by Barry Hastings
A week or so ago, a CBS Evening News report asked the question, “Is baseball becoming hazardous for the fans?” This following a two-week period when a woman was hit in the face by a foul ball; then a man took a serious blow in the head by a line drive. The answer to the question is, emphatically NO!
Baseball is, was, and will always be dangerous for fans, particularly those who won’t (or can’t) keep their eyes on the ball and the game, rather than on the hot fox a couple of rows down, and two seats over.
I’d guess, after over 36 years coaching fast-pitch softball, I’ve seen maybe fifty people hit by errant throws, or hard hit fouls, always painfully, sometimes with serious injuries. At the ballpark, it’s best to keep an eye on the ball. And keep your kids near enough to protect them.
Aluminum bats don’t break, so there’s no worry there – unless the whole bat gets away from the batter (and I’ve seen that happen 10 or 12 times, once to terrible effect). I did, however, see an aluminum bat dented, and bent, when a batte
r had seemingly gotten every bit of a pitch. I’ve never heard bat/ball contact sound quite like that one.
The ball took off like a bullet, but died like a punctured balloon as it crossed the fringe of the outfield grass. Yeah, he got every bit of it, but the bat got the worst of the meeting. The guy who hit it wasn’t big, and probably took the best swing of his life up to that moment. He got nothing for his effort but a 5 – 3 out in the book. The connection would certainly have broken a wooden bat. Strange things happen in the fast-action diamond game of fast-pitch softball.
I remember a Munising class C & D tournament in the second year I coached up North. We’d won one and lost one when we met a team out of Rock, MI, that had two brothers (E. & B. Pach) sharing pitching and catching duties -one threw, the other caught, every game. They were both 300 + pound giants on 5′ 10″ bodies, and slow as cold molasses.
Both were good hitters, but so slow it was almost always a homer, or a single. Both were also good at both defensive positions, as well. They were so fat, that when catching, on an outside pitch to a right-handed batter, they snared the ball with their bare right hands. Very tough gents – never saw anyone else do it. It had to hurt. (Ya gotta love this game, as players still say.)
Well, we lost to them, and were knocked out of the tournament. But the loss got me interested in small-ball as directed by Billy Martin, the master of re-igniting competitive spirits of ball teams (and irritating owners and hot-shot players). One season Billy was collecting salary from three teams – one from Oakland, two (for prior contracts) from George Steinbrenner.
If I’d known while playing the Pach brothers what I learned looking into Billy-ball and its creator, I’d have bunted the Pach brothers nuts. I never met up with those big boys again, but I have bunted many a pitcher nuts. Several have called for another pitcher themselves. When they ask to leave the game, or are relieved, I grow extremely self-satisfied. Even smug. Sometimes I like to bunt the first batter his relief faces, particularly if he’s fast and a deft bunter.
While I lived out East, the first team I hooked up with had a retired 20-year Air Force man pitching. Strangely enough, for playing a position often referred to by players as the “Thumb,” his thumb had been amputated some years before in a service-related injury. Can’t recall his name, but we called him Shorty, Shortstuff, or Shortpants. He could pitch with great control and surprising speed. His ball started toward a batter from very close to the ground, and seemed to the batter as if he was facing a golfer’s Tee shot.
The next year, Shortpants tumbled off a scaffold and broke his leg very early in the season. I filled in for two games (both lost) shooting a slingshot pitch with three variations on a three-fingered drop ball grip. It was slow enough to befuddle the better swingers. But the average guys pounded it.
After a couple of weeks, the team’s shortstop and I were talking ball in the “Pay Here” line at a local convenience store. The cashier was a tall girl in her mid-twenties. When we reached the register, she greeted us with a question, “Are you guys talking about fast-pitch softball?” We answered in unison, “Yes, we are.”
“I’m a pitcher,” she said.
We got out of line and waited for her last customer to leave, then made arrangement for her to come to our practice session that evening. She proved a very good pitcher – fifth best in the nation her senior college year. I carefully checked-out league by-laws, and nothing in them prevented a female player.
Lord, you should have heard those guys whine – “I thought this was a men’s league,” and such. She answered their whines with, “Shut up! Hit the ball!” Most couldn’t. We ended having a terrific season – she didn’t lose a game out of the twelve she pitched, and it was far more on her, than the rest of us. One of my favorite seasons ever.
Later, I started a new team there, composed of selected players I’d observed in the league, or met in local watering holes. Some of them were odd (to say the least), and next time I’m in a recollective frame of mind, I’ll tell you about one character who was straight out of the great Benton Harbor House of David team legends.
There is still some good fast-pitch ball several evenings a week in Moline. Stop in to watch the game WWII G.I.’s really spread across the world.
