As Luck Would Have It (5 page)

At every seminar there are three basic types of people.  This is an absolute axiom and never changes.  The first type is the eager beaver.  This person is extremely enthusiastic, raises their hand constantly, is outspoken and will get on your nerves immediately.  The lecturer, I'm sorry, the facilitator will not have to do anything to get this first type to participate.  There are always at least two eager beaver types
in the group,
no matter what; that is so they can compete with each other and make you drink even more each evening when class ends.

The second type of is the reserved type, attentive and interested, but shy and reticent.  They have to be coaxed by the facilitator but will come up with good answers because they have been paying attention and want to learn.  They usually make up the majority of the attendees, which is fine because they are not obnoxious like the eager beaver type and they will be willing to serve as the spokesperson for your group table, assuming that your particular group table does not have an eager beaver type, in which case they will be the spokesperson, no questions asked.

The third type is the disinterested type, who is there because they were sent by their boss and could not come up with a reasonable excuse to get out of it.  This type does not volunteer to do anything and is usually late coming back after lunch or bathroom breaks.  They can sometimes be disruptive, but more likely will sit there quietly texting messages or staring out into space.  The facilitator may think that they can convert the disinterested type and get them to come along with the rest of the group, but they never can and will eventually give up trying somewhere
by
the
end
of the first day. 
As you probably have already guessed,
I am the prototypical example of this type.

Once the obligatory and often embarrassing introductions are done, the seminars follow a predictable script with the only significant difference being the specific content of the program itself and how many times you catch yourself dozing off before you are suddenly snapped back to attention by a probing question.  The seminars always include various exercises.  There are your ice breaker exercises, your group exercises, your white boarding exercises, your break out exercises, all requiring completion by 5:30 so that you can head to the bar for a few drinks and start all over again.

By mid-day on Friday, the seminar will come to a close in much the same way that all the others do.  There will be warm and fuzzy goodbyes with promises of keeping in touch and sharing experiences.  There will be the inevitable "take aways", which are things that each participant has steadfastly agreed to try out in a real world setting, promises that will be immediately
broken or
forgotten upon entering the real world again.

*****

While Joseph headed off for three weeks to what was probably about the best place on earth for a 13
-
year
-
old, or in the state of
Wisconsin
anyway, I settled in to what I thought might be at least a decent summer.  I'd miss hanging out, listening to music and swimming in the pond in our neighborhood, but I liked playing baseball and was starting to develop into a pretty good outfielder.

My father spent many patient hours hitting fly balls to me over the last two years, whenever he could find time and when the weather would cooperate and to the extent tha
t there wasn't too much mud at Bradford Park
.  We would
go on weekends and sometimes even on weeknights in the summer before dinner, if by the time he got home, there was still some daylight.  He worked long hours and I would wait on the porch for
him to pull up the drive
way
in the Dodge
.  Sometimes he would say no and I would be disappointed, but on some occasions the look on my face w
ould be
enough for him to change his mind; accepting the fact that there was no older brother to delegate this duty to.  At first he wasn't good at hitting the ball very far and I doubted that he'd played the game much, if at all when he was younger.  But he was fairly strong and with time, he perfected his skills and would sometimes smack the ball hard and over my head.

Going back, back, gone!  White Sox win again! 

As my dad was improving his hitting technique, I was getting to the point where I could run down most of what he'd hit my way.  I was lean and fast with a natural ability to zone in on the ball soaring high in the air.  No doubt that I was going to play center field once the season got started.  That is, before I showed up for our first practice on Saturday and Coach McDonald pointed to the face mask and chest protector that were lying on the bench and informed me that I would be the team's new catcher.  Billy Woodburn's family had unceremoniously moved to a nearby town over the winter, so now the next Yogi Berra would be
behind the plate for one of our opponents.
  I did not want to play catcher, in fact I hated it.  I argued my case for center field like a seasoned trial lawyer
,
but the
c
oach would hear none of it.  The catcher was the backbone of the team, the most important position on the field, according to him.  He pulled me aside and said I should think of what was best for the team and that outfield just wasn't that important of a position.  He'd put wimpy Marvin Gold in center field, which was a good place for wimps anyway.  Tell that to Willie Mays Coach.

So the summer got off to a bad start and as we are about to see, it was not going to improve much in the near future.  Although my athletic skills were generally good, my instincts for catcher were not.  Our pitchers tended to be wild and their frequent throws in the dirt would often skip past me.  I hated the foul tips that ricocheted off my mask like a stun gun, or worse, managed to find a completely unprotected body part.   In our second game of the season, there were two close plays at home plate, which if I had managed to hold on to, might have sealed one in the win column for us; and now after the fifth game and the season half over, the Mayfield Spider Legs had managed just one victory.

Before game six, Coach McDonald berated me and said I wasn't putting out enough effort; what kind of man was I?  I was not a man at all, I
was
a 13
-
year
-
old boy with a lot of bruises who was trying to have some fun, is what I should have told him. 
Instead,
I asked him to put me in center field; we were playing the Summerville Wildcats and they had a lot of good hitters, including Billy Woodburn.  The logic of that coaching strategy apparently blew right past him and he told me to quit whining and get the shin guards on so I could warm up our pitcher.  I went over to say hi to Billy; I liked him a lot and I missed having him on the team. 
We had become friendly in elementary school and I was sad to see his family move away.  He
liked Joseph too and the three of us would ride our bikes to the mall
or to the movies
now and then.  We chatted for a minute about the new neighborhood and he showed me the beautiful catcher's glove his parents had
bought
for him before the season.  Coach was glaring at me so I wished Billy good luck and ran over to our bench to warm up.

As any true b
aseball
fan can appreciate, the game has
a natural grace and style that is unique among the major spectator sports. 
That same
grace and style was going to take a hit that day when the Spider Legs and the Wildcats took the field.  In the very first inning, Coach McMullen went ballistic when the umpire called one of our guys out trying unsuccessfully to stretch a triple into an inside the park home run.  I was embarrassed at how he screamed at the umpire, then at our unfortunate Tommy V
egas,
who had made the play close sliding into home plate.  Later, he hissed at me like a snake when I took a swing at a bad curve ball that left two runners in scoring position to end the fourth inning.  I looked in the stands across the field and saw my dad wince a bit;
I’m sure
realizing that I might have broke
n
the game open
had I managed a timely hit.

But it was the events in the seventh inning that were to ultimately determine my future as a baseball player.  Summerville was up with two outs when Billy Woodburn hit a deep but playable fly ball to center field, where Marvin Gold was positioned and where he first misjudged it, then recovered enough to get his glove on it
,
but as these things often happen, the ball just squirted a bit from the end of the webbing on his glove and fell to the ground.  The coach was yelling and waving his arms at poor Marvin, who had actually made a good effort and hustled quickly to recover the ball after the error to keep Billy from getting any further than second base.  Good try Marvin, two outs, hang in there, I yelled from behind
home
plate.  Coach McMullen was red and still fuming at Marvin.  Who did he expect
to see
out there, Joe DiMaggio?  Why couldn't we just play the damn game?

As I mentioned, the Wildcats' lineup was loaded with good hitters and the next one up lined the first pitch past our third baseman into left field.  Kent Bertrand played it cleanly and had a nice throwing arm, but Billy had a good jump on the pitch and was a
fast runner
.  I r
ealized there was no way he would not attempt to score
even before the third base coach began frantically rotating his left arm in large circles to signal Billie to round the base and head straight for home.  I flipped my mask to the side and waited for Kent's throw, which was as usual, strong and on target.  This would be close, I knew, so I positioned myself to partially block the plate and braced for the inevitable collision, hoping somehow to not only hang on to the ball, but to time the tag as well to make the out.  Billy barreled right into me and we both went down hard, me landing on my back, but Billy landing in an awkward position with his leg twisted under us.  I heard him yell in pain, then the umpire's cry "you're out"! 
The
wind was pretty well knocked out of me and I struggled for a few seconds
trying to force
some air back into my lungs.
  I managed to get to both knees, noticed that the ball was still miraculously in my glove, but
then
realized then that Billie was hurt badly and was now
crying out
in pain.  Coach McMullen looked on with a smile on his face, clapping his hands at the performance.  The other coaches and players were running over to help Billie if they could, but the Spider Leg's coach just stayed at the bench, grinning and probably gloating
now
at his decision to put me in as catcher
.
 

Someone call an ambulance, his leg is broken, quick, call 911. 

I was sitting on the ground, stunned and scared at the same time
;
seeing Billy lying there in
such
obvious
pain, with his right leg twisted grotesquely
into
some strange and unnatural looking angle
.  One of the spectators brought a blanket from their van and covered his lower body and a doctor had appeared from
somewhere in
the stands, kneeling over Billy trying to calm him.
The pain showed so clearly on his face that it
terrified me, but I stayed there with the others at his side, somehow hoping it might hel
p.
 
It’s OK, Billy, don’t worry, you’ll be OK.

My dad was there
now
as well with his a
rm around my shoulders
, saying
whatever he could think of to encourage Billy as well.  He
saw that I was crying
a bit;
I was alright I told him, I
’m not hurt.
  When the ambulance had taken him, I
pulled
off my chest protector and shin guards
and threw them towards Coach McMullen
in disgust
.  He started to
come
towards me
,
but I just turned away and walked
to the parking lot where my
dad was now waiting in the car.

Two days later, my parents took me to the hospital to visit Billy, who was sitting up in a reclining chair with his leg in a huge cast nearly up to his waist.  He’d had surgery with pins inserted to repair the two fractures
,
which the doctor said should heal well
given
time. 
My parents gave Billy the gifts we had brought; a book of crossword puzzles and the latest issues of
Newsweek
and
S
porting News.
  They chatted with Billy’s parents while I joked with my friend and signed his cast with the Magic Marker Mr. Woodburn handed to me.

The medical prognostications were to turn out
to be accurate
;
Billy played again the following summer and a year after that, he made starting catcher on his school’s freshman junior varsity team.  Joseph and I would go to watch
him play when we could
, but I
never played again after that.  My dad and I would still go to
Bradford Park
to hit them out now and then, but my
enthusiasm
and love of the game ha
d waned, and it wouldn’t be long before my dad was gone
and there would be no one to encourage me to play anymore.