Or Accepting My Mediocrity
NOTE: I've decided to abandon my Substack account because of that platform's decision to create a partnership with right-winger Bari Weiss's organization. I will migrate what few posts I've published there to this site. This post was originally published on 13 July 2024. I've since done some minor editing
Me on deck, July 1967, Ravine Park
There was a time when baseball meant everything to me. I think that if ever I had a dream in life, it was to play in the Major Leagues. And actually, I don't know that I would even call it a dream so much as I figured it was an inevitability.
And I say that not so much because I had a massive ego (I've never had one), but because I felt that it was simply the logical course my life would take. When springtime rolled around each year, playing baseball—in whatever form—was what I and my brothers and our friends would do. There was a field across Yondota Street just behind our house that we called "the big field." There was no official baseball diamond there, but one had been worn into the earth from the many games that had been played there. The block on which the field was situated was triangular in shape, with a factory at the north end that took up maybe a third of the total area. (I recall looking through the dirty windows of the factory, hoping to see pin-up calendars at the work stations.) The rest of the space was weeds and high grass, home for many a grasshopper. With "home plate" (usually whatever piece of paper we might find lying around) situated towards the south corner of the field, hitting the ball over Miami Street was a home run, although not many of us accomplished that feat. I'm pretty sure I didn't. Now there is no field. No base paths. No home runs. No grasshoppers.
"The big field"
Up Utah Street from our house, just past where I attended elementary school, was another vacant lot: Bower's Field. Or maybe it was Bauer's Field. Maybe there was no apostrophe. I don't know how that name came to be, although someone mentioned to me recently that he thought the old woman who lived immediately south of the lot was named Bower. Or Bauer. Like "the big field," it had a well-worn baseball diamond that seemed always to have been there. It was another regular "field of dreams" where four or five guys per team was typical. In such cases, right field would be closed to right-handed hitters; left field would be closed to lefty swingers. The Fischer family house at the north of the field served as our own Green Monster à la Boston's Fenway Park, except that it was white as I recall. Hitting the ball on the roof of the house was a home run; a ball hit over their back yard fence was a double. That field is now occupied by three or four houses.
If we had but two or three or four players in total, Strikeout was the name of the game. It merely required a rubber ball, a wall with a strike zone drawn on it (usually scratched in with a stone as we typically didn't have chalk on hand), and modified ground rules as to what constituted hits and outs. Most often these games were played at Franklin Elementary school or under the Anthony Wayne ("Hi-Level") Bridge, both of which were a few blocks from home. The fence at Franklin which separated the school playground from Oak Street was reachable, especially with a brand new ball. Some guys, like the much-older Bobby Meyers, could clear Oak Street.
Franklin Elementary Strikeout Wall (photo courtesy of John Nickoloff)
I could probably sit here for hours describing all the ways we played baseball (whiffle ball, Rundown, etc.) and the various places we played, but I won't. I hope you get the picture. We had baseball fever long before Major League Baseball based a marketing campaign on it.
My first attempt at organized baseball was the year I turned 9. Like all my friends in the neighbourhood with whom I played pick-up games, I tried out for my school's PeeWee team of nine-, ten-, and eleven-year-olds. Because even at 9, you pretty much know where you fit in skill-wise amongst your peers, I expected to be a shoe-in for the team. But for reasons I will never know, I was cut from the team and it was a such a shock to my system that I teared up. The head coach was Ray Vining's grandfather, Charles Abernathy1, which, since Ray lived just behind me on Yondota Street, and we spent a lot of time together—whether playing ball or just hanging out—the cut felt especially deep.
The following year, I made the team. Mr. Abernathy was still the head coach and Jim Werner was his assistant. We played Oakdale Elementary at Navarre Park for our first game, and lefty Neal Gust was their pitcher. (Also, my dad's sister's brother-in-law, Harry Krzsczowski, was an Oakdale coach.) I sat the bench for the game, but with Oakdale winning something like 10-1 in the 7th (last) inning, I was told to grab a bat. The count got to three balls and two strikes, then I hit a line drive down the third-base line for a triple. I started every game from then on. Mid-season, Coach Abernathy recruited an over-aged2 player, Tony Ruiz, to join the team, and we had to forfeit all the games we'd won in which he'd played. Abernathy was forced to resign (or so I recall) and Jim Werner, who was the best coach I've ever had, took over. Despite the drama, I had a great year, with something like four home runs and four triples, and at the end of the season was awarded the Most Valuable Player trophy, which sat atop our piano amongst my mom's bowling trophies for years.
My MVP year, 1966
The following season, our team went 14-0 in league play. We scored over a hundred runs in those fourteen games as I recall, and I had an even better year at the plate than the previous season. In a double-header we played against St. Thomas, I got seven hits in eight at bats, including a grand slam home run. I fully expected another MVP trophy, but I think it went to ten-year-old Ron Harris instead. The disappointment didn't last all that long—I was probably more surprised, really, than disappointed, but I really, really, really thought I deserved it. The true disappointment that year came in the city tournament against St. Catherine's. We were defeated by a run and it was my error while attempting to field a ground ball single hit to me in left field that allowed the winning run to score. The transition from hero to goat is lightning quick. My dad surprisingly didn't say a word about the game afterwards.
The next two years were in the next league up, Colts, but we had a new coach, Russ Menchaca, who had been Jim Werner's assistant the year before, and was our second baseman Rusty's dad. This is a sort of weird memory, but Russ was the only one who attempted to "fix" my batting approach. I had a hitch in my swing in which I shifted my weight to my back foot as the ball was about to leave the pitcher's hand, and just as the ball came onto the hitting zone, I'd shift my weight forward into the pitch as I swung. My two PeeWee seasons were proof enough that I didn't have a problem hitting that way, but Russ decided he needed to fix it. My two Colt seasons were less than spectacular. I don't recall much about our win-loss records for either year, although we probably had a .500 or maybe better winning percentage. I don't recall being in the starting lineup every game. For some reason, Russ started Steve Tscherne, who hadn't played on the PeeWee teams, instead of me in left field for a good part of the first season—maybe both. It might have been because Steve was a faster runner (he was the fastest sprinter in our class), but I'm pretty sure that Russ had something against me.
Everything else from those two seasons is a blank except for a time I stole second base while someone else was on third base. My older brother Mike was playing in the next level league, Junior Knothole, and I would go to his practices to watch and ingratiate myself with his teammates, many of whom I knew from the neighbourhood. In fact, his coach was Dick Simon, who was my friend/classmate/teammate Bill Simon's brother, and was married to my godparent's daughter. One of his practices involved the first-and-third situation, that is, baserunners at first and third with fewer than two outs, and Dick instructed the person on first base to take off for second base in an attempt to steal as soon as the pitcher began his stretch.3 I understood this to be a ploy to confuse the pitcher into balking,4 which would allow the runner on third base to score immediately. Anyway, during one of my games, I was given the signal to steal second with a runner on third base and I did exactly what Dick had told his team to do. It worked to perfection. The pitcher got confused and failed to step off the rubber5 before making a move towards me, thereby balking, and a run scored.
When it came time for the Knothole League for me, Dick Simon's team, Home Federal Savings and Loan, was my next logical step. Mike had played for Home Federal for a couple of years, and because I knew Dick so well, I expected to make the team. My cousin Jeff also played for Home Federal the year before and he was there. I naturally tried out for the outfield because that's all I'd really known, but Dick had me practice one day at third base, a position for which I had no legitimate training. Maybe he thought he could use me, even as a back-up player, if I could handle the position, but I don't recall much beyond that other than that I didn't shine during the practice. When final cuts were made, I learned I didn't make the team. While crestfallen, I didn't feel quite the sting I felt as a nine-year-old. There were no tears this time. Although there was a different sort of disappointment in me this time. Mickey Archer, a standout football player from Waite High School—who I'd heard had once crushed a baseball all the way from the ball diamond in the Waite Bowl into the football stadium across East Broadway—had made the team, and he hadn't shown up to even one of the tryout sessions. I recall going home and watching the first episode of M*A*S*H on television, my baseball career entirely in ruins.
But the thing about baseball is that the dream never dies. Well, maybe the dream of playing in the Big Leagues does, but the love of the game doesn't. As a Senior in high school, I decided to try out for the baseball team. Like so many high school kids, I had picked up smoking as a habit, and I wanted an activity that would help me to quit. The winter before baseball tryouts, I worked out with the wrestling team (I had wrestled my Freshman year so I was well-acquainted with what kind of workout I could get) in order to get some conditioning for the spring.
When spring rolled around, and I showed up for tryouts, I was told by more than one person that I was wasting my time, that as a Senior, if I didn't make the starting line-up on the team, I'd be cut in favour of a Junior or Sophomore. During tryouts, I did some working out as a pitcher, although I don't recall if I had actually intended to try out for that position, I think it just sort of presented itself, and when the final roster was announced, I'd made the team. Coach Bob Agoston must have liked something he'd seen (probably my sweeping curve ball!) and decided to keep me.
I mostly sat the bench, but was usually the first person to come in to relieve the starting pitcher if things got out of hand, or as in one instance, to replace a starter (Ron Harris, wouldn't you know!) who'd been kicked out of a game for arguing with the umpire. We lost to Bowsher High School that game, and I think I pitched an inning or two of scoreless baseball, even striking out one of the best hitters in the city, Jeff Kneisley. The sweeping curve ball!
My playing time was so limited that season that I can almost recall every game I played in and how I performed. I had four hits in sixteen at bats for a .250 batting average, although the only one that stands out came against a friend, Bob Utter, whom I'd played against in PeeWees (Oakdale), and who now played for St. Francis High School. As did Bill Simon. (Both Bob and Bill were named First Team All-City that year, as was the aforementioned Kneisley.) I started that game in left field, and came in to pitch in relief of Dale Hanley, who'd relieved Ted Hill, who'd been slapped around for at least seven runs. I didn't fare so well against another First Team All-City player, Rick Staccone, who blasted one of my pitches over the left fielder's head for a two-run triple. The sweeping curve ball!
And of course, my name was spelled wrong in the paper the next day, thanks to Coach Agoston.6 At least I only had an S added to my name, Bob Utter became someone named Otto.
The Blade, Toledo, Ohio, 28 April 1973
A few other games come into my head when I think of that year:
- I came in to pitch in relief in a game that we were winning by two or three runs. I inherited a bases-loaded situation and for whatever reason, Coach Agoston played the infield in instead of at their regular positions. All we needed was a double-play to get out of the inning, and in fact, I got a ground ball from the first hitter I faced, but since the shortstop wasn't at his regular position, it got through the infield scoring a couple of runs. I think that the runner on first eventually scored the winning run. It might have been later that same game that I got a chance to hit, and Coach Agoston gave me the take sign (read: "don't swing!") for the first five pitches, and when I finally got the swing-away sign, I took a pitch that was a couple of baseball diameters off the plate, but got called a strike by the umpire, my former coach, Russ Menchaca. Further evidence that Russ had something against me.
- I similarly got to bat late in a game against Woodmore, whose pitcher was big, hard throwing left-hander, Jeff Large, who went on to pitch briefly in the Major Leagues. The scenario was the same: Agoston gave me the take sign for the first five pitches and then let me swing at the sixth. There was no way I was going to catch up to Large's fastball without having swung the bat even once. Of course, I didn't.
- At Ottawa Hills, I was put into run for somebody late in the game and was given the steal sign. The pitcher was a left-hander and I was promptly picked off for the third out of the inning. (We at least won the game.)
- We beat the best team in our division, St. John's, on their home field, and I sat the bench for most of that game as well. I got a chance to hit late in the game and on the first pitch, which was a sweeping curve ball that looked like it was coming at my head made me fall back out of the way only to get called a strike. Mr. Wise-ass Pitcher thought he had my number and threw the same pitch again, only this time I stood my ground and sent the ball screaming over third base for a double. Later that game, though, I had a flashback to the St. Catherine's game when a ground ball single went through my legs for an error. The teammate who chased that ball down all those many years before, Bob Gladieux, was the same teammate who chased this ball down.
The last game that year and of my baseball career (softball is a whole other story) came against Rogers High School. It was memorable for a couple of reasons: 1. I was the starting pitcher; and 2. My dad and mom attended. Dad had hardly ever come to my games as a kid—the embarrassing loss to St. Catherine's is the only other one that I actually recall. Coach Agoston must have told me in advance I'd be starting, and I let them know and they'd decided to come.
What also stands out to me as I think about that game is how badly coached I was. And I say that realizing that given the seasonal aspects of high school baseball in Northwest Ohio, there is limited ability to practice outdoors before the season begins. But as I think back on our pre-season practices, there was not one in which I'd worked on my move to first base as a matter of trying to keep a runner from trying to steal second base. Neither had there been discussions about signs from the catcher in those situations. So fast forward to the Rogers game, at one point in the game, I either walked a batter or he got a base hit. He stole second base because I made no attempt to keep him close at first base, but all these years later, the memory lingers of our catcher, Rick Harris (Ron's brother), giving me the sign to throw to first base and me not recognizing that it was a sign to throw to first base because no one had ever told me it was the sign to throw to first base! I thought he was signaling for a fastball (or #1, in typical baseball signs) on the outside part of the plate. (All these years later, I imagine my dad in the stands tsk-tsking me for not throwing over to first.) After the stolen base, you'd think Rick or Coach Agoston would have come to the mound and said, "Hey, you've got to throw over to first base once in a while." or "Why the hell didn't you throw over to first base when I gave you the sign?!?" But no. None of that happened.
Anyway... I must have pitched a halfway decent game otherwise since they'd only scored two runs off me.
I batted a couple of times in the game. I recall that the opposing pitcher threw a knuckleball. It floated up to the plate my first time up and with a swing, I thought I'd tagged him for a double or a triple, but the centerfielder made a good running catch in right-center. Weirdly, in that moment, I was conscious of my dad's presence when the ball came off my bat and looking as though it was going to split the outfielders. I thought would please him. Maybe I'd heard him say "C'mon, Pat!" or something as I stepped to the plate. I walked my second time and scored the tying run at the time. We went on to win 3-2, but I was taken out with an inning or two to go; Dale Hanley replaced me and got credit for the win. Dad didn't say a word about the game afterwards.
When the season was over, and after I'd graduated, I talked to someone about playing ball that summer. Maybe it was Coach Agoston who got me in touch with someone who let me know that there were tryouts for a Senior Knothole team on the south end of town. I went once and got the impression that I wouldn't be given much of a chance. The only two things I recall about the tryout was that my opposing pitcher in the Rogers game, Al Leininger, was trying out as well, and that I was chided for hitting the cut-off man on a throw from the outfield. I had always been taught to aim for the cut-off man's head, which is what I did (I didn't overthrow the cut-off), but apparently, that was too high for the coach's likes. Yeah, I'm pretty sure I read his attitude and decided to stay home the following week and for the rest of my life.
* * *
