Unpredictable

Baseball legend Connie Mack once said, “I have seen boys on my team go into slumps and never come out. I have seen others snap right out and come back better than ever. More players lick themselves than are ever licked by opposing teams. The first thing any man must know is how to handle himself.”

As a little league pitcher, I handled myself fairly well. My best pitch, a fastball, had plenty of mustard and was accurate. And because I was the league’s only left-hander, my tosses troubled many batters. But not my pal Dean. When our team, the Bullets, played his, the Colts, I dreaded facing him. Instead of hearing the umpire calling strikes, I often heard fans cheering his homers. One day I asked Dean why he could always hit my pitches. “They're predictable … right down the pipe,” he said. “Shoot — I could bat blindfolded. That’s why I always let your first pitch go by. I know you'll throw another one I can hit.”

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For weeks afterward, those words tormented me. My pitching slumped from bad to worse, and I spent less time on the mound and more on the bench. Baseball wasn’t fun anymore. Finally, I told my boyhood best friend and mentor, Jaybird, what Dean said. “Predictable?” Reaching for his catcher’s mitt, he said, “Let's make you unpredictable.” The old black man loved baseball, and would kneel and catch pitches until I was worn out. That day, he taught me how to throw what some consider baseball’s most unpredictable pitch. “De knuckleball is slow, don’t spin, and zigzags,” he said. “Git de bat — I'll show you.” Jaybird threw a few easy-to-hit pitches. Then he tossed a knuckler. Totally fooled, I swung way ahead of the fluttering, un-spinning ball, missing badly. As always, my mentor’s patience was limitless. We practiced daily until my knuckleball was almost as deadly as his. I couldn’t wait to face Dean. “We play the Colts tonight, Jay,” I said. “Will you take me?” He nodded. The Bullets were ahead, four to two, and the Colts were batting their last time. I fanned two players, but the next two got hits, and, advancing to the plate, was the Colts’ winning run: Dean. Smirking, he ignored the first pitch. Strike one! Glancing at Jaybird, I saw him holding up his knuckles and knew what he meant. Gripping the ball the way he showed me, I threw a perfect knuckler. Dean whacked at it like a blindfolded kid swinging at a piñata. Strike two! He was so flustered when he stepped back into the batter’s box that I caught him off guard with the next pitch, a fastball. Strike three! Riding home in Jaybird’s old pickup, I munched on the hotdog he bought me and thought about how much I loved baseball … and the old man beside me. He taught me that sometimes, in baseball as in life, the way to handle yourself, and the way to win is to be unpredictable.