Skip to main content

Chapter 2: Third String




     "I'll take the shortstops and third basemen, Murray's got the second basemen," instructs Coach Zerilla as I jog to short with the two other guys at my position.

"Here we go again," groans senior Brett Goff already dripping in the afternoon heat of late August on the University of Louisville baseball field. "It's a clusterfuck when they alternate right and left side infield practice."



     He was right about the complexity of simultaneous grounders with two receiving first basemen. It took concentration to follow the baseballs criss-crossing the grassy infield. Fortunately, intense focus was one of my strengths.
      I’d had a similarly complicated first practice two days earlier on the football field. I'd joined the line of receivers, thinking there'd be a better chance of making the team at that position even though I'd been a running back in high school. The first few drills found me matching the five other freshmen on post and flag routes that have a simple cut and sprint for the ball. Then head coach Vince Gibson called for a quick out pattern from his mid-field pedestal. 
     The other freshmen receivers were from Florida where they'd played five-on-five all spring, a fast game of precision passing football. Their routes were quick with crisp cuts and precise yardage that the talented quarterbacks hit perfectly with timed passes. My inexperienced patterns were clunky with choppy cuts and arrival too late for the sideline passes. 
     Two embarrassing performances in two days on the weight bench and now as a receiver - that was enough for me to seek out the baseball coach on the third morning.



     "I can't tell you who's next," smirks Goff after a perfect throw as another freshman and I both step into the vacated shortstop position.

"I've got the scholarship," grins little Richie Cunningham dropping into his fielding stance as a third baseman gloves a grounder and tosses it to first. 

"We'll see," I mutter, following suit with knees bent and hands ready.

"Cunningham," calls Coach Zerilla tossing a ball and hammering a fungo right at his chosen shortstop of the future.







    

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Postscript: Last Licks

      My year as a shortstop and criminal justice major at the University of Louisville became a false start for the post-secondary education that would define the rest of this life. In January of that first college year I discovered an intense dislike for 5am indoor baseball practice and left the team before the grass started to green.       Lost without a sport or a major, I visited Stan Redwood at Randolph-Macon College over spring break. At a meeting with football coach Ted Keller I was offered a general scholarship if I maintained good academic standing for the transfer. As the meeting ended Coach Keller said "Dave, there's a spot on the Yellow Jackets if you work hard." We shook hands and I refrained from belting out Tony Valenti's bastardized baseball practice chant.      A 40-yard sprint at my first Randy-Mac football practice was a dead heat with senior tailback Mike Woolfolk who was about to break the school's career rushing ma...

Chapter 12: Sat On The Can

     "Damn Bates, what a fucking travesty," consoles Stan Redwood from behind the wheel as we cruise by the empty Codrington Park basketball courts on a frigid New Year's night. "Yeah, first criminal justice sucks, then Buff gets run over by the mail truck, now I break up with Karen and don’t even know why,” I moan into a half empty bottle of Miller High Life as Stan pops in a cassette tape of the new Kansas album.  "You need to come down to Randy-Mac," counsels my high school friend also home for winter break. "Colloquy is going to be a blast."    "Winter ball starts next week," I retort as we drive by the Krauser's parking lot, also empty in the frigid wind, and the violin riffs into  Point of No Return . "Baseball's going to bite on a hard basketball court."      Stan had already saved my shy ass back in high school. I was one lonely jock when he plucked me from the neighborhood in his old Mercury just after getting ...

Chapter 6: Work Hard

       "Morehead was supposed to be a gimme," scowls Coach Z wielding a fungo bat as cicadas rattle in the afternoon heat of early September. “From now on you’ll practice with intensity!" "A hit of Beech-Nut aughta keep us going," offers Duke Schneider tearing open a new pouch and passing it down the bleacher.  "You think this is funny?" Coach Z shouts stomping over to home plate. “Get out to your positions and repeat after me, freshmen first: ‘All my life I wanted to be a Cardinal, work hard, work hard’.”      Having what I thought of then as a punitive coach was a new experience for me. One in high school occasionally made us run extra wind sprints after a bad game or lackluster practice, but I was unsure how to respond to a coach who cursed at players and demanded work chants. We freshmen  had little choice but to go along with it, either needing to play to keep a scholarship or to earn a spot on the team. The seniors had no such constrain...