During my stellar little league baseball career in the Ottawa, Ohio park system back in the 70s, there were a number of Cincinnati Reds players that I watched on TV and would try to emulate, members of “The Big Red Machine,” arguably the greatest collection of baseball players on one team, starting with Joe Morgan’s chicken wing arm flap when he was at bat. I never understood the purpose behind it, but I figured it worked for him, so why not give it a try? All I got from it was an upset stomach and a slightly bruised rib cage. Did I mention the laughter and scorn from my teammates?
When Morgan’s stance didn’t work for me, I switched to George Foster’s unusual, somewhat knock-kneed stance and awkward angled bat positioning. He was leading the team with home runs so he must know something Joe and I don’t.
For a brief spell I thought I wanted to be the next Johnny Bench and try my hand as a catcher. The only problem with that was when I would be squatted behind the person at bat and they would swing, I would close my eyes, and catching the ball sort of took a back seat at that moment for me, and if you’re gonna call yourself a catcher, you really should be able to catch the ball. That’s somewhere in the top 10 prerequisites of that position I would think.
I eventually became a pitcher, and actually found success with that, until a line drive nailed me in the Carolinas, and this baritone quickly became the tenor for his Barbershop Quartet for a short spell. Needless to say, I scaled back on the pitching and found myself playing first base much more often than anything else, same position as the “Big Dog,” Tony Perez.
When it came to base running, my plan was to be as fast as Joe Morgan. That was my plan. Sometimes our plans don’t match our skill-set as is often the case for me. Besides, what’s this new awesome head first slide that Peter Edward Rose, the hometown pride of Cincinnati, is performing under the lights, nearly every single night for our enjoyment? I have to try that. And try that I did. Once.
It went something like this…
It was the bottom of our seventh and final inning. We were down by three, and I was up to bat with a runner on second and another on third. There were two outs, and I had two strikes. The next pitch came and I closed my eyes and swung with all the “I can’t strike out in front of my parents” gusto that I could muster.
There was this hollow crack. I actually hit the ball! It bounded deep into the outfield, between center fielder Jeff, who had his own issues, and left fielder Mike who was on his knees, glove off, picking yellow dandelions and shoving them up his nose.
I’m off to the races! I hit first base as though it was simply an afterthought, a pest that I had no time for, because there were just too many other bases to get to if I wanted to tie the game. Second base came to me so much quicker than expected and I was pleased with the speed I had seemingly built up. I saw Mike picking up the ball now, with the dandelion stems sticking out his nostrils, but I had no time to pause and consider his new found look, I had more bases to hit.
Third base came and went faster than my stint as a scout. And now it was time to get to home plate, to tie the game, and if our next batter happens to hit a home run and we go to the tournaments, I will have the joy of knowing I contributed, finally.
As I valiantly rumble down the third base line towards my first ever home run, I spot my teammates cheering, gathering near the backstop as our coach is making the “slide” motion to me. I see their catcher tossing his mask, getting into position to catch the sticky relay throw from their shortstop, so I decide to pull a Pete Rose, and leap, head first into the air for my heroic dive home to tie the game. What a moment. I hope mom brought our Kodak camera.
*A special note here…I find it always best to practice something before doing it when it counts.
My launch was great, the landing impressive. It was my newly discovered inability to gauge distance that caused such a discouraging moment, as their catcher caught the ball, and calmly walked over and tapped me on my head with it. I looked up with what appeared to be a mouthful of chocolate powder mix, only to see teammates leaving, heads shaking, shoulders shrugging, and words I had only heard from my older brothers when our parents weren’t home.
Despite that humorous humiliation, I did learn a valuable lesson from Mr. Rose. You didn’t have to be the best, the most talented, the gifted one. If you worked harder than everyone else, opportunity for success, even for greatness was still attainable. I carry that lesson with me to this day, and ironically enough find myself still diving head first into most things, and embarrassingly or not, coming up at times, a couple feet short.
Steve Burnette is an occasional contributor to the paper when space is needed to fill. He also serves as the executive director of the historic Murphy Theatre in downtown Wilmington, Ohio, and serves on the Board of Directors of the Ohio Arts Professionals Network.
