by David Aretha
“He’s squatting on a bird’s nest eating a piece of toast.”
“And why does that intrigue you?”
“Because he looks like he’s on the toilet reading the Wall Street Journal.”
At school or on the diamond, Jackson always had his head in the clouds. Once, when it came to his turn at bat, he was spotted at the ice cream truck ordering a melon slushy. Everything about Jackson was unpredictable. Even his name seemed backwards—hence his nickname.
Marty Gluckman
“Deadpan”
Marty’s nickname came from his dour, deadpan expression. With his face perpetually locked in a frown, he spoke in a monotone voice and was always doom and gloom. “We’re down 6-1,” he’d say matter-of-factly. “We don’t stand a chance. Might as well pack it in.” Marty’s saving grace was his glove work in left field. Otherwise, it was like teaming with Morey himself.
Evan Dixon
“Wonderbaby”
Everybody on our team was 10 years old. Except Evan. He was seven.
I first noticed Evan when he was a toddler. He was shorter than his bat, but when I tossed him balls, he smashed liners over my head. “How old are you?” I asked him. “I dunno,” he said with a shrug.
Evan is too good to play with his peers, so his dad placed him in our league. Though he didn’t have the arm to play third base or short, he made all the routine plays at second and could swat hits past diving infielders. If any Morey’s player had big-league potential, it was Evan Dixon. Remember the name.
Rupa Kovner
“The Quiet Man”
Rupa and his mother, according to Tashia’s sources, moved from Latvia to Michigan when he was a toddler. I don’t know if he spoke Latvian, but he never learned English very well. By the time he reached preschool, he froze up whenever he was supposed to speak. It was painful to watch him talk, as he clenched his face and forced words out one at a time: “I…don’t…want…milk…with that.”
Though Rupa and his mother lived in a small townhouse in the worst part of Hickory Oak, he was bussed to that suburb’s well-to-do Lovelton School so he could take special ed. The kids from Lovelton formed the United Bank & Trust team. That club had so many talented baseball players that Rupa didn’t dare sign up to play. In fourth grade, he transferred to our school and joined Little League for the first time.
Rupa couldn’t hit, and he could barely play catch. The one thing he could do, as Coach Quinn discussed, was run the bases. But that doesn’t help you if you never reach base.
These were the eight boys and one girl who I went to war with every game. For three years, we had done nothing to make even our mothers proud. But under Coach Quinn, during this one magical season, we were about to make history. Together.
Chapter 3
Opening Day: All Things Are Possible
It was moments before our first game, and the team stirred anxiously on the bench. The exception was Tashia, who chatted casually on her phone.
“Go to YouTube,” she instructed her friend while chomping on her Hubba Bubba. “Then search ‘elephant that paints.’”
Gary, sitting next to Tashia, sighed in annoyance. He doesn’t believe kids should bring a phone to the ball field. He thinks it disrespects the game. It’s like bringing a yo-yo to church, he said, or a Slinky.
“Then try ‘elephant…paintbrush,’” Tashia said. “He actually paints with a paintbrush, like on a canvas.”
“That video’s a fake,” deadpanned Marty. “Computer-generated imagery.”
“No, it’s not,” Tashia said.
Gary was really getting aggravated.
“No, the elephant doesn’t shove it up his trunk,” Tashia told her friend. “He holds it like a pencil.”
Gary jumped to his feet. “Enough with the stupid elephant!”
“It’s a hoax,” Marty said.
“It’s Opening Day!” Gary cried. “Don’t you know what that means?”
“It means you’re a jerk,” Tashia said.
“It’s the beginning of life!” Gary said. “Didn’t you ever read the book Why Time Begins on Opening Day? We start anew. All things are possible.”
“All right, guys,” Coach Quinn interrupted. “We’re in the field.”
“Yes, sir!” said Riley.
And with that, we took to our positions. Jeffrey earned the nod as our Opening Day starter. He would pitch to Gus, our rock behind the plate. I manned first base, hoping that Riley could make the throws from third. I also wondered if Gary (shortstop) and Tashia (second base) could turn double plays better than they got along. Marty, Jackson, and Rupa manned the outfield. Evan, the Wonderbaby, would have to pay his dues on the bench this inning. He sat next to my dad, who deemed himself the best scorekeeper in Hickory Oak.
It was “a beautiful day for baseball,” as Tigers announcer Ernie Harwell used to say. Warm sunshine illuminated the diamond on this Saturday morning, while a cool breeze kept us invigorated. “Hoo-yeah!” Gary cried.
We all looked sharp in our red and black jerseys (we looked like the Boston Red Sox). And for the first time ever, we believed in ourselves. Coach Quinn had been a master of preparation. He had schooled us on proper form—from batting and pitching to fielding grounders and flys. Practices were filled with “situations.” “If you’re on first and the batter singles to right, what do you do?” he asked. “Go to third!” we replied.
Now our epic season was about to unfold. “Play ball!” the umpire yelled.
A team called Wieners and Still Champions (named after a hot dog joint) was up first. Immediately, we flashed our hot leather. Riley gobbled up a Sunday hop and fired a strike to first base. Tashia turned a buzzing worm-burner into the second out. After Rupa dropped a fly ball for an error, Jackson made a circus catch in center. The high fly was hit right to him. The first thing he did—inexplicably—was throw off his sunglasses. Then he tossed his cap. Then he ran in, then back, then in again before making a “diving” catch. (It was actually more like a belly flop.)
Nothing Jackson did on the diamond made sense. He was like the legendary Yankees catcher Yogi Berra. Berra was short and squatty, yet he set a major-league record for most career home runs by a catcher. He consistently swung at pitches outside the strike zone, yet he hardly ever struck out.
Berra was known for his Yogi-isms—quotations that didn’t make sense but yet kind of did. “It ain’t over till it’s over,” he said. And: “It’s getting late early.” My dad’s favorite is the one about the restaurant: “Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.”
While the parents overly applauded Jackson’s catch, Gary focused his scorn on his right fielder. “Ya gotta catch those, Rupa. It was a can of corn.”
“What…,” Rupa managed to say, “is a…can of corn?”
“It’s an easy flyball that’s hit right to you,” Gary said.
“Why do they call it a can of corn?” asked Evan.
“Because it…uhhh….”
The Gas-meister was stumped. But because it’s meaningless history, my dad knew the answer.
“Back in the day,” my dad began. He always opened stories with “back in the day.” I still don’t even know what that means. What’s “the day”? Last Tuesday? Eight billion years ago? What?
“Back in the day,” Dad said, “they had little mom-and-pop stores where you bought your groceries. The stores were small, so they installed lots of shelves, stacked toward the ceiling. If the owner needed to get a can of corn from the top shelf, he’d use a long stick to knock it down. He’d hold out his apron with both hands, and the can would fall softly and easily into the apron. It was…a can of corn.”
“Wow…,” said Evan, full of wonder.
On the mound, Jeffrey was mowin’ ’em down. Through three innings, he had walked three Wieners, hit one in the rump, and punched out four (that means he struck them out; not slugged them in the face). He had yet to allow a run or a hit.
�
��Way to go, Bob Feller,” Gary said.
“Rapid Robert” Feller of the Cleveland Indians is the only big-league pitcher ever to throw a no-hitter on Opening Day. On a frigid, windy afternoon in Chicago in 1940, he held the White Sox hitless.
“I bet you didn’t know,” Dad said, “that the Indians signed Feller for $1 and an autographed baseball. When he was 17, he tied a major-league record with 17 strikeouts in a game. Then, when the season was over, he went back to Iowa to finish high school.”
“Nahhh…,” said Jeffrey.
“Mr. Vehousky, you’re just making that up,” Jackson said.
“No, I’m serious,” Dad said. “In fact, he was the only major-league pitcher to strike out his age until Kerry Wood fanned 20 for the Cubs in 1998.”
“I’m going to strike out my age today,” Jeffrey said. However, he never got the chance. Little League is like the Major League All-Star Game: Nobody pitches more than two or three innings. Gary, Riley, and Gus tossed an inning apiece. We had the Wieners playing “catch up” all day, and we cruised to a 9-4 win.
I did all right for myself: a pop single to center sandwiched between a walk and a groundout. But what impressed me was our professionalism. When Tashia caught a line drive to end the game, we didn’t throw our gloves up in the air like a bunch of wild yahoos. We kept our cool. We congratulated the Wieners (“good game, good game, good game…”). And we even packed the equipment bag like Coach Quinn asked us to.
“That was great fundamental baseball,” Coach said in his postgame pep talk. “You were aggressive at the plate, made smart decisions on the bases. Our pitchers threw strikes. How many walks did we give up today, Doug?”
“Uhhh…just six,” said Dad, looking in his scorebook. “And as for hitting, every one of our hitters either got a base hit or put the ball in play.”
“Not Rupa,” Jackson blurted. “He struck out all three times.”
“Jackson!” Coach Quinn shot back. “Don’t be dissing your teammates! Go run to the right field fence and back.”
“That’s not very far,” Jackson said.
“Then do it twice!” Coach demanded.
As Dad reviewed the scorebook, realizing his mistake, our normally cheery coach gave us a stern warning.
“Now I told you kids every day in practice about treating people with respect,” Coach Quinn said. “Riley, who do we respect?”
“Our opponents, our coaches, the umpires…and…our teammates,” Riley said.
“And during the week…Gus?” Coach asked.
“Our parents and our teachers,” Gus said.
“That’s right,” Coach said. “Okay, now you played a great game today and I’ll see you at practice on Tuesday at 5:30.”
Coach looked up and saw Jackson climbing the right-field fence and running into the distance.
“Where is he going?” Coach asked.
“Home, probably,” Jeffrey said. “He lives across the street.”
“Well, he’s gonna be batting 10th in the order next game—I tell you that,” Coach said.
“But I won’t be here,” Riley said.
“Then ninth then!” Coach said.
I packed my bat bag and walked off the field with my dad. All of us left with our parents except Rupa, who sat slumped over on the bench. As Dad and I walked to the parking lot, we noticed Coach Quinn taking a seat next to Rupa.
“Man, I feel terrible,” Dad said. “I can’t believe I didn’t see that in the scorebook.”
“Maybe he just needs more time in the batting cages,” I said.
“That would help,” Dad said. “But hitting is a lot about self-confidence—believing in yourself when you’re at the plate.”
Back on the bench, Coach was still sitting with Rupa, giving him cheer-up pats on the back. You almost knew what he was telling him: “At least you went down swinging. Keep your chin up. We’ve got a long season ahead.”
The whole scene was strange because Jeffrey stood nearby with his arms folded. Rupa doesn’t have a dad around, and Coach was acting like he was his dad. And yet Coach just got divorced, so Jeffrey doesn’t see him half the time.
“Does Rupa hang out with you guys at recess?” Dad asked.
“Uhm, he usually just kind of wanders around the edges of the playground,” I said. “He has this bouncy ball that he bounces—it kind of gives him something to do.”
“A bouncy ball?”
“Yeah, like one of those super rubbery balls that bounce real high.”
As we reached Dad’s Malibu, Rupa’s mother pulled up and got out of her car.
“Good morning,” Dad said.
“Good morning,” she said in her Latvian accent. “How did the game go?”
“Oh, real well,” Dad said. “We won 9-4.”
“Wonderful!” she said. “How did Rupa do?”
“Oh…he played real well,” Dad said. “I think he’s still over there with the coach.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you!”
We got in the car and put our belts on. Dad sighed and started the engine. We drove amid a long, awkward silence. It’s strange how, when we’re alone together in the car, we never have anything to talk about. Sometimes, the silence becomes unbearable.
“So who’s pitching for the Tigers today?” Dad asked, finally breaking the silence.
“Fullmer,” I said.
“Excellent.”
That was the extent of our conversation until we pulled into our driveway. Mom was planting flowers but got up to greet us. It was nice to see her smiling face.
Chapter 4
Pitcher’s Off His Rocker! He Throws Like Betty Crocker!
The next Saturday, I was scheduled to start our game against Curl Up and Dye Salon. Gary came over at 9 a.m. to help me warm up. For some reason, I couldn’t find the strike zone.
“All right, three-one count,” Gary said as he squatted for my next pitch. “Just throw to the glove.”
I threw it five feet over Gary’s head. This wasn’t like me. But with game time looming, I was tighter than a clenched fist.
“Dude, you’ve got to loosen up,” Gary advised. “Have fun with it. The umpire says ‘play ball’—not ‘work ball.’”
Gary was right. I had to relax, have fun with it. I started to think about Bill Veeck, the old owner of the American League’s St. Louis Browns. He spent his career trying to make baseball fun for fans. Veeck was the guy who signed Eddie Gaedel to a one-game contract in 1951. Eddie was a little person, standing only 3'7". In a game against Detroit that summer, Gaedel emerged from the dugout in a Browns uniform. The little guy carried a miniature bat in his hands and was headed for home plate.
“What the heck?” muttered the home plate umpire. Gaedel, wearing the uniform number 1/8, stepped into the batter’s box. To further shrink his strike zone, he bent into a crouch.
“Keep it low,” catcher Bob Swift advised his pitcher. Bob Cain threw four straight pitches out of the strike zone to Gaedel, who trotted proudly to first base. “For a minute,” Eddie said, “I felt like Babe Ruth.”
Yeah, have fun with it. In the minor leagues, that’s what the games are all about. A lot of teams have goofy mascots. My favorite is Uncle Slam of the Potomac Nationals. In the minors, the promotions are even crazier than Veeck’s. One of them was called Two Dead Fat Guys Night. It was staged on August 16, the date on which both Babe Ruth and Elvis Presley had died. Another team held Star Wars Night. Stormtroopers played the National Anthem, and Darth Vader threw out the first pitch.
Keep it fun, I said to myself as I stood on the mound that Saturday afternoon against Curl Up and Dye. But I couldn’t convince myself. I was as nervous as “Jittery” Joe Berry, the old reliever for the Philadelphia A’s. With each pitch, I kept asking myself, When should I release the ball? You can’t think that way. Ya gotta just “let it happen.”
I walked three of the first four batters I faced. I glanced at the dugout, where Dad buried his hea
d in the scorebook. He was writing down “BB”—not for Barry Bonds, but for Base on Balls. In the bleachers, Mom sat in agony, looking as if I was undergoing open-heart surgery. Sensing my nerves, Gary came in from shortstop to calm me down.
“So, uh, Jacob,” he said. “How did the pig get to the hospital?”
“What?”
“The pig. How did he get to the hospital?”
“Huh?”
“In a hambulance,” he said. “Get it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m trying to loosen you up with a joke. That’s what you’re supposed to do when the pitcher is struggling.”
It didn’t help. I gave up four runs that inning on four walks and a double. “Pitcher’s off his rocker!” one of their guys shouted. “He throws like Betty Crocker!” When I returned to the dugout, none of the kids talked to me. They weren’t mad at me, but what do you say to someone who screwed up so badly? Dad thought he had the answer.
“Every good pitcher has a rough outing,” he said.
“It was my only outing,” I shot back.
Our team would have been better off if I had stayed home. We lost the game 5-4. It was all my fault.
“Whenever I’m feeling upset,” Dad said after the game, “I like to take a drive downtown.”
That’s Dad for ya. What better way to cheer up than drive through the most rundown city in America? But several hours after the game, Mom, Dad, and I sat on a bench overlooking the Detroit River. The smell of car fumes was in the air.
Sixty years ago—back in the day—Detroit was a thriving city of nearly two million people. But over time, most people moved to the suburbs. Houses and stores were boarded up, and crime became rampant. Now, more people live in Mississauga, Ontario, than Detroit.
“I like watching the boats float down the river,” Dad said as he and Mom ate Chinese food.
“It seems like half the boats are trying to escape Detroit to the north,” I said, “and the other half are trying to flee to the south.”
“Nah, the city’s coming back,” Dad replied. “Next week we’ll visit Midtown.”
