Mike Cline column: It really was a day for ‘Pee Wee’ baseball

Published 12:00 am Friday, October 23, 2015

By Mike Cline

For the Salisbury Post

Just when I thought I had shared in these pages all of my humiliating childhood experiences, dadgumit, I thought of another one.

It concerns baseball. And since the Boys of Summer are in their march to the World Series, it’s a fitting time for me to spill it.

I played four years of youth baseball back in my day. The 9- and 10-year-old league was called Pee Wee, and the 11- and 12-year-olds were Little Leaguers. Whether or not our group was officially part of the Williamsport folks, I don’t recall. But Little League, it was called, nonetheless.

There was no player draft like today. One’s school district was the criteria used for placement on a certain team. That way, all the boys from their own neighborhood played together. The Pee Wee years of my career were spent with the Giants. The New York Giants had just moved to Frisco, and Willie Mays played for them, although most of us liked the Mickey Mantle-led Yankees. But “The Say Hey Kid” was one of the top players in the game, so we were all cool with that.

The young kids’ teams had no sponsors, so we had no official uniforms, either. We were given matching caps and were asked to go uptown to a store called The Sports Shop and buy the appropriate team decal which our mothers were to iron onto a new white T-shirt. Add the cap and shirt to any pair of bermuda shorts and a pair of sneakers (mine were high-top P.F. Flyers), and that is what we wore. A comfortable uniform for hot summer days, but I recall sliding into bases wearing short pants had its drawbacks.

I was the team’s second baseman. Granted, I lacked the skills of Bobby Richardson, but I was decent. If I couldn’t catch a ground ball, I’d let it hit me to keep it in the infield. “Keep it in the infield,” the coach always said, because any ball hit into the outfield during those young years could stay out there for several days. The outfield was where coaches banished the players who had no clue what game they were playing and no skills to play it.

The third year playing was exciting because we moved up to the big time. We were Little Leaguers now, complete with sponsored uniforms to go with the P.F. Flyers. I proudly wore the words Webb Insurance across my chest and remained at second base. By this time, I was able to catch more balls than just being struck by them. The only complaint I recall was by our first baseman, who was also my best friend during my youth. He claimed my pitches to first to throw out a runner were too hard. “The throw’s got to get there before the runner or we’re wasting our time,” I would tell him. “Get a bigger mitt.” He did, but still said I threw too hard.

Our playing field was located on the grounds of Statesville Senior High School, on the same piece of land as the football stadium, at the extreme rear of the property, so far back that it was barely visible from the street. It was a regulation-sized field for youth baseball. There was a nice wooden grandstand, similar to Catawba’s Newman Park, just scaled down considerably. A wooden dugout for each team down each baseline. Two important things were missing, however — a concession stand, and even more important, restrooms. The city of Statesville had provided a nice field for us to play, but I suppose, for budgetary reasons, they left off the toilets.

All was not lost. What the city fathers had failed to provide, the Good Lord did. Running parallel to the first base line was an embankment. At the bottom was a narrow creek, or crick, depending on where you come from. This solved half the problem for the players and male spectators. As for moms, grandmothers, sisters and aunts, well, I don’t remember ever asking.

The one game forever burned into my brain was played during my final season. Nothing went my way that day. My team was the visitors, and I was the first batter of the game. I usually led off for the Webb Insurance squad, because I was a pretty good contact hitter, mostly singles, but had good speed, and adding in the amount of balls booted by the defense, I reached base quite a lot.

So I swaggered to home plate like Mr. Big Shot to start the game. We were facing the most feared pitcher in the league. This 12-year-old threw flames. We all thought he was really 22, not 12, but couldn’t prove it. The ump said, “Play ball,” and the kid let loose his first pitch, which found its way into my inside right thigh.

I crashed to the ground faster than Sonny Liston hit the mat the night of the “Phantom Punch.” To say my leg was on fire would be the understatement of that entire summer. But I learned that afternoon that hearing your mother’s voice screaming “Call an ambulance” over a crowd of yelling people makes one forget about how bad your leg feels.

Embarrassment can actually override pain. My coach and teammates surrounded me, asking if I were OK. Mr. Tough Guy got up, brushed himself off, and hobbled down to his earned position at first base.

When we later took the field on defense, my friend at first asked if I had heard my mother from the grandstand. I answered I had. People shopping a half-mile away uptown probably heard her.

Well, things got worse.

In a late stage of the game, I was playing second when I was contacted by Mother Nature. No problem, as soon as we got these guys out, I’d go down the hill. The time came, and I was creek-bound when I heard the coach announce, “Mikey, you’re up. Let’s go.”

That split-second decision to ask for time to take care of pressing business or go on and bat. Not wanting to bring more attention to myself for holding up the proceedings to pollute the creek, I headed to home plate. I was always happy when I got on base, except for this time. I stood on first, experiencing great discomfort, hoping for three quick outs. Our next batter hit a single, so now I was standing at second, about to die.

I couldn’t continue like this, so should I ask for time out or just let go? Maybe I can get away with it, I thought. Maybe no one will know. Relief came, as well as a warm feeling and a wet sock.

Then our shortstop Jeff, one of our best hitters, smacked a line drive into left field. I took off and as I approached third, the coach waved me home. Out the corner of my eye, I saw that the ball and I were going to arrive at home plate at about the same time. Then I heard the coach and teammates yelling, “SLIDE! SLIDE!” So slide I did.

I looked up into the face of the teenaged umpire and heard the word “SAFE!” I also looked down as I started to get up to see the home plate dirt on my pants had turned to mud. The jerk of a catcher yelled, “He wet his pants!” (or words to that effect).

You know, even when we reached high school, I never did like that guy. I didn’t want that jerk to think he had anything to do with what had occurred. Looking for some satisfaction to salvage, I told him it didn’t happen on the slide. It happened on second base. The satisfaction wasn’t there. Just more humilation walking back to the dugout.

I don’t remember much razzing from my team. I just wanted to go home. I don’t even recall who won the game.

What I do remember is getting home, getting out of my soiled uniform and noticing that the baseball that had hit me early on that day had left its seam marks in the flesh of my thigh.

If I could have chosen, I’d rather have been out and dry than safe and wet.

Aside from this, I liked playing baseball.