Chasing Time’s protagonist, Tony Lucas, grew up in Brooklyn in the 1960s. Author Thomas Reilly shares stories of his Brooklyn days in a series of posts.
“You better cover your base son.”
These words echoed in my ears as I stood well off my third base bag, totally mesmerized by the speed and athleticism displayed by my teammate and center fielder, Teddy Adams. He was sprinting furiously towards the gap in right-center, trying to intercept a scorching line drive off the bat of the opposing team’s clean-up hitter, John Hanson. Third base, my position, my responsibility! And here I was, playing the role of a passive spectator captivated by the theatrics in the outfield while completely neglecting my job to cover the base.
The umpire’s words immediately shook me back to reality. I hustled back to the base just as Teddy corralled the ball in deep center and in one smooth motion, unleashed a perfect rocket to third with his canon of a right arm. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Hanson on the base path, rumbling towards me at third like a runaway freight train. A momentary fear seized me as I realized Hanson was considerably larger than me, a fact that I had never fully appreciated until this very moment. This may not end well!
Teddy’s throw reached my outstretched mitt a microsecond before Hanson plowed directly into my body, sending me sprawling in the air and landing hard on the ground in a cloud of dust. To this day, I clearly remember the umpire standing over me, waiting for the dust to settle. After what seemed like minutes, he examined my gloved hand with the ball safely tucked inside and cried out in one of the most rewarding shouts I have ever heard—OUT!
That Saturday afternoon little league game between my Jaspers and the opposing Redmen was the pinnacle of my organized athletic career. As a thirteen-year-old eighth grader at St. Anselms Grammar School, I had developed into a competent if not spectacular ball player after three years of junior varsity ball with the Tigers, and now my final season at the varsity level with the Jaspers. I enjoyed everything about little league: the practices; the escalating tensions in warm-ups before games; the excitement of closely fought battles on the field; and most of all, the spirit of comradeship and brotherhood that teamwork promoted. Baseball transformed kids that were too cool to even acknowledge my existence in school into rabid cheerleaders every time I strode to the plate to bat or assumed my defensive third base position. However, in terms of individual moments of glory, there really were none over my four-year career. At least until that play at third base ended the inning and preserved our fragile one-run lead over the Redmen, then the first-place team in our division. As my teammates rushed out from their field positions and bench seats to congratulate me, pat me on the back, and repeat over and over again; “What a play,” I thought to myself, probably for the first time in my life; So this is how it feels to be a star.
We went on to win the game that Saturday morning, and a few weeks later, my organized baseball career ended. However, that one play is still etched in my memory, some fifty-five years later. I suppose it may have laid a foundation for several life lessons that have served me well over the years. For example, it reinforced the fact that we all need assistance from others at certain times in our lives. It emphasized the notion that even small accomplishments can have lasting meaning. From a more practical standpoint, it underscored the important maxim that daydreaming too much on the job may prove dangerous. However, in the final analysis, its most enduring impact has been the perpetual smile evoked whenever I recall that joyful and almost comical event.
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