Hey Mister? Can I get my Doll?

[DOUGHBOYS]

At 15, I was a freshman at my school. My previous years had been dedicated to constantly batting rocks, dirt clods, sisters dolls, or balls with sticks, ax handles or bats or whatever I could find that resembled a Louisville Slugger.
I was the only freshman on Varsity. I was tall, gangly, and not taken very seriously by my older teammates.
Me, I was just happy playing ball. In fact, asking the Coach to play on the freshman team because that was where my friends were and baseball was baseball to me.
Our Coach refused the request and I was forced to work my way into a starting lineup. Not because of wanting to show up older teammates, I just wanted to play.

At the halfway point of the year, I did make the starting lineup.
Near the end of the year came that moment.
The moment every kid thinks about.
Two outs, down by one run, with the bases loaded.
I had played and re-played this moment in my mind thousands of times while batting rocks.
I must have won over 100 World Series in my mind with the last hit.
(THE LAST HIT was what we called it back then, not something so mighty as a WALKOFF)

And now, it was real life, and there really were people watching, and there really were teammates judging, and the pitcher on the mound looked a helluva lot bigger than he did when I was in the on deck circle.
A funny thing happened as I approached the plate.
My knees started shaking. Well, not shaking as much as quivering.
I'd never had it happen before or sense.
Whether I knew it or not at the time, THIS was my first test of manhood.

I looked at my coach down the third baseline, almost hoping for a bunt sign. It was so easy to bunt.
But, he gave me the tightened fist and was yelling something. I couldn't hear him or anything else. My ears only heard a vacuum cleaner.
I stepped up to the plate and my knees got worse. I was hoping the catcher or umpire wouldn't notice.
I decided I was swinging at anything close. If I were going to have a strike on me, by God, it'll be a swinging strike.
The pitch came in, right down the middle, and I took it.
My head said swing, my heart said swing, my arms wanted to swing, but my knees and feet said, 'Not this time, Kid'.

I stepped out of the box. I stepped out of the box because I wanted to make sure my feet and knees COULD move.
They could. I did a little stretch and got back in the box.
I thought to myself that this is no different than batting my sisters doll over our fence and onto the neighbor's lawn.
Getting a particular joy watching her ring the next door neighbors doorbell in asking for it back.

I smiled a little at the thought and a funny thing happened. My knees quit shivering. I had my feet back and my sole purpose at the moment was to make that pitcher go very far to retrieve that doll he was going to throw me.
He threw the pitch and I hit a bullet. The ball one hopped the shortstop and caromed off his glove. It kicked far enough away for everybody to move up a base tying the game.
We lost that game in extra innings. But, I never forgot how I felt in that at bat. I've came up in situations like it a dozen or more times after and never felt like that.
I was a virgin with Mrs. Robinson. It was my initiation into baseball.

I bring this story up because of what folks are saying about the Washington Nationals, the United States Ryder Cup team and other athletes or teams who get labeled 'chokers' or losers because of the timing of their loss.
I can almost guarantee that none of these guys are chokers. They've had their knee-knocking moment earlier in life.
Just like me.
They are more a victim of bad timing as to WHEN runs come in a game or WHEN losing a golf match.
Bill Buckner took a ground ball for granted and has been labeled a choker ever since.
So unfair.

I've thought about that at bat often.
Wondering if I had struck out, how others would have reacted or if I'd of had the same vigor for baseball afterwards.
I think I would have. I hope I would have.
And since then, I have struck out in that situation.
Being older, I was able to handle it.
The world did not come to an end and my two year old daughters still were proud to call me 'Daddy'.
And never, never did it enter my mind that I was a choker.