December 11, 2006

• Time for another episode of…

  Not-So Great Moments in Dramamine Boy History
  
  Also titled: Baseball – A Tragedy in Three Parts
  

  
  I’ve been a fan of baseball for quite some time.  Sure, games can be a bore sometimes and 162 games in a season makes for a long, long season.  But, I find baseball fascinating and it’s a joy to go down to the ballpark to watch a game.  Oh sure, I can get all flowery here like others do about baseball, spouting off poetry about the interaction between the batter and pitcher, how the pauses in between pitches allow fans to soak in the atmosphere and how it builds drama and tension, blah blah blah.
   
  Instead, we like to keep it simple here at Dramamine Boy’s Xanga…
   
  Dram.  Baseball.  Like.
   
  Now, when it comes to PLAYING baseball, I will readily admit… I suck.  I suck at baseball.  I started playing on a baseball team at age six.  I played on our team every year except for one until the ninth grade.  And I sucked every year.
   
  There is a system that baseball scouts use to rate a baseball player.  It is called, “The Five Tools”.  They grade players on each of these five aspects of baseball ability and the ones that score high in all five categories usually go on to play baseball at the higher levels.
   
  The five tools are:
   
   - Hitting for average
   - Hitting for power
   - Running speed
   - Fielding ability
   - Arm strength
   
  As you can guess, I possessed none of these tools.  Well, I could do all of those things… and I’m sure I’d rate pretty high if you compared my skills to any two-year old’s (okay… most two-year old’s).  But when compared to kids my own age, I was rather lacking.  While some of my teammates had “fine, craftsman-like” tools, my tools were more of the “using a rock to hammer a nail” variety.
   
  Anyway, I was so bad at baseball, that this episode of Not-So-Great Moments in Dramamine Boy’s History has to be separated into three parts.  Why three parts?  Cuz if I’m gonna look stupid on the internet, I might as well milk it for a few blogs.
   
  I thought the best way to break these up would be into three categories… The Tame, The Bad and The Embarrassing.  I’ll start with The Tame, so hopefully by the time I get to the embarrassing ones, I’ll come to my senses and leave the country instead of sharing them.
   

  
  

  Part I – The Tame
   
  Fielding, Part I -  I was not a good fielder.  Most of my years were spent playing shortstop.  This is considered one of the most important defensive positions on the team. There are a lot of balls hit towards shortstop, you have to cover second base for a double-play possibility with a runner on first base, third base on a bunt attempt with a runner on second and you have to shift to the correct positions to be a cut-off man when throws are coming from the outfield.  That’s a lot of responsibility for a seven-year old.
   
  My main focus while playing shortstop was throwing dirt-clods at our second baseman.
   
  Later in my baseball career, I was moved to the outfield.  The coach decided to have me play left field one game (and I do mean, ONE GAME) and after a few innings, I had played a flawless left field, successfully picking up a few balls that rolled to a stop in the thick outfield grass.  Then, a batter hit a line-drive right at me.  I quickly gauged where the ball would land and I started running forward to catch the screaming liner.
   
  I then heard the center fielder yell, “BAAACK!”  I came to a sudden halt and stood in place for a second, still watching the ball coming at me and wondering why the center fielder was yelling.  Was there a tiger behind me that was about to pounce?  I then came to the realization that where I thought the ball was coming down and the actual spot where the ball was going to land were different.  In fact, when the ball got to me, it was still about ten feet over my head.  It ended up landing about seventy feet behind me and the batter ran around the bases for a home run.
   
  I never got to play left field after that.

  
   
  “Brian, you play right field… Jimmy, center field… Dram, left out” - The last year I played, we only had ten players on the team.  Nine players get to play.  Guess who was the one sitting on the bench?  Oh sure, I’d get to play in every game.  They’d stick me in right field (a wise choice after the left field fiasco, since fewer balls are hit to right field) near the end of the game and maybe I’d get to bat once.  Even the coaches once told me they cringed when a ball was hit in my direction.
   
  In that game, a high, routine fly ball was hit out to right field.  It was an overcast day, so the sky was filled with various shades of grey clouds, but the ball was clearly visible as it floated towards me.  I would like to say we were playing in hurricane-force winds, making my task all but impossible, but I’m pretty sure it was only me that was making this catch look so hard.  I moved left… I moved right… I stutter-stepped forward.  Basically, I looked like I was drunk.  At the last second, I stepped back and to my left and caught the ball.  My team (and the two or three fans watching) erupted in cheers.
   
  I felt like Lupus from The Bad News Bears.
   
  

  He caught it!

  
   
  INCOMING! - When I was playing, one thing that was constantly said by the coaches was, “don’t be afraid of the baseball”.  And well… I was afraid of the baseball.  I wasn’t afraid of every baseball, just the ones that were travelling faster than I could run away or duck from.  I mean come on, if you have a 9-year old kid on the pitcher’s mound, flinging a baseball as hard as he can, you’re tellin’ me you wouldn’t be thinking about that baseball bouncing off your noggin?  If they let me, I would’ve went to bat with full catcher’s gear on and a shield instead of a bat.
   
  One day, I stepped up to the plate and the first pitch whizzed by my head.  Usually at this point, I would try to feign an injury or call time out, pick up my jacket and walk home.  However, instead of wussing out, “don’t be afraid of the baseball” was ringing in my ears.  Over and over, I said to myself, “don’t be afraid of the baseball”.  I stepped back in the batter’s box, determined to get my pitch and swing confidently and the next pitch came and hit me right in the ribs.
   

  
  That’s the end of part one.  I can hear ya now… “Hey, these kinds of things can happen to anyone!  Those aren’t so bad, Dram!”  To that, I answer… of course they aren’t!  That’s why they’re categorized under “tame”!  And I agree, they are not the usual, disasterous Dramamine Boy’s Xanga not-so great moments… yet! 

  However, if you thought these were bad, I can’t even fathom what you’re going to think about the upcoming “Dram butchers baseball” events.
   
  Stay tuned for more tales of the inept.

  • 3:57 am
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