Summers of the 70s at Cornwall Park. They were summers of competition where two teams met each Sunday to fight for the title of Best Church Youth Group Softball Team. The battling crosstown rivals were: Northwest Baptist and Immanuel Bible.
It started out as a friendly game where someone at Northwest would know someone at Immanuel and tell them that at 2:00 pm we were planning a softball game in the field at the park, and they should invite their friends. We would scrape together enough young adults from the co-ed group to form two teams. At the end of the game we would say, “See you again next week,” and each week it would grow bigger.
Then one Sunday, there were so many from each church showing up that someone suggested, instead of mixing the churches to form two teams, we should make one team from one church and one from the other. Thus began the sometimes not so friendly rivalry.
There was, from 1967 through 1969, a television show called The Guns of Will Sonnett which played on ABC. It starred Walter Brennan and was set on the 1870s frontier. In the series, Will travels from town to town trying to find his son, James, with whom he is estranged. In one episode, Will makes a claim about his gun fighting ability and he ends it by saying, “That’s no brag, just fact.” This then became a catchphrase through the rest of the 50 episodes.
So, I will borrow the phrase, “This is no brag, just fact” when I say that during that time in my life, because of working out in the gym and climbing ropes, I was very strong in my arms and chest. Because of this strength, I could slam the softball out of the field and deep into the woods. One time coming up to bat, I noticed the outfielders were missing.
“Where are the fielders?” I asked the catcher.
“They’re up in the woods waiting for you to hit,” she said.
Quite soon, it became a major irritation to locate the ball in the underbrush, so I was given the ultimatum of backing off on my swing or taking an “out” if the ball went into the woods. And so, I volunteered to be the umpire which was odd because many of the young men from both teams had actively played on baseball teams through clubs, middle, and high schools. I didn’t. Although I could hit the ball, I didn’t know the first thing about the game or the rules.
To be an umpire, one should be neutral, impartial, unbiased, and able to watch each pitch and play without distraction. It soon became clear to both teams that: A) I must have ADHD, B) I was biased toward the Northwest team, and C) I had no clue how to be an umpire.
A wild pitch would be thrown, and I would yell, “strike!”
To which the catcher would snark, “That was a mile outside the strike zone, moron!”
Another pitch would be thrown, and I would yell, “ball!”
“That was a strike, moron!”
So instead of making a definitive call, I chose to make calls as a question and let the public opinion decide.
“Ball?”
“No!”
I also found that changing teams in the outfield was the perfect time to run to the bathroom, sit down for a Pepsi, chat with a friend, or just generally roam around.
Soon, as both teams were waiting to resume play, I would hear someone shout, “Get behind the catcher you daft excrement!”
During one inning, my church, Northwest, was out in the field. George Ueland was playing first base. The Northwest pitcher tossed the ball and the Immanuel batter bunted. The ball rolled six feet out in front of the pitcher. As the batter was running to first, the pitcher scooped up the ball and with lightning velocity fired it to George who was not prepared to catch it. As the runner leapt to tag the base, the ball either ticked the top of George’s mitt or missed it altogether. Regardless, it hit him directly in the nose. His head flipped back, his feet rose to the sky, and George flopped to the grass on his back. Both nostrils gushed blood.
“He’s out!” I yelled.
“He was safe!” the Immanuel side yelled.
“No. I mean George is out. Cold.”
The Immanuel hitter made it to the base by a nose. Meanwhile, George was driven to the ER. The next time I saw him, he had two black eyes and gauze packed in both nostrils of his badly broken proboscis.
We moved “Ducky” Quackenbush over from shortstop to cover first.
It was the bottom of the eighth inning. Due to my incredible game calling, Northwest was ahead by one run and was up to bat. I had taken the change-out as an opportunity to walk over and sit down next to a girl who had brought sandwiches. As we were chatting and I was munching heartily on the bologna and cheese, I heard the all too familiar, “You incredible idiot! Get behind the catcher!”
“Oh yeah. Be right there. Remember, young ears are listening,” I called back.
Ambling back to home plate, still holding the sandwich, I saw the pitcher motion the catcher out to the mound. They conferred for a moment, the pitcher occasionally glancing my way. I got the sneaking hunch he didn’t like me one bit. Then the catcher returned.
The first Northwest batter stood at the plate. The pitcher threw the ball.
“Ball 1!” I yelled.
“It was a strike,” the catcher scoffed. The pitcher threw again.
“Ball 2!” I shouted.
“Hey, come on, that was a strike.” the now hostile Immanuel team members yelled. I saw the pitcher hand-signal to the catcher, and she nodded.
The pitcher wound up and fired a fast ball, the batter missed it, and the catcher jumped to the left. As I was putting the last bite of my sandwich in my mouth, I realized why I should have worn a mask and chest protection. As the catcher rolled over onto her back, she spun her head to watch the ball hit and form a crater in my solar plexus.
The bologna and cheese sandwich shot out of my mouth along with a word that shouldn’t be uttered at a church ball game. Both the sandwich and the word careened off the back of the batter’s head.
The solar plexus is a nerve cluster which affects all the internal organs. When it is injured, the wind gets knocked out of the victim and sends him into shock. Though I did not go into shock, I was done for the day.
With great surprise, Immanuel pulled ahead with three runs in the ninth and won the game.
The next week it was time for revenge. Black-eyed George was once again on first base, although I’ve never seen a player at that position wearing a catcher’s mask before.
I once again took to batting, with each hit drilling a line drive at the pitcher. I’m not saying that I had him scared . . . but he ended up pitching the last four innings from the second base bag.
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