Jimmy Baseball — Chapter 3
The legend of a Little League phenom
3.
Besides vaulting the Astros into a mean machine, Jimmy transformed the gang into a fab five. We felt like our heroes up in The Show, owning a newfound swagger in our steps while sporting that devil-may-care attitude.
To rock the hot spots like Sonny’s Pizza and the Burger Meister, we needed more mileage from our weekly allowance. Since we all came from working-class families, our folks were tapped and ordered us to get jobs. Are you kiddin’ me? What’s a job, Gus? Oh well, such is life.
That’s when we stormed the streets with flyers for Lou’s Sub Hut and Soapy’s Car Wash. We’d stand outside the Foodway and library, passing out the leaflets and spreading the joy. Other days, we’d stick the bulletins beneath the windshield wipers of parked cars.
Outside these screwball gigs, most of our summer days meant more baseball. Rec rides out to Shea Stadium and our favorite, loose games of tennis ball.
That’s where we’d hit the public courts like a recon team, bagging all the dead tennis balls left behind. We’d truck to our spot, an abandoned warehouse where we spray painted a strike zone on a brick wall.
Pick up games with Mike as the designated pitcher. We’d play countless rounds of two on two’s. Picking out pro teams, and batting through their lineups. We had no idea how Banta would react if he knew Mike tossed all these heats with a tennis ball.
Then back to the Maple Valley Pool to cool off. Wrestling matches, dunking each other and trying to meet girls. After the wet down, off for another round of tennis ball.
Deciding to split the pool, we went to dry off and grab our gear. Eddie and Ducky worked a short mission that meant coaxing their girlfriends to recruit three extras for slices at Sonny’s Pizza. I sat with Jimmy and Mike, waiting on the results.
That’s when Kevin Kilroy, the town bully, and one-man gang, crept over. Kilroy liked to float around Dixieland picking on people and shaking them down. Oversized for his age, and much bigger than us, the problem child hawked Jimmy.
“Hey fatty, take off your shirt,” Kilroy said.
“Why?” Jimmy asked, as if Kilroy were sticking up for all the fat kids, and calling Jimmy out for being a fraud.
There were a ton of kids who were way bigger than Jimmy who didn’t wear T-shirts in the pool. Jimmy was a little on the husky side who packed some extra pounds, far from being fat.
True, the T-shirt seemed a little odd, but it’s a free country, and he wasn’t hurting anyone. That logic, like most, failed to halt Kilroy. He demanded Jimmy peel his T, or else.
“‘Cause I said so, fat stuff. Now take off your shirt,” Kilroy told Jimmy.
“Lay off, Kilroy,” I said.
“What did you say Canizio, you little runt?” Kilroy said.
“Pick on somebody your own size,” Mike said.
“What’s up fatty? Can’t fight your own battles?” Kilroy asked.
Jimmy remained quiet. He didn’t look upset over Kilroy’s size and strength. Along with Mike and I, more flustered over the Neanderthal’s crooked ambition.
“You’re not leaving until you take off your shirt,” Kilroy said.
Eddie and Ducky raced over, rushing Kilroy in a sneak attack. They already knew Kilroy had no business by us unless it was to create trouble. Duck leaped on Kilroy’s wide shoulders, riding the bully in a piggyback.
Eddie dipped his shoulder, looking to fold Kilroy in half. With one arm, Kilroy tried to push Ducky loose, and stiff arm Eddie with the other. Kilroy stumbled from the shock of the contact, quickly straightened out, as Eddie bounced off him and tumbled to the grass. That’s when Mike and I charged.
We jumped through the air, whipping out our best judo moves. Chops, kicks, and hi-yahs! Hate to admit this, as Mike and I looked more like Hong Kong Phooey than Bruce Lee.
This rumble began to resemble an undercard at Wrestlemania. Bigfoot versus Midgetville. By now, the entire pool watching the spoof on the knoll. So did Jimmy, just standing there, confused by the kids of this town.
Lifeguards blew their whistles to can the action, as police sirens blistered through the valley. Kilroy continued scooping up the legion and tossing us around. Kids already scaled the hill and circled to get a better look-see.
Two of Maple Valley’s finest raided the slope, shouting for an armistice. When the police saw the vagrant and five virgins, the cops cornered Kilroy. Once the crowd circled, they satisfied the cops’ suspicions and fingered Kilroy as the instigator. Far from an aha moment, the knights grabbed Kilroy, shoving him towards the exit.
The fab five joined the death march, tailing the police to their blinking machines. More squad cars rolled in, where a Sergeant stood waiting for us. The Sarge might have smoked the monkey bars sixty pounds ago, but the beer belly covered the utility belt today.
“What went on up there?” the Sergeant asked. Before we could answer, a crazy lady in a tie-dye house dress, crashed the confessional.
Mrs. Kilroy, the town runaway for trailer park queen, with her gutter mouth, missing teeth, and chalky tattoos. Her scratchy voice bombed out from menthol cigarettes and low-budget booze.
She started telling off the cops and cursing out the muckety-muck rules of Maple Valley. And how the police better wise up before they’re sued out of business — the Kilroy’s have rights, you know. Kevin Kilroy sat cuffed in the back seat of the cruiser. The cops already dispatched his ride.
In moments, a wagon arrived to shuffle the monster boy to the padded mines. Mrs. Kilroy might have demanded mug shots for the Astros, but the police had other plans for us and Mrs. Kilroy: Join the evaluation, lady, or it’s a ride-along to the precinct.
She promised lawsuits and letters to every watchdog and civil liberties group in operation. In the meantime, Mrs. Kilroy climbed into a squad car and joined her son’s motorcade.
The police decided not to haul us in or call our parents. Instead of Purple Hearts, the pool levied one-week suspensions. They had us. If we banged the war drums, we’d have to fess up to our folks.
Fine with the Astros — more tennis ball. Eddie and Ducky balked over the chick angle in the contract. Not too many middle school broads ditch the pool and stand by their men. They would just as soon find new colts and escorts to Sonny’s Pizza.
Our best version of the New York pros with their off-field antics. The Bronx Zoo Yankees of the late seventies and the 1986 Mets wrecking whisper jets en route to the World Series.
Back in business, the fab five hit the road. We decided on those slices, with or without the dates. Our bigger hook-up, Banta and his limestone the next morning.
The young grasshoppers had a few things to master before the Cubs, called confidence at the plate and contact hitting. Steve Wheeler invaded our thinkers, clanking those psych-out switches. Banta rigged a practice before the pivotal game, and since it was a real job workday, our other coaches couldn’t be there.
A younger man in a white-ribbed tank top stood on the mound. He wore a baseball glove while talking to Coach Banta. A bag of baseballs sat between them. Joey Banta always wore nice duds and drove a black Cadillac with gold-plated chrome.
A semi-pro pitcher back in the day, with looks and tryouts from the independent leagues. After baseball, Joey Banta got into horse racing among other things. On this morning, Joey ditched the sharkskin suit, and stood in baseball shoes, pants, and a derby hat like the one Stallone wears in the Rocky movies.
“What the heck is this guy pulling now?” asked Ducky. Eddie and I flashed wildcard stares.
Our newest pal, Jimmy, didn’t say a word. Business as usual. Whenever he stepped on a ball field, practice, or a game, was study hour for James Robert Fister. Once Banta had the whole team, he waved us over.
The Astros ringed the mound, creeping in to listen hard. “When you start hitting, my son, you’ll cream Wheeler. Let’s go. We have a title to win.”
Banta had us fired up before our first cuts. This guy bled the battle of baseball. Calling out the gremlins and turning our boot camp into a house-to-house sweep. Every one of us, including the second-stringers, would take extra bp.
“I know I rode you guys all year, and you responded. We’re not gonna worry about defense today. This is going to be strictly a hitting clinic,” Banta told the team. We all looked around, cutting out smiles. Now we’re talkin’!
Banta stood by the backstop, making sure we stayed focused and took level swings. It took a while for each of us to make contact. Joey tossed smoke and spitfire, what the old-timers call wicked heat.
When I stepped in to face Joey, his fireballs vanished before smacking Jimmy’s glove. Flummoxed in the batter’s box I heard Jimmy giggle, finding humor in my hapless struggle. Gimme a break. And Joey kept cranking. Every pitch seemed to gain velocity and vaporize through the strike zone.
Zoom, zoom, zoom. Awesome stuff all right, and nothing I’d ever seen before when I could spot it. Banta came over and called time to adjust my arms and hands. It’s not the grip I felt like telling Coach — more like my eyesight and your son’s lightning bolts.
“You’re starting to slice the ball. I noticed it last game. Come on, you could hit this guy,” Coach told me before stepping off. A cool vibe that he cared about us, and not an act he had to put on or the time he owed the judge.
Coach Banta wouldn’t let us out of the box until we spanked. I hadn’t spent this much time in batting practice since my father took me to the cages over the winter. I finally made some noise, slapping two opposite-field singles.
A blooper to short right and a bouncer that skipped through the hole between first and second. The best I could muster and Banta wasn’t satisfied. Coach kept me anchored at the plate until I stung line drives and pulled the ball. A few swings later I did, ripping a few into left field for legitimate doubles.
Joey plugged up Jimmy and his wooden killers as well, breaking two bats along the way. After a few pointers from the old man, Jimmy unleashed his stroke and smacked it around. Once Jimmy split the gaps and belted extra-base hits, Astro Nation livened up. When he bopped one over the fence, the team erupted.
Small ball, the fundies, the winning season. The Astros left the field at the rainbow’s edge. We were in this together to pick up our brothers beat by a rough play. We’d shake it off as a squad and get the next one.
Banta knew all about odds and breaks. The best playoff game would be no playoff game. He wanted to win this league outright. Nothing left to chance. No lurking voodoo to lead us off the ledge.
I felt a buzz on the dugout bench, right before taking the field against the Cubs. Already on air in the second base hole when Eddie tossed my first warm-up grounder.
While the pitcher loosened up, Eddie would sling bouncers around the horn to each infielder. We’d scoop the hopped baseballs and fire them back to first base as Eddie stretched off the bag.
Mike morphed into Mister Electro, fanning the side on twelve pitches. By the time we grabbed our bats, the Cardinals climbed the bleachers. They drew the next game, hosting the born-to-stink Phillies.
Banta knew the Astros were closer than we thought, reminding us about the good ole limestone. He also ordered some take-out for the Cardinals to chew on besides cotton candy and hot dogs.
Ducky stepped into the box, and after giving Wheeler his first strike, he lined a double to the left-center gap. Not only did he slap it, but the Duck also got around on it. With Ducky in scoring range, I stepped to the plate. I bounced the head of the barrel off the dish and snapped a few check swings.
Wheeler’s fastball, once unhittable, wafted over like a Wiffle ball. I couldn’t believe my eyes when that legend came down the pipe. I swore I saw the stitches and Little League stamp on the baseball. I hung back and waited. Unreal. Greeting a Wheeler fastball? I swung, connected, and sailed it over the fence. My first and only Little League homer!
Whap, whap, whap. The Astros ramped up the assault and jumped to an eight-run lead. By the second inning, we had Wheeler off the mound and headed for the showers.
The season from hell had arrived all right. Gassed up, and climbing the fathoms like a runaway whale.
Jimmy’s wooden bat burned up the Phillies. Our big cat went five for five, cracking two homers and a pair of doubles. All in all, Jimmy knocked in six runs and zapped three outlaws hocking bases, and wasn’t even his best game.
By the fourth inning, the Phillies faced the Mercy Rule. When they whiffed, the umps called the game and ordered both teams to gather at home plate to shake hands and wish each other well.
“I would put this team against any team I ever coached,” Banta told us after the game. I couldn’t believe what I heard.
Coach Banta had won district, county, and state championships. We weren’t even a lock for our six-team title. Not to mention the team he took to the Little League World Series back in the day. Williamsport was a galaxy away from the Astros and our shabby National League field.
That’s when Mike crashed Banta’s party. Once Coach saw the look on Mike’s face, he asked our number one pitcher what kinda bug pinched his ass.
“My father,” Mike said.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Banta.
“He wants a pitch limit on my curveballs.”
“What for?”
“He doesn’t want me to burn out my elbow. My older brother got tendonitis from too many curves,” Mike said.
“You’re my number one pitcher. Besides, you have the best breaker this side of Yankee Stadium.”
“Thanks, but he’s the boss. No offense.”
“Let me figure this out,” Banta said.
“I hope so. He’s gonna count and told me he’ll break my arm if I go over the limit,” Mike said.
“I’ll do my best. If I lose track, tell him not to break your pitching arm,” Banta told him.
