Thursday, August 24, 2000

IS IT TIME TO TAKE ME OUT OF THE BALL GAME?

By ALAN HART, Capital District MSBL (Albany, NY)

It was a bad evening, all right. Or so it seemed.

There I was, standing in line inside the mini-mart to pay for the gasoline I had pumped and also for my purchases -- a quart of wholesome, fresh milk and a six-pack of cheap, no doubt bitter and stinking beer.

I had purposely sought out the most inexpensive brand of beer the store was selling, because I didn't think I deserved any better. I figured when I drank it the rest of the week, the lousy-tasting beer would serve to remind me of how lousy I had played.

I had just played a terrible game for my adult recreation baseball team -- the Blue Jays of the Capital District Men's Senior Baseball League, Over-40 Division -- and ultimately played a major role in our elimination from the playoffs.

Actually, it hasn't been that bad a baseball year for me. Overall, between my Over-30 season with the Yankees and my Over-40 year with the Jays, my batting average at last look was at .320 thanks to a late-season surge.

But on this particular night I had played a terrible game.

Terrible ... as in misplaying a bases-loaded, two-out fly ball into a three-run triple that wiped out our 6-3 lead and turned it into a 6-6 tie which eventually would be a 10-7 defeat at the hands of one of our biggest rivals, the Orioles.

Terrible ... as in going 0-for-3 at the plate, including a slow grounder to first with the bases loaded, thereby short-circuiting a potential big inning.

Was I kind of depressed and disappointed in myself right at that moment as I stood in line? Oh, yeah.

It got worse a moment later when I suddenly noticed a rather unkempt-looking man in a tank top (only somewhat successful in covering a large belly), baggy shorts and sandals smiling and staring at me. This stranger was perhaps 10 years older than me and at least 80 pounds heavier than myself, and he was eagerly eating a three-scoop ice cream cone a few feet away from the counter.

``Hey, buddy ...'' the man suddenly said to me. ``What did you do, just get done playing softball or something?''

I had almost forgotten I still was wearing my uniform with the dark blue No. 9 Blue Jays shirt and gray pants.

I answered him politely, ``No, actually it was baseball.''

``You? You play baseball?'' the man said, then laughed aloud. ``Geez, how old are you, anyway?''

Though I'm a firm believer that age is just a number and not an indicator of how old or how healthy and fit you are, I answered -- still politely -- that I am 53.

``Fifty-three?'' the man repeated, laughing again. ``Buddy, you're too old for that game. If you ask me, you'd better hang up your cleats.''

I was paying the clerk at the counter for my purchases now and getting my change back. I didn't answer right away. I just smiled and nodded, sort of in friendly agreement, to this rather rude but harmless man. He was, after all, just trying to be funny and not really insulting me. I didn't take him seriously. I thought that maybe he was even a tiny bit jealous that he wasn't coming home from a softball or baseball game of his own, wearing a soiled uniform like I had on.

Finally, on my way out the door I turned back one last time to the needling ice cream eater and said cheerfully, ``Yeah, the way I played tonight, maybe you're right at that.''

I look back now, today, and I thank that man for his needling that evening, because he changed my entire mood from glum to calm in just a minute or two. On the walk back to my car that night, already I had to laugh in spite of myself.

OK, so I stunk. Boy, did I stink! I'd sure like to have another chance at that fly ball I'll probably be seeing all winter in my sleep, and I sure wish I had gotten a big hit for us that game. But ... as I got to the car and got inside, I thought of the one good swing I'd had in the game.

I was leading off the sixth inning (we play only seven innings) and I got to the plate and immediately started talking with one of my friends, Orioles catcher Paul ``Yogi'' Milos, as I got into the batter's box and waited for the first pitch.

I took the first two pitches from their pitcher, a crafty righty named Lou ``Doc'' Costello who likes to paint the black both inside and out with slick curveballs and sliders. The first one was pretty low, just below or right at the knees, but I didn't like it very much. The umpire liked it, however, and it was called strike one. The second pitch was quite inside -- maybe right on the inside corner but one I really couldn't have done much with if I had swung at it. Well, I didn't like that one very much either, so I let it go by. Once again the ump did like it, and his is the opinion that counts, so it was strike two.

Milos then quietly muttered to me, ``They were good pitches, Al,'' perhaps just to assure me he didn't think I was getting hosed by the man squatting in back of him.

``Yup,'' I answered. I knew that, but I had been waiting all along for what I figured was going to come next -- a breaking ball on the outside part of the plate.

That's a pitch which I thought, based on having faced this classy, crafty pitcher before and having had some success against him in past games, I had a pretty good chance to drive that outside pitch into right field for a single or even extra bases.

I was right ... the third pitch from Doc was even better than I had hoped for. It probably got more of the plate than he wanted it to. He had made a mistake and thrown one right down the middle.

So I swung hard and smacked it over the second baseman's head and into short right-center for a base hit ... or so it appeared.

But, no. All of a sudden Mike Hughes, another opponent whom I am glad to call a friend, comes sprinting over from right field and dives to the grass, catches the ball in the webbing of his glove -- and holds onto it. He rolls over and shows the glove (with the ball in it) to the field ump. Out.

(A few nights later I would meet up with Hughes at Saratoga Performing Arts Center before a performance of ``Lord of the Dance.'' I was kidding him about it that night, saying, ``Mike, that was a great play how you robbed me like Ron Swoboda the other night, but did you have catch my ball? Couldn't you have picked on somebody else?'')

I was still smiling at what the needling ice cream fan had suggested to me -- that I quit baseball and hang up my cleats -- as I pulled into my driveway.

From there I saw my dear wife, MaryCarol, and our lovable mutt dog, Cha Cha, coming back from a walk and waiting by the back door to greet me and ask how my game had gone.

What did I tell them? Well, by now I wasn't at all glum anymore. The more I thought about how I love to play baseball and about the friends I have made on my own team and on my opposing teams, it really hadn't been a bad evening after all. How many people are lucky enough to get exercise playing their favorite sport -- with and against some of the best friends they've ever had?

I smiled as I thought of that man's advice one last time and thought, ``You know, maybe I should quit at 53. Maybe he's right.''

Then I laughed again, turned off the car engine, looked at my own smiling face in the rear-view mirror and said out loud, ``NAAAAHHHHH!''

I'll be back next year.

Article Reprinted with permission from Times Union newspaper in Albany, New York.

Besides being a member of the MSBL, Alan Hart is a Staff Writer for the Times Union.