The Little League Dinger That Changed the World
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Furguson.
When I was a boy of third grade age we had moved to the big city. Getting though that socially challenging year undamaged, which was rough for a new kid, I managed to develop a few new buddies. The guys and I, when we were not performing child labor tasks, played ball.
As it turned out there was a local YMCA, the South Town Branch, that had a new kid’s program director. His name was Ron Gingreckco. At the time he was starting a little league baseball team for third and fourth grade boys. My buddy Jimmy told me about the team Coach Ron was forming, I found the concept intriguing. After much posturing with my parents I was permitted to join the team, my adoptive father paid the fee and bought me a used ball glove.
The day before the first practice, my friend Jimmy and I played catch with his ball. I had never thrown a ball before and did so with poor accuracy causing Jimmy to chase the ball repeatedly. We played catch for several hours that day, developing sore arms as result that would hamper us the several practices. Jimmy was relentless and very determined to have a winning team, so we kept on throwing. He pushed me to throw the ball over and over until I was throwing it correctly according to his expert eight year old eyes.
The game plan was for the two of us to take turns as pitcher and catcher. According to Jimmy, these roles were the most fun positions to play. By doing so, we would have the greatest impact on the third grade game of baseball. Jimmy was wise in his assessment of the two positions’ importance but he had the wrong candidate for the pitcher, catcher duo.
After the first inning of the first game I had walked in twelve runs and would be relegated to right field the remainder of the next three seasons. Labeled and harnessed with a completely shattered opinion of my baseball skills that childhood fantasy had just previously just constructed into a major leaguer only a few days before. Impervious to the facts of reality I continued to play, showing up every practice and every game. Jimmy would continue to recruit kids to the team making it more and more difficult to earn a starting spot.
We always played ball, day and night, whenever the over lords allowed it. After while, we began to fantasize about actually winning a game, prior to that we always knew we were going to get beat. I was still hitless but not with out hope. I had reached base a couple of times, drawing walks and striking out reaching base due to a passed ball on a swinging third strike. Sometimes, more frequently than not, the catcher would over throw the first baseman and the ball would roll into right field. This allowed me the runner to take second base and sometimes even third but for some unlucky reason, home plate eluded me. During the course of the entire first season, I never scored, placing me in a role as a sub, a part time player.
The real problem was that I was growing very fast. The rapid growth was not allowing my coordination to develop and master new skills. I was a goofy uncoordinated kid that coach Ron saw something in. He would always give me extra time in practice and never failed to praise me even though I was a horrible player. He never gave up on me saying that, “we work for the future.”
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I have met a lot of coaches over the years, but coach Ron was probably my favorite. He made the game fun. He never was cruel or demeaning. I’m sure that had it not been for coach Ron’s interest in me and the other guys, our lives would be totally different today. The love of the game of baseball which I possess today is a direct result of his influence and wise mentoring. Where ever you are Coach Ron thanks. Anyway, the third grade baseball season came to an end with the team record an embarrassing zero wins versus twelve losses. My batting average was .000. Now that’s not a statistic to hang your hat on.
The next spring brought new blood to the team but the record left us in the cellar, the same as before. My batting average was still triple goose eggs. We had played the same teams with the same kids from the same small towns. They were just better than we were. More practice and more coaches was the answer, so Coach Ron recruited us another two coaches. One of the coaches had a little brother that was a better player than all of us. He could actually hit the ball on a consistent basis and played a mean shortstop. This gave us some hope, but the team’s fourth grade season was a lost cause.
The next season was a little different, the team was better. We were bigger, taller and some of the guys were sprouting a little hair. Instead of losing twenty or thirty to nothing we would score some runs and on one occasion nearly won a game. The effort went for not, another 0-12 season. Our hopes for the future were bright though, Coach Ron planned to work with us all winter. When spring finally came at the end of our six grade year we were ready. Not me though I still struck out all the time and made too many errors to be a starter. As the team was actually winning some games I rode the bench more often than not, so as to not risk a loss or to maximize the chance for a win. This trend continued until half way through the six grade season.
We had been in the game until we gave up ten runs in the fourth. We were now down by fifteen runs with only the fifth inning left to play. This being the case, Coach Ron let me and a couple of the other subs bat and play in the fifth. Jimmy my friend, was still in the game. He being a lefty and by then a fairly good hitter was certainly the best our team had to offer. Jimmy took the first pitch, a ball. The next pitch he fouled down the right field line. A good well struck ball but he was out in front of the pitch. Ron signaled to the third base coach to have Jimmy step back in the box. This was new strategy and it worked, Jimmy got a hit.
The next batter Sam, drew a walk, as did the next three batters forcing two runs home. The other team changed pitchers. They brought in a kid that had a real fast pitch and was considered to be a bully at the time. He gave up a grounder to the assistant coach’s little brother. Because of all the errors, he cleared the bases with the exception for a kid named little Mike who was standing on third. Now we were down by ten runs. The next two guys walked scoring a run. This brought me to the plate with one out recorded, due to a trick pick off play at third base that occurred before I stepped in to the batter‘s box.
There were just two on and just the one out when the loud mouth second baseman on the other team opened his mouth. “Don’t worry guys, all this guy does is strike out,” said the player. This was the first time anyone had ever really criticized my play. Baseball had always been a positive experience. I didn’t like it very much-- it stuck in my craw. That heckler on second, doubting my skill as a batter. Who did he think he was? I swung and missed at the first pitch resulting in more heckling and flippant remarks knocking my skill. The anger I felt soon evolved into a compelling determination. I summoned every ounce of energy I had. The next pitch left my bat with a heckle silencing crack that left players, coaches and spectators alike quietly stunned. They stood frozen in their tracks and seats, opened mouthed as they all watched the jaw dropping hit sail at a height hundred fifty feet over the left fielder’s head. I was rounding first when the ball hit the river. I had hit the ball into the Little Blue River, an impossible distance for a twelve year old. As I stepped on home plate for the first time ever, the small crowd and the players were still quiet, dumbfounded at the remarkable feat. I the strike out king of the Southtown Branch YMCA had hit a monstrous home run of likes never seen before or again. In that fleeting moment in time, I was the greatest baseball player that there was, a hero to little leaguers far and wide. The guys called me Homerun Furguson for a week or so.
We went on to lose that game but our fortunes had changed. The hit was a life changing moment for me and our team. Not only was it my first hit, it was my first pitch hit, my first homerun, and my first runs batted in as well. Now that was a much better stat to hang your hat on. It marked an elevation in my confidence to such a degree that the next season and every season there after, until we were too old to play little league, we were the league champions. More importantly, I the strike out leader of the entire league for three consecutive seasons would lead the league in hitting, triples, doubles, stolen bases, runs scored and runs batted in. I never hit another home run. To this day that fact remains an odd stat of my celebrated athletic history.
Many years later I happened to run across the diamond on which the game was played on that fateful day. The long gone voices of the kids that played the game that day were still echoing in my mind. The memorable moment of the great hit was still vividly placed in my consciousness. Even the old smells of hot August dust, leather and bubble gum still hung in the air as that hit was relived over and over. The interesting thing of it was, the diamond was not the huge green monster that I had remembered it to be but the smallest of diamonds, placed so close to the river that I could reach it with a well thrown stone. The age related reality put the hit in prospective. Although it may have been a small diamond, a brief blink of insignificant time, it was a fabled childhood achievement. It was my memory. Mine alone. After all, everything has relevance to it’s creator in the over all plan of one’s life..
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