Batboy on the Worst Team Ever! Read online

  Coach Pugh decided to put himself in as starting pitcher with ‘Squeaky' John Hollar behind the plate.

  Things started just like every losing game we played lately. Marion put up two in the first. Then the Rocks came back to tie it up in the top of the third. The Marauders came back with two more in the bottom of the third, and we were looking at the wrong side of 4-2 clear through to the seventh inning.

  In the top of the seventh, Bill Cross leads off and gets a walk. Dick Patton came up second and made the sacrifice bunt. But, the pitcher and the third baseman collided and Dick got on safely while Bill Cross moved up a base. We had runners at first and second and Pete Fox was the go ahead run at the plate.

  Pete got hold of a slider and smacked it clear over the fence. The bat cracked like lightning but the ball flew just the wrong side of the foul pole in right field.

  Hells Bells and little fishes!

  But, Pete followed it up with a single to right and Bill Cross almost passed the slower Dick Patton as they both ran home and scored. And, we had a tie game!

  Next up, John Hollar hit into a double play. Then Wayne Davis flew out to end the side but we had put up two more.

  Marion finished out the seventh with three up and three down, and we were locked together at 4-4.

  I'll never forget when Bob Pugh called us all into a huddle before we went up to bat in that eighth inning.

  “Boys,” Coach said. “It's time to paint our butts white and run with the antelope.”

  And, that's exactly what we did.

  We played small ball as if we invented it. A walk, a single and single brought in Max Deal, who recently signed on to play but was the longtime facility manager of the Granite Falls Junior High. (He was Bubba and Choppers boss.)

  Suddenly, we were winning 5 - 4.

  We finished our turn at bat with two strike outs and a fly out to center, and we took the field just six outs away from a miracle.

  That's when Bob Pugh, who had pitched the entire game, just started overpowering the Marion batters. Bob struck out two and a third fouled out to the Catcher to finish out the eighth inning.

  I was shaking like a leaf as we went into the ninth. I was nervous as pig on pork chop Sunday, just praying we could add a pair of runs for insurance.

  Bobby Thorp led off with a pop fly to center. Doug Williams grounded out, and Gil August was tagged out on the way to first.

  So, it was bottom of the ninth, we were up by one and push had finally come to shove.

  I had my fingers and my toes crossed and I would have crossed my eyes except Momma says they'll get stuck that way.

  Speaking of stuck, the Rocks had been stuck on 13 wins for the last 26 games. But, three more outs would put us over the top. I would have held my breath until I passed out if I thought it would do any good!

  Bob Pugh took the mound and shook his rosin bag as if he was rolling dice.

  Then Bob threw three strikes right down the center and overwhelmed that first Marion batter. And, it was one away.

  The next batter blooped one over the short stop's head and got on base safely. Then a wild pitch drove the runner on to second.

  The following batter hit a sacrifice fly to Right Field, and the runner moved to third.

  With two away and the tying run on third base, the big Marion First Baseman walked up to the plate. He was one for four that evening, but he must of lost count because right there in front of God and everybody, that first baseman points his bat out to the right field fence like he was Babe Ruth or something.

  Why I was ready to walk out there and kick that egg sucking mule right in the shins! But, I would have had to uncross my legs to do it.

  Anyway, Bob Pugh fires one across the plate and Mule boy swings with all his might, and he misses it by a mile! He over swings so hard that I thought he was going to drive himself into the ground like a wood screw.

  On the second pitch, Bob throws him one low and outside. But old mule boy just stands and watches it go by for a ball.

  Bob comes back with a sinker. Mule boy takes another mighty chop but the ball drops underneath him. The count goes to 1 ball and 2 strikes.

  From the dugout I could see Bob Pugh shake off Johnny Hollar twice before he settled in. I was pretty certain that Bob was coming with the heat. It was do or die time.

  Bob winds up and tosses that ball with everything he has left. Suddenly, I see the batter adjusting his stance and realize old Mule boy is going to bunt!

  I had covered my eyes with my hands ‘cause I could not bear to watch. Except, I did peak through my fingers.

  The bunted ball goes rolling out towards third base as the runner takes off like a shot. Bob Pugh comes charging off the mound and intercepts the bunt just as the runner passes him going home. Bob grabs up the ball in his free right hand and makes a diving throw from outside the baseline towards big Johnny Hollar who is protecting that plate like the walls of Jericho.

  Johnny Hollar reaches up to pull in the ball just as the runner hits him going flat out. Johnny gets knocked straight back over home plate in a cloud of dust.

  When the dust cleared, Johnny is laying flat on his back holding up the baseball with one hand. He made the catch, tagged the runner, and held on during the collision.

  Johnny was a former linebacker for the Washington Redskins, and he could sure “take a lickin' and keep on tickin’”.

  That was out number three. And, Granite Falls rocked Marion 5-4 for our 14th win of the season!

  You never saw a happier bunch of ball players in your whole entire life.

  ****************

  The city of Marion is the county seat of McDowell County, North Carolina, and in 1951, McDowell was a dry county. So, there weren't any liquor stores or bars open after the game. Since we were on the road, the players sure did not know of any local bootleggers they could call up for some celebration beverages but, that did not stop the fellas from tying one on to celebrate the end of the ‘13 Jinx'!

  After the game, we loaded up into our school bus. But, before we left town Bob Pugh pulls up in front of the brand new Piggly Wiggly and calls Deacon Thorp up to drive.

  About half the team goes inside, and five minutes later they return to the bus with two of cases of lemon extract and a big box of Dixie Cups.

  Deacon Thorp, our tea totaling second baseman, piloted us home to Granite Falls that night. If it had not been for Deacon, I don't know if we would have got home that night at all. Because every time we passed one of those cold and clean flowing mountain streams, the boys would holler till Deacon stopped the bus. Then the guys would file out with a Dixie Cup in one hand and bottle of Lemon extract in the other.

  The fellas would all pop the cap off a little brown extract bottle. Then, holding the bottle in one hand, they dipped the Dixie Cup into the stream with the other. On the count of three, they would down that two ounce bottle of lemon extract and chase it with a Dixie cup full of water. Then they would choke and splash and carry on as if they had no sense at all.

  It turns out that lemon extract is 83% alcohol. I found out on that bus ride home, in drinking terms that is 166 proof. It did not take many little bottles of that lemon firewater to start having an impact.

  As far as I know, we did not leave anybody on the road that night, but we sure could have. When we got back to Granite Falls, we had Rocks drunk sick and passed out all over the seats and in the aisles. Old Deacon and me were the only upright bodies on the team.

  Since Deacon was in charge as the lone adult standing, he decided we should leave our teammates to spend the night passed out on the old school bus. He said it would encourage them to “consider a more temperate life of reflection and sobriety.”

  Deacon and I left the rest of the boys to sleep it off amid the puddles of lemon puke.

  The next day Mr. German called the team to a rare morning meeting. When our hung over teammates came stumbling in looking like something the dogs kept under
the porch, they found out they were not there to practice baseball. Instead, they were called upon to spend the morning washing down the seats and floor boards of that old school bus.

  Grandma Tooley always says, “There's nothing cheaper than soap and water.”

  After applying a generous amount of both and a whole big bunch of elbow grease, that bus no longer smelt like the men's room floor of a cut rate road house. Although from that day forward if the bus sat out in the hot sun we were forced to leave the windows open. Else, when we boarded up after the game, we were assaulted by pungent aroma of citrus vomit.

  For the rest of the year, Deacon Thorp carried a pocket full of lemon drops he was always offering to his teammates but except for Shine and me he never got any takers.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Chapter Twelve – Rain Out

  After our big win over Marion, the Rocks fell back into the losing pit, and we just could not seem to climb out. Not only were we struggling on the field, off the field we were fighting just to finish the season.

  Throughout the country, minor league teams were dropping like flies. Entire leagues were going under. In 1950 there were 58 leagues in the USA. By 1952, eight of those leagues folded completely. A half dozen teams in North and South Carolina had shut the doors so far this season, including Gastonia and Tarboro.

  Mr. German said in the paper several times that for the Rocks to be successful we needed 1000 fans a game. The problem was that there were only about 1000 people in Granite Falls. In post war America, people had better things to do than go to the ball park two or three times a week.

  Even the fans in the free seats, the ones on the other side of the outfield fence, were thinning out. As a matter of fact, one night when Big Bubba was raking down the infield after the game, an upset freeloader called him over.

  “You tell Bob Pugh, if he doesn't start winning, we are going to quit coming to the games,” said the sponger.

  “You are going to quit coming for free?” Bubba asked in disbelief.

  “That's right. You tell Bob that the Rocks are going to have to be more competitive if he expects us to keep supporting the team.”

  In addition to our constant losing, it was also the hottest summer that anyone could remember. The old blacktop roads shimmered with heat as we rode our school bus from ballpark to ballpark. Walking across the road in the middle of the day would melt the soles of your shoes or coat them across the bottom with a fresh layer of black tar. And, forget about trying to cross barefoot. You would end up with seared feet and dancing like a Red Indian.

  The entire county was suffering. Every day was more of the same: hot and dusty. We hadn't seen a drop of rain since May.

  It was so scorching hot that Chopper Gaines even told me and Shine that he saw a Carolina Stick Lizard migrating up to the mountains from the hotter flat lands down South.

  A stick lizard is a little brown reptile that inhabits the hot dry lowland of the Carolinas. What sets him apart from other lizards is that he carries a small stick on his back. When things get too hot for the little guy, he drives the stick into the ground then climbs it and blows on his poor overheated feet.

  Now I had heard of stick lizards all my life but they are so rare up here in the cooler mountains that I have never actually seen one. So, Shine and I asked Chopper exactly where he spotted the creature and together we made a trip over to see him for ourselves. We must have got the directions wrong, because we did not spot any lizards carrying or standing on sticks.

  Anyway, playing baseball in the heat and dust was an ordeal.

  Choking hot and filthy, we lost to Lincolnton 14-1 on July 28th.

  On July 30th we lost to Morganton 30-0 on a day that was unbearable. I thought we were going to drown in our own sweat.

  We struggled through a double header the next day at Morganton where we lost 7-3 and 8-4. That was seven straight hours in a dugout that was more like an oven. Before the second game, the boys had me squirt them down with a garden hose.

  Following a couple more sad outings under that blazing sun, we finally made it home to play at our own stadium on August 6th. That day Shine and I set a record for icing down the most cases of Cokecola and the team emptied every single bottle.

  We had 70 losses going into that home game, and that match was scoreless through six innings. But, the wheels came off in the seventh, and we lost to the Shelby Farmers 5-0. The location had changed but the results remained the same.

  At least we did not have a two hour ride home on that stifling unventilated school bus. And, after the game we turned on the water faucet and stuck our heads beneath the cooling well water stream. (And, when I got home, I inhaled half a pitcher of lemon grape Kool-aid)

  On August 8th, we were scheduled to play another scorching hot contest against the Twins at our house but, Mother Nature had different plans. It looked like we were finally going to get a break from the heat!

  The weather service reported that tropical storm Irene was heading ashore in South Carolina and those forecasters figured it was heading our way.

  The day broke just as hot and hazy as every other day for the last two months. It looked like the Carolina farmers were victims once more of false hope and promises.

  With no sign of rainy Irene, Shine and I hit the clubhouse just after lunch to clean up the equipment, dress out the shoes and get ready to play some baseball. Big Bubba was raking down the dusty infield and setting out the bases. Chopper Gaines was hacking down weeds that were growing in back of the dugout where the water faucet dripped.

  Every so often, we looked up at the Southern skies hoping to spot a rain cloud in the distance. But, all we saw was the same old, same old: hot and hazy and 100% chance of sweat.

  About two o'clock the players started showing up for batting practice. Bob Pugh takes the mound and starts putting some across for the boys. Before you know it, Bob starts clowning around and throwing some underhanded softball pitches.

  That's when Tyler Shugart bets that he can take two swings at the same pitch before it crosses the plate. So, Bob takes Tyler up on the wager and the rest of us drift over to see the show.

  Bob launches three underhanded drop pitches in a row. And, try as he might, Tyler Shugart can't live up to his boast but, Tyler catches the final falling pitch with all his strength and sends it almost straight up.

  That ball seemed like it hung up there forever. Eventually it fell like a mortar shell to land right next to the pitcher's mound. Bob Pugh yelled out something to Tyler about switching to softball, when suddenly we heard a booming crackling rumble in the distance.

  Looking South, for the first time we notice menacing black thunderheads stretching across the horizon from East to West, as far as the eye could see.

  Irene was coming to the game!

  “I believe it's clabbering up to rain,” Bubba observed.

  “Looks like a frog strangler to me,” agreed Chopper. “We better get our stuff picked up and put inside.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  For the next half hour, the line of thunderstorms came rumbling in from the South. The sun disappeared and the wind picked up. Shine and I were running around grabbing up equipment and moving it back to the clubhouse as rapidly as possible.

  The temperature dropped quickly and the wind came whipping up with a vengeance. Dust and dirt blew through in waves. An old paper popcorn bag was whisked up from the stands and swirled into the atmosphere caught in the grasp of an unseen tornado. It just circled higher and higher until it was lost from sight. I wondered if it would swirl all the way to Hickory, and maybe on to Oz.

  About that time, we heard plop, plop, plop as fat swollen raindrops started thumping down on the parched red infield. Soon, individual drops gave way to a drumming chorus as thousands of beads cascaded down from the heavens.

  The odd thing was nobody ran for cover.

  We just stood there looking up at the sky as if we were see
ing rain for the very first time. Ball players stretched out their arms and opened their mouths like they were catching January snowflakes on their tongues.

  Before long the rain was pounding and it felt like standing under a showerhead. The guys started whooping and hollering and dancing around the field as if they had lost their minds. Then, like ballplayers do when they get excited, they began whipping the baseball around the infield as the cool rain dripped off their caps and made trails down dust covered necks.

  We were overcome by welcome rain and refreshing wind. Two months of oppressive heat had beaten us down, and this squall was like getting a reprieve from the Governor. Suddenly we were released from the scorching chains of summer and we danced and sloshed and played like kids in a fountain.

  Wiping raindrops from his eyes, John Hollar grabbed a bat and stepped into the batter’s box where Bob Pugh served him up a blue plate special. John smacked a grounder that slid through the grass heavy with rain and rolls on towards the outfield.

  John dashed to first and turned the corner heading for second as the right fielder chased down the ball. In one fluid motion the fielder picked up the sphere and fired it into the base just as John hit the ground to slip and slide in safely. Sliding John beat the tag and stood up to display a face and shirt covered by the muddy scarlet earth. He laughed like a preschooler playing in a puddle.

  After John, Bob Pugh walked over to first base. Then he took off towards second and slid across the mud. And, he came up with a smile.

  Before long, everyone was lining up to see who could slide the farthest. The rain continually replenished any water and mud that was splashed aside.

  Then, Bob called me over, and he and John Hollar each grabbed a hand and a foot. On the count of three they sling me down the baseline, and I skated across the puddles and into base. Standing up, I looked like I had been dipped in reddish chocolate. My entire front was covered with cool muddy slime. So, I lie down on my back in the brown grass of left field and let the rain splash across my face.

  We played in the mud and the rain for half an hour. The wind kept blowing stronger and the late afternoon sky was nearly pitch black. Finally, a nearby lightning strike followed by a booming crash of thunder, drove us all into protection of our little cinderblock clubhouse.