Playing Around
by Larry King
“Here kid. Put this on your head and get into my car,” said the man I didn’t know, to a six-year-old me.
My legs felt like rubber, my head was pounding and everything looked fuzzy.
Spoiler Alert! This piece does not turn into a “child gets drugged, abducted, abused, escapes, overcomes PTSD, and scripts Lifetime TV movie” story.
“It’s not much, but it’s the coldest thing I have,” he said as he handed me a can of Fix-a-Flat compressed air. “That bump’s getting bigger. Put the can where you got hit by the baseball.”
Ahh, that’s right. The baseball. It was the second game of Tee-ball season. The coach wisely positioned me at third base, the Hot Corner, having obviously recognized my outstanding defensive skills during the two 15-minute pre-game throw-arounds we had. I was close to the action — well, as much action as happens at six-year-old games — zoned in on the hitter.
With a golf-like swing, the kid skied the ball and it soared high above the third base line – mine! In a split-second I positioned myself, craned my head back, saw the ball reach its apex, put my glove directly above my nose and waited for the ball to drop into my mitt. I waited. And waited. How high did that kid hit the ball? I checked to make sure it was still coming down. It was and it did, slamming into my temple the moment I moved my glove.
So the stranger was actually a Good Samaritan, depositing me at home with Mom, who promptly iced down the “lump on my noggin.” Concussion? Con-schmussion! The bump went away soon enough and I was back on the field with my friends.
It’s hard to imagine that scenario playing out today. It’s a potential liability lawsuit for the stranger; a coach wouldn’t allow his player to drive off with a guy hanging out at the ballfield; and chances are three ambulances would’ve been called to the scene 30 seconds after the ball caromed off my cranium.
Despite that rude introduction, I loved playing with my buddies and in 8th grade we were all on the school team. We boasted the fastest pitcher in the league – Danny Stefanski. He could also be wild, so we enjoyed watching other teams cower as his fastball flew their way. The problem was we had to face Danny in practice. Near the end of the season, I reluctantly shuffled to the plate, secured my helmet, dug in, reared my bat back and peered over my shoulder as Danny wound up and delivered. The ball’s speed broke the sound barrier as it came my way. Not home plate’s way, but my way. Self-preservation kicked in and I turned away from the incoming projectile, providing the perfect contact point: my lower spine.
I toughly and proudly staggered to first base, but knew it was about time to hang up my cleats. Fast-moving hardballs had hit me in two vulnerable areas – my head and my back – and I wasn’t willing to test the strength of my protective cup.
Besides, as summer oozed into fall, bats and balls were replaced by the pigskin. Our favorite football game was completely unorganized. All it took was one football and more than one kid. Someone tossed the ball in the air, someone caught it and ran around like a circus monkey on crack until the other kids gang-tackled him. The ball-carrier staggered to his feet, tossed the ball up and the mayhem recycled. We called it “Smear the Queer.”
Sorry if you cringed reading that, I did while typing it. Obviously, “Smear the Queer” is and should be politically-incorrect today. Back then, to us “queer” meant “different”, as in the only one with the ball. It’s amazing how quickly a word can change meaning.
Example: the nickname of my grade school team. I went to a Catholic school and we proudly called ourselves the Holy Family Hustlers…‘cuz we hustled up and down the field, ‘ya know? A street-wise nun must have clued in the parish priest because now they’re the Flyers. I understand, imagining what a modern-day Hustler mascot would look like. Definitely not nun-approved.
Today much has changed, but some things remain the same. Now when I see a squadron of kids on their bikes with their baseball gloves or a football, I’m a little bit envious. Just hanging out, tossing the ball around while shooting the breeze is sorely missed. Although hardballs to the head are not.
Back to Larry's Page
Copyright © 2019 All rights reserved. Can not be reproduced or used without written permission.
by Larry King
“Here kid. Put this on your head and get into my car,” said the man I didn’t know, to a six-year-old me.
My legs felt like rubber, my head was pounding and everything looked fuzzy.
Spoiler Alert! This piece does not turn into a “child gets drugged, abducted, abused, escapes, overcomes PTSD, and scripts Lifetime TV movie” story.
“It’s not much, but it’s the coldest thing I have,” he said as he handed me a can of Fix-a-Flat compressed air. “That bump’s getting bigger. Put the can where you got hit by the baseball.”
Ahh, that’s right. The baseball. It was the second game of Tee-ball season. The coach wisely positioned me at third base, the Hot Corner, having obviously recognized my outstanding defensive skills during the two 15-minute pre-game throw-arounds we had. I was close to the action — well, as much action as happens at six-year-old games — zoned in on the hitter.
With a golf-like swing, the kid skied the ball and it soared high above the third base line – mine! In a split-second I positioned myself, craned my head back, saw the ball reach its apex, put my glove directly above my nose and waited for the ball to drop into my mitt. I waited. And waited. How high did that kid hit the ball? I checked to make sure it was still coming down. It was and it did, slamming into my temple the moment I moved my glove.
So the stranger was actually a Good Samaritan, depositing me at home with Mom, who promptly iced down the “lump on my noggin.” Concussion? Con-schmussion! The bump went away soon enough and I was back on the field with my friends.
It’s hard to imagine that scenario playing out today. It’s a potential liability lawsuit for the stranger; a coach wouldn’t allow his player to drive off with a guy hanging out at the ballfield; and chances are three ambulances would’ve been called to the scene 30 seconds after the ball caromed off my cranium.
Despite that rude introduction, I loved playing with my buddies and in 8th grade we were all on the school team. We boasted the fastest pitcher in the league – Danny Stefanski. He could also be wild, so we enjoyed watching other teams cower as his fastball flew their way. The problem was we had to face Danny in practice. Near the end of the season, I reluctantly shuffled to the plate, secured my helmet, dug in, reared my bat back and peered over my shoulder as Danny wound up and delivered. The ball’s speed broke the sound barrier as it came my way. Not home plate’s way, but my way. Self-preservation kicked in and I turned away from the incoming projectile, providing the perfect contact point: my lower spine.
I toughly and proudly staggered to first base, but knew it was about time to hang up my cleats. Fast-moving hardballs had hit me in two vulnerable areas – my head and my back – and I wasn’t willing to test the strength of my protective cup.
Besides, as summer oozed into fall, bats and balls were replaced by the pigskin. Our favorite football game was completely unorganized. All it took was one football and more than one kid. Someone tossed the ball in the air, someone caught it and ran around like a circus monkey on crack until the other kids gang-tackled him. The ball-carrier staggered to his feet, tossed the ball up and the mayhem recycled. We called it “Smear the Queer.”
Sorry if you cringed reading that, I did while typing it. Obviously, “Smear the Queer” is and should be politically-incorrect today. Back then, to us “queer” meant “different”, as in the only one with the ball. It’s amazing how quickly a word can change meaning.
Example: the nickname of my grade school team. I went to a Catholic school and we proudly called ourselves the Holy Family Hustlers…‘cuz we hustled up and down the field, ‘ya know? A street-wise nun must have clued in the parish priest because now they’re the Flyers. I understand, imagining what a modern-day Hustler mascot would look like. Definitely not nun-approved.
Today much has changed, but some things remain the same. Now when I see a squadron of kids on their bikes with their baseball gloves or a football, I’m a little bit envious. Just hanging out, tossing the ball around while shooting the breeze is sorely missed. Although hardballs to the head are not.
Back to Larry's Page
Copyright © 2019 All rights reserved. Can not be reproduced or used without written permission.