The Incontinent Letterman

As another season of baseball winds down, I am reminded of some of my own experiences with the game that I love so. I started playing baseball when I was in second grade. The first team I was on was sponsored by a small grocery store called C&R Market in La Plata, MO. We were the "Bombers." It was a coach-pitch league and my dad was our coach. I was never a great hitter, but what I lacked in talent I made up for in embarrassing moments. I don't really include contracting head lice in that category since the entire team shared my misery. The cooties were apparently spread via our communal batting helmets and as a remedy, every single one of us was required to get his head shaved. My most memorable moment occurred later that same season while standing on second base.

After eking out an infield hit and reaching second on an error, I realized that I had to pee. As I mentioned, this was coach-pitch baseball, so my dad was standing only a few feet in front of me on the pitcher's mound. As he threw pitch after pitch to the next batter, the urgency built exponentially in my seven year old bladder. I self-consciously called out, "Coach?!" in a feeble attempt to get Dad's attention. Eventually, the inevitable happened. Suddenly I felt the simultaneous sensations of complete nirvana and abject horror as a flood of warm liquid streamed down my legs and pooled in the infield dirt. I'm not sure if I was crying because of the overwhelming feeling of relief or the impending sense of doom as I quickly realized everyone would soon know what had just happened. Despair began to overtake me and I began to silently sob while the game continued. Then, like an angel sent down from Heaven to save me, I heard a loud but concerned "time out" emanated from the bleachers. I looked over and saw my mom grabbing her jacket and rushing across the diamond to come to my aid. She wrapped the jacket around my waist and when players and parents asked what was wrong she said, "He got hit by a ball." I don't know if anyone believed it, but it bought us enough time for her to whisk me off the field and into the car- allowing us to escape to our home and avoid any further scrutiny. For that, my mom will always be my hero.

A better baseball memory came during my junior year in high school while I was struggling to earn my varsity letter. The traditional way to earn a letter was to play in enough innings during the year to satisfy the requirement. Since I was a consummate benchwarmer, I had only made a few token appearances in varsity games as a pinch-runner. Therefore, I was well short of the requisite number of innings to earn my letter. There was another option, however. If a player appeared in a post-season game, he automatically earned his varsity letter. Everyone on the team was aware of this fact when the Hannibal High School Pirates played their final game of the 1989 season during the district playoffs. Ours was a team of mediocrity. Our record on the season was 11 wins, 10 losses. In this particular game, we were losing 11 to 0 in the late innings. It was obvious to everyone that our season would come to an unceremonious end with the game's final out. The players took a quick inventory of who had earned their letters during the year and it became apparent that I was the last one eligible who had not yet earned the honor. With two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning, the coach had failed either to realize or care that I was the only member of the varsity team who did not have his letter. All I had to do was make an appearance. Our last batter, a senior named Derek David, started to walk out to the batter's box for his final plate appearance of his high school career. As he approached the plate he yelled something over to our head coach who was coaching third base at the time. At first, no one understood what he was saying until it finally dawned on us. "Coach, let Naughton hit for me."

"What?" Coach Bazell yelled. "Just get in there, David!"

"I'm taking myself out. Put Naughton in." With that, Derek took off his helmet and returned to the dugout. The other team stood on the field, scratching their heads in disbelief.

"What?! Alright, Naughton, get a helmet on." As the words left the coach's mouth, the dugout erupted into cheers. This was it. This was my moment in the sun. All I could think was "Don't embarrass yourself." I grabbed a helmet and a bat and sprinted out toward the batter's box. I allowed myself a quick glance at my surroundings to allow the moment to sink in. Coach Bazell had a half smile on his face- one that seemed to say, "We're going to lose anyway, so I might as well make this kid's day." I looked at the pitcher, who to my surprise had the exact same look on his face. I pounded my bat on the plate, dug my cleats into the dirt and stood ready. I knew that the pitcher would consider me no threat since he witnessed first hand the theatrics coming from our dugout. I was sure that he wouldn't waste everyone's time throwing me any off-speed stuff. So, looking for a fastball, I made up my mind to swing at the first pitch no matter what. To no one's surprise, he in fact did throw a fastball and to absolutely everyone's surprise, I was ready for it. I swung as hard as I could. I swung with such effort that I actually closed my eyes for a split second. I heard and felt the ball hit the bat, but never saw it. Since I had no idea if it was a grounder, a liner, or a foul ball I instinctively ran as fast as humanly possible. As I sprinted down the first base line past my dugout, I could hear my teammates screaming and rattling the fence. I stepped on the bag and heard the ball hit the first baseman's glove a second later. I was safe! The dugout went completely nuts and when I looked over the guys were falling all over each other, high-fiving, throwing their gloves and hats, and jumping up and down. For a second or two, I could have sworn we had just won the World Series. My hit, I was later told, was a slow-roller to the shortstop that was more like a swinging bunt than the fierce line drive I had hoped it was. But, I had driven in a run, which prevented us from being shut-out. That, to me, was as good as a win. I heard one of my teammates shout, "Everybody scores!" as the run crossed the plate. While the excitement settled down, another batter stepped in and I stole second base. I reached third on a passed ball and eventually touched home as the final out was recorded. My official varsity stats for the game and the season read as follows:

Batting Avg: 1.000
Stolen bases: 2 Attempts: 2
RBI: 1

I would later brag that I was the only letterman to never be put out that year. I was and always will be grateful to Derek for giving up his last at-bat in order for me to have my most memorable. Ironically, it turned out to be my last high school at bat, too because the new coach that was brought in the next year kicked me off the team. But that's another story...