Last Batter by S.E. Hicks

Last Batter
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson

It is a well known fact that I love baseball. I loved playing the game, watching the game whether on television or live at the stadium. I loved listening to the game on the radio. When I was a kid and I was sent to bed before the sun was down I would plug the ear piece into my little transistor radio and lay awake tuned into the old Charles O Finley owned Kansas City A’s, a franchise with a dubious historical won loss record. As bad a team as they were I would be listening intently to every play by play segment the announcers voice would carry across the air waves. It seems that as the years went by, baseball announcers began to lose the art of painting the picture of the game. Their announcing techniques have definitely degraded and they have filled the experience with unrelated gibberish that I find distracting, uncomfortable to listen to and an over all disparaging insult to the sanctity of the game I hold in high regard.

I couldn’t do much about that as I didn’t have any influence over Major League Baseball. Where I did have influence was coaching my middle son’s T-ball team. As it happened, the Dads that had historically coached the little league teams had jockeyed for positions to coach their sons and I was politically denied the opportunity with my oldest and youngest boys. The opportunity presented itself with my middle son due to the fact that I bought the franchise, e. i. sponsored the team. I bought all the necessary equipment bats, balls, catching equipment batting tees, helmets and designed the t-shirts and hats the five year old T-ballers would wear. The Fifty-Ninth Street Gym Trojan Big Dogs (The name the kids came up with, it barely fit across the tiny shirts) was our name. The T-shirt had a rendition of a muscle flexing body builder with the head of a dog.
When I went to the preseason coaches meeting I was shocked that there was no coaches education program to arm the well meaning Dads with a minimum of education relative to the coaching of elementary age boys and girls. I had a four year degree devoted to the five sciences of teaching physical activities. Most of the coaches were just frustrated ex-players and uneducated Dads without a clue has to how to develop young tender-hearted athletes. I suggested a coaching education program but the board of the youth sporting authority was comprised of men and woman of lesser intelligence than the would be coaches. I also asked a very poignant question,” Why are we keeping score for T-ball?” It seemed to me that if everyone who played the game left it thinking they were winners, it would aide in developing positive self esteem. Ten years later they woke up as did the nation of T-Ball and those very ideas became part of the game, but my ideas at the time where not well received, probably because they weren’t “their’ ideas.

My son had the pleasure of going with me to purchase all the equipment and was infatuated with the catching equipment, something T-Ballers didn’t need as the only job of the catcher was to place the ball on the tee and cover any plays at the plate. Nonetheless he was going to be our catcher, face mask and all. He wore the mask all the way home and seldom took it off except to eat. He would save his milk for a straw which allowed him to wear the mask and drink. The chest protector offered great protection from his older brother who liked to give him a pink belly from time to time, which he didn’t care for.

We practiced three days a week in the early spring and had good success teaching the sleepy easily distracted five year olds the fundamentals of the game. Hit the ball, throw the ball, catch the ball, run the bases, that was our mantra. My middle son had the benefit of having access to the batting tee all day every day. Consequently he became quite good at hitting the ball off the tee a country mile, figuratively. We would play nightly in the back deep lot of our yard, and hit ball after ball. I would then time him to see how fast he could run and pick up the two dozen balls we had. We had a blast, but the exercise was not without purpose.

According to T-ball rules every player batted every inning regardless of whether or not they were playing in the field (good rule) and no matter how many outs there were. The players hit the ball off a tee, no pitching, hence the name. Actually there was only one out that mattered, the last batter. If he was out or safe the inning was over. As a result of this rule the last batter’s goal was to run the bases Katy-bar-the-door until he reached home plate or until tagged out. During the course of the inning when the pitcher stepped on the rubber with ball in hand, all runners must stop at the next base. Only the last batter had a different rule to play by. If the ball was thrown to the catcher and he stepped on the plate the last batter was out and inning was also over. So being the last batter and the catcher was a very critical position in the game of T-ball.
It was important to me that each player took a turn at each position so to enhance their over-all understanding of the game. My son didn’t like giving up the catcher’s mask. He wore the mask despite the fact that the mask was unnecessary and not required by the rules. He would continue to wear the mask at every position he played, denying the new catcher the mask. There was no point in fighting him. Before long I had several players wearing catcher’s masks and by the start of the season they all wore one, at every position mind you. After the first game when the other team made a joke out of it most the guys dropped the mask. Not my son. He was going to wear it regardless. He would even wear it when he went to bat. Obviously, my coaching and parenting philosophy was one of responsible freedom. The mask wearing habit eventually waned.

As the last batter, my middle son would stroke the ball and run until he hit the plate. He was as exceptional at it as a five year old could be. He especially enjoyed the receptions at home plate his teammates rewarded him with after he slid into home plate whether he needed to or not. He didn’t knock a home run every inning but darn close. On one occasion, after the cry of LAST BATTER resonated across the field and with the bases loaded with Trojan Big Dogs my son hit a shot into deep left center (85 feet). The ball ricocheted of the home run fence sending the defenders scrambling after it. My son got confused after hitting the ball, having spun completely around in the batter‘s box. Instead of running to first base he ran to third passing our player who was on third coming home and then passing our players that were on second and first respectively. He ran for all he was worth with the biggest of grins on his face. When he got to first he realized his mistake. Thanks to the corrective screams of supporting coaches, he ran back the way he came. All the while the opponents were still chasing after the elusive ball he hit. Safe at the plate he was. Grand slam the hard way. The laughter and cheers from the crowd only added to his enjoyment. He took a bow, tipped his cap, went into the dug out and put on the catcher’s mask.