.

We played baseball by baseball rules and we did it very poorly.

Or at least I did.

Although very few of us went on to be professional baseball players, that was not what was important or why we played.

We learned the importance of being part of a team and working hard while having a good time.

We learned that everyone was different and everyone had something to contribute.

For myself, I learned that anything was possible if you just put your mind to it. This became especially apparent to me one Saturday afternoon at the ballpark in 1974.

Not all kids in Little League were as inept at the game as I was. There were certainly plenty of kids who were naturally talented. I just wasn’t one of them.

My older brother was one of those kids. He was the star pitcher of his team. He also led his league in homeruns.

Me? I mostly rode the bench, struck out often and when I did see playing time, I was placed in right field where the coaches all knew the fewest balls would go.

I don’t blame them. I was lucky if I caught the ball and throwing it back was a laborious process.

The problem started after the first day of practice. My coach assessed that I was left-handed and told me to have my mother buy me a left-hander’s mitt.

When I told my mother, she noticeably cringed. She was a single mother of three and money was tight. She hadn’t expected to have to buy me any equipment to play baseball.

She scraped some money together and took me to TG&Y to buy a mitt.

I reminded her to get me a left-handed mitt. My mother who was not familiar with baseball bought me a mitt, the cheapest one she could find, that fit on my left hand.

This, of course, was a right-hander’s mitt. But neither my mother nor I knew any better.

When I showed up to practice proudly holding my brand-new mitt, my coach, not wanting to embarrass me or send me after a new mitt, just nodded his head and said, “Alright then,” and sent me out to right field.

Every time the ball did come to me, I would do my best to catch the ball and then transfer it to my right hand. I would then throw my mitt to the ground, transfer the ball back to my left hand, and throw it as hard as I could back towards the infield.

It seldom made it all the way to the infield and certainly did not get there very fast.

The entire season went that way and I saw very little playing time.

During the course of the season, I did figure something out, however.

When I was at bat and swung, I usually struck out and did not get on base.

But I noticed that if I didn’t swing, I usually walked and got on base.

Six-year-olds were not that great at throwing consistent strikes and walked most of the batters who did not swing.

After I realized that, I refuse to swing no matter how much the coach and the bench begged. I would just stand there with the bat resting on my shoulder watching the balls speed by. At least, that is what I did until one fateful game day.

One morning before our games, my mother was taking my brother and me to the ballfields in her station wagon.

From the front seat, my brother asked my mother, “What do I get if I hit a homerun today?”

My mother smiled and promised to take him to Dairy Queen for a banana split.

Suddenly interested in the conversation, I popped up from the back seat and asked, “How about me? What if I get a homerun?”

Bless my mom, she didn’t laugh or even state the obvious. I had gone most of the season without even swinging the bat. There was no way I was hitting a homerun.

“Sure,” my mom nodded and smiled while looking at me in the rearview mirror, “If you hit a homerun, I will buy you a banana split, too.”

We got to the ballfields and my brother’s game was first. He played well, struck many batters out but did not hit any homeruns.

Then, it was my turn.

I spent the first five innings on the bench. But finally, my coach put me into the game, and I went out to the batter’s box dragging the heavy bat behind me.

I was confident. I was going to get my homerun and I was going to do it on a day when my brother did not.

I got in the batter’s box and lifted the bat, resting it on my shoulder.

I stared right at the pitcher, and he threw the ball towards the plate. I swung as hard as I could.

Surprising everyone including myself, I actually made contact with the ball as I swung the bat.

I hesitated only for a moment, dropped the bat, and ran as fast as I could towards first base.

The ball only rolled about 10 feet in front of home plate and came to a stop. Both the pitcher and catcher just stared at the ball, each seemingly waiting for the other to act.

“Get the ball,” the opposing coach yelled, and the pitcher ran towards the ball.

By the time he got to the ball, I was almost to first base. He overthrew the first baseman, and the first base coach told me to run to second base.

I ran as hard as I could towards second and the base coach hollered for me to hold up there on second.

Or at least that is what everyone told me later. I wasn’t paying attention to anyone and just kept running towards third base.

Confused, the other team got the ball and once again overthrew the baseman, and I rounded third base and headed for home.

By that time, I had no idea where the ball was, but I didn’t care. I was going to get my homerun.

I dove headfirst into home plate, and I was safe.

I had scored my homerun on a hit that went about ten feet, and I couldn’t have been happier. My team, my coach, my mom, and even my brother cheered for me as I wiped off my uniform and headed towards the dugout.

That day on our way home, we stopped by Dairy Queen, and I proudly went up to the window and ordered my banana split.

“I am sorry, we are out of bananas,” the clerk simply said.

I did not get my victory banana split and I never got another hit.

It was the last year I ever played organized baseball. My brother would go on to play for all-star team after all-star team over the years.

But on one Saturday for one afternoon in one game, it was me that was the star of the show while my brother sat on the sideline and watched.

That was enough for me.

For the record, to this day, I still have never received my banana split. But it was never about the banana split.

The lesson I learned that day has stayed with me all of these years. Anything is possible if you never give up.

I learned to keep swinging even if you don’t always hit the ball. Eventually, something wonderful just may happen.

For other nostalgic posts from Curt: