Jimmy Baseball — Chapter 1
The legend of a Little League phenom
A mysterious phenom with a dark secret and an old school coach with a shady past propel a ramshackle Little League team through a magical, unforgettable, and life-changing baseball season. A coming-of-age story celebrating friendship, life lessons, and Little League baseball. A spiritual mix of ‘The Natural’, ‘Bang The Drum Slowly’, and ‘Brian’s Song’.
1.
Sailing down the banister from the top steps, my dad ambushed me at the landing.
“What did I tell you about this stuff?” the old man steamed as my butt remained wedged against the post.
“I thought you were in the can,” I said.
“Don’t you have baseball practice?” he asked.
“Guess so,” I told him, bummed out while climbing off the rail.
“What’s with the attitude? All winter long, Little League is all you talked about,” he said. My dad was right. Hounding the guy to spend his weekends at the batting cages, while counting down the days to spring training, picking out my number, and first pitch.
“What’s the point? This season’s a wash,” I replied.
“It hasn’t even started yet,” he told me.
“Without a head coach and cleanup hitter, we have no shot. It’s my last year to win a title,” I said.
“That’s no excuse. Man up, and get to practice before you’re late,” my father told me. I tugged the bill of my baseball cap and hit the bricks feeling like a chump. After hitching my mitt to the handlebars of my bicycle, I pedaled for the ball field. On the way to practice, I detoured at the sweet shop to load the pockets with my favorite bubble gum.
Inside the candy store, I spotted Jelly Mendoza, our seventh-grade sports writer. Jelly was busy working on his preview column for The Hornet, the grammar school monthly. Jelly kept tabs on all of our teams with predictions for the upcoming Little League season.
With such a slew of kids, the town had to form two six-team leagues. The swanky American and our skid row National. Each division on its own, until the one-game death match for the borough championship.
The beat writer in the baseball cap and game day jersey, Jelly, sat at the counter sipping a chocolate malt. Once he noticed me at the buckets teeming with Dubble Bubble, Jelly turned on his stool at the soda fountain to face me.
“Hey, dude, psyched-out over your new coach?” Jelly asked.
“What coach?” I replied. I then braced myself for Jelly’s news flash.
“John Banta. He’s making a comeback, and they gave him the Astros,” Jelly alerted me.
Banta? No way. Thee John Banta? Holy smokes — talk about a moon shot! In the opposite direction, my Astro season veered before bumping into Jelly.
John Banta’s a coaching legend in Maple Valley. A lightning rod who won Little League, Babe Ruth, and Connie Mack crowns. He’s also the only Maple Valley coach to win the state title and reach Williamsport with the Little League All-Stars. Once his kids grew up, he stopped coaching and moved to another town.
“It’s a good thing my deadline wasn’t yesterday. A skipper of Banta’s caliber gets you to five-hundred. Too bad you don’t have a catcher and cleanup hitter. The Astros would be poised to compete,” Jelly said.
My biggest dream in our little hamlet was to win the National League and knock the nuts off the American League champs. Five hundred means a third-place finish at best, and that’s certainly no bargain.
Anything short of first place is Loserville in my ledger because I’m here to win. It’s championship or bust for this cat. And if you don’t feel the same way about it, I don’t want you on my team.
It felt as if I boarded a rocket ship, ready to blast off through the clouds. Hoo boy — now we’re talkin’! I saddled my bike and zipped for practice.
John Banta tucked the psalms of small ball next to his rule book and lineup cards. The magic burning up his pocket like the map to a pharaoh’s gold. Banta’s legend was built on scoring runs the old-fashioned way, rather than swinging for the fences.
“The way you win in this league is to force errors and steal bases,” Banta told us.
He also alerted the Astros we’d be taking extra batting practice. The entire team riffed a buzz until Banta said we’d be learning how to bunt. Bunt? Is this guy demented? How are we supposed to score runs?
Coach Banta was also a bookie, rumored to be mobbed-up with the local wise guys. The moves and connections that could have landed him in the jug. The so-called resurrection was a reduced and commuted sentence in lieu of a prison term.
Coach Banta spent his nights in a halfway house and his days doing odd jobs and community service. The Little League angels must have grabbed the judge’s ear, pitching Banta Ball. This perp knows his baseball, your honor.
Either way, we had our man. A no-nonsense, wearin’ the pants skipper. This guy found and squeezed every bit of ballplayer from each kid and the team he ever coached. The Maple Valley legend with Vince Lombardi fire, Pete Rose style, and Tony Soprano pals.
Eddie Arcola and Ducky Doyle were my friends from school and Astro teammates. Eddie was our first baseman and three-hole hitter. Ducky, short for Douglas, the Astro shortstop, and leadoff man. As tykes, his kid sister insisted Ducky over Dougie. A family hoot and the nickname stuck.
Blessed with a golden wing, Mike McGee was our top starting pitcher. With a mach-speed fastball and a hook from Hades, Mike never blew up leads or got knocked out of a game.
Rounding out our core four was me. Jerry, short for Jerome Canizio, at your service and starting second baseman. I belonged but I’d never crack the All-Stars. And forget about my pitching arm. The last resort to stem the bleeding or mop things up. A stopgap around frontline starts, innings limits, and cranky elbows.
“Where’s my leadoff hitter?” Banta asked. Ducky raised his hand.
“You don’t know it yet, but you’re gonna lead this league in stolen bases, kid,” Banta said. Ducky smiled, and so did we. Lucky dog.
Banta called out the entire roster, one on one in front of the team. Telling each of us what we were going to do, and how the brass would make sure we’d learn the right way to get it done. Coach made each kid feel like a million bucks.
Have to admit, I felt a little ripped off. Since I batted second, I’d be the team’s premier bunter, and whatever else it took to bump Ducky around the bags. So much for those extra whacks at the practice cages.
The Astros had some leaks, and we’d have to figure a way to plug them up. Jelly was right. Still, no catcher and thumper to drive in runs. One down, none to go.
There’s no farm system, trading deadline, or waiver wire to pluck an anchor and home run hitter. The coaches and players have all been accounted for, and we’d have to play with who we had.
As a team, the battalion shared the faith in Banta Ball. Somehow, someway, our skip would scam the water into wine, despite the hole behind the plate and middle of our lineup.
Practice meant drills and brushing up the basics. The coaching clinics that taught the rookies and goosed the veterans. It’s a long winter, and you forget stuff.
“I need you kids to keep your noses to the limestone,” Banta told us. With so much to learn, our skip demanded a heads up from Astro Nation.
When you’re rounding the bags, you bust it like the devil’s on your tail. Hustle saves the baby, boys, and it’s high time to make those fundies second nature. Habits, good and bad, are hard to ditch. Once the Astros fueled the jets with the sweet stuff, the better.
The yin to small ball’s yang is fireproof defense. Any fielding errors, misplayed bunts, or mistakes on the base paths, you shake it off, learn from it, and get the next one. Any bad throws, you’re in a position to back them up. Stop the extra bases, stem those rallies. We’re a team, and we’re in this thing of ours together.
Mister Velez was our assistant coach with a ten-year-old son named Oscar, who was also on the team. Coach Velez played shortstop in the minors and taught us how to block the ball, field grounders, and straddle the bag. He also ran the bases like a firebird, instructing us to aim for the lower-left corner of the bag, every time.
Batting practice wasn’t all sacrifice bunts and protecting the plate. Banta showed the sense to slug the brakes and let us hack.
“Level swings create more bat speed,” Banta said one day before batting practice or bp as we called it.
“Meet the ball with the bat. Watch it come in,” he added. Banta talked about control when loading up our swings, and promised us the bat speed will follow.
Coach Banta also reminded us to keep our front foot down and to bend our knees at the plate.
Small ball even taps gold when you’re up against a two-strike count. Let the other teams aim for the moon. Our top secret was to choke up on the bat and make solid contact. Coach wanted us to put the baseball in play, and force the bad guys to show some game. The ball could escape the diamond, miss an infielder's glove, or nudge a lucky bounce. Even if that hopper is fielded cleanly, the kid still has to make the throw.
Drop the bat and burn it up the line. If the baseball sails out of reach, round first and high-tail it to second base. If it’s in the dirt, run it out. Make the first baseman scoop it. Fifty-fifty he doesn’t. Even if he blocks the ball from going past, you’re traffic and the inning survives. One more base runner, one more batter. More clicks for the scorekeeper to earn his dough.
No hackers need to apply, and Banta didn’t care if you had the juice to jack it over sugar mountain. The first strike is a called strike, and if the team needs it, you’re laying down a bunt.
“Capeesh?” Coach Banta asked the team. We all got a kick from that one. So did our coaches. Despite the stand-up, this dude meant business.
The day I met James Robert Fister, we didn’t call him Jimmy Baseball. At first sight, far from it. That pudgy newbie, our last roster move of the season.
The Fister’s moved to Maple Valley from the heartland the previous week. Late to sign up, they scrubbed the protocol and kicked Jimmy our way. No red-blooded boy should be deprived of baseball or fearing a lawsuit, the generals stretched the rules and struck a midnight deal.
“Nobody wanted the kid, so I took him,” Banta told Mr. Burns, our other assistant coach. I overheard their conversation at the last practice before opening day.
“I don’t get the American League, John,” said Coach Burns.
“Tell me about it. This is supposed to be for the boys,” Banta said.
Great. Another American League reject they always dropped on us. The derelicts and psychos most likely to blow up the school, and the kids with spastic limbs and no skill sets whatsoever. Wait ‘'till Jelly scoops this one.
When Jimmy put on the catcher’s gear, he looked pretty sound back there — the way he crouched and stuck out his glove. Coach Burns, a one-time semi-pro pitcher, tossed batting practice.
Jimmy caught the entire bp, jumping from the catcher’s box to snatch bunts and rub out runners trying to steal. He had a darn good arm too. Besides that, he caught and blocked everything. Not one pitch got past him.
When it came Jimmy’s turn to slug, he skipped the aluminum pipes and walked right to the barrel of wooden bats. With every stick, Jimmy checked the grain and grip, took some practice swings, brewing up the mystery. Not like us, grabbing the lightest metal we could whip around.
By now, the attention of every Astro was watching a wooden bat approach home plate. A woody? Who hits the lumber in Little League? You can’t put one over the fence with those fiddlesticks. If you want girls, you gotta smash homers.
Once Jimmy coiled in the batter's box, the black belt cut loose. No winter rust with this guy, as he peppered the place. Sky bombs, gap splitters, and missiles down the line. Talk about a killer swing. Sweet and fluid, as if he took bp in his sleep. Jimmy walloped a bunch more, sending our outfielders on a hike. If this were the Little League field, these shots would have been parked, no doubt.
While we swung the bats from hell, this kid wielded a war club, launching round-trippers. Besides reeling in a catcher, Banta gaffed a prime-time smacker. Look out world, you too Jelly, ’cause here come the Astros!
Pumped to Mars and back, I couldn’t wait to get our uniforms and show off this dragon.
