We just started the Monday morning conference call. Each week we run through our engineering and operations tickets, providing updates and discussing issues. I do mine first, and then the managers and engineers from Omaha and KC do theirs.
On and on, the scenarios and issues churn through our teams as we review and summarize the necessary solutions one by one. I do enjoy the technical aspect of these discussions and of my job overall, but once in a while my mind drifts off to some random place and time that I remember as if it were five minutes ago. It is happening today . . . (harps strumming)
Play Ball!
It was going to be another scorcher of a day. Our little league team (Russell) had traveled to Ruthton for a midday showdown on the diamond. We had an average team that year. If I remember correctly, we had our share of years with below average teams.
There was nothing like pre-game warm ups to show the crowd our “stuff”. We may or may not stink it up in the actual game, but with nothing at stake in the warm ups, there was an abundance of poise and machismo. We would quickly relay coach-hit balls to the various bases, nailing the runners that weren’t really there and chanting various rally encouragements to our teammates.
I played first base, which was a strategic decision by my coach for reasons you will understand shortly. I certainly wasn’t on the team for my defense. Hitting and speed were my only redeeming qualities.
As the final stage of our warm-ups in Ruthton, the coach would drill grounders to third, then short, and so on. Our response was to throw the ball to home plate. We were really chucking the ball that day. The sound of the ball popping in leather was all around. It was once again my turn – the final play of warm-ups.
“Peanuts…Popcorn…Gauze Here”
The coach drilled a hot one right at me. Being the stallion that I was, I proceeded to charge the ball for that added challenge a player of my caliber truly needed. I snatched it up and threw it on a rope to our catcher, Corey Willert. One small issue with the overall situation was that my “rope” didn’t actually lead to Corey.
Corey was a very tall catcher and a skilled one at that. There wasn’t much that you could get over, under or around him. Unless, that is, your arm is so wild that the coach is hiding you on first base (where one rarely needs to throw).
Far behind Corey was the usual towering home plate backstop – specifically designed to rein in all manner of errant throws and foul balls. It virtually surrounds the backside of home plate. My on-a-rope throw wasn’t headed there.
Extending beyond the backstop was additional safety fence running down the third base line. It was only about four feet high, but that was all that was usually needed since it was so far away from the playing area. Apparently this fence wasn’t designed with me in mind either.
After clearing Corey and the opposing coach, missing the backstop, and then bolting over that last strategic fence installed by the city of Ruthton to protect its citizens, my blistering throw stopped on the forehead of a woman seated in a lawn chair just beyond. The impact was actually audible. Her vibrant chat with the lady seated next to her ended abruptly. Specifically, I believe she stood up, and then she went down . . . annnnnnd she stayed down.
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| Baseball is a game of statistics (HR’s, RBI’s, Doubles, etc.). As far as I know I am, to this day, the only little league player to record the elusive and prestigious baseball KO.
As the team trotted in toward the dugout, everybody was looking over at the victim – apparently unconscious. I know Corey was carrying an acute level of embarrassment and guilt since he was rather close to where the body chalk would be drawn just before the arrival of the coroner. His only words for me were “Jeez, Driscoll”. For just a moment I thought I was starring in the movie, The Bad News Bears.
At some point various people helped this woman up and off to a location where she could be attended to. As if her chances of getting hit by me again were less than getting hit by me the first time, she actually came back a few innings into the game and continued watching. She was a gambler to be sure. And there she sat for the rest of the game with a giant ice pack on her head and various medical supplies on hand – a monument to my baseball prowess.
Open to Negotiation
I remain fairly concerned that one day I’ll be cringing in a diner somewhere as I overhear some folks in the next booth recalling this story and describing how the woman was thereafter “only able to make right hand turns when walking in temperatures above 90 degrees” and was routinely observed diving to the ground when birds and large insects flew near.
As hard as it may be to believe, I never made it to the big leagues. Apparently big league fans won’t come to the games if they have to wear full body armor. Whiners.
My Monday morning meeting has finished. I had better get at it. I sure wish this particular memory were less vivid. I’ve carried it with me all these years like a neural tattoo.
To the “victim” out there (if you read this), you certainly have my apology. If as part of a psychological rehabilitation measure, you would like to take a shot at me in a lawn chair – that seems appropriate. I’m wondering about your arm speed right now. Hopefully you haven’t been pumping iron all these years in preparation for this very moment.
Maybe I could just mow your lawn or something . . .
[UPDATE: I was just informed that the “last strategic fence” was upgraded to be almost double in height shortly after the KO. It is so fulfilling to know that cities add additional, defensive fortification after I come to town.
Next time you are passing near Ruthton, be sure and swing in to have your picture taken by this historic fence. You can even move down the third base line a bit with your lawn chair where some of the shorter fencing is still in place. Who needs Cooperstown (site of the Baseball Hall of Fame) with such interesting attractions in our own back yard? And be sure to check out the rest of Ruthton. It is a fair city and entirely safe now that my baseball career is kaput.]
That’s my report from the “Big City”.
Brian in the Big City
Employee #0000109
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