A Play at the Plate (Shades of Charlie Hustle)

Any baseball fan worth his/her salt remembers (or is at least aware of) Pete Rose’s infamous collision with catcher Ray Fosse during the 1970 All-Star game. Rose was waved home by third base coach Leo Durocher after a single by Jim Hickman. Possessed of a “win at all costs” instinct, Rose bowled Fosse over, wresting the ball from his grasp, and scoring the winning run. Fosse was never the same again, and chided Rose over such a maneuver during a game that was essentially meaningless.

About ten years later, I had my Pete Rose moment during a little league playoff game, which has gone down in history as one of my most vivid childhood memories. My other sports related memory is of a hand injury I suffered while at the plate, so this is the one I like to relive.

All of us daydream of that one heroic moment where we single handedly win the game – that moment in the sun where all eyes are upon us, and our teammates heave us on their shoulders in jubilation, like Bobby Thomson after he hit the “Giants win the pennant!” home run that sent them to the 1951 World Series.

That moment is perhaps best exemplified in the final scene of “The Natural” (best baseball film ever!), when Roy Hobbes as played by Robert Redford, hits a climactic home run to clinch a desperately needed victory. It’s a moment of shattering cinematic brilliance that manipulates that heroic desire in all of us.

The suspense builds, the music swells, and Hobbes smashes one out in slow motion. As the entire stadium erupts, he rounds the bases amidst a shower of dazzling light sprinkling down from the lights he shattered with his mighty blow. If you’re a baseball fan, there’s no greater moment (on film) than this one.

I was a better than average hitter in my day. I had natural ability at the plate and always found myself batting either first or second. Near the end of my “career,” I had gained some weight, and my strength increased to the point where I was the clean-up man. I never hit one out, but was always good for a double.

I played third base, and while I could field grounders effectively, I prayed the ball would never come my way because I couldn’t manage an accurate throw to first. If anything, I’d throw it over the first baseman’s head. Thankfully, my bat made up for my fielding inadequacies.

My memory for dates is fuzzy but I believe the historic game happened in 1980, when I was ten. Yes, my moment of glory happened early, but at least it happened.

I was part of a very strong team that made it to the playoffs that year. Unfortunately, I can’t remember much of the game leading up to my moment in the sun. I know we were losing, but were still very much in the game.

During the late innings, I came up and smacked one of my trademark line drives, but it was only enough for a long single. With runners at first and second, and two out, the next batter hit a screaming line drive that was definitely enough to score at least one run.

Here’s where my memory shifts gears into slow motion. I knew I couldn’t score, but the third base coach was waving me home. I knew I was a dead duck at the plate, but to hold at third meant disobeying the coach. No matter how stupid the direction, that was verboten.

I can remember trying in that split second to shake my head, "No," but he was flailing like a madman to send me home. Not only would I be out, the rally would die with me, as there were already two outs.

I was a goner on so many levels. The ball beat me home by a mile and I never learned how to slide, so I couldn’t hope to get in under the tag. Instantly, I flashed to the climactic moment of the 1970 All-Star game, and I knew what I had to do.

I crashed into the catcher with all the fury of Charlie Hustle himself. No doubt the young man was expecting a slide, but I was drawing on my vast store of baseball knowledge to turn a hopeless situation to my favor. I really doubt the kid was as much of a student of the game as I was. Bowling over the catcher in a little league game was apparently entirely legal.

We were both stunned by the impact, and he, of course, dropped the ball. The slow motion continued as I reached out to touch home plate before he regained his composure. I can’t remember for sure, but I believe the ump called me out, but quickly recanted, screaming, “Safe!” several times to be abundantly clear.

The next few seconds were awash with insane jubilation. Just like in the fantasy, my teammates held me aloft briefly, screaming and hugging me. I can vividly recall my Dad jumping up and down in the stands, as though the Brooklyn Dodgers had just won the World Series. My Mom was pretty happy too.

It was such a chaotic scene that no one realized the runner behind me (who had driven me in) was tagged out at the plate. Obviously, the third base coach got greedy and tried to sneak one more in, but the catcher was prepared. The inning (and the rally) were over, and truth be known, we lost the game, but it was hard to shake that joyous feeling.

The one glorious moment was seared into my brain. 28 years later it remains a potent memory that always brings a smile to my face. True, I was ten years old. It wasn’t a home run that won the game, but for those few seconds I was the hero. Everyone was screaming my name. Never more would I have to fantasize of such a moment. It really happened.