Some of my earliest memories have something to do with throwing things - especially round objects. I do recall there wasn’t much catching going on. A ball was tossed towards me, I would pick it up and then…
I would throw it. Just like Dad.
I am guessing most of my throws were not catchable and Dad also had to go pick up the ball before he could toss it back. I am told by Dad that he tried a little experiment while we were doing this. He would toss the ball with his right hand and I would run to it and pick it up with my left. Then I would throw it back with that same hand. Then he tossed it to me with his left hand and (you probably saw this coming) I would pick it up and throw it back with my right.
If that’s how Dad did it, that must have been the way I should be doing it.
Dad might not have known it at the time, but he was influencing my future love for throwing things in two ways. First, his right-handedness was going to result in my left-handedness. And second, he said something that I interpreted as “if you do this (throw) more, you will get better at it.”
Do I know what he said exactly? No. But, I do recall spending big chunks of the next day (or maybe days) while he was at work throwing a ball around the back yard. And when I say I threw it around the back yard, I mean I threw the ball around the back yard. I would throw the ball as far as I could away from me. Then I would run to pick it up and throw it again in a different direction.
And thus began a life of throwing things.
Over time, it became apparent that I favored throwing baseball sized objects. Now there is a reason I say it this way. I was soon to discover that a baseball wasn’t always the best thing to throw in every situation. Obviously, it was NOT a good idea to throw a baseball in the house. Mom made that abundantly clear. So, a spongy nerf ball would serve when I was indoors. Or, I could bounce one of those little superballs against the basement wall. At least that would come back to me so I could catch it and not chase it (most of the time).
Outdoors, a baseball was fine. But, playing catch with oneself requires creativity or equipment. I had gotten to the point that throwing the baseball away from myself in order to go pick it up and throw it again no longer had the same appeal. I was able to throw that ball a considerable distance and I wanted to spend more time throwing - not running.
And, yes, the backyard wasn’t big enough for that anyway. The neighbors would surely grow tired of a ball flying through their yard and into the next - followed by a kid dashing madly after it. And there was the issue of trying to find the ball if it landed in their gardens. Or the pfitzer bush. Or our neighbor, Al’s, roses.
So, the next best thing was to throw the ball as high as I could into the air and then practice catching self-made pop-ups.
Unfortunately, an overhand throw is not always the very best way to throw a ball straight up into the air. And I didn’t really want to practice underhand throwing. So there were periodic issues with accuracy. Regardless of how careful I was, I was eventually going to let one loose that went where it wasn’t supposed to. After all, our yard wasn’t terribly large.
Sure enough, the ball would land on the roof…. SMACK! I would wince inwardly, knowing that there were parents in the house - probably sighing inwardly (and maybe outwardly). I wonder how many times they found themselves trying to make the decision as to whether they should make a strong suggestion that I do something else.
I recall that either Mom or Dad (or both) told me that they weren’t upset about what I was doing, exactly. But, they did impress on me that it was … um… a bit unsettling to be inside and to suddenly have a loud impact on some random part of the house. I understood that - I really did. And I actually worked very hard to avoid it. But, I still wanted to throw.
So, I would start all over again, being very careful to keep it under control - but getting ever more daring with my efforts until…
WHACK!!!
That was usually enough to get my shame meter up to a high enough level that I would quit and find something else. If I was lucky or particularly good on given day, I would only get one “whack” in before getting called in for supper.
At one point, I was gifted with a throw-back (or pitch-back) nets. The netting was held tight by springs on a metal frame and the there was some sort of staking system to try to keep it in place. This was a wonderful gift because now I could throw the ball and it would (in theory) come back to me and I could catch it.
The idea of playing catch by myself was a dream come true and I took full advantage of it. Except… there were limits. After a certain number of throws, the stakes would start to pull out of the ground. And, if I threw the ball too hard the rebound would go over my head and into the neighbor’s yard and into the roses.
Or the tomatoes.
I also don’t like to talk about the times I would MISS the target. But, when I did, our OTHER neighbor would find a kid digging around in their garden or their bushes.
At one point in time, Al (our neighbor with the roses) told me that he thought my parents were good people who knew how to raise good kids. That’s an interesting thing to tell a kid who is in elementary school. It was also very powerful.
I, of course, liked the idea that Al thought well of my parents and, by extension, the kids in the family. So it was important to me that I not be troublesome when it came to wayward baseballs. Even so, I suspect Al glanced out the window more than once to see me dashing to retrieve baseballs from his yard. Maybe he also would let out a bit of a sigh - though it might have been for different reasons.
Al’s children lived some distance away and he did not see them or the grandchildren often. I suspect the activities of children next door was bittersweet. I am certain he would have wanted to have the opportunity to sigh because his own child was repeatedly dashing around and getting into his rose bushes. Hopefully a was a reasonably positive fill-in.
Once I was old enough to play Little League baseball, my Mom signed me up to play. At that time, there was no “tee ball.” But that was fine with me because I wouldn’t have seen the point of setting a ball on a tee to hit it. You’re SUPPOSED to THROW it, you know! Instead, we had a “Minor League” and a “Major League” that was primarily populated based on ages. There was some skill assessment based on the prior year’s performance and the number of openings in the Major League. If you hadn’t played in the prior year, you were probably younger and you were going to start in the Minor League - which I did.
Of course, most of the league relied on parents who didn’t have that much extra time and possibly not too much baseball knowledge to serve as coaches and to administrate the league. A season was typically fourteen games and maybe two or three “practices,” depending on the ambition of the parent that was in charge of any particular team. During that first season, I happened to be on a team that was primarily younger and less experienced (we had one returning player).
Now it was tradition for teams to go to the “Tastee Freeze” after games for a treat and kids would pile into the back of a truck or into a station wagon (seat belts - who needs those?). The winning team was carried away from the ballpark and down the street chanting “We won! Weeeeeeee won!” as they departed to get their ice cream. The losing team usually stayed silent in their vehicles.
Not MY team.
You see, we had a great deal of practice losing. We only tasted victory once in our fourteen games. So we would ride in the back of the truck or other vehical and belt out or own sing-songy chant.
“We WISH we won! We WISH we won!”
Our self-deprecating humor didn’t help us to win the next game, but it won us something else. I overheard one adult conversing with another as I waited for my turn at the window. “I am just amazed how well these kids handle this. I thought they would be sad - but they seem to just be having fun!”
I do remember thinking that I was, in fact, a little bit sad. We typically didn’t just lose. We usually lost by A LOT! But, I still got to throw a ball. And catch a ball. And hit a ball.
And it WAS fun.
But, it was especially good to have confirmation that having fun while playing baseball - win or lose - was okay. And maybe even admirable.
My performance in the Minor League that year was apparently good enough (and there were enough openings) that I was selected to play in the Major League the next year. That team did win about as often as it lost, which was a good opportunity to figure out how to handle victory as well as defeat. At the end of the season, the coach announced that certain players had been selected to play on the “All-Star” team that would get to go to an end of season tournament.
I seem to recall that these were the feeder tournaments for the Little League World Series. A team would have to win a “local” tournament and an area tournament before moving into regional tourneys. That was a distant possibility because there was little expectation that our town’s teams would even get through the first level.
One guideline for the All-Star team was that the older kids - those in their last year in Little League - would be given priority. But, that didn’t guarantee participation. And, of course, there were a few younger kids who were exceptional that would make the team as well. Every team had representatives on that squad and, as you would expect, the teams with winning records usually had more players selected.
I was not selected that first year, nor did I expect to be. But the following year, I set the goal that I would make that team.
My inclusion as an All-Star was certainly not going to be a certainty. My circle of friends and my family were not part of the sub-culture of families and kids who were known to be “athletic.” This whole Little League thing was not just new to me, it was new to my parents. And, in all honesty, it wasn’t apparent by my stature or my play that I was a super-talented ball player. I was good enough - better than many, in fact. But I was not a stand-out.
As the end of that season approached, I started chanting my own mantra silently to myself. “Please, please, please. I want to be an All-Star. Work hard. Work hard. I want to be an All-Star.”
The announcements would be made just after our last game of the regular season and our coach started by saying, “Well, two of our team are on the All-Star squad. It’s not what I wanted, but they wanted to go with the older players.” Then he proceeded to name the one person on the team everyone knew was going to make it. And then he called my name.
I made the All-Star Team! I made it! I…
Wait. What?!?
If you’ve been paying attention, the subtext throughout has been the impact the words of adults had on me when I was an elementary school-aged child. Practice and you will get better. It’s okay to do what you’re doing, but try not to cause difficulties or troubles for others while you do it. Learning how to lose (and win) well is important.
And now I heard. “I don’t think you’re good enough and the only reason you’re here is because of some dumb rule.”
Looking back, our team probably had three players who were worthy of joining that team. Two of us were in our last year. The third WAS younger, but he was also in our grade at school. So, it was likely he would sign up for Babe Ruth (the next league level) the following year so he could play with others who were also in Junior High (7th grade at the time). So, it is possible this phrase was supposed to soothe that individual - at the cost of leaving me with a hollow victory.
The All-Star squad consisted of 18 players - enough to field two full teams. So, of course, our one and only practice before the tournament included a scrimmage after a few drills. There was one problem, however. One of the players was not there for some reason, so we had 17 players. But, that’s okay, there are many ways to deal with that situation.
Of course, it would figure that the coaches would select the two most well-known players to be “captains” and they were charged with doing the thing that so many kids grew up hating in elementary school. They took turns picking people until they filled their teams.
Now you probably see what’s coming next. Heck, I saw what was coming next. I was the kid who showed up in cut-off jean shorts and black socks with my plastic-bottomed cleats. The other players had “proper” socks and shorts. They had batting gloves and some even had eyeblack under their eyes. They had learned how to look like a ballplayer and decided it was an important part of being on the team, while I had not.
Sixteen players were chosen, two teams of eight. And I was standing by myself. The coaches looked a little startled when they realized they had an odd number of players and I noticed their discomfort. It was one of those early revelations in the life of a child when I learned that adults weren’t always in control of the situation.
Luckily, the younger coach (possibly a college student) asked, “You pitch, right?”
So, I was the designated pitcher for both teams. And it was on that day that I truly became an All-Star.
I pitched six innings of no-hit ball against one squad and six innings of one hit ball against the other. The only person to get a hit was my teammate - the guy on my team I knew was going to be an All-Star. And probably the only person on either squad who was very familiar with my left-handed pitching self.
You see, despite the messages I was hearing, I was learning that I could decide for myself if I was worthy. And I could be worthy, even if I wasn’t the best and even if I allowed more than one hit in twelve innings of pitching. But it sure didn’t hurt to have this moment where I could excel against those who had been judged to be my betters.
The story, of course doesn’t end there. This All-Star squad lost its only game in the tournament. In fact, the game was well out of hand when the coaches finally brought me in to pitch the sixth inning. I struck out two and had one line drive get caught by my teammate (the same guy who got the hit off of me) for the third out.
I went on to play through high school and even returned to play fastpitch softball and then baseball after graduating from college. As for the other guy who didn’t get selected to the All-Star team? Well, he stopped playing after that year. I am sure that part of the reason is that we were built differently and I was simply more dedicated to seeking out my opportunities to throw a ball around. But, I wonder, how much of it had to do with a single comment here or a side-conversation there that were made by adults in the hearing of those children.
Somewhere, along the way, I picked up “you are worthy” and “it’s okay if you are not the best there is, just be the best you can be” and maybe even “if you like to throw - throw.” While I am tempted to believe that I discovered these on my own, I know better.
There were words and actions that showed me these were true.
I can only hope that the messages I send out now are as valuable and the damage I cause in my worst moments are offset by the strength of the positives. I’ll never know, because it is often statements we don’t think mean much that just might mean a great deal to someone else.
Now, you must pardon me. I have this urge to throw something. And I mean that in a good way.
Rob, I liked the story on one level (nostalgic childhood memories) and am impressed at another level (you were a perceptive, thoughtful person, even at a young age).
Though far less introspective, I, too, enjoyed throwing; it was a tennis ball against the front of the garage. Between the two metal garage doors was a section of wooden wall, about 18" wide -- the target. If "Negative reinforcement is a behavioral technique that involves removing an unwanted stimulus to encourage a desired behavior." then not hitting the metal doors -- CLANG! -- and rousing parental response was the objective. I wish I had become an All-Star so I could have shared this story with the media, but alas, sigh.
Thanks for another great story and lesson, Rob. Here's wishing the Reds come alive in '25!