I sometimes forget that Friday is trash day, but I still remember my first at-bat in the Franklin season opener my senior year against Valley View, when the Spartan pitcher let a curve ball hang a little too long, allowing me to hit a liner to left centerfield for a triple.
For that moment, I was on top of the world, like a king. Only a minute later, just thirty seconds after Coach Doug Long told me to watch for the pitcher’s pickoff move, I was in the dugout, picked off, deader than a duck, looking for a place to hide.
“That won’t happen again,” I told Coach later.
“Oh, I know it won’t, ‘cause I may not play you the rest of the season,” he responded. At that moment, I couldn’t tell if he was kidding.
A few nights ago I walked into the laundry room and then couldn’t remember why I went there, but I remember taking a lead off third base in a game in Bourbon County, Ky. a few weeks after the Valley View game (I was lucky Coach kept me in the starting lineup).
“You’re the go-ahead run, got it?” Coach told me. “You hot-dog it here and I’m going to make you walk home.”
“Yes, sir,” I responded, paying close attention to the pitcher. At that moment, I had no doubt Coach was serious.
Just then Jamie Wines crushed a three-run home run that probably landed somewhere in Tennessee. We celebrated as if we had just won the World Series. And I was ready to vote for Jamie for President. What a moment.
And then just last night, my wife Kim reminded me once again to get furnace filters, which I was supposed to do last week, but as I drove through Lebanon an hour earlier I clearly remembered the afternoon Pete Jones — one of the Warriors’ best players — hit a ball deep to left centerfield in a huge league game late in the season.
As our left fielder, it was my ball to get, and centerfielder Kevin Hollon shouted at me over and over again, “Plenty of room, Kirb! Plenty of room!”
My crash into the left field wall was like a violent collision with Mean Joe Greene, but I made the catch. “I thought you said I had plenty of room,” I said to Kevin, who was grinning ear to ear.
“Aw heck no,” he said. “If I’d have told you the truth, you never would have made the catch.”
Yeah, he had that right.
…
THERE IS A SCENE IN John Grisham’s book, “Bleachers,” where a bunch of former high school football players return to their hometown to celebrate the life of their coach, who has only a few days to live.
One night, they sit in the bleachers at their high school field and, while eating pizza and drinking beer, they listen to the radio broadcast of their state championship game from 15 years earlier.
Before the announcer calls what happens on a particular play, the players say what is about to happen. Despite all the years that have passed, they remember.
When Kim read the book, she said to me, “There’s no way guys can remember stuff like that from so long ago.” And I was like, “Um, that’s what athletes do. They remember.”
I may not remember all pitch-counts or game situations, but I remember so many details of the days (from the 70s) when I wore a uniform and had the privilege of playing for the Franklin Wildcats. I remember stuff that happened on bus rides, breaks between innings, before practices, in huddles, and after the games -- everything.
That’s a tribute to being part of a great team, but it’s also an indication of how much the memories and friendships from high school always stay with us.
If you ask someone where they were between the ages of 30 and 33, they have to think about it before answering. But ask them where they were between 15 and 18, they don’t have to give it a second thought
The memories come rushing in.
…
AT AGE 60, I don’t want to speculate too much on where I am on life’s trip around the bases, but I suspect I’m somewhere near third base. Only the Good Lord knows for sure when I will head for home.
In truth, these are the good old days, even with graying hair and crowe’s feet around the eyes.
But all it takes is a song on the radio or a phone call from a friend and I’m right back to age 17 and reliving some moment from the past, loving every minute of it.
It happened again the other night when I talked to my friend Joe Byrne, when for some reason I was reminded that I left my Wildcat baseball team jacket at Talawanda in our next to last game of the season. I told Joe the penalty for leaving a jacket was 10 laps around the field. But because our season ended right up near the end of the school year, I never ran the laps.
With all the great memories I have from so many years ago, I owe a debt of gratitude to everyone involved.
You know what that means? I have to pay the penalty for leaving my jacket. And do you know what the interest on 10 laps over 43 years is?
About 328 miles.
Dang, I gotta’ get going.