Spattered Batter

For boys who love sports, two brass rings are ever in their dreams: first homerun, first touchdown. Despite the clumsiness that came with being a skeleton of about six feet supporting one hundred pounds of flesh, I grabbed both rings in my senior year at Leland High School. But the homerun came at an embarrassing, unforgettable price.

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Coach Chauncey “Cockeye's” Coleman capitalized on my left-handedness and made a pretty good pitcher out of me, not because I had a stinging selection of slings, but because most pitchers hurled with the other hand. For batters, a southpaw’s pitches were sometimes difficult to hit because they were flung from the wrong side. But as a hitter, I was hopeless. When I stepped into my place at the plate, Coach knew that I would have to get hit with a pitch, or walked, to reach first base. In high school and college, Coach Coleman had been a catcher, and with the toughness so typical of catchers, he ran his teams with iron-fisted discipline and relentless training. Strong, stocky and short, about five and a half feet from cleats to cap, his bullhorn voice — blasted from a barrel chest — was easily heard, even by the outfielders when they were way out. But it was his eyes that kept us on our toes. His vision was keen, despite the fact that both eyeballs peered about forty-five degrees each side of straight ahead, and we never knew which eye was on us, necessitating constant head switching when he talked to us. The Rolling Fork Falcons were in town that balmy baseball day, and the bleachers, full of fans, roared encouragement when the Leland Fighting Cubs trotted onto the field. The Falcons flopped early on, and with a commanding lead, Coach signaled, “Hit away!” when it was my turn to bat midway through the game. With a sneer on my lip and defiance in my eyes, I glared at my Falcon counterpart. As the leather-covered spheroid came hurtling through the air, slow and high — just the way I loved it — I tore the cover off the ball. Cockeyes’ eyes bulged even more cockeyed as he yelled, “Run, Reed, run — this is your big chance for a homer!” My hit caught the right fielder far from where he should have been, and he was still running for the ball when I rounded second base. What I lacked otherwise athletically, I made up for in speed, and home plate was in sight when disaster struck … all over my face. I recall my cap flying off when I tagged third, then a glimpse of a large ebony bird flapping above, and then foul fowl droppings bespattering the bridge of my nose. Squeamish and gagging, I stopped and used my sleeve to wipe my face. Instantly, above the fans’ laughter, I heard Cockeyes scream, “Dammit, boy, you’re almost there — slide!” I barely beat the relayed throw, and scored my first homerun. From that day forward, my nickname was “Spattered Batter.”