Chapter 1

As we got to tryouts I thought how shortsighted my last year’s coach had been. Each coach had the right to protect up to eight players from last year’s team. Babe Ruth teams fielded up to fourteen players from age twelve to fifteen (in our town, you played three years and you started at either age twelve or thirteen and ended at age fourteen or fifteen, depending on which part of the year you were born). We had lost four players, so I was one of two returning players who my coach decided not to protect. I knew that I had the skills and talent to be a good ballplayer. All I lacked was the size. Now I had that. Still, I found at first, growing as quickly as I had did not necessarily enhance my game the way I thought it would.

After registering, I went to the first evaluation station. It was hitting. I saw my old coach, Mr. Jeffers in the field retrieving balls that were hit. Mr. Wilson, who ran the local feed store was pitching to candidates. A guy I didn’t recognize was behind the plate.

When it was my turn. I stepped into the batter’s box. My first couple of swings were awkward. I swung and missed the first cream puff, Mr. Wilson threw me, and fouled back the second. The guy catching stopped me and pulled me out of the batter’s box.

“You’ve had a growth spurt lately, right?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“I’m guessing that your arms are a little longer too. You need to get the bat head through the zone quicker, he said as he got me into a batting stance.

“Because of your height, your strike zone is bigger too. Still, your added arm length can help.”

He adjusted my stance so it was a little more closed and helped me simulate the new, compact swinging motion.

“Your recent change in arm length is putting an awkward hitch in your swing, slightly closing your stance with the bat further back will allow you to swing quicker.”

I tried what the catcher had suggested and the next pitch I swung.

Crack!

I nailed a wicked line drive up the middle that whistled no more than a couple feet over Mr. Wilson’s head. It was out of the infield quickly and was heading toward my old coach, who was playing short center field. The thing was he was chatting to the coach playing left field and was not paying attention.

“Heads up, Hal!” cried the other coach.

Coach Jeffers turned just in time to see the ball and instead of sticking up his glove, he fell to the ground, as the ball went just over his head. It bounced all the way to the wall in deep center on a few hops.

The catcher grinned at me and I grinned back. Coach Jeffers got to his feet sputtering.

“That’s better. Let me see what happens when you pull,” said the unknown coach.

I was typically left-handed when I wrote, but I learned to throw and bat right-handed when I was a little kid (as Lars’ old mitt was for a ‘righty’). I wasn’t quite ambidextrous but I was pretty close. I pointed my toes toward the third base line and waited for the next pitch.

Crack!!!

I took a pitch that was slightly inside and easily drove it over the left-field fence. It stayed just inside the foul pole. I had just hit my first “real” home run in my baseball life (not counting of ‘farm league ball’, when I ran around the bases on a ground ball down the line that was mishandled by another ten-year-old).

The catcher patted me on the back. “Nice cut, kid. Try a few more. This time, just swing away.”

“Okay,” I grinned back, really digging this guy.

Out of the next seven pitches, I took one that was out of the strike zone, I swung and fouled back another. The other five I put in play. I drove one out to deep center that my old coach tracked down for a putout (once he saw my homer, he started playing deeper). The next one, I hit deep to right center that evaded my ex-coach and the right fielder. It would have easily been a double or even a three-bagger. I hit another to deep left that went over the fence. Home run two! I hit a hard one-hopper to short that was fielded by Coach Miller. I finally slammed a low line drive up the middle that would have been a solid single.

I was about to walk to the next station (the infield station), at an adjoining field, when I heard the catcher mutter, “The kid’s a second year? Who’s the fool that didn’t protect this kid?”

As I walked to the next field, I thought about how my fielding might be affected by my growth spurt. I realized that it could affect me both positively and negatively. To avoid the negative part, I would need to make sure of my crouch to be sure I could field the ball cleanly. Nothing more embarrassing than having the ball go through the old “five-hole” (in between your legs, as they say in hockey) because you were unable to get into a good crouch. I figured that my increased size and length of arms could only improve my infield range (allowing me to get to more hit balls near my position). I was less worried about throwing. I had been having some good games of catch with my dad and Cousin Lars lately. If anything, I had some more zip on my throws. Still, I would just have to be careful about not overthrowing first base.

Infield practice went well. I actually asked to try three infield positions to show my versatility. Of course, I wanted to play short. It was usually the position for the best fielder in the infield (kind of “the quarterback” of the infield) I wanted to be in a position of leadership.

My dad and uncles really ingrained the notion of leadership in me. Janie Parker, who was a classmate of mine and was a junior high cheerleader, had once dubbed me, “King of the Geeks”. It was not a title I was particularly fond of, but despite my short stature at the time, I had a number of friends who always seemed to follow my lead. Also, despite my size, I was a good fighter. I had been trained by my father and uncles. My dad was a member of the Penn State Boxing team. He was a competitive boxer and nearly made the Olympic team. My uncles both wrestled in high school and my Uncle Steven, in particular, had been State Champion his senior year. I could punch, elbow and grapple with bigger kids and had taken a few bullies out in my day, protecting myself or my friends.

Back to baseball, I made several nice plays deep in the hole or up the middle and displayed a good arm. I also did pretty well in the outfield, displaying a good glove, arm, and range. I was shocked when Coach Wilson pulled me aside. “Hey, Matthews, I want to see you toe the rubber. Line up!”

I got into a forming line with eight other kids who had finished trying out. My guess was that nine of us had shown enough arm strength to make us potential candidates to pitch. It had been some time since I had pitched and I had never thrown on a regulation mound (The Little League “mound to plate” distance was only forty-six feet, compared to the sixty feet- six inches distance in Babe Ruth League). In Little League, I displayed a good arm on the mound, but like most Little Leaguers I only had one pitch: a fastball.

When it was my turn, I bounced the first couple of pitches. “Don’t overthrow, kid,” muttered Coach Wilson, who was standing behind me. When I got a good look at the catcher, I noticed that it was the new coach who had given me some great hitting tips before.

“Remember you’re pitching from a greater distance this time. Just throw it to my glove, like you are playing short and throwing to first,” he yelled out toward the mound before he got back into his crouch behind the plate.

I thought about my next delivery as I wound up and threw. I had listened to both coaches, as I took off a little from the pitch but threw it right into the coach’s glove with decent pop.

“Nice pitch, Kid, can you throw anything else other than a fastball?” asked Coach Wilson.

“Nope,” I said, a little glumly.

“Good. A lot of coaches at the lower levels don’t understand the danger of teaching kids breaking pitches. If you don’t do it right, they can really put a lot of wear and tear on your arms, especially if you’re still growing like you,” he said, before whispering in my ear. “I’d love to work with you, but I don’t have the first pick in the draft, which is where you’re going to be picked.”