I was eight years old when I decided to play little league baseball.  I really can't remember if I made the decision or it was a joint effort on behalf of my parents.  All I really know is that for two seasons, I was a Rocky Ridge Pirate.   We practiced quite often, wore grey baseball uniforms and I had no clue what I was doing.  I was the kid on the field that had no ideal what was going on, what I was supposed to do, and show a total lack of athletic ability.  You have seen that kid on every team  Well, back in the mid sixties, I was the one on the Pirates. 

     I did get  on base a few times, a few lucky shots off the bat I imagine.  I remember practices, when all I could think about was, "I wonder how deep that ravine at the edge of the practice field is"?   I was just there to be one of the guys, to play with my buddies.  I wasn't the one to understand all of the aspects and rules of the game.  I just wanted practice to end so that we could play. 

     I can't say how it happened, but I have to guess that once the coaches figured out that I had no talent on the field, they made the only position choice left to be made.  I was the team catcher.  I felt so important.  I was the guy who would wear that neat armor.  Putting on the protective equipment, I was king of the team.  It was hard to take off, so I usually kept it on most of the game.   They made sure I didn't have to bat often, so it worked for me. 

     In every situation in life, there is always that one moment that somehow defines that small point in time.  Mine, as a Rocky Ridge Pirate, was one game in particular when I was at my position playing catcher.  Apparently it must have ben the beginning of the season, for there was a large crowd of onlookers, mostly families there to show support for their children.  The gome was going along normally, the pitcher would throw the ball, I would squint my eyes, hoping that I was not going to be hit by the ball, and throw it back after it landed in my glove.  I was scared every time that ball was thrown at me.   One thing that I did know was, that when that ball was thrown, you did not move for any reason whatsoever, the knowledge being that odds were in my favor that the kid standing above me might hit me with one might swing of th bat.  The ideal of a bat in the back or side of the head compounded my fear of the game. 

     One particular Saturday, one particular inning, and one particular at bat, defined my short lived career in baseball as a Tiger.   There I was, in my crouched position, waiting for the pitch.  The pitcher throws the ball with all of his might, and the ball was headed straight at me.  I squint waiting to be hurt.  The batter swings, and barely contacts the ball, fouling it straight up in the air.  The crowd starts to yell, knowing this is going to be an automatic out, one that the catcher surely catches this easy out. 

     It was probably only five seconds in my life, but it stuck with me forever.  The crowd grew louder with each second.  I did my job and stayed put, not moving one inch.  I knew without a doubt that ball had to be out there somewhere.  Then out of nowhere, it appeared.  With a loud thud, it landed directly in front of me.  As loud as the crowd was, it suddenly turned into a group moan that was just as loud as the yelling before.  I picked up the ball, threw it back out and squat back down, I had done my duty.  I never knew they were yelling for me and at me.

     Only after the game did I ever find out what had happened, what I had done to let the whole team down.  Like any other kid, I pretended that it meant nothing.  In reality, I had learned what it was to experience unknown humiliation in front of a crowd, in front of my family.  Needless to say, it stuck with me forever, but in time as only a distant memory in a long line of mistakes.  Mistakes that we all make, mistakes that help define who we are and help define the paths that we chose.  I know to this day that I still made my parents proud.  I just wanted to play and be with my buddies, I just wanted to have fun.