Growing up in the sixties, my friends and I spent a lot of time playing pick-up sports, especially baseball. A neighborhood populated with Catholic families yielded flocks of boys near the same age. There was never a shortage of willing players, and plenty of variations of America’s sport: stickball, hardball, hoseball, wiffleball, and honerball.
Honerball consisted of throwing a ball on a slanted roof and having your opponent catch the ball as it suddenly appeared a foot above the bare-handed player. Not sure on how the name started, but the loser was called a honer, which seemed pretty disparaging.
In early spring, the Little League season started up. I was in the Upper Moreland Little League, which claimed to be the second biggest league complex east of the Mississippi, second only to Williamsport.
Despite playing some variation of baseball eight months a year, I didn’t stand out. In Little League, I was more a roster filler, than a featured player. No problem, it was still fun, even though I was teamed in a competitive level lower than most of my friends.
One shred of talent I had was in pitching. I had a decent fastball, and didn’t walk many. Still a third or fourth pitching option, it was nice to stand front and center once in a while and record outs.
In my last year of minor ball, on the Cubs, I started a game against a fairly decent team, the Braves, who had a good pitcher. I was on my game that day, striking out batters, yielding few hits and after five innings, only one run. The other pitcher matched these numbers.
Top of the sixth, the last inning of a Little League match. My Cubs broke through and scored six runs. I go out for the bottom of the sixth with a 7-1 lead. The first two batters were easy outs. Here I was, one out from a complete game, and, of course, certain glory. Just one more out. No need to be fancy, just lay it out over the plate and someone will ground to second or third and confirm my mastery of the diamond.
I threw beachballs over the plate, and the batters pounced. Each one at least singled, if not doubled. Before I know it, it was 7-6 with a man on second. I stood baffled and embarrassed. The manager came out, expressed his sympathy, and brought in Kenny Byers. I stayed in the game, relegated to first base.
Kenny’s first pitch was nailed by a left-handed batter, a line drive headed into right field. I reached up for the ball and caught it. Game over. The team flocked to Kenny, as did I. No pats on the back for me, but none needed. I was relieved that we had won, and sadly, that I hadn’t lost the game for the team.
There was no headline the next day. Minder mows down Braves would have been nice. But lessons learned: play to win instead of playing to not lose. Also, don’t count your chickens.
Honerball consisted of throwing a ball on a slanted roof and having your opponent catch the ball as it suddenly appeared a foot above the bare-handed player. Not sure on how the name started, but the loser was called a honer, which seemed pretty disparaging.
In early spring, the Little League season started up. I was in the Upper Moreland Little League, which claimed to be the second biggest league complex east of the Mississippi, second only to Williamsport.
Despite playing some variation of baseball eight months a year, I didn’t stand out. In Little League, I was more a roster filler, than a featured player. No problem, it was still fun, even though I was teamed in a competitive level lower than most of my friends.
One shred of talent I had was in pitching. I had a decent fastball, and didn’t walk many. Still a third or fourth pitching option, it was nice to stand front and center once in a while and record outs.
In my last year of minor ball, on the Cubs, I started a game against a fairly decent team, the Braves, who had a good pitcher. I was on my game that day, striking out batters, yielding few hits and after five innings, only one run. The other pitcher matched these numbers.
Top of the sixth, the last inning of a Little League match. My Cubs broke through and scored six runs. I go out for the bottom of the sixth with a 7-1 lead. The first two batters were easy outs. Here I was, one out from a complete game, and, of course, certain glory. Just one more out. No need to be fancy, just lay it out over the plate and someone will ground to second or third and confirm my mastery of the diamond.
I threw beachballs over the plate, and the batters pounced. Each one at least singled, if not doubled. Before I know it, it was 7-6 with a man on second. I stood baffled and embarrassed. The manager came out, expressed his sympathy, and brought in Kenny Byers. I stayed in the game, relegated to first base.
Kenny’s first pitch was nailed by a left-handed batter, a line drive headed into right field. I reached up for the ball and caught it. Game over. The team flocked to Kenny, as did I. No pats on the back for me, but none needed. I was relieved that we had won, and sadly, that I hadn’t lost the game for the team.
There was no headline the next day. Minder mows down Braves would have been nice. But lessons learned: play to win instead of playing to not lose. Also, don’t count your chickens.