Legging One Out

Alex Rodriquez is the youngest player to hit 600 home runs.

Which reminds me of a story. I played high school baseball and in my entire career I hit one home run. It was at Central High in Monmouth against a team we were supposed to beat because we were a larger school. I don't know how it happened, but I connected on a pitch and I connected good. The damn ball flew and flew and I can remember watching it a little too long like Barry Bonds used to do when he connected--it's an obnoxious habit--which was a mistake because the field in Monmouth had no fence. This meant the left fielder could chase the ball down no matter how far it rolled past him.

Understand that this ball was hit very deep. Had a normal home run fence been there it would have cleared it by twenty-feet. I mean this drive would have been out of any ballpark in the land that was fenced. Not there in Monmouth, however.

I finally took off running the bases. I was one of the guys the coaches always said looked like I was carrying a piano on my back when I ran as fast as I could. Running to second this time, I could see that left fielder had excellent speed and was catching up with the ball as it rolled in the outfield. I chugged around second, feeling heavy in the legs and breathing a mite too hard. I looked at the third base coach as I lugged toward the base and he was frantically waving me on, yelling "turn it! Keep going!" He had his right arm working like a windmill, the baseball sign that says "don't even think about stopping here."

Running, I glanced at the left fielder. Good lord, I realized. He had already picked up the ball and was getting ready to throw it to the shortstop who had run out halfway to meet him for a relay throw.

I looked at the third base coach again and he was still insisting I round the bag and head toward home. At that moment I'd have bet against myself making it, but I did as he said and turned toward the plate, arms and legs flailing in a seemingly stationary vacuum.

I could hear my teammates exhorting me to run harder. They were standing up, waving towels, cheering their heads off. I pumped my legs and arms, seemingly not moving, yet the home plate grew nearer and I could see both the catcher and the umpire preparing for a close call. It appeared I might have to slide into home and dirty my clean white uniform, and probably earn another raspberry (abrasion) on my ass for the effort.

The catcher crouched. The umpire peered closely at the plate and I went into the sliding motion, an instinctive baseball maneuver that can be risky if one is careless or indecisive. I've seen players break their ankles by sliding too close to the bag, or half-sliding, entangling themselves in a knot of their own making that could not be untied by any person other than an orthopedic surgeon.

So I committed to sliding and stretched out my left leg, kept my right leg bent and said here goes, "I'm gonna get dirty."

The ball came in from left field on a perfect peg from the shortstop and smacked into the catcher's glove just as my left toe grazed the lip of the plate. He tagged me an instant too late and the ump made the right call. I had hit an inside-the-park homer. My first and last.

My teammates jumped on me, slapped me on the back, high-fived me and laughed their heads off. That this play was even close was nonsensical. I'd hit the ball so far that even a moderately fast player could have easily scored standing up. But I'd watched the ball sail too long and then I'd used my blazing speed to make it interesting at the plate.

My teammates laughed for days afterward about my blast and the piano on my back and my coach just shook his head sadly and said, "Simons, I cannot believe you sometimes."

Well, he wasn't alone.

TS